My Friend And I Were Talking About Jason And She Said It Would Be Cool If Jason's S/O Got Along With

My friend and I were talking about Jason and she said it would be cool if Jason's S/O got along with Bruce, but I honestly don't see that happening?

I can't imagine being in a relationship with Jason and at the same time thinking Bruce is a nice guy after all

What do you think?

Oh my god! I’m so excited for this! I decided to respond in the form of a story 😉.

Bruce Wayne

Warnings: brief references to loss and trauma.

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It took nine months for him to finally let you in enough for you to start falling in love with him.

You’d first met Jason in the library; specifically the literature section. He’d been standing by one of the shelves, quietly flipping through a copy of Jane Austen’s Emma. He’d had the build of a stereotypical jock, so you’d honestly been a little surprised to see him focusing so intently on the British classic. But those were just your own biases, so you’d quickly tossed them aside in favour of returning to your search. Halloween was coming up, which always put you in the mood for one of your favourite classics: Dracula. It was short and the unconventional style of writing was always a little jarring at first, but you absolutely loved reading about how the characters puzzled through the mystery. You’d knelt down, searching the shelf where the novel should have been sitting according to the alphabetical filing system. But it hadn’t been there. You’d frowned and tsked in irritation, then quickly snuck a glance at the man standing behind you. You’d barely caught him raising an eyebrow at you over the top of his book before he’d quickly lowered his gaze, acting as if he hadn’t even noticed you there. You’d turned back to the shelves and stood up, checking to see if someone had accidentally misplaced the book after picking it up for a quick read … There! On the top shelf! You’d stretched onto your toes, reaching for the spine, but your fingers had barely grazed the edge of the shelf.

“Need some help?” You’d turned to find the man’s attention fully focused on you now, his startling green eyes studying you intently. He’d lowered his book, allowing you a glimpse of his rugged features, his wide lips and his crooked nose that looked like it had been broken and reset a few times already. He’d raised an eyebrow at you and you’d realised suddenly that you’d been staring.

“Oh!” you’d gasped, embarrassed by your own actions. “Uh, thank you!”

You’d stepped aside, giving him the space to get the book for you, and you couldn’t help but notice how big he was - tall and strong and broad. He’d grabbed the book with ease and rolled his eyes at the title before handing it over to you.

“Excuse me?” you’d said, frowning up at him whilst cuddling the book protectively to your chest. He’d given you a once-over in response, taking in your small form, so fragile compared to him, then he’d gone back to his side of the shelf, his expression unimpressed.

“Nothing,” he’d drawled, opening up his book again. But the amount of sarcasm contained in that single word had only caused your anger to bubble even more.

“What’s wrong with Dracula?” you’d asked, a hundred different retorts coming to mind immediately. Your heart had thudded with anticipation as the adrenaline had raced through your system, your defences instinctively locking into place to shield you from whatever hatred might have been about to spew from his mouth.

“It’s a little cliche, isn’t it?” he’d suggested, picking up his book again. “Halloween … vampires … You in a book club or something, princess?”

He’d flashed you a little smirk, his expression more teasing than unkind, but the condescending nickname had raked over your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “At least his characters are more nuanced! And he develops more of a plot in these few pages than Jane Austen does in any of her hundred novels! It’s not just the same old story of two extremely unlikeable characters falling in love over and over again under a different title!”

Jason had flinched at your outburst, taken aback by your sudden vehemence. He’d told you later that he didn’t usually let people off so easily, but he hadn’t been able to get mad in the face of your adorableness. You’d rolled your eyes at his admission, but smiled anyway as you’d curled up into his side. It had taken about a year after meeting him before you’d finally realised the real reason he hadn’t shot back at you - the reason he’d just given you an amused smirk and asked if you’d read all of Jane Austen’s ‘hundred’ novels.

Because he’d seen in you that same instinct - that same fear - to always be on your guard, to always be prepared for someone to attack you and know that no one would come to your defence but you.

And that was how you’d first become friends with Jason Peter Todd.

It took three months after you’d admitted your feelings for him to yourself before you’d realised that he was never going to be the first one to make a move.

You’d been sitting on his sofa, watching a movie at his place as was your weekly Friday night ritual. You’d never been able to get into Jane Austen’s books, but you’d always loved the movie versions of her stories. Jason had been sitting beside you, legs spread apart, one elbow on the armrest, his hand propping his head up as he’d focused on the movie. You’d inched closer to him at a cautious pace, slowly closing the distance between the two of you.

“What are you doing?” Jason had asked finally, nothing ever escaping his notice. His tone was amused - as it always was when he was with you - but it did nothing to ease the churning of your stomach as you’d gathered up your courage. You’d kept your attention fixed on the television, watching as Alicia Silverstone sat in the exact same position as you, puzzling over how to express her true feelings to Paul Rudd beside her.

“I like you.” A blanket of tension had smothered the room at your confession, the only sounds coming from the movie that neither of you were paying attention to anymore. Finally, unable to take it any longer, you’d paused the movie and turned to Jason, your brows furrowed in irritation. “Well?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt in terror. Of course you would be the only person to confess your feelings and then get mad when the other person didn’t respond. But he had that same instinct too: to take your fear and twist it into anger - to defend yourself even before the other person could think to attack.

He’d turned away from you, his leg starting to shake as he’d processed your words. He couldn’t- You couldn’t. You couldn’t like him! Not like that! You were his friend and … he couldn’t afford to f*ck up the best thing had ever happened to him in his life! Even if he’d been finding it more and more difficult to stop his gaze from lingering on your soft curves and your full lips and imagining what you would feel like pressed up against him with absolutely nothing in between your bod- No! No. It was a horrible idea.

He’d turned to face you, wanting to list out all the reasons he wasn’t good for you. But you’d known him for too long now and you knew by the defeated slump of his shoulders exactly what was going to come out of his mouth.

“Don’t!” you’d exclaimed, jumping to your knees and clamping your hands over his mouth before he could speak. His eyes had widened in surprise at your sudden movements and you’d removed your hands from his mouth, satisfied that you’d startled him enough for him to not argue with you. “I don’t want a list of bullshit reasons about why you think you’re not good enough to be in a relationship or how you think it’s going to mess up our friendship or whatever else nonsense you’ve somehow convinced yourself of over the past few years.”

You’d rearranged yourself on his lap then, swinging your leg over both of his and sliding your arms around his neck as you’d laid your head on his shoulder.

“I love you, Jace,” you’d continued softly, running your fingers through his hair. “We can take it slow - we have the rest of our lives, after all - but I want to make this work. I want us … I want you. I just want you, for the rest of our lives.”

You’d sat there in silence for a while, letting him digest your words. And slowly, his heartbeat had slowed and his muscles had relaxed until finally, he’d let his arms come loosely around your waist. “I don’t-”

He’d cut himself off as his voice had cracked with emotion, and he’d tightened his grip on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You’d continued to brush his hair gently, keeping your breathing steady and allowing your weight on top of him to keep him grounded. You’d seen him have panic attacks before and though he’d told you a little bit about what had caused them, he still hadn’t gone into much detail about it. All you knew was that he’d gotten beat up by a bad guy as a kid. He’d seemed horribly uncomfortable even telling you that much, so you’d never pushed him for more information. You were too good to him.

“I love you, Jay,” you’d repeated, holding him close to you, trying to physically transfer your love for him from your body into his. Eventually, you’d sat back and moved your hand to his cheek instead. You’d studied his features carefully: his thick eyebrows, his moss-coloured eyes, the tiny scar that cut into the corner of his upper lip … “We can … take it slow …”

And then you were kissing, your lips brushing each other’s softly as your tongues explored one another’s mouths. You’d let him take the lead, stepping back after being the one who’d made the first move, and soon, your kisses had turned heated: his hands squeezing every curve they ran over, your fingers sneaking beneath his shirt to glide over his hard muscles, your hips moving against one another’s as you'd both started getting excited. Eventually, he’d lifted you up and walked you backwards to his bedroom, your lips never leaving each other’s as you’d pulled each other's clothes off along the way.

And that had been the best night of your entire life, no thanks to Jason Peter Todd.

It took another six months after that for him to tell you the whole story of what had happened.

He’d sat on your sofa, leg shaking vigorously, teeth buried in his lower lip as he’d waited for you to say something. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d finally told you the whole story: the day he’d gone to the warehouse, the thrashing he’d gotten from The Joker, the trauma of having his soul forced back into his body … and then having the only person who’d saved him from the streets - who’d promised him that there was something in him worth saving - turn around and tell him that no, there really wasn’t anything in him worth saving after all. Now you understood why he found it so hard to let himself be loved by you - to believe that anyone could ever find something in him worth loving.

“Oh, Jay.” You’d wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close to you and murmuring into his hair over and over again that you loved him, you loved him, you loved him. You loved his righteous anger and his concerned protectiveness and his unwavering sense of justice. For you, there wasn’t any part of him that wasn’t worth loving - that wasn’t worth saving. Over and over and over again. Maybe you hadn’t been there to save him then, but you were there to save him now. As many times as he needed someone to.

Finally, he took you to meet his family.

You clasp the man’s hand, fixing him with a wary expression as you shake it. “Mr Wayne.”

“Please, call me Bruce,” he insists, fixing you with the same smile he’d probably been trained to wear as a child. You let out a noncommittal hum as your hand falls back to your side and you don’t miss the minute flicker in his expression in response to your cold demeanour. But he brushes it aside and glances over at Jason in question, waiting.

He’d told him a few days ago that he was planning to ask his girlfriend to come over for Thanksgiving. The rest of the family had already met you - mostly by stalking Jason and constructing elaborate situations in which they’d ‘casually’ ‘bump into’ both of you on the street or a café somewhere - and they’d all been delighted by his sweet little girlfriend who, at times, seemed to have even worse of a temper than him, but who also appeared to love him more than anything else in the world. Bruce’s heart had swelled at the thought of someone giving his son all the love he deserved - all the love he himself had failed so miserably at giving him - and he’d barely managed to keep a lid on his excitement when Jason had finally mentioned bringing you over. But he’d follow his son’s lead and do only as he said.

Jason shakes his head slightly, telling Bruce not to take it too personally, then he guides you to the kitchen, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. Bruce waits for the rest of his kids to follow, then finally, he joins you all at the dining table.

The atmosphere is lively, everyone laughing and joking and sarcastically listing all the things they’re thankful for. You join in the fun, easily fitting in with the rest of his family, but there’s a moment when you pause - when your gaze lands on Bruce and you find yourself taking a moment to study his expression.

He hadn’t said much the entire meal, but he’d watched his family with an expression of tenderness - of disbelief - his lips curled into a soft smile as he’d surveyed his loved ones celebrating this day of thanks together. And it struck you: the familiarity of that look.

Because how many times had you seen it on Jason? Jason, who would watch you with that same tenderness on his face whenever you did something to make him believe that maybe, just maybe, he really was worth loving. From something as simple as calling him cute when he was annoyed with someone for deviating from his mission plan to the bigger stuff like surprising him with a tray of brownies you'd made from scratch because you knew they were his favourite. He'd spent so long being convinced that he wasn't worth loving that he still couldn't quite believe it whenever you made space for him in your life. And now here was Bruce, giving the large, boisterous family he’d so carefully cultivated the exact same look.

The moment continues to linger in your mind as you all settle down to watch a movie, Jason's siblings arranging themselves across the various forms of furniture scattered around the room while you cuddle up with him on a loveseat by the sofa. The night soon turns into a game of who can stay awake the longest as one by one Jason's family begins dozing off, their satisfying meal coaxing them into a state of sleepiness. You yourself find it hard to keep your eyes open when you're wrapped up in your boyfriend's big, strong arms, all snuggled up against his broad chest. Eventually, Bruce forces everyone up and to their beds, making sure they're all safely tucked in before retiring to his own bedroom.

You lie with Jason in his bed, tickling his scalp in the way that always makes him drowsy, even when he's finding it difficult to sleep.

“What?” he asks finally, sensing that you're still awake. You narrow your eyes in thought, combing through all the information Jason has ever shared with you.

“How old was Bruce when his parents died?” You knew the story, of course - Bruce Wayne had lost his parents in a mugging incident when he'd been just a child - but you hadn't grown up in Gotham, so you weren't too sure about the details of the case.

“Hmm, I think he was eight,” Jason supplies, doing his best to stay focused despite your soothing touch. “Why?”

Eight?! That must have been horrible! “And did he … have a lot of other family to take care of him?”

He was rich - obscenely so - and he had a house big enough to rival the President's! So of course he must have had some wealthy aunt or uncle who'd taken him in after his parents died.

“No,” Jason mumbles, starting to lose the battle against sleep. “He just had Alfred.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest, hurting on behalf of the little boy who'd had to grow up almost completely alone, no parents, no siblings, no one at all who understood his circumstances and gave him a reason to keep living.

“But … How did he keep living? In spite of it all?”

Jason hums softly, not quite registering the question as he splays his limbs out across you. “I don't know. How do any of us?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and resolve to forget about it. For now, at least.

You wake up earlier than Jason the next morning - a rare feat, especially considering that it's almost noon - and head to the kitchen to get some coffee after taking a shower. You're surprised to find Bruce already doing the exact same thing, but he greets you with a welcoming smile.

“Need any help?” he asks, giving you enough space to stand in front of the machine. You study the various buttons and knobs, trying to see if you can puzzle it out yourself. But in the end, you decide that it's probably better to just let him handle it.

“Um, yes, please!” you agree sheepishly, stepping aside and letting him take over. “Can I just have a latte?”

He gets to work making you your coffee, then invites you to join him in the garden outside. You clutch your cup tightly, refusing to make it so easy for him to get into your good graces, but you join him anyway, intrigued to find out more about this man who had forsaken your precious Jason when he'd been just a child. You sit in silence for an uncomfortably long amount of time, refusing to start the conversation first. So Bruce begins.

“My kids have told me that they think you’re really good for Jason,” he tells you softly, gazing out at his beautifully staged garden. He turns to you and his gaze bounces between your face and the table as he continues speaking. “I’m glad … I’m glad that he’s finally found someone … who makes it easier.”

He chose his words carefully, unsure of how much you knew about Jason’s life, so you decided to enlighten him. “He told me … everything.”

Bruce lifts his head and fixes you with a surprised - and wary - look.

“I know … about his parents and Red Hood and … and The Joker.” Your voice grows soft at the last part, your heart aching at the memory of everything he’d told you. You slide your gaze over to Bruce, who’s lowered his head at the revelation that Jason really had told you everything. You narrow your eyes at the look of shame on his face and the rage begins to take over you. “I know … what you did after he came back - or, really, what you didn’t do. Were your morals so important that you couldn’t … Didn’t you think …”

You clench your fists, trying to find the words to convey your emotions. Finally, you push yourself out of your seat, your features hard with the same righteous anger that Jason always wore. “I love Jason! I think he’s the most wonderful, sweetest, most caring human being I have ever known in my life! He deserves the world and everything more! And you …”

You dig your nails into your palms then force yourself to take a deep breath, letting the anger pass through you.

“I agree.” He says it so quietly that you almost miss it. Then he holds your gaze and repeats the words. “I agree with you. Jason deserves everything he never thought … he was good enough for.”

He clasps his hands together, fidgeting with his fingers as he tries to figure out how to continue. “I …”

I was wrong? I did my best? I’d do it differently if I could go back in time and fix it? The excuses leaped to the tip of his tongue, but they were all lies. Jason Todd had always been Jason Todd, and it didn’t matter how many times he ran over the millions of different scenarios in his mind: the two of them would have always ended up in the same stalemate in the end. Because Bruce Wayne had always been Bruce Wayne too.

Bruce sits back and returns his gaze to his garden, serene and calm and the opposite of everything his life had ever been. “Is he still going to therapy?”

You grit your teeth, irritated by the sudden change of topic. But you’ve loved Jason Todd everyday for almost two years now: you knew how to look for the subtle shifts in his expression, the small ticks and habits that gave away his emotions when he was working so hard to hide them. So you don’t miss the tightness of Bruce’s jaw and the tension in his biceps and the minute shifting of his shoes as he probably wriggled his toes in them.

“Yes,” you sigh, sitting back down again. “He’s doing a lot better.”

“Good.” Bruce nods slowly. “Good. And his … Has he had any attacks recently?”

He turns to you, his eyes overflowing with concern, and the final remnants of your anger leave you. “He’s had a few, but they’ve been getting less over time. And he’s gotten better at dealing with them.”

Bruce nods again. “I’ve heard about this … tapping technique? Apparently it can help with anxiety if you tap certain places on your body? I can send you a few links if you think it might help him?”

And suddenly, he’s not Bruce Wayne, the untouchable billionaire with the practised smile, nor is he Batman, the sour vigilante who thinks he knows better than everyone. He was Bruce Wayne, the little boy who’d lost the most important people in his life and been forced to learn how to grow up without them. The little boy who fought so desperately every single night to make sure that no one else would ever have to go through the same things he had. The little boy who still couldn’t figure out why no one had thought that he was worth saving. Just like Jason Todd.

And now you understand. Bruce Wayne had never forsaken Jason Todd. He’d never abandoned him or chosen anyone else over his precious second son. He just hadn’t known how to save the little boy who’d been forced to grow up on his own, who fought every single night to make sure no other child suffered the same fate as him, who had never been able to figure out why he hadn’t been worth saving. He hadn’t known how to save himself.

“That’d be great,” you tell Bruce, giving him a warm smile. His lips curl at the ends in response and he sits back again, lighter now that you seemed to have forgiven him. “And Bruce? Thank you for saving Jason.”

Bruce lets out a self-deprecating chuckle and shakes his head in disagreement. “I didn’t-”

“You did,” you tell him, firm in your conviction now. “You saved that little boy from a rough life on the streets. You helped him live again after he came back. You gave me the Jason Todd that I know and love today. So if you think that there’s anything I’ve done to save him, it’s only because you saved him enough first for him to get to me.”

Bruce stares at you for a minute, his expression unreadable. Then finally, he smiles. “You know, I guess my kids were right about you after all.”

And that was why you and Bruce got along so well, you would think to yourself any time Jason would ask you about it. Because Bruce Wayne had always been Bruce Wayne, but he’d done the best he could to make sure that Jason Todd always stayed Jason Todd; that no matter how hard the world shoved him to the ground, no matter how strongly he believed there was nothing in him worth loving, the world needed Jason Todd. The world needed someone who would do the right thing, even when it was difficult - especially when it was difficult. You smile and ruffle Jason’s hair.

“Because Bruce Wayne has always been Bruce Wayne,” you tell him in response. Jason rolls his eyes at your usual vague answer, but his lips curl at the ends like they always do. He lies down, resting his head on your lap, and you stroke his hair softly as the two of you continue watching your movie.

So yeah! Those are my thoughts 🤔😋.

Gaz being Gaz

3K notes View Post

hinakamiya

6 months ago

You Say Goodbye to Soap (18+)

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content warnings: Verbal child abuse, she/her reader Word Count: 3.5k

Service Dog Johnny Part 19 (full part list here)

Simon doesn’t do crowds.

Well, he does them, he’s just on pins and needles the whole time. He turns into something granite and hyper-aware, covered as much as he can be with a medical mask and long sleeves, so you try not to force him through it too often. Sometimes though, there’s a good reason for suffering.

“Fuck you,” Johnny mutters, arms crossed while you both watch your boyfriend seamlessly plink through targets, with that mini rifle tucked tight into his shoulder. “Right prick.”

“Eight out of ten is still really good,” you remind him. Johnny only missed the first two targets, and that’s understandable considering the carnival air guns can’t possibly be accurate.

“Used my go to sight the weapon, is what he did. I’m goin’ again.”

You’re not entirely sure that it’s possible to aim a gun just by watching someone else shoot it, but then again, Simon is finishing up the last target right now, dead center.

“C’mere, you.” Your man motions you over with a jerk of his head, handing the pea shooter back to the bored worker.

Simon watches your face as you hurry over to him, as if your delighted smile is all he wanted in the first place. You quickly scan the prize options as his hand settles against the curve of your lower back. Unicorn… cat… sloth… raccoon… teddy bear.

You choose the pillow-sized raccoon because it’s fluffy, and it reminds you of Simon before he washes off his eyeblack.

“Thanks,” you chirp, hugging your prize and stepping out of the way for Johnny’s turn.

“Someone had to pick up the slack,” Simon mutters, turning his eyes to the determined set of Johnny’s shoulders.

Horrified, you shoot him a look that conveys, ‘You’d better shut the fuck up, or else.’

Plink. Plink. Good start.

“Better hurry up, Johnny,” Simon drawls. “Too slow, you’re gonna miss it.”

“Simon,” you hiss at him, only to observe a devious light in his eye while he pretends he can’t hear you.

Plink, plink, plink.

“Two, ten, seven, reload,” Simon barks. “Oh look, Graves is here.”

“I’ll fawkin’ kill ye,” Johnny growls against the stock, nailing the last few targets in rapid succession.

Your face is burning by the time Johnny sets the gun aside. Of all the days for Simon to antagonize him, why does he have to pick this one? You’re not even sure there will be another chance to see Johnny after today, and instead of minding the delicate balance of things, your boyfriend’s decided to stomp all over it.

Yet somehow, you seem to be the only one concerned. Johnny merely spares his friend a passing glare before turning back to the prizes, selecting a sparkly unicorn for himself.

“Do you want me to carry that for you?” you offer with a shocked laugh.

He hugs it against his chest. “Aye, when I’m good and dead. No one’s separating me from my unicorn.”

Right. Okay, then.

The sun has just gone down, and taken the last of the warmth with it, so you thread your fingers in with Simon’s and look around for things to do before the nighttime crowd fills the park.

“What kind of rides do you like, Johnny?”

He winks at you over the fluffy rainbow mane. “Fast ones.”

“Bloody hell,” your boyfriend sighs. “I’m gonna be stuck holding the toy shop for the pair of you.”

“We can take turns,” you suggest. “Look, this one’s the biggest roller coaster they have. You and Johnny go, before the line gets too long.”

Simon doesn’t disagree, but he starts squinting up at the ride the closer you get to it, as if he’s inspecting the track for defects. You’re just about to reach for the unicorn Johnny’s passing to you, when Simon makes a grunt of disapproval.

“Fuckin’ back brace on him, I’m not going.”

Sure enough, one of the workers is gingerly crossing the platform to unstrap riders, while encased in a turtle shell of a brace.

Johnny scoffs. “Didn't break it on the ride, you dobber.”

“Fuck are we supposed to know that?”

“He’d be dead then, wouldn’t he? Puddle on the pavement.”

“No one is dying on these rides,” you insist, snatching Johnny’s toy. “It’s perfectly safe.”

Simon smoothly plucks both animals from your grasp. “Seeing as you’re not worried, you and Johnny go.”

Okay, well, now you’re worried.

You find yourself spectacularly stuck next to Johnny in that stuffy queue leading up to the platform, feeling like a total idiot for getting so easily conned into it. Why couldn’t you have thought of an excuse to avoid this? You only suggested the ride to give the guys a chance to have fun together without stepping on anyone’s toes, and instead you’re left scrambling for small talk.

It’s not that you don’t want to be alone with Johnny, it’s just that you weren’t expecting it to happen so suddenly. You were perfectly fine with using Simon as a buffer for the night, and never bringing up that whopping pile of confusion until Johnny was at least willing to open up a little. But now he’s alone with you, acting fairly happy and normal, as if he never walked out that door.

Is that what he wants? Is this going to turn into some horrible game of evasion, where he wanders back into your life and you’re forced to pretend nothing ever happened, and just hope he doesn’t do it again? Can you live like that?

You tried winging it before. You never made him explain himself to you or communicate, and all it did was blow up in your face.

“So why’d you pick the raccoon?”

You blink yourself out of your thoughts, focusing on his face in the cheery glow of Christmas lights. “Oh, um. They’re cute. And I guess I like wild animals.”

For some reason Johnny laughs at your genuine answer. “Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” He rests his elbows back on the steel railing and gives you this irritating smirk, so you roll your eyes in return. Okay, Flirt MacTavish. Nice to see you again, it’s been a while.

Thankfully the line moves forward right when you need it to, and you sidestep his teasing eyes to poke your head around the beam and scan the waiting area for Simon.

“Oh my god, Johnny,” you whisper. “Look.”

His body presses to your back as he looks over your shoulder, and is greeted by the same sight you are — Simon, with one enormous plushie wedged under each arm, engaged in apparent conversation with some random, gray-haired grandma. You can’t see his mouth moving behind the mask, but he’s inclining his head the same way he does when he’s talking to you.

“She’s stealin’ your man, hen.”

“Let her. He likes the attention.”

The stuffed animals have absolutely shattered his carefully constructed standoffishness. They’re like a beacon of cuteness, inviting in questions and curious looks, and honestly it serves him right for abandoning you to Johnny like this. You hope he’s suffering, but from the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, you kind of doubt it.

Finally you get buckled into the ride next to Johnny, and the nerves you have about him give way to your more pressing fear of heights. When was the last time you rode in one of these things? All of a sudden the pattern of loops spreading across the open air in front of you look a lot more serious than they did from the ground.

“Don’t let Simon see you scared,” Johnny says, nudging your shoe with his. The ride starts forward with a reverberating clunk, clunk.

“I’m not,” you lie.

“Hold my hand then, or you’re full of shit.”

That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but you mold your palm around his and squeeze it tight, right before the drop.

Holy shit.

Johnny wasn’t kidding about liking fast rides. He whoops and laughs through most of it, and you’re not sure if it’s the actual rush that’s getting to him, or your terrified shrieks. The loops hit rapidly one after another, and you just try to hang on as you pass through your threshold of fear and beyond. By the time you finally hit the end of the ride, your heart is slamming in your chest, and Johnny’s hand seems to have permanently fused with yours.

As the ride cars slowly chug up that loud conveyor belt to the platform, you unlock your spine and glance over at your friend to make sure he’s all in one piece.

He’s gorgeous. Ruddy-cheeked from the cold, breathlessly grinning at you, as if he’s exactly where he wants to be right now. Beautiful, human, completely impenetrable and emotionally closed-off.

It makes you want to hit him.

You’d go to town on his stupid chest if you could, punching and slapping those perfect muscles on up and down his shoulder. You want to scream in his ear until he understands how much pain he’s put you through, because maybe then this hold he has on you would finally release. If you burned all your bridges and told him never to come back, maybe you’d stop wanting him quite so fiercely.

Because even after all of that, you do want him. You want to own him. You want to ruin him. You want him like Veruca Salt stomping her foot and shrieking, ‘Daddy, give him to me!’

You want your heart to connect with his, and that craving is so intense that you’re almost jealous of anyone who’s ever deeply known him. Jealous of Simon, who always seems to understand what Johnny’s thinking before you do. It feels wrong, existing so close to Johnny and not touching, not staring, not knowing.

Not allowed to know.

This was all a mistake. A combination of oversights from all three of you, until you’ve reached this point of pain that was so, so preventable.

Johnny leans towards you as you pull your hand away from his. “Hungry?”

The line for the concession stand is annoyingly long. You’re waiting here by yourself because you really needed some space to clear your head. You mentally repeat your food order to yourself, as if it won’t evaporate out of your brain the second you step up to the window.

Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any hot tea?

You’re being idiotic about Johnny. Look at them over there, holding a conference at the picnic table with two stuffies propped up next to each of them. How could you dare be jealous of the most important friendship Simon’s ever had? You’d have to be some kind of selfish monster to deny either of them that comfort.

Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any tea bags, and packets of sugar?

You just weren’t prepared for how unsatisfying this night would be. You’re giving Johnny space, and Simon’s giving you space, and it all makes you want to cry.

“I hope you’re fucking happy.”

Your heart begins to race, hearing those words spat with such hate from somewhere behind you. Instinctively you twist your face around in search of the threat, hoping it’s just some old person berating a server who will never have to see them again. But no, it’s much worse.

An older man sits across from a boy who looks to be about nine, his lip curled up in contempt as he stares the kid down.

Looking away, the boy mumbles something you don’t catch, but the man doesn’t even let him finish before sneering, “You’re a pansy, is what you are. ‘Fraid of a little roller coaster. Don’t know why I bother taking you anywhere nice like this, when you’ll just wimp out.”

Outrage pushes blood to your face, as you glance back over at Simon. He’s too far away to hear what’s going on, still shooting the shit with Johnny. It’s just you and the couple in front of you who seem to notice, the woman giving you an exasperated look, and the man determinedly staring straight ahead.

You know that tone of voice. That kind of disrespect has is etched into your bones, and you know exactly what it leads to. It’s the voice Simon grew up with, the one he has in his head every day, and has to convince himself to ignore.

Helplessly you take another step forward in line, watching the boy in your peripheral vision when he at last decides that the tirade is over, and raises his head. The direction of the kid’s sad gaze shouldn’t surprise you, but it does, as he peers over at your two soldiers across the way.

You look as well, wondering what he sees. Two large men, built strong enough to hurt anyone who talks down to them? Friends who are comfortable with each other, happily performing for no one? Or maybe he’s seeing the innate self confidence they have, to be able to hold their heads high while lugging around stuffed animals in public. It’s almost a display of power, if you look at it through the boy’s eyes. Or at the very least, it’s freedom.

Maybe it’s because you know about Simon’s childhood. Or maybe it’s your own memories growing up that flood you with righteous anger, the firsthand knowledge of how it is to live in fear. How the wrath of your ‘trusted adult’ is absolutely inescapable at that age. You know that weight. You can see it on that boy’s shoulders, suffocating him.

You know what, you’re going to say something. You’re not going to just turn your head away, like that man in front of you. You’re going to walk right up to that awful dad and chew him out, for your sake and for the sake of every kid who’s ever had to listen to words like that.

Clutching your purse tighter and squaring your shoulders, you’re just mustering up the anger you need to go through with it, when—

“Next in line? Next in line?”

“Oh, uh…” you step forward, trying to remember what you came here for. “Do you have… pretzels?”

The worker gives you a deadpan look and gestures over to the very obvious display of soft pretzels under heat lamps.

“O-okay, yeah, two of those, please. No, wait, three, and cheese.”

“Three pretzels and cheese,” the guy recites, giving you the total.

You’re obviously not going to cuss anyone out while holding a bushel of pretzels, so once you’ve paid you stuff your wallet back into your purse, and head towards your table to unload.

“Can’t believe there’s no smoking here,” the horrible man grumbles as you pass by, fishing into his pocket. “Go get your old man a Coke, and don’t be keeping any change.”

The hatred churns in your chest but you keep walking, certain that you’re about to get your revenge. You’re a marginally attractive person, and you’re here with a couple of meatheads who can squish pretty much anyone. There’s no risk involved, you can just unload, and that man… will… take it out on the kid.

Simon gives you a puzzled expression when your face falls, as soon as you reach them.

It’s useless. There’s not a single thing you can do for that boy. Any way you tear down his father would only result in him getting the punishment for it.

You’re just as stuck as ever, helpless and stupid and no one important, same as you were as a child. You might as well still be that little girl, realizing that nothing you could ever do would make the adults in your life see you as human.

All you are is taller now, with tits.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asks, as you push his pretzel over to him.

“Um…”

They’re both concerned now. Dammit.

Your gaze drops to the sparkly unicorn, its horn twinkling in the lights.

“Johnny?” you prompt, blinking at him while your form your thoughts.

“Hmm?”

You rest your hand on the head of his unicorn, tugging at the ear. “Can I have this? For keeps? Will you give it to me?”

He blinks rapidly in surprise, glancing down at his prized plushie. “Yeah, alright. Sure.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you scoop both animals up into your arms and head straight for the boy’s table.

“Excuse me,” you chirp, giving that disgusting man your most sunshiny smile. “I got these prizes here, and I just can’t take them home. They won’t fit in my car. Would you like to have these?” You turn your eyes on the boy for the last question, hopeful.

He doesn’t look at your face, just darts his eyes to his dad, and then to the unicorn.

“Tryin’ to run a hustle?” The man asks suspiciously.

“Nope, they’re free! Just hoping you could help me out.”

The boy glances over at Simon and Johnny, and the man says, “Aww, why not. We’ll take the brown one, don’t need no girl stuff.”

“Oh, come on,” you practically flirt, setting both animals on the bench. “Can’t you take both? I’d really appreciate it.”

Yeah, you’re laying on the charm for the old guy. You’re crooking your shoulder up and smiling a little saucy, and you don’t even feel bad about it. You have tits now.

“Well, alright,” he allows, seeming pleased to have you begging him.

“Thank you so much.” You finally bend down a little towards the boy, who hasn’t looked at you at all. His brown eyes lift hesitantly to yours.

“I’m very happy,” you tell him honestly, “that these guys got to go to someone really special.”

You leave before anyone can change their mind. You just turn right around and prepare to explain why you just Robin Hooded Johnny’s special—

Smack, slosh.

Instead of the clear path back that you thought you had, you run right into someone’s body, and frigid wet instantly coats your thighs.

“I’m so sorry!” the girl gasps, as you both stare down at your legs, completely saturated in some cold, fizzy drink.

“I— it was my fault,” you stammer, brushing droplets off the bottom of your coat. “I’m sorry.”

You’re so frozen in shock that it’s not until Simon materializes next to you that you even think to move away from the puddle.

“Come on,” he murmurs, “let’s get you home.”

What? Home?

A breeze runs through the place then, and you shivery violently at how frigid it feels when your leggings are soaked. You do have to go home. That’s the only option.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Johnny, when Simon’s hand on your elbow urges you to start walking. “I didn’t mean to… for it to be like this.”

“Ehh, it’s alright.” He offers you one of the pretzels he’s carrying. “There’ll be other times.”

No, there won’t. You had this one opportunity to prove to him that you should be in his life, and instead of doing what you needed to do to secure that, you were awkward and you stole his unicorn and you made everyone leave early. This was a disaster.

Fuck, don’t cry. You cannot cry right now.

You stop up your tear ducts through sheer stubbornness, numbly traversing the park and passing all the things you never got to do.

You’re a ruiner, you didn’t even get to talk with Simon tonight, just made him stand around everywhere you went and not have any fun.

Don’t cry.

By the time you make it back to your car, the only thing keeping the tears at bay is the surface tension on your eyeballs. You’be got patches of frostbite on the front of each thigh, and even your hair feels a little sticky from stray droplets of soda. It’s the most you can do to just mutter an excuse to Simon, and escape into the back seat of your car to strip off your leggings.

As soon as you’re alone in that quiet, frozen car, the tears come. Silently they stream down your face, bringing with them the rising tide of your own inadequacy. The guys’ voices are a low hum from somewhere outside while you yank your shoelaces undone and fail to come up with a single glimmer of hope.

There’s nothing you can do. You did your best, and it wasn’t enough.

One shoe off, you’re forced to stifle a sob with your hands, as you come to the painful realization that you have to say goodbye to Johnny. Not just tonight, but in your heart. You’ve been clinging to that control, the idea that if you just perform everything perfectly, you can decide the outcome of the relationship.

But that’s false, you know it now. No amount of flawless behavior will make him love you, if it’s not meant to be.

The side door opens before you've managed to make progress on the second shoe, the task of removing your leggings now utterly cast to the side with the flood of emotion.

You already know it’s Johnny, even before he scoots himself into the backseat with you and wraps you up in his warm arms. Somehow you can tell even without looking, but you know it for sure when you bury your wet face into his shoulder and get a lungful of his scent.

“I missed you,” he says.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

1K notes View Post

hinakamiya

1 year ago

window pains | jason todd

Summary: He's got a habit of coming in through the window. You want him to start staying... and using the door.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings/tags: injured Jason Todd (he's okay dw), angst, pining, mentions of Jason's death.

A/N: sooo.... i guess i'm a dc girlie now. just a reminder that every character i write will always be 18+!!! this is probably canon divergent but we make our own canon.

If you like this fic and want to see more, please let me know through reblogs ♡

the divider

"Can't you enter my apartment like a normal person?"

"You know who you're talking to, right?"

"You're getting blood on my carpet, Todd."

It doesn't really matter. He'll come back and scrub it out as soon as his ribs are whole. And fuck if he's not good at getting blood out of surfaces. Jason Todd ought to start a housekeeping column.

You catch his limp as he climbs over the windowsill. It almost topples him, but he gets to the couch before it does. He doesn't make a sound.

That had freaked you out the first few times he'd stumbled through your window. Once, he came with part of a windshield wiper impaled in his shoulder. He'd lain on your couch so still and so quiet, you'd thought Red Hood had croaked in your apartment. Which would not have been a good look for you. Or maybe it would. Depends on who you ask.

Sometimes you want to tell him to make sounds. To hiss and grunt and complain. To grab your wrist so you'll slow down as you pull thread through flesh.

But it's not your place to request such a thing. You don't know where you reside in Jason Todd's life, but it's not somewhere where you can request to hear him hurt.

Outwardly, his injuries aren't bad-looking. He takes off his helmet and tosses it somewhere under the coffee table. You offer a hand to help him lie down on the couch—he doesn't take it.

"Jesus Christ, Jay." You suck in a sharp breath and peel back his bloody suit. "What'd you do?"

"Took a midnight stroll in the Botanical Gardens. Why, what'd you do?"

You frown, eyebrows pinching in the center of your forehead. Jason's stomach is mottled with purple and red bruises. There's a sticky gash right above his hip. A knife. Or a sword, maybe. Apparently, swords are commonplace in Gotham.

"How'd they get you?" you ask.

It's a rule-break. Jason's number one policy: don't ask questions.

You always do. Even when it was new, this… thing between you two, you'd ask. Who were they? Why did they hurt you? Did you hurt them back?

The last one, you always know the answer to.

"There were, like, ten of them," he says. "Cut me some slack, will ya?"

He has a cut across his lips. A ringed finger that caught on his skin, you guess. You wonder if he'd wince if you kissed him. If he'd wince at the pain or the kiss itself. If you'd know the difference.

Rage suddenly cuts through you. It makes your hands careless, cruel; you pull the bandage around his waist too tight. Jason coils up slightly.

"Jesus—ever heard of bedside manner?" he asks, looking at you through his lashes.

"Ever heard of not breaking into someone's apartment and making them patch you up?"

"I don't make you," Jason says easily. "You wouldn't do it if you didn't want to."

That only increases your rage. Because he's right. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be. You'd have kicked him out four first aid kits ago if you minded.

You yank down his shirt and pack up the kit. Jason shifts on the couch. A sliver of skin above his waistband is still exposed. You have to turn your head to force your gaze away.

"No bandaids?" he asks. "All my cuts'll be exposed to the elements."

"You can put them on yourself."

His cheek could use one. And his eyebrow. You're not in the mood.

Jason doesn't say anything in response to that. You get up to put the kit back under the sink.

"Can I crash here?"

"Do what you want," you say, suddenly exhausted. Like it's you who just went six rounds with Gotham's scumbags.

You peek over the kitchen counter when you hear rustling and the couch springs squeak. Jason leans heavily on the arm of the couch, reaching for the window. You walk over and stand in front of him.

"What're you doing?" you ask.

"You want me to go," he says flatly. "So I'm going."

"I didn't say that, I said—"

"I can read between the lines."

"If you could read between the lines as well as you think you can, we wouldn't be in this situation," you say.

"What situation?"

You turn your head. "Nothing."

Jason steps towards the window. You block him again.

"What is the matter with you?" you ask. "You're injured. Lie down."

"I'm not your responsibility," he says, glaring. "I'm leaving."

"No, you're not. And since you're allergic to using the door, you don't have a choice."

Jason's eyebrow rises. "Are you saying you'd physically prevent me from leaving?"

You lift your chin. "If that's what it takes."

"Hm. Can't tell if your confidence is stupid or brave."

"Lie the fuck down, Todd."

His lip curls. "I don't stay where I'm not welcome."

Sometimes you forget how young he is. Not that you're not also young, but, well… you don't feel your youth as acutely as other people your age might. It's something you two have in common.

Here, in the gritty glow of Gotham, you are reminded that Jason Todd died once. Before he finished school. Before he fell in love.

Your stomach churns every time you see that Y-shaped scar on his torso, strapped over him like a chain.

"I didn't say that you're not welcome," you say.

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to."

He sags against the couch and it occurs to you that he's as exhausted as you feel.

"Can you just—" You touch his bicep. He winces even though there's no injury there. "Can you just lie down?"

You stare at each other for another minute. Slowly, Jason lays down. His eyes are alert instead of heavy with sleep. Instantly, you feel guilty for making him think he has to be cautious around you. His hand curls protectively over his stomach.

"Do you want a blanket?" you ask.

He squints. "It's August."

"I know, I… I thought maybe the blood loss made you cold."

"'M fine. Perks of being risen from the dead."

You watch him get settled for a minute. He shifts his weight to his uninjured side and meets your gaze. His eyes are gray in the weak light.

"You're tired of me," he says.

Your head snaps up. "No, I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not tired of you, Jay."

You see it. The fear. He thinks this is the last time you'll let him in. He doesn't know you can't lock him out. You won't.

You get up and go to get the kit from the sink again. Jason follows your movement the whole time. His face scrunches in confusion when you sit in front of the couch and unzip the kit.

You pull out the tiny red bandaids. You'd bought them as a joke, initially. It had made Jason laugh and that had been reason enough to keep buying them. And then he let you actually put them on.

You peel the adhesive off of one and gently stick it on his cheek. He blinks at you, thick, dark lashes kissing the corners of his eyes.

"I'm not tired of you," you say softly.

"I'd be tired of me."

"You keep this city safe. How could I be tired of Gotham's defender?"

Jason scowls and turns his head into the cushion before you can put the second bandaid.

"I'm not its defender. The others protect this city a hundred times better. Nightwing does it with a smile on his face."

"I like that you go out there even when it's hard, Jay," you say.

He doesn't respond. You lean in, so close that you can count the freckles on his neck.

"Can I finish putting the bandaids on?" you ask.

"I don't need 'em."

"You do. You need another on your forehead."

"It'll heal fine without it."

Your shoulders bunch like a cat on defense. You grab his cheek (gently, always gently) and his head whips to yours in surprise.

"Jason Todd, I am not tired of you. I'm tired of the fact that you only come by when you need fixing."

He scowls. "I never asked you to fix me. If you want me to leave, I'll leave."

"I don't want you to leave, I want you to stay!" you burst.

Jason scoffs. "No, you don’t. I'll overstay my welcome real fast."

"Maybe I care about you on purpose!" you say, voice rising. "Maybe I didn't stumble through a window; maybe I walked through the door and bought the bandaids and learned how to stitch wounds because I wanted to."

He suddenly looks overcome by grief. The agony in his face startles you.

"I don't know how to use the door anymore," he says quietly. "All I do is stumble through windows."

Your hand slips off of his cheek. Jason closes his eyes; they fly open when you stick the second bandaid above his eyebrow.

"You can come in any way you want to," you say, face an inch away from his. "As long as you come back to me."

His gaze darts to your mouth. You don't kiss him hard. He breaks anyway.

You avoid the right side of his mouth entirely, not wanting to pull at his cut. Jason shudders into your mouth. You cup his pulse through his neck and it quickens.

His eyes are wet when you pull away. His chest heaves like he's been swinging through the city.

"I wanna try to use the door," he says.

You touch the bandaid on his cheek, humming.

"Then I'll leave it unlocked."

4K notes View Post

hinakamiya

5 months ago