Archive of Our Own

For Jason, it’s a death of a thousand cuts, moving you into his place. Before you arrived, officially, his apartment was a husk, a habitat for a creature without enrichment, an open landscape of numbing atrophy. A place where he rest, and ate, and existed in silence—and no more than that. 

When you move in, everything changes. It’s slow, and subtle, and by the time he realizes, it’s too late. 

The first realization is when he comes home, late. He’s shaking away the savagery, the base instincts, the cruelty of the night, trying to clutch himself back to humanity. As he walks down the hallway to his apartment, rolling the tension from his shoulders, working his jaw, easing himself back off the ledge, he catches it. 

It’s quiet—probably no one but him, or someone trained under a similar tutelage, would cotton to it. But he hears it; someone is singing, carrying a song that he’s heard hodge-podge on the radio in snippets, tunelessly and absentmindedly. And something—something smells good. 

He pauses before his door, the flat of his palm curled over his doorknob, before he realizes both things are coming from the other side. Of his place. Waiting for him. Jason works his key in and turns the knob, revealing more than just a barren apartment. Instead, where there once was no one waiting, is now—

“Oh, Jason!” You turn from where you stand by the stove, nursing a pot where the rich aroma wafts to him, washing over where he stands. A memory, a false one, calls to him from before—because when was he ever greeted warmly where someone was happy to see him, happy to feed him, smiling at his return—that’s never happened. Except now. 

He closes the door behind him, silent as he takes in the picture before him. 

“Good timing,” you smile at him as you stir whatever simmers beyond his sight, “I just finished making dinner.” 

“You make dinner at two in the morning?” Jason asks, his voice low but dry, lingering in the threshold of his home. As if when he chooses to take a step forward, the spell will be broken and he will be alone again. 

You wrinkle your nose good-naturedly at his pedantics, shrugging. “Dinner is more a concept than a rule to me. Also, I couldn’t sleep without anyone in the apartment.” 

“Didn’t you sleep just fine in your old place?” He asks, and it’s not accusatory—it’s curious, a riddle he hasn’t figured yet. You turn back to lower the heat as he nears, giving him a chance to see a rich broth with vegetables breaking through the meniscus. 

But really, it’s so he can see the slope of your neck that curves into your shoulder, exposed by the slack of your loose t-shirt. The soft, vulnerable skin awakens something fierce, protective, and he takes another step forward. The only thing that stops his journey is when you turn back to him, face sheepish. 

“I guess it’s silly. But—”—You tilt your head as you avert your gaze, a whisper of a smile passing by—“—I just wanted to stay up to make sure you came back home safe.” 

To you, it’s clearly not the emotional leg-sweep that it is to him, as you turn back to extinguish the heat. But to him, as he watches you search for the bowls you set up on the counter, start doling out servings for the two of you, it’s infinitely, incredibly so much more. Suddenly he’s hungry, but not just for food. 

He takes the bowl you offer to him in his bare hands, the painful heat of the hot bowl barely registering to him, the only thing anchoring him to the earth.  

“Let’s eat for the special occasion.” You say, passing him a spoon as you begin the task of transferring things over to the island in his kitchen. 

“What’s that?” He asks, and if there’s a smile on his face as he regards you, he’s not aware of it. All he can do is watch helplessly as you make yourself at home with him, and all he can do is let it happen. 

“To new beginnings and late night meals,” you grin back at him. “Can’t go wrong with those.”

And who is he to disagree? 

He’s got to become accustomed to other things as well, because with your more permanent residence comes the arrival of other things. For one, the couch that you requested be moved into his—for some reason, you still haven’t taken him up on bed-sharing just yet, but he’ll figure out a way to appeal to your better nature. 

There are other things too, smaller things, little things that establish your presence and ghosts of your memory even when you’re not in the room. Some of them are the little keychains that you collect, iridescent when they catch the afternoon sun through the window the right way, or the small fifty chapsticks that you affectionately say you always buy extras of so you’ll never run out. 

(And he wouldn’t deprive you of that, because he’ll watch quietly when you reapply, admire the way your lips purse and pout. He’s such a considerate, observant friend). 

It’s even in the comfortable, homier touches, that elevate the place from apartment to home. Now there’s a candle to breathe some life into the place, a throw pillow or a blanket, kitchen towels, tissues—it’s starting to look like someone lives here. You always make sure to apologize for the clutter and do your best to keep things organized, but he reassures he doesn’t mind, because he doesn’t. 

His favorite new addition, though—other than you—if he’s being honest, is probably the hairbrush. 

It’s the early evening, but he’s off-duty tonight, which means he’s got to wrestle with his own thoughts with no proper outlet. So he sits, enjoying the comfort the couch brings, wound-up, shoulders hunched, a low humming headache roiling behind his eyes. Seems like he’ll have to spend the night like this, craving release. 

The door opens, and he turns his head to the right to see you, returning home from work, your bag slung over your shoulder and a bag of groceries from the bodega around the corner carrying the scent of fresh bread and pastries. It’s another touch that he’s grateful you’ve brought to him. 

His shoulders relax, but not by much as he takes you in and you do so vice-versa, holding up a hand in greeting as you close the door behind you and walk the distance to the kitchen’s island. 

“Evening, stranger.” You smile, your voice suffused and quiet—he knows you’ve clocked the weary look in his eyes, the coil he’s displayed in his body language. “How you doing?” 

He’s honest; you’ve never given him a reason for him not to be with you. “Tired. Got a headache.” 

“You want some help with that?” You ask, sympathetically as you settle the day’s harvest on the island. “Or do you want me to give you space?”

He’d rather throw himself through the window than exile you elsewhere, away from him. “What’s your solution, doc?” 

“Something that always works for me. Be with you in a jiffy.” You say. He watches as you cross to the corner of the living room, where a chest sits, holding the most important items that would make the journey from your place to his. 

Jason sees you produce a wooden hairbrush, soft-bristled and well-loved, maybe even an heirloom. You make a quick detour to the island where you grab a stool—another addition from you to him—and pull yourself up to the spot behind him on the couch. 

He looks up to you, silently, as you look down to him. 

“You mind if I get my fingers in your hair?” You ask gently, “Or is this going to be too much?” 

There is nothing that could possibly pull him away from this prospect—Gotham City be damned. Whole city could explode in a fiery inferno and he’d be happy exactly where he is. 

“Go for it,” he says, never moving his green eyes from you. 

“Alright,” you smile, taking a seat—close enough he can breathe in your scent. “Close your eyes.” 

“You don’t want me to keep continuous eye contact with you?” Jason asks, but nearly chokes off the end of the sentence as he feels the light touch of your fingertips ghosting up the base of his neck. He obliges, letting his eyelids drift closed. 

“Crazy enough, it will be distracting for me if you stare upside-down at me the whole time.” You smirk, and run your fingers out from the base of his scalp up, applying the smallest bit of pressure to begin. He makes a muted, satisfied groan from the back of his throat—you have to work not to smirk in triumph, even though you know he can’t see. 

“I think—”—his voice is strained as he tries not to articulate how good this feels for him—“—It’ll help with the immersion if I keep staring.”

“Find another person who’ll give you a head massage, then.” You say, but you’re smiling. You already know the answer as you make your way up his head, through the waves and waves of black hair as it blends into white. 

“Never,” Jason says, and it’s said simply enough, but if there’s a deeper meaning you don’t catch it. You continue your ministrations, moving your fingers slowly, taking care to work slow, soothing circles and really, really take your time. He doesn’t say another word, but the sounds he tries to restrain are communication enough, as you work out the tension, bleeding it from him with the work of your hands. 

It’s over too soon, as you make your way to the crown of his skull, carefully pulling your hands away from him. Jason can’t help but open his eyes in time to catch you producing the hairbrush, which has taken residence on your lap. 

“And now for the pièce de résistance,” you say with an all-knowing smile. “I don’t really need to do this because your hair’s already perfect, but I figured you wouldn’t mind.” 

“I don’t,” he says, solemn. “How much do I owe you for all of this?” 

“Mmm, just a place to stay.” You smile down. “Or a couple organ donations. Your pick.” 

Then, you reach out to gently, carefully part his hair—his eyes fall closed again at your touch. 

“I’ll have to get back to you on the second one,” he manages out huskily, because it’s all he can do not to melt into your hand. The brush glides through his hair, a welcome, relieving sensation, the prickle of the bristles an auditory treat. 

This is over too quickly as well, and when you say a quiet “All done,” it’s like he’s been cured of his ails, the headache a distant memory. 

He opens his eyes one final time, looking back at you. 

“You said this is something that works for you?” He asks, clarifying something. You nod. 

“Who’s doing this for you, then?” Jason’s face, you think, is amusingly suspicious. You give him a beatific smile in return. 

“If I’m lucky,” you smile, holding the brush his way, “You are, the next time you want to pay me back.” 

He won’t say out loud how he likes your self-satisfied, cheeky little giggle. 

You’ve made a difference, that much is clear, from the life you’ve brought in, the semblance of happiness you’ve created in the place, the spirit of something that he can’t describe, something beyond him. 

He doesn’t want to admit how excited he is to return home and see you waiting for him, or how it makes him happy to see you greet him upon your own homecoming. In the way you make him feel like there’s a reason for being, beyond what he can bloody his knuckles with in the city streets. The way you can inspire a smile that isn’t caused by bloodlust or satisfaction at a grisly job well done. 

You make it different, because you are not just a city to enforce, to organize, to correct. You are someone to protect. 

Yes, protect—he’s realized that’s the main thing he feels—aside from that one great emotion he’s had to wrangle with, that consumes him while he thinks of you. 

When he sees you, folding the shared laundry, wearing an oversized sweater of his and something clenches painfully, needful. 

When you’re cooking something for the both of you and you invite him to keep you company by the counter because you want to talk to him—like he’s a necessary fixture to your life. 

When you’re laughing at a deadpan joke he made, covering your face because you don’t want to let him know how much it cracked you up, and oh, how happy it makes him to have that. To know he can inspire that effect in you.

It’s multiple things; he wants you, and he wants you by his side. But he wants to keep you safe, and it’s a belated realization to realize that he always has. 

Case in point, tonight at 3 in the morning. He got home earlier this time—a reasonable 1:30, and you were there to greet him with your regular meal. The two of you got ready to hunker down for the night, and then go your separate ways; you to turn in on the couch, he to return to his bed. 

If he stared longingly at you as you propped up a pillow underneath, draping your blanket over the silhouette of your body, he took care not to linger too long before you wished him goodnight. The urge that seemed to steal his speech, the need as he looked at you curled up was excruciating. 

And it robbed him of any chance at sleep, staring up in abject silence at the blank white canvas of his ceiling, alone in his bed. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring into the distance when he hears it—hears you. Hears the whimper of fear, choked and frightened. 

It’s instantaneous, the way he rises up from the bed, at full alert, awash with adrenaline and rage, and a terror that he cannot acknowledge. First he must open the door, and assess the threat to you, to what he will do to the threat, expeditiously, painfully. 

Jason pushes his bedroom door open, which swings noiselessly on the hinge, and looks with bated breath to where he last saw you sleeping. There’s a perilous moment of bewilderment; everything is the same, nothing untouched, no intruder. 

And then the noise again, from you—an arm reaching out in horror, above the back of the couch, fighting something away. Something only you can see, trapped in your nightmare. 

The confusion, the anger drains immediately, tempered and replaced by a different worry. His shoulders relax, the fierce look on his face drawing calm. He rounds the couch to the one thing he orbits in this apartment made home, kneeling beside you. 

There’s a moment of hesitation on his end as he watches you mutter something layered with terror, and then reaches out a hand to your shoulder, gently shaking you awake. Your name is on his lips, calling you back to the waking world. 

You start, looking up at him, still half-caught in the nightmare, half-conscious to his presence. There’s a pang of emotion that twists his heart as he sees the tears caught in your eyes, the tremble in your bottom lip. 

“Jason—”—your voice stutters, a maelstrom of fear and shame—“—I’m so sorry—”

“Bad dreams?” He asks, comforting as he can, so unmoored and out of his element to be the caretaker. But willing to try for you, as he draws a hand up your arm to steady you, the opportunity is so ripe for the picking. He tries not to hitch his breath when you lean into his touch, a little sigh easing out of you. 

You nod, embarrassed. “Yeah—just about the apartment.” 

“Looks fine to me.” He says, casting a game glance around the room as if to enunciate the point. You titter nervously, shaking your head. 

“No—the other apartment.” You say, referring to your abode, which you haven’t set foot in for about three months, which still sports a gaping hole that has yet to be fixed. “Just a dream—if I had been there when it happened. Stupid stuff.” 

You have never spoken to him about your previous place, if only to say you were glad for his company now, a compliment he leapt upon. In fact, you hardly made mention of it, save to mention how you forgot something there and you’d have to go back later to grab it. Always skirting the idea, and now he knows why. 

“But you’re here.” He says, low and settled. “You’re safe with me here.” 

You smile, and it’s the first real smile since you’ve woken up. “I know. I’m so grateful for you, Jason.” 

He tries to keep his hand stable, rubbing a soothing circular motion into your arm with his thumb. Ducking his head so you don’t see him swallow, hard. 

“Would you—”—your voice has adopted a foreign, shy tone that he’s so unused to hearing, that he looks up, casting his careful stare upon you. 

“Yes?” He asks. 

“Would you…” you momentarily lose your nerve but regain it, looking more at your pillow than at him. “Would you sleep here with me? I…I don’t think I can go back to sleep alone.” 

There’s no ulterior motive, no intimate intention, no play at anything more; that much is clear from the sheen of fright that still lingers in your eyes as you brave your nerves to look at him. This is what emboldens him to speak. 

“Why don’t you join me in my bed?” He asks, keeping his voice and eyes level with you. You hesitate, enticed, but not totally set. Time to seal the deal. 

“Promise I won’t snore. Just for you.” Jason’s voice is a mellow note in the silence, and you give him a weak smile. 

“Okay.” You say, relief more evident than you intended to let on. “Lead the way.” 

And so he does, and if you take his hand in your own, your forefinger wrapped around his, he doesn’t comment. Even if his skin burns, a roiling flame blazing within. Even as he pulls back the covers for you, even as you sidle under the blankets, sighing happily again, a noise he would maul and eviscerate and kill for again and again. Even as he joins you, keeping a respectful distance. Even as—

“Come closer,” you say, your hand reaching across the sloping dunes of his starched sheets and blankets. Reaching out to him. “Let me hold you.” 

And so he obliges, easing into your arms, wrapping his own around you. Feeling your head rest upon his chest, your leg cautiously sneaking between his, finding no resistance from him. A perfect fit for each other. 

Jason doesn’t sleep that night, but he doesn’t complain. He holds you as you return back to a more comforting embrace of sleep, cradling you to him, unwilling to let you go. Even as the warm glow of the sun cast its rays upon you both, as he wishes he could capture the moment forever.