Nice to Meet You Too, Sunshine

Jason waits for Steph outside her school, perched on the steps in front of the student center. For once the day is nice, sun shining, the leaves on the trees changing as summer dips into fall. Gotham’s never prettier than when she’s dying, he thinks morbidly.

There are people walking by swathed in scarves, cupping coffee and grinning. Crime always took a dip when the weather got colder, and Bruce would let him start wearing thermals again, sometimes letting him hide in the cape when it snowed, his fingers hooked in the back of the belt, surrounded by the weird chemical smell of their specialized armor.

He shakes that thought away as a pretty girl walks past, her hair shining red-gold in the sun, clutching a fistful of sunflowers. She checks him out as she goes by, not bothering to be subtle, and he winks, willing enough to play along. She laughs, waves, and heads into the building as Steph steps out. Immediately his attention is on her; somehow, other girls just don’t compare and his tongue is thick in his mouth. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She gives him a small smile, tugging on the ends of his scarf, a woolen monstrosity that Alfred made and sent over. It has pineapples on it, the symbol of welcome. Alfred is never subtle.
A couple months ago, Steph would never get this close, this familiar. He can see the pale freckles on the bridge of her nose, the darker strands in her blonde hair, and smiles down at the crown of her head. Her eyes are focused somewhere behind him, never quite touching down. Lately, she’s been better, making eye contact, staying in touch. Not always, though. Probably never always. “This scarf is hideous,” she tells him; there’s a small upward curve to the corner of her mouth that he wants to kiss, those kinds of thoughts never far away nowadays.

“You’re hideous,” he tells her, dislodging her hands, hitching the scarf up over his face.

“Nah,” she returns, supremely confident. The sun makes her blue eyes striking, bringing out the greens inside it, giving her skin a glow that’s almost reflective.

“Nah,” he agrees. Never hideous.
+++
He’s not sure when the night took such a turn, but anger is boiling under his skin, Joker’s voice never quite gone, letting him know he can’t be good enough. “I’m fine,” he snarls at Steph for the fourth time, feeling himself loom over her, drawing back with effort.

“You have cracked ribs, Jason,” she responds, blank as usual, unreadable and infuriating behind the lenses of her mask. “You can’t patrol tonight. Bruce said so.”

“Oh, Bruce. God forbid we not listen to Bruce. Why the hell would he care anyway?”

Steph’s head tilts a centimeter to the side, the only sign of confusion she’ll give. “We need to be safe.”

“He doesn’t give a damn whether any of us are safe. We’re just tools to him no matter how much he says he loves us!” Jason bites back other words from Joker; I wasn’t good enough, Bruce wants us all dead, the Batman trains his child soldiers and moves on from them.

Steph makes an annoyed noise, refusing to rise to the bait, answering, “You know that’s not true.” He takes a deep breath to respond, stops halfway to cough and wince at the pressure on his ribs.

The smug noise she makes has his hackles rising even as he curls over, taking careful breaths. There’s nothing more frustrating than Steph not responding, tucking fully inside herself completely untouchable. “He doesn’t care about you, Steph. He left you to die like trash,” he hisses, taking it too far, knowing he did when she sucks in a surprised breath.

There’s a red flush to her cheeks now that he’d find appealing under any other circumstances; her fingers twitch. “Get out.”

“Wait, I’m-”

“I said get out. I don’t want to see you right now,” she says, her voice trembling into anger at last. It doesn’t feel as good to get a reaction as he thought it would. He grabs his helmet from its spot on the couch as he leaves, the door slamming behind him with finality.
+
Shivery fear trickles down his spine; if he doesn’t have Steph, who’s left? She was his second chance, one he chased off like he does everything else good in his life. He fits the helmet on, the seal hissing, symbols flicking to life in a glow as it fits comfortably to his face. He’s the only one in the family who wears a helmet.

When Joker caught him, the second blow was to the face, protected only by the domino mask, his jaw shattering on impact. Soon as Jason escaped the asylum, he designed the helmet. Gotham’s quiet around him, or as quiet as she knows how, settling into the night. He’s fucked up, he knows it, and Steph won’t give him another chance. He doesn’t deserve one.

The closest safehouse from his Knight days is 20 blocks away, and his grapnel gun is back at Steph’s. The walk will give him time to think, to figure out where to head next, he guesses. He’s fairly sure he won the argument; it doesn’t feel like a victory.
+
At twelve in the morning he ducks back inside Steph’s; she should be in class around now, he’s familiar with her schedule. The room is slanted with warm sunlight, her shoes kicked off near the door, next to the extra pair of boots he left behind. His spot on the couch still has a blanket draped over it, tangled around the bat symbol pillow.

His fists clench; he doesn’t belong here anymore and he needs to remember that. Stupid, unwanted, damaged, Joker whispers in the back of his head, quietly gleeful. He heard that Bruce had the Joker in his head at one point, too, the clown more in control there than Jason’s is. He wonders if Bruce’s Joker says the same things as his does. Probably not. The stuff that used to set Bruce off rarely bothered him, and vice versa.

He’s just grabbed his toothbrush from their bathroom, hating that he keeps thinking of things in terms of ‘they’, gathers up his clothes from the laundry piles they share. Steph helped him pick them out, smiling as he held thrift store t-shirts up to his chest and grimaced, examined the long lines of his legs in jeans she chose.

Jason’s never been good at fashion; he’s nowhere near as bad as Dick, because no one is, but his choice for fashion when he was young was “it’s free and it’s clothing” and when he was older, Alfred picked his clothes. Well. At least he’s never had a mullet.

He’s elbow deep in a pile of clothes, searching for his boxers amid a flurry of frilly underwear that he’s trying not to notice, when he hears “Jason?”

He jumps, hitting his head on the counter over the laundry basket and swearing. Steph’s standing in the doorway, watching him with a shadow of concern. More than he deserves from her. She’s wearing his leather jacket, he notices, over leggings and a shirt with a cat on it.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, finally reaching his boxers and holding them to his chest. There’s another t-shirt behind him that he turns to grab, saying, “Just let me get my stuff and I’ll be gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m moving out.”

“No!” Her sudden outburst surprises him; he looks over his shoulder at her. “I don’t want you to leave.”

The weight in his stomach that he’s had for hours dissolves instantly into gratitude. Steph’s too good for him. “Uh, okay.” He turns fully around, holding his hands up. “I was just asking.”

Something warms in his chest when she relaxes, relief clear behind her eyes. He’s getting better at reading her. “Good. Don’t ask again.” Jason lets his clothes drop back into the basket, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his index finger. “What are you nervous about?” she asks, perceptive as always.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about. Uh. About Bruce. Sometimes it’s just…” He trails off, not knowing how to explain that Joker’s still there, banging his white hands against walls Jason’s worked so hard to keep up, laughing with that wide red maw. Usually he barely notices, and he doesn’t want Steph to think he’s crazy. Crazier.

Her gaze lands on him and holds, entirely present. “I get it. It wasn’t okay for you to say, but I forgive you. And.” This time it’s her turn to get awkward, her eyes sliding away, down his chest to his hands. He feels heat in his face and isn’t entirely sure why. “Fighting doesn’t mean I hate you.” She takes a step forward, lightly touching the side of his arm, the skin there goosebumping under her fingers. “This is your home, too.”

The same words that Bruce said when he first moved into the Manor, and Jason gets the same feeling; like he’s falling, but he’s falling like he does when he shoots the grapnel off, a rush of adrenaline. “Okay.”

She gives him her usual slice of a smile before withdrawing, moving back but not so far he can’t feel the warmth of her, smell her vanilla perfume. “C’mon, let’s get this laundry done. Alfred would be ashamed.” He grins and picks up the basket, relieved.
+++
It’s been one of those days, the bad kind. Joker’s still far off in Jason’s head, but Steph is far off in hers, distracted, barely answering, her eyes never connecting. She’s been on the couch for the past half hour scrolling through her phone, never moving. He’s not sure she’s aware that he’s even in the room as he settles next to her, deliberately taking up space, being as distracting as possible.

“Hey, Steph. What’s up?” Grunting is the only response he gets, so he curls his fingers gently around her bare ankle, trying to ground her. He’s been learning, he thinks, looking up stuff online about trauma and recovery. It’s helping him, too.
Steph shifts but doesn’t pull away, glancing at him from under long lashes. She always wears a bit too much eyeliner, but he kinda likes it. Reminds him of the girls in his old neighborhood. Her skin is soft against his, though he tries not to think about it. “So I thought later, we could head out, maybe go to a club?”

This finally gets a reaction from her; she leans into his side, a warm weight. “You hate dancing.”

“You don’t, though.” And he doesn’t mind watching her dance, not at all, especially when she doesn’t know she’s doing it, swaying in the kitchen listening to Billie Holiday, bopping along on patrol if people nearby are playing music, her hips a tempting shimmy.

He just wants to pull her back into her head, hoping the overload of sensation that clubs have will force her in. The two second eye contact he gets feels like a victory before she nods, sighing like she’s doing him a favor. “Okay. But I’m making you wear booty shorts.” He would, for her. By the smug look on her face, she knows it.

“Nah, you won’t. Cause you know my ass is better than yours.”

He takes the shove off the couch with easy grace, rolling to his feet and reveling in the laughter on her face. “Only cause it’s so fat, Jay.” He hesitates, but the nickname doesn’t sting like it used to, and it’s Steph. He’ll allow things from her that he doesn’t from most people.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, Steph. Let’s get you dressed up.”
+++
He thinks, sometimes (dramatically) that if he loved Stephanie anymore he would die of it. They’re at Burger King, having a cheat day from the strict healthy diet Bruce imposes on the whole family. Well. The diet they’re supposed to follow.

Steph is leaning over the back of her seat, calling food orders to Tim, who nods seriously and orders six Big Macs. She’s wearing one of their crowns proudly on her head, and he’s not sure what it is about today, but he just wants.

Steph’s wearing black leggings, heavy steel toed boots, a Gotham Knights sweatshirt that belongs to him and one of Alfred’s thick woolen scarves. Today has been a good one for her; she’s very animated, excited to hang out with Tim and eat her weight in fast food.

Her cheeks are flushed, and she settles in her seat again to face him, folding her hands over each other. “After this, we’re patrolling together and Tim said he’d bring Superboy along.”

“Superboy?” Jason was out of the game for one year and he misses, like…five new heroes.

“Yeah. He’s Superman’s clone and he’s gorgeous.”

Jason, having been watching Tim try to handle three trays for the last couple seconds, focuses his full attention on her, feeling an uncomfortable coil of jealousy unfurl in his stomach. “Gorgeous?”

“Oh, yeah. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes. The whole package.” I’m the whole package, he thinks, surprised how petulant the thoughts are. He’s never thought of Steph in the context of other guys, though of course, she’s beautiful. Guys must go crazy over her. One got her pregnant. He grumbles something angry and incoherent, watching confusion trickle into her expression. “Huh?”

“He sounds just peachy.”

“I mean. I guess?”

“Bet he’s not that cool,” Jason mutters, glaring at the marbled surface of the table.

“Are you…” Steph pauses; he looks up at her and her lips are pursed, laughter so clear in her face that his mouth instinctively curls up.

“What?”

“Are you jealous?” she asks, smirking. “Of Superboy?”

“No.” She reaches across the table to briefly touch his hand, his skin lighting up at the feel of her.

“Superboy’s dating Tim.”

Tim, settling next to her across the table, nods absently. “Five months next week.”

Jason’s whole face feels like it’s on fire; he keeps his eyes firmly on the table. “Oh. Well. Uh, that’s cool then.” Steph just smirks.
+++
Jason smiles jovially, tapping his baton against his hand. He’s started carrying them now; trying not to kill as much means getting creative, means shots to the knee and different weapons. He kind of likes the challenge. Maybe he forgot, after Arkham, that there’s more than one way to fight. Hurting someone til they can’t get up works just as well to stop them. He would know.

“Please don’t hit me again,” Phil Kalvin, age 42, beat his ten year old son to death, begs.

“Is that what your son said?” Jason asks, digging the toe of his boot further into Phil’s fingers. “Did he beg you to stop, too?”

Phil whimpers through ruined lips, drooling blood onto the floor, the fingers of his other hand scrabbling uselessly. “Please…didn’t mean to…” Didn’t mean to, but he did. Jason heard the same thing a thousand times from his own father, as Jason cradled a broken arm or put ice on a black eye.

“You’re a waste of space, Phil. Unfortunately for you, I don’t kill anymore.” He raises his baton, bringing it down sharply on the bridge of Phil’s nose, which shatters. “Instead, I’m gonna hurt you really, really bad.”
+++
“My mom liked Disney princesses,” Jason says, eying Steph’s Halloween costume. She’s Sleeping Beauty to Cass’s Maleficent and Barb’s Ariel, all of them going to the Halloween Gala at the Manor. Jason, of course, isn’t invited. He’s going anyway, sneaking in once the party is in full sway, dressed as a zombie. He thinks it’s hilarious.

Steph looks over her shoulder at him, pinning up disobedient blonde curls, her fake eyelashes fluttering. He’s not sure how he feels about them; when he first saw them on the bathroom counter, he thought they were spiders and freaked a little. “Which ones?”

Jason focuses on the grey powder he’s rubbing into his skin, making dark circles around his eyes. “Cinderella. Belle. Snow White. All the white princesses.” There weren’t any others for his mom to like when she was a kid. “We used to watch them together when I stayed home sick from school.”

His mom, never entirely there for as long as he can remember, would drift in and out of the room, bringing chicken soup if she was feeling particularly motherly, or if she could think of it. They would curl up together on the couch, sharing the ratty blanket his abuela made for him; not that Jason ever met her. His mom could’ve been lying, or confused.
Jason would get to put his head on his mom’s shoulder and nap, listening to her murmur Spanish lullabies. The memories are valuable enough that he feels uncomfortable sharing them with even Steph, who’s watching him with a rare spark of interest. “That sounds nice.” More than nice, they were the best parts of his childhood, until Bruce. The things he tried to hang onto while Joker beat everything else out of him.

“I guess.” He looks down at his hands, slightly too big, the palms square, fingers long and crooked. They look like his dad’s, he realizes, down to the scars on his knuckles, and he’s not sure how to feel about that. It’s just genetics, really. Genetics and beating the shit out of other people. The only real similarity between him and his dad is height, and that neither of them ever finished high school.

“You should meet my mom sometime.” Jason glances up, startled; he forgot that Steph has a living parent. None of the rest of them do, besides Cass, and hers doesn’t really count. “You’d like her.”

Steph is looking at the ground, ostensibly fixing the hem of her dress. He eyes the curve of her waist, her narrow shoulders left bare. He wonders what Crystal Brown thinks of the change in her daughter, if Steph hides from her, too. “Sure, yeah.”

In the mirror, Steph’s mouth turns up at one corner. “She wasn’t always the best when I was a kid, but she tried. It got easier when my dad died.”
Jason nods, understanding. It was easier for his mom when his dad wasn’t there, too. But it was different for him than it was for Steph. His mom was better than his dad, but she still hit him, still locked him in closets and left him for days without food. He doesn’t regret what happened to them.
There’s a swish of taffeta as Steph moves towards him, cupping his chin in one hand and leaning in. His eyes flutter closed on instinct as she wipes a smear of black off his cheek with her thumb, stepping back to examine him critically. “There we go.”

“Good?” he asks, his fingers brushing the fabric of her dress, callouses catching.

“Perfect.”
+
Jason doesn’t get more than ten steps into the Halloween Gala before there’s a heavy hand clamping down on his shoulder, squeezing the bone there. He yelps, applying a nerve strike to the wrist that has the man snatching his hand back.

Jason spins, looking into Bruce’s wide blue eyes. “Jason?”

Jason spreads his arms wide, grinning. “Back from the dead, B. You like?” He’s expecting a snapped answer, Bruce kicking him out of the party, warning him away from the rest of the family. He spots Steph halfway across the room, in deep conversation with Tim, who’s Snow White. Belatedly, Jason realizes that Bruce is Prince Charming. Of course.

Bruce just sighs instead, the same one he’d make when Jason was at his most ridiculous, trying to get a rise out of him. There’s fondness in his face, and amusement. It takes Jason aback enough that the next, challenging words die in his throat, hands dropping to his side. “I thought you were a party crasher,” Bruce says, enough of playboy Bruce Wayne in his eyes for Jason to play along. “Sorry.”

“I am a party crasher, B,” Jason points out. “I don’t belong here.” They sway to the side as a couple brushes past, the two men linking arms.

It’s the first time Jason’s been this close to Bruce in a while, at least since that time they bumped into each other on the street. He’s surprised that there’s no anger, no hate, just a kind of dull fear. Makes sense, he figures. Joker started out the brainwashing by making him scared of Batman. The baseline must be what’s left, what he still has to break down.

Bruce narrows his eyes, Batman flashing across his face, barely noticeable. “You do belong here, Jason.”

“I…what?” he says dumbly, idly tracking Steph’s movements across the room, unable, as always, to keep his eyes off her.

Bruce shrugs uncomfortably, never able to handle emotions beyond vengeance and Bruce Wayne’s thin veneer of joviality. “You’re important to everyone in the family.”
Even you? Jason thinks to himself, surprised by the hope he feels. Bruce’s opinion isn’t supposed to matter to him anymore.
“Um. Okay.”
With that bit of awkwardness over with, Bruce’s attention moves on, to Vicki Vale who’s wearing a sparkling yellow dress. Long after he’s left, Jason can still feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder.
+++
They’re watching TV Halloween night, some thing about ghosts that Steph chose, slowly paced and vaguely ominous. He’s pretty engrossed in it, still aware of Steph right next to him in one of his sweatshirts and long socks, warm and close.

He leans into her, just a bit, lets his hand brush the outside of her thigh. He’s been thinking, lately, just. Thinking about her a lot. About how good they’re both doing now. Joker’s laughter quieter in his head, Steph’s eyes alive. They’re never going to be perfect but they are better than they used to be.

Steph’s smallest finger brushes over his, linking them. When he looks over, she’s staring at the screen, blank faced, but her hand flips, taking his. There’s a slow, agonizing ten minutes where her fingers close til their hands are fully entwined, Steph’s warm in his, and Jason died when he was fifteen, he doesn’t know how to do any of this.
He never had handholding in the dark, or movie dates, or anything normal. He fucked around after the asylum; it never meant anything. Nothing did.

Steph’s thumb is lightly stroking over the top of his hand, driving him crazy. “Steph?”

She turns her head, giving him a blank look. He can’t read her, not right now, his heart pulsing hard in his ears. “Yeah?”

He gives a meaningful glance down at their joined hands, squeezing once. “What, uh, what’re you doing there?”

Instead of answering, Steph moves, lying sideways on her back along the couch, moving him. He goes willingly, lets her press him down on his front so he’s between her legs, head on her stomach, arms round her waist. Her heart can’t lie, pounding under his ears, over the soft noises of the rest of her body. Soft, like he wanted, letting himself sink into her, eyes slitting.

She curves a palm over the side of his head, scratching gently through his hair; he makes a low sound in his throat. “Is this okay?” she asks, worry threading almost invisible in her voice. “I thought…”

“You were right,” he mumbles into the fabric of her shirt. “Whatever you thought, you were right.”

The hum she gives rings of satisfaction, Steph throwing her other arm over his shoulder. “Good.” Her hand strokes up and down his back in the same pattern as the fingers in his hair, soothing. He hasn’t had soothing in a while, maybe not ever, not like this. He turns his head towards the TV and tries to focus on it, constantly aware of her body underneath his.
+
They lay like that until the movie’s over, til Jason’s half-asleep, blinking slowly when Steph jostles him a little. “Jason.” He looks up at her; it’s not a flattering angle, usually, but it’s Steph. He can’t help but find her beautiful. God, he’s gone soft for her, all his sharp angles sanded down.

“Mm?” She doesn’t say anything, just stares down at him, slipping her fingers under the collar of his shirt, warm against his skin. He takes a chance, moving to hover over her, one hand gripping the headrest, the other curling around the back of her neck. He dips his head, brushing their lips together, careful; if he goes too far, he loses Steph, and he can’t do that.

There’s a brief moment before her mouth opens under his, letting his tongue slip in to taste her; it’s the chocolate candies she’s been snacking on, sweet. When he draws back to grin, her pupils are blown, nails digging into his shoulders like she doesn’t want him to go too far away. There’s no blankness now, their gazes holding, Steph leaning in to snag another kiss.

“It’s cold,” she says thickly, humming when Jason brushes his nose against her jaw, nips at her ear.

“Not really,” he says, wondering whether he should get a blanket, turn up the heater. Steph is hot under him; he slips a hand under her shirt to check further, taking a good hold on the curve of her hip. Wouldn’t do to lose his grip.

“It’s cold,” she repeats, amusement in her voice. He barely even has to listen for it. “We should conserve warmth.” He finally understands when he glances up to see her smirk, having been too focused on burying his face in the small dip between her collarbones.

He can’t believe Steph is this cheesy, except that he very much can, hints of the old Stephanie Brown peeking through as he gets to know her. “Jesus Christ, Steph.” Jason rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing.
She nudges him off her, to his feet, where he can see that she’s flushed all the way down to her chest, tank top pushed up to her ribs, shorts pushed so high on her legs that he can see the hollow where thigh meets hip, where women are always the softest. Her mouth is swollen red, eyes dark and locked on him. He wants to devour her, and lifts her easily into his arms to place her gently on her feet. “Y’know, it really is cold,” he answers back, bumping her shoulder.

They head together into her room, Steph sprawling herself over the covers, legs spread; she probably has no idea what she does to him. He’ll try to help her figure it out, he thinks, moving to kneel over her and kiss again, grab at her, taking satisfaction in every handful. He bets, that with time, she’ll get the picture.
+
Later on, when they’re both almost asleep, Steph taking patrol off for the night and Jason deciding not to go out, he turns from where she’s curled around his back to face her, sliding his arm round her waist. She settles her hands under her chin and blinks at him, unspeaking, only just visible in the light from under the door, making her skin silvery.
He can’t believe he gets this, he thinks, getting soppy about it. Can’t believe he has someone like Steph, who understands. “So, I’ve been thinking.” She nods once, nestling a little closer. He would not have expected Steph to be someone who craves touch, which has taught him not to make assumptions. “I want to stay here,” he says solemnly, not expecting her to snort a laugh.

She smiles at his offended face, more present than she would’ve been when he first arrived. “Of course you’re staying here. Where else would you go? The Manor? Dick? You’d be at each other’s throats in days.” He smiles when she squeezes his hands, finishing, “And I want you here. You belong here.” That finished, she leans up to kiss his chin, and goes to sleep.
+
The next morning he wakes up same time as usual, only instead of the sun in his eyes it’s dim, no chatter faintly audible from the street outside. It comes back to him when Steph shifts in her sleep, throwing an arm round his waist, leg worming in between his.

She mumbles something incoherent, and he rolls to look at her, gently dislodging her limbs. Steph’s mouth parts when she sleeps, lax, and her hair is all over the place. Here, in the dim light, he can’t see the scars or the void of her eyes, and she looks like any normal girl. Though, he wouldn’t want her if she was.

It’s still early, light barely filtering from under the crack under her door. The room smells of sleep, lulling him back down; he moves Steph back into his arms, head tucked under his chin, and falls asleep.
+++
“Barb.” She doesn’t flinch at the sound of his voice; she probably knew he was coming from the moment he left home. Bolstered up by Steph, thinking about what they did the night before, he managed to make his way here even as guilt churns in his stomach. The panel leading to the main part of her lair had slid aside easily, letting him slide inside to land gently behind her.

She turns her chair around to face him, expressionless. She’s changed since they were kids, flying over Gotham’s rooftops, laughing. There’s a different kind of strength in her face now, a confidence in herself that wasn’t there before he went into the asylum.

Barb’s even more beautiful than he remembers, and he remembers her as being pretty damn beautiful. What he wants to do right now is fall to his knees and grovel for her forgiveness, swear that he’s changed, he’ll do anything for her. What he does instead is remove his helmet, peel the domino mask off, and sit on the floor across from her.

She watches him for another couple seconds, as he rubs his thumb against his index finger, nervous. If Barbara has changed her mind against forgiving him, if he’s lost her for good, what can he do then? He has no right to change her mind. “Jay.”

He allows the nickname; for Steph and her, his two favorite girls, he doesn’t mind. He gives her his Robin grin, wide and cheery. “Hiya, Barb.”

All he gets in return is an eyeroll, so familiar it almost hurts. “So you finally made it over. Steph’s been giving me updates.” Of course she has. In this case, he doesn’t mind.

“And what do these updates say? Anything good?”

Barb has never let him get away with any bullshit, kind of like the big sister she is to the rest of the family. “Mostly good. You’re still killing.”

He bristles, ready to get out of here no matter how guilty he feels. “Only if I have to.” Only if they really, really deserve it.

Barb smiles, unexpected. “I’m not gonna pull a Bruce, Jay. Relax.”

He smiles back on instinct, real this time, then gets serious. “I’m sorry, Barb. I’ll do anything you want.” Instead of answering she turns around, typing rapidly at her computer in lines of code that he can’t understand.

“When you…died,” she begins, as Jason gets to his feet and moves to stand behind her. “When you died, everything fell apart. Dick left, Bruce was insane, and then Joker shot me.” Her voice doesn’t shake; he puts a hand on her shoulder anyway, squeezing. “We were getting better eventually, I guess. But Bruce…I hadn’t seen him smile in months. Tim didn’t help, none of us helped.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and she shakes her head.

“You don’t get it. You being back, that’s enough. That’s all I wanted.” His phone vibrates; it’s Steph, ready to be meet him at her school. He’s about to text her back, that he can’t, when Barb says, “Go get her. We can talk more later.”

She’s smiling, face turned towards him. Jason doesn’t bother asking how she knows about the text, just kisses her briefly on the forehead and grapples out.
++
The very next night, Jason gets taken out on patrol. He went up against an unknown factor without backup, he’s such an idiot. What was supposed to be one guy guarding a weapons shipment turns out to be fifty guys and a metahuman, a big man with shockwaves. Jason doesn’t have a chance.

He was doing alright, beat at least half of them, til he took a bullet to the shoulder, then his helmet was cracked and he had to tear it off, earning a few good hits to the head that have made everything blurry, his reflexes slowed.

He’s started killing at this point; he only promised Steph that he’d try not to kill, he didn’t promise to stop entirely, not if a situation is life or death. Right now, he’s figuring it’s death. It’s not like anyone will come for him; he learned not to expect help after the fifth month with Joker. His breath sounds wrong, raspy and wet, a rib or two broken. He’s familiar with the feeling. Besides his head, he’s exhausted, no longer fighting like Bruce taught, tight and controlled, but straight up brawling.

He can’t move his left arm anymore, letting it dangle loosely as he fires his last bullet and starts striking blindly with his knife, even as he’s forced to his knees. If he’s going out for real this time, he’s going out fighting. All he can think is that now he’s fucked up, right after he gets Steph, right after he starts fixing things. He hopes she won’t fold back in on herself after this. After all, he’s been dead before and everyone moved on.

Jason feels someone take his chin, tilt it up; it’s the metahuman. It’s always the metahuman, half of them so swelled up with pride over their powers that they insist on taking control in every situation. Jason squints through his one good eye, the other one swelled closed, runs his tongue over the split in his lip, focusing on the metallic taste of blood. Something to keep him here. The metahuman has a nasty gash in the side of his head, courtesy of one of Jason’s bullets, so at least he has that going for him.

“You shouldn’t’ve come here, boy,” the metahuman sneers, his voice surprisingly high pitched. Jason foggily wonders when people will stop calling him boy. Never, if he dies today. He yanks his head out of the metahuman’s grip, biting down hard on his fingers, and is rewarded with a backhand to the face.

“Joker hit harder than that,” he slurs, not that they can understand him. The metahuman just grins before tipping his head back, opening his mouth. Jason closes his eyes against the shockwaves he knows are coming, turning his brain into mush, thinks about Steph.

He cracks his eyes open when the expected, brief pain doesn’t come. The men are all turned away from him, staring at Batman, who’s silhouetted in the rafters above them. Jason’s so out of it he’s not even sure if it’s real, thinking that he’s back at the asylum, waiting for the cowl to come off and reveal Joker’s rictus of a grin. The warehouse spins as he falls to the side, onto his bad shoulder. Doesn’t hurt that much.

He watches as Batman moves through the room like a hurricane, and it can’t be Bruce, Bruce doesn’t fight like this; brutal, striking in places to cause the most damage, the most pain. “Not him!” he hears Batman bellow, and Jason lets his eyes slip closed again. If it’s not Bruce, if he’s going to come back to Joker, he might as well get some rest in first.
+
He’s briefly aware of Batman bending over him, sliding a hand under his head. “Jason,” Bruce murmurs, and it’s him, it has to be, only Bruce ever says his name like that, with the even mix of fondness and exasperation.

He’s safe, leaning his head into the touch, relaxing completely, managing to get out, “You came for me, B,” before the world goes dark again.
++
When Jason comes to, he’s in a bed, in a white room. Completely bare, sun streams in through the windows, and he wonders how long he’s been out if it’s day. There’s a bandage on his shoulder, around his ribs, an IV hooked up to his arm that he pulls out immediately. Things being put in his bloodstream while he’s not aware of them are usually bad news.

He sits up, looking around for his pants, first of all. He remembers fighting, almost dying, which makes the breath catch in his chest, and Bruce coming to save him. Could’ve been a hallucination, though. He had a lot of those whenever Joker brought him close to death.

“Whoa, Little Wing. You might want to be careful there.” He spins to see Dick, leaning against the doorway to the room. Inwardly, he relaxes. Safe, then. Dick’s still wearing the bodysuit he has under his armor, looking a bit worse for wear. Or, he would, if he wasn’t Dick Grayson and better than mere mortals at all times.

“What happened?” Dick steps further into the room, tossing a pair of sweatpants Jason’s way. His whole body aches, but he manages to catch them and put them on, watching Dick with suspicion all the while.

“You got overwhelmed. Me and Bruce showed up just in time.”

“You saved me?” When Dick nods, he snorts a laugh. “That’s a first.”

The soft, wounded noise Dick makes has him wincing, about to apologize. “We thought you were dead, Jason. Bruce was…I’ve never seen him like that. I thought he was gonna kill those guys.” Jason examines his face, looking for a lie and finding none. The hopeful feeling in his chest is an annoyance, unwanted, but it’s still there.

“Uh. Thanks, I guess. I’m sorry.” Dick sweeps him into a hug, which hurts his shoulder, but at least this way he can pretend that his eyes are completely dry.
+
Dick doesn’t want him to leave, saying something about visiting the Manor, seeing Bruce, like Jason’s up for that. He manages to duck under Dick’s expressive, waving arms, retrieving his gear and making a quick exit.

“I’ll see you later!” he calls over his shoulder, looking back, hoping he won’t see another hurt puppy expression on Dick’s face. He’s smiling, though, lifting a hand to wave goodbye. Jason smirks and closes the door behind himself.
+
It takes him about twenty minutes to walk home, the dufflebag with his gear that’s hefted over his shoulder making it hard to walk and the injuries aren’t helping, either. People on the street stare at his black eye, the blood that still crusts the side of his head. It’s not his.

He picks bits of bone matter out of his hair as he takes the steps to their apartment, no sure whether he’s hoping Steph’s home, not sure whether he’s okay with her seeing him like this. If he’s lucky, he’s at least presentable. He’s exhausted, head throbbing, mostly thinking of Steph, how much he wants to get his hands on her. Safe.

The door swings open at his touch, Steph standing there in leggings and a sweatshirt, hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “Jason?” He takes a step forward, leans his whole weight against her as her arms wrap round his waist; she staggers but doesn’t fall.

He’s mumbling, too concussed and stupid to hold back, “Fuck, Steph, just lemme touch you, just lemme,” in a tumble of words. She’s soft, his hands slipping up the back of her shirt to find more skin, feeling the scars along her shoulder blades.

When he makes his way towards the couch she goes with him, onto his lap, thighs on either side of his. He lets out a breath into her hair, smelling vanilla, leather, her skin underneath, pushing his nose into the curve where neck meets shoulder. “Barb told me what happened,” she murmurs next to his ear, lips briefly touching the shell of it. “Are you okay?”

“Gonna be,” he mutters, kissing her neck, her cheek, the side of her mouth.

“You almost died again,” she reminds him, leaning back, her flat blue eyes holding his.

He grins, used to it, laughs against her mouth. “Yeah, I’m aware. Don’t get lost in your head about it.”

Frowning like she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, she picks at the blood along his hairline, making a face as it flakes onto her fingers. “You need a shower,” she says, moving away from a topic neither of them want to linger on.

Jason chooses to squeeze at her hips instead, reveling in the way she squirms, kissing her again. “Only if you shower with me.” She rolls her eyes, muttering something about cheesiness, but doesn’t argue when he stands, just wraps her thighs round his waist and holds on.