Chapter Text
There’s a saying in Gotham that the city never sleeps.
For the most part, that’s true. What Gotham forgoes in sleep, it makes up for in rot.
You don’t know why you’re still here. If you were any smarter, you would have left three years ago, before you had moved into your fourth apartment making the same ends meet, stretching time into nothing. Find a new place in New York city, maybe even Metropolis.
Sure, rent in Gotham was cheap—half of what you’d pay in those cities, but you could find good work elsewhere. Safer work. God knows the residents know it, and the hospital board of directors know it too.
But the ER keeps filling, and those bodies keep bleeding, and that means you stay.
Means you dream of sinew and flesh. Means the sound of bullets outside rouses you from sleep. Means that you never feel safe—not even when the infamous Batman makes an appearance at your work, occasionally, maybe twice a month, usually to drop off a body that’s almost beyond saving.
Almost.
And that’s why he comes, always comes to this side of Gotham. Because the work is shit, and the patients are endless, but the doctors are good. The nurses are great, and maybe you are too. Batman always writes to check on the patients he leaves on your stretchers, and you think that’s what tethers you to this place: that belief that maybe you’re doing something momentous, something good. Maybe the long shifts and the blood count for something.
You don’t love Gotham, but you live in it. And at least for now, it’s home.
Home—even when you return after a ten-hour shift to find half your flat’s wall blown out, probably from another metahuman, explosive-fuelled fight. Firefighters stand outside, telling you the apartment block must be vacated while repairs are underway, and you think maybe this, this, is the final push you need to leave Gotham.
Because now you’re temporarily homeless, with less than twelve hours before your next shift and a duffle bag full of clothes you don’t remember ever wearing. They tell you to grab your stuff within the next 24 hours; demolition begins at midnight tomorrow. The urgency is there, but the way they say it feels rehearsed, like this kind of sudden eviction has become just routine in this broken city.
It’s a night that reminds you how this city leaves its wounded behind, shaping survivors from the ones who stay. Surely, you’d expect the government to have planned some recompense for damages completely out of your hands, but instead, you find yourself sleeping in your car in the hospital parking lot for the night.
You’re sure if you asked one of your friends or coworkers to crash, they’d say yes. Half of the people you know have been victim to some form of vigilante collateral damage and though Gotham is rotten to its core, the people you’ve come to lean on are not.
Still—there’s a stubborn reluctance to text or call anyone right now. Maybe you will in a few days if you can’t find a more permanent solution, but tonight you’ll recline the backseats all the way, find the warm blanket you leave in your car for mid-shift naps, cover the windows with shades, and sleep till morning.
But before that, before evening rolls into night, you find yourself scrolling through rental listings. Most are half-hearted ads for cramped rooms and overpriced spaces, each one a reminder that somewhere in Gotham, someone else is struggling too. There are a few that catch your eye; none too close to work, but you have a car, and you can figure it out.
Then you stop—a short, straightforward post. No fluff. No photos. Just a name, a rough location near the hospital, and a price that doesn’t immediately make you cringe. Something about the blunt honesty of the ad feels like a lifeline thrown in a storm. You don’t hesitate, sending a message with the kind of practiced politeness that comes from having to ask for too many favours. You promise to stay out of the way. You don’t say you’re exhausted, but you think maybe it’s implied.
And when it’s sent, you lay in the backseat of your car, and pray—the way you do every night in this city.
The inspection is scheduled for early in the evening, and you’re almost put off by how brief the poster's reply is. Instead of acknowledging your introduction, or the considerate paragraph you’d written about how much you really needed this place—they respond with a single message: 6pm and the address underneath it. That’s it. In any other city, you’d take it as a clear sign not to bother.
But this is Gotham, and, well, you’re currently homeless after all.
Thankfully, the hospital is well equipped for vigilante bullshit. When you show up to your shift and explain your situation, your boss gives you full access to the staff shower and laundry facilities. That way, you and your scrubs stay clean in the meantime. She jokes that you aren’t the first, and you give a wry smile at the fact. Nothing like temporary homelessness for Gotham’s finest.
The story spreads. Not maliciously, just one of those things passed along in break rooms and nursing stations. You doubt your boss had anything to do with it; the skirmish at your apartment complex had made the news and someone must have connected the dots. A colleague offers to let you stay with them until the apartment is repaired. You thank them, smile, say you’ll think about it. You won’t.
You’d rather sleep in your car than stand in someone else’s kitchen pretending you’re not in the way, and with the silver lining that the hospital is now going to comp your car spot, you figure you might as well. Small mercies.
The shift ends relatively smoothly. The victims from your apartment complex start arriving in droves; burns, fractures, minor concussions. Your supervisor steps in, says she can take this rotation if it hits too close to home, but you disagreed. You hold a patient’s hand—one you’ve seen around before— as the doctors staple her scalp. The rest of the shift runs on muscle memory: triage, stabilise, chart, repeat. No codes. No screaming relatives. No time to think about your own ruined apartment.
6 p.m. comes faster than you expect. You’re standing in front of the building that might be your new home. You understand why it’s cheap. It looks like it’s been holding its breath for years.
The building is four stories of crumbling brisk and rust-stained fire escapes. It’s not particularly decrepit, but it doesn’t quite look like a comfortable stay either. Location wise, it’s fine: walking distance to work, a short drive to the major shops and a fair distance away from the seedier parts of the city.
When you get to the door, there’s no buzzer or doorbell. Just a strip of duct tape across a cracked intercom with DO NOT PRESS scrawled across it.
You glance at your phone—at his message, then look back up at the front door, paint-peeling and weathered by scratches. This should be it.
You knock.
There’s silence, and you wonder if you’ve gotten the right building. After a moment, just before you’re about to knock again, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, then the sound of lock clicking and the rattle of a deadbolt chain.
The door opens slightly, just enough for you to glance at the man behind and he looks like you’ve already inconvenienced him.
“I’m here for the room inspection?”
“You’re early,” he says, voice rough with disinterest.
You blink. “It’s six.”
He narrows his eyes, then glances down at his watch, and sighs.
You glimpse his face barely through the gap—the light playing on his dark hair, the tousled strands casting a dim shadow over his features. A stark white streak cuts through the front of his hairline, bright against the dark, but it doesn’t look dyed. He’s all sharp angles, a dusting of stubble along his jaw. A thick, pale line cuts across his left cheek, and by the fibrous texture, you can tell it’s a scar. An old one, judging by its colour and the way it protrudes slightly. It runs just into his lips, which are held in a tight, neutral line.
He steps back, opens the door just enough for you to step in. You do.
Your feet meet polished timber floor, and the room is surprisingly well-kept despite the building’s more unseemly exterior. Clean, quiet— almost elegant.
You take in the furniture: leather couch, glass-fronted displays filled with weapons. Some guns. Some swords? You’re not sure. What you are sure of is that the couch looks like genuine leather, and the marble coffee table at the centre of the living space is definitely handcrafted. The corners of the room are framed by dark steel shelving, and while there are a couple of bespoke art pieces, the rest is a curated spread of minimalist, high-end design.
You’ve been in enough of your surgical colleagues’ homes to know that this screams money. This does not look like the interior of a dingy corner flat across the street from a run-down Chinese place. It looks more like someone’s idea of a high-end New York loft.
You glance at him again, at the scar on his face and the duct tape on the intercom downstairs, and the two versions of him don’t seem to line up—like he’s copied and pasted parts of his life into another, and is forcing it to fit.
When you finally get a proper look at him under the warm overhead light, you notice he’s shirtless—and bleeding. There’s gauze peeling off his shoulder, the adhesive barely clinging to his skin. It’s poorly done. Improvised.
On a broader scale, he’s… large. Wide shoulders taper into muscular arms, veins faintly visible beneath short, dark hair. His chest is solid, defined, and you think it looks natural on him—like he’s built this way because he has to be.
But what catches your attention most is the long, pale ‘Y’ etched into his torso. It starts below the navel, travels medially to his sternum, then bifurcates out to each clavicle. The implications of that kind of scar leave you unnerved. You might not work in the morgue, but you know an autopsy scar when you see one.
You glance away quickly, trying not to make it obvious you’ve been scrutinising him, and he raises an eyebrow when he catches your face turn.
“Bedroom’s down there. Bathroom’s opposite. Kitchen’s here.”
He doesn’t gesture much, just walks you down the hallway and around the kitchen. You pass a wall-mounted rack filled with keys, hooks, and what looks like a utility belt, but you don’t linger. Occasionally, he pauses, like he’s waiting for you to ask a question—probe him on his knife collection, ask what sort of profession he works in.
You don’t because you have a feeling you won’t have this place if you do.
“The room’s furnished,” he says, pushing open a door at the end of the hall. “Bed, desk, closet.”
You peek inside. The bed’s neatly made, the sheets clean and tucked tight. It’s not as dear as the other pieces of furniture in the living space, but it looks comfortable and sturdy.
He leans against the doorframe while you take a slow step in. Doesn’t say a word.
You turn back to him. “It’s nice.”
He shrugs. “It’s enough.”
He walks out, and you follow him to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulls out a beer, then glances over his shoulder and cocks his head at you. You nod and he grabs a second one, cracks both open against the countertop. You fight to roll your eyes at the callousness as he hands you one.
“Right. Ground rules,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Don’t go in my room.”
You nod. “Obviously.”
“Don’t answer the door unless it’s for you.”
You nod again.
“No guests. Ever.”
You raise an eyebrow.
He doesn’t blink. “Last time someone brought a date over, they tried to rob me while I was in the shower.”
You huff a laugh. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“Sounds like a bullet problem.”
Your smile drops. “Wait—seriously?”
He just takes a swig of beer and doesn’t answer. You take that as a yes.
“Okay, fine. No guests.”
The silence that follows isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not tense either. Just gotham in the evening: a buzzing fridge, sirens in the distance, the low hum of tyres against tar.
“You smoke?” he asks suddenly.
You shrug. “Sometimes.” He doesn’t seem to be the person who cares.
“Drink?”
“Occasionally.”
“Drugs?”
“Only if prescribed. You?”
He furrows his brows. “I’m not the one applying.”
“Touché,” you respond, sipping at your drink. “By the way, that one’s going to get infected.”
He glances at the wound on his shoulder like he had forgotten it was there. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’ve seen better things get infected.”
He lets out a long exhale. “What are you, a nurse?” He says it like it’s meant to be an insult—a jab.
“Trauma. Gotham General.”
That earns you a second glance, slower this time, like he’s just figuring you out now. Like he’s just noticing the bags under your eyes, the tired slouch in your spine.
“Figures.”
You gesture towards the wound again. “I can patch it up, if you want.”
He cuts in sharp at your suggestion. “I don’t.”
It shouldn’t bother you, how quick he is to refuse your help—but you catch sight of that ‘Y’ shaped scar, that awful bump in his flesh and something churns inside you.
You unzip your bag, pull out two saline Steritubes, and place them on the counter between you.
“Fine. It doesn’t matter who does it, but you’ll need to clean the wound with something sterile when you change your dressing. Also, that gauze isn’t right for that kind of cut.”
He glances down at the tubes, then back at you, eyes narrowing slightly. You cross your arms and return the look—the same one you give patients when they get coy about taking their meds.
Eventually, he relents, picking up one of the tubes and turning it over in his hand like it’s more hassle than it’s worth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, but that doesn’t surprise you.
“So,” you say, taking a sip of your beer, “how much is the rent again?”
He looks up at you. “Eight-fifty. Bills split. Paid on the first. Month-to-month. I don’t do leases. Cash is easier.”
You breathe out through your nose, slow and even. Gotham’s taught you to be vigilant about these things, and you can tell there’s more to this guy than he’s letting on. It’s not something you’re worried about, you don’t feel unsafe, not exactly, but you already know you’ll only ever know what he chooses to reveal.
Still, the place is close to the hospital. The price is good. The furniture’s way nicer than you’re used to. And if you’re honest, you’ve lived with worse.
“Alright,” you say, taking a few steps into the kitchen and setting the bottle down. “I’ll take it if you’ll have me.”
He raises the beer to his lips and nods once, like you’ve just closed a business deal.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he says, already turning from you.
“You never gave me your name.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Jason.”
You smile, and offer yours in return.
When you arrive again, Jason is nowhere to be seen.
He’d handed you the keys earlier unceremoniously, saying you could move in even if the paperwork wasn’t sorted—so long as you brought cash. You told him you’d probably be back tonight, mentioned something about the apartment complex you used to live in. He’d reacted to that, almost imperceptibly; just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like that name meant something to him. But he only nodded, said he understood, and that it wasn’t his business why you had to move your shit in.
Before you left, he mentioned he’d be out for the night, that by the time you came back he wouldn’t be home. He had called it a night-shift, though he didn’t say what kind. There was something a little too practiced in the way he said it, like he had rehearsed it in front of a mirror, like it was something he had told everybody once before.
Still, it felt like a crumb of trust. Like he was quietly acknowledging your presence here, officiating you as his roommate by offering up something about himself. In turn, you told him that was fine—that you work nights as often as you did days, and that earned a huff from him.
You don’t carry much with you in between apartments in Gotham. If there’s anything this city has taught you, it’s that there’s no time for sentimentality. You’ve moved around enough times to not get attached to trinkets and knick-knacks, and it doesn’t help that half your shit was blown up with the wall during yesterday’s attack.
Still, you’d salvaged what you could from the wreckage and packed your belongings into boxes. It’s not much—a couple of ceramics tucked into the far end of the kitchen, some books (gifts from your parents) that had miraculously survived, and thankfully whatever was left in your bedroom.
Everything had, unsurprisingly, fit in your car. A small part of you thought it had to be unsustainable, having your life crammed into a tiny hatchback, but Gotham offered no reprieve for its people. Not from grief, not from chaos, and certainly not from starting over. You’d driven on, pulling into the unfamiliar car spot beside the red-brick building that would be your new home. At least for a while.
With Jason gone, you find yourself wandering around the living room, into the kitchen and across the spaces you would now be sharing. The display cases catch your eye first as you inch closer—a set of blades mounted on obsidian stands, firearms arranged along the wall with curatorial precision. You wonder if he’s ever used them, or if they’re just part of a collection.
It feels a little egregious, honestly. Like a power-play. Like he enjoys being surrounded by danger, needs it near him, even in his downtime. You’ve seen what weapons like these do to the human body, how they open it, wreck it, and turn it inside out, and seeing them lined up like trophies behind glass makes your skin itch.
You won’t complain about the furniture, though, because when you cautiously sink into the sofa, you realise this is authentic Italian leather, and it’s not the sort that you would find in a flea market or a thrift shop. It's clearly something ordered, probably imported. Same goes for the credenza against the opposite wall, mid-century maybe, and the rug governing the living room floor—definitely handwoven.
It’s an ill fitting kind of luxury, tucked inside cracked walls and peeling paint.
The quiet fixes around you, and you wonder if it’ll always be like this when he’s not around. You place an envelope with the month’s rent on the kitchen countertop, somewhere you know he won’t miss it.
There’s nothing left to do but start settling in.
Opening a box, you begin arranging salvaged kitchenware into the cupboard—a mismatched set: three plates, two chipped mugs, a bowl with a hairline crack running through the glaze. They survived, unlike most of your things, and you think that must mean something.
The rest of the box empties easily into the bedroom. You make quick work of the closet, hanging your coats, jackets, and the scrubs you wear for days outside the theatre. There’s not much in the department of casual clothes—your days typically spent in the hospital or lounging around in your apartment, and if there was anything particularly nice, it was destroyed in yesterday’s blast.
Yet, the ritual is familiar, grounding in a way you weren’t expecting. It’s a welcome relief from the stress that’s been bouncing around inside you all day. You're about to shelve your books alongside his in the living room when you turn.
You freeze.
Jason stands in the doorway, silent and unmoving, arms crossed over his chest. You hadn’t heard him come in. Your soul seems to stand on edge, eyes wide as you stare at him.
“You said you’d be out all night.” Did he notice your fright? Did he see how your muscles locked at the sight of him framed in the open door?
If he did, he doesn’t show it. “Forgot something. Thought I heard a noise.”
His eyes flick over the near-empty box, then back to you, books still in hand.
The silence stretches, filling the room, and you think whoever speaks next will lose some kind of mental game you hadn’t realised you were playing.
“You can use my shelf,” he says, pushing off the doorframe and disappearing into the kitchen.
You stay where you are, staring at the spot he’d just left, your heart still leaping from the fright.
The fridge opens, and you hear the hiss of a bottle cap against the edge of the counter, When you finally glance out of the door, toward the kitchen, he’s already halfway to the front door, beer in hand. The other hand pulls on a dark leather jacket, the collar upturned.
For a second, something catches your eye—a glimpse beneath the open zip. Tactical gear, maybe. Padded, reinforced. You’re not sure what to make of it, whether it hints at something larger, or if he just likes the look of a combatant suit when he goes about. You think he works military, or something of the sort.
He notices you watching and pauses at the door, expression unreadable.
“Don’t wait up,” he says dryly.
The door shuts behind him with a thud, the lock clicking faintly afterwards.
And then you're left in the quiet again. The faint hum of the fridge daring to break it, and you swallow, feeling your pulse slow as the adrenaline ebbs.
The stillness hangs in the air as you stand and make your way to the living room, books in hand. His “shelf” is more of an art piece than a functional bookshelf, crafted from dark stone and rising from the ground in sweeping, angular forms.
It’s already full. Not with junk or old receipts like you half expected, but with paperbacks and hardcovers, pressed against each other like there’s no room. A few autobiographies, some non-fiction, but what really catches your eye is his collection of classics. Crime and Punishment, Brave New World, a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice tucked sideways on top of a row like it’s a frequent read—or an unfinished one.
You hadn’t pegged him for this type, but then again, nothing about your situation has been easy to digest. Considering the paradox of his lavish decor sitting in a dilapidated building, it shouldn’t come as a surprise his standoffish demeanor belies a literary streak. He’s well-read, and that earns a bit more of your respect—even if he stalks through his apartment like a ghost.
You think about sliding your books between the edges, squeezing them beside his, but it feels… wrong. Too intimate, almost. Like this version of him is the most honest you’ve seen all day, and you’d crack his carefully constructed veneer if you rearranged it.
Instead, you stack yours by the entertainment unit and hope his invitation to that corner of the shelf extends to other pieces of furniture.
Your attention drifts back to his copy of Jane Austen.
Pride and Prejudice.
It’s too much of a siren song to ignore, the way the book sits differently from the others, its spine creased with wear. You pick it up gingerly, remembering how Jason had silently watched as you unpacked, and you glance around the room checking to see if he’s lingering about.
The book falls open in your hands.
There’s a faint pencil underline beneath a line you recognise.
"There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."
There’s almost something unsettling about how that moves you—how Jason’s character could be cracked open by a single Jane Austen line, buried in the pages of a book he keeps within reach. It softens him, grinds the edges of his form in your memory, sands the grit from his words in your hand, and you think this living arrangement might not be too bad after all.
You smile at the thought.
What’s so bad about a big man reading a little bit of Jane Austen, anyway?
A lot, actually.
The front door slams shut for what feels like the tenth time this week.
This time, there's blood on the floor. He walks in, boots thudding against the floor as he rushes to his room.
There’s a streak of it on the floor from the door to his room, thick and dark against the wooden vinyl. The sharp, metallic scent catches in your throat. It smells like the ER—like the operating theatre—and you wish it didn’t follow you home. You lean against the kitchen counter, eyes heavy and fixed on his door. Behind it, you hear the low rustle of clothing, the grind of a zipper, the dull thud of a jacket hitting the floor and then something heavier.
When the door opens, he’s shirtless and irritable and he rolls his eyes like the sight of you irritates him. Unsettles him. He walks past without a word, heading to the bathroom sink. From where you stand, you can see the laceration just beneath his ribs—red, raw, still weeping. You follow him wordlessly, exhaustion from your own twelve-hour shift settling deep in your bones, but some sort of duty forces your legs to chase after him. He’s dishevelled in the bathroom mirror, face thick with grime and blood, whose you’re not sure of, the white part in his hair almost dyed red with it.
“Don’t start,” he says, not even looking at you.
You cross your arms.“Start what?”
He slams the bathroom cupboard shut, maybe looking for gauze, maybe just looking for space. “The Florence Nightingale shit. I’ve got it handled.”
“Sure,” you say, closing the distance so you’re standing inches behind him. You give his back a proper lookover. The laceration is one thing, but the scratches eat up the expanse of his back and you wonder how on earth there could be so many. That and the distal bruises kissing up the sides of his ribs makes it look like he’s barely escaped a fight with his life. You’ve seen worse, sure, but the sight of him, tender and bloodied has your heart in your throat.
He turns, winces. His knuckles are split, one eye already swelling. “I didn’t ask for help.”
“No,” you respond. “You didn’t ask for anything. You just come in almost everyday, bleeding all over the kitchen, and ignoring me when I say you need stitches. Again.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
You snort. “Because that wound is going to close itself? I understand if you don’t want to sit in the waiting room all night, but you are going to get yourself killed if you don’t start taking this shit seriously.”
He doesn’t answer. Just grabs the ends of a towel and presses it hard against the wound, flinching. Blood seeps through instantly, dripping onto the white ceramic sink.
You step forward without thinking. He bristles in response.
“I said I’ve got it,” he grits between teeth.
“Just shut up and sit down.” Your voice cracks out, sharper than intended, and it startles even you.
A tense silence falls between you.
He stares at you, jaw clenched, breathing hard. A moment passes. And then he drops onto the closed toilet seat, defeat etched onto the furrows of his face. He doesn’t speak. Just glares at the wall, hand still holding the towel against his wound.
“Wait here,” you murmur, turning to the kitchen.
Your kit sits on the counter and it’s a pretty decently stocked one, more industrial than anything standard, and probably a little more illegal too. You consider offering him something for the pain, maybe a Penthrox inhaler, or a back-alley dose of lidocaine, but the thought dissolves when he leans forward and spits into the bathtub.
When you do get back to him he cowers a little, and you think he reminds you of a small frightened animal. His face is downturned, and he refuses to meet your eye. He holds himself taut, and you wonder if it's out of protection or pain.
You work in silence, careful to notice any changes in his breathing or twitches that might betray his unbothered facade.
The cut is deep. Deep enough that the skin pulls apart, and you know without hesitation that it’ll need sutures. Even if he grits his teeth through it. Even if he tells you no. You’re legally qualified —a nurse practitioner, trained in trauma response—and so while suturing is something you’ve been taught, it’s not something you’ve practised consistently..
He mutters something under your breath that makes the corner of your eye twitch, and you think:
Fuck it.
You reach for your kit and steel your voice, trying to keep it measured. Clinical.
“Jason, I’m going to have to stitch this.”
He doesn’t respond verbally. Just exhales with enough drama that you see his chest rise and fall, like he’s showing you he’s resigned to his fate. But something breaks inside you when you see that scar, the autopsy scar, and you don’t think when you reach out to trace it.
He flinches at the touch like he’s been burned. A flash of anger crosses his face, sharp and unfiltered. You recoil just as quickly, the cold guilt settling in your gut.
“Sorry,” you say softly, and you mean it.
You remove yourself from his space, putting on a pair of nitrile gloves and opening the sterile pack with ease. You don’t move until his breathing evens out again, and when you do, it’s with practised caution.
The wound is located a few inches below his ribcage, and it’s not a particularly great position to suture in, especially when his breathing is still ragged from pain and his skin moves with each punctuated breath.
You irrigate the wound first with one of your saline tubes, watching the blood run down the grooves of his torso in thin rivulets. He doesn’t react, just keeps his gaze away from you. Then, using some of the gauze pads, you pry away as much dirt from the surrounding area as possible.
It’s worrying how much this affects you. You’ve done this before, on patients thrashing and swearing, trying to bite through their own pain. But his silence unsettles you more than any scream ever has. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the stillness. Maybe it’s because you weren’t quite able to bring your professional detachment from work home.
You draw the lidocaine into the syringe from its sterile vial, checking for air bubbles.
“This is going to sting,” you say quietly, losing more of your clinical measure with each word.
You puncture the surrounding skin with the syringe. He doesn’t react immediately, but you notice the muscles in his abdomen tense as you release the lidocaine into his dermis.
“This’ll be the worst of it,” you murmur, offering any amount of reassurance you can, aware he’ll continually refuse it. “I have to do it a few more times, okay?”
You reposition the needle, injecting small doses in a ring around the edge of the laceration. When you’re done, you set the syringe on the tray beside the sink and reach for a fresh piece of gauze, dabbing away the slow dribble of blood trailing down his side. Your touch is gentle despite the gloves, and though he doesn’t say anything, the way he subtly leans into it feels like unspoken trust.
He exhales hard. “That the worst of it?”
You give him a tired smile. “You tell me.”
Then, after you’re certain enough time has passed, you press the injection site with gentle pressure. “Can you feel this?”
He grunts. “Not really.”
“Not really, or no?”
He raises an eyebrow, his mouth drawn in a flat line.
You sigh. “The distinction matters. I don’t want to be threading your skin if you can still feel it.”
His gaze meets yours for the briefest second, and then he flicks his eyes away.
“I can’t feel it.”
You let a small exhale out, relieved. “Good.”
You irrigate the wound once more, using the last of your saline flushes to clear the blood away from the wound before you’ll start suturing.
“You shouldn’t look at this. Makes some people feel a little woozy,” you say, a laugh tucked into your exhale.
Then you pierce his skin with a needle, nylon suture drawn.
The first stitch is clean, and you almost feel a little proud of your handiwork. It’s not bad for a nurse who hasn’t done this in about a year. You fall into rhythm: pierce, arc, pull through, tie off. The quiet deepens between the two of you, and though you aren’t looking at his face, you can tell he’s watching your hands at work. By the third suture, the wound starts to close. By the fourth, blood wells up again.
“Last one, okay?”
When the final knot is tied and trimmed, you step away, assessing the tension in your stitches. There’s some hesitancy on whether you’ve tied them too tight but you think back to whatever he does during the night and think maybe the added tightness is worth it.
You cover the site with a sterile dressing, then tape it down with adhesive.
“You’ll have to keep it clean,” you say, peeling off your gloves and tossing them in the bin. “Rinse the wound with saline before you re-dress it.”
Then you meet his gaze. “And you need to cut out whatever it is you do at night. At least for the next few days.”
Jason lets out a dry laugh in response. “You’re funny.”
“I’m serious, Jason.”
He stands carefully, testing the pull of the sutures with a shallow breath. You can see it tugs at him, but he doesn’t complain. You don’t press. Not yet. Not when this fragile moment of quiet vulnerability still lingers between you.
Then he looks at you, and that’s your cue. “How’s it feeling?”
“Fine.”
“I know you don’t want to talk about what you do,” you add, quieter now, collecting loose packaging from the floor. “But whatever it is, you can’t be doing it by yourself. Not like this.”
He walks out of the bathroom. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Of course you don’t,” you say. “But you do need someone to stop you bleeding out on your own kitchen floor.”
His body stills, back still turned to you. Then he’s reaching for the fridge door, pulling out a beer. “You done?”
“No, actually,” you snap, adrenaline finally catching up. “I come home from a twelve-hour shift and am greeted with your shitty attitude and reluctance to seek any medical help— again. You tell me not to start, but you’ve made this my business the second you bled all over our floor.”
He turns to face you, grip white-knuckled on the bottle. “I told you I was fine. You didn’t have to do anything—you chose to.” He laughs bitterly. “Fuck, man. You nurses and your saviour complexes.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?”
Jason rolls his eyes like he’s heard it a thousand times. “This isn’t a thing, alright? We’re not friends. We’re not... whatever the fuck you think this is. We’re roommates. That’s it.”
“Roommates don’t bleed on the floor and act like it’s somehow my problem when I notice,”
He slams the bottle cap against the counter. It pops off with a metallic clink. “Then don’t notice.”
“I live here,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “What do you want me to do, step over your bloodstains and ignore the limping?”
“If it bothers you so much, yes.”
You laugh, sharp and empty. “You think I want to care? I’d love to not give a shit. I’d love to not wonder if you’re going to die of sepsis while I’m at work. Kinda hard not to when you come home at 3AM soaked in your own blood and sweat.”
He takes a sip of his beer. “I didn’t ask you to care.”
“No,” you say, softer now, more resigned. “But you haven’t stopped me yet.”
That lands somewhere. His jaw tenses, then a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He sighs, sets the beer down on the counter.
“I don’t want you getting involved,” he says, finally. “Please, don’t make this into more than what it is.”
There’s some desperation in his voice, like he’s more begging than asking.
You pinch the bridge of your nose with your fingers.
“And what is it, Jason? Because if this is strictly roommates, then maybe try acting like one. Stop coming home at 3AM bleeding, stop avoiding medical advice, and please, for the love of god, start taking care of yourself.”
He turns, jaw clenched, and for a second it looks like he might say something cruel, something to throw you off his tail. Something that’ll burn the bridge before you can cross it.
His mouth opens, and you prepare yourself for something thorny, but instead he walks to the sofa, grabs a crumpled shirt, and shrugs it on. Then the jacket. Then his keys.
“Don’t wait up,” he mutters at the door.
“You already said that,” you reply, too tired to stop yourself.
The door slams shut behind him.
You don’t chase him. He’ll come back eventually. Instead, you resume cleaning up after yourself, placing the syringe and needle into a box you’ll deposit in a sharps bin at work. There’s still a sizable amount of his blood in the bathroom, over the sink, the floor, but you don’t have the energy right now to clean it.
Your hands ache, your head hurts and you feel like shit. Jane Austen would have a field day with him.
The apartment is still when you wake, early morning light pouring through the gaps of the living room blinds.
You sit up slowly, still in yesterday’s clothes. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch, but the argument had left you too exhausted to care. Now, with lucidity seeping back in, you realise everything aches—your muscles stiff with tension, your body worn thin by the weight of last night. You wonder if he actually took care of the sutures like you told him to.
A blanket slips off your shoulders as you move. One you don’t remember pulling over yourself.
The smell of coffee draws your attention. It hits faint but fresh, drifting in from the kitchen. He must’ve come home while you were out cold. You rise, joints protesting the movement, and make your way across the apartment.
There’s a mug on the counter. Yours. The chipped one you had unpacked a week ago. Steam still curls out of it faintly, like it hadn’t been sitting there long. He must have made it before heading to bed, or leaving again. You think it must be his gesture of thanks—an apology, maybe—and somehow, just like that, the resentment you were nursing slips quietly out of your chest.
You pick up the mug and hold it, warming your fingers on the ceramic. It’s just sweet enough that you know the coffee’s not for him. It’s bitter, made using that instant brand he likes, but the sugar and the creamer cuts through the acid on your tongue. And he used your mug. The gesture eases the ache in your muscles, massages its way through tired tissue.
You sigh, letting your gaze drift to the living room.
"My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."
You don’t peg him for a romantic, but he reads Austen, makes you coffee for when you wake. And when he’s not bleeding out in the hallway or snapping at you, he listens. His words are one thing, but his hands say another—face unreadable but his eyes betray his indifference every time.
You lean against the counter and sip.
Jason Todd is a walking contradiction. He tells you not to care, not to ask, not to notice him. But then he makes you coffee, pulls blankets over your body when you sleep, like he notices you.
He notices you.
And that frightens you in equal parts as it does elate you. He spits out the words of a bully, but you think to his shelf, think to the collection of poetry he has on the 3rd row.
He’s left you coffee in the morning after a fight, and somehow, that rends you.
Jason will never admit it, and neither will you, but the routine that comes from that night is nothing short of a blessing.
Weeks pass, and though you refuse to talk of that night, or the argument that followed it, the two of you fold that interaction into the crevices of your relationship. It's strained, taut. Jason doesn’t give his trust freely, which is why it surprises you when he stays indoors the following two nights, lingering in the living room with a book pressed into his hands.
Even more surprising is what comes after: when he returns one night, inevitably bloodied and bruised, and turns to you—wordlessly.
The routine establishes itself. When he limps in past midnight, clutching torn fabric and half-dried blood, you fetch the antiseptic. He takes a seat, usually on the barstools, sometimes the closed toilet seat (never the couch, it’s too expensive), and you bring out your kit. When he strips down to his waist, your hand immediately finds purchase on his skin.
Occasionally, he hisses when the alcohol bites. Sometimes he doesn’t flinch at all.
You don’t ask questions. He never says thank you.
You stop trying to read him.
He’s there occasionally before your shifts, or after when you work mornings but you rarely catch him when he wants to talk. On better days, you find signs he’s been around: a rinsed coffee mug in the sink, a dish towel folded haphazardly on the counter. His copy of Pride and Prejudice migrates sometimes from shelf to table to couch and then back again.
One night, he sits on the opposite end of the couch while you’re watching the news and you still—like any sudden movement will have him scuttling back to where he came from. You recline further into the cushion, curled in your usual corner, and he settles in too like you’ve done this together before. Like the sudden proximity to you is nothing. His shoulder hovers inches from yours, body angled away, one arm slung along the backrest.
You don’t speak, don’t even dare to look at him.
But when a car chase plays on-screen—the kind of thing you suspect he had a hand in—you hear it. A quiet laugh, barely a breath.
It stays like that.
Wordless. Almost warm.
You think of this night for many more to come.
Another night, you boil pasta late after a long shift. Just enough for yourself at first, but you double it at the last second. Instinctively, almost without thinking. It’s not unusual for you to cook for others, it was pretty much a fixture in your first sharehouse, but when you graduated and found work, cooking for more than two became a chore.
You plate both servings. Leave his on the stove, glad-wrapped, in case he comes home later than normal.
When he does arrive home, it’s half an hour later. You hear the door, the jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. He’s not in bad condition tonight, black undershirt still fairly in tact, and his face is more grime than blood. You don’t say anything. Just rinse your dish and slide it into the sink.
He walks into the kitchen, past the stove. He eyes it for a second, then looks at you. Opens the fridge, grabs a beer. Turns. Doesn’t touch the plate.
He drinks half the bottle, then disappears into his room.
Later, when you know he won’t come back out, you wrap the pasta in foil and slide it into the bin.
You wonder why you so readily offer him your kindness, and why he so adamantly refuses it. When you retire to your bed, it’s with a heaviness you don’t shake off. Not grief, exactly. Just something adjacent to it.
You don’t love Gotham, but you live in it. And for now, that includes living with him.