Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason still liked churches. He told himself it was the architecture, Gotham Cathedral had no shortage of vaulted ceilings, gargoyles, and huge stained glass windows. Its roof was one of the best places to watch the city—high up, plenty of corners and crevices to hide in, no guards making rounds or rogues ready to attack. The bells echoed against the city's metal and glass, the strong notes sounding solemn or joyful, but always reliable.

On pain of death or torture, he wouldn't tell anyone that he liked the quiet most of all. Silence in Gotham often meant something was about to go violently wrong. It was an empty feeling, the second between fire sucking in oxygen and the shockwave exploding. But here, the quiet air was full and warm, something almost hummed just outside his hearing. Even sitting on the roof in the cold air, he could still feel the warmth.

He didn't dare go inside though. He had a thousand reasons not to, namely that he didn't feel like getting another lecture. Bruce was self-righteous enough to last Jason a lifetime. He didn't want to sit under the judgement of the person sitting in the pew beside him. He didn't want to talk about what he believed in or what he didn't.

All Jason wanted was to sit in the quiet and warmth. He could do that from the roof.

On an especially cold night, he sat leaning against a gargoyle, watching the light from the stained glass reflect off the gently falling snow—red, blue, gold, green, and a hundred others swirling in the wind below him. Then the quiet shattered.

"Don't move! It's gonna be okay."

He recognized that voice, its clarity and ability to be kind and commanding all at once. You didn't operate in Gotham very often; your particular brand of justice took you all over the world, but when you did, it meant something had gone very very wrong. Jason smiled to himself anyway.

You didn't keep a secret identity like he did—there was no point when all the bad guys were after your soul—but Bruce had taken to calling you Harbinger and the name stuck. He still preferred your real one though.

Then Jason heard a guttural string of sounds that fell through the air like curses. You spat the demonic language back and Jason caught a flash of golden light somewhere in the Cathedral’s cemetery. Quickly, he shot his grappling gun and swung down, landing in the snow with a soft crunch. Keeping his head down and hood up, shielded by the Cathedral’s shadow, he tracked the familiar sounds of a fight and the eerie echoes of magic.

"No, you'll get out of her right now or so help me God, I will exorcize your head right up your ass."

Jason peeked around a statue and saw you under a cluster of yew trees, magic sparking from your hands as the golden lines pinned a young woman to one of the trees. A little boy was crouched behind a headstone nearby. Even at a distance, Jason could see how the woman's eyes had turned black. She writhed and snarled at you.

Demonic possession. Your version of stopping a mugger.

You looked a little worse for wear. He saw burn marks in your coat, cuts and scrapes that hadn't yet healed, and something dark and slick had splattered across you—something that was not mud. Even still, he couldn't help the warm buzz he felt every time he saw you.

He wanted to jump in and help, but he knew he wasn't much use while a demon still had its hold on someone. And he'd learned not to distract you while you worked magic.

"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you."

You strode forward and pressed a hand against the woman's sternum and the other against her forehead. The weave of magic kept the woman's arms and legs pinned back even as she struggled. You were speaking Latin now and the demon screamed curses in its bitter language. Smoke rose from the points where you touched it.

A shockwave erupted outwards and a thick black liquid, like crude oil, gushed out of the woman's mouth, eyes, and ears, staining the snow. Instead of flowing away, it pulled itself inward, forming a humanoid creature taller than Jason. Looking at it, he felt a deep instinct to run.

The little boy screamed and the demon turned its head. Jason bolted forward. He scooped up the little boy, drew his gun and fired all in the same motion. The demon screeched, more surprised than hurt, and staggered backward. You were there to catch it, your magic tangling itself around the demon. With one final shouted spell, your hands moved as if pulling something apart. The demon shattered into fiery pieces, dissolving into the snow.

Quiet returned to the graveyard. You helped the woman to stand, then turned to Jason.

"I need to get her to a hospital," you said, a phone appearing in your hand with a flick of your wrist and a flash of golden light.

He nodded and set the little boy down. "I'll wait for you on the roof."

A tired smile flickered over your face as you reached out, took his free hand, and squeezed gently. "Thank you," you said softly.

Over an hour later, he heard the whoosh of sudden magic, saw a flash of gold in the dark, and then you appeared across from him on the Cathedral's roof. He smiled and slid off his helmet as he strode towards you.

"Can I assume that won't be the last one?" he said.

You shrugged, pulling your coat tighter around you. "Like rats, aren't they? Where there's one, there's ten more. Best to warn your people."

He stopped a few steps shy of you. If you were surprised to see him, it didn't show.

"How long are you here?" he asked. Longer than last time, he thought, please say longer than last time.

You looked up and over his shoulder, staring at the steeple. "A couple days maybe. Depends on how long it takes to find the nest."

Damn.

"Want some help?"

Now you squinted at him, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "I appreciate it, but it's a little outside your wheelhouse, Red."

He shook his head. "That's what you always say. It's my neighborhood, you know."

"I know. But if I make any more noise, The Bat will stick his nose in it and slow things down." You spread your arms out, twirling your hands like a performer, as sparks danced between your fingers. "No magic in Gotham, remember?"

Jason watched you carefully, paying closer attention to your injuries and noting the weight pulling at your posture, the slight tremor. "At least let me give you a place to crash. You look dead on your feet."

You smiled again, still faint as you looked away from him and dropped your hands. The lights went out. "I'm not so safe to be around at the moment."

"You never are."

You looked him up and down, considering, weighing your options. "Does this offer include take out? I took a little detour through Hell, you see. Hard to get a decent meal down there."

Jason let his smile spread wide and easy as he offered you his hand. "Sweetheart, you got yourself an in-house chef."

Shaking your head, with a scoff that sounded like a laugh, you took his hand. As always, your skin hummed with the magic that coursed through you and, as always, it sent a shiver up his spine.

"Still flirting with death, I see," you said.

He tugged you forward gently, then wrapped an arm around you and lifted his grappling gun from its holster. "Well, you're awful pretty."

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you draped your arm across his shoulders, pulling the two of you even closer—the only trouble was you smelled of death too, blood and brimstone. But you were warm and radiant and never judged him and he wanted to be those things for you in return, if you'd let him.

There was something there in the space between you, humming like the air around the Cathedral, something magic. But it might break if he spoke it out loud, so he settled for holding you tighter. He didn't flinch from the steady glow of your eyes, inches away from his.

"Charmer," you said, the edge of a genuine smile in the corner of your mouth.

"You said it, not me."

Sparks erupted inside him when you nearly laughed. Then he fired the grappling gun and you both clung tight to each other as you rushed into the air.

Chapter Text

Jason helped you through the window of his apartment, then slid the blackout curtains shut and flicked on a lamp. The warm gold light pushed the darkness gently away. He heard you laugh softly before he turned around.

"Do you ever use a door?" You smiled crooked at him.

You'd walked into the kitchen, turned on the lights, and now stood there with your coat dripping thick black liquid over the tile. It pooled around your boots like tar. One of the kitchen ceiling lights shone just behind your head, giving you a halo.

"Can't you literally teleport?" he asked, slipping his helmet off and setting it on the coffee table.

You shook your head, eyes briefly flashing, and gestured at his domino mask. "Still don't trust me, I see."

"You're standing in my apartment. Not a safe house. My apartment. Where I live."

You opened your mouth to retaliate, then stopped, frowned, and pressed a hand to your head, swaying on your feet. He jolted into motion, catching you and holding you steady, trying to ignore the warm buzz of magic under his hands.

"Easy, sweetheart. I got you."

"Sorry," you mumbled, eyes squeezed shut and hands braced tight against his arms.

"Don't be. Your adrenaline probably just crashed."

"I'm tracking demon's blood everywhere."

"Explains the smell."

When he got you to laugh, however slightly, he felt briefly invincible, unconquerable. You opened your eyes as you smiled up at him and something settled in his chest, like a bird flying home.

"I always smell like death or hadn't you noticed?" you said, standing so close that it was starting to get unbearable—and you were right, it was the smell of war-time trenches and pyre smoke—but he could see the details in your eyes, illuminated from within like old spell books, and that made up for anything else.

"Too busy getting lost in your eyes." His tone made it a joke, his own magic trick of hiding the truth by showing it off.

"I bet you say that to all the exorcists," you said, matching the teasing bent in his voice. Then you groaned as you swayed on your feet again, resting your head against his shoulder.

"Come on," he said, wrapping an arm around you to help you stand. "Think you can make it to the bathroom?"

You grumbled something unintelligible, but followed when he started walking. Once in the bathroom, you sat down on the edge of the tub, hands braced against it like talons. Under the bright fluorescents—he noticed when they made you wince and close your eyes—he could see what had hidden in your shadows.

Jason knelt down beside you, brushing strands of grimy hair out of your face. Something had scratched your cheek up, bruises bloomed over your jaw, and dried blood crusted around a cut in your temple. "Jesus Christ, kid," he said softly. "How long were you in Hell?"

"I'm older than you, jackass." You opened your eyes long enough to glare at him. "Time doesn't exist there, but it spat me out six months after I went in."

"And how old is this?" He gently pulled back your coat and pointed to the blood seeping into your shirt.

"How old is what?" You looked down and flinched with surprise. "Shit."

Three long claw marks cut along your ribcage, the skin around them turning black even as he watched.

"I have a first aid—"

"No." You shook your head and winced from it. "Won't work. That's necrosis. That..." You took a deep breath and it tore at your lungs. When you met his eyes, he felt his heart free fall into his stomach. You were afraid. You fought demons for a living and you were afraid. "Did you keep my emergency kit?" you asked.

A familiar protective instinct pulled at him, like a cord attached to his heart, a need to keep you safe and keep the panic at bay. Before he stood up, he brushed his thumb along your uninjured cheek and planted a kiss to your temple.

"Of course I did."

He took out his knife and pried up one of the floor tiles, revealing the hidden storage compartment where you'd stashed a duffel bag of extra supplies—holy water, candles, lighters, boxes of chalk, locked books, and a black onyx mirror in a case. He set it on the floor beside you.

"You've cauterized a wound before, right?" you asked as you slid off your coat with a sound like stripping paint.

"Yeah."

"Same principle. Take one of the lighters in there and the holy water."

He unzipped the bag and dug through it, pulling out a heavy golden lighter and a glass bottle.

"And take this." You handed him a knife, long and narrow, symbols carved along the blade. "Heat the knife with the lighter, hold it to the wound, and when it's closed, pour the holy water over it."

As he flicked on the lighter, sparks flashing in his hand, you pulled your shirt off and laid down on your side, leaving the claw marks exposed. The tattoos etched around them were hard to ignore. What was it with exorcists and tattoos? You usually kept them covered, but you had dozens—words and symbols and diagrams—until little space remained unmarked. Scars weaved through them, mostly claw and knife wounds, a couple round bullet holes, and a large burn over one shoulder blade.

A little part of him ached to know you'd be earning three more.

"I might pass out," you said, voice wavering but still entirely too calm. "But you'll know it's working when the necrosis fades."

"Do you want something to hold on to?" he asked, already taking off his jacket and handing it to you.

"Thanks." You held tight, fingers digging into the leather, and closed your eyes.

The knife started to glow red in his hands, so Jason snapped the lighter shut and took a deep breath, laying a hand on your shoulder. Your skin burned against him.

"Ready?"

"Just get it over with. You don't have to—"

He pressed the flat of the knife to the first gash. He expected you to scream, but you only gasped and clutched his jacket tighter, eyes briefly snapping open again. A short crack echoed through the room and off the tiles as the bathroom mirror fractured. The lights flickered. You kept your eyes firmly closed as he worked, the rest of you tense as a bridge cable. Once the wounds had all been burnt shut, he uncorked the holy water and poured it over. The loud hissing sound surprised him, following a smell like burning hair.

Slowly, the necrosis stopped spreading, then faded altogether. You sighed in relief as if you could feel the life returning to you. He set down the knife and the glass bottle.

"Still with me?" he asked, touching your shoulder again.

"You aren't rid of me yet, Red." Your voice sounded like it had burned away too.

Jason put his arm around you to help steady you when you tried and failed to sit up. He could feel you shaking down to your bones, betraying the pain you'd refused to show. He brushed hair out of your face, letting his hand linger as long as he dared.

It's okay, he wanted to say. If you're hurting, then hurt. I'll be here. But it sounded stupid even in his head, so he didn't. Instead, he draped his jacket over your shoulders and hoped that would say it for him.

A smile curved gently over your face as you leaned against the tub. For a moment, you just looked at each other, as if making sure you were both still here. The tattoos caught his attention again. He'd known about them for ages, as long as he'd known you, but they surprised him every time. Maybe because you always managed to make him feel human, almost normal, he always forgot that you were just as strange as him.

Jason cleared his throat and stood up, then held a hand out. You stared up at him. A chill ran up his spine when he couldn't read your expression, but you reached out and took his hand, letting him help you to your feet.

The space between you both seemed to hum with energy—the aligned atoms between magnets, the burning ozone just before a lightning strike, the weight of a loaded gun. He wanted so badly to pull the trigger, close the gap, tilt his head and kiss you until he couldn't think straight.

But he could feel you shaking still and see the shadows under your eyes and it didn't seem right.

"If you want to take a shower, I can get you a change of clothes," he said.

"You don't have to do that," you said, giving a sad smile. "I should probably... I should get out of your hair."

His hand still tangled loosely with yours, but now he held on a little tighter. "I still owe you dinner."

"Another time then. When I'm not bleeding on your floor," you said, but you didn't move away. You couldn't meet his eyes either, instead staring at your abandoned coat and its trails of black liquid spreading over the tiles like tentacles.

Jason didn't know what could've possibly possessed him, but he reached out and placed the side of one knuckle under your chin. You looked up.

"Dangerous waters, Red," you whispered, but you still didn't push him away.

"Why don't you stay just this once? Let someone look after you."

"It's not your job."

He let his forehead rest against yours, feeling your breath crash into him. "What if I want it to be?"

"Hm. You never did have a sense of self-preservation." Your other hand drifted up to settle on his chest, the three points of contact burning like stars—hand, head, heart.

Somehow, he could tell this would be his last chance to convince you. He raised his head enough to meet your eyes again, then pulled off the domino mask and set it on the bathroom counter. Your expression stayed fixed, or it tried to. Your eyes flashed wide, but your voice was calm, if low with exhaustion.

"Now, what would you do that for, Red?"

"Jason," he said. "My name is Jason."

You took a hard breath and something glimmered at the edges of your eyes. Tears, he realized. You blinked furiously, trying not to cry. He waited for some signal, a direction to move in. When you swayed forward ever so slightly, he took the cue, cradling your jaw with both hands and brushing silent tears from your cheeks.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he said softly. "I'm here. You're safe."

Your short laugh came out strangled, but you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, but careful not to disturb your wounds. You exhaled all the tension out of your muscles and little sparks—like the lighter, like a match head about to burn, like the golden flash of your magic—burst inside him.

"Stay this time," he murmured, curling around you protectively, gently placing his head over yours. "Please."

Chapter Text

"Who would win? You or him?"

"Huh?"

Jason held tight to the sound of your voice. The two of you had been sitting quietly on the couch, eating the pasta he'd made. You were watching John Wick shoot thugs in a dance club with the volume low, but Jason was watching you.

"Could you beat John Wick in a fight, yes or no?" you asked, eyes fixed to the screen.

You were curled up on the opposite end of the couch, wearing the softest pjs and sweater that Jason could find in his closet. Your hair was still damp and he could smell his soap on you and his thoughts had bubbled and fizzed ever since you walked out of the bathroom. Why in God's name had he thought this would be a good idea?

The weight of his wanting pushed up against his chest, threatening to break his rib cage. He wanted to gather you up in his arms, wanted to feel your heartbeat and your breathing, wanted to tell you every sappy, embarrassing, lovely thought he'd ever had about you. And he really, really wanted to kiss you.

"Oi. Red." You snapped your fingers inches from the tip of his nose and he blinked back into focus.

"What?"

"No wonder you wear two masks. You don't want anyone to know that you're a total space cadet."

"I'm not…" He frowned. "Of course, I could beat him in a fight. He's just some guy with a gun."

Your laughter bubbled to the surface and boiled over. The clear, sparkling sound caught in Jason's chest until he found himself laughing too.

"Did I say something funny?" he tried to ask through the stupid grin on his face.

"You're just a guy with a gun," you said, still giggling.

"Oh yeah? Can John Wick do this?"

Every cell in his body hummed off-key. It took a second to pull himself together and truly focus, but as he looked at you, the TV glitched with static. Your breath became puffs of white smoke as the temperature plummeted. Dogs howled outside.

You rolled your eyes. "Latent Lazarus magic and all you do with it is party tricks?"

Jason froze, his laughter shriveling down into his stomach. The air warmed again. The dogs quieted. "How did you…"

"For God's sake, I can feel it spilling off you from a mile away, always have. I didn't need to see your eyes glow to be sure." You huffed and set your bowl of pasta on the coffee table to gesture at him. "You're lucky I like you, otherwise you'd attract every demon, angel, and idiot with a spellbook on the Eastern Seaboard."

"What are you talking about?"

You shifted closer, turning to face him directly, and he tried not to tense up when your knee nudged his hip. "Can I see your hand?" you asked.

He placed his hand in your waiting palm, reassured by the familiar hum of magic under your skin. When you pressed your thumb against his pulse point, a symbol burst to life in his palm, outlined in golden lines of light. Then you pulled up your sleeve to reveal the same symbol inked into the soft underside of your forearm, now glowing to match.

"This is a protection seal," you said. "Instead of sensing unbound magic, anyone looking at you would only sense mine. And they wouldn't dare steal that."

Jason's grasp of language escaped him. He could only manage a strangled, "Why?"

You shrugged, trying for impassive, but he noticed how you glanced away. He noticed your tremor returning. And he couldn't bear that, not with how deeply you'd entrenched yourself—his apartment, his clothes, his food, and his skin. You looked up when he placed his hand gently on your arm, covering the symbol that bound the two of you together.

"Why would you do that?" he asked softly.

"I should've told you," you said, tracing the lines on his palm with your thumb. "I should've asked. And I'm sorry for that. We were teaming up for the first time and it was hard enough convincing your family any of it was real. I tend to attract the kind of things that steal magic. I knew that. And when I saw you had Lazarus magic grafted into you… well, I couldn't let that happen. But I should've asked."

"I'm not sure I would've believed you," he said. Then he laughed again. "Do you mark your territory on all the people you like? Or am I just special?"

You rankled and pulled your hands back, eyes wide. The scowl you leveled at him couldn't quite hide the way you squirmed as you spat, "I did no such thing!" But then a laugh burst out of you too and Jason's heart glowed warm inside him.

"Thank you," he said. "For protecting me." He tapped the symbol as it faded from his hand.

"Anytime, Red." Then you corrected yourself. "Jason."

A little bolt of lightning shot up his spine hearing his name—his real name—in your voice. When you smiled, he decided to chase the lightning.

Leaning closer, he asked, "Would you send me to Hell if I kissed you?"

He expected more surprise, but you only raised an eyebrow. "Why are you so determined to get yourself hurt?" you asked as your smile slid off your face, leaving a stony wall behind.

"You won't hurt me."

"No, but I'm an exorcist. Death is my oldest friend and my jealous ex. Why do you think Constantine lives at the bottom of a bottle?"

He met your eyes steadily and said, "I'm not afraid," and found it to be true.

"I am." You took his hand again and held it between your own. He could feel the storm of your heartbeat in the tips of your fingers. You added, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." He touched his lips briefly to the back of your hand.

You stood up and pulled your hand away. "I should sleep. Or try to," you said, face unreadable no matter how long he looked at you.

And you let him look for a while, long enough that he realized you were looking at him too—not waiting for anything, just looking. Shards of light reflected off the dark window glass, your glowing gold and his green.

"The bed's all made up," he said softly. As much as he didn't want to break the quiet, he couldn't let you stand there all night.

You nodded, reaching out one last time to squeeze his arm and say, "Thank you." He watched you go, but then you paused in the doorway to the bedroom, the last point of light before the darkness. Looking over your shoulder, you said, "I have something terribly selfish to ask you."

"Shoot."

"I don't want to be alone. Will you stay with me?"

He stood up and met you at the door. "All yours, sweetheart."

Together, you slipped into the dark room and under the covers. When he opened his arms, you crawled inside—a wild animal huddled in the hollow of a tree. Your muscles relaxed one at a time, your breathing slowed, and you were asleep before he even thought to ask if you were comfortable. He wanted to stay awake, to tattoo everything about you here onto the backs of his hands so he could remember it all after you'd left, but the humming warmth pulled him down after you.

Jason still liked churches, but he knew he didn't need them to find holy ground.