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jason jolts upright, a strangled noise dying in his throat as he’s yanked out of sleep. the bedroom is silent but for his ragged breathing and the rustle of disturbed sheets.
still, if he listens closely, he hears it. the ticking, a ghostly timer counting down to zero.
fuck.
his head lolls against the headboard as he gasps for air, wide eyes locked on the ceiling.
smooth white wood. not steel beams or flickering bulbs. not there. he’s in his safe house in the narrows.
jason can feel the warm shape of his partner still asleep beside him. but the dream clings to him like blood-soaked cloth.
of course the nightmare would come today. today of all days. the anniversary. a bitter thought flits through his mind.
guess he was due for his yearly visitation from that fucking clown.
he almost hears the laugh.
jason shoves the covers off, breath hitching. his body aches, not just in memory but in muscle.
phantom pain blooms along his spine, where a crowbar once landed again and again, cushioned by nothing more than a paper-thin uniform.
he needs light. air. anything to scrape this feeling off his skin.
casting a glance toward the bed. his partner still sleeps, unaware.
jason’s throat tightens, a fresh breath shuddering into something close to a sob. no. he can’t wake them. he won’t let them see him like this—shaking, gutted, reduced to a broken thing. he can handle it.
he stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light with a shaking hand. the faucet screams to life, and he plunges his head beneath the stream of ice-cold water.
it shocks the heat out of his skin, chases away the echo of laughter still ringing in his ears.
for a moment, there’s only the roar of water and the sound of his own breathing, slowly calming, breath by breath.
he doesn’t hear the quiet footsteps. doesn’t notice the shift in the room until a familiar voice breaks through, rough with sleep and threaded with worry.
“jason?”
his head snaps up. water drips from his soaked hair, clinging to his jaw as he blinks at the doorway. his fingers are clenched white around the edge of the sink.
he rasps out your name. he’s trembling. somewhere along the line, his whole body started shaking, and he hadn’t even noticed.
your eyes are still heavy with sleep, barely processing the tension radiating off of him.
you linger in the doorway of the bathroom, one hand bracing against the frame.
your voice is low and drowsy. “needed to pee,” you murmur, the words slurred with fatigue.
slowly, your gaze finds his hand, clenched tight and white-knuckled against the edge of the sink.
“careful,” you whisper, your fingers reaching out to his—soft and soothing, even in your half-asleep haze.
something in jason’s chest clenches tightly when your fingers brush his.
a part of him wants to snatch his hand back, play off that he’s fine and get his partner back into the safety of their bed.
that same part of him, is very aware that it’s you, that you’re not going anywhere regardless of whatever bullshit he comes up with.
so he simply doesn’t move.
tries not to shiver when all of the adrenaline he’d used to rip himself awake disappears like a popped soap bubble, leaving him cold and shaky.
your hand settles gently over his, beginning to feel the tension now that sleep has started to fade from you.
you take a few quiet steps closer, your movements soft, careful. you lift your eyes to his face.
“jay,” you breathe, the name barely more than a whisper—uncertain, yet tender.
your free hand rises, brushing through his damp hair—both the white and black strands clinging to his forehead from the water he’d splashed on his face.
droplets still trail down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
you carefully push the hair back, then let your thumb drift across his cheekbone, your gaze distant but intent, like you’re trying to read something just beneath the surface.
“you look tired,” you murmur, voice soft with concern.
jason doesn’t look at you when you run your hand through his hair, or when you push the wet curls back, though he doesn’t pull away.
his attention remains on the faucet, the water still rushing from it.
he knows what you’re doing, knows that you’re trying to look in his eyes, find out what’s wrong with the barest glance.
he’s not sure if he can let you see, not right now.
his voice comes out rougher than he expects when he finally answers. “can’t sleep.”
your eyes search his, flicking between them, quiet and observant.
you’ve learned a few things since being with jason—chief among them: don’t push, don’t press for answers he isn’t ready to give.
some things he keeps close, and that’s okay. he’ll share them when he’s ready.
you slowly let your hand fall from his face, then slips the other from atop his. “rest soon,” you say softly, with an understanding that asks nothing more. “i’ll be in bed if you need anything.”
jason does glance at you then, his grip on the faucets white-knuckled once more as he stares.
your eyes are still puffy from sleep, a crease line pressed into one cheek from where it’d been smushed against the pillow.
you look sleepy, but your eyes are clear and steady on his.
he feels another crack in his chest, this one far harsher than the others.
a ragged exhale escapes him and before his partner’s even taken a step away, his free hand snags your wrist, halting your retreat.
“stay,” he croaks, the word cracking halfway through.
the way he says, “stay,” lands somewhere deep in your chest, making your heart flutter—and ache.
he probably didn’t mean for it to sound so vulnerable, but it does.
a faint smile tugs at your lips, one that comes easily.
“i can do that,” you whisper, easing your wrist from his grasp only to thread your fingers through his instead.
you haven’t shared much physical closeness—not just in a sexual sense, but in the quiet, intimate ways that build trust.
so when you reach for his hand, the gesture comes with hesitation.
not because you don’t want to comfort or touch him—you do—but because you don’t want to push him, don’t want him to feel exposed before he’s ready.
your fingers thread through his loosely, leaving space—room for him to pull away if he needs to.
there are still things he hasn’t let you see. scars hidden beneath his shirt, parts of his past he's not ready to show.
maybe he still believes you wouldn’t understand. but you know you would. you already do.
and you’ll be here—ready to listen when he’s ready to speak, to know the stories behind every mark he’s tried so long to carry alone.
jason’s gaze drops down to your joined hands, the space between your fingers, the scars that span his palms and possibly your own.
your touch is cool against his skin, your fingers against his own, the grip loose, giving him the room to back away if he needs it.
you’re tentative, clearly giving him room to extract himself without any questions or comments and jason wishes he had even one-hundredth of your patience.
jason’s never been a man of words, most of his affection being shown through actions. he’s still learning to find them.
he doesn’t pull away. instead, his grip tightens and he pulls you in, closing the distance between you two until you’re toe to toe.
his chin brushes your forehead, and after a moment, he buries his face in your hair, inhaling the scent of you.
the gesture catches you off guard, a quiet press of his nose to the top of your head.
it sends a subtle shiver down your spine, your heart skipping fast at the unexpected closeness.
the scent of him—musk and gunpowder—floods in from his chest, grounding and overwhelming all at once.
warmth blooms in your cheeks, and you pointedly ignore just how awake you suddenly feel.
you’ve always been patient with him, never rushing touch or asking for more than he can give.
still, in moments like this, when he leans in without pulling away, a small, selfish part of you aches for more.
they stand there in silence, wrapped in each other’s presence.
eventually, you speak, your voice low and careful. “at least come lay down.”
he’s silent for a while longer, breathing in a lungful of your scent and forcing his fingers to unwind so he’s not gripping you so tightly.
he’s not sure if you can hear his heart, thundering in his chest like a drum.
damp tendrils of black hair cling against his forehead, still cool from the water.
he can feel the shiver running through you and he closes his eyes, trying to get his body to relax and slow.
his grip on your hand stays tight, his other hand settling against your hip, tugging you slightly closer.
it’s possessive and just this side of desperate, as if he can’t quite decide if he wants to pull you in to his chest or push you away, despite the fact that it’s him that initiated the contact.
he doesn’t move for a long moment, his breathing still slightly ragged, and his nose still buried in your hair.
after a few beats, he pulls back. jason studies your face, then nods. “okay.”
as the two of you slip out of the bathroom and back into bed, your fingers remain loosely laced—his grip a bit firmer than yours.
you settle into bed, and in the quiet moment, your thumb brushes lightly over the scar on his knuckles.
jason’s hand freezes for a breath, tension flickering through his stillness.
then, gradually, it softens, easing into your touch.
he doesn’t speak, not yet. but the words are there, waiting.
he’ll tell you everything. when he’s ready.