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He's never been one for Jazz, that was Bruce's thing. So, as he stood in the far expanse of the rather lavish hall his eyes could only roll as the entertainer continued to sing of an old love. He could appreciate the art, the instruments.
But with one too many nights of Bruce playing the music in the sullen cave, he grew tired of it.
His back ached. The wooden material behind him was growing more rocky every second he balanced his weight on it. His fingers blindlessly toyed with the cigarette he ached to taste on his tongue.
Every second that passed was far too long for him. Yet the earlier days of when he had attended these things taught him to never leave early. ‘For that's just rude to the host’ would it be rude if the host was Bruce? Maybe he'd understand..
As his eyes trailed the glassy globe that sat on the roof, he had forgotten to remain vigilant. his heart gave an extra thump when a woman's voice spoke. “Hiding away, are you?” the words had carried so softly, so kindly.
The way your hair sat, your perfume wafted over and your lips tilted closer to a smirk than a smile felt ever so perfect for him. The Jazz seemed louder now. But not in a way that irritated him, in fact it was almost as if a spotlight had shined on you.
His tongue weighed heavy and all he could respond with was a nod. That had a humorous laugh leave you and with that his lips joined the smile you held. His cheeks puffing as he admired what stood before him.
A gasp ripped from him as he sat up.
Sweat slid down every crevice of his chest and his fingers held painfully tight onto his bed sheet. a bitter laugh slipped at the memory. His eyes–only for a moment–drifted over to his phone. Would he be a fool to reach out? To hear your voice even if it berated him for calling.
His hair bopped up and down furiously with a shake of his head. He would be a fool. The pillows gave a squish as he landed back down. Hands not even darting from the bruises on his cheek. What had become of him. He's been through worse, he's been through literal death.
if he closed his eyes he could imagine his hands skimming the skin of your back. Nose taking in the rich scent of your shampoo.
But every time, without a doubt. Your eyes held that anger. That fire and fury from the last time you saw each other. And every time he ended up head above a toilet bowl. Wretching up the bitter taste of his tears.
two months. nine weeks and five days. ninety-seven thousand nine hundred and twenty minutes. all without you.
the fabric of his bedsheet stuck to his skin. sweat almost as glue. he wanted you back. he wanted it all back.
he’s been throwing hits harder, broke two ribs on a poor guy just a week ago. he’s been lacking food, barely keeping water down. he hasn’t changed his sheets in a month (atleast)
but what could he do. He'd accepted the breakup, truly did. He understood why. Far too many nights of you unmoving on the lounge with a gut resting of anxiety. but he hated it, loathed it.
he didn’t want his night time activities to be the reason you left, to be the reason he pushed you away. two days after the breakup he had gone to reflect on the messages, only to see you had blocked him.
now he’s using dicks instagram account just to see what you’re up to. you went to metropolis the other week, went to the beach. his eyes had stayed on the swimsuit you wore. part of him believing the dark red was for him. it wasn’t.
after minutes—long enough to be uncountable— had passed, he had shifted up. shoveling his jacket on and some boots. not caring he was in his pajamas, not caring his hair was downright grotty.
“what flavour is blue raspberry..” you questioned out. causing his eyes to search for you. his mouth felt numb, unable i conjure up a response. Only thing he could do was admire.
puddles remained on the pavement. and he watched as a bus closed its doors before sputtering off. A traffic light turned green and some of the only trees in Gotham blew south.
your lips were stained faintly in the creases. A mindless shrug was given, hands toying with his phone. “uh..dunno.” Your laugh following afterwards had him smiling back.
“whatever it is i love it..” you smiled out. he could faintly see your stained blue tongue and he felt his eyes crease with the smile that crinkled. “i’m more of a cherry guy” a faux offended gasp shot out of you. “Oh Boo! that’s so basic..”
your words cried out as the sight of a playground came into view. his shoes crunching a leaf before soaking into dew-dusted grass.
his eyebrows shuffled up and down like caterpillars for a few moments. his jacket swiping away the few droplets that remained on the park's seat. you did the same, opposite him.
“Ok Calm down miss pixie dream girl.” he feigned an eyeroll yet his eyes drifted towards you the second it finished. “you just can’t handle whimsy”
his hands shook as he held the large cup. fingers drifting towards cherry only to grasp the handle of blue raspberry. a taste of you, or atleast.. the best he can get.
he didn’t look up at the cashier as he dropped scattered coins onto the counter. didnt even hear the sound of them pebbling over his headphones.
the cold whooshed over him once the doors slid open. a beat played brash in his ears, a song he’s liked since before bruce. same song he listened to the first night he saw his mom..
before you, he had smoked marlboro. it was the first brand he had gotten his hands on at the ripe age of eleven. He'd gotten used to the taste and it’d been his.
until one night. you had managed to hurl him away from an originally planned stake out, trotting him all the way to the pier. he didn’t mind the clowns, not with you. for he couldn’t stray his eyes away long enough to process it.
the two of you hadn’t even spent more than five dollars. the entire night just spent talking. bumping into people as your elbows rubbed together, frothing the same heat that curled in his lungs.
the two of you had been watching the ferris wheel. making up stories of different people as they found their seats. one lady was a ceo and the other was in a secret gang.
he had pulled the cigarette out. you hadn’t minded, instead, you pulled your own pack out. the two of you trading the different sticks of nicotine. from then on he bought newport.
but not because you smoked it. but because everytime his lips wrapped around the stick, he tasted you.
from then on, every inhale was like a kiss. and just as a kiss from you, it’d settle on his tastebuds many minutes later.
the smoke plunged out, mixing with the continued cold that settled over Gotham. thunder crackled with the lack of rain that would only follow minutes later. his tongue ran over the divots in his lips.
he stood there, like an idiot. a man bumping into him and whispering out a curse before the doors whipped open behind him. He doesn't know where to go.
if he could—and he wanted to—he’d go to you. curl up into your chest like a little boy. like you’ll shield him. The only thing is, you’d shield him from himself and that’s a burden he can’t forgive himself for placing.
He doesn't have many friends. not the type of friends he could just go to. He had work friends, but he didn’t have his own friends. He wouldn’t go to Bruce, he couldn’t go to Richard.
and he doesn't want to go back home. for his home won’t take him. his jaw shifts left, hollowing out. rain was falling, it splattered onto his forehead as his eyes traced the murky clouds above.
the cigarette burned into his finger. Nicotine no doubt stains the ghastly skin of his. and he gave a huff, he knew where he could go. At this time of night at least.
his keys hit the desk as bats squeaked and trilled out above him. He didn't even take the time to take his hoodie off. already smashing his fists into the red leather.
music thundered into his eardrums, breaths bouncing off back into his face with every forced punch. He wasn’t even using the proper technique, he just needed something to hit, without killing it.
another lecture, another argument. It's the least of his wants right now, especially from b. the leather squished and cracked. He was almost drumming into it. meeting every hit with the beat of his music.
somewhere along the line tears sprouted. trailing into his gasping mouth. he just wanted you, he didn’t want the anguish nor anger. He didn’t want the yearn nor the ache.
He was a selfish man. only, it was taught. He wanted to fix it, always has. but now, he couldn’t be more desperate to rid of it. He doesn't deserve you, never has.
the halo that had graced you the first time he laid his eyes on you should’ve been a sign. good things aren’t given to him, good people aren’t his company,
his knuckles rested on the mat. crouched over and sobbing, he was sobbing. jason was emotional, and when people learn that they only think of the anger, the angst.
the cracks in the skin surrounding his eyebrows showcase that. the scars and bruises that littered his hands seconded it. but he wasn’t just angry, he wasn’t just fury filled.
he’d spent his entire life crying. Not physically, at least not always. as a baby he'd cried, as a toddler his voice raised as much as it could.
and in that warehouse, he hadn’t cried, not how the clown wanted him to. but his voice had shriveled into a squeak. trying to find reasons as to why his mother was doing this while also begging for her to listen.
and when the rubble landed on his skin, when the smoke clawed into his lungs. He cried, as loud as he could, for Bruce. even as his eyes fluttered shut, even as he felt the numbing sting of broken bones, he cried til his lungs were too full.
his sobs rack against the hollow walls of the cave. knuckles aching. He felt his body wobble, his chest shake in a repeating motion. It was gritty, it was loud.
muted steps found their place beside jason. knees cracking softly before a hand moved up and down comfortingly. withered skin offering comfort the best way for jason, in silence.
panting gasps that hurt his raw throat turned into sniffled hiccups. and he knew the older man didn’t see the twenty six year old before him, rather the fifteen year old he had learnt to know.
“What did I do wrong, Alfred?” he ushered the words out . sticky venom that rested in his gums. soft pats ceased. knees cracking once more as fabric shifted. Only then did Jason look up, on his hands and knees.
eyes puffy, lips rimming with red and snot stuck to his nose. The older man made a ‘tut’ with his tongue, looking further down on the man. but not in a degrading way, not in a way that felt uncomfortable.
“it was never you, master todd.” the clang of silverware on metal softly sprung out, the food resting before his eyes. and he couldn’t dull the ache of hunger. his own fingers moving towards it. “it was merely circumstances”
The food was a grateful gift. not realising the hunger until he was halfway through shoveling it down. It was bland, but he had a feeling that was purposeful. Alfred hadn’t remained, and he was once again thankful.
when he felt ready, and it had taken awhile. He sprouted upwards. legs shaky with the dread that had nested so heavily into him, before he plucked his keys up.
This time, he had to go home.
He called your name out, the sound violent against the high buildings. bouncing off each one. this wasn’t how he wanted you to figure out who he was, but he couldn’t stop it.
you were sobbing. tears racing down your cheeks, the bittersweet salt mixing with the downpour. he could see the concern, the fear etched into you.
he felt the iron mix into his clothes, protruding to his front. his hands gripped the wound tightly. fingers blotching with the crimson color. yet he placed one foot forward, one foot towards you. his only healer.
“Jason..” the word mixed with sorrow, with a haunting grief. his eyes were wide, glossy with unshed tears. he felt his being shake, unable to stop the crinkle of his knees.
he could see the shock that rested in you, the surprise. it’s not everyday your friend reveals they are an anti-hero. He couldn’t help the quell of guilt. This wasn’t how you were supposed to find out.
but he had been hurting, in any aspect. and the one thing his mind could target was you, going to you.
“Please stay..” his voice wasn’t just bordering on pleading, it was begging. He didn’t want to scare you. He didn't want to push you away. “please..” the rippling cry mixed with the loud thump of thunder.
yet with that your shoes banged into the dribbling rooftop. water splashing at all sides. He was losing blood, felt faint. but his hands rafted up towards you, bloody fingers smearing over your cheek.
he didn’t want the carmine pigment to splotch over your skin. yet it did. as shaky and cold fingers cradled your cheek. you leaned in despite yourself.
his helmet had been discarded ways ago, and his body was fighting through the want to collapse. “we need to get you somewhere..” the anxiety and rush present in your voice had his lips curling in for a moment:
he hadn’t answered. rather he had just shaken his head, leaning into you. His forehead pressed roughly against your chest, hands grasping onto you like leverage. blood soaked from him into your clothes.
he remembered the day afterwards. He had shuffled his way to your job—hesitant, wringing his hands together nervously. almost nauseous.
he still remembers the horrid guilt he had felt when he crossed his arms over, trying to protect himself incase anything backfired. and he was certain it would.
but it hadn’t.
no, instead you were nice. offering a soft smile. he could see the hesitant way your cheeks remained in place. the way your fingers stilled over the keyboard. yet the smile was still there.
words were hardly spoken. but an underlying knowing was given. you were aware of who he was, what he did. and even more, he was trusting you with it.
of all people, Jason Todd was trusting you with a secret.
now, those memories of what he had trusted now rung through his mind like a haunting chime. reminding him of what he had lost.
would it be the same had he not done what he did that night. would it be the same had he not revealed himself to you.
he ached for the answers. he ached to hear them come from you. yet, not once had he reached out. not wanting to disturb you, not wanting to upset you.
had you had reason, and you did. then the most he could do was respect it. and what is he if not your dog, a man barking for you, for your attention. a need for it all while simultaneously begging to not latch.
he was a dirty dog. one with rusted canines and claws. pawing into you so deeply you bled. for he is selfish, for he had a sickening satisfaction knowing you were his, that the blood you bled pumped for him.
but where had that gotten him? searching streets for a reason after losing all that was his. his home was gone, his meaning had vanished. the dust clinging onto his hands and all he could do was nuzzle his nose in it.
pebbles of rain tangled into leaves. wishing with the wind, every breath of air a burning sickness against his raw lungs. his boots smushed, crinkled and creased.
he had no place to go, no destination to lead. for all he wants is to wind up outside your building. to take the tortuously slow elevator and slump into your grasp.
he’d hope your hands would cradle his scars like they had done hundreds of times. he’d hope your hair would hold that scent that casted relief.
you were his healer, your hands casting a revival of what he had been before. he mourned. mourned the times you traced the pain crested into him, offering sweet words.
an angel. is what you had been. he had been foolish to believe he earned that reverence. he had been foolish to believe he earned you.
water sunk its way into your clothes. hands clasped together as a form of heat. he felt rocky pebbles graze the skin of his neck. but it all casted away.
music chimed out a ways down. sirens blared mindlessly and chatter swirled its way around the city. but in this moment, side by side with you. none of that is what he took in.
rather it was the wonderful scent of your perfume. the way it wafted over to him like a pie on a windowsill. beckoning him over to you.
and he had learnt by now, that if you called he’d always answer. the tune of your voice a sirens call and he was a devoted sailor.
“i think.. i might love you.” the words tumbled out effortlessly. like a passion known yet not spoken. he heard the soft crunch of your puffer jacket move. felt the squeeze of your fingers.
“you know what… i think i might love you back.” he couldn’t help the sharp snap of his neck. the rooftop grazing his cheek painfully and he could see the compassionate wince that dawned you for a moment.
“yeah..?” the words breathy, hoping for confirmation for what he so dreamed of. for what he had spent nights waiting for. the nod of your head was precise, no uncertainty. “yeah..”
he was a fool for coming here. yet it was as if he couldn’t escape from the pictures of memory’s. always finding himself retreating to times with you.
he remembered the way you tumbled over towards him. the heaviness of rain splattered into your clothes not a weight to derail you. he remembers the way your lips had connected.
the first time it was spoken, first time it was done. every anniversary afterwards was taken to this rooftop. and to his horror.. so was the breakup.
only that time instead of rain tasting kisses it was grumbled words and poisonous finality. what was he even doing here, hadn't he said he was going home?
as he watched silohutes down below he had a foolish thought. only this time time he didn’t retract his finger, this time he allowed it to ring out.
“Jason..?” oh how he wanted to savour that noise. those words. if he believed this was a different situation, a different scenario.
than maybe just maybe a part of him could believe he were calling you, as your boyfriend. he couldn’t speak, words far too meaningless. he just rested himself agaisnt the wall.
“Jason..” this time it was defeat, and that was a punch far too heavy than he was used to. far too emotional, far too meaningful. He sputtered your name out, and he himself could hear the sorrow that laid thick.
“why are you calling me..” he picked up on the soft ruffles of your bedsheets. That's right, it was late. you probably had work tomorrow. He never did learn how to stop being selfish for you. “I..I need to hear you.”
the heavy sigh that left your lips had him drawing his lips inward. the taste of iron resting on his tongue. He tilted his head up. allowing the rain to mix with the dollops of tears. “i just..” he couldn’t finish his words.
but you both knew what was coming next. “I know.” and for a second, just a split one. it felt as if there was time for reconciling. maybe a hearty conversation. only the hum of beeping followed with.
you’d hung up—of course you did. this wasn’t a conversation you wanted, you had work tomorrow. it made sense. for a second his fingers curled inwards, would it be so bad if he called once more.
only he stopped. that would be annoying for you, and you’d hardly be as kind as you had been. and that would be far more painful.
this time, he did go home.
“You smell” he felt your breath hit his chest. his fingers flexing for a moment before padding against the soft flesh of your back once again. “if i recall that is your fault..” he teased back.
eyes flicking down. eyelashes thumping softly against his cheeks as he took you in your glory. the soft way you illuminated. the warmth of the orange light from outside the window highlighting your skin.
your body covered with the bedsheet. his hand on your back. your body’s combined the closest you could get. “You still smell..” the whispery words had his head cocking to the side slightly.
he breathed in. a boyish grin resting on his lips “you do too..”
one hundred and three thousand, six hundred and sixty minutes without you. or, 10 weeks and two days.
after that phone call he had promised—dedicated even, to not reaching out. even when he rested his head against his pillows. the packed feathers cushioning him. eyes tracing the cracked ceiling.
even when he was curious as to how you made that one recipe. even when he wondered if you wanted that shirt back. he had promised, not wanting to carry any more guilt.
however, tonight he believed he deserved it. with shaky hands stained with harsh primary. wobbly lips calling out to you in final gasps. he rapped his finger against the window.
he could see the dim flicker of the candle. he knew what one it was as well, always your favorite scent. you were probably getting ready to relax, and if he were in a more clear minded state he’d recognise how ironic that was, with him showing up.
but he wasn’t in a clear state, so he continued to tap his finger against the window. dribbles of water causing his half assed grip on the railing to slip. he let your name slip, calling for you.
and you answered. although quite frustrated, with the stitch of your eyebrows. crossed over arms and a puffed out chest. for a moment it wilted away though.
“Hey..?” he offered, lips curving up half humorously before he felt your hands clench onto the fabric of his arms. pulling him in as much as you could. he was partly dead weight at this point.
“Seriously, Jason!” he could hear the eyeroll, but he didn’t mind. not when the scent of your place curled around him like a blown out birthday candle. nostalgia warming him. He only offered half assed hums. He let his body relax against the floorboards.
“I’m sorry..” the taste of iron smudged into the divots of dead skin. He craned his head back, his neck offering a quick relief of a ‘pop’.
the entire time you cleaned him up, helped him, healed him. He could only focus on your beauty. everytime—without a doubt, you managed to steal his breath. Even after everything was done, medical supplies packed away and soaked paper towels thrown away, he didn’t move.
“you can’t keep doing this..” despite this you rested yourself beside him. hand smoothing over his arm. “I know.” he mumbled out. He felt weak near you, dumb.
minutes ticked by. the clock in your lounge room making that present. He had closed his eyes, instead allowing his other senses to take in you. Your hand hadn’t drifted from his arm.
“You should come over...” he heard the stifled out and humorless laugh that fell from you. saw the way you drew back. The empty space on his arm felt more like a burn than anything. “No” he chewed on the inside of his cheek.
He saw the way you looked away, saw the way you refused to notice him. He sat up, awkwardly and almost comically but he needed you to look at him, see him for what he became with the lack of you. “just come over.. to get your things..” It was a half assed excuse.
you knew it, he knew it.
“fine.”
the soft ‘thump’ of clothes hitting the bed could be heard. So did the soft grating noise of his bedside drawer, he offered a hand out and a soft smile. He was buzzing with excitement but would hardly let you see.
although, you did.
the flush on your cheeks as well as the dilated way your eyes tracked him had him flushing like a mad man. “So uh.. just keep your things here” he had to look away, knowing that if he held your gaze any longer the only place clothes would be going was the floor.
“means you can stay anytime..” he offered, and the way your arms wrapped around him. the way your lips offered soft butterfly kisses had him practically purring. nuzzling his nose into the top of your hair.
“anytime?” you teased and he smirked back, pulling back just an inch to stare at you, eyes tracing the curve of your lips. “anytime.”
his foot tapped wildly against the ground. hand thumping an unknown beat into the rough fabric of his sweatpants. He wanted to look nice when you came by. Instead, he had been working out when you texted him, letting him know you’d be dropping by.
so he sat there, probably reeking of sweat. unwashed hair and partially unshaved as he just awaited for when those three knocks sounded out. toying his lip between his teeth nervously.
ten minutes went by. he kept checking his phone. twenty minutes went by and he remembered he had a good glass of wine, maybe you’d want it—or want to share it. thirty minutes went by and he was pacing the living room.
an hour went by and he felt defeated. by hour two you sent off a text. the ‘ping’ noise having him lurch up from the couch.
won’t be coming by.
his fingers shook violently, mouth agape. that wasn’t what he thought would happen. He gave a frustrated groan, not at you—never at you. rather at him for being so.. clingy? so needy.
hope u have a good night.
baited breaths landed into the soulless apartment, feeling quite dreadful and even emptier now.
you too.
one thousand and thirty eight, two hundred and twenty murmurs without you. or, 13 weeks and five days.
he hated these things. always did. this time, he had tried to leave. only, dick stopped him.
he hid on the opposite side of the building. tried to make sure nothing would replicate what brought him to his hurt in the first place. yet, every woman who even somewhat looked like you, he hoped were you.
his fingers clenched tightly onto his cigarette. The nicotine shavings falling into patterns on the inside of his jacket. He clenched his teeth tightly together, bidding the burning tears away. not wanting it, not needing it, not right now.
he reluctantly turned his head towards the stage. eyes following the singers, the band players. the slow volumes of vocals drifting over the elite crowd.
he’s never been one for Jazz, that was bruce’s thing. his thing, was traded cigarettes with a girl only kept in his memory.