Archive of Our Own

approx. 1 month since the end of vertigo

The washer breaks on an early Thursday morning, and it feels like a minor tragedy is unfolding before your very eyes.

It wouldn’t be, honestly, if it had belonged to civilians. Annoying, definitely, inconvenient, maybe a little sad, but not a disaster. 

But you and Jason aren’t civilians. You’re vigilantes who technically work outside of the law to protect people, and you do it with the strict understanding that the world at large needs to know exactly nothing about your personal lives, which means uniforms, masks (or helmets), and code names. 

It also means that living somewhere with a private laundry facility is sort of essential, unless you’re incredibly careful, or don’t have another choice. It would be difficult to maintain anonymity while tossing incredibly identifiable outfits into a public washing machine. You know people are generally willing to ignore a certain amount of coincidence or strangeness, but you doubt they’d overlook, for example, Red Hood’s tactical pants spinning in a soapy cyclone alongside Rally’s cowl and hood. Especially not with you and Jason standing there watching, both exactly the right height and shape to match up with your masked identities.

That leaves you with very few available options. From your point of view, you can either somehow find an abandoned laundromat on the far edge of town, do your laundry quickly and hope no one walks in (including the employees), or beg the use of a machine owned by one of the other capes in the city who has one. 

Which is easy enough. You accept the washer’s death easily, because you know it isn’t the end of the world, and there are alternatives.

Not everyone is willing to let go that easily, though.

“Motherfucker, come on,” Jason snarls, and slams his fist into the side of the machine for the third time in the last ten minutes. Like the last three times, the machine does not heed his command. 

He’s pulled it out of the little alcove in the first-floor hallway where the laundry hookups are, and totally dismantled it from the back panel, exposing the inner workings in a way that somehow feels very invasive, like you aren’t supposed to be seeing it. This is the fifth time he’s put it back together, each time tweaking one thing or another before plugging it in and demanding any sign of life. 

“Goddammit, still?” Jason hisses a sigh through his teeth. He rolls his shoulders in the way you know means he’s getting tired and fed up, but is also still gearing up for another try, and you understand how important it is to let people grieve in the face of loss, but you’re beginning to worry he’s going to hurt himself, or possibly set something on fire.

Poor thing, Artemisia coos sympathetically. You ought to say something.

You agree with her. “Jason,” you say, pushing away from the wall behind him where you’d been standing and watching him work. “I think it’s over.”

Jason turns to look at you, eyes widening, and then turns away and picks up his screwdriver. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “Just need to try again. Think I know what I did wrong.”

“Jay,” you say, reaching down and putting a comforting hand on the back of his shoulder. “It’s gone. I’m sorry.”

Jason stills, studies the machine for a long moment, then drops his head and sighs. “Fuck,” he mutters. He puts down the screwdriver to run both hands back and forth over his face. “Goddammit.”

You begin to rub small circles on his back. “I know you two were close,” you say. 

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, his lower jaw jutting out slightly in a stubborn pout he would refuse to admit exists if you pointed it out. “You making fun of me, doll?”

You grin. “Maybe a little,” you admit. “You were getting really gloomy for a second. It was an emergency.”

Jason rolls his eyes, but he does smile, so you consider that a victory. “You’ve been texting Dick too much,” he says.

“Only a few times a week. Not counting the group chat.” You straighten, resting a hand on your hip. “It’s almost light outside; we need to figure out what to do before it gets too much later, or we’ll be patrolling in civvies tonight.”

“Not in Crime Alley, we aren’t,” he replies. He casts one last forlorn look at the washing machine, then pushes himself to his feet. “Shit. Alright. How are we handling this? Laundromat’s out. Neighbors, too.”

“Mrs. Zaritsky would let us use hers, I think. She’s mostly blind; she probably wouldn’t notice anything.” You pause, and then add, “And she likes you.”

“She tolerates me.”

“The last time I talked to her, she called you a ‘nice young man’,” you argue. “That’s as good as a marriage proposal from her.”

She also thinks the two of you are romantically involved, Artemisia reminds you.

That isn’t relevant to the situation, you reply silently.

Jason shrugs off the praise. “Eh. She’s got her grandkids with her this week, and they can see just fine. No way we’d pull it off. Especially not with that little one around. Slippery as a goddamn eel.”

“Well,” you say, “We could always go to the Manor–”

“Nope,” Jason interrupts, which you sort of expected. He says it so immediately that you can’t hide your laughter, and he scowls at you without heat and crosses his arms over his chest. “There are other options. Babs has a machine at her place. We can try there.”

Well, Barbara’s townhouse is considerably closer than the Manor, which means the odds of getting home before noon is higher. You’re tired, and you’d rather not make any sort of journey at all, but needs must.

“We can’t take your bike,” you tell him, with a pointed look at the two full hampers nearby, far too unwieldy to try to balance. “So we’ll have to walk.”

“S’fine,” Jason says with a shrug, but you frown a little, because he’s been favoring his left knee since he tripped over an alley cat and bashed it into the side of a dumpster two nights ago (which he refuses to admit is what happened). He notices your gaze and grunts in acknowledgement. “I keep telling you, s’just a bruise. I can do a bit of walking.”

“We could call an Uber.”

“There’s no reason to, it’s not that far. Look, I’m fine, doll,” he assures you. “I’ve done more with worse than a bruised knee.”

“That actually doesn’t make me feel any better,” you tell him, but sigh, because you can already tell he isn’t going to budge on this. “Will you at least wear the knee brace Alfred gave you?”

“Don’t need it,” Jason grunts, walking over to gather the cloth bags of clothing from the hampers. “I’ll carry the bags. Got your phone?” 

S’hurtin’ him more than he’s lettin’ on, Bellamy observes. Watch the way he keeps his weight off– ye’d best not let him fool ye, lass.

He is unlikely to be reasonable. I believe you will need to employ distasteful countermeasures. Lun adds. You purse your lips and nod slightly.

“I have my phone,” you reply to Jason. You slowly rest your hands on your hips. “But if you don’t wear the knee brace, I’m telling Damian you kicked a cat.”

The look he gives you is full of wide-eyed disbelief; his mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “You– no, you won’t.”

Tt. He means to test thy conviction, girl. Thy resolve. Nix’s tone is wry, which is as close as she usually gets to humor. Prove thou’rt determined.

Still holding Jason’s gaze, you pull your phone from your pocket, unlock the home screen, and pull up Damian’s contact information. Your finger hovers threateningly over the ‘Call’ button. Jason’s mouth pulls into a thin line, jaw clenching. His eyes narrow, and you think he’s trying to decide if you really mean it or not. You quirk an eyebrow and bring your finger closer to the screen.

“Fuck,” he says, sighing. “Fine, fine. I’ll get the damn brace.” He trudges off to his bedroom, muttering under his breath. 

You’re becoming very good at that! Artemisia praises.

You smile as you put your phone away, tucking it back into your pocket, and then walking over to remove the second bag from the hamper.

==

Summer is still in full swing, and the air, even in the early hours of the morning, is humid and hot.

You have to keep your sigils covered whenever you’re not in uniform, which means you’re sort of relegated to full-coverage clothing. A long-sleeved, pale yellow shirt and black leggings are enough to hide your markings, and you wear the necklace Jason gave you because you always put it on after patrol. 

You tend to run cooler on average, so at least the worst of what you deal with is some slight discomfort which tends to disappear rather quickly when you find a spot with air conditioning. Jason, however…

The sleeveless hoodie is definitely an attempt at dressing for the weather, but the material it's made out of is so thick you don’t think the lack of arm coverage is really doing much good. Add that to the nondescript baseball cap, black jogging pants, and simple sneakers, and he sort of looks like a heat stroke waiting to happen. Especially when you consider that Jason exudes body heat like an electric space heater and that he’s bound and determined to carry both laundry bags himself.

By the time you make it to the front of Barbara’s house (a townhouse she purchased both sides of, then remodeled to suit her mobility needs), he’s flushed, sweating, and you’re about to look up ‘signs of heatstroke’ on your phone.

“Fuck,” he says, short of breath as he lets a laundry bag slide off his shoulder and onto the ramp in front of the door. “Christ, I hope her AC is working.”

“You don’t look so good, Jay,” you say, reaching out to knock on the front door. “Maybe sit down for a minute?”

“S’fine, I’m fine,” he replies. Then he swallows, dips a shoulder to let the other laundry bag join the first, and turns around to sit on top of them. He hunches over with a faint grunt, lifting his hat to run his fingers back through sweaty hair. You stare, fascinated by the shape of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders in a way that’s not at all helpful, and then chide yourself for your lack of focus when he might be dealing with an actual medical emergency.

Dunno why he’s so dead set on wearin’ all them layers, Bellamy says. T’were me, ye’d be lucky if I were wearin’ britches at all.

A repugnant mental image, Nix drawls. Wilt thank thee to keep thyself clothed.

“Please keep your pants on,” you whisper to Bellamy. To Jason, you say, “Hold on. She’s taking a while– maybe she’s asleep?” You ought to have called first. You reach for the doorbell instead, which is louder, a chiming ‘ping-bong’ you hear through the solid wood of the door.

“Really wish she’d hurry up,” Jason mutters. “Not even a goddamn breeze today. What the fuck.”

You frown, then lean in to press your ear against the door. Nothing. No hint that Barbara’s heard the door. You’re starting to get a little worried when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out; ‘Babs’, says the caller ID. You answer.

“Um. Hello?”

“Why are you and Jason outside my house?” Barbara asks. Wherever she is, you don’t think it’s inside; there’s a lot of wind, and… something else. Waves, maybe? You wonder how she knows you’re outside the front door, then realize she probably has security cameras, or one of those doorbells that records things, or both.

“Oh, y’know, we were just in the neighborhood,” Jason gripes, sensitive ears picking up on the conversation. “Open the door, Christ.”

“Jason,” you hiss admonishingly, nudging his shoulder with one hand. Into your phone you say, “Sorry, Barbara, I know we should’ve called. The washing machine at our place is broken, and we wanted to see if we could borrow yours for some, uh, sensitive items.”

That makes it sound like something dirty, Artemisia teases. Like frilly underwear.

That’s not helpful, you say internally, unable to stop your creeping blush at the thought of owning frilly underwear at all, and then at the mental image of Jason handling the frilly underwear. 

“--either of you even read the group chat?” Barbara says, as you snap back into focus. “I said I’d be out of town for two weeks. I’m at the beach.”

“Oh,” you say. Jason makes a noise of disbelief– or possibly he’s losing consciousness, although he stays mostly upright, so you don’t think it’s that. “Sorry. I swear I didn’t see– unless it got lost in all those ‘thirst traps’ Stephanie was posting to annoy Tim?” There’d been a lot of them. Evidently Red Robin is remarkably popular on TikTok.

Jason is making a quiet, continuous sort of groan that sounds a little like he’s saying the word ‘fuck’ with the middle drawn out. You wish you had some way to cool him down that didn’t involve him shucking a few layers. 

I wouldn’t be opposed to that, Artemisia muses unhelpfully. It would be interesting to see!

Really, really not the time, you snap. She just giggles in response. 

“I wish I could help,” Barbara says, and you believe her. “You might have better luck with one of the others? Or you could try the Manor.”

“God fucking dammit,” Jason curses, voice muffled. 

“Uh, thank you, Babs, really,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. Enjoy your vacation!”

“Oh, trust me. I already am.” She laughs softly. “Maybe make a pit stop to get Jason some water? He looks rough.”

You sort of have to agree with her. “Sure. Bye, Barbara.”

The call ends. You stare at the screen for a moment, and then down at Jason, who is beginning to do his best impression of a puddle. 

I believe it would be best for you to take control of the situation, Lun advises. A clouded mind cannot be trusted to make sound judgements.

Aye, he’s startin’ to look like a shellfish in a pot of stew, lass, Bellamy agrees. Best if ye’re the one steerin’ the ship, like.

“Are you wearing a shirt under that?” You ask Jason.

Jason heaves a sigh. He mumbles something you think is an affirmative, and you nod.

“Good. Take your top layer off before you pass out, okay?”

He doesn’t move, and for a moment, you’re worried he might actually have passed out this time. Then he sighs again, reaches down, and pulls the sleeveless hoodie off to reveal the sweat-soaked white tank top beneath. His skin is flushed, which makes the litany of scars across his flesh stand out all the more. You try not to stare.

Jason is sensitive about his body, though he’ll deny it if you ever point it out. He doesn’t like showing too much skin, and you’ve never been able to figure out why that is. Possibly he doesn’t like his shape– he’s not a gymnast like Dick, not wiry like Tim. He’s broad and heavy, more solid than evenBruce, and while that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that should matter, you’ve spent enough time exposed to social media by now that you know it sometimes still does.

Or it might be the scars. He’s skittish about his scars. The smaller ones, the ones on his hands and arms, his face, his neck, those ones don’t seem to really matter as much– but the big ones, like the wide one on the back of his right hip, or the strange Y-shaped one you’ve only seen the top and bottom of– those he guards like a shameful secret, from everyone, including you.

All that considered, you see the way he sags with relief once he loses a layer of clothing. “Fuck,” he says, tilting his head back. “What I wouldn’t give for a thunderstorm right now.”

“I think that would make this all a little more difficult,” you say, smiling. “Okay. Who else might have a washing machine?” Dick is too far away in Bludhaven. Same story with Roy, who lives all the way in Star City. That leaves whoever the two of you know here in Gotham, and it can’t be the Manor, because Jason isn’t going to go for that.

“What about Tim?” You suggest. You’ve never been to Tim’s place, but you know he has a penthouse in the Diamond District. He also tends to be the sort of person who you could see having his own washer and dryer, because he likes his privacy and because he plans ahead. 

“Tim?” Jason considers. “Guess he might. S’pretty far, though…” You can already see him dreading the idea.

Doth believe himself a camel? Nix asks incredulously. Wretched idiot. Thou wilt be obliged to scrape his half-melted corpse from the ground, ‘ere thou tarry much longer in this insufferable heat.

“Don’t worry,” you say. You open a rideshare app you’d downloaded for emergencies and tap in Barbara’s address. “We’re getting a car.”

“No way,” Jason tries to argue. He’d be more effective at it if he didn’t look so much like a prawn trying to hide an affair. “We don’t need–”

“You’re about to keel over. Jason, seriously, it’s for the best. Don’t you want to just relax a little?” You look down at him. “In a well-ventilated car. With air conditioning.”

His jaw works back and forth as he considers that. Then he sighs and nods. He leans his shoulder against your hip, and even though he’s a giant, sweaty mess actively radiating body heat, you let him do it. You even take his hat off and use it to fan him.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Just this once.”

“And this time,” you say, pulling up Tim’s contact information. “I’m calling ahead.”

==

Tim doesn’t pick up the phone.

That isn’t entirely unusual, you’ve come to find. Even for a vigilante, Tim Drake keeps odd hours, and he also tends to get deeply enmeshed in whatever case he’s working on, so it’s not impossible that he either didn't hear your call or is just ignoring it. You decide you’ll call again once you’re safely in the car and on your way.

Except then you meet Tucker.

Tucker is the name of your driver, who pulls up in front of Barbara’s house in a powder blue hatchback that seems reasonably well taken care of. He greets you both cheerfully as you usher Jason into the back seat, then pops the trunk for you so you can stow the laundry bags away. He also turns up the air conditioning without argument when Jason asks, bright and happy, even though Jason’s tone would probably frighten most people. You angle both air vents in the back onto your overheated friend and then buckle in.

“So! You two local?” Tucker asks as he pulls away from the curb and onto the street. He’s maybe in his early twenties, fair-skinned and fair-haired, with dark blue eyes that twinkle cheerfully in the rearview mirror. “You don’t look like tourists, but most people from around here know not to underestimate the heat…”

Jason leans back against the seat and stares up at the ceiling. He mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, “Great. Richard Grayson fuckin’ Junior’s our driver.”

You give his side a nudge with your elbow. “We’re both, uh, local,” you say, since you don’t think you really want to get into the nitty-gritty of your personal history. “Just an accident.”

“Eh, it happens,” Tucker says with a nod. “Hey, do either of you want anything to drink? Soda, water…”

“Water would be good,” you say, pleased. 

“You got it,” he chirps. He pops open what you belatedly realize is an actual mini-fridge under the center console with one hand, pulls out a chilled bottle of water, and hands it back. You take it gratefully, cracking open the lid before you hand it to Jason.

“Drink this, okay?” You say. Jason grunts, but he does as you ask, and it helps ease some of the flush from his cheeks. 

“Yeah, it’s been a real scorcher this year,” Tucker says. “It’s like, where’s Mr. Freeze when you need him, right? Heh.”

“Um, Arkham, I think?” You say.

“Arkham,” Jason grunts, with a certainty that tells you he knows because he’s the one who put the villain there in the first place.

I think that was a rhetorical question, Artemisia says.

“Oof, yeah, that’s right. You know, I remember watching him fight Red Hood the last time he got out.” Tucker pauses, and then says, totally unprompted, “It’s weird how that guy’s just obviously Tim Drake, huh?”

You and Jason freeze at the exact same moment. You share a look with him, both of you wide-eyed with disbelief.

Jason’s the first to get himself together. “You think Red Hood is Tim Drake?” He asks.

“Uh, yeah? Of course. It’s, like. Really obvious.” Tucker merges into another lane and passes through a yellow light. “I honestly don’t know why the media’s not all over it. I guess he does a pretty good job throwing them off the trail, but…”

“What, um,” you start, then clear your throat. “What makes it so… obvious? To you?”

“Eh, lots of things, I guess.” Tucker shrugs. “Like– like Tim Drake is a detective, right? He finds criminals. Red Hood is a criminal, but he also fights them. That overlap is pretty suspicious, if you ask me.” 

Jason’s hand lands on your knee, and he clutches it tight. You can’t read his expression, but you don’t think it’s bad. Your own probably looks much the same. Without quite understanding why, you find yourself opening your phone’s camera and activating the recording function.

“Yeah?” Jason asks, somewhat tonelessly. “Huh. Never thought about that. What else?”

“God, where do I even start?” Tucker laughs. “I mean, there’s the coffee thing, obviously, everyone knows about that.”

“Coffee thing?” You repeat.

“Tim Drake’s been seen drinking strong coffee at, like, two in the morning,” Tucker clarifies. “That’s total vigilante behavior. Why else would he need to stay awake like that?”

Jason makes a very interesting noise in his throat. It sounds a little bit like a laugh he’s strangled into the shape of a politely interested hum. “Can see how you’d get there,” he says. “That’s…”

“Compelling,” you offer.

This man is unwell, Lun says.

I think he’s just spent too much time on the internet, you reply. Cass warned us about that, remember?

Bellamy is laughing too hard to say much of anything.

“So what else?” Jason asks, having regrouped internally enough that he isn’t in danger of cracking into uncontrollable laughter. His fingers tighten on your knee, not enough to be painful, but like he needs to ground himself to another person right now to make sure this is really happening. You clutch his wrist with your free hand.

Tucker glances in the rearview mirror and hesitates. “...You sure you wanna hear this? Most people think I’m crazy.”

Jason shrugs. “People probably thought Einstein was crazy too,” he says. You resist the urge to correct him because you don’t think he means it. “We got nothin’ better to do back here, man. We’re all ears…”

==

By the time you make it to Tim’s building, you’ve recorded twenty solid minutes of the most fascinating conspiracy theories you’ve ever been witness to. And you grew up in a cult.

According to Tucker, Tim is clearly Red Hood for a vast array of reasons, including but not limited to: Tim Drake is notoriously always tired, and Red Hood works nights; Red Hood uses high-grade explosives and firearms, which Tim Drake is rich enough to afford; there was a span of three days a few years back when Tim Drake disappeared from the public eye, and Red Hood was also somewhere during those same three days (although Tucker doesn’t specify if he means ‘somewhere else’ or, you know, just ‘somewhere’ in general). 

It’s perhaps one of the most fascinating spiels you’ve ever heard, and Jason is holding onto his composure by a thread when you pull up to the high-end apartment building where Tim lives. You’re doing slightly better because you’re more practiced at schooling your expressions, and you can at least still talk– every time Jason tries, he ends up sounding like he’s being strangled. 

“This place looks familiar,” Tucker says, as you drag Jason out of the back seat and then haul the laundry bags from the trunk. The driver leans out of the window, scrutinizing the building for a few long moments, and then blinks. “Wait. Isn’t there where Tim Drake–”

“Thanks for the ride,” you interrupt with a wavering smile. “I’ll, um, make sure to leave a good review. Come on, Jay.”

You take Jason’s elbow and lead him towards the building. The doorman gives you a raised eyebrow as you pass, but he must recognize Jason, because he doesn’t stop either of you, just opens the door and lets you in. You make it to the elevators and press a button before Jason all but collapses into helpless laughter. You turn, momentarily concerned, but then you see his face, and you can’t stop the absolute hilariousness of what you just experienced from overtaking you.

Soon enough, the two of you are wheezing together, barely upright, your face pressed into Jason’s side and him leaning hard against the nearest wall. 

“H-he said– three days–” You can’t even get the sentence out. 

Jason’s not faring any better. “V-vuh–” He chokes. “Vigilante behavior–”

You wail a laugh that you barely manage to muffle against his ribs. Inside, you can hear Bellamy and Artemisia laughing too, and even Lun gives a quiet chuckle.

Thou’rt unseemly in thy mirth, Nix says sourly.

Eventually, the elevator doors open; you and Jason stumble inside, dragging your laundry with you. For once, Jason doesn’t tense up in the confined space, although it’s quite a bit roomier than most elevators you’ve been in since you came to Gotham. Jason reaches over to choose the right floor, and you try to steady yourself. It feels like a losing battle. You see the doorman peering inside, that same eyebrow raised, as the doors close.

The elevator rises towards the penthouse. You and Jason gradually manage to breathe without bursting into laughter again. 

“Jesus fuck,” Jason says, wiping his ears on the back of his arm. “God, I can’t wait to see the look on Tim’s face when we tell him. Did you get all of it?”

“I think so,” you reply, grinning. “Should I put it in the group chat?”

“Wait ‘til after we talk to Tiny Tim,” he replies with a mischievous grin of his own. “Wouldn’t wanna spoil the surprise.”

The elevator stops, and the doors open into a narrow vestibule with a single red door. Jason walks up and hammers on the door, tilting his head up towards the ceiling. You look up too, and it takes a second, but you do eventually identify a tiny camera tucked into the seam between the ceiling and wall. 

“Open up, Timbits,” Jason calls. “I know you’re in there.”

“We just need a favor,” you add, unsure how loud to pitch your voice, but also hoping your presence will make Tim feel less like Jason is here to interrogate him. “Also, hello.”

For a moment, nothing happens; then you hear a faint series of clicks as multiple locks come unlatched, and then the door opens to reveal Tim in all his glory.

He looks, well, exhausted. Dark circles beneath his eyes, hair mussed, skin pale. He squints at the two of you as if he’s trying to get your figures to resolve into their appropriate shapes. “What.” His tone is terse and short. 

Jason quirks an eyebrow. “You look like shit,” he says. “S’the last time you slept?”

“Um,” Tim says, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “What day is it?”

“Thursday,” you reply. 

“Oh. Then it's been four days.”

“Goddammit, Tim,” Jason sighs. He pushes past Tim into the foyer of the penthouse; Tim doesn’t fight the intrusion, just frowns, and you sidle in with an apologetic smile. 

The penthouse is impressive, in the way most expensive things are, with high ceilings and large windows taking up most of the outer walls. The living room is professionally furnished, and the kitchen is all clean white marble. It looks pristine– but less in a way that suggests that Tim just finished cleaning and more as if he simply uses most of the space at all. 

“What have you been working on?” You ask Tim, following Jason into the living room. 

“Personal project,” Tim replies, which could mean anything, really. “Look, what did you need? I’m busy.”

“Washing machine,” Jason replies, glaring up at the dangling overhead lights above the couch as if they’ve personally offended him. “I swear I saw one last time I was here…”

“Oh, I got rid of that,” Tim says. Jason stiffens and turns to stare at him, but Tim just shrugs. “I never did any laundry, and Steph needed a new one. I just take my things to the Manor for Alfred…”

Of course he did, aye, that’s just our luck, Bellamy mutters.

Jason looks like he might be contemplating murder (you’ve become familiar with that expression). You decide a timely intervention is necessary.

“Have you eaten anything recently?” You ask Tim, stepping between them. 

“I ordered pho. Before patrol last night,” he adds, as if that somehow helps the situation. 

The thing about Jason, something you've learned rather quickly, is that he might complain about his siblings like he despises them, but he is at heart something of a natural caregiver. He shows affection through action rather than words, and even if his family gets on his nerves, he still cares about them quite a bit. At baseline, he wants them safe, well-fed, and happy. He will usually, depending on his mood, jump at the opportunity to provide at least two of those three options. 

It's a bit of a gamble, considering everything he's already been through, but this time it pays off. Jason scowls fiercely at the younger man. 

“Sit your ass down, Timberly,” he says, and heads for the kitchen.

“Jason,” Tim says, starting to trail after his older brother. You follow him, hands clasped behind your back. “What are you doing?”

“You're a detective, Tim,” Jason says, already digging through cabinets for cookware. He tests the weight of a spotless cast iron skillet you somehow doubt has ever seen use before, nodding with approval. “Figure it out.”

“You don't need to cook for me,” Tim says sternly. “I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, but you won't.”

“Then I can order something.” Tim watches from the doorway with indignant, exhausted distress. “You don't have to…”

Such needless prattle, grumbles Nix.

“I think he, um, wants to,” you tell Tim. He looks at you, and you smile weakly. “Maybe you could let him? I know you're busy, but it wouldn't hurt to take a break and eat. Right?”

You wouldn't necessarily say that everyone in Jason’s extended family has quite the same soft spot for you that he (and arguably Barbara) does, but Tim doesn't seem able to formulate an argument to your earnest tone, which might be because he likes you, or possibly it's just a side effect of sleep deprivation. He stares at you, mouth opening, then closing. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Such a clever man, Artemisia says. It's very impressive how stupid he can be.

A common affliction among his kin, I fear, Nix huffs.

Tim sighs, and the taut line of his shoulders relaxes slightly. “Fine,” he mutters. 

Jason pauses with the fridge door open, then says, too innocently, “Hey, so we actually met a fan of yours on the way over…”

You grin and pull out your phone.

Fortunately, even though he doesn't seem to use most of his home's amenities, Tim at least has a ready stock of what you've heard Jason call ‘basic kitchen essentials’. So, while he prepares a simple meal (an omelet over rice cooked in soy sauce with ketchup), you let Tim listen to the absolute fuckery you recorded in the car. 

By the time it’s over, Tim’s face has gone through a fascinating array of expressions. Confusion, offense, horror, indignation, horror again… 

“He thinks I’m Red Hood,” Tim whispers, leaning against the kitchen wall, eyes wide as he stares unseeing at the floor. “How could– I’m nothing like Red Hood, I– is this a widespread belief? Do others,” he swallows hard. “Do they think…?”

“I dunno, seemed like this was his own particular brand of unhinged. Guess you could search online, but, uh… I don’t know if you’d wanna put yourself through that.” Jason snags Tim by the back of his shirt, grabs the plated omelet and rice, and brings them both into the living room. Tim goes without complaint (a testament to how thrown he is) and sits on one of the stiff couches without argument.

Jason shoves the plate into Tim’s hands, along with a spoon. “Eat,” he says. He’s grinning. “Going without food for too long is probably ‘vigilante behavior’. Wouldn’t wanna make Tucker more suspicious of you.”

Tim lifts his gaze to glare at his older brother. “You think this is funny?” He demands, but he also scoops a bite of omelet and rice into his mouth, which is heartening. 

“It’s a little funny,” you tell him, smiling apologetically when he sends you a wounded look. “I mean, you have to admit, his reasoning is, er… interesting.”

“Fuckin’ cracked is what it is,” Jason says with a chuckle. “C’mon, Timbits. Thought you liked stealing my spotlight.”

Tim grumbles something under his breath. The first bite seems to remind him how hungry he is, though, because he starts wolfing down the food with the sort of grim determination he usually reserves for unpleasant casework. He chews a mouthful, swallows, then says, grudgingly, “I guess it is pretty funny he thinks ‘detective’ and ‘crime lord who fights crime’ have much overlap…”

“I was a little upset at first, ‘cause I couldn’t figure out how anyone could see you, all twiggy and shit, and think you’re me.” Jason lifts one arm and pats the solid muscle of his bicep, and you don’t stare when he does it because that would be weird. “But he had his whole thing about, uh, fake muscles built into the uniform, so I guess he made it plausible. Y’know, if you believe that sorta moon logic.”

There is a noticeable difference in their builds, Artemisia muses.

Aye, the lass noticed, alright, Bellamy chuckles.

Don’t you start, you warn. 

Tim scowls up at his brother. “Some of us actually spend our energy developing our brains,” he retorts. “And no one else had the Lazarus Pit to put us through Turbo Puberty. Besides, I’m perfectly fine how I am.” He finishes the last of the omelette with a quiet sound that might be satisfaction. He’s already more relaxed, even leaning back against the couch cushions. The interruption seems to have distracted him from his intense desire to keep working.

Jason seems to notice that too. “Scoot,” he says, sitting down beside Tim and pushing his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto his side. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Tim gripes, pushing himself up on one arm.

“Takin’ a break, what’s it look like?”

“You didn’t need to push me to do that!”

“Yeah, well, me and my ‘Turbo Puberty’ muscles needed a little space. You wanna quit whinin’, Princess Tim?” Jason bends, grabs Tim’s legs, and lifts them unceremoniously into his lap. He leans back against the couch with a sigh, eyes closing. “Damn. You oughta use this couch more; it’s pretty comfortable.”

“The place came already furnished,” Tim explains, still sour.

You sit down in the armchair to Tim’s left and open YouTube. You find a video titled ‘lo-fi beats to fall asleep too/ambient rain’ and play it nonchalantly, the volume low enough it’s mostly unobtrusive. 

“I think I’d have hated missing out on furniture shopping,” you say. “It’s fun, even if Jason threatens the employees whenever we go to Ikea.”

“I don’t threaten them,” Jason replies, voice quieter now. “I just stand there looking normal so they don’t harass us.”

“You stare,” you reply, grinning. “Intensely. It’s like seeing an eagle thinking about what rabbit it wants to eat.”

“I like shopping without some employee feeling like they need to hover,” he says with a shrug. “They don’t get paid enough as it is.”

“I think Ikea is actually pretty good about paying people.” You hold up your phone. “I looked it up the last time you said that. I think the average is, like… twenty-two an hour?”

“Shit. Barely a living wage, these days,” Jason mutters. “Guess that’s better than minimum, though.”

You nod, and finally sneak a peek at Tim. You’re pleased to see that his eyes have closed, and that his breathing has grown deep and even. You glance at Jason, who nods approvingly in your direction. 

The two of you wait a little longer, just to be certain Tim’s really and truly out. Then Jason carefully extricates himself from the couch, grabs the throw blanket from the back of it, and spreads it over his slumbering brother. You give him an amused, pointed look, and he narrows his eyes at you in warning. You stay quiet as you both pick up the laundry bags and leave the apartment, locking the door behind you. 

You wait until you’re back in the elevator to nudge his ribs with your elbow. “That was very sweet,” you say.

“You better not say a word to Dick.”

“No, of course not.”

“I mean it, doll. That includes texts.”

“Mm-hm!”

Jason sighs in a very put-upon way, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile as he does.

==

Your next driver is a woman in her late fifties named Denise, who offers you water, candy, and absolutely zero conspiracy theories about the identities of the local vigilantes. She doesn’t seem inclined to converse with either of you, but it doesn’t feel rude, and you’re honestly a little grateful.

You text Stephanie once you get in the car.

You: Hello Steph. Do you and Cass still have Tim’s washing machine?
Steph: yeah totally
Steph: why, does he need it back?
You: I don’t think so. Jason and I are on the way to your apartment. Is that okay?
Steph: hell yeah!
Steph: it’s sort of a mess rn
You: That’s okay! I hope we won’t be keeping you up…
Steph: eh, cass and i don’t usually go to bed till noon
Steph: so you got a few hours
You: Thank you!

“Steph has the washing machine,” you tell Jason. “She says we can come over.”

“Thank God,” Jason says. “M’ready to get this shit over with. Bet we could crash at her place until tonight, too.”

“That would be nice,” you say. You’re getting tired, a full night of patrol quickly catching up to you in the summer heat. You lean against his shoulder and sigh, eyes closing. “Going outside during the day is so annoying right now…”

“Wait ‘til winter hits,” he says. He stretches his arm over the back of your seat so it’s a bit easier for you to lean against him. “You might miss the heat. I mean, I never do, but…”

“Being cold is so much easier than being hot,” you reply with a frown. “I can always put on more layers to warm up. There’s only so naked I can get before someone calls the police.”

That startles a quiet laugh out of Jason. You feel the way his chest and sides jump with the sound, and there’s something wonderfully human about it. You smile to yourself and relax into him. You’re still relatively new to physical affection– although Dick and Steph are rapidly acclimating you to the idea– but you know that you like it. Jason never seems to mind these little moments, either.

Traffic isn't terrible on this side of town at this time of morning, so it only takes about ten minutes to get to your destination.

Steph and Cass live in Chinatown, in a studio apartment above what used to be a sit-down restaurant. The first floor is all boarded up now, closed off from any curious explorers by strategically placed barbed wire and a low-tech but no less dangerous security system (Cassandra with a baseball bat). Steph is waiting outside when the car pulls up, and she pulls you into a one-armed hug as soon as you get out.

“Seeing you guys when the sun is up is like watching one of those weird mud-fish crawl around on land,” she says by way of greeting. You laugh as you pull away.

“I don’t– I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not?” You say.

It didn’t sound like one, but I think she meant it to be, Artemisia says. 

“I just call it like I see it,” Steph says with a shrug. “Cass ran out to get toilet paper; she should be back soon.” She looks up at Jason as he walks over, hauling two laundry bags, and raises an eyebrow. “Hey, Jay. Huh. What’s all that?”

Jason squints at her. “Laundry,” he says, in the way that means he thinks she ought to be able to guess. 

“That's why I asked about the machine,” you explain. “Our washing machine broke this morning. We already tried Barbara, and then Tim…”

“Oooh. Oh. No, okay, I get it.” Steph puts her hands on her hips and puffs out a breath. “Okay. Right. So, uh, about the washing machine…”

“Oh, here we go,” Jason groans, head tilting back as he looks briefly into the future and recoils from what he sees. 

“Look, there was an incident last week, okay? Uh… maybe it'll be better if I show you. Come on.” She beckons you both forward, then leads the way up the stairs on the side of the building that end at the apartment door. You follow her inside.

The apartment is… interesting, to say the least. The furniture is all secondhand and mismatched, and the walls are covered in posters and pictures that range from bands you've never heard of to cute animals to art of different members of the Justice League at an Alice in Wonderland-themed tea party. The loft, where Cass and Steph sleep, juts out above a space that seems dedicated primarily to a large, solid wooden computer desk, a single bookshelf with five books, and scattered newspapers with interesting articles cut out.

The “living room”, a collection of patchy armchairs and a couch around a low table, and a strangely expensive television sitting on top of a milk crate, is in the middle of the apartment like an island out at sea. Meanwhile, the kitchen is against the far wall. 

“This way,” Steph says, bringing you down a staircase beneath the loft that actually looks more like someone ripped up a patch of the floor, punched through the ceiling below, and then installed a set of lightweight, portable steel stairs in the resulting gap.

Ye know, I admire anyone what deals with a problem head on, Bellamy says. Don't think I'll be recommendin’ either of ‘em as shipwrights anytime soon, though.

They would be very accomplished at demolition, Artemisia offers.

You make sure to hold tightly to the railing as you descend.

The bottom floor, which was previously a restaurant and kitchen, has been thoroughly gutted. You don't know if that was Cass and Steph, or if it happened before they moved in; either way, they've made the place their own. 

One half seems to be a dedicated miniature dance studio, with a smooth floor, a wall of mirrors, and a sturdy ballet barre spanning the length of the wall beside it. A carefully organized standalone dresser stands nearby, one door slightly open, through which you glimpse a black leotard. Cass isn't a professional ballerina, but you think she could be if she wanted to. You've never seen her dance, but you have seen the way she moves in uniform. That's all the proof you need.

The other half of the room seems to serve as a laundry room-slash-experimental art lab.

Art, more specifically process art, is a newer interest of Steph's. She's been at it for a little longer than you've been around, maybe three months, and it's the sort of thing she considers Personal, capital P, so she doesn't talk about it to just anyone. You've heard the whole story by virtue of continued girls' days/nights, so you aren't surprised by the mess of paint, wax, felt scraps, and stacked containers of steel bearing balls.

You are surprised by the traumatized mess of a washing machine that almost seems to be huddling in the far corner beside the dryer. At some point, it was a sleek modern model, but now it's battered and dented, scratches in the paint revealing the bright silver metal beneath. There's smeared handprints of purple paint all around the open door, and inside–

“What the fuck did you do to it?” Jason asks, staring horrified at the mistreated appliance. 

Torture provideth inconsistent results, Nix says, aghast. Wretched thing. Thou wouldst be justified in ending its misery.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Steph says, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t know I still had paintballs in my pockets. And, uh, maybe a couple jars of Vaseline. And then I tried to clean it, but it turns out the type of paint I mixed– I’ve been experimenting, you know? And this kind reacts really badly with certain common chemicals in cleaning products. So, you know, lesson learned?”

“How did you– vaseline?” Jason asks incredulously.

“It was a long night! I came off patrol and had to go grocery shopping, I forgot, like, half of my list, and then I tried to do laundry when I got home and it, uh…” Steph rests her hands on her hips and studies the abused carcass of a washing machine. “I was sort of thinking I could display it as a piece in itself, but I’m worried the fumes from the chemicals might be problematic…”

You silently thank whoever decided to leave a trio of small rectangular windows uncovered and open on the nearest wall. You’d hate to think what would happen without the ventilation.

“I think you’re better off selling it to Dr. Death as a newly discovered WMD,” Jason replies, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He sighs heavily. “God fucking dammit.”

“It’s been a rough morning,” you tell Steph. You pat Jason’s shoulder sympathetically, and then say, “We should let her listen to the Tucker Tim Tirade, right?”

He lifts his head, brightening a little. “Oh shit. Yeah, definitely.”

“The what?” Steph asks.

“We had this driver… You really need to listen to it to get it,” Jason says, grinning now. “It’s pretty great.”

“Come upstairs.”

You and Jason both jump, startled by the quiet, even voice from directly behind you both. You whip around and find Cass standing there innocently, a package of toilet paper tucked under her arm. Her eyes flicker from Jason to you, and her mouth does that faint twitch that, for her, is as good as a smile. 

“Good timing, babe,” Steph says. She walks over and slings an arm over Cass’s shoulder, leaning up to kiss her cheek. Steph glances back at Jason and says, “C’mon, back upstairs. Let’s hear your thing.”

You follow them out of the crime scene and back up to the apartment proper. Jason drags the laundry bags along, tired of carrying them, and you don’t blame him. Still, he’s in a good enough mood to grin while you play the recording, while Stephanie cackles helplessly, and even Cass is smiling and laughing her quiet, huffing laughs. 

“God, you have to send me that,” Steph says when the recording ends and she regains her composure. “Seriously, that’s amazing.”

“I will,” you say with a nod. “Right after we figure out the laundry situation.”

“Where will you go now?” Cass asks, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Honestly, I’d have just gone to a laundromat by now,” Steph says, flopping back on the couch. “One of the small ones. Stick the crime lord at the front door to look scary and ward off other customers.” She jabs a thumb in Jason’s direction. “What else is ‘scary dog privilege’ for?”

“Fuck you,” Jason grumbles. 

“I think I’d feel really bad if we did that,” you say, frowning. “Hogging the whole place…”

“The manor,” Cass offers. “Alfred.”

“What is with you people and the Manor?” Jason demands. “Christ, it’s like none of you can survive on your own. You really need someone else to do your laundry for you?”

“Uh, when our machine is broken, yeah? Besides, we help with the folding.” Steph rolls her eyes. “You don’t exactly have any options left, shitlord. Not unless you want to hitch a ride to Blud and see if Dick’s got his laundry ducks in a row.”

“That’s… true,” you say, glancing worriedly at Jason. “I don’t think there’s anyone else we can ask…”

Jason’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “There might be… one place we haven’t tried,” he hedges, clearly reluctant. He sighs and rubs his forehead with one hand. “I’ve got a headache just thinking about it.”

“Where?” You ask.

He looks at you with a grimace. “A, uh… friend, I guess? Don’t think I’ve introduced you two yet. Might not thank me for it, honestly. God, this is gonna suck.”

Steph frowns at him. “Don’t go corrupting her with your weird criminal empire friends,” she warns.

He scoffs. “That’s not– ugh, whatever. I’m sending you an address,” he says to you. “Order another car while I, uh, make a call. Please.” He stands, hands shoved into his pockets, and walks out the front door, letting it close behind him. You watch him go, head tilted, before you turn back to the others.

“Should I be worried?” You ask.

Cass shakes her head, which either means she knows who Jason is referring to and doesn’t think they mean any harm, or that she trusts you and Jason to get out of any trouble you end up in. It’s hard to tell. “No,” she says. She pauses, considers, and then adds, “But compliment the plants.”

==

“--so it just seems pretty obvious that Richard Grayon is Nightwing, that’s all I mean,” Tucker says. “Like, his hair is black. Nightwing’s hair is black. I don’t know how it could be more clear.”

“That’s a good point,” Jason, who also has black hair (mostly) says agreeably. “Not even really hiding it, is he?”

“Ugh, that’s the problem! They think they’re too smart to get caught, so they just leave all these totally unmistakable clues, and the worst part is, it works! No one pays attention!” Tucker shakes his head disapprovingly. “I mean! Richard Grayson is from the circus! They do flips in the circus. Nightwing does flips!”

“Couldn’t ask for better proof, honestly,” Jason nods.

“Mm-hm,” you hum agreement, because you think if you tried to answer verbally you’d lose your grasp on your composure. It’s all you can do to keep the recording going with a straight face. 

You’d been a little uneasy when Tucker appeared as your next driver, but he greeted you with such genuine enthusiasm that you immediately relaxed. He’s maybe a bit strange, and he comes to his conclusions in the most convoluted ways, but he genuinely seems like a nice person, and he’s good at his job. He talks the whole time, but he gets you where you need to go. 

The fact that he has somehow managed to correctly identify Dick as Nightwing while working off of what you could charitably call ‘flimsy’ evidence is interesting, too. You can't imagine what he might be capable of if he had a similar grasp of reality to the average person. 

The address Jason gave you is, according to your phone, attached to a house in a small, relatively quiet neighborhood riding the border of Chinatown and the Diamond District. You have virtually no idea who lives there, or why he’d been so tight-lipped about it in the first place. You’re a little nervous, if you’re being honest. You know Jason had an entire life before you ever came to Gotham, and that you aren’t the center of his universe in any sense of the word (nor do you want to be), but he’s never been shy about telling you about his allies. 

For this to be someone he doesn’t even want to talk about means… Well, what, exactly? You don’t know. It can’t be an enemy, surely; you can’t imagine he’d be willing to ask someone he hates to use their washing machine. That leaves vanishingly few possibilities.

Might be somethin’ simpler than that, Bellamy says thoughtfully. Ex-lover, maybe.

No. What? No, you reply, and then have to stop and consider why you denied it so quickly. 

Jason is objectively attractive. You might be a sheltered, cult-raised weirdo with people living in your head, and fine, you don’t always have the firmest grasp on cultural norms, particularly where things like romance and sex are involved (although you’ve been hesitantly poking around a few very interesting books that Barbara lent you, with busty women and men without shirts on the covers), but you’ve seen the way people watch Jason when he isn’t paying attention. Even just today, in his tank top and faint sheen of sweat, he’s drawn interesting looks from plenty of people passing by. 

One young man had glanced over when Jason was mid-stretch, arms above his head, tank top riding up just enough to expose a strip of skin along his stomach, and promptly ran into a stop sign. 

Not that you’d been watching too. That would have been inappropriate.

But– you know Jason’s probably had, well, partners before. That’s just normal. The concept of him visiting his ex to ask to use their appliances shouldn’t bother you. If they’re on good enough terms to ask for favors, well, that’s just nice, right? It would be stupid to be…

Careful, girl, lest thy skin turn emerald green, Nix warns, as close to teasing as she ever comes.

I’m not– ugh, shut up. You reach up and grip your necklace in one hand, frowning.

Testy, testy, Bellamy cackles. 

“Okay, here we go,” Tucker says, pulling you out of your thoughts. The car slows to a stop. Outside, a small, strangely pleasant house with an absolutely gorgeous garden overtaking the tiny front yard sits innocently between rigidly cultivated patches of lawn. Tucker looks back at you both with a bright smile. “Thanks for listening! It’s nice to get to talk about this sort of thing.”

“Hey, no problem,” Jason says. “You should start one of those podcasts, honestly. Bet you’d make it big.” He gets out of the car, then pauses and leans back into the door. “Do me a favor, actually. Hang out here for a bit. Don’t worry, I’ll tip.” He straightens, sees you staring at him from the other side of the car, and adds, “Just a hunch.”

You frown, but nod anyway. You haul one laundry bag, Jason grabs the other, and the two of you pass through the cheerful wooden waist-high gate connected to a fence made of intertwining branches. The front door is a sunny shade of yellow. The silver door knocker looks like a grinning hyena holding a ring in its teeth.

Jason sucks in a breath, then turns to look at you. “Uh, so,” he says, “Be cool, okay?”

You stare at him without speaking for long enough that he looks away sheepishly. His nervousness is doing nothing for your own anxiety. 

“Not that you aren’t usually…” He tries, and then sighs and seems to give up. “Forget it, sorry. That was shitty. S’just, uh–”

“Oh. My. God!”

The voice is high, heavily accented, and muffled as if behind glass. Confused, you turn your head and find a woman with her hands pressed to the window nearest the front door. She has pale blond hair pulled into pigtails, light blue eyes wide with delight. She scrambles out of sight; seconds later, the door opens.

She’s wearing a pink-and-green hoodie with the image of the numbers 6 and 7 floating above two outstretched hands– you think you remember Steph making a reference to something similar before– and the collar has been stretched enough for one of her shoulders to peek out. She also wears soft black shorts and a pair of fuzzy knee-high socks that, on closer inspection, are decorated with cartoon hyena faces. 

“Jaybird! It’s so good to see ya!” The woman laughs. You’re sort of worried she’s about to throw herself at him for a hug, but she must know better than that, because she just clasps her hands against her chest instead. “It’s been forever since ya came by! I was startin’ to think ya didn’t like me anymore.”

“Hey, Harley,” Jason says, mostly toneless, although there’s this tilt at the end that sounds like fondness to you. “Been busy.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. People have been talkin’ about ya new friend,” she replies. Her eyes flick back towards you, and her grin widens. “Hey, sweetie! Call me Harley. I don’t bite, I promise.”

She seems friendly. You smile nervously and lift a hand in greeting, offering your name. “It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, she’s cute,” Harley giggles, and you wonder if you should be offended. “Ya shoulda brought her around sooner, Jaybird! What, did ya think I was gonna eat her or somethin’?”

“Crossed my mind,” Jason grunts. “Look, can we just– get this over with? I’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

“Yeah, yeah, come on in,” she says, stepping back to let him in. You follow behind him, still anxious because you can’t tell what their relationship is. You don’t think it’s romantic? She’s treating him more like a family member than anything else. Still, you could also easily picture them dating. 

She is very pretty, Artemisia says, and then seems to realize that this was very unhelpful. Oh, but you’re much prettier!

That’s not important, you reply. I’m not, and– it doesn’t matter!

Seems like it matters, Bellamy murmurs under his breath.

You are on my last nerve today!

The inside of the house is cozy and welcoming. There are houseplants everywhere, and each one is vibrantly healthy. The furniture carries touches of long life, from scuffs and scratches to table and chair legs that seem to have been thoroughly chewed. It smells like fresh ferns and potting soil, but in a way that feels incredibly pleasant.

Harley leads you both through a sliding glass door and onto a stone patio. The backyard is bigger than the front, and mostly taken up by a pretty little vegetable garden and a small tin shed in the back corner. There's a green metal garden table just outside the patio door, with a large sun umbrella opened overhead, and four matching chairs surrounding it. You leave the laundry bags inside and follow her out.

There’s also a woman in the garden wearing overalls and a sunhat that obscures much of her figure. She doesn’t look up as you all approach, but you catch a glimpse of a green-skinned hand reaching out to study a ripe red tomato hanging from a vine. 

A tray sits on the table, holding a pitcher of cold lemonade and three glasses. 

“Thought ya might like some refreshments,” Harley says, motioning towards the tray. “Nothin’ like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day! Sit down, Tater Todd, ya look like ya need it!”

What did she just call him? Bellamy asks incredulously. 

You look at Jason, who meets your gaze with his cheeks turning faintly red. You try very hard not to smile. 

“‘Tater Todd’,” you repeat. 

He points at you with two accusing fingers. “Don't even start.”

“No, no, I'm not,” you assure him, swallowing your laughter awkwardly. “I just, um, need to text Steph about something totally unrelated.”

Jason scowls at you, and then at Harley. “Think I’d rather just get this over with,” he says. “Where’s your washer?”

“Aw, what? Ya don’t wanna sit and have some fresh-squeezed delicious lemonade with your ol’ pal Harley?” She grins at him, unabashed and clearly pleased to have been the cause of his teasing. She pours two glasses of lemonade theatrically. “C’mon, what’s the rush?”

Feeling a little more confident now, a bit more at ease, you sit down at the garden table and smile at her. She beams at you, and then quirks an eyebrow in Jason’s direction. After a moment, he gives a long-suffering sigh and drops into the chair next to yours, mumbling something about not signing up for a garden party. 

“Your home is beautiful,” you tell Harley earnestly. “I didn’t know anything could grow this well in Gotham. I mean, not without a lot of, um, specialized care.”

“Oh, that’s all my sweetie Pammy’s work!” Harley says, eyes bright. She points to the woman still crouched in the garden. “She’s got a real green thumb, ya know?”

“She’s got a real green everything, Harley,” Jason grumbles, picking up his glass of lemonade and taking a sip. “She’s green.”

“Yeah, but I’m speakin’ metaphorically, you party pooper,” Harley replies. To you, she adds, “Pam’s my best gal! We’re gettin’ married in a few months. I keep meanin’ to send an invitation; guess that’ll be easier now that ya got this sourpuss to settle down somewhere, huh?”

You blink. “Did I…?” You know Jason hadn’t had a fixed address before you’d arrived, just a series of safehouses he used interchangeably depending on where he needed to be. It isn’t like you aren’t aware, in some distant way, that you’d probably been a factor in his decision to actually properly move into the brownstone. You just hadn’t quite realized that it was a big enough change for other people to have noticed. 

“I’ve been tellin’ Jaybird for years to get himself a real place to live,” Harley says. “It’s good for the soul, y’know? Havin’ a place to call ‘home’. Of course, he never listens to me, even though I’m great at givin’ advice.”

“But not always great at following it yourself,” Pam says as she walks over, a basket of tomatoes slung over one arm. She does, in fact, have green skin and long, bright red hair tied into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are green, too; her expression softens as she bends down to kiss Harley’s cheek. 

“Hey, Ivy,” Jason grunts.

Pam straightens and gives him a wary glance. “Todd,” she says, and then looks at you. “You’re the new girl.” It isn’t a question. You realize immediately that she (and undoubtedly Harley) knows about the vigilante business, although you don’t know how. 

“Um, yes,” you say, since you figure there’s no point trying to hide it. You offer your name and a small wave. “Nice to meet you. I really like your garden.”

“Hm,” she responds. She stares at you for a moment longer, then looks at Harley. “I’ll be inside.”

“Okay, Pam-a-Lamb,” Harley chirps, waving energetically as the other woman walks inside. She sighs dreamily, cupping a hand to her cheek. “Ain’t she a dream?” Hearts practically float in her eyes.

That’s precious, Artemisia says. You kind of agree.

“She seems nice,” you say, smiling warmly. “And her hair is a lovely color.”

“Ain’t it just!” Harley laughs, delighted. Jason makes a vaguely disgusted noise in his throat and focuses on his drink. You take a sip of your own and perk up at the tangy, just-sour-enough zing of flavor. 

“So how’s things?” Harley asks. “Ya know, aside from the broken washing machine. Ya doin’ alright, Jaybird?”

“You’re not my therapist, Harley,” he replies.

“No, but I got a doctorate in psychology, and it ain’t just ‘cause I felt like payin’ off student loans for the rest of forever,” she says. “Besides! You and me, we got a lot in common.”

“We’ve got one thing in common.”

Harley sighs and shakes her head. “Ya know I just worry about ya.”

“I know,” Jason says. 

You look between them and wonder again how it is they know each other. Harley clearly knows about Jason being Red Hood, which means she knows you’re Rally, and possibly also that the extended Wayne family are all vigilantes.

Perhaps she was involved in a similar lifestyle, Lun says. Birds of a feather flock together.

Her fiancé is green, Artemisia points out. A meta-human, maybe?

I can get details later, you say. 

Jason downs the rest of his lemonade and puts the glass back on the tray. “Look, Harley. Where’s your washer? We’ll have time for ‘catching up’,” he says the words like they taste terrible, “While we wait for the laundry. Okay?”

“Oh, yeah, right. About that.” Harley hesitates, and then stands up. For a moment, it looks as if she wants to say something she finds worrisome, but what she eventually decides on is, “It’s over here, follow me!” She heads off into the garden, towards the little tin shed in the back corner. 

A portent I like not, says Nix. Be on thy guard.

Jason and you share a look, and then stand and follow after her retreating figure.

“Did ya know washing machines are real bad for the environment?” Harley asks unprompted as she rounds the corner of the shed. “Usin’ up all that water, then spittin’ it out fulla chemicals and microplastics and whatnot.”

“Guessing you learned that from Ivy,” Jason grumbles. “Look, some shit needs to be machine washed, alright?”

“I’m just sayin’, Tater Todd, folks washed clothes just fine before machines did it for ‘em! Ya know, I do our wash in the bathtub, and I use this real neat all-natural cleaner Pammy makes.” Harley gives a faintly nervous laugh and stops beside two strange box planters currently sprouting some unidentifiable vegetable. “I mean, I practically got no use for washin’ machines anymore.”

“Harley,” Jason says, a warning note in his voice. “What are you saying?”

“Or dryers!” Harley replies, with another little laugh. “We just hang our clothes out to dry, no need to waste alla that energy! So, ya know, then we just had these two big machines we didn’t really use anymore, and if we gave ‘em away someone else would use ‘em, so we figured, well, maybe we could repurpose ‘em…”

You find yourself squinting at the planters again. They’re sort of tall, and made of metal, which is unusual. There’s– is that a door in the front of one? Why would a planter box need a door…

“Oh,” you say, because suddenly you get it.

Jason looks at you quizzically, and you point to what you’re staring at. The washer and dryer have been stripped tidily of their electronics and more obtrusive plastic pieces. Someone pried the top of the dryer open, possibly with metal shears, and taped the door shut. Still, their shape is unmistakable once you know what to look for.

“Harley,” says Jason, low and dangerous. “What is this.”

“Er… tadah!” Harley says, presenting the makeshift planters with both arms and jazz hands.

You reach out and put your hand on Jason’s shoulder. You feel him take one deep, slow breath, hold it, and then let it out. He does it again, which means he’s really trying to keep it together. Honestly, you are too; it’s not like this entire escapade has been any easier on you.

You are very tired. 

“Look, I didn’t really lie, if ya think about it,” says Harley, not helping matters in the slightest. “I mean, all ya asked was if I had a washer and could ya use it! And I do have a washer, and ya can use it. Just, only for plantin’ things.”

“Why,” Jason manages to force out between tightly clenched teeth.

She drags the toe of her shoe in the dirt and looks down sheepishly. “‘Cause I knew if I told ya the whole truth ya wouldn’t come over,” she admits. “And I really wanted to see ya. And meet ya new friend!” 

He nods, like that’s just about the answer he expected. Slowly, like a great oak finally felled by time and wind, he sits down on the ground and puts his face in his hands. You sit beside him, leaning against his back, pressing your own face into his shoulder with a weary sigh. For a few long moments, no one says anything; the only noise comes from birds and insects chirping in the mid-morning heat.

Finally, you say, “Jason,” without moving your face, so your voice comes out muffled.

“Yeah?” He replies, his own voice muted by his hands.

“Jay.”

“Mm-hm?”

“Can we please go to the Manor now?”

Jason sighs. It’s a chest-deep, world-weary sort of sigh, full of grief (for your broken washing machine, maybe) and exhaustion (which you don’t blame him for) and utter resignation. You feel him nod more than you see it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

==

The only silver lining to the entire debacle is that Tucker has one final theory as to the identity of a Gotham vigilante. Fittingly, this time the topic is the most infamous of all, which brightens Jason’s mood enough that he stops grinding his teeth for a full five minutes on the ride over. You decide to count that as a success, mostly because you were starting to get worried about his dental health. 

Once again, Tucker proves that he’s capable of arriving at the correct answer using the wrong formula, somehow, which only adds to the satisfaction Jason seems to take. The fact that the only one your new favorite driver has been wrong about so far is Red Hood must be doing wonders for Jason’s ego.

By the time you make it to Wayne Manor in Crest Hill, you’ve learned that Bruce Wayne is Batman for the following reasons: Batman has no known day job, and Bruce Wayne sleeps at night, which is suspicious timing; Bruce Wayne’s parents died, and bats are famously attracted to emotional trauma; Batman’s cowl has two pointy ears, and Bruce Wayne’s ears are also sort of pointy, if you squint. 

You record all of it because, at this point, why not round out the collection? Steph’s already asked for copies of the ‘Tim Drake is Red Hood’ and ‘Dick Grayson is Nightwing’ speeches, which makes you think she already has plans for them and will probably enjoy the new edition. 

“So how do you know Bruce Wayne anyway?” Tucker asks. There hadn’t really been a way to keep him from recognizing your destination; the address is pretty well-known among Gothamites. “And Tim Drake? That was his place earlier, right?”

“Did some work on both their places last year,” Jason lies easily. “Figured I could call in a couple favors they owed me. Drake didn’t have a washer, but Wayne’s got a butler, so…”

“They owe you favors?” Tucker gives Jason a scrutinizing look. “For what?”

“‘Fraid that’s classified,” Jason replies, then coughs when you jab him in the side with your elbow. 

“You’re going to make him think you’re a mob boss,” you whisper, mouth hidden behind your hand. Jason just smirks and doesn’t reply, which tells you that was his plan all along. 

You sigh and shake your head, but you can’t stop a faint smile from appearing.

He could also be a secret agent, says Artemisia contemplatively. 

He hath not the look of secrecy and subterfuge, Nix says, then pauses, considers, and adds, A mark in his favor, mayhaps,‘ere he seeketh to employ duplicitous tactics.

You make it to the Manor and the gate rolls open without issue, allowing the powder-blue hatchback entry to the grounds. Tucker pulls up at the front steps and parks, and you and Jason start to get out of the car. 

Jason taps on the driver-side window and waits for Tucker to roll it down. He says, “Thanks for waiting for us at the last place.” He hands the driver two hundred-dollar bills. “There’s your tip.”

“Woah. That’s, uh… thanks, man,” Tucker says, looking slightly nervous as he accepts the money– possibly because he now suspects it might be ill-gotten, which, to be fair, it sort of is. Jason might be a crime lord with his heart in the right place, but he is still a crime lord. 

“You should start that podcast,” you say as you take the laundry bags out of the trunk, to distract him from worrying too much about the source of his generous tip. “About all the, um, the evidence that the media won’t cover. We’d listen.” 

Oh aye, we’d absolutely listen, says Bellamy. Can’t even wrap me head ‘round how the lad’s brain works…

“I’ll think about it,” Tucker says, and smiles, slightly sheepish. He looks from you to Jason and says, “You’re really lucky, man, you’ve got such a cool girlfriend. Take care of her, alright?”

“Oh,” you say, startled and suddenly shy. “We–”

“Always do,” Jason says, and gives the roof of the car a few rough pats. “See you around sometime, Tuck.” 

Oh, you think, eyes widening slightly as the car drives off. Um.

Now isn’t that interesting, whispers Artemisia, and you can just picture her now, leaning in close with a hand on her chin to get a better look at the situation. 

It’s part of the cover story, you rush to reply, unwilling to let her wander down that particular line of thought. 

Lun hums in disagreement. I cannot see how it was necessary to say that.

Don’t you start, too, you sigh, lifting a hand to massage the bridge of your nose, eyes narrowing slightly. It’s bad enough that Artemisia and Bellamy can’t get their heads out of the gutter.

Artemisia makes an indignant noise. There is no gutter! It’s perfectly natural to be interested in things like this.

Aye, lass, there’s nothin’ wrong with feelin’ a certain type’a way about a certain type’a fella, Bellamy adds. Or lady, or– whatever, ye know I don’t judge.

You close your eyes and sigh. This is ridiculous. He didn’t mean anything by it. Can we please just focus on–

You become aware of someone saying your name. You blink back to reality and find Jason standing in front of you, a scant few inches away, watching you, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “You okay?” He asks. 

The sound you make probably isn’t very reassuring. It’s just– well, suddenly his chest is right there, and you–

“I’m fine,” you say, trying very hard not to sound strained, hating yourself for being so totally absurd. “Let’s head in. I bet Alfred’s waiting.”

He is, in fact; the butler opens the door before you can even knock, his expression stoic and refined, as it usually is when he's anywhere the general public might see him. 

“Ah, there you are, Master Jason,” he says. He turns his gaze to you and offers your name the same courtesy, then steps aside to let you in. “Please, do come in. I understand you've had quite an interesting day…”

You go first, and then Jason follows. The door closes, and the Manor's wonderfully air-conditioned embrace welcomes you inside.

You tell Alfred about the day the two of you have had while you follow him to the laundry room, because neither you nor Jason would feel comfortable leaving him to haul your laundry without help– although he could probably manage it; he's a lot stronger than people would expect a tidy English butler in his sixties to be. It's more that it would feel rude, at least as far as you're concerned. 

Alfred listens, offering a quiet, “I see,” when you describe how you and Jason had managed to get Tim to eat and go to sleep, and then, “My word,” when you tell him about the violation of the GENEVA conventions that is Steph and Cass’ poor washing machine.

Wayne Manor boasts a sizable laundry room with three sets of washers and dryers. All of them are pristinely clean and in full working order, no homemade paint or garden soil in sight. You worry briefly that Jason might be about to fall to his knees in relief when he sees them. He doesn't, but you swear you see his legs shaking– although that might just be the strain in his bad knee. 

“I suppose ‘interesting’ doesn't begin to describe your adventure,” Alfred says. He takes the laundry bags from you and hoists them up onto the counter above the machines with very little effort. “I hesitate even to ask why you were so firmly against simply bringing your things here in the first place, Master Jason. It would have saved you quite a bit of bother.”

“Don't remind me,” Jason sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. 

“If I may say, my boy, your stubbornness is not always a boon. It reminds me of another mule-headed young man I know.”

“What?” Jason squints. “Who?”

“In any case, I shall be happy to tend to your laundry,” Alfred continues, as if Jason hasn't said anything at all. “It shouldn't take longer than a few hours. If you'd like, you may rest here for the day; a cool shower and a decent meal seem the very least you deserve after a day full of such inconveniences.” 

You can see Jason wrestling with the idea, tempted to avoid the long journey back to the brownstone in the rising heat of the day but balking at the thought of spending several hours in the Manor. You aren’t sure of it yourself– you know how noisy it can get here, especially as the night draws closer– but you look at Jason, still flushed from the heat (or possibly somewhat sunburned), and make a decision.

“That sounds great, Alfred,” you say, smiling. “Really great. Come on, Jay, let’s go.” You take his wrist and pull; he looks at you quizzically, but he goes with you willingly, which is a relief because without summoning all of Palisade’s strength, you’re not confident you could move him if he didn’t want to be moved. You lead him out of the laundry room. 

“I believe Miss Cassandra has spare clothing in her room,” Alfred calls after you both. “And there are leftovers in the refrigerator! I should be glad to reheat them for you!”

“We can handle it!” You call back, because you don’t want to give him more work than you already have. “Thanks, Alfred!”

You pull Jason down the hall and up the stairs where most of the bedrooms are. He follows, silent until you reach the second floor.

“Easy, doll,” he says, slowing to a stop, which means you also pause. “S’gotten into you?”

“What?” You turn, blinking, and then inhale sharply and release his wrist. “Oh, sorry. I just, uh, I didn’t want to give you a chance to refuse?”

Jason huffs a laugh. “Wasn’t gonna.”

“You were thinking about it,” you say. “I could see it happening.”

“I… Might have been,” he admits. “Wouldn’t have made you go with me. S’just rough being here, sometimes.”

“I know,” you say. You don’t know the entire history between Jason and Bruce, and it’s never felt like your place to ask, but it's impossible not to notice they usually give each other a wide berth. Jason’s touchy about relying on Bruce for resources of any kind– not unless he steals them, at least. “But you really need rest, Jay. And… possibly a little aloe vera.” You frown at his bare shoulders, more certain now that the redness isn’t just blood beneath his skin. You reach up to his right shoulder and touch, gently, wincing when you feel the heat radiating off of him. Definitely sunburn.

“Ah, shit. Didn’t even notice,” Jason says, turning his head to look at your hand on his shoulder. He lifts his own hand to his face. “Explains why my cheeks are burning. How bad is it?”

You give him a cursory examination. “Shoulders, face, ears… This has to hurt.”

“Barely felt it,” he replies, which is either a lie or a testament to his level of pain tolerance. He studies your face for a moment, reads something in your expression you can’t identify, and nods.  “Well, we’re here now. Might as well stay. Go grab some of Cass’ clothes and shower. Meet up in the library, and we can do a debrief.”

‘Debrief’ is what he calls it when the two of you get back from patrol and tend to your injuries. Using it now, for this, feels a little silly, but it makes you grin, and that seems to please him.

“Alright,” you say. “Promise you won’t climb out a window or something?”

“I’ll do my best. Promise.”

You nod, satisfied, and the two of you part. You borrow a loose, long-sleeved black shirt and a pair of black shorts from Cass’ room and shower in the nearest bathroom, happy to find that Alfred makes sure every bathroom has soap and shampoo, even if it doesn’t see much use. The cool water is a welcome relief, and finally rinsing the sweat from your skin and hair feels wonderful. You feel refreshed by the time you get out. You dry off, get dressed, and then head to the library.

You’re surprised to find it occupied by Bruce Wayne. He’s wearing a charcoal grey silk pajama set and his hair is slightly mussed, which tells you he wasn’t expecting visitors. There’s a book in one of his hands. You two stare at each other for a few seconds.

Then Bruce clears his throat and says your name. “I didn’t know you were here. Is everything alright?”

Ah. So Alfred didn’t tell him you were coming. You wonder if that was done purposefully.

“Everything’s fine,” you say. You still don’t quite know how to behave around Bruce Wayne; his very presence makes you nervous, and you can never get a read on how he’s feeling. It’s somehow easier to be near him when he’s Batman, which isn’t something you ever thought was possible. “The washing machine broke. We, uh, Jason and I, we had a long day trying to, um, to find another one.”

Nix makes a disgusted noise. Tt. Thou’rt as graceful in speech as a newborn calf is at walking. Wilt reveal thyself a Fool?

Bruce straightens, eyes sweeping over you, and you barely stop yourself from flinching away. He seems to notice anyway. 

“I see,” he says. “Is Jason here as well?”

You nod. “Showering,” you reply. “We’re supposed to… I mean, Alfred said we could, um, rest here for the day. While he does the laundry.” You reach up with one hand and grip your necklace, seeking reassurance from the solid pressure against your palm and fingers. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” Bruce says. “My home is always open to you. Jason knows that.” He looks down at the book in his hand, frowning. “Did you need the library?”

“Um,” you say, rocking back on your heels. “I mean, Jay– Jason and I were going to, uh, relax here? For a bit? But I don’t want to make you leave; it’s your house.”

He chuckles quietly, but there’s less humor in it than you think there should be. “I think it’s best if I’m not here when Jason arrives,” he says. “If he’s already had a difficult day, I somehow doubt my presence would make it easier.”

You squeeze your necklace and look down. “Yeah,” you agree, because lying would be pointless. And, well, you’d be more comfortable without Bruce here too, and that feels awful, truly, because he’s never done anything to you to make you feel that way. It’s just something about him– something about the Wayne patriarch, with his stern expression and paternal tone, that reminds you too much of Dredge. 

“It’s fine. I was only here to find something to read in bed,” Bruce says. He holds up the book in question– a leather-bound copy of ‘War and Peace’, you see– and offers you a faint smile. “I will get out of your hair.”

“Okay,” you say, and smile in return. You step out of the doorway to let him pass, heading over to find your own book to read while you wait. 

Bruce pauses just before he leaves and says your name again. You turn to look at him and find that he’s adopted an expression that you’d almost call nervous if he weren’t Bruce Wayne. His jaw works back and forth, his eyes downcast, and you’re reminded of the way Jason looks when he wants to say something but isn’t sure how. 

“Yes?” You prompt, the same way you would if it was Jason.

“Ah. Yes. I wanted to ask…” Bruce trails off, dark brow furrowing, before he forces out in a faintly mechanical tone, “Is Jason doing well?” You stare at him, surprised, and he frowns and clarifies, “I rarely hear from him voluntarily. I can track his activities, both in the helmet and outside of it, but that doesn’t tell me if he is… Happy.”

You understand what he’s asking at once. Bruce and Jason might not be particularly close, and you don’t know exactly what caused the rift between them, but it’s not impossible that Bruce still feels a sort of fatherly concern for the younger man. 

Parents often wish for their offspring to be happy, says Artemisia.

Aye, that’s true, Bellamy agrees. Even if they fight.

It’s not the sort of feeling you can fully understand. You’ve never really had a healthy parent-child relationship except for the ones you read about in books. But, well, you can understand wanting to know if someone you care about is doing alright.

“He’s okay,” you say, tugging your necklace. “I– I mean, as far as I can tell. It’s not always easy for him,” and you don’t tell Bruce about the nightmares you sometimes hear, or the mornings you and Jason spend sleepless on the couch, because the specifics aren’t your business to share, “But it’s, you know. It’s good. He’s good. He… smiles a lot.” Smiles and laughs, sometimes loud and uncontrolled, sometimes quiet and pleased. 

Bruce lets out a sigh you don’t think you’re meant to hear, and nods. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad. Thank you.” He clears his throat again, a touch awkwardly. “Well. Have a nice afternoon.” He dips his head, and then disappears through the doorway. You watch him go, then turn back to the bookshelves and select a volume of poetry by various writers.

That was awkward, Bellamy says. You muffle your unexpected snicker behind your palm.

Jason arrives ten minutes later, hair still damp from his shower, white forelock clinging slightly to his forehead. He’s wearing a pair of soft flannel pajama pants and another tank top. He walks in with a cursory glance around, looking for signs of the Manor’s other inhabitants, maybe, before he shuts the doors behind him. He’s carrying a bottle of aloe vera gel with him. 

You look up from your place on one of the overstuffed couches and smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies. He sits down on the couch with a sigh, tilting his head back and taking just a moment to relax. You set your book aside and hold out your hand, nudging his hip when he doesn’t respond; he grunts, cracks one eye open, then hands you the bottle of aloe. “S’really not that bad.”

“I think you’d say that even if you got your arm torn off,” you say thoughtfully. You stand and walk over, stopping in front of him and flipping up the cap on the bottle. The clean, herbal, slightly minty smell fills the air as you squeeze a generous portion into your palm, tuck the bottle under your arm, and dip two fingers into the substance. “Lean forward.”

Jason sighs in a put-upon way, but he does what you ask, closing his eyes. You carefully apply it to his face, starting with his forehead and the bridge of his nose, and then down to his cheeks and chin. Halfway through, his eyes open to half-slits, and you find yourself drawn in by their blue-green shade; you force yourself to look away, moving up to apply more aloe to his sunburned ears as well.

He gives a faint laugh, tilting his head slightly into your hand, and then pulling back automatically. “Ah, sorry,” he says. “Just sorta tickles.”

You grin. Jason being ticklish is one of those small, private things you know about him that you don’t know what to do with, although you hold it close regardless. You look down, notice the redness on his chest, and hesitate. 

“Do you,” you start, and then pause, trying to think of how to broach the subject. “I mean, I can, um, I can get your back. If you’d prefer to do your front. I know you don’t… Uh, if it would be…”

He studies you for a long moment, and then sighs again. “Nah, s’fine,” he says. He reaches down and pulls his shirt over his head in one motion, wincing slightly as it tugs at his stinging skin. 

You’ve seen shirtless men before, both in books and in real life, so it shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. Jason is– he’s very attractive, all broad chest and shoulders, and there’s a solid, comfortable layer of padding over his abdominal muscles. Black hair is scattered over his chest and in a line from just below his belly button down beneath his pants– you refuse to look lower– and his scars…

There’s one from a bullet beneath his left pectoral, two from a knife to the right of his belly button. The biggest one is, of course, the Y-shaped scar that stretches from his chest to his naval, and what stands out most is how clean the line is. The sort of thing he might have gotten from someone well-trained with a knife– or a scalpel. 

Jason turns his head away, jaw tense, and you realize he might be suddenly regretting the reveal. 

Well, you’ve been staring at him for a moment, Artemisia points out. So that might be why.

You curse internally and school your expression. You squeeze more aloe into your palm, scoop some into your free hand, and start applying it to his chest and collar. He’s tense beneath your touch, like he expects he’ll need to spring away at a moment’s notice, and it sort of breaks your heart. His scars don’t change anything between you, and it isn’t like he hasn’t seen yours before. 

He’s shy in so many fascinating ways, says Artemisia softly. Perhaps a bit of reassurance…?

You finish applying the aloe and wipe your hands off on your shorts. After a moment, you reach again and run your thumb gently down the left branch of the Y-shaped scar. Jason’s breath catches, and his head whips around to look at you, his eyes wide. You want to pull away, the instinct to flee nearly overwhelming, but you smile at him instead. 

“Very dashing,” you tell him. “I’m sorry for staring. Just, Bellamy’s jealous.”

Bellamy squawks in indignant betrayal. Oh, ye lil’ bilge rat!

Thou’rt a pompous blowhard, Nix scoffs at him. Thy envy was felt by the whole of us; deny it not.

Aouwh! Traitor!

“Huh,” Jason says, relaxing a little, although you don’t know if it’s because he believes you or because he just appreciates your attempt at comfort. “S’there to be jealous of?”

“Well,” you say. You straighten, walk around to the back of the couch, squeeze out more aloe, and begin applying it to the back of his neck and shoulders. You press gently with your thumbs, trying to soothe sore muscles without causing further pain. “He always says scars are important. They’re like trophies, you know? Like a symbol you get for surviving something difficult.”

“Mm,” he hums roughly, melting into your touch. “Never thought of ‘em like that. Hard to imagine the, uh, the sort of shit I’ve been through as a good thing.”

You shake your head. “Not like that,” you say. “It wasn’t… what happened, whatever it was, it wasn’t a good thing that it happened. I don’t think of the things that happened to me as good just because I can use the sigils that came out of it. But, um, but they did still happen, and I survived, and I’m here now. And– and you’re here now, um, and I’m glad that you are.”

Jason’s quiet for a few moments, and you finish applying the aloe. You come around to the front of the couch and sit down, feeling somewhat awkward now. You become very interested in the label on the back of the bottle.

“Even after today?” He asks, voice quiet. You look over to find Jason watching you, expression unreadable. “After I dragged you across the whole goddamn city just because I was too stubborn to come to the Manor?”

You laugh, slightly breathless. “What? Jason– Jay, why would you even ask that? Of course ‘even after today’. It was a lot, but it was also, um, really fun. I mean, meeting Tucker alone would have made it all worth it.”

He chuckles. “Shit. You might be right,” he admits. He goes to rub the back of his neck, feels the drying aloe, and pulls his hand back. “Guess I just, uh… worry, sometimes. I’m kind of an asshole. Not easy to be around all the time.”

“You’re not an asshole,” you say, and then roll your eyes when he gives you a pointed look. “Alright, you’re a little bit of an asshole. It’s just part of who you are.”

“Not sure that’s a good thing.”

“It’s a neutral thing,” you reply. “Like scars can be. And, um, maybe it’s really selfish of me to say, but you’re never really an asshole to me, so I… I don’t know.” You sigh. “I’m probably not making sense. I just know you’ve got a good heart, I think. I’m always grateful when you let me see it.”

Jason looks away and carefully pulls his tank top back on, and you worry you’ve said the wrong thing. You turn towards him, panicking slightly, ready to apologize– but then he takes your wrist and tugs you gently into his chest. You drop the bottle of aloe in surprise.

His hold is light enough that you could break away without much effort. His arms curl around you, warm and strong, and you momentarily forget how to breathe. You only take a few scant seconds to sink into the comfort of his embrace, the events of the day pressing down on you from all sides. You hug him back as best you can.

He takes that reciprocation and draws you closer, resting his cheek on the top of your head. He lets out a heavy sigh, and your eyelids flutter at the familiar humanity of the rise and fall of his chest. Somehow, being close to him now feels different than before, although that might just be because you’re not both still sweaty and overheated in the back of a stranger’s car.

“You’re too good to me, doll,” he says, and you can feel the rumble of his voice as it rises. 

“I don't know about that,” you murmur. You can already feel the exhaustion of the day dragging you towards sleep. You know you should wait, at least until after you eat something, but you're tired, and he's comfortable, and you've made forays into physical affection before but never like this, and it's– it's just so nice. “We should… Mm, the leftovers…”

Jason grunts in acknowledgement, but he doesn't move. He sounds tired too, and his breathing is growing deep and even. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

It's a little bit of an awkward position, but you don't care, and neither, it seems, does Jason.

Any further protests die away as your eyes slip closed. You sigh, relaxing fully into the warmth of his body. You can't fight the sleep any longer; you fall into it with open arms, sinking deep beneath the waves of slumber.

==

Alfred finds the pair of you about half an hour later.

He pauses outside the closed doors to listen for any noise from inside; he doesn't wish to intrude on any personal matters– although he doesn't believe you and Jason are currently romantically involved, you are both lively young adults who are rather obviously fond of one another and, well, things do happen. Alfred has been alive long enough to understand that.

The library seems quiet, though not in a way that suggests someone is trying hard to keep it that way, so he opens the door gently and steps in.

“Master Jason?” He says, quietly so as not to disturb the natural peace of a place that houses so many books. “Miss– oh.”

He takes in the sight before him with a neutral expression. Jason is on his back, stretched out on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, head tilted back, snoring faintly. You, meanwhile, are splayed out on top of him, one arm crooked awkwardly on one side, face hidden in Jason's chest. The two of you are quite clearly asleep, and deeply, too, as neither of you noticed the door opening.

Alfred considers waking you both for the sake of your poor joints if nothing else, but quickly decides against it. He can't remember the last time he's seen Jason so totally relaxed; the boy is prone to surface-level sleep, bolting awake at the slightest sound, and you, well, you seem quite content where you are.

Slowly, Alfred slips out of the room and shuts the doors behind him. 

Well, he wishes you'd both eaten properly before falling asleep, but it's too late for that now. The least he can do, he decides, is make sure there are enough portions of dinner tonight. He doubts Jason will be eager to stay, but he feels confident that you'll be able to bring him around to the idea. It will be nice to have you both at the table, even if he knows it will probably end with at least one argument. 

He thinks of how blissfully calm Jason had looked as he slept, and smiles a small, private smile. 

What a wonderful day.