Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

New York smelled like hot garbage.

It wasn’t the first thought Jason had when he was unceremoniously dropped into the city—no, that would have been what the fuck—but it was definitely up there. The second he landed, boots skidding against wet pavement, Jason took in the unfamiliar skyline with a scowl before his focus snapped back to his actual problem: the asshole in a tattered coat sprinting ahead of him, flickering in and out of reality like a busted lightbulb.

Fucking wizards. He hated them.

He had the guy within reach, nearly tackled him, before the bastard blinked out of existence again, reappearing just far enough away to be frustrating. Jason pushed off, grappling upward to keep pursuit. It was supposed to be a simple takedown—track the mage, knock him out, drag his ass back to Gotham. But then the bastard warped reality itself, and now Jason was in a whole different state and pissed about it.

The guy leapt from a rooftop, but Jason followed with a swing, adjusting his aim midair—

And then promptly slammed into a solid body.

“What the hell—”

Jason twisted, vision momentarily obscured by red and blue, arms tangling in something elastic before his back collided hard with steel. The other person grunted just as Jason shoved them off, recalibrating just in time to land on a fire escape. He turned, ready to cuss out whoever had just ruined his shot, only for his stomach to drop.

Red and blue spandex. Big white bug-eyes.

Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

“Whoa-ho, okay, not a fan of being manhandled,” Spider-Man said, rolling to his feet with a smooth, easy motion. He flexed his shoulders, twisting his torso like he was shaking off the impact. Then, he tilted his head, lenses squinting as he pointed lazily at Jason. “At least buy me dinner first, Red.”

Jason groaned, already regretting his entire existence. “Move.”

Spidey tilted his head the other way, considering. “That’s usually my line.” Then his lenses narrowed. “Wait. Red Hood?”

Jason didn’t respond, already vaulting over the railing to resume pursuit—except Spidey was right there, flipping beside him like this was some kind of fun group activity. Jason gritted his teeth.

“You don’t exactly blend, big guy,” Spidey continued, keeping pace effortlessly. He gestured vaguely at Jason’s entire aesthetic. “Guns, helmet, permanent bad attitude—what’s Gotham’s Most Murdery doing in my neighborhood?”

“None of your business.”

Spidey gasped dramatically, hands splaying against his chest. “Oh my God, you’re a tourist.”

Jason snarled, kicking off the side of a water tower to close the distance between him and his target. The mage was slowing now, flickering erratically like a bad signal, obviously running out of juice. Jason was just about to take his shot—

Thwip.

A web shot past him, snagging the guy’s ankle and yanking him off his feet.

Jason skidded to a stop just in time to watch Spider-Man slam the bastard onto the rooftop, pinning him down with a mess of webbing. The impact sent up a cloud of dust, and the mage groaned, weakly thrashing against the bonds holding him to the pavement.

Jason clenched his fists. “Are you shitting me?”

Spidey dusted off his hands like he had just wrapped up a light chore. He turned, tilting his head at Jason, his lenses narrowing in exaggerated confusion. “You’re welcome?”

Jason stalked forward, boots hitting the rooftop with deliberate weight. “That was my fight.”

The vigilante blinked. “Oh. My bad. Did you wanna—” He wiggled his fingers, voice dipping into something mockingly apologetic. “Like, take turns? Flip a coin? Ooh! Rock-paper-scissors?”

Jason very nearly punched him. “I had it under control.”

Spidey cocked his head. “Mmm. Debatable.”

Jason exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders to shake off the rising urge to deck him. His knuckles ached from how hard he was clenching his fists.

Between them, the magician weakly groaned, straining against the webbing. It stretched slightly before snapping back into place, tightening around him. He wheezed, glaring at both of them.

“Son of a—let me out of this, you—”

Jason kicked him.

Not hard, but enough to rattle his ribs and knock the wind out of him. The guy made a pathetic sound before slumping back down.

Spidey made a scandalized noise. “Oh my God. Police brutality.”

Jason slowly turned his head toward him. “I’m not a cop.”

“Okay, vigilante brutality, then,” Spidey corrected, hands on his hips. “What happened to basic human decency?”

Jason bared his teeth. “You don’t even know what this guy was doing.”

“And you do?”

He hesitated—just a beat, just enough for Spidey’s lenses to narrow before he pointed two finger guns at him. “Ah-ha. Thought so.”

Jason wanted to slam his own head into a wall. Instead, he yanked out a knife and cleanly sliced through the webbing around the mage’s wrists. The guy barely had time to groggily lift his head before Jason grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Whoa, whoa, big guy, what do you think you’re—”

Jason turned sharply. “I’m taking him back.”

Spidey crossed his arms, shifting his weight like he had all the time in the world to be a pain in Jason’s ass. “To where?”

He didn’t answer, already tapping his comms to see if anyone on his team could open a line for transport back to Gotham.

Spidey hummed, clearly not convinced. Then—because the universe had personally chosen Jason Todd as its punching bag—he said, “You got a cute voice under there, Jersey.”

Jason’s entire brain crashed. “What.”

Spidey shrugged, rocking back on his heels. “I mean, ‘fuck off’ isn’t the best pick-up line, but I’ve heard worse.”

Jason blinked at him. Once. Twice. Actively resisting the urge to either throw a punch or spontaneously self-destruct.

Spidey clapped him on the shoulder like they were buddies. “Anyway, you have fun with that. Try not to cause too much gun-related chaos, yeah? And get your nasty, Jersey ass back home.”

Then he shot a web and swung off into the skyline, leaving Jason standing there, inexplicably annoyed and—for some godforsaken reason—weirdly entertained.

Jason glared at the small group of phone-wielding teens that had started to gather.

Fuck New York.

(commissioned from makkiatoo1 on twt)

Well, apparently, New York was like a goddamn magnet, and Jason was the sorry piece of metal getting dragged in against his will.

It had been about two months since his first run-in with Spider-Man. Two months of playing a game he hadn’t realized he’d signed up for, one that seemed to have its own rules Jason hadn’t figured out yet. He didn’t visit often—at least, that’s what he told himself—but every time he did, it was like Spider-Man had some sixth sense for his presence. Or maybe just a vendetta. Jason could be minding his business, halfway through roughing up some low-level thug for information, and suddenly, there’d be an upside-down menace hanging from a fire escape, making some wisecrack about Red Hood taking a "field trip."

The first few times, Jason had chalked it up to bad luck. Then it kept happening.

A gunfight in Hell’s Kitchen? Spider-Man dropped in, flipped Jason’s own gun out of his hands, and scolded him like a misbehaving kid. A rooftop stakeout in Brooklyn? Spidey perched next to him like a gargoyle, swinging his legs and offering half a sandwich from under his mask, as if they were just two guys enjoying the night air. A smuggling bust at the docks? Jason barely got three steps in before Spider-Man webbed a guy to a crate and made a joke about Jason needing to share with the class.

Jason had started keeping a mental tally—he ran into Spider-Man at least 60% of the time he was in New York, and 100% of the time he actually needed to get something done.

It should have been annoying. It was annoying. But it was also… something else.

The first few encounters had been sharp-edged, both of them tense, both of them testing boundaries. But over time, the quips lost some of their bite, morphing into something closer to banter than hostility. Jason found himself snapping back without thinking, firing off insults that Spider-Man volleyed back with ease. It wasn’t quite friendly, but it wasn’t not friendly, either.

And somehow, the bastard kept making Jason laugh. Not out loud, obviously. That would be admitting defeat. But there were moments—between the chaos, between the webbing and the bullets—where Jason felt the corners of his mouth twitch, just for a second. Where something about the way Spidey moved, fought, talked, felt less like an irritation and more like—

Nope. Not finishing that thought.

Jason didn’t like seeing the guy. He just… tolerated it. Resented it, even.

Because Spider-Man wasn’t his friend. He was a distraction. And Jason didn’t do distractions.

So why was he still here?

Jason leaned against the rusted railing of a fire escape, arms crossed as he watched Spider-Man balance effortlessly on the ledge above him. The guy never seemed to sit still—always shifting, stretching, or fidgeting with his webs. Right now, he was flipping a web between his fingers like a yo-yo, the rhythmic flick and pull keeping his hands busy. The movement was casual, almost lazy, but Jason had been in enough fights to recognize someone who was always ready to move.

And yet, Spidey wasn’t moving away.

Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. Maybe it was time to start paying closer attention. He’d wrapped up his business in the city hours ago, but somehow, he and Spidey had ended up lingering in the same place. Again.

It was becoming a habit.

The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of New York below—honking cars, the occasional police siren, the restless energy of a city that never really slept. The air smelled like rain, though the storm had passed hours ago, leaving puddles that gleamed under the streetlights. A cold breeze tugged at Jason’s jacket, ruffling the loose strands of hair that had escaped his helmet.

Spidey, perched lazily on the ledge, kicked his legs out like he didn’t have a care in the world. His weight tipped slightly forward before he caught himself, twisting to glance at Jason. His mask hid most of his expression, but Jason could tell from the way his head tilted—that particular, familiar tilt—that he was about to say something ridiculous.

“You ever think about how rooftops are weirdly intimate?”

Jason turned his head just enough to level him with a look. “The hell kind of question is that?”

“I’m just saying,” Spide-Man continued, leaning back on his palms, “we could be anywhere, but we always end up here. Classic meet-cute material.”

Jason huffed, shifting his weight. The rooftop gravel crunched softly beneath his boots. “If this is a meet-cute, it’s the worst one I’ve ever had.”

Spidey gasped, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “You wound me, Red.”

Jason rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to fire back—but before he could, a new voice cut through the air, far too loud for how stupidly quiet the night had been.

He stiffened, instinct kicking in before thought. His shoulders squared, hand twitching toward his holster before his brain caught up. Someone had dropped down beside him, landing with far too much enthusiasm.

Then there was an arm around his shoulder.

“Oh, hell no,” Jason growled, jerking back and shoving the offender off before the contact could linger. “Wilson.”

Deadpool stumbled theatrically, clutching his chest like Jason had mortally wounded him. “Aw, you do remember me. Warms my heart.”

Jason scowled. “What do you want?”

Above them, Spider-Man groaned, long and suffering. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Wade corrected, finger-gunning at him. “I’ve been back in town for all of five minutes, and what do I find? Two of my favorite red-wearing vigilantes hanging out all cozy on a rooftop. This is a historic moment.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “We’re not cozy.”

Spidey pointed lazily in his direction. “Yeah, he’s too grumpy to be cozy.”

Wade gasped, smacking a dramatic hand over his mask. “Enemies to lovers?”

Jason choked.

Spidey made an unintelligible noise, his whole body locking up.

“Wade.”

Wade ignored them both, snapping his fingers like he’d just remembered something important. “Oh, speaking of—Hood, have you considered expanding your career prospects?”

Jason narrowed his eyes, the kind of sharp, deadly glare that usually made people rethink their life choices. “Excuse me?”

Without hesitation, Wade slung an arm around his shoulder again, apparently undeterred by the lethal intent radiating off of him.

Jason gritted his teeth.

“See, me and Webs here—we’ve got this thing going. Team Red. Strong branding, color coordination, lots of style points. And I think you’d fit right in.”

Jason shoved him off, harder this time. Wade stumbled back, but Jason had the distinct feeling that if Wade hadn’t wanted to move, he wouldn’t have.

“Not happening.”

“Wait, wait, hear me out,” Wade insisted, holding up a hand like he was negotiating for his life. “You’ve got the look, you’ve got the attitude, you’ve got the tragic backstory—”

Jason’s fingers curled into fists. “Say that last part again and I’ll shoot you.”

“See? That energy! Perfect for the team,” Wade said brightly.

Spidey groaned, tipping his head back against the ledge like he wanted to be anywhere but here. “‘Pool, no.”

Wade pressed on, entirely unaffected. “Just answer a few questions for me: Does your name alliterate?”

Jason blinked. “What?”

“Alliterate,” Wade repeated. “Wade Wilson. Matt Murdock, Spidey Spiderbison.”

Spidey choked a little, making a noise that was absolutely a laugh he was trying to smother. Jason shot him a look.

Wade continued, unbothered. “How about having two first names? Devil doesn’t count, but we let him in anyway. It’s our thing.”

Jason folded his arms. “What the hell kind of criteria is that?”

“The most important kind.” Wade put his hands on his hips. “Also, follow-up question: Do you have the ‘I pretend I don’t care but I actually care a lot’ thing going on?”

Jason stared.

Wade clapped his hands together. “Congratulations, you’re a perfect fit!”

Scoffing, Jason turned to grab his things, the motion deliberate, measured. He swung his duffel over one shoulder with an air of finality, like the conversation was already over in his head. The weight of his weapons and gear settled against his back, grounding him—unlike whatever the hell this was.

“I’m not joining your dumbass team,” he said, adjusting the strap.

Wade tsked, wagging a finger at him like a disappointed teacher. “Not yet.”

Jason stilled for half a second, then shook his head, muttering something under his breath that probably wasn’t fit for polite company.

Spidey, still lounging on the ledge, let out a weak, pained laugh—the kind that sounded like he knew exactly where this was going, and it was nowhere good. “Hey, uh, Wade? Maybe dial it back before he actually shoots you.”

Wade sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders like the idea of Jason putting a bullet in him was only mildly inconvenient. “Fine. Not that I’d mind, really.” He turned to Jason, tilting his head in mock contemplation, like he was considering something truly profound. “But just know, the door is always open.”

Jason exhaled through his nose, sharp and unimpressed. “Great. Looking forward to slamming it shut.”

Wade, completely unfazed, clapped him on the back before pivoting to Spidey, who had visibly relaxed now that Jason was the primary target. But the moment Wade’s attention shifted, Spidey went rigid, like a deer catching sight of headlights.

Wade tapped a finger against his chin, then pointed. “You’re still adorable when you’re flustered, by the way.”

Spidey, who had been perfectly fine moments ago, locked up like someone had hit a kill switch. His shoulders went stiff, fingers twitching against the ledge before curling into fists, like he was physically trying to stop himself from reacting. Even through the mask, Jason could practically feel the sudden jolt of panic radiating off him. His head jerked slightly, like he wanted to shake it or—more likely—slam it into the rooftop. When he finally made a sound, it was a nervous, strangled laugh, way too high-pitched to be anything close to convincing.

Jason frowned. “What.”

“Nothing! Nope, nothing, ignore him.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, his instincts immediately telling him there was something here—something Spider-Man didn’t want him picking up on.

Wade, absolutely delighted, waggled his fingers in the air like he was physically holding back a secret. “Ohh, don’t mind me. Just noticing things.”

Spidey made a strangled noise—half a scoff, half a panicked squeak—and whipped a web at Wade’s face with precision.

Wade, of course, ducked effortlessly, letting the webbing shoot past him and stick to the roof’s ledge. He placed a hand over his heart. “Rude!”

Jason’s gaze flicked between them, picking up on every little tell—the tension in Spidey’s shoulders, the way his fingers curled against the ledge, like he was bracing for something.

“Something I should know?” Jason asked, voice flat but pointed.

“Nope!” Spidey shot back too fast, shifting his weight in a way that suggested he was about to bolt.

Jason stared at him. Hard.

Spidey, for all his ridiculous quips, wasn’t particularly good at hiding things. His fingers drummed anxiously against the stone ledge, his legs tensed, like he was already considering his exit strategy.

Jason tilted his head, filing that away.

Interesting.

He parted his lips to press further—

“Nice weather tonight, huh?” Spidey blurted out, voice an octave higher than usual.

Jason scowled. “What.”

Spidey jabbed a finger toward the sky, wildly grasping for a distraction. “Look at that. Stars. Clouds. A very distracting moon.”

Jason took a slow, deliberate step forward.

Spidey panicked.

“Okaybye!” he yelped, shooting a web at the nearest building and hurling himself off the rooftop like it was on fire.

Jason barely had time to process before Spidey vanished into the night, leaving nothing but the distant sound of webbing snapping against concrete.

A long silence followed.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

Weird.

Chapter Text

Jason hadn’t planned on getting stuck in New York tonight, but here he was—wedged between a sticky bar top and the overwhelming stench of bad decisions. What was supposed to be a quick check-in had spiraled into something bigger, messier. The trafficking ring he’d been hunting wasn’t just smuggling people; they were targeting metas specifically, moving them from Gotham into New York before shipping them off to god-knows-where. Two nights ago, after he’d introduced a guy’s face to the pavement a few times, Jason had gotten a name. Tim, being the overachiever he was, ran it through every database known to man and came up with a lead that pointed Jason straight to this dump.

So now Jason was here, nursing a drink he wasn’t planning to finish, waiting for some low-level thug to get too comfortable and spill something useful. It should’ve been a simple stakeout—watch, listen, maybe twist an arm or two if he was feeling impatient. Instead, he was about to spend the rest of his night dealing with this guy.

The bar was dimly lit, its air thick with cigarette smoke and the sour tang of cheap beer. Conversations buzzed in the background—low voices murmuring deals, the occasional burst of laughter from patrons who were far too comfortable in their criminal habits. Jason had been in places like this before. Hell, he practically grew up around them.

He scanned the room, watching for familiar faces or potential leads. He had half an ear on the bartender’s conversation with a man in a grey hoodie—something about a shipment coming in late—but his focus was split. Years of instinct made it easy to multitask, his body wound tight, ready to move if necessary.

Then, out of nowhere —

A sharp yelp, the crash of glass hitting wood, and a loud “Shit, sorry, oh God—”

Jason turned his head in time to see some guy stumbling backward, eyes wide, hands up in a placating gesture as an angry-looking man—whose drink was now seeping into his jeans—glared daggers at him.

Jason barely stifled a groan.

The klutz—mid-twenties, messy brown hair curling at the edges like it had given up fighting gravity—had a camera slung around his neck and a bag slipping off his shoulder. His glasses were askew, and he was staring at the pissed-off man in front of him with an expression that screamed oh god, I have made a terrible mistake.

Jason knew that look. It was the same look someone got right before they got themselves punched in the face.

The guy whose drink had been spilled—broad shoulders, meaty fists, definitely not someone who let things go—was already winding up, stepping forward to shove the photographer back.

Jason moved before he had a chance to think about why he was moving.

His hand closed around the guy’s forearm, firm but casual, and he shifted just enough to put himself between them.

“Relax,” Jason muttered, voice low. “It was an accident.”

The man sneered, his lip curling up like he wanted to argue. “You think this punk doesn’t owe me for this?”

Jason leveled him with a look. It wasn’t a threat, not exactly—just a steady, unshaken try it and see what happens. “I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about than a little whiskey on your jeans.”

The man hesitated. He was just slightly bigger than Jason, but size wasn’t everything, and Jason had mastered the kind of quiet, restrained stillness that made people second-guess their decisions. The bar was full of men like this—quick tempers, quicker fists—but none of them were stupid enough to push a fight they weren’t sure they could win.

With a huff, the guy muttered a curse and slumped back into his seat.

Crisis averted.

Jason turned his attention to the photographer, who was still standing there like he hadn’t quite processed what just happened. His arm was still in Jason’s grip, so Jason let go.

“You good?”

The guy blinked up at him, brown eyes slightly wide, like Jason had just pulled him out of oncoming traffic. Then—suddenly, bafflingly—he grinned, sheepish and a little breathless. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Wow, uh. Thanks for that. You didn’t have to step in, but, uh—” He let out a short, nervous chuckle. “I guess you just have one of those ‘punches people for fun’ faces.”

Jason stilled.

His eyes narrowed.

The photographer paled almost instantly.

“Wait. That sounded bad.”

Jason’s voice was flat. “It did.”

“I didn’t mean—” The guy’s hands shot up, defensive. “It was just an observation! Like, you have that whole brooding, ‘I definitely throw people through windows’ energy—”

Jason arched a brow.

The guy winced. “I am not making this better.”

Jason crossed his arms, unimpressed. “No, you’re not.”

The guy groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Then, as if deciding to just fully commit to the disaster, he stuck his hand out between them.

“Okay, okay, let’s start over. Hi. I’m Peter. Peter Parker. Totally just a normal guy who does not assume strangers commit violence recreationally.”

Jason stared at him.

Peter stared back, his outstretched hand unwavering.

Jason sighed. Against his better judgment, he shook it.

Peter’s grip was warm, firm, just a little too eager. Jason pulled his hand back a second later, resisting the urge to rub his palm against his jeans.

“Jason,” he said shortly.

Peter’s grin widened like that was a victory.

Jason didn’t get it.

And he definitely, absolutely didn’t find it cute.

Jason leaned his elbow on the bar, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. Around him, the bar was alive with low murmurs and bursts of laughter, the occasional clatter of pool balls breaking against each other. The air was thick with the scent of spilled beer and fried food, dimly lit by overhead fixtures that buzzed faintly, as if on their last leg.

And yet, somehow, the noisiest thing in the room was the guy beside him.

Peter—because that’s what he’d introduced himself as before absolutely humiliating himself—hadn’t left yet. Jason wasn’t sure why. He also wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told him to get lost. Instead, he was sitting here, nursing his drink, while Peter fidgeted with his camera strap like it personally offended him.

“What brings you to a place like this?” Jason asked eventually, keeping his voice easy, neutral.

Peter looked up, blinking like he hadn’t expected Jason to keep talking. His brown eyes flickered with something unreadable for a second before he grinned. “Oh, you know. Chasing leads. Freelance photographer and all that.” He tapped his camera, then shrugged. “Tonight, that mostly meant spilling whiskey on a very large, very angry man and hoping for the best.”

Jason exhaled a quiet huff of amusement before he could stop himself. Peter brightened like that was exactly what he’d been aiming for.

“You local?” Peter asked, tilting his head.

Jason shrugged. “Something like that.”

Peter hummed, considering him with an almost comically exaggerated squint. “You don’t really sound local.”

Jason raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, dragging the word out like he was trying to piece something together. His fingers tapped against the bar, rhythmically, like he was waiting for something to click. Then, with an air of certainty, he nodded. “More like… Gotham.”

Jason stiffened in his seat. Not noticeably—not enough for the average person to pick up on—but Peter wasn’t average, and he was watching Jason way too closely for it to slip past him.

A slow smirk tugged at Peter’s lips, like he’d just won some kind of personal game. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Jason studied him, taking a slow sip of his drink. “What gave it away?”

Peter leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to something conspiratorial. “The brooding. The leather. The general ‘I could kill a man with my bare hands, but I won’t, because I’m trying really hard to be a functional member of society’ energy.”

Jason let out a short, reluctant chuckle. “Yeah, alright.”

Peter’s grin widened, pleased with himself. He glanced around, finally taking in the bar’s dim lighting and the way most of the patrons seemed more interested in keeping their heads down than actually drinking.

“Sooo...” He tapped the counter once, glancing at Jason. “This place is shady as hell.”

Jason smirked. “And you walked in why?”

Peter spread his hands. “Bad decisions? Unrelenting optimism? A fundamental misunderstanding of my own self-preservation?”

Huffing a quiet laugh, Jason nodded. “Yeah, I got that last one.”

Peter gave him a look—one that was far too amused for Jason’s liking. “You are funny. I had a feeling.”

Jason arched his brow. “That so?”

Peter nodded sagely. “Mmmhmm. I pride myself on my instincts. Like, for example, I knew you were going to be the kind of guy who pretends he doesn’t care but totally does.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Not sure where you’re getting that from.”

The brunet shrugged, like it was obvious. “You stopped me from getting decked earlier. And, more importantly, you’re still talking to me.”

Jason didn’t have a good response for that.

Peter grinned like he’d just made a point he was particularly proud of. He drummed his fingers on the bar, then slid off his stool, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Anyway, I should probably get going before I manage to piss off someone else.”

Jason gave a short nod, expecting him to leave without another word.

Instead, Peter hesitated, then shot him a lopsided smile. “I’ll see you around, Jason.”

Jason frowned. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

Peter grinned. “Call it a hunch.”

Jason watched him go, brow furrowing slightly.

A hunch, huh?

He wasn’t sure why, but he had a feeling Peter Parker’s hunches were the kind that got people into trouble.

And worse—he had a feeling he didn’t mind that one bit.

The Gotham skyline, with all its grim towers and jagged edges, felt a world away from New York’s neon glow. Even so, Jason had to admit—if only to himself—that the view from this Brooklyn rooftop wasn’t bad. The city stretched out below him, alive and buzzing, but his focus remained locked on the warehouse across the street.

It was the suspected trafficking hub—one of many—but Jason had been watching this place for the better part of an hour, waiting for signs of movement. He was patient. He could wait all night if he had to.

The soft thwip of a web-line, however, meant he wouldn’t have to.

Jason didn’t look away from his target as Spider-Man landed a few feet behind him. He could hear the slight scuff of boots against the gravel-covered rooftop, the light bounce in Spidey’s stance like he could spring away at any second.

“Well, well, well,” Spidey drawled, hands on his hips. “If it isn’t my favorite Gotham stray.”

Jason sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples. “Go away.”

“Rude.”

“I’m busy.”

“I can see that,” Spidey said, stepping up beside him. “You’re all hunched over, broody as hell, staring ominously at that warehouse. I’d say ‘don’t be suspicious,’ but I feel like that ship has sailed.”

Jason gritted his teeth. “I am not broody.”

“Oh, my bad. What’s the Gotham-appropriate term? Angsty? Edgy ?”

Jason huffed. “Screw you.”

“Now, now, let’s keep this professional,” Spidey said, the grin evident in his voice. “Wouldn’t want you falling head over heels for me just ‘cause I’m charming.”

Jason turned to glare at him, but before he could get a word out—

THUD.

Something heavy crashed onto the roof behind them.

Jason had about half a second to react before an entire body slammed into him from behind, sending him staggering dangerously close to the edge.

“What the—?!”

He barely caught himself before he went over, boots scraping against the gravel. When he twisted to see what the hell had just landed on him, he found himself face-to-face with—

“Oh, hey, boys.”

Jason closed his eyes. Took a breath. Considered throwing himself off the roof just to avoid this conversation.

“Wilson,” he growled. “What the hell?”

Deadpool, who was currently sprawled out on the rooftop like he was posing for a centerfold, waved cheerfully. “What? You looked lonely.”

“I was fine.”

“Eh.” Wade rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky. “Debatable.”

Spidey, meanwhile, crouched beside them, head tilting. “Not that I mind a good rooftop party, but I don’t remember RSVPing to this one.”

“Ah, Spidey-babe, my beloved,” Wade said, dramatically clutching at his heart. “If I’d known you were gonna be here, I would’ve brought wine and candles.”

“Gross.”

“You love it.”

Jason, still recovering from nearly getting bodied off the building, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Not even to discuss your future ?” Wade asked, draping himself over Jason’s shoulder like they were best friends. “Because, listen, I know a guy. A few guys, actually. Real upstanding citizens—well, okay, maybe that’s a stretch—but good hearts, killer instincts, great hair. And, lucky for you, they’re currently accepting applications.”

Jason shoved him off. “Not happening.”

Wade gasped. “But Red! You’re already halfway there! You’ve got the color scheme, the tragic backstory—hell, you even hate yourself a little. You’d fit right in!”

Jason ignored him.

Spidey, crouching near the edge of the roof, made an amused sound. “I dunno, Hood. He’s got a point. You do have the whole ‘angsty badass with a questionable moral code’ thing down.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Not interested.”

Wade tsked. “You’re gonna regret this when you realize you missed out on the best group bonding activities. We do game nights. Poker, Mario Kart, the occasional rooftop stakeout with those little charcuterie boards. Think about it.”

“I’d rather not.”

Wade sighed dramatically, as if Jason had just broken his heart. “Fine, fine. We’ll circle back. But just know, this door? Wide open.”

Jason did his best to tune him out.

Then Wade sat up suddenly, peering at him with far too much interest. Jason didn’t like that look. It was never a good sign.

Wade grinned. Slow. Knowing .

Jason really didn’t like that look.

“Ohhhh,” Wade breathed. “Oh, this is interesting.”

Jason frowned. “What.”

“You’re tense.”

“I’m always tense.”

“Yeah, but it’s different,” Wade said, scooting unnervingly close. “It’s specific. Let me just—” He reached out, poking Jason’s shoulder experimentally. “Yep. That’s denial, baby.”

Jason immediately smacked his hand away. “I don’t do denial.”

Spidey made a quiet, entertained sound, resting his chin on his palm. “This is already my favorite conversation.”

Wade ignored both of them, humming thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he snapped his fingers, like something had clicked.

“Oh! Ohhh, I knew I recognized you from somewhere.” Wade gasped, clutching Jason’s arm like they were best friends. “You were at Sister Margaret’s the other night! Chatting up that cute little brunet.”

Jason stiffened. His pulse spiked—too fast, too sharp. His brain immediately started running calculations. Had Wade just recognized him as Red Hood? That easily? 

Wade’s grin turned feral. “Oh, don’t even try to deny it, big guy. I saw everything. And let me just say…” He slapped Jason’s back, nearly sending him forward. “You gotta get on that ass .”

Jason nearly choked.

Spidey made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh.

“Shut the hell up,” Jason hissed, grabbing Wade by the front of his suit and yanking him forward. “How do you know my face?”

“Relax, sunshine, it’s not like that,” Wade said, unfazed. “I just happened to be at the bar, saw you looking real invested in your little friend, and thought, huh, interesting. And then— bam !—here we are.”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, willing the tension from his shoulders. But his mind was already running worst-case scenarios. The guy– Peter, he reminded himself–had been watching him too. And if Wade—of all people—had put something together, what were the chances Peter hadn’t?

“You know,” Spidey said, glancing between them, “I was gonna let this slide, but now I am a little curious. Who’s the brunet?”

Jason glared. “None of your business.”

Spidey made a vague, teasing motion. “So secretive. Must be someone special.”

Wade nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, definitely. Red here looked all soft . It was disgusting. I wanted to puke.”

Jason shoved him.

Wade barely budged, still grinning ear to ear.

“Aw, come on, don’t be shy,” Wade crooned. “You’re allowed to have a little fun, Batbird. Lord knows you could use some.”

“I hate you,” Jason muttered.

“Love you too, buddy.”

Spidey, still watching with open amusement, eventually shook his head. “Anyway, as much as I am enjoying Hood’s personal descent into hell, I actually came here for a reason.”

Jason exhaled sharply, grateful for the change in subject. “And that is?”

Spider-Man gestured toward the warehouse. “Y’know. Crime . Thought I’d check in, see what you’ve got.”

Right. The case.

Jason rolled his shoulders, pushing down the last traces of lingering embarrassment (and definitely not the warm flicker of something dangerous at the way Spidey had looked at him just now). He turned back toward the warehouse.

“You’re not getting in my way,” he said flatly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Spidey replied, far too easily. “So, what’s the play?”

Jason eyed him for a beat before answering.

From the sidelines, Wade sighed dramatically. “Look at you two, working together. Warms my heart.”

Jason did not respond.

But if he maybe—just maybe—felt a little grateful for Spider-Man’s presence, well.

No one had to know.

Jason hadn’t meant to run into Peter Parker again.

It wasn’t like he was avoiding the guy. Not exactly. He had a case to focus on, and distractions— especially ones with wide brown eyes and a possible acute sense for vigilante activity—weren’t helpful. Jason wasn’t the kind of guy who went out of his way to make friends on the job. But Peter Parker? He was the kind of problem that burrowed under your skin before you even realized it was happening.

And yet, somehow, here he was.

The coffee shop was nothing special, a hole-in-the-wall spot wedged between a laundromat and a deli Jason wouldn’t trust with his worst enemy’s stomach. The air smelled like burnt espresso and sugar, a cloying mix of caffeine and too-sweet syrups. Jason had stopped in for something strong enough to keep him from committing homicide before noon. He wasn’t expecting company.

But then—

“Hey! Gotham guy !”

Jason stiffened. His head turned before he could think better of it, his body reacting on instinct. And of course—because fate hated him—Peter Parker was sitting by the window, a too-big coffee cup in hand, camera resting beside him, and a grin stretched across his face like they were old friends. Like Jason wasn’t just some guy who had stopped him from getting his ass kicked in a bar.

He could walk away. Pretend he didn’t hear. Grab his coffee, get back to work, and be done with it.

And yet.

His feet betrayed him before his brain could catch up.

The seat across from Peter was still warm, like someone had just vacated it. Jason slid into it anyway, his body moving before he’d decided if he wanted to commit to this conversation. The chair let out a soft scrape against the floor, barely audible under the murmur of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine.

Peter beamed at him like Jason had just made his day.

“I didn’t peg you as a coffee guy,” Peter mused, blowing lightly over the rim of his drink. His fingers were wrapped around the cup, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his forearms. “You give off more of a ‘straight whiskey at noon’ vibe.”

Jason snorted. “It’s barely ten.”

“Exactly,” Peter said, smirking. “Too early for whiskey, but just late enough that you probably want it.”

Jason rolled his eyes, fingers curling around the edge of the table. The wood was chipped, worn down by years of customers before them. “Do you always talk this much?”

Peter shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Only when I’m awake.”

Jason exhaled sharply, half a breath away from something dangerously close to amusement. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “And what are you doing here?”

Peter tapped his camera. “Got a gig today. The Bugle wants some artsy shots of New York’s ‘gritty charm.’” He made finger quotes. “Which I’m assuming means lots of fire escapes, graffiti, and pigeons.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter said, taking a sip. “Big fan of pigeons. They’re scrappy. And, fun fact—did you know pigeons recognize human faces?”

Jason stared at him. “Why the hell would I know that?”

“I dunno, thought it might be useful for a guy who seems to punch criminals for a living.” Peter grinned. “Maybe a pigeon saw a crime and could ID the perp.”

Jason blinked. “Are you seriously suggesting using pigeons as witnesses?”

Peter nodded solemnly. “It’s only a matter of time before the NYPD wises up.”

Jason huffed, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“And yet, I make it work.”

Jason should’ve left after that. Should’ve finished his coffee, made some excuse, and walked out. But somehow, between the easy back-and-forth, the warmth of Peter’s grin, and the way his presence felt so oddly natural, Jason found himself lingering.

The conversation drifted from pigeons to New York’s worst subway routes, to whether Gotham or Manhattan had the scarier alleyways (Jason insisted Gotham, Peter passionately argued otherwise), and then to their respective favorite coffee orders.

Minutes stretched into an hour. Then another.

At some point, Peter stretched his arms behind his head, his hoodie slipping slightly to expose a sliver of skin just above his waistband. Jason caught himself looking and immediately forced his gaze back to his coffee, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck.

Peter, oblivious—or maybe not—leaned in slightly, just enough that Jason could catch the faint scent of his shampoo, something warm and clean. “You’re interesting, Jason,” Peter said, voice light but eyes sharp. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached across the table and tapped Jason’s wrist with his fingertips.

It was barely a touch. Not even enough to register as anything significant. But Jason’s entire body reacted like he’d been jolted with electricity.

Peter froze.

It lasted only a second—half a breath—but Jason saw it. The way Peter’s pupils dilated, the way his fingers twitched as if he’d just grasped something invisible but undeniable.

Jason frowned. “You okay?”

Peter blinked, his usual grin faltering just slightly before he waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah—just, uh, caffeine hitting all at once.” He took another sip of his coffee, but Jason caught the way his grip had tightened around the cup.

Weird.

Jason let it slide. For now .

They kept talking. Jason didn’t know how or why, but it was easy. Comfortable in a way that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t one for long conversations—especially not ones that weren’t strictly necessary—but Peter made it feel like the most natural thing in the world.

And then, after what had to have been hours, Peter laughed at something Jason said, tipping his head back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners, his whole body leaning toward Jason like gravity had given up on keeping them apart.

And Jason felt it.

A pull.

It wasn’t like getting hit with a brick wall of realization. It wasn’t sudden or jarring or something he had to force himself to understand. It was just there. A quiet certainty that settled into his bones as easily as breathing.

He liked this.

Like, really liked this.

The warmth of Peter’s laughter curled around his ribs, settled somewhere in his chest like a live wire. It wasn’t just amusing. It wasn’t just casual. It was something else, something Jason didn’t quite know how to name yet.

Jason abruptly stood, chair scraping against the floor.

Peter blinked up at him. “Uh—?”

“Gotta go,” Jason said, already backing away. “Work.”

Peter tilted his head, amused but not pushing. “Right. Have fun being all mysterious and broody.”

Jason didn’t dignify that with a response.

He strode out of the coffee shop, pulse kicking against his ribs, and scowled at the sidewalk like it had personally wronged him.

This was fine.

This was nothing.

Except—

Jason shoved his hands into his pockets, exhaling sharply.

Shit .

He actually liked Peter Parker.

Chapter Text

Jason walked fast, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he could physically stuff the thought away, bury it somewhere between his spare ammo and bad decisions. It was nothing. A fluke. Just a moment of weakness fueled by too much caffeine and Parker’s ridiculous, stupidly endearing grin. That didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

Because Peter Parker— Peter —had wedged himself under Jason’s skin before he even realized it was happening. The sharp wit, the easy grin, the way he had this infuriating ability to make Jason want to talk, to stay, to be seen . It was stupid. Worse than stupid. Dangerous.

Peter was a civilian. A nosy, quick-witted, strangely perceptive civilian who had no business getting tangled up in Jason’s orbit. The guy didn’t know who he was, didn’t know the kind of people he dealt with, the kind of weight that came with being near him. His hands were stained with the worst of Gotham, his name a whispered threat in the city’s underbelly. There was no version of his life that made sense next to someone like Peter.

Jason had a job to do. A case to close. And after that? He’d be gone. Back to Gotham, back to the work that mattered most. Peter Parker would be just another person he ran into once, nothing more.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Jason wasn’t expecting to see anyone he knew in the library. That was the whole point of going. A quiet space, neutral ground, somewhere he could work undisturbed without the risk of running into familiar faces. After weeks of legwork, stakeouts, and beating information out of Gotham’s most tight-lipped criminals, he’d finally gotten a lead on a trafficking operation running between the two cities. It wasn’t much—just a few names, some shipment routes—but it was something. Something worth cross-referencing with New York’s public records, something worth poring over police reports for any inconsistencies, and most importantly, something worth avoiding distractions over.

Which was why it was incredibly unfortunate when Peter Parker strolled into the library like he belonged there.

Jason nearly groaned out loud.

It wasn’t that he disliked Peter.

No, the problem was that he wanted him.

And that was worse.

Jason exhaled slowly, lowering his head, shifting slightly in his chair. Maybe— maybe —Peter wouldn’t notice him. Maybe he could finish his research in peace, keep his mind focused, and not get sidetracked by—

“Hey! Jason, right?”

Shit.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, pretending—futilely—that he hadn’t just felt his pulse kick at the sound of Peter’s voice.

The chair across from him scraped against the floor, and then Peter was there, all easy grins and unearned familiarity, like they were old friends instead of two guys who had met by sheer accident. He dropped his bag onto the table, elbow nearly knocking over Jason’s coffee in the process.

“Didn’t take you for a library guy,” Peter mused, eyes scanning Jason’s laptop screen before flicking back up to his face. “Lemme guess—deep, dark secrets? Uncovering government conspiracies?”

Jason finally glanced up, expression deliberately blank. “Work.”

Peter blinked before twisting his face into exaggerated horror. “Ugh. Worse.”

Rolling his eyes, Jason leaned back slightly. “And for the record, I am a library guy.”

That earned a raised eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” Amusement flickered in Peter’s expression, like he was already gearing up for whatever nonsense Jason was about to say next.

“What, you think I just stole all my literary opinions?” Jason asked, arching a brow.

A short laugh escaped Peter. “Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What’s your go-to?”

He shifted in his chair, fingers absently tapping against the table’s chipped edge. “Depends. You looking for 19th-century Russian literature or a very strong opinion on why Austen was more of a revolutionary than people give her credit for?”

Peter opened his mouth, then hesitated, blinking like he had to reevaluate his perception of the man in front of him. “Okay, wow. Was not expecting that.”

“Maybe don’t judge a book by its cover, Parker,” Jason said, smirking.

A groan followed as Peter dragged a hand down his face. “God, that was terrible.”

“You walked into it.” Jason took a slow sip of coffee, the warmth grounding him against the sheer ridiculousness of this conversation.

Shaking his head, Peter slouched back in his chair, sending it creaking beneath him. “Alright, alright, fine. You’re a library guy. My apologies for the grievous misjudgment.”

Satisfied, Jason nodded and returned his focus to the laptop. The glow from the screen painted sharp angles across his face, but he could still feel Peter watching him, his gaze lingering just long enough to be noticeable.

“So,” Jason muttered after a beat, fingers drumming lightly against the keyboard. “What are you doing here?”

Peter leaned back, arms stretching over his head before dropping into an easy slouch. “Oh, y’know, the usual. Research, avoiding my landlord, trying to look studious so people don’t ask why I’m using the free WiFi.”

Jason quirked a brow. “You don’t have WiFi at home?”

“Oh, I do,” Peter said, huffing. “It just chooses violence at least twice a week.”

Shaking his head, Jason let his gaze drift back to his laptop. “Uh-huh.”

Silence settled between them, a fragile thing. Maybe—just maybe—Peter would take the hint and find somewhere else to sit.

But of course, because Jason’s luck was absolute garbage—

“What’re you looking up?”

His jaw tightened.

He should lie. Should make something up—anything to keep Peter from getting involved. But instead, because Jason was apparently incapable of making his own life easier, he muttered, “Crime reports.”

Peter perked up, leaning forward. “Oh? Any specific crime, or are you just reading for fun?”

Jason shot him a look.

Peter grinned. “Kidding. Mostly.”

With a sigh, Jason leaned back in his chair. “Missing persons. I’ve got a mom paying me to find her twins.” The lie slipped out easily—PI work was an explanation people understood, and it was better than ‘I’m tracking a human trafficking ring because I’m a vigilante and I don’t trust the system to fix this.’

For the first time, Peter’s expression shifted. The usual playfulness dimmed, something quieter settling in its place. Jason noticed.

That reaction—that flicker of something in Peter’s eyes—wasn’t just idle curiosity. Jason had been around people who cared. People who knew the weight of cases like this. And Peter Parker looked like someone who knew.

“Gotham’s got a human trafficking problem,” Jason said, voice low, watching for a reaction. “New York does too.”

Peter nodded slowly, expression unreadable.

Jason tilted his head. “You ever look into this kind of thing before?”

A hesitation. Brief, but there. Then Peter gave a crooked smile. “I, uh, take photos for the Bugle sometimes. Crime stuff.”

Jason opened his mouth to push—because that hesitation hadn’t been nothing—but then Peter shifted, leaning in to get a better look at his screen, and Jason’s brain promptly short-circuited.

Too close.

The scent of coffee and something distinctly Peter—warm, a little like coffee, like he’d brushed against too many cafes on the way here—wrapped around Jason’s senses like a goddamn trap. The heat of him practically radiated through the air, inches from Jason’s arm. And worse—worse—Peter was completely oblivious to it, totally focused on the information in front of him while Jason fought to keep his hands from twitching.

Jason swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

Peter hummed thoughtfully, gaze flicking over the crime reports. “So, you’re tracking movements? Looking for patterns?”

Jason barely registered the words.

He needed to move. Put space between them before his face did something humiliating, like go red. But his body refused to cooperate, muscles locked tight in a battle between lean the hell away and God help me, lean closer.

Instead, he forced his attention back to the laptop, grasping onto logic like a lifeline. “Yeah,” he managed, voice steadier than he felt. “There’s a shipping route between Gotham and New York that’s been flagged in a few reports. I’m trying to piece together where they’re operating from.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, clearly thinking it over. But Jason wasn’t looking at his expression—he was too busy cursing himself for noticing the way Peter’s lashes framed his eyes, or how the glow of the screen lit up the side of his face.

This is a problem.

Jason clenched his fist under the table. He needed to wrap this case up. Fast. Because the longer he stayed in New York, the harder it was becoming to pretend Peter Parker was just another distraction.

“So…” Jason drawled out, keeping his hands where they were, firmly not moving despite how close Peter’s arm was to his own. “The Bugle has you looking at stuff like this often?”

Peter hummed in vague confirmation, his attention still glued to Jason’s screen. He bit his knuckle absently, chewing over something in his mind, brow furrowed. The crease in his forehead deepened as his lips parted slightly, just barely. He had that messy kind of hair that looked like he either just rolled out of bed or spent an hour trying to get it just right . Either way, it shouldn’t have been distracting , but Jason was still staring, his heartbeat an aggravating thrum beneath his ribs.

Peter must’ve caught something in Jason’s expression because he straightened, brows drawing together, head tilting just slightly like he was trying to figure him out. Jason immediately glanced back at his laptop, jaw tight, feigning deep concentration on the files in front of him.

He didn’t need to explain himself.

Instead, he shrugged, voice neutral. “Well. Let’s just say Gotham’s a lot worse than the Bugle gives it credit for.”

Beside him, Peter huffed, dropping his bag onto the table with a quiet thud. “Yeah, well. New York isn’t winning any humanitarian awards either.”

Jason smirked, keeping his eyes on the screen but still hyper aware of Peter shifting beside him. “You think Gotham’s bad?”

Peter scoffed, voice full of exaggerated offense. “Jason. Your city is run by a guy who dresses like a bat and punches clowns for a living.”

Jason snorted, finally meeting his gaze again. “And your city has a guy swinging around in red-and-blue spandex, cracking jokes while stopping bank robberies.”

Peter opened his mouth like he was going to argue, then hesitated, lips pressing together as he narrowed his eyes. Finally, he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, fair.”

Jason let himself relax—just a little. He hadn’t expected to enjoy this conversation, but—

Peter leaned forward suddenly, excitement lighting up his face. “Oh! Actually—real question. Who do you think has the weirder villains? Gotham or New York?”

Jason blinked, brain short-circuiting for an entirely different reason this time.

Peter was close .

His shirt collar had slipped slightly, revealing the edge of a fading bruise near his collarbone. Jason’s eyes caught on it instinctively before he forced himself to look away, suddenly hyper aware of how warm Peter was, how much space he wasn’t leaving between them.

“You serious?” Jason asked, forcing his voice to stay even.

Peter gestured wildly, his arm brushing Jason’s. “ Dead serious. ‘Cause, like, Gotham’s got all the fuckups, right? Jokers, Riddlers, the whole deal. But New York? We’ve got, like, a zoo’s worth of guys running around.”

Jason let out a breath, shaking his head. “A zoo’s worth?”

“Dude.” Peter turned slightly, fully facing him now, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “There’s a guy named Rhino . And another guy who’s literally a vulture . And don’t even get me started on the dude made of sand .”

Jason smirked, taking in the way Peter’s hands moved animatedly as he talked. He wondered if Peter even realized how much space he took up when he got like this. “Gotham’s still worse.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “No way.”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed, enjoying himself despite his better judgment. “Arkham. That’s all I need to say.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, true . But also, like—come on . You guys have an actual killer clown problem .”

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Peter grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And yet, here you are. Still talking to me.”

Jason opened his mouth, ready to fire back—ready to shut this whole thing down before it went anywhere dangerous —but then Peter laughed .

And damn it .

Damn it, Jason liked that sound.

The realization hit him like a sucker punch.

Jason barely breathed as he watched Peter, the way the light in his eyes sharpened when he got caught up in something, the way his lips twitched with some barely restrained joke. There was something about him—something almost effortless in how he took up space, like he belonged anywhere he went, like gravity bent around him instead of the other way around.

Jason had met plenty of people who talked fast, who filled silences just to fill them. But Peter was different.

Peter was bright .

That was the problem. He had this way of dragging light into a conversation, into a room, into Jason’s goddamn head —whether Jason wanted it there or not.

Jason clenched his fists under the table, forcing himself to look back at his screen, back at something safer .

Ignoring Peter was going to be a lot harder than he originally thought.

Two days . Two days of digging through records, shaking down low-level crooks, and following a paper trail that reeked of corruption. Jason had worked leads from both cities, tracing missing persons reports that all pointed toward the docks—specifically, an abandoned shipping yard that had long since fallen off the grid. It had taken a few well-placed threats, some creatively applied pressure, and one particularly violent conversation with a fence who knew more than he should, but Jason had finally narrowed it down to this spot.

Now, crouched behind a rusted-out shipping container, he watched the makeshift trafficking den with sharp, assessing eyes. A handful of guys lingered near a table stacked with weapons and cash, chatting like they weren’t the scum of the earth. In the rafters, a single sniper kept watch. Sloppy.

He was already planning his approach when a voice—far too close to his ear—whispered, “Whatcha thinking, Gotham?”

Jason barely stopped himself from swinging.

Spidey, the absolute menace, was hanging upside down beside him, suspended from a thread of webbing like this was some casual rooftop meetup and not a high-stakes recon mission. The dim security lights from the dock cast shifting shadows over the black-and-red suit, the lenses of his mask narrowing slightly in clear amusement.

Jason exhaled sharply, forcing himself to unclench his fist. “You ever think about announcing yourself like a normal person?”

A soft chuckle. “Sure. But where’s the fun in that?” Spidey gave a slow, lazy twirl, like he had all the time in the world. “So… you planning to make a move, or am I gonna have to carry this whole operation on my spindly, underappreciated shoulders?”

Jason rolled his eyes, shifting slightly to keep his eyes on the guards below. “I’ve got it handled.”

A skeptical hum. “Mmm. Yeah, see, I’m not feeling super reassured by that.” He pivoted midair, craning his neck toward Jason’s vantage point. “You at least got a plan, tough guy, or are we just winging it?”

Jason’s jaw ticked. He had a plan. He always had a plan. But it was a hell of a lot harder to focus on it with Spidey hanging there, moving like gravity was just a suggestion, his voice dipping into something almost teasing—like they weren’t gearing up to take down a group of traffickers.

This was fine. Just another op. Just another night on the job.

But Jason knew better.

He’d already accepted that Peter was… something to him. There was no point pretending otherwise. Peter—the guy who showed up at ridiculous hours like it was the most natural thing in the world, who somehow managed to look unfairly good even when drenched in alcohol or whatever grime New York had thrown at him that day. The one who could drive Jason up a wall with nothing more than a lopsided grin and a sharp remark, who lingered in his thoughts long after he was gone. That much, Jason could admit. Hell, maybe he’d admitted it a long time ago.

But Spider-Man?

That was harder to address.

So Jason ignored the way Spidey’s voice sent something familiar twisting in his gut and focused on the job. “There’s a sniper in the rafters,” he muttered, nodding upward. “I take him out first, then move in. You distract the grunts while I handle their stash.”

Spidey gave an exaggerated salute. “Got it, Red. I’ll be the charming distraction while you brood and punch things. Classic teamwork.”

Jason didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t acknowledge the flicker of amusement beneath his irritation. Instead, he moved.

The metal scaffolding creaked under his weight, but Jason was already halfway up before the sniper even thought to shift his aim. Too slow. Jason lunged, one arm locking around the guy’s throat, the other driving a knife-hand strike into the base of his skull. The man went limp, body slumping into dead weight as Jason lowered him silently to the ground. Disarmed. Disabled. No alarms raised.

Below, Spider-Man dropped into the middle of the group, showy as ever.

“Hey, fellas!” He landed in a crouch, fingers splayed against the concrete. “Love what you’ve done with the place—super villain chic, very rustic. But I gotta ask—” He tilted his head, mask lenses narrowing. “Is human trafficking really the vibe you wanna go for?”

The men barely had time to register him before Spidey was in motion, flipping over one, twisting around another, webs snapping out in rapid succession.

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He should be irritated. He should find the whole routine grating. Instead, he found himself oddly—distracted. Not by the fight, but by the way Spider-Man moved—fluid, effortless, every motion perfectly balanced between grace and efficiency.

The thought barely had time to register before Jason yanked himself back to focus, setting to work dismantling their stockpile. He jammed the locks on their crates, tore out their weapon components, and planted a tracker in one of their cash boxes for later retrieval. It was precise. Efficient. Controlled.

Unlike Spider-Man.

“Y’know, Gotham’s got its own brand of creeps,” Spidey was saying, dodging a wild swing, “but at least they’re creative. You guys? Boring. No flair, no gimmicks—just bad fashion and bad decisions.”

One of the men lunged at him with a crowbar. Spidey twisted at the last second, body moving with an ease that Jason shouldn’t be watching as closely as he was.

“See? No creativity!” A web shot out, yanking the guy’s feet out from under him. “At least get a theme going. Maybe matching uniforms? A cool name? Ooh! What about the Trafficking Terrors? No, wait—that’s terrible. Workshopping it.”

Jason clenched his jaw, forcing himself back into motion. He should not find this entertaining.

Unfortunately, he did.

With a resigned exhale, Jason dropped into the fray.

They moved together—too easily. Jason drove a fist into one man’s ribs, felt the crack of bone under his knuckles, then barely had time to process it before Spidey webbed the guy mid-collapse, yanking him out of the way. Another came at Jason’s blind spot, but Spidey’s warning came half a second before Jason felt the shift in the air, allowing him to sidestep the attack.

Jason ducked, Spider-Man flipped over him, their rhythm seamless. He struck low, Spidey struck high, both of them moving in tandem without a single wasted motion.

It was almost like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Jason hated how much he liked it.

Then, just as Jason was about to take down the last guy, he felt it—

The shift in the air. The wrongness of it.

The last grunt had pulled a gun, arm steady despite the tremor in his stance, finger already tightening on the trigger. Jason registered the glint of the barrel, the subtle tension in the man's grip—too late.

He barely had time to react before Spider-Man did.

A web shot out, yanking Jason off balance with enough force to drag his boots against the concrete. His breath hitched as his center of gravity disappeared from under him. Before he could protest—

The shot rang out.

A sharp, cracking pop split the air, the bullet punching into the metal crate where Jason had been standing a second ago. The echo of it rattled in his skull, but before the adrenaline could fully process—

Spider-Man was right there.

Jason barely registered the thug going down, webbed to the floor. His brain was too busy short-circuiting over the fact that Spidey had practically tackled him out of the way, one hand fisting the front of Jason’s jacket, the other braced against the ground beside him.

The warmth of him, the solid weight pinning Jason down, the slow rise and fall of Spidey’s chest—all of it was too close, too present. Jason could hear the slight shift in his breathing, the telltale amusement behind it. His lenses tilted slightly, the shape of them narrowing as if he were smirking under the mask.

Jason did not like it.

Nope. Not one bit.

“You okay there, big guy?” Spidey asked, voice laced with infuriating smugness.

Jason shoved him off with more force than necessary. “I had that.”

Spidey flipped onto his feet effortlessly, landing with a casual roll of his shoulders. “Yeah, sure. Nothing says ‘under control’ like almost getting a new hole in your skull.”

Jason exhaled sharply, forcing down the frustration rising in his chest. He was done. Done with this entire situation. Done with Spidey’s theatrics. Done with the fact that, despite how much the guy ran his mouth, he’d still thrown himself into the line of fire without a second thought.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he muttered.

Spider-Man tilted his head, exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What, save your life? Bit ungrateful, Red.”

Jason shot him a glare. “I could’ve handled it.”

“Right, right,” Spidey drawled, tapping his chin like he was considering it. “And next time, I’ll just let you get ventilated. Noted.”

Jason clenched his fists, jaw locking tight. He hated this. Hated that Spidey was so goddamn willing to take a hit that wasn’t his to take. Hated that Jason had seen it before, had watched the same stupid self-sacrificing instincts play out in too many people, too many times, and—

“You think this is funny?” Jason growled.

“Kinda, yeah.”

Jason wanted to yell. Wanted to grab Spidey by the stupid suit and shake him, make him understand —that this wasn’t a game, that throwing himself into danger for Jason of all people was the worst call he could make. That Jason didn’t need saving. That he didn’t want it.

And then—

Then Spider-Man had to go and make it worse.

His head tilted, considering Jason in a way that made his skin prickle, and then, casually—

“You’re kinda cute when you’re mad.”

Jason’s brain stalled.

He was going to kill him.

Not now, maybe. Spider-Man was slippery, infuriatingly good at dodging, and a public menace in a way that would make tracking him down an absolute nightmare. But someday—someday soon—Jason was going to actually murder him, and Gotham, New York, and even that walking aneurysm J. Jonah Jameson would throw a goddamn parade in his honor.

And yet—

The bastard had the audacity to pat Jason’s shoulder like this was some friendly bro moment and not a personal, calculated attack on Jason’s entire mental stability.

“Good talk, buddy,” Spidey said, way too pleased with himself, like he hadn’t just shattered a fundamental piece of Jason’s brain chemistry. “Let’s do this again sometime.”

Then, before Jason could even formulate a proper death threat, Spidey shot out a web, kicked off the nearest beam, and disappeared into the skyline like he hadn’t just walked into Jason’s life, turned it upside down, and left him standing there, pulse hammering, utterly, irrevocably done with everything.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face. He needed a minute. Just one goddamn minute to collect himself, to shove this entire night into a box labeled DO NOT OPEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES and pretend none of it ever happened.

He got exactly three seconds before—

“Redbird!”

Jason closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Considered making a break for it.

Too late.

An arm slammed around his shoulders, pulling him into a half-headlock of a side hug.

Jason tensed. “Wilson.”

Wade sighed dramatically, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “Wilson? Really? After everything we’ve been through?”

Jason elbowed him off, harder than necessary. “We haven’t been through shit .”

Wade stumbled back, gasping, hand over his heart like Jason had just delivered a fatal blow. “Wow. Hurtful. You wound me, Redboy.” Then, as if he hadn’t just been bodily removed, he perked up, a devious gleam in his eye. “So! You got the boy yet, or do I need to do all the work for you?”

Jason choked.

He actually, physically choked on air, which was just fantastic .

Wade, the absolute demon in human form, waggled his fingers in his face. “Lemme lay it out: brunet. Funny. Ridiculously good ass. Ringing any bells?”

Jason clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders back like that would somehow shake off the full-body discomfort Wade’s words ignited. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh, Red , I know.” Wade’s grin widened. He was enjoying this way too much. “I totally get it. You’re confused. You’re flustered. You don’t know why you keep thinking about—”

Jason shoved him off, harder this time. “I will actually throw you into traffic.”

Wade stumbled, cackling. “Oh, buddy. I got so much money riding on when you figure this out.”

Jason didn’t dignify that with a response. He turned on his heel and stormed off, willing his brain to shut the hell up.

Behind him, Wade cupped his hands around his mouth. “ YOU’RE WELCOME! ”

Jason did not look back.

Jason had been stuck in New York for eight days longer than he’d planned.

Eight days of staking out trafficking hubs, following leads that kept running cold, and running into Spider-Man more times than any sane person should. Eight days of not getting a full night’s sleep, of feeling the city wear him down like sandpaper against raw skin. Eight days of Wade Goddamn Wilson pushing his goddamn luck, of Peter Parker showing up at the worst possible moments, of something slipping through his fingers—something he couldn’t name, didn’t want to name.

And now, because the universe clearly hated him, he was out of clean clothes.

Which was how he ended up here, standing in the middle of a grimy laundromat at midnight, exhausted, frustrated, and thoroughly, thoroughly done with the world.

The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, flickering in that way that made the whole place feel vaguely liminal. The air smelled like detergent and stale fabric softener, layered over the ever-present New York scent of asphalt, damp air, and a distant trace of garbage. Jason shoved a handful of quarters into the machine, watching them clatter into the slot with a dull chink, chink, chink, and leaned against it with a sigh, rubbing a hand down his face.

The hum of the dryers, the rhythmic thunk of tumbling clothes, the occasional beep of buttons being pressed—it was almost soothing. Almost.

Then, the door slammed open.

Jason’s body reacted before his brain did, shoulders going tight, hand instinctively dropping toward his gun—

And then he saw who it was.

Peter Parker.

Of course .

Because the universe hadn’t screwed with him enough today.

Jason stilled, watching as Peter struggled through the entrance, laundry basket stacked high with what had to be half his wardrobe. He kicked the door shut behind him, moving toward a washing machine with all the grace of a man one misstep away from disaster.

Sure enough, the second he stopped, half the pile tipped over, spilling onto the floor in a mess of t-shirts and socks.

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose.

It wasn’t his problem.

He very deliberately turned his head, minding his own business.

“Shit,” Peter muttered.

Jason’s eye twitched.

“Son of a—okay, yeah, that’s fine. That’s great,” Peter continued, kneeling to scoop up a pair of jeans. “Love when my life is just a series of minor inconveniences.”

Jason clenched his jaw.

Nope .

Not his problem.

Peter huffed dramatically, still gathering his things from the linoleum floor. The overhead fluorescents flickered every few seconds, casting sharp shadows across the cracked tiles, making the whole place feel one bad power surge away from total darkness. A vending machine in the corner hummed loudly, its dim light barely illuminating the array of overpriced snacks inside.

“Y’know,” Peter mused, stuffing a balled-up sock into his basket, “I bet Batman’s laundry situation is immaculate . Probably has, like, ten washing machines in the Batcave.” He paused, then smirked to himself. “Wonder who does his fabric softener—”

Jason exhaled through gritted teeth, dragging a hand down his face. The last thing he needed was Bat-talk while running on three hours of sleep and sheer spite. Ignore him , Jason told himself. Pretend he doesn’t exist.

And yet, before he could stop himself, his body betrayed him—one foot stepping forward, a gloved hand reaching down.

He picked up a hoodie that had landed near his boot and shoved it toward Peter like it was an inconvenience.

Peter blinked up at him, caught mid-motion with one knee still on the ground, fingers curled loosely around a stray sock.

“Oh,” he said, eyebrows slightly raised. “Hey.”

Jason didn’t look directly at him. He would not look directly at him. Just pressed the hoodie into Peter’s arms with more force than necessary. “You dropped something.”

Peter’s grin was immediate, slow and crooked, like Jason had just handed him a lottery ticket instead of a hoodie that smelled faintly of detergent and him .

“You helped me,” he said, voice dipping into something smug, something knowing.

Jason scowled. “Barely.”

“But you did .”

Jason rolled his eyes, turning sharply back to his own machine. The heat curling low in his stomach? Not real. The way his pulse had jumped when Peter looked at him— really looked at him? Also not real. Or at the very least, something he could ignore.

The laundromat hummed around them, the steady churn of washers filling the quiet. Outside, the distant wail of sirens filtered through the glass door, blending into the low whirr of the ceiling fan. Jason focused on that, counted the sounds like they were some kind of lifeline, prayed that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

A thump sounded as Peter loaded the last of his clothes. Then, to Jason’s mounting irritation, he leaned against the machine next to him, arms crossed, watching him with entirely too much interest.

“So,” Peter started, his grin sharp and far too pleased with itself, “what’s the Red Hood doing in a NYC laundromat at midnight?”

Jason arched a brow, side-eyeing him. “What are you doing in a laundromat at midnight?”

Peter snorted. “Touché.”

The conversation should have died there. But it didn’t.

A beat passed, the machines filling the space with their steady rhythm. It was late enough that no one else was around—just them, the hum of old appliances, the faint buzz of a faulty light near the back.

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t take the hint.

Jason should have been annoyed.

And yet, against all logic, against all common sense—he didn’t mind. Not as much as he should have.

A beat passed, the steady rhythm of the machines filling the space. It was late enough that no one else was around—just them, the hum of old appliances, and the faint buzz of a faulty light near the back.

Then, with the kind of casual recklessness that made Jason’s eye twitch, Peter tilted his head and said, “You don’t strike me as a fabric softener kind of guy.”

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Peter’s grin widened, like he’d been waiting for the question. “You’ve got a vibe.” He gestured loosely at Jason, up and down, as if the answer was self-explanatory.

Jason arched a brow. “A vibe .”

“Yeah, you know,” Peter continued, leaning against the washing machine next to him like he had all the time in the world. “Tough. No-nonsense. Very grr , I punch people for fun—”

Jason narrowed his eyes.

He’d heard that before.

Not just once. Multiple times. Recently.

Peter coughed, shifting slightly. “Uh—metaphorically,” he added quickly.

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, studying him. “You always talk this much?”

Peter clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, sweetheart , if you have to ask, then we clearly don’t know each other well enough yet.”

Jason inhaled sharply, willing his pulse to calm the hell down.

Peter was flirting. He had to be flirting. With the Red Hood ? And Jason was not going to think about how easy it was for Peter to do that, how natural it felt, how—

No. No, no, no .

He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the tension creeping up his spine. The banter was easy. Too easy.

It shouldn’t have been.

But it was.

And that was the problem.

Because for all the late nights and stakeouts, all the times he’d found himself trading quips with Spider-Man on a rooftop— this ? This dumb, mundane conversation in a laundromat? It felt just as effortless. Just as good.

Jason wasn’t listening anymore. Not to the words, at least.

It was the way Peter moved . The way he filled the space around him like he belonged there, like he had every right to demand Jason’s attention without even trying. The sharp wit. The dry humor. The stupid, easy confidence.

Jason had seen it before.

Felt it before.

His mind raced to disprove it, to shove the thought down before it could take root—but it was already too late. The rhythm of Peter’s speech, the way his hands punctuated his words, the way he talked like he had a thousand thoughts running at once and somehow still made them all sound effortless—

It wasn’t just familiar .

It was the same .

The realization hit him like a bullet between the ribs.

Peter and Spider-Man were the same.

Like a puzzle piece clicking into place, like a thread unraveling all at once—Jason saw it.

Not just a quiet realization, not some idle observation. No, this was a full-body, gut-punching truth that slammed into him like a freight train at full speed.

He liked them.

Both of them.

His stomach twisted violently.

Holy shit.

His throat felt tight, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears. His brain scrambled for an exit strategy, a way to shut this down before it spiraled any further. Before he started thinking about what it meant .

Peter, still completely oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding in real-time, was watching him, eyes flickering with something amused, something thoughtful. Then, as if he hadn't already done enough damage, he tipped his head, considering Jason for half a second before smirking.

“You know,” he mused, voice almost teasing, “you’re kinda cute when you’re thinking really hard about something.”

Jason twitched .

Peter grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

“I am not —” Jason started, but the words caught in his throat, something wrong with his voice, something rough. He clamped his mouth shut before he could make it worse.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope .

He needed to go.

Now.

Jason pushed off the machine, movements clipped. “I gotta go.”

Peter blinked, caught mid-sentence. “Wait, what—?”

Jason was already halfway to the door, barely hearing Peter call after him, voice tinged with confusion. “Uh—okay? See you around?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look back.

Didn’t stop moving until he was far from that laundromat.

Far from both of them.

Chapter Text

Jason had spent the past week in a state of low-simmering denial.

It wasn’t working.

No matter how many times he shoved the thought aside, buried it under exhaustion, patrols, and whatever half-baked distraction he could find, it kept creeping back in—relentless. Unshakable. And every time he thought he had a handle on it, the realization blindsided him all over again. Like a second, third, fourth goddamn bullet to the chest.

He liked them.

Both of them.

Peter Parker, with his dorky charm and bright, too-easy smiles. The way he wielded self-deprecation like a shield, like it would keep people from looking too closely, from realizing just how sharp he really was underneath all that boyish enthusiasm. And then there was Spider-Man—quicker, cockier, sharper around the edges, but still soft in ways that made Jason grit his teeth. Still relentless in his optimism, still impossible to shake.

Two different people.

Except…

They weren’t that different at all .

Jason groaned, dragging his hands down his face as he perched on the edge of a rooftop, Gotham’s skyline stretching hazy in the distance. He should’ve felt relief at the sight of it. He’d been gone for weeks—too long—chasing this damn case across the city that wasn’t his, getting tangled up in things he had no business getting tangled up in.

Or maybe it wasn’t the city that had its claws in him.

Maybe it was them.

Jason exhaled sharply, staring down at the streets below. He needed to cut this off before it got worse. Before the mess in his head turned into something he couldn’t shove aside.

Because the truth was, it already felt like he was standing on a ledge with nothing but empty air beneath him.

Jason stared at his phone, the screen casting a dim glow over his gloved fingers. The text was already written out, blunt and to the point.

Jason

Sorry. Probably won’t be in town again. Take care.

His thumb hovered over the send button.

It would be easy. Just one press, and he could cut the thread before it frayed into something he couldn’t control. One press, and Peter would be another closed door, another unfinished chapter Jason didn’t have to read.

But a part of him—a stupid, stubborn part—hesitated.

Not because he didn’t want to send it. But because some ridiculous, self-sabotaging part of his brain knew that once he did, it would be real. Final. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

A sharp exhale. He clenched his jaw.

The rest of him knew better.

He hit send.

Locked the phone.

The warehouse below him reeked of damp wood and old blood, the scent thick in the stagnant air. Rot tinged the corners of the space, creeping up wooden crates that had been left to decay, water-stained and split. Dim overhead lights buzzed, flickering every few seconds, barely keeping the shadows at bay. It was the kind of place that soaked up misery, that held onto every scream, every quiet whimper, long after the people who made them were gone.

Jason had spent weeks tearing this operation apart, dismantling it piece by piece, following its tangled threads from Gotham to New York and back again. Black Mask and Fisk had been running metas through this pipeline for months, funneling them like product between their territories. He’d shut down safehouses, cut off transport routes, made it very clear that there would be no market for this kind of horror.

And tonight? Tonight was the last one. The final nail in the coffin.

His gloved fingers curled into a fist as he stared down at the file in front of him, the pages slightly damp from the humidity, the ink smudged in places. The words still stood out like gunshots against his retinas. Metas—Gotham-born—funneled out of their city, their homes, to be sold off to whoever was paying the highest price.

His stomach twisted. He’d spent years dealing with Gotham’s worst—crime lords who thought they owned the city, traffickers who saw human lives as nothing more than currency, psychos who carved their own nightmares into the streets. But this was going to end tonight. He was going to burn this place down, drag every last one of those bastards into the light, and make sure they never had the chance to rebuild.

The green stirred, curling like smoke around the edges of his vision, dark and insistent. His blood boiled, a slow, steady burn that settled deep in his ribs, coiling tight around his spine.

Jason let it in.

When Jason moved, it was silent, methodical—his steps light, his breath even. The warehouse stretched wide around him, filled with rusted shipping containers and makeshift holding cells, with half-loaded pallets of stolen goods serving as poor excuses for cover. The guards were scattered, some slouched against crates, others pacing in slow, lazy circles. They weren’t expecting trouble.

That was their first mistake.

Jason moved like a shadow, slipping through the dimly lit warehouse, the stink of rust and rot thick in the air. The kind of place where screams never carried, where bodies disappeared into the cracks of the city like they’d never existed in the first place.

The first guy never saw him coming.

A gun pressed to the back of the man’s skull— click. A whispered threat he’d never remember before Jason struck, swift and silent. A sharp blow to the temple sent him crumpling in a heap, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The second man caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but too late. Jason’s fist drove into his gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered, knees hitting concrete, a strangled gasp escaping before Jason grabbed the back of his head and slammed him down. He didn’t get back up.

The third was smarter. He was already reaching for his radio when Jason yanked him from his perch. His body hit the floor with a crack , a sharp cry spilling from his lips—cut off when Jason drove an elbow into his sternum, knocking the breath clean out of him.

Then the alarms blared.

The low, grating siren rattled through the warehouse, bouncing off rusted shipping containers and steel beams. Above, the heavy clang of boots on catwalks signaled incoming backup.

Jason exhaled, slow and measured.

He’d been running himself into the ground for weeks. Sleep? Unimportant. Food? Whatever he could grab between stakeouts. Pain? Just another constant, a reminder he was still moving, still breathing, still chasing ghosts through Gotham and New York.

Through every alley and abandoned lot where men like Sionis and Fisk did their worst.

The only thing that mattered were the kids.

The warehouse was a maze of stacked crates, rusted machinery, and steel walkways that creaked under the weight of incoming guards. Jason moved like a demon between them, every step measured, every breath controlled. The air reeked of mildew and oil, thick with the metallic tang of blood.

His knuckles ached, but he didn’t slow. The alarms still wailed, a relentless, grating pulse against his skull. Shadows stretched long under the flickering fluorescents, casting jagged silhouettes of men scrambling to regroup.

Jason kept low, slipping between rows of old storage containers. He caught a glimpse of movement—one of Sionis’s men barking orders into a radio. Jason didn’t let him finish. A swift strike to the wrist sent the radio clattering to the floor. A second blow to the ribs dropped the man where he stood.

Another thug rounded the corner, raising a baton—Jason caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him slamming into the nearest crate. He crumpled with a pained grunt.

Jason didn’t waste time. His pulse hammered against his ribs, sharp and insistent. He forced his breathing steady, scanning the warehouse for anything—any sign of them.

He pushed forward. Past a line of metal drums. Past the skeletal remains of old shelving units. The faint buzz of overhead lights hummed over the distant clang of boots—too far to be an immediate threat. Jason crept along the edge of a massive shipping container, then stilled.

A sound.

Muffled. Soft. A choked-off sob.

Jason turned the corner—and froze.

There. Near the back. A cage, hastily assembled from scrap metal and reinforced bars. Huddled inside, pressed together in a mass of shaking limbs and wide, terrified eyes, were the kids.

Some were barely into their teens. Others younger. Too young.

Jason’s grip tightened around his weapon. Something cold curled in his gut, seeping into his bones, sinking deep.

The rage was instant. Green-hot and blinding, swelling until it burned at the edges of his vision. The anger roared beneath his skin, coiling tight in his chest, demanding an outlet.

Too late to stop it now.

His gaze snapped to the last of the guards, the ones standing between him and the cage.

Jason hit the first guard like a wrecking ball, driving a boot into his chest and sending him crashing into the bars of the cage. The second barely had time to raise his weapon before Jason yanked it from his hands and slammed an elbow into his jaw, dropping him cold. The last one tried to run. Jason caught him by the collar, drove him into the concrete, and didn’t bother looking back. The warehouse was still alive with noise—alarms wailing, distant shouts—but Jason ignored it all. 

He ripped the lock off the cage, crouched low, voice steady despite the fury still burning under his skin. “You’re safe now,” he said, scanning their faces, their shaking forms. “We’re getting out of here.” One by one, they moved, hesitant but desperate, clinging to each other as Jason led them through the wreckage of the warehouse. He kept his body between them and the chaos, a shield against whatever hell was still coming.

Jason kept his strides long and steady, forcing himself to move slow enough for the kids to keep up. Some clung to each other, others clung to him, small fingers gripping the edges of his jacket like a lifeline. He kept scanning, eyes sweeping over every corridor, every shadow. The warehouse was still a mess of blaring alarms and unconscious bodies, but no new threats had emerged—yet.

They were almost to the exit when a small voice piped up behind him.

“What about the nice man?”

Jason slowed but didn’t turn. “What nice man?”

“The one who was with us,” a boy—young, maybe ten—said, voice wobbly but certain. “He stopped them from hurting us. He tried to fight, but they hurt him and took him away.”

Jason’s jaw locked. His gut twisted. “Where?”

The kid pointed down a side hall, past a half-open steel door.

Jason clenched his teeth, ran a hand down his face. He should’ve seen this coming. Of course someone else had gotten involved. Of course there had been someone trying to protect them.

And of course, because it was his goddamn life, he already had a sinking feeling about exactly who that someone was.

“Stay here,” Jason ordered, ushering the kids into the narrow space behind a stack of crates. “Don’t move until I get back. You hear me?”

They nodded, huddling close, still wide-eyed and afraid. Jason turned away, pulled his gun, and took off down the hall.

The closer he got, the worse the feeling in his gut became. The door creaked as he shoved it open, revealing a dimly lit room lined with crates and overturned chairs. A struggle had happened here. A bad one.

Then Jason’s gaze landed on the figure slumped against the wall.

His stomach dropped.

Peter.

Shirt torn, a fresh bruise darkening along his jaw, wrists loosely bound like they hadn’t even needed to restrain him properly. Jason’s stomach twisted at the sight. He took in the sluggish rise and fall of Peter’s chest, the unnatural slackness of his limbs, the way his head lolled slightly to the side. Drugged.

Jason muttered a sharp curse and holstered his gun, closing the space between them in three quick strides. He dropped to a crouch, hands already moving—checking Peter’s pulse, tilting his chin up to get a better look.

Peter’s lashes fluttered. His breath hitched slightly, too shallow, like his body was still trying to catch up to reality. His eyes cracked open, hazy and unfocused.

Jason swallowed against the sharp, inexplicable panic rising in his throat.

“Parker,” he said, voice tight, betraying none of the worry clawing at his chest. “What the hell did you get yourself into now?”

Peter blinked slowly, his pupils blown wide, struggling to focus on Jason’s face. He made a quiet, vague noise in the back of his throat, like his brain was buffering through whatever chemical cocktail they’d pumped into him.

Jason barely registered the movement before he was at Peter’s side, yanking at the rough knots binding his wrists.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason growled, his breath coming faster than he liked, panic curling sharp at the edges of his voice.

Peter coughed—a miserable, wrecked sound—before wincing. His lips quirked into something resembling a smirk. “Would you believe me if I said I got very lost?”

Jason didn’t laugh. Didn’t throw back a quip.

Not when Peter looked like this.

Not when Jason’s hands were shaking as he worked to untie him.

The moment the last rope snapped, Peter slumped forward. Jason caught him without thinking, an arm looping around his waist, steadying him. Peter was all dead weight for half a second before he managed to get his feet under him, fingers gripping weakly at Jason’s jacket.

“Jesus,” Jason muttered, trying to keep his voice even. “Can you stand?”

Peter made a vague attempt to straighten. “Define ‘stand’.”

Jason gritted his teeth. “Not funny.”

Peter huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh—right before Jason hauled him up onto his feet.

Peter groaned, wincing. “Okay. Ow. Rude.”

Jason ignored him, eyes already sweeping the room, scanning for the fastest exit. The kids were still waiting. More guards would be coming soon.

They needed to move. Now.

Jason threw Peter’s arm over his shoulder, tightening his grip as he half-dragged him toward the exit. Peter’s steps were sluggish, uneven—every few feet, his knees buckled, and Jason had to yank him back upright before he went down completely.

“C’mon, Parker,” Jason muttered, adjusting his hold. Peter was leaning too much of his weight into him, body still heavy with whatever they’d dosed him with. “Not the time for a nap.”

Peter made a weak noise in response—maybe agreement, maybe protest. Hard to tell when he was barely keeping his eyes open. His feet dragged against the concrete, stumbling over nothing, forcing Jason to tighten his grip and half-carry him forward.

Each step felt like a goddamn eternity.

But they were almost there.

Almost out.

Almost safe.

And then—

“Hey!”

Jason twisted, muscles tensing just in time to see a guard stagger back to his feet, gun raised—

Peter moved.

Jason barely registered it before Peter shoved him aside, twisting in his grip with an agility he shouldn’t have had. His muscles, sluggish just seconds ago, suddenly snapped into motion.

A sharp thwip filled the air.

Jason’s head jerked up just in time to see the guard lurch backward, his gun clattering to the ground as he was yanked off his feet—

Webbed to the wall.

The room went silent.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

He turned slowly, eyes locked on the webbing, then down to Peter—Peter, who had gone completely still in his grasp.

Jason’s fingers tightened around his arm. His voice, when he spoke, was deadly quiet.

“...The fuck was that?”

Peter didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Jason already knew.

The way Peter held himself. The way he moved, too quick, too instinctual for someone running on empty. The way he hadn’t hesitated before stepping in, before saving Jason without a second thought—

And the goddamn webs.

Jason inhaled sharply, heart hammering.

“No.”

Peter swallowed. “Jason—”

“No. No .”

Jason let go of him like he’d been burned, staggering back a step. His pulse roared in his ears, vision swimming.

Peter barely had time to steady himself before Jason shoved him back—hard. He stumbled, still unsteady on his feet, nearly going down.

"Fuck off," Jason bit out, voice sharp and cutting. He was already turning away, heading for the kids without another glance. "Go be a hero somewhere else."

Peter blinked, still trying to shake the drugged haze from his system. "Jason—"

Jason didn't stop. Didn’t look at him.

Because if he did, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Not now. Not with his blood still running hot, his hands still shaking, his mind still spinning with the absolute bullshit that had just happened.

Peter Parker wasn’t just similar to Spider-Man.

Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

And Jason had been too fucking blind to see it.

The kids . Focus on the kids.

He forced himself forward, moving quickly. One of the older ones clutched the youngest to her chest, wide-eyed and shaking. "It's okay," Jason said, voice steady, controlled. "We're getting out of here."

The older girl nodded hesitantly. Jason turned, scanning the room. "Exit’s this way," he said, nodding toward the door. "Move."

He didn’t check if Peter was still standing there. Didn’t care.

Jason ushered the kids through the warehouse, keeping himself between them and the unconscious—or groaning—guards he’d left in his wake. The moment they were clear, he radioed his contact in the GCPD, feeding them just enough info to get them here fast.

By the time he turned back, Peter was gone.

Fine.

Good.

Jason didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to hear whatever bullshit excuse he was going to try and come up with.

He needed to get out of here.

The air on the rooftop was crisp, carrying the scent of damp asphalt and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham stretched out below, its skyline swallowed by heavy clouds that threatened another downpour. Jason barely felt the cold. His hands were still shaking, adrenaline burning under his skin, raw and restless.

He exhaled sharply, jaw tight, forcing himself to stand still. To breathe.

He’d been running on autopilot since the warehouse. Get the kids out. Get them safe. Secure the scene, deal with the aftermath, disappear before the cops showed up. He moved through the motions with the same methodical precision he always did, compartmentalizing, shoving every thought, every feeling , into a box in the back of his mind.

But now—

Now he was here.

Waiting.

Because, of course, Peter would show up.

And sure enough—

A soft thwip . A subtle shift in the air. And then—

"You wanna hit me or yell at me first?"

Jason closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing himself to keep his temper on a leash.

Then, without turning around, he said, "Depends. How fast can you duck?"

A pause. Peter hesitated, and Jason could feel the weight of his gaze pressing between his shoulder blades.

But Jason wasn’t ready to look at him.

Because now that the dust had settled, now that the mission was over, the realization was sinking in—

And it hit him harder than a bat to the ribs.

His fists clenched at his sides, rage twisting in his gut, hot and suffocating.

Peter Parker.

Spider-Man.

The same fucking guy.

Jason gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His mind raced, replaying every interaction, every conversation, every moment he had trusted Peter. The sharp, biting sarcasm. The way he always seemed to know what Jason was thinking before he said it. The easy way he had slipped into Jason’s life, like he belonged there.

Jason had liked Peter.

He had liked Spidey .

He had been a goddamn idiot.

“How long?” Jason’s voice was low, unsteady, barely controlled. He turned, eyes burning with something dangerously close to betrayal. “How long were you gonna let me make an absolute idiot out of myself?”

Peter tensed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach for Jason but thought better of it. “Jason—”

“How long, Parker ?”

Peter flinched.

Jason never said his last name like that. Never spat it like a goddamn insult.

"I—" Peter exhaled, shifting on his feet. His mouth opened, closed, like he didn’t know what to say.

Like, for once in his goddamn life, he was actually speechless .

And Jason hated it.

Hated that Peter could never shut the hell up until right now , when Jason needed him to say something.

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound brittle as it scraped against the cold night air. He shook his head, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Jesus. You really were just gonna let me, huh?” His voice wavered, raw with something he didn’t want to name. “Let me be a dumbass, let me—” He exhaled sharply, cutting himself off as his throat tightened. For a moment, the words stuck, a lump of something ugly lodged behind his ribs. He swallowed hard, forcing them out. “Let me pine after the same guy twice like a fucking moron—”

Peter’s eyes widened, something flickering across his face—recognition, shock, maybe even guilt.

Jason’s stomach dropped .

And then—

“Oh my god,” Peter breathed, the words barely audible, like they had slipped out before he could stop them. Realization settled into his features, slow and dawning, breaking across his face like a sunrise Jason didn’t want to see. “You like me?”

Jason’s chest lurched.

Everything inside him twisted, tangled up in knots too tight to unravel. His breath came shallow, his chest burning like he’d just taken a hit to the ribs.

He hated how Peter said it. Not smug. Not taunting. Just… stunned. Breathless. Like he hadn’t known . Like he hadn’t realized .

Like this—like Jason —was something worth being surprised over.

Jason clenched his jaw until it ached, fists curling at his sides. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears, drowning out the quiet hum of the city below.

Peter’s voice hadn’t been cruel. Hadn’t been mocking.

There was something else in it—something unbearably soft .

Jason wanted to punch him.

Wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him, tell him he was an idiot, tell him fuck you for making me feel like this .

Wanted to —

No.

He took a step back.

Then another.

Peter shifted forward instinctively, like he might reach for him, might try to stop him. His mouth opened, like he was about to say something—

But Jason wasn’t waiting to hear it. He turned on his heel and walked away, forcing each step forward even as something inside him screamed to stop. His chest felt tight, like a vice had wrapped around his ribs, pressing down with every breath. 

He didn’t slow, didn’t look back, even when the weight of Peter’s silence pressed against his spine like a hand reaching for him—hesitant, uncertain. Jason told himself it was better this way, that distance was the only thing keeping him from doing something fucking stupid. But the farther he got, the worse it felt, like he was leaving behind something he wasn’t supposed to. 

Like this was the kind of mistake he wouldn’t be able to walk back.

Chapter Text

Jason didn’t go back to Gotham.

He told himself he should. That it would be easy—just hop on his bike, ride home, and shove all of this under a rug the size of Manhattan. Pretend it never happened. Pretend Peter Parker had never slipped through the cracks in his armor and settled somewhere too close to the heart.

But every time he got close to the city limits, something in him hesitated. The thought of stepping foot in Gotham, of dealing with the inevitable questions, the sideways glances from the Bats—it made his skin crawl. Because they’d know. They’d look at him and see that something was different. Something had changed. And Jason wasn’t ready to face that, to explain to people who already saw him as broken that—somehow—he had managed to crack even further.

And the thought of going back to New York?

Yeah. No.

So Jason stayed gone.

For two weeks, he was a ghost. No Red Hood, no Jason Todd. Just a guy drifting from town to town, crashing in rundown motels when he had to, avoiding anyone who looked twice at him. He told himself he needed the space. That if he put enough distance between himself and the mess he’d left behind, he’d be able to breathe again.

But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Peter.

Peter—beaten and tied to that chair. Peter—blinking up at him with those too-familiar eyes, like Jason was something he could actually trust. Peter—webbing a guy to the wall like it was nothing.

Jason slammed his fist into the motel dresser, the cheap wood rattling under the impact. His breath came hard and fast, his pulse a dull roar in his ears. He didn’t know what pissed him off more—the betrayal, or the fact that he had been so fucking blind.

Because in hindsight, it was obvious.

The way Peter moved, the way he dodged, the way he fought. He had all of Spidey’s tells, all of his quirks. Jason had noticed them. Had recognized them. And yet, somehow, his idiot brain hadn’t put it together. Had let himself get attached twice. Had let himself believe—

Jason pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, exhaling sharply.

He was an idiot. A fucking idiot.

And worst of all?

He missed him.

Peter’s dumb stories, his rambling tangents, the way he could make Jason laugh without even trying. The easy warmth of their conversations, the casual way Peter had leaned into his space like he belonged there. And Spidey—god, Spidey. The way they fought like they danced, the rhythm they had fallen into without ever needing to speak.

Jason let out a shaky breath.

It hurt.

Not just the fact that Peter had lied—because Jason had lied about worse things before. No, what hurt was how easy it had been. Peter had slid into his life, had made himself comfortable in a way Jason hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.

And Jason had let him.

Had started to believe —want—

His throat went tight. He swallowed hard, staring at the cracked motel mirror.

Red-rimmed eyes. Tired. Lost.

Jason clenched his fists, jaw setting.

It wasn’t the lying, or even about Peter being Spider-Man.

It was the way Jason felt like a joke.

Like Peter had been playing him the whole time, letting him believe he was just some regular guy, just someone Jason could trust, could—

No. That part didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

But the thought gnawed at him, insidious and sharp-edged. Had Peter been laughing at him behind that mask? Had he sat there, nodding along to Jason’s stories, his thoughts, his fucking feelings, all while knowing that Jason had no idea who he was really talking to? Had he thought it was funny?

Jason’s stomach twisted.

Because he knew Peter. Knew the way he thought, the way he looked at the world. And the rational part of Jason knew —knew— that Peter hadn’t meant it that way. That it hadn’t been some grand joke at Jason’s expense.

But the rational part of Jason hadn’t been in control for a long time.

His phone buzzed against the cheap motel nightstand. He ignored it at first, staring at the cracked ceiling, willing it to be nothing. Some spam message, maybe. A reminder from a number he didn’t recognize.

But then—

Peter Parker.

Jason’s stomach twisted again, a slow, ugly knot forming in his gut.

For a long moment, he just stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the notification. He shouldn’t open it. Shouldn’t give Peter the satisfaction of a response. But his body had other ideas. Before he could think better of it, he swiped the message open.

Peter

hey

That was it. Just 'Hey'. Like they hadn’t torn open something the last time they spoke. Like Peter hadn’t—

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing down the irritation clawing at his chest. He was ready to throw the phone across the room when another text came through.

Peter

look, I know you don’t want to hear from me

but we should talk

Please

Jason’s jaw locked.

Talk? About what? How easy it had been for Peter to lie to him? How he’d sat there, looking Jason in the eye, pretending to be just some guy—like he hadn’t been under Jason’s skin the whole damn time?

A bitter taste settled on Jason’s tongue. He shouldn’t reply. He knew he shouldn’t.

But his fingers moved before he could stop them.

Jason

One chance. That’s it.

Read 5:37 PM

The read receipt popped up immediately. A response came just as fast.

Peter

okay

just tell me where

Jason flexed his grip on the phone, rolling his shoulders, exhaling slow.

Why was he even doing this?

Peter had already shown him exactly who he was—someone who could lie with a straight face. Someone who had let Jason make a fool of himself, let him believe—

Jason clenched his teeth. No.

This wasn’t about closure. This was about making sure Peter knew damn well that whatever had existed between them, whatever had almost been something, was done. If Peter couldn't explain himself, Jason would make him regret all of it.

He tapped out an address.

If Peter wanted to talk, fine. Jason would let him.

And then he’d make sure Peter never bothered trying again.

Gotham was always cold at night, but tonight, the bite of the wind felt sharper. Or maybe Jason was just feeling too much.

He stood next to his bike, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The alley behind him was dark, the streetlamp flickering just enough to cast fractured light over the cracked pavement. He focused on that—the way the concrete split, how the rain from earlier had settled into the grooves, reflecting light like shattered glass.

It was easier than looking at Peter.

Peter, who was standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, shifting from foot to foot like he wasn’t sure where to stand. Like he was nervous.

Jason shouldn’t have come here.

He should’ve ignored the message. Left Peter on read, let the silence stretch between them until it suffocated whatever was left. He’d told himself—over and over—that this was done. That whatever sick joke Peter might have been playing was over.

And yet, here he was.

The air was sharp with cold, biting at the edges of his skin. He told himself it wasn’t too late to leave. He could throw his helmet on, rev the engine, and be halfway to Metropolis before Peter even showed.

And somehow—Jason waited.

Because no matter how much distance he put between himself and New York, between himself and Peter, it never felt like enough.

The sound of sneakers scuffing against pavement made Jason’s spine go rigid. His fingers curled against his biceps as he forced himself to stay still, to keep his expression unreadable, to ignore the sharp twist of something too much in his chest.

Peter.

Jason clenched his jaw. He wanted to be angry. He was angry. But more than that, he felt like a fucking joke. Peter had let him believe—had sat there, looking Jason in the eye, smiling, laughing, acting like there was something real there. And the whole time, he’d known. He’d known exactly who Jason was. He’d known exactly what he was doing.

And Jason had let him do it.

"You gonna stand there all night, or you actually got something to say?" Jason asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

Peter inhaled sharply, like he’d been bracing for something worse.

"I’m sorry," he said, voice quiet. "I know that doesn’t fix anything, but—I am."

Jason’s fingers twitched. His instinct was to scoff, to throw the words back in Peter’s face. But instead, he just clenched his jaw.

"For what?" he asked, keeping his tone flat. "Lying to me? Letting me make an idiot of myself? Or just getting caught?"

Peter flinched, barely noticeable, but Jason saw it.

"For all of it," Peter admitted, gaze dropping to the pavement. "For lying. For not telling you sooner. For—" He exhaled through his nose. "For being a coward."

Jason barked out a hollow laugh. "Yeah. I got that part already."

Peter let out a breath, shaking his head. "I wanted to tell you."

Jason arched an eyebrow. "But you didn’t."

"No." Peter sighed. "I—" His fingers flexed in his hoodie pocket. "It never felt like the right time."

Jason huffed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Bullshit. You had plenty of time."

"I know." Peter’s voice was firmer this time, frustration creeping in—not at Jason, but at himself. "I almost did, a couple times. But—" He shook his head. "I was scared."

Jason's stomach twisted.

"Scared of what?" he demanded, voice sharp. "That I’d hate you? That I’d kill you?"

Peter’s breath caught. He flinched—hard—like the thought had crossed his mind more than once.

Jason barely suppressed the surge of something ugly that roared in his chest at that.

"No," Peter murmured, shaking his head. His voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. "I was scared of losing you."

Jason’s stomach twisted.

His pulse thudded against his chest, uneven and offbeat. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms as if that would ground him, as if that would keep his heart from tightening even further.

"Why?" The word came out rough, almost too quiet.

Peter exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping like he was finally surrendering to something. "Because people don’t… they don’t stay." His fingers curled against the fabric of his hoodie before he forced them to relax. "Not for me. Not for long."

Jason didn’t speak, didn’t move. But the words settled deep, worming under his skin.

"Gwen died because of me." The confession barely made it past Peter’s lips, quiet and frayed at the edges. "Because I wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t good enough. And after that, I just… shut everyone out."

Jason’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He tried to pull his gaze towards the skyline so he wouldn't have to look at Peter.

"Matt and Wade didn’t let me," Peter continued, gaze distant. "They stuck around, even when I didn’t want them to. Even when I tried to push them away. But—I never really let anyone in after that. Not the way I—" He hesitated, swallowing hard. His eyes flicked to Jason’s, and for once, there was no mask, no quips, no walls. Just Peter, laid bare. "Not the way I did with you."

Jason exhaled sharply, something dangerously close to a shudder running through him.

Peter clenched his jaw. "So yeah," he said, forcing himself to hold Jason’s gaze. "I was scared. And I made the wrong call."

The alley stretched silent between them, filled only by the distant hum of traffic, the flickering street lamp above them, the weight of everything that had gone unsaid.

Jason looked away first.

His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the Pit and everything to do with this—this impossible mess of feelings and trust that had shattered before Jason even realized he’d handed it over.

But Peter—Peter hadn’t been making a fool of him. He hadn’t been playing some long con, stringing Jason along for his own amusement.

He had been scared. Just like Jason was.

And fuck, if that didn’t change at least something.

Jason let out a breath, tilting his head back to look at the night sky, at the empty space where the stars should’ve been.

"You’re a dumbass," he muttered.

Peter let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah," he agreed. "I know."

Jason glanced at him then, really looked at him. At the tension still in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched like he was resisting the urge to reach out.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I’m still pissed."

"I know." Peter’s lips curled slightly, something hopeful flickering in his expression. "But you’re still here."

Jason let out a dry, exhausted laugh, the sound fading into the cold night air. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, as if trying to steady something deep in his chest.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“When did you figure it out?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Jason turned back to him, expression carefully unreadable. “That I was Red Hood.” His voice was steady, but there was a quiet weight to it, an edge sharp enough to cut. “When did you figure it out?”

The brunet hesitated. His fingers twitched like he wanted to fidget with his suit, like maybe there was a part of him that wanted to lie. But instead, he let out a small breath and admitted— “About two times after we met in civilian clothes.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “You serious?”

Peter winced like he knew how bad that sounded.

Jason just kept staring. His mind was already working through the implications—through the fact that Peter had known for weeks.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Your heartbeat’s the same. Your smell, too.”

Jason froze.

His heartbeat? His smell?

"You—" He shook his head, trying to process the absolute insanity of that statement. "You memorized my heartbeat?"

Peter shifted on his feet, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the pavement. “It’s just something I do.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face.

“That is the corniest shit I’ve ever heard.”

Peter groaned, already anticipating it. “Yeah, okay, I deserve that—”

Jason didn’t let him finish.

One second, Peter was still mid-groan, eyes squinting in exasperation—the next, Jason had a fistful of his hoodie, yanking him in with a force that stole the breath from both of them. Their mouths crashed together, rough and unpolished, a collision of frustration and something heavier.

Then Peter made a soft, surprised sound, something that definitely wasn’t a complaint, and Jason felt the exact moment he melted into it. His hands fisted tighter in Jason’s jacket, clinging like he had no plans of letting go. Jason wasn’t exactly trying to escape , either. 

The kiss was a mess—desperate, uncoordinated, all teeth and lips and two weeks of pent-up emotions that neither of them had the words for. Jason hated how much he’d missed him. Hated the way his chest unclenched the second Peter touched him. Hated that Peter was here, kissing him back like he meant it. Peter’s nose bumped Jason’s awkwardly, Jason nearly knocked them both sideways trying to get closer , and at one point, Peter half-laughed against Jason’s mouth, giddy and breathless. It sent something ridiculous through Jason’s chest, warmth curling beneath his ribs like an ember sparking to life.

Peter made a ragged sort of breathy sound against his mouth, something that sent heat curling down Jason’s spine, that made his fingers tighten in the fabric between them. He deepened the kiss without thinking, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of Peter’s neck, tilting his head just enough to kiss him properly, like he wanted to, like he had been dying to.

And god—Peter kissed him back just as eagerly, as if he wanted to make up for every second they’d wasted, for every time Jason had walked away when he should’ve stayed.

Jason only pulled back when the need for air finally won out, when his head was spinning and Peter was looking at him like he’d just short-circuited his entire brain. His lips were kiss-bitten, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed in a way Jason wanted to memorize.

Then Peter giggled.

Jason groaned. “You are so fucking annoying.”

Peter’s grin was instant and obnoxiously bright, his fingers still fisted in Jason’s jacket. “You like it, though.”

Jason rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go. And Peter—smug little menace that he was—gave a tiny, insufferable tug on Jason’s jacket, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Jason sighed, something loosening in his chest. His grip on Peter’s hoodie finally eased—not letting go, just settling, like maybe, for once, he didn’t have to hold on so tightly.

Yeah. He liked it.

(And for the first time in weeks, Jason let himself stay.)

A few months later, Jason once again found himself back with Peter, back in New York. The New York skyline glittered around them, the steady hum of the city filling the space between breaths. Jason leaned against the rooftop ledge, arms crossed, his shoulder just barely brushing Peter’s as they stood side by side. He could still feel the lingering rush of the night—the sharp satisfaction of cracking skulls, the familiar burn in his muscles, the way their movements had fallen into sync like no time had passed at all.

Peter, ever restless, was fidgeting with his web-shooter, adjusting a strap that didn’t need adjusting. Jason didn’t call him on it. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward, not exactly, but there was something underneath it, something that made Jason hyper aware of every shift, every glance Peter shot his way.

Eventually, Peter sighed, rocking back on his heels. “You know,” he started, voice light, “you’re kinda a New York menace now.”

Jason huffed. “Not happening.”

Peter bumped their shoulders together, barely enough force to register but enough to make Jason glance at him. His mask was still off, and even in the dim rooftop glow, his eyes were bright—mischievous, warm, something else Jason didn’t want to name.

“C’mon,” Peter grinned, “it’s basically fate at this point. Me, Matt, you, Wade— Team Red .” He gestured between them, a hopeful tilt to his expression. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Jason rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Peter gasped dramatically. “Wow. No hesitation. That actually hurts.”

Jason tilted his head, considering. “You and Wade can keep your dysfunctional little trio. I’m not interested.”

"But we need a grumpy, emotionally unavailable guy," Peter tried, nudging him again.

Jason snorted. "You already have Matt."

Peter gasped. "Okay, first of all—rude."

Jason let the silence stretch, watching the way Peter tapped his fingers against his thigh, clearly debating saying something else. His knee bounced once before he stilled it.

Then, quieter—more certain—Peter said, “You should stay here.”

Jason turned to look at him fully, and Peter met his gaze without flinching.

“No more brooding in Gotham,” Peter continued, his voice lighter, but the sincerity bled through. “Just good old-fashioned New York chaos. With me.” He rocked on his heels again, flashing a lopsided smile that did things to Jason’s chest. “We could get a cat.”

Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Tempting. But counter- counter -offer—you move to Gotham.”

Peter hesitated, squinting at him. “Bold of you to assume Gotham wouldn’t immediately chew me up and spit me out.”

Jason smirked. “You’re scrappy. You’d survive.”

Peter’s expression flickered, something in his posture softening. He studied Jason for a moment, like he was searching for something, but Jason had no idea what.

Finally, Peter tilted his head, voice quieter now. “You really think so?”

Jason held his gaze, his chest tightening, but not in a bad way. “Yeah.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, smiling a little. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a second, Jason thought he might reach for him.

Instead, Peter just rocked forward on his toes, grinning like he’d won something.

“So…” He raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see?”

Jason let out a slow breath, rolling his eyes, but there was no real bite to it.

“ Yeah ,” he murmured. “We’ll see.”