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The wind swaying across your clothes picks up; with it, it carries along the breeze a mournful tune, something that whistles between the trees colored with fall leaves.
There was a threat of rain, but with Gothams temperamental weather, you stand now with a useless umbrella.
The tomb in front of you sits silently, with different bouquets of flowers left behind; quiet apologies that fall on deaf, dead ears.
Jason Todd, reads the empty grave. The inscription is masterfully done, the edges of the marbled stone smooth and sleek. Only the most expensive for Bruce Wayne’s ward.
You don’t bother to read the epitaph, having already memorized it the last hundred times you visited. Your hands tremble slightly as you grip the umbrella in a white knuckled grip.
Each visit, you think, would get easier.
It never does.
Jason Todd. Your childhood best friend. Your favorite, most trusted friend. Your first and last crush. The loss of your life.
The wind brushes your hair across your face, obscuring the tears that threaten to drip down from any prying eyes. You crouch gingerly, setting a single flower atop the dirt. Next to it are the many other flowers you’ve left during previous visits.
You tried talking to him a few times. Your therapist says it’s a good way to deal with grief but — what’s there to say to an empty grave?
Bitterly, you spin on your heel and march out of the graveyard.
What’s there to mourn?
Jason Todd’s body was never retrieved. That close proximity to a bomb? There’d be nothing left to retrieve, they say.
Bullshit.
His teeth, a strand of hair, fucking anything would have been better than leaving whatever remained of Jason in the rubble of his doom.
The walk home is a quiet one, save for the sound of your footfall, hard against wet concrete.
Gotham changed her mind, it seemed, and proved your umbrella useful after all.
Once home, you shake the umbrella twice, letting the rain collected upon it shake off onto the floor. Then, you march up the many sets of stairs, dark and slick with rain from other tenants returning home.
Now safe inside your apartment, you suck in a deep, much needed breath and hang up your umbrella. You shrug your coat off your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks closest to the door.
Your apartment wasn’t exactly the nicest place Gotham had to offer, but being a vigilante didn’t exactly pay the bills. So, you settled for the one bedroom-bath-kitchen. Most of your fellow residents were elderly, so it was blissfully quiet most times.
You appreciated the silence, for the most part. You didn’t use to be such a loner — but after Jason’s death, you lost a lot of love for your surrounding humanity.
Still, the urge and will to protect them was deeply imbued within you; having grown up donning a cape and mask, just like your favorite heroes.
You remembered how reluctant Batman had been to work with you at first — often telling you to go home, go somewhere safe. It wasn’t until you saved Robin from some minor villain that he began to warm up to the idea.
Robin, Jason, hadn’t exactly been thrilled to be saved by someone else; but little by little, he began to warm up to you as well. You two became inseparable.
If Batman and the little boy wonder hadn’t been a duo, it would have been you and Robin.
You remember the first time you revealed your identities to one another.
Sitting quietly on a roof top, watching the city lights twinkle in the otherwise dark night. Robin had snuck away from Batman, insisting he had ‘work elsewhere’.
Sitting side by side, legs swinging over the edge; dangerously close to said edge. But neither of you seemed scared of the fall - more scared of each other, almost.
You were the first to tug your hood off, slip your mask down your face. Robin had stared at you for a long, awkward second before a toothy grin sprawled across his face.
“You’re pretty.” He had said, and you punched his arm as hard as you could.
He followed after, tugging his own domino mask off. His grin had faltered, just slightly so; waiting for your reaction. He wasn’t insecure by any means, no, really you could tell he was very confident and proud of himself.
But, still. Revealing oneself like this was always a little nerve wracking, you figured.
“You’re pretty too.” You had murmured in a lower tone, letting your eyes wander across his face for a moment before you glanced away; keen to focus on the city once more, and not his warm blue eyes, his thick little lashes, and his stupid big grin.
It became a routine. After fighting crime, kicking butt as best you could, you two would meet on a designated roof; exchange stories, secrets, and jokes about Batman.
You recall fondly the first time he’d held your hand. It was late, and you were about to stand to leave when he reached for you - grasping your hand in his. He was warm, you remember, even in the biting chill of Gothams nights.
“Stay?” He’d asked.
And you did.
Even as you sat back down, he didn’t release your hand. Neither of you moved to let go, though.
Giddy teenagers who hadn’t fully grasped the gravity of their surroundings, the lives they were building. The justice they were pursuing.
Naivety was more deadly than curiosity.
It cost you everything.
You remembered that night, though the edges of the memories are fuzzy; like a photograph that never fully developed.
Your cape fluttered in the frozen winds. You were out of breath, having fought four men at once - a new record!
You were excited to meet Jason on the roof, to tell him everything, and — you had finally mustered up the courage to tell him how much you liked him.
Your hands were clammy as you climbed the fire escape ladder to the roof of an old barbershop building.
When you finally made it up, Jason wasn’t there to greet you like he normally was. You had figured he was off serving old fashioned justice to some crook, so you sat on the edge of the building, and waited.
And you waited.
And waited.
Eventually you found yourself pacing the roof. Contemplating each possibility, overthinking each one.
The memories between that are a blur - you don’t remember tracking Batman down, you only remember following the large black blur as he darted across rooftops.
You can’t remember anything after that, either.
Only remember how it felt like every drop of air was sucked from your lungs. How your knees wobbled, suddenly unable to support your weight; like they were made of jello. How you crumpled to the snow dusted ground.
Batman’s jaw was set tight. His cowl covered a good portion of his face - obscuring any emotion he may or may not have been feeling.
Jason Todd was dead.
Batman had tried to spare you the details — you were just a kid, after all. But you pried, and pried, desperate to find out Batman had just developed a morbid sense of humor; desperate to find that he was lying.
You found no such solace.
He had invited you to the funeral, said Robin — Jason would have wanted you there.
You remember showing up after nearly everyone had left - Bruce Wayne was the only one left behind, now.
Like a scene from an old movie, Gotham spit rain down on a mourning parent, covering the tragedy with its own apology.
You had stood quietly by, blinking down at the grave. It didn’t suit Jason at all, you thought. It wasn’t right.
You move off the couch to clean up your dinner. A cup of noodles and instant rice. It’s quiet, and dark now, in your apartment. The days are impossibly short in fall, time escapes you so easily now. You know you’re supposed to head out for a nightly patrol - your justice soaked heart aches to save Gotham from itself.
But your grief struck heart merely wants to crawl into bed. It had been 1.5 years now, and still you mourn as if you were still that kid; as if it were still that cold, snowy night, as if you never left that memory.
Batman could handle the city for one night. For tonight, your bedroom and your grief is yours alone. You crawl to your bed, laying face down into the old, plush mattress. Many pillows littered the bed, with a few fluffy blankets strewn across.
You barely bother tucking under any of them, too eager to slip off into a dreamless sleep.
For a moment, the silence nearly lulls you to sleep.
But then the sound of something pushing open a window, followed by shuffling in your living room, snaps you up and out of the bed.
You’re quick to grab the baseball bat that resides by your bed, a safety precaution, as you inch slowly to your bedroom door. You crack it open, just enough to peek through - any further, and the noisy hinges would scream of your awareness of the intruder.
You can’t make it out too well in the dark, but you make out the figure of a man in your living room.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to rob you - but it would be their last time! You slip out through the crack in your door, using the darkness that settled in your apartment as a shield.
Your steps are nearly noiseless, your movement undetected by the intruding figure - you’re right up next to him, when something suddenly grabs your wrist that holds the bat. The grip is tight, forbidding you from moving, but it surprisingly isn’t painful.
You’re quick to fight: shoving your palms against what you assume to be the intruders face, only for your hands to collide with hard metal.
Some sort of helmet? The intruder came prepared. Just as you’re about to punch him in the throat, you freeze, from bone to flesh, when the intruder calls your name.
It’s a man’s voice, unmistakable, but there seems to be some sort of modulator, masking his true voice and identity.
You rip your arm free, and he lets you go.
“Who are you? How do you know my name—?” You cringe at the movie like line of questioning, bit on the nose, but what else are you supposed to ask? ‘Hey, man, how’s it going?’
He calls your name again, as if that answers … anything.
You step backwards cautiously, keeping your eyes on his frame, whatever you can make out in the dark. You reach behind yourself, and feel up the wall until you find the switch; you flick the light on.
Correctly guessed, a man stands in your living room.
A brown leather jacket sits on his shoulders, framing his body and making it look even larger than it already is. The guy had to be at least six feet, you guesstimate. You’re thankful he didn’t fight back earlier.
You probably could have taken him, but you’d leave the fight with a few unsavory bruises and maybe a broken bone or two, best case scenario.
The red helmet you’d punched earlier doesn’t even have a whisper of a scratch on it - not a testament to your weakness, but a testament to its craftsmanship. You eye up the stranger warily, your eyes searching every inch of him; watching, waiting, for even a slight hint that he was going to advance and attack.
“Relax.” The voice says after a moment, his hands throwing up in mock surrender. You flinch at the sudden movement, and tighten your grip on the bat - extending it towards the masked stranger in a threatening manner.
“Answer my questions.” You bark. “Or I’ll answer them myself.” The threat is clear.
He says your name again, and you can’t help the conspicuous shiver that rolls across your spine when you hear it. “I’m… no one.” He says finally, clearly having thought of his answer for a moment or two.
You scoff at the ridiculousness of it all. “Sure, no one. What is ‘no one’ doing in my apartment at 11 o’clock at night? And, please do tell, why I shouldn’t beat ‘no one’ to a bloody pulp.” You grit out. This bastard better have a good explanation.
You’re tired, angry with grief, and this bastard picked the worst time to poke his greedy hands around your home.
He’s silent for a long moment, then, too. His hands drop to his sides - and you visibly tense again. On his waist lies a brown belt, with two similar pistols on either side of his hips. He makes no move to reach for them, but you’re no fool to relax.
It seems he barely has an answer to offer.
Though you cannot see his face through the helmet, you barely need to; you can all but feel his gaze on you - studying, calculating, just as you do to him.
“I’m sorry.” He finally breathes, the modulator crackling with the air. “I just — wanted to see you.” Cryptically raising more questions, your irritation pricks.
“To see me?” You parrot, brows furrowed. You wave the bat once more, emphasizing your threat from before. “Do I know you?” You question.
The figure hesitates once more, static slipping through the modulator, the only noise in the otherwise silent apartment. You don’t know why you haven’t moved to beat the stranger's ass yet.
Something inside you doesn’t… quite feel the urge to. As ridiculous as it sounds. Any stranger before him in your home was dropped off at the police station with a litany of bruises and a good memory to not fuck with you again.
“No.” He answers finally, though his tone nearly sounds strained. Resigned. You quirk your brow.
None of this made a lick of sense.
“No? Then, no one, why don’t you save us both the hassle, and get the fuck—“
“You used to.” He interrupts. He speaks as though his words surprise even himself.
As if realizing he’s said too much, he lets out a humorless laugh, the static crackling uncomfortably. Before you can advance on that subject, he shakes his head.
“I’m kidding.” The man says, and takes a good few steps backwards to the window; marking this endeavor as a mistake. “I shouldn’t have shown up here. This was a mistake. Forget I ever - said anything.” He manages out.
Before he can slip out through your window and return to Gothams cold night, you step over and grip his wrist, surprising yourself.
You still grip the bat in your other hand, but something inside you screamed to stop him when you saw him heading to leave without a single explanation.
“Who are you?” You repeat, the chill from the window brushing across your cheek, tousling your hair in its wake.
The masked stranger pauses.
With all your strength, you know, realistically, there was no way you could force the man to stay. He chose to let you grip him, chose to linger a moment longer.
This couldn’t be ‘no one’. ‘No one’ couldn’t know your name. Couldn’t call it so intimately like he knew you yourself.
He unslips his leg from the window ledge, standing in your apartment once more.
You don’t miss the way his hands tremble. He wears gloves, but you can feel his cold skin through them anyway. You stare up at the red helmet, the white eyes stare back down at you.
With your close proximity, you can hear him swallow. See his Adam’s apple bob against the tight gray shirt he wears.
Is he nervous?
Everything grows more confusing by the second.
“You always were so stubborn.” He mutters, as if mostly to himself. He reaches up with the hand that’s not gripped by yours, pressing it against the side of his helmet.
“It’s.. me.” He mumbles finally, as he tugs the helmet off - a slightly difficult task with only one hand, but he manages.
Beneath the helmet, a domino mask lies across his eyes and nose bridge, still obscuring his face. Scars litter across his face, burn marks along his neck. But with the dark brown hair brushing across his forehead, and the soft, but somewhat chapped looking lips, you find him…strikingly familiar.
But that couldn’t be.
It wasn’t possible.
For so long, you’d spend a better portion of your patrols looking for traces of Jason. For whispers of him - for any foolish trace of hope that he might’ve survived. That he might still be out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
You never found anything.
It wasn’t possible.
“Jason?” You bubble, softly so. You release his wrist, as if scorched. “But— you-“ you stammer uselessly, but he doesn’t stop you.
Merely watches.
“I went to your funeral.” You finally rasp. “Batman— Bruce told me you died, I...” It’s hard to find the right words. Sure, you’d dreamed of this moment but.. those were nothing more than dreams.
Now that you’re here, facing it, facing him, you find yourself losing the ability to think clearly. And, also breathe properly.
You press your hand to your chest, and suck in shallow, shaking breaths.
He’s quick to reach for you - but drops his hands before he makes contact. But he does step closer, in case you pass out or something and he needs to catch you.
“I know.” He says, swallowing once again. “Nice to know I was mourned.” He— Jason, murmurs almost bitterly. You scoff at that.
“Where —“ it’s your turn to swallow. “Where have you been all this time? God, I— I looked everywhere for you. Why — why wait until now, to show up? Unannounced I— I thought you were a burglar! I was going to beat you!” You nearly break into a ramble, when you feel his gloved hand near your face. He seems unsure in his movements, but he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“I couldn’t come back,” Jason says, his gaze sympathetic. As if he were genuinely sorry for all the time spent apart. “I wasn’t…ready.” He finishes. As if that explained a single thing.
You step closer, and press both of your fists against his chest; the bat drops noisily against the ground, much to the displeasure of your downstairs neighbor.
“I searched everywhere for you.” You repeat, your throat tight with the threat of unshed tears. “I thought — I thought you died.” The threat persists, hot tears bubbling in your waterline, daring to spill over across your cheeks.
“I know.” He says, his own voice strained. He hated to see you cry.
But he couldn’t bring himself to explain everything — wanting to save you from the gory details. He wants to reach out and hold you. But he can’t bring himself to allow himself that pleasure. Guilt gnaws at him; for leaving you alone for so long, for returning so messily when he knows he should have stayed away.
Should have let you move on with your life, should have let you go.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave you be.
Every day, every night, he’d dreamed of you. Of returning to you one day, as foolish as it was.
To reignite the flame that was long since washed out, to speak the words that had been unspoken before — you two were just kids. He thought he’d had more time.
But time waits for none. It swallowed him whole, and he left you all alone.
“I’m sorry.” Jason breathes.
You resist the urge to punch him. Instead, your arms snake around his waist. You hug him, tight. Pressing against him for warmth, for protection from the chill of the night, just like when you were kids.
Only now, he’s much taller than when you were kids. Bigger. And colder. He’s changed.
You find no warmth in his body.
But you hug him anyway.
After all, you’ve changed, too.
You exhale a shaking breath as he finally loops his arms around you; movements hesitant. As if he isn’t sure he’s allowed this.
Jason wraps his arms tight around your middle, pressing you against himself, as if he wanted to crush you into him. “I’m here, now.” He says, lowly. If you don’t hear him, he’s fine with that.
You hear him, though.
Where your ear presses against his chest, you can hear his heartbeat. It’s not the same as it was.
It sounds irregular. A beat or two off rhythm, and it pounds with pent up feelings. Your own heart is pounding, pulsing in your neck.
“I missed you.”