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Ah, good ole Gotham. The acrid scent of smoke burnt Roy’s nostrils as he breathed in the night air. The billowing black clouds rose high into the night sky—blotting the smoggy cityscape with even more pollution and dashing every child’s hope of maybe one day seeing a star shine bright above the city. Police sirens blared through the streets, and their flashes lit up Gotham’s alleys like an old pinball machine.
It was just his luck, Roy thought as he adjusted the brim of his baseball cap with a sigh, that the night he chose to swing by to surprise his best friend had to be the same night Arkham decided to let its gates swing open… again. Thank god, he packed his Arsenal gear, always did—especially when Jason was involved—but he had hoped this night would’ve gone a tad bit differently.
Oh, he’d still be running along rooftops, had planned to accidentally bump into Jason on patrol, give him a little exaggerated gasp and be all, “Golly, what are the chances of running into the big bad Red Hood in these parts? Do you come here often? Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
And Jaybird would laugh as he shoved at Roy’s shoulder, informing him that, “Nah, man, I am happy to see you, but sorry, it’s two guns, not one.” And they’d have a good ole laugh about it and catch up as they thwarted petty thieves and attempted assaults. It was supposed to be a good night, and if Roy was lucky—if he shot his arrow right—well, maybe there’d be even more.
Because again, Roy had a plan. Those cheesy pickup lines of his weren’t just for show. He planned on having a good night scaling Gotham’s shadows and then—while still euphoric on the adrenaline—he’d finally tell Jason he loved him. He had a special arrow ready. Like a little kid’s toy, it had a suction cup on the end, and Roy tied a sappy confession letter to its shaft and was gonna shoot the Red Hood smack dab in the helmet, probably making some dumb joke about playing his own cupid, too.
But no, the universe apparently hated him, so here Roy was, scouting out the clusterfuck that was Gotham as he hacked into the Bat family’s coms.
The silence in Roy’s earpiece was suddenly filled with the same chaos ailing Gotham, and he winced at the shouting.
“Hood? Hood?”
“Anyone got eyes on him?”
“He’s probably finishing off the Joker as we speak.”
“Hood, status report. Now.”
The line fell eerily silent. With bated breath, Roy barely heard the quick flicker of static over the pounding of his own blood, but the static fizzled out without a single word being spoken.
Batman took it as response enough, and admittedly, Roy didn’t know the guy well enough to truly say, but the gravel in his voice sounded subdued when he bit out, “Oracle.”
“Already on it. Give me a second…”
One second turned into three and then seven. And Roy never considered ten seconds to be too long to wait, but with the Joker involved—and apparently Jason’s whereabouts unknown—it felt like an eternity slipped through an hourglass, and he couldn’t catch the cascading sand that slipped away, and suddenly that sand in his hands oozed a dark, crimson red, thick and viscous and seeping between his fingers.
“Alright, I’ve got visuals on Hood. He’s near the docks, heading northeast. Injuries confirmed. Helmet cracked, probably interfering with his coms. Sending visuals to your cowl.”
“Hood. Cave, now,” Batman ordered, and Roy would’ve rolled his eyes if he weren’t so worried.
Static crackled over the line, loud and earsplitting and whatever Jason was trying to say, it probably summed up to something along the line of, “Over my dead body, old man.”
Nightwing sighed and then said, “Send me his location. I’ll go—”
Already sprinting across the rooftop, Roy cut off Dick, “I’ve got him.”
“Ro— Arsenal?” Nightwing sputtered. “What are you doing here?”
Roy jumped to the next rooftop, tucking and rolling into the landing with a smirk. “I wanted to visit my favorite little bird, and no, that’s not you.”
“Where are you? I’m pretty close to—”
Firmer and with no room for argument, Roy insisted, “I’ve got him.” More casual, with a hint of jovial fondness, he continued, “You hear that, Jaybird? It’s just me. Your good ole pal Arsenal. You go where you need to go, and I’ll be right behind you to help patch you up. My favorite bird isn’t about to bleed to death tonight, you hear me?”
The only answer was a short staticky fuzz in Roy’s ear, and then the com fell silent with an audible click.
“He turned his com off. How are you going to track him now?”
“Don’t need to,” Roy grunted out as he leapt for the nearby fire escape. He hefted himself up and continued toward the theatre district. “I know where he’s going.”
“And how could you possibly—”
Roy’s teeth audibly ground together when he bit out, “I said I’ve got him.”
The silence hung heavy in Roy’s ear, so powerful it overshadowed the screams and sirens Gotham sang out into the night. But then, with Batman’s voice cutting through, the noise crashed back into Roy like a bullet in the chest. “Leave Hood to Arsenal. We need to find the Joker.”
“The docks. I’ve got visuals on him there.”
“Oh, so To— the Red Hood didn’t slaughter him?”
Roy signed off the com channel. He couldn’t say which younger bird was mouthing off about Jason, probably the babiest of the bats, but he didn’t want to hear anything about the Bat’s moral high ground or whatever bullshit that was. Because Jason was hurt. Jason was surely in pain. And if Roy ever found the Joker within arm’s reach of his Jaybird; well, Roy would cross the Bat’s line. Without hesitance and without remorse. Each and every time.
Roy scaled across Gotham with a single destination in mind. Jason had a lot of safe houses, probably more than any one vigilante truly needed, but Roy knew—without a doubt in his mind—where Jason would hole up to heal.
There was an old apartment complex a block from the Gotham library. It had been renovated and remodeled years ago—before he or Jason were even in the vigilante business as sidekicks—and in its additions, it gained an impressive height. From the top few floors, one could look out upon the river and gaze across its waters at Northern Gotham. It was about as safe as one got to waterfront property in the East End without running into rogues or gangs at the docks.
Lo and behold, when the building came into view, Roy’s gaze zeroed in on its top right window. Left open just a crack, it was only a leap from that apartment’s fire escape, and leave it to Jason to make it just slightly more annoying for Roy to help him.
But Roy jumped through every hoop, always would for Jason. When he reached the complex’s roof, he dropped down onto the fire escape. Climbing onto its railing, he perched on the rusty metal for only a moment before vaulting for the window ledge. He caught the ledge and wedged his arm through the open window to anchor himself before wrenching the windowpane higher with his other. His feet kicked at the brick to push himself further in, and then finally, he scrambled through the opening and tumbled onto the apartment’s floor with the agility and grace of a two-year-old.
“Man, Jaybird,” Roy said with a groan, exaggerated and playful as he pushed himself to his feet, “you really don’t make it easy for a guy.” He quickly closed the window and set Jason’s little wire traps in place before venturing further into the apartment.
It was a quaint little apartment. Nothing overly extravagant or pretentious, but it was a cozy place. Having tumbled into the living room, Roy followed the little sliver of light trailing from the kitchen’s entrance. “Jaybird?” he gently called as he poked his head around the wall.
With only the light above the stove illuminating him, Jason was cast in dark shadows; and Roy couldn’t tell which angry splotches of skin were bruises or simple tricks of the light. He figured, though, with the cracked lip, swollen eye, and slowly seeping gash upon his left cheek, that he could assume the majority of Jason’s skin was heavily discolored with blossoming pain.
Jason didn’t look up when Roy approached, didn’t move from his perch on the countertop. He remained hazily focused on sewing up the flesh of his bicep.
Roy carefully reached out and touched Jason’s fingers, ignoring the way they flinched at his contact. He took the needle from Jason and tried for his best teasing grin, but he was pretty sure he just ended up looking constipated. “I know the Bat taught you how to stitch up a wound better than that.”
Jason remained silent. No scathing remark or jab to Roy’s gut. He stared unblinking at his wobbly stitches before stiffly turning his head and dropping his gaze to the laminate floor.
Oh shit, this was bad; Roy knew his Jaybird was barely holding it together. This was beyond physical injuries. He’d seen Jason get his ass whooped so many times and still bounce back to his feet with a feral, bloody smirk and his fists swinging with every knuckle cracked and bleeding. But this Jason, sitting in the glow of harsh orange light with enough tension stringing his shoulders tight that Roy’s muscles ached just looking at the man, was anything but the wild and vicious Red Hood. Right now, he was Jason Todd, the Crime Alley orphan wandering the streets all alone and searching for a miraculous safe haven to catch just a few hours of sleep, knowing that for a street kid in Park Row, there was no such place.
Roy finished patching up Jason’s arm and tied off the stitches. He then slowly—with deliberate movement—reached for Jason’s chin. His touch was firm but remained gentle as he tipped Jason’s head higher and tilted his chin toward him.
Jason’s eyes—normally so vibrant in their blue and shining like glistening sea glass—stared at Roy with a haziness that was unseeing. Unnerving. Roy swallowed and forced his attention to the gash slicing from the lobe of Jason’s ear, arching in a gradual semi-circle and tapering near his nostril. Roy set to work, focusing on the first aid kit and disinfecting the wound before readying a new needle and thread.
He worked with careful precision. At the first puncture of the suture, Jason’s breath stuttered in a quiet stream through his nostrils; Roy felt the shaky warmth hot upon his knuckles. And with each added stitch, Jason slowly unraveled. The tension in his shoulders vibrated. His knuckles whitened in their death grip on the edge of the counter, and Roy tried to ignore it. He tried to choke down his love and compassion—tried to focus on keeping a steady hand even though he knew no matter how well of a job he did, it would surely scar—but then Jason’s lips trembled. A horrible little wobble that had Jason clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut.
“I’m almost done. Hang in there, bud,” Roy gently reassured, but the comforting softness of his voice didn’t calm Jason in the slightest. It seemed to have the opposite effect as the man’s chest hitched with a low whine.
And didn’t that ache in all the wrong ways. Hearing that sound from his Jaybird—so hurt and vulnerable and bearing a wounded heart for Roy to see—ripped through Roy’s chest until he felt like he went ten rounds with a rabid lion. It was the kind of trust Roy would’ve bragged about, rubbing it in Dick’s face just to see his exaggerated and pathetic look of betrayal, but this was much too intimate, too weighted in its importance. It was something that would never be spoken about outside of the safety of each other.
Jason’s eyelashes quivered as moisture pooled along the veil of his eyelids, but despite how tightly he held them shut, the first trickle of a tear rolled down his cheek and wet Roy’s knuckle. With a featherlight touch, Roy wiped it away, and then he finished off the last pair of stitches.
“Jaybird,” Roy breathed his name like a prayer, a bated exhale that echoed in his ears and pounded against his ribcage. It took a long moment of listening to the blood rush through his own veins before Jason’s lashes slowly parted—tiny beads of moisture clumping the ends together. When his glassy blue gaze lifted to Roy’s face, Roy asked, “Any more serious injuries?”
Minuscule in the movement, Jason shook his head. “Okay. Good.” Roy breathed a quiet sigh. He allowed himself two seconds to simply inhale deeply and let his heart steady itself to a more reasonable beat, before laying his hand on Jason’s knee. He gave it a gentle squeeze as he asked, “Are you okay?”
Jason blinked, and another stray tear slid down his cheek, catching in the crease of his lips. He thought about it for a while before shrugging his shoulders.
“Do you want to talk about it… whatever happened at the docks?”
Jason’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. His gaze fell, and he slumped back against the cabinet, clenching his teeth as he groaned.
“Okay, buddy, let me rephrase that.” Roy gave his knee another comforting squeeze to draw back Jason’s gaze. “Can you talk about it right now?”
Jason shook his head.
“Okay. That’s fine.” Roy’s thumb absently stroked along Jason’s knee, and he didn’t even know if Jason could feel it through his tactical pants. “Do you want to talk about it, though?”
Jason’s shoulders rose with a sharp breath. Air stuttered into his lungs and exhaled through his nostrils in the same shaky fashion. With a slow blink of his eyes, he nodded once, slow and uncertain and very much like a scared little boy.
And Roy supposed, Jason was just that right now. Scared. Hurt. Traumatized. He was a fifteen-year-old, beaten and broken in a warehouse in Ethiopia, all over again.
“Okay, how about this…” Roy racked his brain for the right way to ease Jason out of this impending mental breakdown with the least amount of damage possible, but still, he feared the storm was far from over. “How about you go get cleaned up? Wash the blood and gunk off ya, make yourself more comfortable. I’ll find your tea stash—and I promise not to break any cups this time—and I’ll brew you some tea, and then we’ll see if you want to talk about it. Yeah?”
Jason swallowed. He rolled his bottom lip between the bite of his teeth and worried it for a long moment in which he closed his eyes and just breathed. Each inhale came steadier than the last, and maybe the air in his lungs still trembled within his ribs, maybe his grip on the counter remained white-knuckled, maybe his eyes were still glassy with tears; but he was trying. He tried to hold himself together. And when he deemed it good enough, he gave Roy a small nod.
Roy stepped back as Jason slipped off the counter. He watched Jason limp out of the kitchen and fumble with the bathroom door. It was painful to watch, but by the wince that jolted Jason when he bumped his shoulder against the doorframe, it was even more painful to experience.
Roy waited for the sound of the shower to turn on before he rummaged through Jason’s cabinets. A whole shelf of tea wasn’t hard to find, and Roy figured chamomile would be a safe option. It was supposed to have a calming effect, right? He dug out the box, set it aside, and then put on a pot of water to boil.
As he waited, he cleaned up the first aid mess. He tucked the supplies back into the kit and stored it in its rightful place beneath the sink. And then as he straightened back up, he caught a glimpse of Jason’s helmet tucked away in the corner.
Roy reached for it, his fingers catching on the jagged edges where a good portion of the left side was shattered. But it wasn’t the rusty blood staining the chasm that had Roy gasping and dropping the helmet to the floor. No, it was the new paint job; and though only half of it remained intact, it was enough to recognize that twisted grin. And it didn’t belong that close to Jason. It didn’t belong anywhere near him.
Jason was nothing like that monster.
Roy bent down to pick up the helmet. As his fingers closed around it, he leaned his forehead against the countertop and let its chill race down his spine. He huffed out a breath and then stood with a sudden bout of energy. He turned the kitchen faucet on as hot as it would go and grabbed the scrub brush. He didn’t care if this helmet was just going to be trashed anyway. Jason would not have to look at those damn grinning lips plastered to his vigilante identity. Roy made sure of that.
Roy heard the shower shut off as he reached into a cabinet for a pair of mugs. He turned off the burner, let the boiling water stand for probably too short a time, and then poured it over the teabags. It was when he went in search for some honey—knowing Jason enjoyed a dollop of the golden goo stirred into his tea—that he heard a sharp crack from the bathroom, followed by cascading plinks and shatters.
He moved before he even registered what it was. The cabinet door left wide open, Roy abandoned the notion of tea and skidded along the laminate floor. He wrenched open the bathroom door and stood frozen—eyes growing impossibly wide—to take in the damage before him.
Jason—in all his six-foot glory—was bent in on himself, knees knocking his chest as he clutched desperately to the vanity’s edge, his forehead pressed hard against his knuckles. Little trickles of blood dripped along his palm, pooled at his wrist, and then dropped to stain the towel that clung to his waist and bunched up around his thighs. His shoulders heaved with each intake of air, yet each gasp was short and silent, choked off and not nearly enough breath.
Surrounding him—cast about the vanity counter and sprinkling the tile in glassy shards—remnants of what once was the vanity mirror lay haphazardly throughout the bathroom. Everywhere Roy looked, there was a jagged edge or a shine of glass twinkling back. And what remained of the mirror, well, it clung to its brackets in a grotesque display of brutal points and deep chasms.
“Jason,” Roy said his name, if only to announce his presence and give the guy a bit of warning. He stepped into the bathroom—feeling the heated mist thick against his cheeks. Glass crunched beneath his boots, and he figured, considering the circumstances, Jason would forgive him for never taking them off. But Jason didn’t have the same protection, so Roy quickly kicked aside any broken glass in the short strides between Jason and the door.
And then he grabbed Jason’s bicep—ignoring his startled yelp—and dragged Jason out of the bathroom. He kicked the door shut behind them and then clamped his arms around Jason’s shoulders, a hand settling at the nape of his neck and tipping Jason forward into Roy’s embrace. “It’s okay,” Roy spoke, tone quiet and soft, head tilted toward Jason, the man’s damp hair tickling Roy’s nose. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”
A deep, shuddering breath hitched Jason’s chest; and Roy felt the rampant beat of Jason’s heart pressed against his own. That one breath opened the floodgates, and suddenly all those tears and sobs Jason restrained somewhere deep inside of him gurgled to the surface and broke free in the shadows of the hallway. His knees gave out, and Jason’s weight crashed against Roy. With a grunt, Roy grabbed for a better hold on Jason’s waist and eased both of them to the floor. He leaned back against the bathroom door, collected Jason more securely in his arms, and let the ragged sobs echo in his ears.
This wasn’t how he imagined feeling Jason’s skin hot against him tonight. But plans needed to change. Roy needed to shove those thoughts and feelings behind his heart and tuck them away for safe keeping for another day. Because they could wait. Allowing his love to age a little longer in his heart would make it so much sweeter when it finally spilled forth.
Until then—with Jason so vulnerable and impressionable and seeking any form of comfort someone was willing to give him—Roy would continue to be his best friend, would continue to steady him through the worst of his choking sobs, would continue to care.
Because Jason had done the same for him. Through every itching ache that shivered through his veins on a real bad day, Jason talked him through every reason he had to fight for his sobriety. He stayed glued to his side—hovering in the trademarked Bat fashion—and when it got so bad that Roy was a sobbing, pleading mess; Jason held him until the fire scorching his veins subsided and he no longer felt the urge to find a dirty needle on the street and jab it into his arm. Because despite what many thought, Jason cared. He cared so damn much that it fueled his every action.
Jason was a man of intensities. His passion swelled like the ocean, beautiful and serene from the shore but deadly during a raging storm out at sea. He cared to the extremes. He protected the ones he loved at any and all costs.
Jason’s love was given away freely, and no one really noticed when they received it. That little girl on the street whose family was too poor to buy her proper gloves and boots for a Gotham winter found a whole wardrobe of warm coats and sweaters and thick mittens and even one of those fuzzy hats with the ear pom poms waiting for her when she got home from school. The third shift janitor who got mugged walking home received an anonymous letter with the receipt for that month’s rent—paid in full—and some extra cash to cover groceries. The woman who was assaulted on her way home from the bar gained a small modicum of safety when the following day’s news reported a brutal beatdown by the Red Hood, the apparent victims being faces she wished she didn’t recognize.
Just as quickly as they started up, Jason’s wet, angry sobs quieted. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and dropped his forehead to Roy’s shoulder. He grasped at Roy’s shirt, his fingers digging harshly against Roy’s collarbone; but Roy welcomed the slight sting.
“I don’t know what to do,” Jason ground out.
“About what, Jaybird?”
A puff of breath blew hot from his nostrils, and a low whine rumbled in the back of Jason’s throat. “What the Joker said…” He pressed his forehead further into Roy’s shoulder, slipping closer to the crook of his neck, and a shiver wracked down Jason’s spine—a prickling of goosebumps breaking out over the bruises and scars. “…about me being on the path to be like him for years… He’s not wrong.”
“Bullshit, he’s not.” And wow, Roy didn’t mean to sound so vehemently bitter with the distaste on his tongue, but his words came out harsh and sharp. Jason visibly bristled—his shoulders tensing—as he stiffly lifted his head and leaned back.
With a sigh, Roy shook his head. “He is wrong,” he said, steadier and quieter but still resolute.
The gaze staring back at Roy was so bewildered—lost in an endless sea of confusion and struggling to stay afloat. His eyes crinkled as he tilted his head, and his lips parted on a still breath. “You’re the only one that thinks that. Everyone else… they’re just waiting for me to fuck up. They know it’s gonna happen, and what if I do? Roy, what if I do?” His eyes widened with the sudden urgency lacing his voice, and he desperately grasped at the collar of the Arsenal uniform, weakly shaking; but the action was limp, falling away with the spirit of his gaze, leaving his eyes a dull, empty husk.
A whispered breath—so low Roy believed he wasn’t meant to hear the intrusive thought—Jason mused aloud. “I wonder which of them will take me down.”
Roy didn’t have to ask who. Whether it be Bruce or Dick or one of the many other Bat siblings, that wasn’t a thought Jason should have. Family shouldn’t plant such insecurities and allow them to sprout and blossom—flourish, even—in the heart of their brother, their son, all because they didn’t understand the way in which Jason loved.
“Look at me,” Roy said as he touched Jason’s cheek, gently coaxing the man’s gaze higher until those wet, vibrant eyes met his, so much desperation and hope projected at Roy that his heart ached in his chest. Jason wanted someone to believe in him; that’s all. He truly wasn’t asking for much. “None of them, because you’re good. You’re good, Jaybird.”
Jason’s lip quivered, and it rolled between the bite of his teeth to stop its trembling. But his chest still shuddered with a gasping breath, and Jason’s eyelashes fluttered in a desperate attempt to hold his tears at bay. When it seemed futile, Jason squeezed his eyes shut and fervently shook his head. “No, I’m—”
With a calm heart and a slow blink of his eyes, Roy bowed his head until he felt Jason’s forehead press against his own. His thumb stroked along Jason’s jawline, and his other hand slid higher up Jason’s bare shoulders until it cupped firmly at his nape. “You’re good,” Roy insisted, blinking his eyes open and smiling so damn tenderly at his broken Jaybird. “You protect those who are overlooked and forgotten. You are their hero.”
Jason’s jaw trembled with the force of which he clenched his teeth. With each quiver, they clacked together; and still he rocked his head back and forth in denial.
“And you’ll never be like the Joker, because he’s no one’s hero.”
Jason’s abdomen quivered with his shallow, shuddering breaths; his hands fisted into Roy’s shirt—one right over his heart and the other clinging to his side.
“You’re so good.” Roy sighed, content and resolute. He tapped his thumb against Jason’s cheek and waited for Jason’s eyelashes to flutter open. Beads of moisture pooled at their tips; and when those sea glass eyes—red rimmed and puffy, and yet still swimming in unshed tears—flicked to meet Roy’s steady gaze, Roy said, “Jason, you’re so damn good.”
And Jason broke. A low, wheezing whine echoed in Jason’s throat, and he tipped his head away from Roy, because it was too much. He couldn’t hold such a stare—so believing and trusting and wanting nothing in return, not a single doubt buried in all the flecks marking Roy’s green eyes—even though that was everything Jason had ever wanted, everything he had ever dared to wish for. Because what if he disappointed Roy. Oh god, what if those eyes glared at him the same way Bruce had, or Dick or Damian. No, no, no, he couldn’t. He’d disappoint Roy, and Roy was the only person—
With a hand at Jay’s nape, Roy guided him to his shoulder. “It’s okay,” Roy murmured as he leaned more comfortably against the bathroom door. He let his head rest against it, and he looked at the shadowed wall of the hallway—pictures of their Outlaws and even a couple of the Bats framed and hung on display. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”
Jason fought against the comfort weakly and for only a short moment longer. Because he was tired. He was so damn exhausted and everything hurt. Everything always hurt, but today—right now—he couldn’t deal with that kind of pain.
He succumbed to Roy’s gentle words. Maybe he didn’t believe them; he wasn’t sure he ever would. But for now, he could stop resisting their truth.
Jason buried his face in the crook of Roy’s neck, his tears—softer, quieter; no longer choking with his anger—trailing along the stitches in his cheek. And Roy allowed it; he encouraged it. Keeping one hand at Jason’s nape—soothing in the rhythmic scratches through his damp curls—Roy wrapped his other arm around Jason’s shoulders. Warmth flooded over Jason’s skin, and he wanted more of it. He wanted to be encompassed in it; because he’d never felt safer.
So, Roy adjusted his legs, spreading them wider around Jason’s frame and letting the man curl himself smaller and smaller still, hiding his hulking form in this trembling ball of muscle and flesh and emotions too intense for one person to contain. Roy adjusted the towel, draping its fluffy softness higher over Jason’s back, as they settled in for the long haul; because Roy figured they weren’t moving from the hallway anytime soon, and he wouldn’t have Jason freezing his ass off on top of everything else too.
And finally, finally, Jason relaxed. His tension melted away with each stroke of Roy’s hand upon his shoulder blades, and his breaths evened out until it matched Roy’s steady inhales. His tears dried up when he drifted off to sleep, and still Roy held him dearly, even more so with the man finally letting his walls crumble.
With a bow of his head, Roy nosed through the strands of Jason’s hair—breathing in the sweet honey scent of his shampoo. He turned his head just slightly and rested his cheek against Jason’s temple. A deep inhale shuddered into his lungs, and he held it for a long moment, before letting it drift away with the tautness twitching his gut. Jason was safe. He would be okay, Roy kept telling himself.
The hand at Jason’s nape stroked higher into his hair. He raised it and touched Jason’s crown so tenderly, gently petting him as Roy closed his eyes.
“One day,” Roy promised in the breath of a whisper. “Soon. So very soon, I’ll tell you how much I love you.” His heart clenched tighter in his chest, and all Roy wanted to do was shake Jason awake and tell him now. But he couldn’t; no, he wouldn’t. Because that wasn’t the kind of love Jason needed in this moment. Not when he was so emotionally vulnerable. No, Jason needed to hear it when he was at the top of his game, when his confidence beamed and his chest was puffed up with pride.
Roy tipped his head and pressed a kiss to Jason’s curls. “I won’t ever make you question my love. I promise,” he vowed. Through blood and bullets, through every mistake and violent outburst, Roy would love him unconditionally.
And one day, he’d make that same vow when Jason was awake.