Chapter Text
I’m sleeping tonight. It’s rare, this close to sunset. Normally I pace my apartment and triple check locks, paranoid. Or I’m absorbed in the couch, blanket over my numbing feet, eyes fixated on a book or a case or hell, even whatever shitty movies are on the useless cable plan I get. Even if it’s none of those, it’s not sleeping. It’s staring off into space for hours, my hands doing something, but my mind inactive. The only time I ever sleep is after the witching hour. Normally, of course.
This week ain’t normal. If Jason were to drop by he’d say it’s disastrous. And even if he were being dramatic if he were to drop by, there’d be truth in the assumed words he would say if he were here. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t say the words, and therefore they aren’t true.
It’s obvious, he would say if he were to drop by. The clothes that don’t make it to the basket, the unmade bed that looks like it’s being used for most of the day, the stocked fridge and pantry yet the plates in the cabinet that gather the thinnest layer of dust. He wouldn’t say it out of judgement. He’d say it with a wrinkle between his brows and lips parted. Maybe a tinge of frustration in his tone if I’m stubborn enough about it.
I don’t miss him. I don’t. I don’t long to fall asleep on his chest. I don’t long to wake up from a nightmare to a warm body rather than cold sheets. I don’t hope the minutes leading up to and following 3:45 am that he decides to use my place as a safehouse after he’s done with patrolling. I can’t miss him. I’m sleeping.
A single, sharp knock on my fire-escape window (followed by the sound of the lock being picked and it sliding open) jolts me out of sleep. I’m reaching for the bowie knife that I keep under my pillow and creeping out from under the covers before I’m even oriented. I don’t turn on a lamp.
Two steps from the bed I realize what’s going on. The knock. The bypass of the little security alarm. My mood sours. I brace myself for this.
He’s taking his boots off. At least he still has manners. The stupid helmet is already sitting on my coffee table and his soaked leather jacket gets tossed over the back of an armchair. I don’t think he’s noticed me quite yet. He does take in the mess though. I don’t realize I’m staring until his eyes find mine.
My guard goes up immediately. I hold the knife, brace myself. He doesn’t seem all that phased. He’s bleeding from somewhere. His fingertips drip pink-tinged water onto the hardwood.
“Look. I know, I know. Just–put the damn knife down for a second. Lemme talk.” He says, hands raising almost like he’s surrendering. It feels more like he’s humoring me. We both know he has the capability, if he wanted to, to disarm the knife from me–especially with a lack of food in my system, and the fact that I just woke up and there isn’t a drop of adrenaline flowing through my veins.
I address him with my eyes first (that’s address, not undress, thank you very much). There’s a very nasty cut that I can see in his gut. That’s the brunt of the damage. Plus the normal scrapes, a bloody lip and nose (even though he wears a helmet) and a dark little mark on his neck–
Oh.
My lip twitches. He moves on quickly, I see. My eyes flick back up to meet his. He’s since shed the stupid fucking domino mask.
“So talk.” My voice is sharp. In his defense, I’ve yet to put the knife down, and that was part of his deal that he’ll explain.
I don’t plan on it either. Even lowering the knife changes this interaction from a confrontation, or even an interrogation, into some sort of normal talk. Which would inevitably lead to something very awkward about why he left.
(Not that I care. He’s the one that cares. I’m sure of it.)
Jason’s either fighting back a smile or that gut wound is starting to get to him, because he runs a hand over his face and turns his head to the side. There’s a beat.
“Put the knife away.” He says again.
“Not until you tell me why you’re here and I determine you to not be a threat.” I say, shocking myself with how even my voice is.
“Don’t be like this. I don’t talk until you put the knife down,”
“Tell me why you’re in my fucking apartment–”
“I swear to Christ, put the knife away–”
“Am I truly asking that much? You’re the one who broke in, you don’t have any claim of demand here–”
“I didn’t break in, I fucking knocked! You only just started actually paying rent here anyway, it’s barely even your place–”
“This is the first time I’ve even heard from you since that goddamned warehouse–”
“Oh, that’s how it is?” He snaps and I actually take a step forward with the knife still pointed at him. I glance down at the blood flowing from his abdomen. “You’re gonna linger on–”
“You got fucking blood all over my brand new carpet!” I cut him off. There’s a tense beat. We stare one another down.
I get a good look at his face. He’s pale. That wound isn’t getting any better. He’s not as steady on his feet as I recall.
Fuck.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t have an excuse for how stupid I’m being. I roll over every possible explanation in my head as I take his fucking hand and lead him to the bathroom. I calculate the substances in my system: if I can pass this off as a missed cue from lowered inhibitions. He strips his stupid gear off and leans on the pedestal sink. His white tank top is hardly that–mostly stained crimson that bled into the fabric further with his sweat. I crinkle my nose at the way he smells–I never was a fan of his musk.
(I should just say anyone’s musk in general. But it protects my wounded pride to just scrutinize him.)
The silence is near unbearable.
I lift the tank top and inspect the gut wound. My free hand (treasonably) traces over his abs. I pray he doesn’t notice.
“How much blood?” I mumble up to him. I don’t look him in the eye. This, along with the betrayal my left hand just committed, is enough to have him falter.
At least I think so. Again, I’m staring into the pulsing, gushing blood red of this knife wound.
“Not much. I was close by.” He answers, and his voice doesn’t even shake.
My brows pinch. “So specific.” I say, digging out what’s left of my first aid kit. I haven’t restocked in a while.
His silence stings.
If this were a month ago, it’d still be silent. But a different silence. One where I could feel him staring at me so softly, so reverently. And he’d have a hand somewhere on me–the top of my head, my shoulder, my hand, playing with my hair. I’d ask him if the stitches hurt and he would say they don’t, because it’s me placing them.
My throat feels tight. I try to ignore it. I get the antiseptic out. I don’t warn him of the pain it’ll bring.
He hisses through his teeth when I clean the wound. My jaw clenches and I pretend not to notice. I sterilize the needle instead, trying to distract myself.
The stitches go shockingly easy. It falls into a rhythm, trying to be as gentle as possible. I zone out. I don’t look at his face because I’ll let all the pain of the last few days out like a waterfall. I’ll shatter into a million pieces because I’m so used to him picking me back up. I got too comfortable being soft and vulnerable, because prior to last week Jason would never, ever hurt me when I was like that.
But now it’s like bleeding out in front of a shark. So I don’t look at him, and when I’m done I step back and walk right out of the bathroom to go wash my hands in the kitchen sink.
And I wait for his footsteps. Maybe a week ago he would have protested. Would have snuck up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, pressing his chest to my back. And maybe I would have laughed.
Tonight I just go back to bed.