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The apartment was quiet in that specific, end-of-day way that made every sound feel louder than it should have been. The city noise outside had dulled to a low, distant hum. One lamp was on in the living room, casting a soft glow over the couch and the coffee table. Jason was stretched out against the cushions, boots kicked off, one arm hooked behind his head, attention half on the muted television and half on you.
You stood near the kitchen counter, not actually doing anything.
You’d already wiped it down twice. You adjusted the stack of mail, then immediately undid it. Your fingers wouldn’t stop moving. Fold. Unfold. Fold again. The thin piece of paper in your hands crinkled softly each time, the sound grating against your nerves.
Jason noticed eventually. He always did.
“You planning something?” He asked, glancing over at you. His tone was relaxed, casual. Comfortable. “Because if this is about dragging me into another ‘surprise project,’ I want it on record that I’m retired from furniture assembly.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it came out too tight. You looked up at him, then back down at your hands. The folded paper felt heavier than it should have.
“Jay…” You said, then stopped.
He shifted slightly, the easy slouch of his posture straightening just a bit. “Yeah?”
You opened your mouth again, words tangling on your tongue. The moment you’d rehearsed in your head a hundred times evaporated, leaving only a blunt, pounding urgency in its place.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words landed wrong. Too fast. Too sharp. Like something dropped instead of offered.
Jason froze.
Not metaphorically. Not subtly. He went completely still, like someone had hit a pause button on him mid-breath. His eyes flicked from your face to your hands, then back again. The TV murmured on in the background, suddenly intrusive, absurdly normal.
The silence stretched.
“You’re—” He started, then stopped himself. He swallowed once. “You sure?”
You nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. I took two tests. And then a third, because I didn’t trust the first two. And then I called my doctor because I thought maybe the tests were just…lying to me.”
Another beat of silence.
“How far?” He asked.
The question was so practical, so Jason, it almost made your chest ache. You took a step closer without really realizing it.
“Just over six weeks.”
His gaze dropped, slow and careful, like he was afraid sudden movement might break something. He lifted from the couch, approached you, hesitated, his hand lifted, paused, then drifted forward until his fingers rested lightly against your stomach. Like he needed to confirm you were real.
His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Rough around the edges in a way you didn’t hear often.
“That’s….that’s really good news, right?”
Your throat tightened. You reached out, covering his hand with yours, grounding both of you.
“Yes…” You said firmly. “It is. I’m happy, Jay. I wouldn’t say it like this if I wasn’t.”
He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, shoulders dropping a fraction. His hand stayed where it was, thumb brushing an absentminded, almost reverent arc against your skin. Then he looked up at you, really looked at you.
The smile that spread across his face was small. Stunned. Unpracticed. Like he hadn’t decided yet if he was allowed to have it.
“Okay….” He said softly. “Okay.”
And then, immediately his brain was clicking into motion at full speed.
“We need to move…” He said, already nodding to himself. “We need to get a place together. Some place with storage and walls that aren't thin. We need something quieter. Safer. I can start looking tomorrow. Tonight, even. And we’re gonna need—” He gestured vaguely.
“Jay…” You said gently.
He kept going anyway. “—Everything. Crib. Car seat. Locks. Those corner things. I saw a thing online about—”
“Jason.”
This time, you stepped closer and touched his arm, fingers curling around his bicep until he finally stopped mid-sentence. He looked at you, eyes sharp with focus, concern already burning bright.
“We’ll figure it out together…” You said. Calm. Steady. “Not all tonight. Not all at once.”
He searched your face, like he was checking for cracks. For fear. For regret.
Finding none, his expression softened again.
“Together…” He repeated, slower this time.
You nodded.
He pulled you into him then, careful but firm, arms wrapping around you like he was anchoring himself. His chin rested against your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. You felt his heart pounding, fast and heavy, not with panic but with something bigger. Awe. Responsibility. Love that didn’t know where to go yet.
“I’m gonna take care of you…” He murmured. “Both of you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the weight of him settle around you, grounding you just as much as you grounded him.
“I know….” You said softly.
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Apartment hunting with Jason was….an experience.
The first place you toured had barely gotten past the front door before he’d already clocked the hinges, tested the deadbolt twice, and scanned the hallway like he expected someone to rappel from the ceiling.
“It’s got good light…” You said, stepping farther inside and turning slowly, eyes following the way the afternoon sun spilled across the hardwood floor.
Jason grunted. “It’s got no secondary exit.”
You looked back at him. “It’s an apartment, Jay. Not a safehouse.”
“That’s the problem.”
The realtor pretended not to hear that.
By the third apartment, a pattern had emerged. You gravitated toward windows, open layouts, spaces that felt warm and livable. Jason gravitated toward doorframes, wall thickness, and anything that could theoretically be reinforced without alerting neighbors.
“This one’s on the third floor…” You said, peering out a wide window that overlooked the street. “Sunlight. Plants would love this.”
Jason leaned past you, tugged the window down, then pushed up again, testing resistance. “Railings are flimsy.”
“You’re not supposed to hang off them.”
“I’m not planning to. Someone else might.”
You turned to him, one hand settling unconsciously over your stomach. “Someone else is not scaling the building like a raccoon.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then caught the gesture. His jaw tightened, recalibrating.
“…We could reinforce it…” He muttered.
The compromise came in the fourth place. Normal building. Quiet street. Plenty of light. And, unbeknownst to the landlord, a future that involved reinforced door frames, upgraded locks, discreet cameras, and Jason quietly memorizing every possible entry point.
You signed the lease with a smile.
Jason read every line twice.
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Moving day started at eight in the morning and immediately went sideways.
Jason insisted on carrying everything himself.
“You are not carrying the couch alone….” You called from the doorway, arms crossed as he crouched to lift it.
“I’ve carried worse…” He muttered, already heaving it up.
“You’ve also been shot worse. That doesn’t make it a good idea.”
He shot you a look over his shoulder, breath barely affected. “I’m fine.”
He was not, in fact, fine.
By noon, he was sweating through his shirt, jaw set in that stubborn way you recognized immediately. He refused help from the movers. Refused breaks. Refused water until you shoved a bottle into his hand and stared him down.
“This is not optional…” You said flatly.
He drank. Glared. Drank more.
The first argument happened over a box of books.
“I can take that….” You said, reaching for it.
“No.”
“Jason—”
“I said no.”
You stared at him. “You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t carry.”
He stopped moving.
Slowly, carefully, he set the box down, then turned to face you fully. His voice dropped, tight with something he didn’t quite know how to name.
“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy stuff.”
“I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
His hands flexed at his sides. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The words hit harder than you expected. The anger drained out of you both at once.
You exhaled. “I understand. But we’re a team, Jay. Remember?”
He nodded once. “Team.”
You finished the day sitting on the floor of the new apartment, backs against the couch, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and discarded packing paper. Jason’s arm was slung around your shoulders. You were both exhausted.
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Jason hated the waiting room.
He sat rigidly beside you, knee bouncing, fingers laced too tightly with yours. Every sound made him glance up. Every nurse walking by got his attention.
“You can breathe…” You whispered.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re crushing my hand.”
He loosened his grip immediately. “Sorry.”
During the ultrasound, he leaned forward like he might fall into the screen. When the sound filled the room —fast, strong, unmistakable— his breath hitched.
He didn’t look away once.
“That’s…that’s them?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You smiled. “Yeah.”
His eyes were glassy. He didn’t even try to hide it.
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Jason started cooking more the week after the first appointment.
“It’s cheaper….” He said when you gave him a look. Gruff. Defensive already. “And healthier. Less sodium. Less….whatever’s in takeout.”
He didn’t mention the way the doctor had said nutrition matters and how that sentence had clearly lodged itself under his skin.
The first meal was simple. Lemon chicken. Rice. Steamed vegetables.
It smelled incredible.
You made it halfway through the first bite before your stomach turned violently.
Jason was on his feet before you were.
By the time you came back from the bathroom, pale and embarrassed, he was standing in the kitchen staring at the plate like it had personally betrayed him.
“It wasn’t the food….” You said quickly, wiping your mouth.
“Yes it was.”
“Jason.”
You caught his wrist before he could toss the entire plate into the trash. “It wasn’t your cooking I swear.”
He didn’t look convinced.
Two days later, it was pasta. The smell of garlic hit you wrong. Then eggs. Then anything warm before noon.
Once, you took a bite of something he’d made and your face twisted before you could stop it.
Jason saw.
He went still. “It’s bad.”
“No—”
“It’s bad.”
“It’s not bad, it just tastes…” You hesitated helplessly. “….sour.”
That was somehow worse.
Frustration crept in after that. Not at you. At himself. He followed recipes exactly. Timed everything. Checked expiration dates twice. It was all perfectly fine food.
Your body just disagreed.
So he adjusted.
Blunter flavors. Plainer meals. Toast. Rice. Apples. Boiled potatoes. Oatmeal.
He cooked with the windows open. Avoided garlic entirely. Stopped pan-searing anything. Learned that cold food was safer than hot.
You felt guilty watching him reduce himself to bland survival meals because your hormones had decided seasoning was a threat.
He never complained.
He just watched your face carefully every time you took a bite.
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The craving hit at 1:37 a.m.
Jason was on patrol when your stomach made a decision without consulting you.
You stared into the pantry. Nothing worked. Nothing sounded right.
Except—
You pulled out your phone.
He answered on the second ring. “You okay?”
“Yes….” You said quickly. “But I need something.”
His voice sharpened immediately. “What?”
“Pickles.”
A beat.
“And peanut butter.”
Silence.
“…Together?”
“Yes.”
Another beat. Then, resigned: “Brand.”
You told him.
He was back in under forty minutes.
You met him in the kitchen as he unpacked the grocery bag, still in gear, helmet tucked under one arm. He handed you the jars without comment.
You didn’t wait.
Jason watched — deeply, visibly unsettled — as you cracked the pickle jar open, scooped peanut butter onto a plate, and combined them like this was a perfectly reasonable culinary decision.
You took a bite. Sighed in relief.
Jason stared.
“I don’t understand you…” He said flatly.
You hummed happily, already reaching for another.
He didn’t argue.
He just leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, looking faintly disgusted every time you dipped another spear — and mentally adding “backup jars” to tomorrow’s grocery list.
The combination never stopped offending him.
He kept the pantry stocked anyway.
Because you were finally eating.
And that mattered more.
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It started with one book.
Jason said he was picking up coffee.
He came back with a parenting guide tucked under his arm like it was evidence.
After that, it escalated.
He found a different bookstore across town. Then another. He told himself he was “just checking options,” but somehow he kept coming home with more. Newborn care. Infant sleep. Early development. Emergency response. One entirely devoted to choking hazards that he read twice.
By the end of the month, there were stacks.
Not out in the open.
Hidden.
One in the hall closet behind the toolbox.
One under the passenger seat of his car.
Two in the bathroom cabinet behind spare toilet paper.
Three under the bed, spines facing the wall.
He read them in fragments.
Ten minutes before patrol.
Twenty in the bathroom with the fan running.
Five while pasta water boiled.
You’d hear pages turning through the door.
Sometimes you’d walk into a room and catch him mid-sentence, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed — and he’d immediately shove the book under a cushion or slide it behind a stack of mail like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
Once, you found one tucked inside the freezer between bags of frozen vegetables.
The problem was—
They didn’t agree.
One said sleep training at four months. Another said never.
One said strict routines. Another said follow the baby’s cues.
One insisted on tummy time five times a day. Another said don’t stress it.
Still Jason absorbed all of it like it was tactical data.
He underlined entire paragraphs. Wrote small notes in the margins. Folded down corners on pages about safe sleep and feeding schedules and “common mistakes new parents make.”
Some nights he sat at the kitchen table long after you’d gone to bed, one elbow on the wood, staring at a chapter titled Soothing a Crying Newborn like it was written in another language.
You woke once around midnight and found the bathroom light on.
The fan was running.
Pages turning.
When you knocked softly, it stopped.
A second later, the door opened and he stepped out, expression neutral, hands empty.
“Everything okay?” You asked.
“Yeah...” He said too quickly. “Just —couldn’t sleep.”
Later, when he drifted off beside you, you found the book tucked between the mattress and the wall.
You slid it back under the bed where he’d been keeping them.
You didn’t say anything.
He was trying.
That was enough.
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The room that would become the nursery still smelled faintly like paint and dust, the walls bare except for a single outlet cover Jason had already replaced twice “just to be sure.” Sunlight spilled in through the window in a wide, warm rectangle across the floor, catching on the unopened boxes stacked neatly against one wall.
You sat cross-legged on the floor with a tablet balanced on your knee, scrolling slowly. Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that was rare these days. This felt manageable. This felt safe.
“Okay….” You said, angling the screen toward him. “Crib. Dresser. Rocking chair. Neutral colors.”
Jason glanced, nodded almost immediately. “Solid wood. No sharp corners. No drop side.”
You blinked. “Wow. We agree.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
You smiled anyway. “I just thought we’d argue about aesthetics.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care what it looks like. I care if it's safe.”
“That’s…very responsible of you….”
He smirked faintly walked over and leaned closer, peering at the screen. “This one’s good.”
You tapped it. “I like that one too.”
You kept scrolling. Each time you paused, he weighed in briefly, decisively. No pushback. No tension. It felt almost surreal.
Then you hit the total.
Jason’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer, squinting. “Hold on. Go back.”
You did.
“That number…” He said slowly. “That’s not….right.”
“It is.”
“That’s—” He exhaled sharply. “That’s obscene.”
You turned to face him fully, expression steady. “These are the things we don’t cheap out on.”
His mouth opened, then closed. He dragged a hand over his face, pacing once across the room. “I’m not saying we buy junk. I’m saying—”
“I know what you’re saying…” You interrupted gently. “And I’m saying no. This is where our kid sleeps. This is where they’re safe. We’ll save money on other things.”
He stopped pacing. Looked at you.
“…Okay….” He said quietly.
That was it. No fight. No sulk. Just acceptance, even if it stung a little.
The knock at the door came later that afternoon.
Jason frowned as he opened it, then froze.
A large box sat in the hallway, neatly wrapped, a familiar, elegant script on the card tucked beneath the ribbon.
“From Alfred….” He said softly.
You crouched beside him as he carried it in, setting it down carefully like it might bruise. Inside were hand-knit blankets, folded with care. Soft. Cream and gray. One with a subtle pattern of tiny stars.
Jason lifted one, fingers brushing over the yarn like he was memorizing the texture. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, blanket draped over his forearms, staring at nothing.
You watched him quietly.
After a moment, you stepped closer, resting your head against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t let go.
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Jason walked into the bedroom and froze.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in your lap, shoulders shaking.
His heart dropped straight into his stomach.
“What happened?” He was across the room in three strides. “Are you hurt? Is something wrong? Is it the baby?”
You looked up at him, mascara smudged, eyes red.
“No—” You hiccupped. “It’s stupid.”
His hands were already on you, checking. Arms. Shoulders. Stomach. “What is it?”
You held up your phone like evidence in a trial. “Barbara texted me back.”
He blinked. “…Okay?”
“She just said ‘haha’”
He stared at you.
You burst into fresh tears. “That’s it! Just ‘haha’! What does that even mean? Did I say something stupid? Does she think I’m stupid? I knew she didn’t actually like me—”
Jason’s brain stalled.
Of all the scenarios he’d prepared for, this wasn’t one of them.
“Babs doesn’t hate you…” He said immediately.
“You don’t know that…” You sniffed. “It was a short text.”
“It was four letters.”
“Exactly!”
He ran a hand through his hair, visibly recalculating. “Okay. I’ll call her.”
Your head snapped up. “No!”
“I’ll fix it.”
“You will not call her about this, Jason Todd.”
He hesitated. “You’re crying.”
“I know!”
That seemed to upset him more.
He crouched in front of you instead, big hands hovering awkwardly before settling on your thighs. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
You tried. Failed. Tried again.
“You are not stupid,” he said firmly. “Barbara does not hate you. If she did, she wouldn’t text you at all. She barely texts people she likes.”
You hiccupped again. “What if she was just being polite.”
“She’s doesn’t do polite…”
That made you laugh — watery, unwilling, but real.
He seized the opening.
“Okay....” He said carefully. “Worst case scenario. She meant actual laughter. Best case scenario, she’s busy and texting with one hand. Neither of those equal hate.”
You wiped at your face. “I feel insane.”
“You’re not insane.”
You gestured helplessly at yourself. “I cried over a text message.”
“You also cried at a laundry detergent commercial last week.”
“That was emotional.”
“It was about fabric softener.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
Jason’s shoulders finally lowered.
He stood, pulled you up into him, and wrapped his arms around you carefully but tight enough to anchor.
“I don’t know how to fight hormones….” He muttered into your hair. “But I can fight anyone who makes you cry.”
You clutched his shirt. “No fighting.”
“…Fine….” He sighed. “Strongly worded email.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “You don’t even use email.”
“I’d learn.”
That did it. The tension broke.
He stayed like that for a long time, holding you carefully, rubbing slow circles over your belly. You finally relaxed against him, tears spent, breathing evening out, until sleep pulled you under.
Once he was sure you were asleep, Jason picked up his phone. He texted Barbra quietly, explaining you’d had a rough night with hormones and asking her to send a kind message —something to lift your spirits without making you feel embarrassed.
Morning came with soft light spilling across the room. You stirred, half-asleep, and your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Groggily, you unlocked it and saw Barbra’s message. It was short, warm, and just the kind of note to make your chest feel lighter.
He watched you read the message and felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest. No fights. No emails. Just this—being here, helping you feel okay.
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The paint cans were already open when Jason came home.
You stood on a step stool, brush in hand, working carefully along the wall. Soft colors. Flowing shapes. A night sky fading into a horizon. Stars blooming slowly under your hand.
Jason stopped in the doorway.
He leaned there, silent, arms crossed loosely, watching the way your wrist moved. The focus in your face. The way you stepped back, tilted your head, then leaned in again.
Time passed without either of you noticing.
You finally glanced over your shoulder and caught him staring.
“Are you going to help….” You teased lightly
He blinked, like you’d pulled him out of deep water. “Just….didn’t want to interrupt.”
You smiled. “You won’t.”
He stepped inside, careful not to bump anything, and settled against the opposite wall. His gaze drifted back to the mural, eyes soft.
“It’s good….” He said quietly.
You dipped the brush again. “You’re just saying that.”
“No I’m not. They’ll really like it.”
You laughed, but when you looked back at him, his expression wasn’t joking. It was heavy. Thoughtful.
“What?” You asked gently.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
You arched a brow. “That’s not a real answer.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Just….trying to picture them here.”
The weight of that settled between you.
You turned back to the wall, voice light but sincere. “You’ll be great, you know.”
He scoffed softly. “You say that like you’re sure.”
“I am.”
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The boxes arrived two days later.
Jason eyed them with confidence.
“I’ve got this…” He said, already grabbing a cutter. “I’m better now.”
You didn’t answer right away. You watched him slice the tape, fold the cardboard back, start pulling pieces out.
“I read the instructions….” He added quickly. “Multiple times.”
You took a breath. “Jay.”
He stopped, looked up. “What?”
“We’re not doing this alone.”
Something in his expression shifted. Guarded. Wounded.
“I said I’m better.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
You stepped closer, careful with your words. “The problem is safety. Not skill.”
He laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You don’t trust me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“The TV stand was almost a year ago….” He snapped.
“And it fell….” You said calmly. “With the TV on it.”
His jaw clenched. “That wasn’t—”
“This is our kid….” You cut in, firmer now. “I’m not cushioning this, Jason. I need to know this stuff is built right.”
The words landed hard.
He looked away, breathing fast. “I’m trying...” He said, voice breaking despite himself. “I’m doing everything right. I read the damn instructions.”
“I know….”
He turned back, eyes blazing—not angry. Hurt. “So what, you think I’m not enough?”
You didn’t flinch. “I think this is bigger than pride.”
Silence.
Finally, he exhaled, shoulders sagging. “…Tim.”
“Yes.”
The word tasted bitter on his tongue.
“I’ll….let him supervise.”
You stepped forward immediately, hands on his arms. “Thank you.”
He nodded once, jaw tight. It cost him. You knew it.
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The apartment was too quiet.
Jason sat on the couch with the instruction manual for the crib open in his lap.
He wasn’t reading it.
His eyes kept drifting toward the hallway, toward the nursery door that stood open, boxes stacked neatly inside like they were waiting to be judged. The crib pieces were still, untouched now. Waiting for Tim. Waiting for supervision.
Not alone.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and tried to focus again.
‘Anchor bolts must be secured into studs….’ the manual had read. He’d read that three times already. He knew that. He’d watched five videos on it. He could picture the steps in his head, each one clean and precise.
And still.
You hadn’t trusted him to do it alone.
The thought pressed at his chest, uncomfortable and sharp. He knew it wasn’t fair. He knew you hadn’t said it like that. You’d said safety, not him. You’d said our kid, not your mistake.
But his brain didn’t care about fairness when it started spiraling.
If you didn’t trust him with the crib, what else?
Bath time? Holding the baby when they cried too hard? Midnight feedings when Jason was exhausted and everything felt like it was slipping sideways? Would you hover then too? Would you watch him waiting for him to mess up?
He understood what was happening even as it happened. He was projecting. He was dragging old insecurities into a brand-new future and trying to make them fit. This wasn’t about you doubting him. This was about him doubting himself.
Knowing that didn’t make it stop.
He just wanted to be good enough.
For you. For the baby. For this life he was terrified of breaking.
The front door opened.
Jason looked up automatically, manual forgotten in his lap.
You came in carrying a couple of shopping bags, breathless but smiling, hair a little wild like it had been a long afternoon. “Okay…” You said, kicking the door shut behind you, “I might have committed a small crime.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How small.”
“Sixty percent off maternity clothes…” You said, already toeing off your shoes. “Which should be illegal, honestly. Why would they do that when I’m this pregnant.”
He smiled despite himself.
You shuffled over and dropped the bags by the chair before easing yourself down beside him on the couch with a soft sigh. “None of my clothes fit anymore. I’m living in leggings and spite.”
“Its been a good look on you….” He said.
You laughed, leaning back, one hand automatically finding your stomach. You launched into a play-by-play of the store, the salesperson who kept calling you “mama,” the dress that almost fit but definitely didn’t.
Jason nodded in the right places. Hummed agreement. His arm slid around your shoulders out of habit, pulling you in close.
You stopped talking mid-sentence and looked at him.
Then you leaned in and kissed him.
Not rushed. Just a slow, grounding press of your lips to his.
He blinked when you pulled back. “What was that for?”
You shrugged lightly. “You looked like you needed a kiss.”
Something in his chest gave way.
“…Yeah….” He admitted quietly. “I did.”
You studied him for a moment longer, thumb brushing absently against his arm. “Want to talk about it?”
He considered it. The words sat heavy on his tongue. All the things he was afraid to say out loud.
Then he shook his head. “It’s not important.”
You didn’t push. Just leaned in and rested your forehead against his jaw. “Okay.”
After a beat, you added softly, “I love you.”
The words hit exactly where they needed to.
Jason closed his eyes, breathing you in. The warmth. The certainty. The simple truth of it.
You loved him.
That mattered more than anything else his brain was trying to tell him.
He tightened his arm around you, the manual sliding forgotten to the floor.
Still this didn’t make him look forward to Tim coming over tomorrow
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Tim arrived at exactly nine in the morning.
Jason had been up since six.
You knew this because the kitchen was already spotless, the coffee machine primed, and Jason was pacing the living room with the instruction manual in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through something that looked suspiciously like a saved forum thread titled “Crib Assembly: Common Fail Points.”
When the knock came, sharp and precise, Jason stiffened like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
“I’ll get it….” You said quickly, easing yourself up from the couch before Jason could object.
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse wrapped around Tim’s name.
You opened the door to find Tim standing there, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a long, narrow tool case in his other hand. He looked….pleased. Not smug. Just quietly, genuinely pleased. His eyes flicked past you into the apartment, already cataloging the half-assembled chaos.
“Morning….” He said. “I brought options.”
Jason appeared behind you, arms crossed, jaw set. “You brought too much.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “I brought the correct amount.”
You stepped aside, ushering him in before Jason could escalate. “Come in. Shoes wherever. Ignore him, he’s been vibrating since dawn.”
Jason shot you a look. “I have not.”
“You reorganized the screws three times….” You said mildly.
Tim smiled faintly as he set his bag down. “That tracks.”
☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓☙☓
The nursery looked like a battlefield waiting to happen.
Crib parts leaned carefully against one wall, labeled in Jason’s handwriting. The dresser components were stacked neatly, plastic still clinging to the edges. A level sat on the windowsill like it had already claimed its place of honor.
Tim crouched immediately, unzipping his bag and laying out tools with methodical precision. Jason hovered, watching every movement like a hawk guarding its kill.
“Okay….” Tim said calmly. “We’ll start with the crib frame. It’s the most load-sensitive.”
Jason snorted. “Obviously.”
“—because improper torque on the corner joints leads to—”
“I know why….” Jason cut in.
Tim didn’t react. Just picked up two screws, held them up side by side. “Then you’ll know why we use these and not those.”
Jason leaned in, squinting. “Those are identical.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
“They’re not….” Tim repeated evenly. “Thread depth is different.”
Jason grabbed one from his hand, inspecting it like it had personally offended him. “Barely.”
“Barely is how furniture collapses.”
That earned Tim a sharp glare.
“You saying I don’t know how to build a crib?”
“I’m saying physics doesn’t care about pride.”
You cleared your throat loudly from the doorway. “Coffee. I’m making coffee.”
Both of them paused.
Jason looked at you. Tim looked relieved.
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You moved carefully around the kitchen, filling the kettle, grinding beans. The sounds gave the room a rhythm, something domestic to anchor the tension.
Behind you, voices rose and fell.
Jason argued for tighter joints. Tim argued for manufacturer tolerance. The phrase “load-bearing” was used at least five times in ten minutes.
You carried the tray carefully, one hand steadying it, the other resting briefly against your stomach as you walked.
The nursery was already half-chaos.
Crib parts were spread across the floor in deliberate clusters. Tim knelt near the wall with the instruction booklet open and flattened under his palm. Jason crouched opposite him, screwdriver in hand, forearms tense, shoulders tight like he was braced for impact.
They didn’t notice you right away.
Jason was mid-argument. “If you tighten it another quarter turn, it won’t shift.”
“And if you over-tighten it…” Tim replied calmly, “....you stress the joint. That’s how you get micro-fractures.”
Jason scoffed. “It’s solid wood.”
“Which still follows physics.”
You cleared your throat softly as you stepped inside.
Both of them looked up.
“Coffee…” You said, offering the tray.
Jason reached for his mug immediately, fingers wrapping around it like he needed the grounding. Tim murmured a thank you, careful not to disturb the parts near his knees.
You lingered a second longer than necessary, eyes moving between them, then shifted toward the corner chair, settling down slowly.
Tim took a sip, then said, almost offhand, “You know, I’m actually really excited.”
“About what?”
Tim glanced up, eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to Jason. “About the baby. I don’t get a lot of bright spots in this life, but being an uncle —that’s something I'm actually looking forward to.”
“That means a lot....” You said gently. “They’re lucky to have someone who—”
“No….” Jason said flatly.
You and Tim blinked. “No?”
Jason didn’t look at him. “You’re not going to be an uncle.”
It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. The finality did all the damage on its own.
You felt your chest tighten.
Tim’s face shifted in a way that was almost subtle enough to miss. His shoulders pulled in slightly. The easy openness he’d carried all morning closed, careful and quiet.
“Oh….” He said after a beat. “Right. I didn’t mean—sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Jason had already turned back to the crib frame. “Hand me the longer bolt.”
Tim hesitated, fingers tightening briefly around the metal before he passed it over.
You stared at Jason.
Not in shock. Not in anger. Just…disappointment. Clear and unshielded.
Jason felt it. You saw it in the way his back stiffened, the way his jaw locked. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t acknowledge it. He drove the bolt in harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
Nothing else was said.
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By the time the crib stood upright, it was well past noon.
It was solid. Square. Level.
It had taken far longer than it should have.
Jason straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. “Told you I could do it.”
Tim checked the level one final time, then nodded. “With supervision.”
Jason glared. “I did most of it.”
“You did….” Tim said evenly. “And you followed the instructions.”
Jason bristled, then exhaled through his nose. “…Yeah.”
You stood carefully and left the room without comment.
When you returned, lunch was ready. Soup steaming gently in bowls, sandwiches cut and plated. You set everything down on the small dining table and called out, “Food’s ready.”
They washed their hands without prompting and sat at the table.
Jason took the chair closest to the doorway, posture rigid. Tim sat across from him, movements measured. You took the seat between them, grounding the space.
For a few minutes, there was only the quiet clink of cutlery.
Then Jason spoke, eyes still on his bowl. “The crib. It’s rated for….how much weight.”
Tim swallowed, then answered without hesitation. “Plenty. Even if the kid’s a climber.”
Jason nodded once. “Good.”
Silence again.
Then, quieter, rougher, “Shit this is a lot…..”
Tim looked at him. “You won’t screw this up.”
Jason scoffed, but the edge was dulled now. “You don’t know that.”
“I do….” Tim said simply. “You’re scared. That usually means you care.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. He looked away. “Drop it.”
Tim did.
You reached under the table and rested your hand briefly against Jason’s knee. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t pull away either.
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The dresser came together more smoothly.
There were still disagreements. Still corrections. Still Jason doing the majority of the lifting while Tim checked angles, stability, anchoring.
At one point, you stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against the frame, watching them work together despite everything. Despite pride. Despite the earlier wound left open and unaddressed.
When it was finished, the room felt different.
Complete. Safe. Thoughtful.
You stepped inside slowly, hands resting on your stomach. “It looks really good.”
Jason turned immediately. “Yeah?”
“Yes….” You said firmly. Then you looked at Tim. “Thank you. For today. For helping. For being here.”
Tim stood, dusting his hands on his jeans, and crossed the room toward you. He wrapped you in a careful hug.
“It was no problem. Call me…” He said quietly near your ear. “Anytime. If you need anything at all.”
You hugged him back, emotion pressing unexpectedly tight behind your ribs. “I will. And….thank you. Truly.”
He pulled back, gave you a small smile.
Jason crossed his arms. “I did most of it.”
You didn’t hesitate. “You did.”
Jason looked at you, surprised.
You held his gaze steadily. “And I really appreciate you too.”
Something eased in him. Just a fraction.
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It didn’t happen dramatically.
No movie-moment rush. No sharp gasp.
You were standing in the bedroom, folding a onesie you’d already folded twice, when you felt it. A sudden warmth. A pause. Your body making a decision without asking you first.
You looked down.
Then you sighed.
“Jason…” You called calmly.
He was in the living room, doing something unnecessary with the baby monitor. “Yeah?”
“My water broke.”
There was a beat.
Then a crash.
Jason appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, face drained of color. “What!?”
You walked into the living room. “I said my water broke.”
“Now?” He asked, like it might have happened earlier and you were just getting around to telling him.
“Yes. Now.”
He froze.
Then he spun into motion all at once, grabbing the nearest bag. “Okay. Okay. Hospital. We’re—where’s the—did you—”
“That’s the bag with Goodwill donations….” You said gently.
He stared down at it. “Why is it here.”
“Because you put it there yesterday.”
“Oh.” He dropped it, grabbed another. “This one.”
“That’s your gym bag.”
“I don’t have a gym bag.”
“You do. You never use it.”
His hands were shaking. You noticed because he noticed, flexing his fingers like he could will them steady.
He stopped suddenly. Looked at you. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you—”
“Jason!”
He nodded rapidly. “Right. Right. Shoes. Keys. Phone.”
He patted his pockets three times before realizing his phone was already in his hand.
You reached for your coat. He beat you to it, helping you into it with clumsy care, like you were fragile glass instead of a very pregnant woman who had been carrying a human for nine months.
When you reached the door, he stopped again. “Wait.”
“What?”
“I forgot—” He searched his mind, panic flashing. “I forgot something important.”
You smiled softly. “You’ll remember.”
He didn’t look convinced.
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Labor was long.
Long in a way that stripped time of meaning.
Hours blurred together. Pain came in waves that stole your breath and left you shaking. Jason never left your side. Not once. Even when nurses suggested he sit. Even when exhaustion crept into his bones.
He held your hand. Counted with you. Whispered grounding nonsense in your ear because he didn’t know what else to do and refused to do nothing.
“You’re doing so good,” He said over and over, voice thick. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
At some point, tears slipped down his face without him noticing. He brushed them away impatiently, focused entirely on you.
When the moment came, it was fast and slow all at once.
A cry split the room.
Jason made a sound you’d never heard before. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
The nurse placed your son on your chest.
Jason stared.
Just stared.
“That’s—” His voice broke completely. He pressed a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking. “That’s him.”
You looked at your baby boy, pink and furious and perfect.
Jason leaned in, forehead touching yours. “Hi….” He whispered, like the baby might understand him already. “I’m….I’m your dad.”
It hit him all at once.
You felt it in the way his grip tightened on your hand. In the way he bowed his head, overwhelmed beyond words.
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Two Days Later:
Jason didn’t sleep.
Not really.
He sat in the narrow chair beside your hospital bed, elbows on his knees, posture pitched forward like he might spring into action at any second. Every few minutes, his gaze flicked to the bassinet. He watched the rise and fall of the baby’s chest with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb timers.
Five minutes passed.
Jason stood, leaned over the bassinet, adjusted the blanket by half an inch.
Another five.
He reached out, brushed a finger gently against the baby’s hand. Still warm. Still breathing.
He exhaled.
Then he turned back to you. “Are you okay?”
You blinked up at him, eyes heavy. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need water?”
“No.”
“Are you in pain?”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded, accepting the answer, then hovered for exactly ten seconds before asking again.
When the nurse came in to do the baby’s exam, Jason stood so close he was practically looming over her shoulder. His jaw tightened with every movement she made.
“Sir…” She said kindly, “I promise I’ve done this before.”
Jason didn’t move. “I know.”
You watched it all with tired amusement, eyes half-lidded, mouth twitching. “She's trying to say you're hovering too much.”
He glanced at you. “I just—he’s so small.”
The nurse smiled softly. “That doesn’t mean he’s fragile.”
Jason didn’t look convinced.
That night, when you finally drifted into a light, broken sleep, you woke once to find Jason standing over the bassinet again, one hand braced on the rail, the other pressed briefly to his chest like he was steadying his own breathing.
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They came in waves.
Bruce arrived first, quiet and composed, standing near the foot of the bed like he wasn’t entirely sure where to put himself. He looked at the baby with something like reverence, his expression softening in a way few people ever saw.
“He looks like you…” He said simply.
Jason nodded once.
Alfred followed, eyes bright, voice gentle. He greeted you first, taking your hand carefully. “My dear...” He said, voice warm with quiet pride, “...you’ve done something extraordinary.”
“Thank you, Alfred...”
Jason was the one who lifted the baby and placed him carefully into Alfred’s waiting arms. Alfred held him with practiced ease, his expression softening into something openly tender. “Welcome to the world, young master....” He murmured. “You are already very loved.”
After a quiet moment, he returned the baby to you with careful reverence, ensuring you were settled before stepping back. Then he clasped Jason by the shoulder and drew him into a firm, brief hug. “I know you'll do well by you're beautiful family.” And with that, he took his leave.
Dick burst in next, energy barely contained, then froze mid-step when he saw the baby. “Oh. Oh wow.”
He leaned over the bassinet, grinning. “He’s perfect…” He said.
Barbara came with a quieter warmth, squeezing your hand and congratulating you both, her smile steady and sincere. Stephanie followed, all excitement and careful restraint, whispering loudly about how cute he was.
Roy stopped by briefly, awkward but earnest, clapping Jason on the shoulder. “You made a tiny human…” He said. “That’s wild.”
Jason snorted. “Tell me about it.”
By evening, the room was quieter again.
Tim came last.
Jason was holding the baby when Tim stepped in.
The baby was tucked securely against his chest, small and warm, Jason’s arm locked around him with instinctive protectiveness. You sat propped up in bed, sipping ice water, phone buzzing steadily as congratulations rolled in.
Tim paused just inside the doorway.
He held flowers in one hand, a small gift bag in the other.
“Hey…” He said softly.
“Hey.” You said.
Jason looked up and nodded.
Tim crossed the room and handed you the flowers first. “These are for you. How are you feeling?”
“Tired….” You admitted with a small smile. “But good.”
He hugged you carefully, brief and warm. “You did amazing.”
Jason shifted slightly but didn’t say anything.
Tim glanced at the baby, then back at Jason, hesitation written all over his face. “Can I… hold him?”
The question came out quiet, almost tentative.
Jason hesitated.
Just a moment too long.
Then he adjusted his grip, stepped forward, and carefully transferred the baby into Tim’s arms.
“Say hi to your Uncle Tim…” Jason said.
Tim froze.
His eyes flicked up. “Wait—”
You lifted your phone and snapped the photo right then, catching the exact moment Tim’s expression broke into pure, stunned joy.
Tim laughed softly under his breath, cradling the baby like he might disappear. “Hey…” He whispered. “I’m the uncle who built your crib. I hope you like it.”
The baby shifted, content, utterly calm.
Jason watched, irritation flickering across his face. But he didn’t interrupt.
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The apartment was quiet.
The baby is asleep in his crib, soft breaths barely audible. The nursery light cast a gentle glow over everything.
You stood beside Jason, arms brushing.
“We really made him…” Jason said quietly.
You nodded, awe still settling in your chest. “We did.”