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Whiskey and Space Heaters
The first snow of the year drifts past the warehouse windows in lazy, uneven flakes, catching in the orange light that seeps through the dusty panes. The old generator hums from the corner, pushing warmth through a set of overworked space heaters that never seem to agree on temperature.
Jason Todd stands near one of them, arms folded, shoulder against a concrete pillar. He’s in civilian clothes tonight — worn jeans, heavy boots, a dark sweater under a flannel that’s seen better days. His hair is still damp from the shower, sticking up at the back of his head. The jacket draped over the chair behind him smells faintly of gun oil and smoke.
The base looks half-lived-in, half-abandoned. A coffee mug sits upside-down on the counter beside a near-empty water jug. The shelves hold little more than canned beans, three protein bars, and a lonely bag of rice.
Roy’s voice breaks the quiet. “We’re outta coffee, outta heater fuel…..and unless somebody’s got a secret stash of bottled water, we’re outta that too.”
Jason doesn’t bother looking away from the snow. “Tragic. Guess we’ll all freeze and starve to death. Real shame.”
Roy snaps his head toward him, glaring like he’s about to throw something. “You know what, smart-ass? Maybe some of us would rather not die in this dump. I’ll take Kori and—” He gestures vaguely toward you on the couch “—and we’ll do a supply run.”
You look up instantly, blanket pooled in your lap. “Absolutely not.”
Roy blinks. “Excuse me?”
You jab a thumb toward the window, where the snow is starting to stick against the glass. “You want to wade through that? Be my guest. I’m with Jason — I’d rather die warm and hungry than cold and miserable.”
Kori, standing near the door, tilts her head in confusion, her fiery hair catching the heater’s glow. “But it is beautiful. It glitters like starlight, and it makes the city quiet. How can you not love it?”
You sigh. “Because it’s cold, Kori. I don’t care how pretty it is — I’m not freezing my ass off just so Roy can get his caffeine fix.”
From his post by the heater, Jason mutters, “Someone gets it.”
Kori glances between you and Jason, bemused. “You two are strange.”
“Strange….” Roy says with a smirk, zipping up his jacket, “....or maybe just weirdly compatible. Fine — you can babysit the base. Try not to kill each other.” He pauses halfway to the door, grin widening. “Or make out.”
Jason finally looks over, expression flat. “Hope you slip on the ice, Harper.”
Kori’s laughter bubbles up, light and musical. “I will catch him if he slips…” She tells Roy as she pulls on her gloves. Then she turns back to Jason and you with a knowing smile. “Stay warm, friends.”
The door groans open, letting in a rush of sharp air and the sound of snow crunching under boots.
Then—
Bang.
The heavy steel doors slam shut behind them. The echo rolls through the warehouse until it fades into the hum of the generator.
Silence follows. Thick. Waiting.
Jason exhales, the sound low, almost a growl. The heater buzzes beside him, and the flakes outside fall faster, soft and endless.
For the first time in a long while, it’s just the two of you.
Neither of you speak for a while. The heater hums on. Somewhere above, a pipe groans. Snow presses against the glass in lazy, white streaks.
Jason stands where Roy left him, staring at the door for a moment longer, then exhales through his nose — a slow, resigned sound. He grabs the nearest space heater by its handle and drags it across the floor toward the couch where you’re sitting, the cord scraping faintly over concrete. He positions it in front of you, angling it close enough that the heat fans across your legs.
You glance up. “That for me, or are you planning to roast something?”
He grunts. “You looked like you were about to lose a toe.”
Without waiting for a reply, he heads for the kitchen. The cupboards clatter open and shut; glass rattles. When he comes back, he’s holding two mismatched mugs and a half-full bottle of whiskey.
He drops onto the couch beside you, keeping a careful space between your knees. “We might be out of water….” He says, unscrewing the cap, “....but we’ve still got the important stuff.”
You raise a brow, half amused, half incredulous. “We’re really about to start day drinking?”
“Alcohol keeps you warm.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a myth.”
He pours anyway, amber liquid sloshing in the mugs. “Then it’s a comforting one.”
You take the mug, its warmth seeping into your hands. The whiskey bites hard when you sip it, burning all the way down.
For a while, neither of you talk. The heater hums softly, casting an orange glow that flutters over the concrete floor. Jason stares into his drink, jaw shifting like he’s grinding down a thought he doesn’t want to voice.
Finally, you ask, “Why do you hate the cold so much?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the snow through the window, the light catching faint lines under his eyes.
“When I was a kid….” He says, voice low, “....there was this winter where me and my mom were stuck sleeping in alleys. Shelters were full. It snowed for days.” His hand tightens around the mug. “I caught hypothermia three times. Third time, some guy found me half-blue and dumped me at a clinic. They almost didn’t take me because we couldn’t pay.”
You nod slowly, throat tight. You don’t say sorry, don’t reach out. Pity isn’t what he wants. You know that — you can tell by the way his shoulders stay steady, waiting for a reaction that never comes.
Instead, you say, “That’s rough.”
He smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Guess it stuck with me.”
A moment passes. Then he asks, “You? What’s your excuse?”
You shrug, gaze flicking toward the frost tracing the edges of the window. “I don’t know. It’s not a story like that. I just….hate how it feels. The cold. I can’t ever get comfortable. Everything aches. I feel like I’m always one bad step from falling.”
Jason studies you — not pitying, just listening. “Makes sense.”
“Does it?”
He shrugs again, taking another slow sip. “Yeah. Some people fight. Some people freeze. You just sound like you know what the cold does to you.”
The corner of your mouth tugs upward. “That was almost poetic.”
“Almost.”
The conversation drifts into quiet again. Comfortable, this time. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything. The heater’s warmth fills the space, lazy and uneven.
Jason glances toward the door, then back at you. “Think Roy’s slipped yet?”
You laugh, soft and genuine. “Probably….”
That earns the smallest grin from him. “Bet he blames me somehow.”
You reach for the whiskey bottle at the same time he does. Fingers meet at the neck of it — a brush, then a pause. Neither of you move.
You look up. His eyes catch yours, blue and steady. The room seems to tilt — the hum of the heater fading, the world narrowing to that small point of contact.
You start to pull your hand back, but his fingers shift, grazing against yours — deliberate this time.
“Roy might get his wish….” He murmurs.
You manage a quiet, breathless laugh. “Which one? You trying not to kill me?”
He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low. “Trying not to kiss you.”
Your pulse stumbles. “You don’t have to try so hard.”
Something flickers in his eyes — hesitation, then decision.
He closes the distance.
The kiss hits like the slow collapse of a dam — the kind that’s been cracking for months, maybe longer. It starts careful, testing, but it deepens fast. He tastes like smoke and whiskey, like something steady and unguarded for once.
The world outside falls away — just snow against glass and the thud of your hearts syncing up. You pull him closer, fingers curling in his shirt. He exhales against your mouth, the sound caught somewhere between relief and surrender.
The heat from the space heater washes over both of you, blending with the warmth rising between your bodies.
The kiss doesn’t stop — it deepens. Jason shifts closer, one hand sliding along your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. You move with him, breath mingling, your fingers gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. The faint clink of the whiskey bottle on the table is lost beneath the rhythm of quiet, hungry kisses.
You pull back, breath catching. His lips find your cheek, then your neck — slow, reverent, like he’s mapping the shape of something he’s memorized but never allowed himself to touch.
“I’ve wanted this….” He murmurs against your skin, words half-formed between breaths. “Wanted you. For a long time.”
Your pulse jumps. You tilt your head just enough for his mouth to find yours again, and the kiss catches fire — deeper, messier, the kind that steals all sense of time.
The heater hums on. The snow presses harder against the glass. Neither of you notice the sound of the warehouse doors creaking open or the gust of cold air rolling through.
What you do hear is a sharp, surprised gasp.
You both freeze.
Jason looks up first — eyes narrowing, shoulders tensing. Roy’s standing in the doorway, a grocery bag dangling from one hand, eyebrows raised in triumph. Kori hovers just behind him, arms full of supplies, face lit up with a delighted smile.
“I knew it….” Roy says, grinning like a cat who’s found proof. “You two stayed back just to have a make-out session.”
Jason drags a hand down his face. “Shut up, Roy.”
“You could’ve at least lit a candle or something….” Roy continues, stepping further in. “Real romantic ambience you got here — whiskey fumes and space heater glow.”
Kori beams, completely unbothered. “This is wonderful! I am so happy for you both!”
You press your palms over your face, cheeks burning. Jason’s not much better — jaw tight, ears pink, the scowl on his face not doing much to hide how flustered he actually is.
Roy snickers under his breath as he hauls the bags toward the counter. Kori, still smiling, gives a small wave before following him deeper into the base.
The door closes again, shutting out the draft.
Jason exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re never gonna let this go.”
You nudge his shoulder, voice soft. “You can handle it.”
He looks at you for a beat — then smirks, faint but real. “Yeah. Probably.”
The heater hums on, the warmth wrapping around you both once more. Outside, the snow keeps falling.
❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆☉❆
The warehouse is quiet again.
Roy and Kori retreated to their rooms hours ago; the only sound now is the steady whir of the heater and the distant creak of pipes settling against the cold.
Jason’s still on the couch, back pressed against the worn cushions, a heavy blanket pulled over the both of you. You’re tucked against his side, head resting on his shoulder, legs tangled beneath the blanket. Your breathing’s slow — almost asleep.
He stares at the faint reflection of falling snow in the dark window across the room. Gotham looks softer under it, less like the city that chewed him up and spit him out. For once, he doesn’t mind it.
He shifts slightly and presses a quiet kiss to the top of your head. You stir, mumbling something against his shoulder.
“You’re warm…” You murmur, half-asleep.
Jason lets out a soft laugh under his breath. “Guess I’m good for something.”
You hum, tightening your hold around him. “You’re good for a lot of things.”
The words hang there — quiet, unassuming, but they hit deeper than you probably realize.
He pulls the blanket tighter around you both, the warmth sinking into the small space between your bodies. The kind of warmth that has nothing to do with heaters or whiskey.
Jason leans his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, watching the snow blur the world outside.
For years, winter meant alleys and hunger and cold he couldn’t shake. But now — with you pressed against him, breathing steady — it feels different.
It feels like peace.