Chapter Text
“It’s really not that bad,” you state as the two of you admire the fractured mosaic of glass that used to be your window, now scattered piecemeal on the floor. “Honestly.”
When you finally break your gaze from the broken mess, knowing what you’ll see on his face—a quiet, smoldering glare of concern—you try to provide a reassuring smile.
It does little to mollify his scowl, although you notice how the clench of his jaw relaxes ever-so-slightly. Those green eyes you are so used to quietly assessing situations soften, but only by a little.
“You’re lucky that you weren’t in the apartment when it happened,” Jason says, and you can already clock the different ways that his worry is manifesting. His body language, a taut stance, his hands at his sides already rolled into casual fists. It is in the way that his voice is lowered, but speaks volumes to what hasn’t been stated aloud—you know him too well.
You know the anger, the fear he doesn’t communicate the way one of his brothers would, the way his father might. You’ve grown used to deciphering Jason like the complicated hieroglyphic he is.
It is a task that, as time has passed, has become less of a difficult riddle and more of an exciting challenge. Except in situations like these.
“But I wasn’t,” you say breezily, or maybe that’s the breeze coming from the extra ventilation that you have ghosting its way through the house now. As if to further accentuate your statement, you shiver at the wind that washes over you, feeling goosebumps instinctively pin-prick up your arms.
“Besides, we live in Gotham. Getting your apartment rocked is like a rite of passage here.”
He shifts, shrugging off the leather jacket that he walked in wearing after you called him over the phone. You remember the call itself with a twinge of embarrassment, how you maintained an overly-affected casual tone on the phone when you were trying not to lose your ever-loving shit.
Then and now, you appraise the gaping, crumbling brownstone wall and shattered window from one of Two-Face’s heists gone guns akimbo, straight into the side of your humble abode. Getting humbler by the second, if the new renovation is any indicator.
“And I could use a rent decrease anyways,” You opine aloud as he crosses the short distance to you, turning the jacket over so he can drape it around your shoulders. You smile up at him, a mixture of humor at the statement and appreciation for the gesture. For the first time since he’s arrived, he offers you a smile in return, quiet, muted—but then it vanishes as he remembers why he’s here.
“You’re not safe here.” He says, looking from you back to the damage done. Case in point, but you already know what’s coming, and you don’t want to feel like a charity case. You adjust to the warmth of the borrowed jacket as you think of something cocky to reply with.
“Sure I am.” You return cheekily, crossing to the nook in your kitchen where your faithful broom rests against the wall. He follows you with his eyes, unmoving. “A little bit of duct tape, a curtain to cover the hole, and I’m good as new.”
“Repairs take time.” Comes the persistent voice of reason over your shoulder as you find purchase on the broom, searching the ground for the dustpan. “You’ll need somewhere to stay in the meantime.”
Jason makes a good point, but you’re not giving in so easily. You cross back over to him, watching him as he watches you, waiting for your volley back his way.
“Sure I will.” You return, standing on the precipice of the glass as he does on the other side, giving him an indifferent smirk. “You know any good Motel 6’s that don’t let supervillains in?”
“You should come and stay with me.” He states, his voice resolute, determined as he makes his way to his ultimate goal. Your heart turns over in your chest as you try to subtly swallow, thinking of something to say.
“Without a chaperone? In sin?” You wiggle your eyebrows as you try to restrain your smile. “People will talk, Jason.”
Granted, it’s not a strong argument and you both live in the 21st century, but you can’t resist, especially seeing the way his glare deepens at your tenacity. You brandish the broomstick at him as though it protects your already-tarnished virtue—not that you give a hang about it, unless you can use it to aggravate him. Which you will.
“What do they have to talk about? People know we’re friends.” He clenches his fists again and averts his gaze to the crumpled glass, though you don’t see, too busy sweeping debris into a discreet pile. Words he means to say will remain unspoken for now, it seems.
Your smile is teasing as you build off of your initial, stupid argument that you are dragging out for sheer love of the game.
“But they’ll think the timing is too suspect—that we’re trying to soft launch a relationship or something.” You glance up from your work to point a triumphant finger at him. Jason’s face has settled more on a quietly amused, mildly exasperated combination of emotions.
“More like keep you from couch surfing for a few months.” He replies, a touch of a wry delivery in his voice.
You open your mouth to speak, close it, and then recover with a different argument. “Jason, you don’t even have a couch at your place—just your bed and the dining table set.”
You muse on the misery of men who enjoy an overly-simplistic living space. Well, at least he’s got actual chairs that aren’t just folding lawn chairs, and he keeps it clean. A low bar, but a bar nonetheless.
“We can share the bed you want.” He deadpans—you laugh, just missing the careful, evaluative stare he gives you as you tilt your head back to the ceiling.
“Knowing you, I bet you’re a blanket hog.” You grin back. “And a snorer.”
“Won’t know until you find out.” He replies back, stony-faced, making you laugh again. But the smile fades from your face momentarily.
You stare down at the scatter-piece clutter on the ground, seeing a ruptured reflection staring up at you. It’s a painful reminder of your current situation, and you see your face in double-dozen miniature, grimacing back at you.
“Jason, I don’t know,” You begin, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. “I mean, it would just be such a huge imposition—I don’t know how I’d feel about pushing in on you like that—”
He says your name, and maybe it’s the way he says it that makes you look at him. He bears an emotion that’s beyond you, beyond description.
“I want you to stay with me.” He says, and the way he asks without asking, the sincerity, the hope that you just barely catch, robs you of words.
“It would—”—He starts but then alternates something else in, his initial statement lost to time—“—Give me ease of mind knowing you’re somewhere safe. Not out here—on your own.”
But with me, hangs in the air. But he doesn’t say it.
He looks up from the floor back to you, eyes speaking unarticulated volumes to you. A part of you, in the back of your mind, knows this is as close to begging as he will give you, the closest he will ask you on his knees.
You’re bereft of breath or speech as you both regard each other, and you make your decision.
“Okay,” you agree, holding his gaze, and it’s like the moment stretches tight and then relaxes. Whatever has passed between the two of you is still there, but content to remain on the back burner for now. Best to let it be.
“I will.” You affirm to him.
“Good,” he says, and if he’s smug or relieved in his victory he doesn’t let it show. Much.
“But, we’re bringing some of my furniture over.” You assert, putting a hand to your hip. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”
“Careful—you move furniture over to my place, people will talk.” His face is composed, carefully blank, but you catch the tease in his voice, the glint of humor in those green eyes you are more fond of than you will ever confess.
“Yeah?” You ask, playing along, letting your smile grow again. “What’ll they say?”
“They’ll say,” he returns, reaching to take the broom from your hands, “That we’re up to no good.”