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It’s a journey he never thought he’d find himself on but there are a lot of things Jason thought he’d never do and has done, albeit most of the time reluctantly, against his will, in his life.
It’s something out of a fairytale, an age-old story that was made to teach people lessons, to inspire thought and discourse, and Jason thinks that no one is going to believe that this is something he’s doing–something that can be done, but if there’s something that Jason Todd knows how to do, it’s the impossible.
If he was able to come back, why can’t she?
At least he’s here to guide her.
(God, he hopes that he is guiding her, that she, like she’s done many times before, is following him.)
…
There are moments, multiple throughout his time of knowing her, when she will ask him to play for her, play something she can dance to–an easy request, as there’s nothing she can’t dance to–something that allows her to close her eyes, spread her arms, and glide, twirl, fly across the room, allows her to forget that for a moment, just this moment at least, that there’s a world outside their own.
Jason doesn’t think he’s that good a musician, he prefers the company of his books when he finds himself having downtime, but he plays, he plays for her because she asks him to, because if it’s within his power, he’d do it for her, always for her.
So he plays her a tune, mostly something from the top of his head, a melody that’s inspired by her, and he watches her dance, follows her fluid movements with his eyes.
He’s not that good a musician, he can’t flawlessly play without looking down at the keys from time to time, but it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t seem to notice when he misses a note, and Jason couldn't care less either because he simply cannot tear his gaze away from her.
(Jason! Look at me!)
He just can’t.
…
He’s long grown accustomed to all things cold and dark, in some way he has found comfort in it as it has often played to his advantage when he’s out fighting crime or investigating, but now he yearns for the light, the feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.
It was not often that he found himself outside the city for leisure but there was a time, not so long ago, that she convinced him to drive them to the outskirts, just until they saw some semblance of nature, of life undisturbed, and they laid together under the clear blue sky. She had danced for him then, too, the trees as her backdrop, the grass her stage, her carefree laughter as her song.
And him, her enamored audience.
There’s no laughter here now. The ground is wet under the soles of his shoes, the damp crunch of gravel under his heavy footsteps creates the soundtrack of this journey. He expects the haunting echoes of wind to accompany it, maybe the clicks of bats like what he hears when he is down at the Batcave, but the air is still, quiet, making it quite obvious that he is alone.
No.
Not alone.
Of course not because she’s here, she’s just behind him.
She’s always just behind him.
(Look! Look at me!)
…
Trust.
She’s there.
He needs to trust that she’s there, behind him, following him, like always.
Trust that even without him turning back, she’s just there, quickening her steps to catch up to his long stride.
He should probably slow down though, he doesn’t want to get too ahead of her, doesn’t want her to trip just because he wants to get them out of here as soon as possible, get her to where it's safe, get her home.
He stops.
He waits, just in case, in case she’s lagged behind, in case she has fallen due to their haste–
Fallen? What if she’s hurt? What if she’s too far behind, unable to move, he needs to turn back, needs to make sure–
No.
Trust.
She’s following him.
She always follows him.
She must.
(Right?)
…
He used to say that her gaze was like fire, not in the way that it burns, but in the way that it warms, brings comfort. In the way that fire can symbolize that you’re home, that you can take refuge here.
He always feels the warmth of her stare, feels it like a caress down his back, before he hears her approach. It’s a difficult thing to do, to sneak up on him, and although her steps are soft, quieter than even his own trained and calculated movements, her eyes give her away everytime.
It’s this warmth that he seeks now.
Sometimes he thinks he can feel it, feel the prickle at the back of his neck.
But it’s not enough, it was never enough just to feel that she’s there, he needs to know, needs to clarify with his own eyes that she is just behind him–
(Jason!)
–But he can’t. He won’t look back.
So he has to depend on what little warmth he feels, ignores that actual chill in his bones.
Because fire, although strong and consuming, can also be distinguished.
…
Just a peak–a little glance over his shoulder–just to make sure, just to check.
It won’t count—it will.
He can’t.
But–
He just has to know.
He has to make sure.
He must–
(Look!)
–He must not.
…
She used to say that Jason had a talent for finding her, especially when she needed him the most–when she was late to class, when she needed to go to the washroom because she’d spilled sauce on her white skirt, when she’d taken the wrong turn looking for their favorite coffee shop, when some Rogue goon had picked her off the streets to use as a hostage. He’s always there at the nick of time, just when she’s starting to feel a little hopeless, he’s there to save her, to bring her back.
What she doesn't know is that she has a talent for finding him, too.
When he’s lost in his thoughts, stuck in a spiral of dark memories, of what ifs and could have beens. She finds him, brings him back to the light, reminds him that he is good, that he has good in him, that things, no matter how bleak they seem in the moment, will always turn out alright in the end.
Even him.
Especially him.
…
(Look at me!)
Don’t.
…
There was a time, under the blanket of the night sky, when she roused him from his sleep, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, fingers twisted into his nightshirt.
“Why are you with me?”
She asks, voice cracking like ice.
And Jason, Jason is frozen because—
She must know why.
She must know.
“Why? ”
But sometimes, sometimes she needs reminding.
“How is it that you see me?”
She asks, eyes closing, tears falling, Jason reaches for her then, thumbs wiping at her cheeks, soft, so soft, fragile.
He sees her, he’s always seen her.
It’s hard to look away from her.
And she must know why.
…
“You always see the best in me.”
“I just see you.”
…
Light!
There’s light!
It’s still a ways away but Jason finally sees an end to this journey, the suffering, the anxiety.
In his excitement, he nearly turns back to her, almost looks back to tell her, assure her, celebrate with her, that they’re almost done, they’re almost home but—
But he stops. He stops himself because he can’t, he must not.
He needs to reach the light first, needs to lead them out of the darkness, so he hurries, because it’s there—they’re almost there!
At last—
He’s here!
He feels the warmth on his skin, his eyes squint from how bright it is, can’t imagine how long it’s been since he’s been in the light, and her—it’s been even longer for her but soon, soon they’ll be together, together in the light—
“Jason!”
It’s automatic—he turns, he turns to her because she calls for him, he’ll always answer her call—
And, there she is!
There she is in—
Darkness.
…
“Jason, look! Look at me!”
And it’s almost funny how she feels the need to say that, to call his attention to her, because Jason is looking, he’s always looking at her. She doesn’t realize, doesn’t yet know, how hard it is for him to look away.