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Jason Todd was used to being forgotten, but he drew the line at being wet and forgotten. Rain had soaked through his boots, his gloves, his patience. The rooftop they were supposed to be surveilling from had caved at the edges and was covered in broken glass and graffiti that somehow managed to insult him personally. His helmet was cool—who the hell wanted a gas attack?
He checked his phone. Not for updates—he knew there wouldn’t be any. Just to distract himself. The screen lit up with a pinned photo: him and Roy, grinning like idiots on the island, years ago. Arms slung around each other, sun in their eyes. He stared at it for a beat too long.
Then he swiped out of the lockscreen and opened the group chat.
Tim’s last message was from three days ago:
Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a recon sweep. Low stakes. In and out. You’ll get to shoot at something. You’ll love it.
Jason closed the thread and shoved his phone back into his jacket like it had burned him.
It figured. Dick was off pretending he didn’t own five different vigilante identities. Tim had vanished with Bernard for something involving scented oils and strategic vulnerability. Which left Jason. Gotham’s backup backup plan. Again.
He crouched behind a rusted AC unit and tried not to think about how familiar that felt.
Then, as if summoned by the universe’s sick sense of humor, Conner Kent dropped onto the rooftop like a three-ton sigh.
Jason didn’t turn. “You’re late.”
“I came in low. Drones pinged me halfway in. Had to run the rest.”
“You sound like you need an inhaler. I thought you were invulnerable?” Helmet or not, the judgment was clear.
Conner grimaced, tugging his hoodie sleeves down like it might make him smaller. Still too tall. Too clean-cut. Too out of place.
“Tim said it was urgent,” he offered. “Then he booked a cabin in Vermont. Spa thing. Bernard’s idea.”
Jason finally turned. Blinked once. “You got left behind for healing touch therapy?”
“Yeah.”
Jason nodded slowly. “Brutal.”
Conner tried to smile. Failed. “Dick and Roy?”
“Off world. Some Titans retreat to a galaxy with old-timey bullshit.”
“That sounds nice.”
Jason didn’t reply. Just adjusted his holster and scanned the alley below. Then paused.
“You see that?”
Down on the street, a man was sprinting full-speed—chased by a goose. The man screamed. The goose honked. A cab honked back.
“Gotham,” Jason muttered. “Never change.”
Conner’s laughter burst out sharp and real. Jason let it hang for a second before allowing himself a tight smile.
“Better than the spa weekend,” Jason said.
“Way better.”
Rain softened into mist. Below, the man vanished into traffic, the goose in hot pursuit. Jason sighed and leaned back against the ledge. The sky had gone pale behind Gotham’s skyline. He tapped his comms earpiece and gave a low grunt.
“Intel said they’d be offloading by midnight. Eastside Narrows. Crate code signatures match a smuggling ring with Intergang ties.”
“You trust Tim’s data that much?”
“I trust Tim’s paranoia. Which is why we’re out here, wet and wasting time, because he flagged this place but didn’t check the timestamp.”
Conner peered at the warehouse roof three blocks away. Cracked skylights. One tired guard with a flashlight. Low energy. Low threat.
“It’s dead quiet.”
“Which means either we missed them, or they were never here.”
Jason stood, rolled his shoulders. “Either way, we get the honor of checking it.”
He looked at Conner, then jerked his chin toward the fire escape. “Come on. Let’s confirm how pointless tonight really is.”
Conner didn’t hesitate. “God, yes.”
The warehouse was hollow.
Not just empty—abandoned. The air tasted of rust and damp concrete. It smelled like wet plywood, scorched wiring, and a fire that had been put out too late to save anything that mattered. It was the kind of place built to be forgotten. Jason stepped in first, boots scuffing against dirt and shattered glass. Crates were cracked open and left that way. A rotted tarp curled in the corner like a discarded skin. Even the shadows looked bored. Conner followed, his movements quieter than someone his size should be able to manage. He ducked instinctively through a doorway, like the ceiling might fall just for spite.
"Tim said it was fresh," Conner murmured.
Jason snorted. "Tim also said Gotham was a 'vibrant urban eco-system.'"
Conner crouched beside a support beam, brushed aside some torn insulation. Nothing underneath but dust and mouse droppings. He stood again, rubbing his fingers together like it might remove the feeling of wasted time.
They kept moving. Room by room. Step by step. But nothing changed. The building creaked but didn’t speak. The silence wasn't suspicious—it was apathetic.
Jason paused in a long, open loading bay. He looked up at the catwalks, at the busted chain pulleys, at the lines of old fluorescent lights flickering half-dead.
Conner finally stopped moving. “We should go. Call it.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “What, and let the ghosts win?”
“This isn’t anything. You know it.”
Jason gave a low, bitter smile. “Yeah. That’s why we check. Because someone has to know for sure it’s nothing.”
Conner looked like he wanted to argue. Like he could just lift off and be somewhere else in two seconds flat. But he stayed. Because Jason had asked. Not because he was ordered.
They stood there, listening to the dead echo of a city that forgot them.
Jason nudged another crate. It wobbled, then settled. He laughed, short and humorless.
“It’s not even disappointing anymore. It’s just expected.”
Conner said, “You sure we’re not early?”
Jason glanced over his shoulder. “Or they were never here. Or we were sent on a ghost run to make sure we still answer when they call.” He exhaled, then let out a low, bitter laugh. “You know what’s really wild? They didn’t even hesitate. Dick and Tim. They knew we’d come running. Didn’t matter the lead was cold, didn’t matter it was Gotham—just point us at the ghost and walk away.”
Conner shifted his weight. “I cleared my whole week for this.”
Jason looked at him, really looked. “You’re not even supposed to be in the city. Tim knows that. He sent you anyway.”
“I thought it mattered,” Conner said. “I thought maybe... this time, it wasn’t just backup.”
Jason’s mouth twisted. “Yeah. That’s the trick, isn’t it? Ask the boy who’s madly in love for a favor. Fucking Roy...” He turned, started walking. “Safehouse?”
Conner nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. Let’s go pretend this night never happened.”
Conner followed.
Because of course he did.
Because that’s what leftovers do: they stick together.
Even when they’re moldy. Even when they know better.
By the time they made it to the safehouse, the rain had stopped but the weight stayed in the air. It wasn’t really a house. More like a bunker that had survived the end of the world and decided to live in bitterness forever. Wedged between a condemned laundromat and a boarded-up pho restaurant that probably hadn’t served food since Nixon, it looked like something Jason had dragged out of Gotham’s subconscious and slapped drywall on. Which was mostly true.
The lock required two bypass codes, one biometric scan, and a not-insignificant amount of spite. Something Jason would never run low on.
Conner hovered awkwardly at the threshold, soaked and clearly rethinking his life choices. Realistically, Jason knew that Superboy couldn’t die of the cold, but still, he had begun to shiver.
Inside, the safehouse was concrete and echo. A single overhead bulb buzzed with resentment. The furniture consisted of two chairs, a dusty couch, and a fridge that looked like it had a criminal record.
Jason peeled off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. He kicked the fridge door open with his boot. A case of beers took up most of the top shelf—already opened, half-empty. A jar of something that might've once been pickles stared back from the corner.
Close enough to goddamn providence.
"Want one?" Jason asked, not looking.
Conner hesitated like he needed clearance. "Sure."
Jason tossed the beer. Conner caught it one-handed and popped the cap off with a flick of a finger.
Jason rolled his eyes. "You rehearse that?"
"It’s in the cape training manual. Page six."
Jason took a swig, collapsed onto the couch, and stared at the ceiling like it had betrayed him personally. Conner took the far end of the couch like it might bite.
They drank in silence for a while. The kind of silence that filled rooms when no one wanted to admit how angry they were at people who wouldn’t even notice.
"This where you go to sulk?" Conner asked.
Jason snorted. "This is where I go when I'm tired of being the family janitor. The guy who gets called when things break and no one wants to admit they let it happen."
"You mean like tonight?"
Jason gave a slow, bitter nod. "Yeah."
Conner stared at his beer. "I can't believe... like I cleared my schedule for this. Tim said he needed backup—said it mattered. I had this dumb hope it would be us."
Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "They know we’ll say yes. That we’ve got nothing better to do. Maybe they even think they’re doing us a favour."
Conner snorted. "Right. Tim thinks I’m some Kryptonian failsafe. Talks like I’m a protocol, not a person. And maybe he’s right. I’m not exactly complicated—just the clone who didn’t get a real plan. But now he’s lighting candles with Bernard and reading about attachment styles."
Jason gave a dry laugh. "You’re not the first person he’s compartmentalised out of relevance."
Conner hesitated. "He told me he wasn’t into guys. I believed him. I didn’t think he’d lie. Just... thought maybe one day, he’d change his mind."
"And then he changed it for someone else."
Conner nodded. "Yeah."
Jason stared into his beer. "Roy didn’t tell me he came back from the dead. Found out he was running around with Dickie’s new gang through the news of all things. Got matching leather jackets. Smiled in public."
"That’s gotta hurt."
"I didn’t mind the jacket." Jason took a drink. "I minded the smile."
Conner cracked a grin. "You’re kind of a romantic, in a bleak way."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a brand to maintain."
A pause.
Then laughter. Bitter and involuntary.
Jason raised his bottle. "To the ones who made us believe we mattered."
"To invisible men."
They drank.
Rain tapped faintly on the window. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed like someone else’s problem.
"You wanna crash here?" Jason asked eventually.
Conner didn’t look up. "Better than flying home in wet socks."
Jason tossed him a blanket from the supply bin without ceremony.
Then Jason leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t look at Conner when he said it.
"You wanna not feel like shit for a while?
The words landed like a challenge and an apology, wrapped in static. Conner looked up. Not surprised. Not confused. Just tired. And aware. And maybe a little past pretending.
Jason blinked. Lips parted. “This is stupid.”
“Probably,” Conner said.
A beat passed. Then motion.
Jason didn’t wait for permission. Just crossed the room in three quiet steps.
Their mouths met like the conversation before it—unpretty. Unearned. Honest.
Not soft. Not fireworks.
Just breath and bruises and the kind of desperation that came with knowing you were filling a space someone else had carved.
Jason kissed like he fought—focused, unforgiving, fast. Conner kissed like someone who wanted to forget he could break things. Especially people.
Clothes hit the floor in uneven thuds. The couch barely groaned beneath them. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t slow. But it wasn’t cruel, either. It was an escape, a means to an end.
They touched like they were both searching for proof. Not of love. Not of belonging. But of usefulness. Of presence. Of filling the empty shape someone else had left behind. Hands that were warm, touch that could actually pull them to earth as if to say, I see you. It was warm and welcoming. Somthing that was so clearly needed and missed.
They used each other like placeholders -meant for someone else, but close enough to carry the weight for one night. With tight eyes and a little imagination it could almost be the real thing. But hope is always dangerous. Hope took the warm center and made it cold. Neither man could actually replace their current partener for long enough in thier mind. Roy was taller then Conner, the archers shoulders braoder. But Conner was actually hear. Pulling Jason into the couch holding him close. Tim had no where near the same amount of stuble or muscle as is brother. But Jason could actually look Kon in the eye and see him as a person.
Conner was the first to break. Not during, but after. A shudder ran through him, sharp and sudden. Eventually, it ended. Not with a kiss or a goodbye. Just the sound of them breathing, the weight of everything unsaid settling back into the room like dust. A full condom in the wastebasket.
They lay side by side, not touching.
Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t offer one.
Conner pulled the blanket up to his chest like it might hide something that wasn’t his skin.
The silence after felt worse than the noise. Realer. Like shame had been waiting its turn.
Jason exhaled. “So,” he said.
Conner didn’t laugh. He didn’t smirk. Instead, he blinked rapidly and turned his face away, pressing his thumb hard against the edge of the couch. “Not the worst reaction I’ve gotten,” he said, but his voice cracked halfway through.
Conner pulled the blanket higher like it could hide the sound of the breath he’d just tried to swallow. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Jason didn’t speak. Just sat up slightly, watching him from the corner of his eye.
Conner scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. “I didn’t want it to be just anyone,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse, not from yelling, but from holding too much in for too long. “But I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”
Jason stared at the ceiling like it might offer a better answer. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.”
Jason sat up straighter. “Hey—”
Conner shook his head, jaw tight. “Don’t. I’m fine.”
Jason didn’t press. He waited.
Then Conner wiped at his eyes and gave a breathy, humorless laugh. “Guess I’m more human than people thought.”
Jason nodded like he’d expected it. “We need to pretend it didn’t happen. Everything’s fine.”
Conner was quiet for a moment. “You sure?”
Jason didn’t look at him. “You’re not.”
A beat.
Conner: “Doesn’t matter.”
Jason took another drag. “If Dick finds out there’ll be long hypocritical talks about sleeping with your brother’s best friend. I get Alfred’s disappointment. Tim’ll send you a PDF about boundaries.”
“Clark might hold a press conference about it.”
Jason made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Perfect.”
They didn’t look at each other.
Didn’t need to.
But neither of them slept for a long time.
_________
Jason sat on the floor of the safehouse, back against the couch, cigarette burned halfway down and forgotten between his fingers. The silence didn’t feel cleaner. It felt hollow. Like the kind that echoed too easily. He hadn’t slept much. Not since Conner left. He’d woken up to the smell of wet air and the absence of another body. No note. No words. Just a used towel in the sink and a ghost where warmth had been.
He hadn’t expected more.
Didn’t mean it didn’t sting. It was a weird sense to be seen than activily ignored.
The fridge groaned when he opened it—just two beers left from the case, still the same old jar of pickles. Jason grabbed a bottle out of habit, cracked it open, and let it fizz into his palm. He sat back on the arm of the couch, stared at his phone. It was face-down, as if he didn’t care.
He flipped it.
No new messages.
He opened his gallery, hovered for a moment, then tapped the pinned photo. The one of him and Roy. Grinning. Summer light. Deliberately candid. It looked too clean now. Too far away.
He deleted it.
Not out of malice. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.
He scrolled through the other images. Paused on one from the last surveillance op blurry, grainy, caught by accident. Conner laughing, backlit by rain and city haze, his hood half off and his face lit up by the stupid goose incident.
Jason set it as his lock screen.
He locked the phone. Then unlocked it again just to be sure.
Buzz.
CONNER: Sorry to ditch. Tim called wanted to get brunch now they're back.
Jason stared at the text, then let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh.
JASON: Figured. Let me know if you need another pointless mission. I've got a broken coffeemaker that might be a ghost.
No immediate reply.
He didn't need one.
Not yet.
—
Conner Kent stirred his overpriced latte like it had insulted him. Across the brunch table, Tim and Bernard were still glowing from their spa weekend, trading inside jokes over beetroot toast and discussing artisanal cheeses like they were debating world peace.
Conner wasn’t sure what day it was anymore—only that it had been long enough since the safehouse that pretending should have gotten easier. But it hadn’t. Not when his shoulder still ached in the way Jason’s weight had pressed into it. Not when the warmth hadn’t faded fast enough.
Tim was laughing. Bernard reached across the table and touched his wrist. It was casual, sweet, comfortable. Conner smiled like he was part of the moment. Like he belonged in it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn’t check it immediately. Just sat with the pull of two worlds pressing on his ribs.
When he finally pulled the phone out, the lock screen glowed: one new reply from Jason.
JASON: Let me know if you need another pointless mission. I've got a broken coffeemaker that might be a ghost.
Conner didn’t laugh. But he didn’t ignore it either.
He replied with a single word:
CONNER: Roger.
He pocketed the phone again.
Tim said something about weekend plans. Bernard nodded along.
Conner almost spoke—almost said, “Gotham was quiet.” Almost said, “I saw a goose chase a man through traffic.” Almost said, “I wasn’t alone.”
Instead, he took a sip of coffee and didn’t flinch when Tim’s hand brushed his shoulder.
He looked across the table at someone else's smile.
And tried not to think about the one he'd left behind."