Chapter Text
“Home, sweet home,” Jason muttered, working his fingers into the seam of his apartment window and pushing it up with a grunt.
He kept this window unlocked most nights. No fire escape, no easy way up—and he figured anyone who could make it six stories without a foothold wouldn’t be stopped by a cheap latch anyway.
Besides, it’s not like there was anything in his apartment worth stealing.
He swung a leg over the sill, landing lightly before shutting the window behind him. The overhead light flickered on with a low hum. He shrugged off his leather jacket, draping it over a chair, and set his helmet down beside it.
Since coming back to Gotham, his routine had become mechanical: eat, patrol, work, sleep. The repetition was supposed to be soothing, but it just made him feel restless.
He rubbed a hand over his face. A shower. That’d help.
Stripping off his suit, Jason twisted the rusted faucet on and stepped in before the water had a chance to heat up. He let the cool spray run down his face and shoulders, raising bumps on his skin.
He scrubbed away the grime of the city—the sweat, the blood—all the things he refused to carry into his bed. Jason made a living off violence, but he’d be damned if he went to sleep smelling like it.
He shut off the water and dried off, doing a quick once-over with a towel before pulling on sweatpants and an old shirt. His bed was calling, but so was the pile of case notes waiting on his laptop. Right. Work first.
Jason sighed, then made his way to the kitchen. He filled the coffee maker and hit start. While he waited, he popped the window open and stepped onto the fire escape for a quick smoke.
That’s when he saw you.
Your kitchen was lit with a warm glow, the window propped open with a tall wooden block. You were padding around, chewing on the end of a pen as you pored over the book in your hands, humming along to the radio.
Jason leaned against the railing, craning his neck to identify the book. He might’ve gone unnoticed if the old metal hadn’t strained loudly against his weight.
Your eyes snapped up, locking onto him. Your mouth tightened defensively.
Shit.
Jason looked away, ears burning. Real smooth, Todd. Now you look like a total creep.
He considered just going back inside, but something kept him there. Now that he had your attention, he might as well ask.
“What’re you reading?”
He braced himself for you to slam the window shut, but you didn’t. You just raised an eyebrow and lifted the book slightly, tilting it so he could see the cover.
The edges were frayed, its spine well-worn, but even from a distance, he recognized the title. The Iliad. A classic.
“Homework?” he asked before he could think better of it. He cringed at his own voice—rough from disuse.
Your eyes narrowed slightly, like you were debating whether or not to answer. But after a moment, you just said, “Something like that.”
He half-expected you to turn away, but instead, you tapped the pen against your chin and asked, “Do you always skulk around on your fire escape at—” you glanced at a clock, “—three in the morning?”
Jason huffed a quiet laugh. “Only when the coffee’s brewing.”
Your lips twitched upward, but you quickly masked it with a sip from your mug. He watched curiously as you rubbed a page between your thumb and forefinger before turning it.
“What about you?” he asked. “You always work this late?”
You sighed, setting the book down. “Not always. Just… when I can’t sleep.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
A quiet stretch settled between you. Jason was considering ducking back inside when you tilted the book toward him again.
“Have you read it?”
“A while ago. High school.” Jason said tightly, a pang shooting through his chest. He didn't like talking about... before.
Your gaze flickered over him, like you were weighing whether to pry. But instead, you just nodded and traced a thumb over the book’s edge.
“And? What’d you think?”
Jason huffed a quiet breath, raking a hand through his damp hair. “A lot of people die.”
You let out a small laugh, the sound soft and unexpected. “That’s… not wrong.”
He shrugged. “It was good. Messy. Real, in a way.”
You studied him for a moment, then looked down at the book. “Yeah. I guess that’s what makes it such a classic, huh?”
Jason didn’t answer right away. You were passionate about it. That much was clear. The way your eyes lit up, the way you leaned into the conversation—he wasn’t used to seeing that. Not aimed at him, anyway.
Something about it made him hesitate.
Instead of responding, he nodded toward your mug. “That coffee?”
“Tea,” you corrected. You tilted your head, watching him carefully before closing your book. “One more question.”
“Shoot.”
Your lips quirked slightly. “Achilles and Patroclus. Just friends?”
Jason scoffed, shaking his head. “Nah,” he said, “not a chance.”
You looked satisfied with that answer, lifting your mug for another slow sip. Jason watched the steam curl upward, dissipating into the cold night air.
This is a bad idea.
He should go inside. He should shut the window and pretend this never happened.
“Good answer,” you said, setting your mug down with a soft clink.
Jason pushed off the railing. “See you around, I guess.”
You hummed noncommittally, already flipping the book open again. Jason stepped back inside and shut the window behind him with a click.
He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Weird. That was weird.
The coffee maker chimed, and he poured himself a cup. He drank it black—the bitterness grounding him.
He settled at the small kitchen table, laptop open in front of him. Case notes, scattered headlines, and half-written messages filled the screen. He almost snuck a glance backward through the window but thought better of it.
Focus.
His fingers moved over the keyboard, scrolling through case details.
This one was bad. A series of armored truck robberies had been plaguing Gotham for weeks, each one executed with precision.
The latest hit had left two guards dead—one shot execution-style, the other collateral damage in the chaos. The culprits were organized, professional, and careful enough to leave no clear trail.
The reports detailed everything the GCPD had managed to scrape together—each robbery occurred within a mile of a major freeway exit, ensuring a quick getaway. Witnesses were unreliable, the crew was skilled enough to avoid being caught on camera, and none of Gotham’s usual crime syndicates were claiming responsibility.
That last part bothered Jason the most. Someone was pulling this off, but nobody was talking.
A chime from his laptop pulled him out of his thoughts. An encrypted message, short and to the point.
Possible lead. 4 AM. You know where.
Jason sighed. So much for a quiet night.
He drained the rest of his coffee and stood, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. The exhaustion pressing at the edges of his mind would have to wait. He moved through the motions of suiting up with practiced efficiency—armor, gear, weapons check.
By the time he slipped his helmet back on, the only evidence he’d been here was the lingering scent of coffee.