Chapter Text
With her mind she had always seized the fact that there is no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor. There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that.
To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
THEN.
“Wonder Girl.”
When Batman knocks on the window of your sister’s apartment, a million scenarios flash through your head. An off-world League mission and they need the Teen Titans for backup? An undercover job at the Brotherhood of Evil? Deathstroke escaping from prison? It could’ve been anything.
The only red flag that crosses your mind, briefly, is that Batman is alone. Usually his presence is accompanied by a team meeting in the Tower (a debriefing or something of the sort) or the raucous soundtrack of his burgeoning collection of various vigilantes—there was Nightwing, Batgirl, and of course, you couldn’t forget Robin—but if this was urgent enough for him to seek you out in the dead of night, then you’d take the call.
“Batman,” you say genially, opening the balcony door further so he can step into your bedroom. “You can use the front door, you know. Is it important? My comms are turned on, but I didn’t hear it ringing. Do you want a water or anything? I think we have lemonade too.”
For once, Batman seems tense. He doesn’t display any outward signs of anxiety. There’s no fiddling with the edge of his cape or shuffling around on his feet, but he radiates a tense air that puts you on edge too.
“Batman?” you prompt, nervousness seeping into your tone.
“I’m afraid this isn’t a social call,” he says. He flexes his fingers in and out of a fist then gestures to your settee. “Would you like to take a seat?”
A million horrible things fly through your mind. Murphy’s law: anything that could go wrong would go wrong. Was Diana hurt and they needed someone to transport her back to Themyscira? Donna?
You shake your head. “If this is urgent, then I’d like to be ready to go at any time. What’s wrong?”
A silent, brooding Batman isn’t anything new, but your heart is thundering in your chest with anticipation anyway. He runs his hand over the cowl and takes the seat you refused. Your blood runs cold.
“Robin is gone.”
NOW.
You wake suddenly with a choking gasp of air, your hands wrapped around your own throat. Sitting up with wide eyes, you drop your arms and take a slow, shuddering breath to recenter yourself. The cotton sheets stick to your sweating legs, and you feel trapped and claustrophobic, kicking them off with an urgency.
You haven’t lived with Diana in five years, and it’s been almost a decade since Jason passed.
The memories haunt you anyway.
Your movements are jerky and uncoordinated with half-sleep, and with a fumbling grasp, you pat blindly at your bedside table until you find the switch for your lamp. You resist the urge to jump at the figure standing at the edge of your bed.
He flutters his blood-red wings in acknowledgement of your wakefulness, the silver fabric of his chiton brushing the edge of his gold skin with the movement. His face holds deep-set wrinkles, but his face is overall youthful. His eyes are downturned and solemn. Resting on top of his silvery gray hair is a laurel wreath, the left side flourishing with foliage while the right is wilted and dead. His mere presence is heavy.
Instinctively, you’re aware this is a god standing before you. You’re just not sure which one.
“Daughter of Hippolyta, Child of the Amazons.” His voice rings loudly despite its soft tone. “You have forsworn your sacred oath as spoken to Jason Peter Todd, son of Willis Todd and Sheila Haywood, son of Bruce Wayne. As my duty to the Fates by my mother Eris and god-king Zeus who has adorned himself with my title as Horkos the oath-keeper, I deliver your punishment and sentence you thusly: I have set loose the Hydra of Lerna, child of Typhon and Echnidna, upon your world. Only you are capable of slaying it, and only upon seeking atonement and rectifying your mistake shall you accomplish this goal."
“Jason? What does he have to do with anything? What oath—?”
Horkos holds out two outstretched fingers, placing them in the center of your forehead. “Sleep, Child. Tomorrow, your penance begins.”
Your eyes roll back, your head collapsing onto the pillow.
If you’re being truly, sincerely honest with yourself, you knew at that moment Jason had come back to you. Somehow.
When you wake up, you pray that last night was a dream.
You pick up the crimson feather on your floor with a sigh then get to work.
NOW.
Your eldest sister Diana is the ultimate symbol of your mother’s love, sculpted tenderly from the mineral-rich earth of Themyscira’s shores: a physical representation of Hippolyta’s hopes and dreams for the Amazons, brought to life and favored by the gods themselves. As Wonder Woman, she is loved and respected in equal measure. Her importance to the world—as a figure of hope and justice—is unquestionable truth.
Your older sister Donna acts as a mirror. The shadow covering what light cannot reach, the supporting column. She’d lived a thousand lives in Diana’s place. When she lost her family, it dedicated her further to protecting the world. Above all, she is generous.
And you are simply lucky.
At eight years old, you’d been plucked off the streets and ushered into the royal palace. (Sometimes, on nights when you’re alone, you dream of your life back then. You used to play hide and seek in the alleys of polished, gleaming streets made of marble. It was like Ephesus in its prime. Your life had been so simple.)
Hippolyta had grown particularly fond of strays, and you’d been her newest adoption. You think your presence, alongside the assortment of animals she’d collected, had been meant to alleviate the sting of your sisters’ absence from Paradise Island.
It was a tall legacy to live up to. Wonder Woman is a legend blessed by the Fates themselves. At eight years old, she’d slain the Nemean lion; at twelve, the Chimera. She’d established herself as the best fighter on Themyscira long before she left. As you knew her, the real Diana isn’t very far from the myth of her either. She’s steadfastly kind to everyone, even you.
Troia is similarly well-respected and regarded. As a founding member of the Titans, her contributions to the world and the community of heroes around the world are immeasurable. As your sister, she’s the one you look up to the most. The second daughter, the first to live a life outside of Diana’s footsteps.
Once upon a time, you’d been so excited to be Wonder Girl: your own bracelets, lasso, and tiara. A costume of your own. You’d been so bright-eyed and eager, hopeful to make something of yourself under a storied name for your sisters—your heroes—to be proud of.
And now, it’s your fifth time killing the Hydra in four months.
The routine was relatively consistent. You’d track it down somewhere around the globe (Quito, Vaduz, Osaka; you’d gone everywhere), hacking and slashing until it collapsed. The first time, you’d tried getting rid of it the ancient way. Heracles’ strategy had been to use the Hydra’s poison against itself by coating his blade in its venom before he cut its heads off to prevent regrowth. When you’d done it (in Edmonton, you remembered; you were freezing despite it being April), it had collapsed in a rotting, stinking heap. Two weeks later, you received reports of it terrorizing the mountains of Bhutan.
It always came back, drawing you away from your work and other responsibilities. Lernean snakes were tough, the Hydra most of all. On your third attempt, you’d waited by its corpse for twelve days to ensure it was well and truly dead, but the moment you’d left, it’d reappeared in southern France.
As you bring your sword down onto one of the Hydra’s many heads, you realize you don’t really remember what that feels like anymore.
THEN.
13:22
WG_03: robin
13:25
WG_03: robin
WG_03: i see youre online don’t ignore me
WG_03: >:[
RB_02: Oops. Accidentally left my comm in my room
RB_02: Was out on a run what’s up
WG_03: lotr rerun on tv tonight lets watch
RB_02: Ok u want me to bring snacks?
RB_02: I can pick up popcorn and caprisuns at the store
WG_03: yes please!!!!! :DD luv u
13:31
MM_00: Hello, Robin and Wonder Girl. Please refrain from using official Justice League communication units for personal messages.
WG_03: sorry jonn :’(
RB_02: Sorry..
NOW.
Almost two years after Jason dies, a malfunctioning Superman android burns a hole through Troia's chest with its heat vision and kills her instantly.
You’ll never forget what it was like. The seared char over the star on her suit, the burnt metallic tang of her blood boiling in her body around the wound site. The way she had crumpled down face first, falling into the mud and slumping over.
Nightwing and Arsenal are first on the scene, gathering Donna into their arms. Dick wipes away the blood on her mouth and the wetness lining her eyes. Arsenal’s tears fall onto her scraped face. Cassie flies over, falling with a wail.
And you stand to the side, shock still.
At her funeral, Cassie stands away from you and chokes down her sobs with a gasp, leaning on Superboy and Robin for support. Diana stands directly at her stone tomb, and her eyes never waver from Donna’s epitaph. Donna Troy: Friend, princess, warrior.
You wonder if they blame you. Before you left Themyscira, you’d sworn to protect your sisters with your life, the vow they’d made in turn. You couldn’t save her. You let her die. You blame yourself.
Half a year later, Dick invites you to a coffee shop to talk.
You’re well aware he only started talking to you because you’d been one of the last people to know Donna—to truly know her outside of Wonder Girl or Troia and the exclusionary nature of ‘hero’ work. He’s older than you, and you rarely crossed paths in Titans Tower anyway. You’d only see him when he stood in the kitchen to pull a prank on Donna or pester Jason. There was little else to bind you, but it was enough.
Losing a friend, a teammate is devastating; losing a sibling is excision. You’ll be forever haunted by your phantom limb.
Even though Donna’s returned as the savior of New Cronus and the multiverse (a miracle of mind-boggling proportions that you don’t spend too much time worrying about; Donna’s back, and that’s all that matters), the two of you still grab the occasional coffee together. He’s grown on you, a bit like affectionate mold.
Blüdhaven is too close to work for Dick to relax, and you’re too much of a floater to have a home city to call your own. Gotham is, of course, off-limits for many reasons. San Francisco, home of the Teen Titans, is safe and familiar for both of you, so you meet there instead.
Your usual coffee shop is a small, Mom-and-Pop business bordering the main city center and downtown that stands apart from the corporate stuff. The decor is homey and inviting, reflecting the owners’ affable natures. It grinds the coffee in-house and sources single-origin beans (perfect for the hipsters that filter in and out), and it has a bakery next door that sells the best almond croissants you’ve had in your life (perfect for yours and Dick’s sweet tooth).
After an hour or so of genial conversation, Dick finishes what’s left of his caramel macchiato and sets the mug onto the table. It has a cartoonish Nightwing on the enamel that made him smile when he took the cup. He begins to drum an unsteady beat with his fingertips. “I need to tell you something.”
“Shoot,” you say, playing with the paper straw disintegrating what’s left of your drink. Your elbow rests on the table, your other hand holding your face by your chin.
“Don’t… freak or anything, okay?” he says. “It’s just that I know B probably hasn’t told you yet, but I think you deserve to know.”
“You’re starting to scare me, dickface,” you tease affectionately, straightening your posture. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.
“Jason’s back,” he blurts.
You try not to make an expression. “What,” you swallow, “what do you mean? ‘Back’? Like someone took over his body?”
You remember that night, you and Bruce in Diana’s apartment. The tears running down your face, the sorrow in his. You remember Donna’s funeral, anger roiling in your stomach then simmering to blunted guilt that flooded the rest of your body. You think of Horkos. Your forgotten oath. Your curse.
Dick shakes his head. “No, I mean resurrected ‘back.’ Like Donna. But not like Donna. It’s complicated.”
In this line of work, it’s always fucking complicated. You try not to scowl.
“He’s been operating as the Red Hood. We found out about him in June,” he continues.
June. That would’ve been two months ago, around when Horkos cursed you.
Even after all these years, Jason Todd is still a sore topic for you—an open, festering wound you’d picked the scab of so many times it’d healed in a grotesque scar that marred you permanently. Dick knows. It’d been the same with him for years, but he’s a better person than you.
You get up, the chair scraping against the tiled floor. You throw a couple of dollars on the table to pay Dick back for the coffee then quickly shove your arms into your jacket. “Thanks for letting me know. I have to go.”
THEN.
“He was my hero,” New Robin tells you.
You’d been avoiding him as best you could, taking odd-hour missions halfway across the globe and avoiding Gotham City like the plague. You couldn’t bear to see someone else in his costume and pretending to wear his face. You’d resolved to quit the Titans altogether. It felt like extricating yourself entirely was the safest thing to do to stop yourself from unnecessarily snapping at him. He was just a kid; he didn’t understand your ire. Talking to this guy, even acknowledging his presence, felt like betrayal at worst and a thousand paper cuts at best.
As you were moving out, you made the careless mistake of leaving one of Jason’s hoodies in the Tower in your haste to leave. It was one of the few things you had left of him that hadn’t been swept away by Batman’s cleanup, and you couldn’t let yourself part with it.
You’d been ready to grab what you’d needed and make a clean break for it, shoving what was left of your stuff and his into a duffle bag with your head down to avoid conversation. New Robin found you anyway.
“Who?” you ask. You try not to wince at the unwelcoming tone—gruff and harsh, so unlike you. You already know who he means, anyway. You just wanted to hear him say it.
“The… the guy before me.” He makes an unsure, wishy-washy motion with his hands. “The last dude.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. The pain and metallic burst of blood in your mouth are somewhat comforting.
“B told me you guys were close,” he tries to say, taking a step towards you.
Instinctively, you take a step back, pulling the bag closer to your body. “It was something like that.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss. I really looked up to him. I was there at Troia’s funeral, too. She was amazing.”
You’re sick and tired of hearing apologies. It’s all you’ve gotten lately since your sister and boyfriend died in such a short time period.
You weren’t even together that long, you try to reason to yourself. It shouldn’t hurt this much.
“What’s your name, kid?”
New Robin isn’t even that much younger than you. You’re probably around the same age.
You can see him pulling some mental calculus, weighing if you can be trusted with his identity and if Batman will get mad at you knowing.
“I already know about B.W. if that’s what you’re thinking,” you tell him. B.W. Bruce Wayne.
“Oh,” he says, getting the hint. “I’m, uh, Tim.”
You hold your hand out for him to shake and give him your name. As you turn to leave, you say, “Stay safe, kid. It’s a tough job.”
THEN.
“Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’? Why are we waiting here and wasting time? If he needs a rescue op, you should’ve called more people!” You’re frantic, running over to the wall to collect your lasso from its hook and belting it around yourself.
“Wonder Girl, please.”
“Let’s go, Batman! Get up.” Your voice is shrill, almost hysterical. “You of all people should know the first forty-eight hours of a kidnapping are the most important, and—”
Batman says your name, pulling you out of your tirade. “Please,” he says. He sounds tired and broken. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then… what did you mean?”
His silence says a thousand words. You stumble back, pulling your hands up to wrap them around yourself. “You’re lying.”
“Wonder Girl.”
“You’re lying to me,” you snarl. “You need to stop talking. This is a sick prank, Batman.”
“I’m sorry,” he says softly, rising off the couch and moving towards you with outstretched, open palms. His movements are slow, careful, as if approaching a feral animal. “I know you two were special to each other, and I wanted you to hear it from me—”
“I said enough! Shut up.” Crystalline tears line your eyes, blurring your vision, but you won’t let them fall. Blinking them away, you leap towards your lasso hanging on the coat rack beside your door. With a quick flick of your wrists, the Caped Crusader’s hands are bound together. “There are plenty of people in Gotham City, much less the world, who can take someone’s face. I don’t know what you have to gain by trying to trick me like this, but tell me who you are and why you’re really here. Now.”
The real Batman you know wouldn’t let himself get caught like this, you reason. He would find a way out just to convince you of the truth. And you’re not all that close to the Bat to begin with. He would’ve sent someone else to summon you for a mission. This has to be a trick. It has to be.
Lost in your grief, you don’t realize maybe he’s mourning too.
Batman bows his head, and his arms go lax in the lariat. “My name is Bruce Wayne. You know me as Batman.” His lips flatten. “Robin—Jason—is gone. I’m sorry.”
When Donna died, there was a tense period in your relationship with Diana where neither of you could stand to look at each other. As the picture of grace and magnanimity, she handled it much better than you ever could have. She made every effort to continue your monthly lunches, while you ignored all of her calls. The resemblance between your two eldest sisters was unmistakable—at times, too much too bear—and it’d always made you feel insecure and left out.
In the same way, the worst thing about Bruce Wayne is that he looks like an older Jason.
There are marked differences across all of the Wayne boys, but there are enough similarities to make the untrained eye blink twice. Bruce is the worst of it. You can see him in the boys’ faces, like different artists painting the same portrait. You can’t stand to look at Dick very long for the same reason. You know they aren’t related by blood, but he looks like his brother all the same.
The first thing you notice when you visit the Manor for the first time in months is that the walls are devoid of any photographs of Jason, the mirrors covered with long, draping cloths. You wonder if he’d felt the same way, too engulfed in his grief to see the reminders of his son in his reflection.
It doesn’t matter; you don’t need a photograph to remember Jason anyway.
NOW.
The Hydra finds its way to Gotham City. Really, you’re surprised it’s taken this long, considering Horkos had said your curse had something to do with Jason.
Unfortunately for you, it seemed you weren’t the only one who’d found the beast. You hadn’t expected your arrival to go unannounced—the Bats’ neuroses were far too pronounced for that—but you’d hoped against all hope it wouldn’t be them.
Once you’d found out Jason was alive, you’d gone on a mad hunt looking for any clues about what he’d done post-resurrection. About what could have possibly kept his attention for so long that he couldn’t have even bothered to let you know he was back. He hadn’t just been your teenage boyfriend, he’d been your best friend too. (A sick, self-harming thought comes to you that maybe you’d loved him more than he’d ever loved you.)
The online search had pulled up blurry photos posted across Reddit and Twitter, some self-described conspiracy theorists trying to determine whether the Red Hood who ran Park Row, Gotham City, was the same as the one taking down a fentanyl shipment in San Diego.
And it seems like everyone got the publicity note except for you.
Artemis is quick to join you in the fight, leaping into the fray with a practiced, deadly precision. “Your Highness,” she says with a nod. “We haven’t crossed paths in some time now. The Hydra doesn’t seem to respond to our attacks, it just keeps getting back up.”
You grit your teeth. Just your luck for them to show up on your self-healing journey/wandering phase/whatever the fuck. If this wasn’t a sign from Hades it was all bullshit, you didn’t know what else it could be.
You extend the length of your blade out towards the snake, your stance wide and stable. “Stand down. I’ll handle this.”
“Scythia, I just told you—” Artemis huffs, frustrated. “We can work together, princess. It’s not that big of a deal.”
With a single, strong kick, you send the Hydra careening through a wall, puffing out a cloud of brick and debris. You don’t have the time to explain everything to her. Jason’s stare is heavy on your form, so you’re not exactly in an altruistic mood either. “Removing this beast is my duty, and mine alone. Stay here. You’ll just be in my way.”
You’ve never had so much of an issue with her or any Amazon of Bana-Mighdall before, but seeing Jason standing next to her and Bizarro—his team, you think—makes you grit your teeth. All these years, he’d been running around the world, working with your friends, and no one had bothered to tell you. Worse, Artemis was one of your sisters-in-arms, an Amazon.
It’d be easier to just tell them in more certain terms that slaying the Hydra is not only your task, it’s your penance. It won’t fall to anyone but you. But after all the secrets that have been kept from you, you feel like you can stand to have a few of your own.
The Hydra begins to pick itself back up, and you speed towards him with your sword outstretched like a bladed torpedo. From your periphery, you can see Artemis scowl but cross her arms and stay behind. Her tense expression seems to say, When you can’t take it anymore, let me know, and I’ll come to your rescue.
She can be as pissed as she wants as long as she’s out of your way.
You make quick work of the Hydra this time. Maybe it’s the observer effect or something.
Haughtily, you turn to Artemis and gesture at the collapsed body with a wave of your wrist. “You can help now, if you want. Careful, the blood’s poisonous.”
She scowls and stalks towards you. “Listen here, princess—”
You ignore her and prepare to launch off the rooftop, ready to hole yourself up in your apartment with a family size bag of chips to drown your sorrows until the snake regenerates again, but Jason grabs your arm.
“Wait. Are you really just gonna leave without saying anything?” Jason’s voice is low and pleading.
In spite of everything that’s happened to him, he looks good. You used to tower above him, but now you look him dead in the eyes. He has a tuft of chalk white hair curling down slightly in his face. His eyes search you, flickering over your weary eyes and lingering on your hard-set mouth, gaze soft despite the destruction you’ve shown.
“What do you want me to say?” You take a quick glance at Artemis, her eyes blazing and teeth clenched. Bizarro holds a dopey, lovestruck smile and waves at you when he notices your stare. “You had two years to find me after you came back. No one even told me.”
Jason’s grip tightens on your arm, his jaw clenching. His tone turns defensive. “I had other things on my mind, Scythia.”
Like forgetting me? you want to ask. You want him to hurt like you do right now, want to get even, but it’s so selfish of you so you turn away. You bite your tongue before you can say something you’ll truly regret, but he can read it anyway.
“I get it,” you say, shrugging out of his hold and floating out of his reach. You turn to look at the Gotham cityscape and harden your face so tears won’t fall. You’ve cried all the tears you should have for Jason. You refuse to cry any more. “I have other things on my mind these days too.”
He stumbles back from the edge of the rooftop, pulling back as if burned. The distance between the two of you feels like a chasm, every inch equivalent to a thousand miles. There are so many unspoken words and broken promises between the two of you it seems almost useless to say them at all now.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he says bitterly. He glances at Artemis, watching the encounter with a scowl, and Bizarro, who’s starting to giggle at you.
You leave without saying goodbye. It takes more effort to fly away than usual, like you’re weighed down by guilt. You should’ve told him that you still love him, that you waited for him every night and every day. That you visited his grave at least once a month to clean it on hands and knees with a bucket and rag, replacing the flowers and leaving drachma to guide his soul on a safe journey through the Underworld. But you’re so afraid of seeming pathetic and needy to him, especially now that he seems so okay without you, that you’re unwilling to give him a single weakness of yours to be exploited.
To save your pride and your sanity, you’d rather he think you didn’t care at all than too much.
THEN.
“Hi, I’m Robin.”
Even if you didn’t know about Nightwing’s previous tenure as the Boy Wonder, you could tell immediately this was a different person. This boy is shorter, his mask is green instead of black, and two puffy curls frame his forehead in a heart shape rather than Nightwing’s voluminous side part. Their costumes are eerily similar—the bright yellow cape, the red vest, and the green accessories. (It’s a bit too Christmas-sy in color scheme for your taste, and you wonder if the saturation makes it difficult to creep around the Gotham nightscape unnoticed.)
Politely, with all your trained demureness and all the imperiousness a thirteen-year-old can muster, you hold out your hand. “Wonder Girl.”
He clutches it with two hands, shaking vigorously with a beam that makes you offer a small smile in return. “It’s really great to meet you.”
“Princess,” Batman greets you flatly. He makes no motion to bow despite the honorific.
Neither Diana nor Donna have been particularly strict with secret identities or etiquette, so you’re not entirely bothered, but something about Batman’s presence makes you prickle. Maybe it’s all his secrecy. “Batman,” you acknowledge.
“You’re a princess?” Robin gasps, flushing cherry red. “I— Sorry, I didn’t know—” He makes several awkward attempts at a half-bow, his hand still in yours.
It makes you laugh. You’ve never seen Robin flustered like this. It reminds you a bit of how actual birds behave, flighty and nervous. “It’s okay. I’m not really big on all that. You can just use my name,” you offer.
“Oh, o— okay,” he stammers. Robin says your name slowly, testing out the syllables.
He smiles. It’s cute.
NOW.
In the early morning of Jason’s death, you find yourself in Gotham again.
It had been your tradition back then when you were in the Teen Titans together to skip team debriefings after particularly difficult missions. You’d wander the state fair, handing over a couple dollars for overpriced merry-go-rounds and rigged ring tosses. When you’d spun yourselves dizzy on the ferris wheels and teacups, you’d rush over to gorge yourself on too-sweet hot chocolate and freshly made funnel cake, the heavy dusting of powdered sugar slowly melting on the fried dough.
You’d come every year since his death. Even now you know he’s alive, you’re here, mourning the man Jason could’ve been. Even worse, the peaceful rest he hadn’t been granted.
Sitting with your legs crossed and facing his grave, you hear Jason before you see him. He's so entrenched in your being that you would feel him anywhere.
“Hey,” he says, walking to stand behind you. He crunches the leaves underfoot, something you know he does on purpose. He’s deadly silent when he wants, quieter than any normal person could hope to be. Neither of you are normal people. “Room for two?”
Wordlessly, without turning to look at him, you pat the earth, rich black and cold with morning dew. When he settles beside you, you hold out the tupperware of funnel cake. It doesn’t escape his notice there’s two plastic forks and two styrofoam cups like you had always expected him. Or maybe you’d been intent on sharing with a dead man.
It was still Jason’s either way, right?
Jason takes the food silently. The sugar is overly sweet and cloying, especially for the break of dawn, but it’s familiar and warm. You wonder if it reminds him of happier times. “You still do this?”
You resist the urge to look at him, even in your periphery, because you’re afraid you’ll cry. “Why would I stop?”
You’re afraid he’ll hear what you really want to say, so you don’t say anything further.
Jason swallows the ball in his throat then shoves food in his mouth to keep himself busy. His fingers tighten around the cup, the warmth of the cocoa providing a stark contrast to the crisp spring chill.
“Right,” he murmurs.
“And you? Do you come here often?” You grimace, hearing the cheesy pick-up line you don’t mean to say.
A smile tugs at his lips before he gives you an honest, somber answer. “More than I’d like to admit,” he confesses. “It’s like I can’t ever leave it behind.”
You wonder what he means. The memory of his death, or what came before it? The life he’d led leading up to it? You have your own mysteries and half-regrets: life if you’d never left Themyscira or never met Jason. Things like that.
“Yeah, I understand,” you say, but you don’t. Not really.
Silence slowly settles between the two of you, broken only when Jason decides to take a loud slurp of his cocoa. You level him with a mock-glare for his lack of decorum, but he grins at the comedic effect. You roll your eyes and fight a smile.
“You know,” he says with a grin, his shoulder jostling yours, “I had the biggest crush on you back then.”
Your brows furrow, and you give him a deadpan stare. “Jason. We were dating.”
“I used to turn into a tomato when you’d fly me.” His cheeks burn red in a way that makes him look boyish and young. It helps you ignore the warmth growing on your own face.
It seems like a thousand lifetimes ago, carrying Robin in your arms and soaring through the skies. You’d felt invincible. On top of the world. Neither of you are that old, but there’s a haunted look to the eyes that develops once you’ve been in the hero business long enough. Too many people dead, wounded, or worse. Sometimes it happens to you; sometimes it’s someone you love.
You’re overcome with nostalgia for things unfulfilled and things that could never be. “That was almost ten years ago,” you whisper.
Jason nods. You can’t read the look on his face.
“You were my first girlfriend,” he says. “First girlfriend, first kiss. First everything.”
You raise your eyebrow, remembering the night you’d both lost your virginities to each other. It’d been Jason’s birthday. The wandering hands as you’d unbuttoned his pants and the wide-eyed gaze of a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time. It had been cluelessness, fumbling, and instinct. Pure love.
He’d died eight months later.
Jason blushes like a schoolboy at the memory. (Nevermind the fact he’d been to second base before; it was fundamentally different.) You laugh at his expression.
“You’re teasing me,” he accuses.
I am, you think, but I haven’t had you around to tease in seven years.
“You were my first everything too.” You console him, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles. His hands are so much rougher than before. “And you were a really difficult ex to get over, if that helps.”
Jason jerks slightly when you call him your ex, flinching like he can’t believe it. You pretend not to notice, because it’s easier that way.
It’s true you’d never broken up, but he’d died and… well. Then he’d come back to life and had a series of flings. There’d been Rose and Artemis and Kyle. And you hadn’t exactly been celibate for the greater part of a half-decade either. You’d had your fair share of short-term relationships and one-night stands.
Selfishly, his heart still aches at the thought of you with someone else. He looks away briefly to compose himself and his thoughts. His hand still hangs limply beside yours.
“Is that… supposed to make me feel better?” he asks quietly with a humorless laugh.
“No,” you say not unkindly. It’s flat and plain, like stating a fact.
The way you’d say something like, Dover is the capital of Delaware, or You’d died and left me, or What was I supposed to do? I stopped eating, sleeping, and doing much of anything at all except crying myself dry. I quit the Titans because I couldn’t stand how you weren’t there with me. I got over you because I had to keep living, and you got over me too so I think we’re even.
Things like that.
You try to let the silence settle between the two of you. In your plastic tupperware, the powdered sugar has long melted onto the funnel cake, the fried dough greasing against the paper towel you’d put underneath it. Your hot chocolate has cooled to tepidity.
“For what it’s worth,” Jason says, “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” you sigh. “It’s in the past. I don’t blame you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Every day’s a new day and all that…”
He blinks. His eyelashes are doe-like, so long they brush against his cheeks. You’re jealous.
“Jay?”
“Yeah?”
You lean in close so he can hear your confession. Against his lips, you whisper, “Me too. I liked you back then too.”
Jason brushes a stray hair out of your face and behind your ear. “Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.
Instead of replying, you close the distance, pushing him back so he leans against the marble grave. He tastes like spun sugar. You end up on top of him—you’d climbed on top of him, he’d pulled you there, some combination of the two; you can’t remember—straddling his waist with your strong thighs. On instinct, your hips shuffle to find a comfortable position. His hands fly to your waist, his fingers lightly pressing into the divot where your stomach meets your hips.
His breath catches with the weight of his desire as he mumbles your name against your mouth. “Fuck, you’re killing me.”
You pull back, looking at him with love and longing. He has dark circles under his eyes underpainting the J on his cheekbone with blues and purple. His cheeks are smooth, and you gather a faint whiff of the sandalwood and neroli in his aftershave. You run your thumb over the batarang scar on his jawline, and he places his hand over yours.
His hands are so steady and warm, and it makes tears well in your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He’s always hated seeing you cry.
Your voice is soft. “Nothing,” you say, leaning in to kiss him so he won’t ask again.
When you pull back, a string of spit connects you. Jason’s pupils are blown wide into two black circles. You see yourself reflected back in them.
“I’m not going anywhere you can’t find me,” he promises before you even ask.
“I missed you,” you tell him. There’s more you can say. I’ve loved you for ten years, even as a ghost, even as a dream.
Jason’s hold tightens on your waist as you push further into him. “I missed you,” he echoes back. He says your name reverently and looks past your eyes and into your soul, wiping your tears with careful swipes of his thumb. “I missed you before I remembered you.”
You’re too afraid to ask what he means.
He leans up to kiss you again, and as you move to meet him, you become acutely aware of your position on top of him. Slowly, you begin a slow grind against him, letting out soft huffs against his mouth.
“I missed you.” It spills out from you, a mantra you’ve waited years to say again. You say it like you’re telling him you love him, but telling him you missed him is so much safer than telling him you’re still in love with him, even after all these years. “I missed you so much.”
He groans at the feeling of you moving against him. “I missed you,” he says. Jason’s grasp tightens on you, pressing you harder against him. “Stop moving like that, please.” His voice is shaky.
Your eyes flash. You give him a solid grind that likely does more harm to you than to him, your heart stuttering as he slots against you just right. You give him a chaste peck. “You don’t like it?” you murmur.
“Yes, ye— yes, I do,” he insists, “but this is reckless. We’re gonna fuck right here if you keep moving like that.”
“What if I want that?” you whisper, hooking your arms around him and crossing them at the wrists. You lean in to suck at the junction of his neck until the skin begins to bruise. He wears a helmet anyway, you muse. It won’t hurt to leave a few marks.
He repeats your name pointedly. “We’re outside.”
You pepper his face with feather-light kisses. “Chicken, Boy Wonder?”
Jason’s hands knead at the doughy flesh of your ass. He’s already hard, and he’s quickly getting lightheaded from how fast the blood is rushing to his dick.
You begin a bump and grind with a renewed vigor. Each time Jason seems to adjust to your pace, you change your rhythm. He lets out short huffs and groans that sound like he’s trying to form the syllables of your name. You’re so wet you’re sure you’ve soaked through your pants and his, but you make no efforts to hide your whines from him, hoping your pleasure makes him feel something too.
You continue to trail kisses and bites anywhere you see exposed skin. When that isn’t enough for you, you trail your hands underneath to leave gentle, teasing scratches along his chest. Jason flexes his grip on your waist and ass, an exercise in his own self-restraint not to bounce you on his lap himself as he lets out a sustained moan.
“Jaybird,” you say, “are you close?”
His jaw tenses. That old nickname in your lilting, breathy voice sends another spurt dribbling out of him. “Too close.”
You give a slow undulation of your hips. “Come for me,” you whisper in his ear, “and I’ll let you fuck me.”
Jason’s hold on you tightens, pulling you down harder against him, his hips bucking up instinctively to meet yours as he comes suddenly and violently in his pants. He groans loudly, body shuddering with his release. “Fuck, fuck,” he chants in-between heavy pants.
You feel him slow beneath you, and you change to slow rolls to let him catch his breath. It’s a lot of discipline on your part.
“Still with me, Jaybird?” you tease, lightly patting his flushed cheeks.
You smile and play with the lapels of his collar as he continues to alternate kisses between your neck and lips. Occasionally, he presses a loving smooch to your cheek that makes your face warm. Underneath you, you can feel him getting hard again underneath you.
He surges up, pulling you closer to him by the back of your neck for a long kiss that leaves you breathless. “I missed you more than anything,” he says again and with finality.
He wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. Jason shuffles and unbuckles his belt with one hand while maintaining eye contact with you. He shoves his pants down just enough to free himself. He’s at half-mast and glistening with precum, thick and slightly curved, and you swallow at the sight as he begins to jerk himself off a bit in the space between your bodies.
“Come here,” he says, his voice like gravel.
You only give him a haughty pout. He sits hot and heavy underneath you, twitching underneath your stare. Your mouth waters slightly, but you feign indifference.
Feigning boredom, you grasp your own breast over your shirt and flick, trailing your other hand downwards beneath your legs. “Ordering me around, Jay? I’m a princess. If you won’t be nice, I’ll take care of this myself.”
His eyes cloud over with lust at the sight of you touching yourself in front of him, his cock spilling out another bead of pre-cum onto his closed fist. He uses his thumb to rub it over his head and almost groans. “You’re killing me.”
“Not funny,” you say, poking his chest firmly.
He grins at you. I thought it was pretty funny, his expression seems to say. “Let me make it up to you?”
He lines the fat head of his cock up against you, you wonder if he’ll fit. He seems bigger than the last time you were together, but you think that’s just the haze of desire exaggerating detail. Regardless, you’re so beyond saving you can’t bring it in yourself to care about the logistics of it all.
Slowly, he begins to push in. He’d intended to pause halfway to make sure you were alright, but you’re so wet he easily falls hilt-deep into you. His hips jerk—once, twice—at the sensation. It's an unconscious, primal drive.
Your body is electrified, like a livewire. You feel like a rubber band pulled taut, ready to lose yourself at any time. It makes you cry out then slap a hand over your mouth.
You’re still outside, after all.
“Fuck.” Jason’s voice is strained as he takes in the feeling. He can’t stop watching where you’re joined together, the end of him and the beginning of you. “
You follow his line of sight and instinctively slam your eyes closed as you tighten around him. Then you look down where you’re filled and do it again, with purpose.
“Jesus, fuck— Quit that, will you?” He wraps a vice-hold around the base of his cock. His jaw clenches, and the muscles in his arm tense. He looks into your eyes, playful and teasing, and he pleads silently for you to stop. “This is gonna end up a lot shorter than you expected if you don’t stop.”
You give him a wry grin that makes his heart stutter in his chest. “I’ll be good,” you say against his lips.
He lets out a shuddering breath, his grip loosening slightly. He leans down to kiss you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours as he begins to move slowly. Each thrust is deliberate and measured, and he watches with measured awe as he disappears into your wet heat.
It feels like you’re on fire. There’s no comparing this to anything—anyone. This is a different feeling, a different Jason, a different you. All your senses have been overridden by passion. In some ways, you move together better than ever, broken pottery pieces slotting together where no one else can fit. In others, you rediscover things about each other that had been lost to the time you’d spent apart.
Pushing a hand underneath your shirt, he rucks up your shirt and pushes the hand on your boob aside almost jealously, flicking and pinching calloused thumb over your nipple. You gasp and sink your teeth into his trapezius, rolling your hips to match his rhythm. When he hits your G spot, you gasp and scramble for his shoulders, pushing for closeness. Around the two of you, the air is quiet aside from your panting huffs, his low moans, and the slapping of skin.
“Again,” you demand, but your voice is trembling with desire.
“As you wish, Princess,” he says, his voice equally taut.
He drives up into you mercilessly, wrapping his arms underneath your hips, his eyes trained on your face. He savors your every expression, the way your eyes roll back and flutter and the way your mouth falls open in soft ah! ah! ah!s. He wants to leave an indelible mark on you, something to prove he was here with you.
Your fingers drift down to pinch your clit, playing with the frothing cream that’s built up between the two of you and spreading it around the base of his cock. You can feel his eyes boring into you, the feeling pushing the two of you closer to the edge.
You let out a sharp shudder, as you cry out his name. “Jason.”
“I’m here,” he reassures you. Not far behind, he thrusts into you as deep as he can, letting out a guttural groan.
Panting heavy breaths, you collapse against him as he rests his weight on his grave.
“I’m glad you came back to me,” you say in between the rapid thunder of your heartbeat.
You can feel the small smile pressed into your hair. “Death couldn’t keep me away from you.”
It’s so romantic it makes your head spin. Just for a moment, you let yourself play pretend that the world is just this, the two of you like this.
You give him a dopey smile and kiss him again. When you involuntarily clench around his dick, he winces.
“Sensitive,” he explains, but he doesn’t pull out.
Instead, he holds your face gingerly and peppers you with more kisses. Your forehead, nose, cheeks—anywhere he can reach without moving his hips too much. When he rearranges the two of you so he’s sitting on the grass and you’re in his lap, he’s still inside of you, his softening cock twitching occasionally.
“Gonna stay like this for a bit,” he says softly.
“Okay,” you say, leaning your head against his chest as you play with his hands. The feeling of him is less about seeking pleasure and more about the mere closeness.
Jason relaxes, his head knocking against the marble. His body fully molds to yours as he wraps his arms around you and listens to your breaths even out.
NOW.
Jason doesn’t say anything when you start showing up in Gotham more often. You offer up excuses like tracking a centaur because it still feels so new for you to say, I came because I wanted to see you, but he doesn’t ask regardless. You don’t want to know if it’s because he’s scared of trying to put a word to this indescribable affair you’ve put yourselves in or if he just doesn’t care.
You don’t think you want to know.
He’s always there at the edge of the city, waiting for you, with a crooked smile. His gloved hands take careful time to secure the helmet on your head (even though you don’t really need it, given your Amazon physiology) and help you onto the back of his bike. You always hold tightly to his chest. He smells smoky and sweet, something between coffee and incense, and you bury your head into his worn leather jacket to fill your lungs with him.
It’s just the two of you, ready to face the world. No Batman or Outlaws or well-meaning but overbearing Amazon sisters.
It’s a fragile, tentative peace. A perfect bubble waiting to burst.
Though you both know how the night will end, he likes to give it a bit of pretense.
“Wanna grab a bite?” Jason asks with a crooked grin, a spare helmet spinning around on an outstretched finger. It’s painted red, and at first you think it’s just a civvy offshoot of his typical Bat-wear, but then you notice the single gold star at the forehead. Your symbol. Your old symbol. Wonder Girl.
The witty retort dies on your tongue. You intend to be more quippy, ready to continue the usual verbal spar with him, but instead your tone is soft. “This for me, Boy Wonder?”
“Who else?” he says. There’s a flush high on his cheeks that he quickly covers by pushing his own helmet on his head. “Hop on. Gas is expensive these days.”
You sling yourself on the back of the bike without further argument, wrapping your arms tightly around his midsection. Underneath your helmet, you smile.
At the Bat Burger, Jason orders a number four combo, the double bacon cheeseburger. You’d eaten before, so you get a milkshake with the intent of stealing his fries. When he walks over with the tray, your hand already reaching up to grab some potatoes, he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance but pushes the cardboard closer to you anyway.
There’s a bunch of talk about nothing at all. You avoid work, family, and anything of substance. Most importantly, neither of you have spoken about that day at the graveyard.
There’s chatter about a TV show he’s currently binging (a so-bad-it’s-good adaptation of one of his favorite novels) and some small talk about the menu for a restaurant in downtown Metropolis you’re both eager to try once you have time. All the while, you’re sidestepping talking about it: You and him, fucking then cuddling (sometimes cuddling then fucking), cooking for each other, patching up scrapes, spending all your free time with each other—acting like you’re together.
It almost makes you want to forget the giant swath of abandonment issues you’ve almost certainly triggered in each other and continue the charade. But you’re just an ex-girlfriend–turned–best friends–with–benefits.
So yes, you ignore talking about that day and all the things you’d said and left unsaid.
When you’re finished, the two of you clamber back onto his bike. Jason fastens the clasp underneath your helmet and tugs it lightly to tease you. Just checking it’s secure, he says. He opens the door to his apartment—his real apartment, not just one of his many safehouses scattered around Gotham—and holds it open with a flourish for you to walk in first.
It’s a bit like the two of you are regular people on a regular date.
When he kisses you into his worn, patchwork couch, you can almost picture it, that alternate universe: Maybe the two of you met in university. You’d both be in the humanities department. Maybe he’d do English or Comparative Literature or Philosophy. You’d do Classics just for the hell of it. You’d write your essays together on coffee shop dates, debating the rhetoric and sensibility in The Stranger or The Telegony. Afterwards, you’d window shop and eat dinner in hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Your responsibilities would never err towards the apocalyptic or divine.
Normal people, normal lives.
A life you yearn for. One you’ll never have.
He pulls back from your lips with a drunk stupor, slurring his words as he says, “Let me eat you out, princess, then I’ll be ready to go.”
You laugh then push him back slightly to get enough space between the two of you so you can kick off your pants. He crawls to you, dazed but grinning, kissing you madly and deeply, as he holds you open and settles in.
Jason eats you like a man starved, his tongue immediately finding your center and lapping at you eagerly. Instinctively, your thighs drift close, but his grip keeps you wide open for him as he feasts on you.
“Missed this pussy so fucking much,” he mumbles. It doesn’t even seem like he’s talking to you, speaking without lifting his head from your thighs, still unable to enunciate beyond uttering a few syllables. His eyes are clouded over.
My gods, he’s pussy drunk, you think. It only makes you wetter.
You let out a long, loud moan, then slap a hand over your mouth so his neighbors won’t hear.
His assault on your pussy is single-minded and predatory, his tongue flicking against your clit rapidly before sucking it into his mouth. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulders, diving in with unbridled enthusiasm. “Let me hear you?”
You can only swallow and nod.
He gives you a wolfish grin as he turns back into you. “Good girl.”
“Jaybird,” you whine. You tangle your fingers into his hair and push his head deeper into your folds. “Please. More.”
He groans against your pussy at the feeling, the sensation reverberating deep within you. He starts fucking you with his tongue, a rapid thrusting that crushes his nose against your puffy clit with each thrust. “So greedy,” he chastises, but he pulls your other leg over his shoulder despite it. His grip on you becomes tighter, more insistent.
Suddenly, you realize the pattern to his movements. J…A…S…O…N… The motherfucker was writing his name in your pussy. What an asshole.
“Ah, ah—! Jay,” you whimper, bucking up into him. You bite your lip to keep your moans quiet. “I’m about to…”
He redoubles his efforts, eating you out with such vigor there’s an audible slurping noise. “Come on my tongue,” he begs, looking up at you.
You feel yourself lose control as your eyes meet, his pleading face framed by your open legs, his hips bucking and seeking friction against the damp earth.
When he pulls away from you, his chin is wetter than you’d expect, and he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. “You a squirter now, baby? That’s new.”
You look away, lightly embarrassed. You’ll never tell him because you worry he’ll get a big ego about it, but he’s the best you’ve ever had. You hope you’re the best he’s had too. “Yeah, that’s new to me too.”
You fall back onto the couch, chest heaving with exertion. He leans into you a deep kiss that you return in kind, and you let out a soft noise as you taste yourself on his lips. Jason maneuvers the two of you into a half-cuddle, half-laying position, and you turn your face to the TV so the two of you can continue your binge watching.
BETWEEN - THE EPOCH.
You track the Hydra down to a rural farm just outside of Hope Springs, West Virginia. It wasn’t too far from Diana’s apartment in Washington, D.C., close to the Embassy of Themyscira, and you figure you could make easy work of it now before it eventually resuscitated itself somewhere across the world.
At this point, fighting the Hydra is a routine procedure you've gotten down to a T, hacking and slashing away at its scales and various heads.
All those times you’d taken down the snake, you’d kept it well in mind to keep your distance from its mouth, its fangs dripping with yellow-black venom, its blood carrying the same toxin, but you’d been distracted by something. Gods, you can’t even remember what it is now. It might have even been your grocery list…
You’d gotten careless, sloppy. It ripped its razor-sharp teeth into the flesh of your upper arm, taking out a chunk of you with a satisfied roar.
Incensed, you made quick work of the Hydra, blood still rushing down your arm. You take off four heads in quick succession, the beast collapsing amidst the flowering grain.
The poison overrides your healing. Your arm is quickly going numb, your gait unsteady as the blood rushes to your extremities. If left unchecked for too long, your blood would begin to congeal and harden in your body until the flow stopped and you died.
Your knees give out underneath you. Your head is swimming, and you can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or poison.
You crawl across to the side of the road, collapsing where the wheat ends and short grass begins. You pull yourself against the road sign, leaning against the metal pole to support yourself, and begin to wind your lasso around your upper arm in a makeshift tourniquet, tightening it by holding the rope between your teeth and pulling harshly. Your hands are covered in blood. You try not to think about the fact you’re starting to see bone.
You look up at the blazing sun.
What promise have I broken?, you think.
You close your eyes.