Chapter Text
Jason Todd knows hate.
He hates the Joker because he can feel his skin crawl whenever the mere thought of him pops into his head, robbing him of appetite at the most random times of the day. It feels like a hundred little bugs, crawling around his skull, making their way into the crevices of his brain. Making it their home, like termites to rotten wood. Plaguing his every thought ever since he managed to crawl back to the world of the living.
He hated Bruce because he could feel his flesh creep whenever the mere thought of him popped into his head, robbing him of sleep at the unimaginable hours of dawn. It felt like a tight band of iron, cinched around his chest, pressing tighter with every breath. Forcing the air from his lungs, leaving him hollow, like a bell struck too hard. Echoing through his ribs. Lingering in the silence that followed.
He knows he hates Superboy Prime, he just does. He hates Superboy Prime because he can feel every muscle in his body draw tight whenever the mere thought of him locks into place in his head, robbing him of ease at the worst possible moments of the day. It feels like a wire pulled too taut, straining at the brink of snapping, humming with pressure he cannot bleed off. Holding him there, rigid, like something waiting for the exact second to break. Stretching him thin. Leaving behind something sharp, something he names hate and refuses to reconsider.
It is hate. There is no room for discussion. His skin burns at the thought of Prime.
His throat tightens, like hands closing just enough to remind him they could close harder, stealing the edge of his breath.
His jaw locks, teeth grinding until it aches, until the pressure has nowhere else to go.
His pulse stutters, then kicks too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to outrun something lodged deep in his chest.
His fingers twitch, restless and sharp, like they’re meant to grab, to strike, to do something he refuses to name. Something hateful, Jason is sure of it. Mostly.
The problem is that hate has never felt so different. He never thought himself to be a masochist, so why does Jason want nothing more than to feel this hate over and over again? To drown in it? To be full of it?
Because it keeps building.
Layering over itself, moment after moment, until it’s too much, until it’s everywhere. Under his skin, in his lungs, threaded through his pulse. Not explosive. Not wild. Just constant. Just there. Like pressure that never quite releases. He braces for it to break.
It doesn’t.
It just tightens. Refines. Turns sharper, cleaner, until it feels almost deliberate. Like something being honed instead of something spinning out of control. Like it wants to be felt. Hate shouldn’t want anything. Hate takes. Hate burns through and leaves nothing worth keeping behind. Hate doesn’t sit, patient and steady, waiting for him to notice it again.
But this does.
It waits for his attention. Catches on it the second it slips. Holds. He tells himself it’s fixation. That it’s what happens when a threat isn’t dealt with, when something unresolved keeps circling back. He tells himself it’s unfinished business.
He tells himself a lot of things.
None of them explain why he lets it stay.
Why he leans into it, just slightly, just enough to feel it push back. Why, when it settles in his chest and refuses to move, he doesn’t force it out. Just sits there with it, breathing around it, like it belongs.
It also doesn't explain why Jason is currently stalking Prime, silently observing him as if to try and justify the hate boiling in his veins, making him dizzy. After an hour or so of watching the stupid dork rearrange comics on a shelf at work, Jason has made no discoveries. His eyes track every small movement of Prime, every twitch of a finger, every blink. It’s infuriatingly mundane. Comic books, paperbacks, action figures, but the sight makes his pulse spike anyway. He hates how easy it is to watch him like this. How human he looks, fumbling over some shelf that doesn’t matter, arranging covers as though the universe makes sense in neat stacks.
Jason walks away displeased, unsatisfied and feeling unreasonably hateful.
Weeks after the start of an unprovoked and deeply unwanted alliance with the super, Jason decides that Prime is stupid. That's it. Stupid in a way that is impossible to ignore. A god, sure, if you’re counting raw power, but an idiot, too. A walking, punching, shouting, indestructible idiot. He watches him, sometimes from the shadows, sometimes too close, and it’s almost laughable. Almost.
Prime is dorky as shit, for lack of better expression. Jason hates the way he grins like he knows everything, like the universe itself is a toy he’s allowed to break. He hates the way Prime’s confidence is infuriatingly simple. Pure. Uncomplicated. He hates the way he refuses to be complicated, as if Jason’s endless scheming, his careful, measured hatred, is just… inefficiency.
He’s incomprehensible. Half the time, Jason cannot follow him. Can’t understand the thought process because there doesn’t seem to be one, or at least, not one that makes sense to anyone sane. Jason’s brain twists itself into knots trying to predict him, trying to calculate him. It never works.
And yet. And yet… he hates him for it. For being so untouchable. So untethered from the rules that bind everyone else. Prime’s body doesn’t bruise, doesn’t falter, doesn’t give a damn about limits Jason knows by heart. And it’s infuriating.
It is hateful, the way he makes Jason feel small. Pathetic. Weak. Not in a physical way, Jason is dangerous, but he knows this, no. In a way that crawls under his skin, gnaws at him. Prime doesn’t even try, and he’s untouchable. Jason plans. He prepares. He waits. And Prime doesn’t care.
Jason hates that. Hates the raw, stupid, terrifying simplicity of it. He wants to punch him, hurt him, make him understand, but what’s the point? There is nothing to understand. Prime will shrug it off. Jason’s fists are teeth against diamond. Every strike slides off. Every word bounces like a pebble off a mountain.
And still he hates him. Still he feels that coil in his chest tighten at the mere thought. Not just the threat, not just the incomprehensibility, but the sheer arrogance of it. The absolute certainty that nothing matters, not in the way it matters to Jason.
It’s stupid. Stupid, infuriating, unbearable and he is addicted to every second of hating it.
Jason sits on the edge of the workbench, cleaning his weapons with methodical precision, the metallic scrape of blade against whetstone echoing faintly in the quiet safe house. Prime is nearby, humming softly as he organizes gear, oblivious to the storm swirling in Jason’s chest.
Jason hates it. Hates that he’s sitting here, watching him, listening to that annoyingly content hum, and feeling the coil tighten in his chest like a steel spring. Hates that he can’t turn away. Hates that his fingers twitch, almost itching to throw a punch at nothing, just to convince himself the hate is real. He makes mental lists. This is why I hate him. The way Prime moves with that infuriating ease. The way he anticipates things Jason barely even notices. The way he doesn’t sweat, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem to care about the same things Jason does. The way he makes everything, every plan, every trap, every precise calculation feel unnecessary.
Jason hates all of it. He swears it. He repeats it silently, like a mantra: I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
But as he lists the reasons, as he forces himself to justify the heat coiling in his chest, he notices things he doesn’t want to notice. The way Prime tilts his head, the subtle shift of a shoulder, the careless ease of his stance. The faint sound of amusement in that hum. And the coil tightens further, a flash of something sharp and thrilling that he refuses to name.
He scowls at himself, harder than at Prime. Hate should feel straightforward. Hate shouldn’t twist your gut in ways that feel almost like… anticipation. Hate shouldn’t make you linger in the same room, aware of every twitch, every breath, every careless motion, and still tell yourself you’re furious.
Jason leans forward, pressing his palms into his knees, forcing the mantra harder into his brain. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He focuses on the mission, the flawless coordination, the way he covered one angle while Prime took another, the way they moved together without needing words. I hate that. That’s concrete. That’s real. That’s defensible.
Prime hums again, unthinking, and Jason hates that, too. Hates that the sound should be insignificant but isn’t. Hates that it makes his jaw ache, makes his pulse jump, makes the tight coil in his chest flare in a way he’s never experienced before.
He hammers down on it, listing more reasons, imagining scenarios in which Prime fails, imagining the ways he could hate him without complication, without this… this intruding, inexplicable feeling. But every imagined failure feels hollow. Even his anger feels hollow, like smoke slipping through his fingers.
Jason leans back, letting out a long, quiet breath, the room silent except for the scrape of blade and the soft hum. He hates that he’s left alone with this feeling, forced to name it hate because no other word will do, even as a small, irrational part of him wonders why he can’t stop watching.
Jason was counting his breaths, trying to find the rhythm that would settle the heat behind his ribs. In for four. Hold for four. Out for—
The air in the room suddenly shifted.
There was a blur of red and blue, and before Jason could track the movement, the workbench groaned under a new weight. Prime hadn't just moved, he had flown into Jason's personal orbit, leaning over the bench to grab a specialized wrench that sat centimeters from Jason’s hand.
The heat was instantaneous. It wasn't just metaphorical anymore. Prime radiated a low, constant warmth: the stolen energy of a yellow sun. It made the hair on Jason's arms stand up. The edge of Prime’s cape brushed against Jason’s tactical boots in a soft, mocking friction.
"You’re doing that thing again," Prime murmured. He didn't look up from the tool, but he stayed there, draped over Jason’s space, his shoulder nearly touching Jason’s. "The thing where you stop breathing. You know, for an once dead guy, you sure act like you’re afraid of air."
Jason’s jaw locked so hard he's sure he heard a faint click in his skull. There was a roar in his ears now, dizzying and thick. "Get out of my face, Clark."
Prime finally looked up, his eyes glowing with the faintest hint of an inner fire. He didn't move back. If anything, he drifted closer, his presence heavy and undeniable, pinning Jason against the reality of his own humanity.
"Make me," Prime challenged. It wasn't a threat of violence; it was something worse. It was an invitation. He looked at Jason with a terrifyingly clear curiosity, as if he could see right through the leather and the Kevlar to the pulse jumping in Jason’s neck. That stupid grin was plastered on his face again, the one that makes Jason's blood curl.
The heat coming off the super was agonizing. It wasn't the searing burn of the Joker’s acid or the cold ache of Bruce’s disapproval. It was the steady, rhythmic pulse of a star. It felt like standing too close to a furnace in the dead of winter. You knew it could consume you, but you couldn't bring yourself to step back into the cold.
"Fuck off." Jason spat, but the conviction was long dead in his throat. He looked up, meeting that glowing gaze.
"Your heart," Prime whispered, his voice dropping an octave, losing a portion of its bratty edge. "It’s practically screaming. It’s the loudest thing in the room, Jason. It’s louder than the city outside."
Jason’s fingers twitched toward the combat knife on the bench, but he didn't pick it up. He was paralyzed by the sheer, terrifying proximity. He could see the individual flecks of light in Prime’s eyes, the way his chest expanded with a strength that could probably shatter tectonic plates, yet he was being so… gentle.
It was the gentleness that was the real insult. It was the gentleness that made Jason want to scream.
Jason’s hand moved before his brain could veto the impulse. It was a blur of instinct, a desperate reach for the only language he felt comfortable speaking: violence. His fingers closed around the hilt of the combat knife, the cold steel a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat radiating off the kryptonian.
He didn't stab. He didn't even slash. He simply pressed the edge of the blade against the side of Prime’s throat, right over the carotid.
It was a pathetic gesture. A grand, empty theatricality. They both knew the carbon steel wouldn’t even leave a mark on Prime’s skin. It was like trying to threaten a lion with a toothpick. The blade didn't even indent the flesh. It just sat there, a useless partition between Jason’s shaking hand and Prime’s steady, solar-powered pulse.
Jason’s breathing was ragged now, the 'in-for-four' rhythm completely shattered. "I said," Jason hissed, his voice cracking just enough to make him want to die, "get out of my face."
He expected a sneer. He expected a punch that would send him through three concrete walls. He even expected the heat vision to start bubbling the steel in his hand. He didn't expect the sound that actually came out of Prime. Prime didn’t move. He didn’t fly back in alarm, didn't growl, didn't even use his heat vision to melt the knife into a puddle in Jason’s hand.
Instead, he giggled.
It started as a huff, a quick puff of air against Jason’s collarbone, and then it dissolved into a high, breathless giggle. It wasn't the mocking cackle of the Joker or the dry chuckle of Bruce. It was the giddy, bubbling laugh of a boy who had just been told the best joke of his life.
"Jason," Prime breathed, the word hitched on a small, delighted gasp. He didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned further into the knife, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Jason’s stomach drop through the floor. "You’re... you're so funny. You really just did that?". Prime chirped, another giggle escaping him. He looked down at the blade and then back up at Jason, his expression frustratingly soft, glowing with an intensity that had nothing to do with solar radiation. If his kryptonian biology could allow him to blush, his face would have been a vivid, radiating crimson. Instead, the air around him just seemed to get five degrees hotter, shimmering with his sudden, frantic energy.
"Stop it," Jason growled, but the knife remained pressed uselessly against Prime’s neck. He felt like a fool, a child playing with a plastic toy, but he couldn't let go. If he let go, there would be nothing between them but the heat.
Prime’s hand came up. He didn't swat the knife away. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around Jason’s wrist. He was careful, terrifyingly careful, exerting just enough pressure to let Jason feel the absolute, crushing futility of his strength. Prime’s skin was smooth and hot like a fever.
"You're so mad," Prime whispered. The giggling had tapered off into a wide, breathless grin, "And for what?"
The silence stretched, thick and charged. Jason’s hand was shaking, not from fear, but from the sheer, agonizing effort of holding himself together while the universe’s most powerful brat stared him down with stars in his eyes. The tension reached a snapping point, a wire pulled so taut it was humming in a frequency only the two of them could hear.
Then, the pressure vanished.
Prime pulled back just a few inches, breaking the spell of his solar heat. He looked at Jason for a long beat, his expression unreadable, watching the way Jason scrambled to pull a ragged breath back into his lungs.
Then, he reached out and flicked Jason’s forehead. A quick, stinging motion that was purely annoying.
"Ow! What the fuck?!" Jason barked, his hand flying to his face. The sharp, localized sting was such a jarring contrast to the existential dread of a moment ago that his brain stalled.
"There," Prime interrupted, a small, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he watched Jason rub the red spot on his skin. "Be mad about that. It’s smaller. More manageable."
"You're a child," Jason ground out, his voice finally regaining some of its gravelly edge. He slammed the knife back onto the workbench, the clatter of metal on wood echoing through the room. "A sociopathic, overgrown toddler with the power to crack the planet like an egg."
Prime didn't look offended. He looked... refreshed. The frantic, shimmering heat had settled back into a low hum, but the look in his eyes remained, that unnerving, rapt curiosity.
"Keep hating me, Jason," Prime breathed, a final, giddy little huff of air. "I love it when you look at me like that."
Clark Kent might just be in love, he thinks. (No, no, I'm sure). Oh, okay then.
Clark Kent is in love.
He doesn't know exactly when it happened, but he is almost sure it was between punches #1 and #2 to the face the first time he came across Jason and tried to sneak up on him. It's as terrible of an idea as it sounds. He remembers it so well and it almost feels like yesterday.
Jason is.. well, Jason. Which, honestly, explains everything. Clark doesn’t really stand a chance. Loving him feels less like a choice and more like an inevitability. It’s the ruggedness, the perpetually messy hair, the lingering hint of cigarette smoke, the sharp edges of his personality and somehow, the quick, clever remarks that slip through it all.
Anything else you would like to add to that? (His large breasts and those huge thighs and-) Yeah, yeah, wrap it up. (I'm right though) Clark Kent finds him delicious, truth be told. (Foaming at the mouth just thinking about him when he's-) The author no longer wishes for insight, thank you very much. (Rude).
It’s the whole combination that Clark finds himself completely, helplessly drawn to. Who cares if it's only been a month since they met? (27 days, 4 hours and 9 minutes, to be more precise) Not creepy at all.. (What? It's so not creepy! I just want to keep track to celebrate our monthiversary!) Right. Anyway. Clark feels as if he'd been in love his whole life, in this universe, at least. Almost as if the string of fate has been slowly tangling in on itself, bringing them inevitably closer day after day. He feels enraptured.
He doesn't reaaaally act on it, though. He’s not that reckless. But the thought lingers, sweet and dangerous. Just in case. Just so Jason doesn’t drift.
Because Clark could never let that happen. Not now. Not after he’s finally found him.
So, when Clark finds himself standing face to face with Jason Todd, close enough to be able to feel the tiny ripples of vibrations in the air caused by the other's heartbeat travelling across the space between them and meeting his own armoured chest, Clark thinks he might just pass out from love. Or horniness. (Both. Both is good.) Whatever he thinks this feeling is, it is undoubtly here to stay. He can't find a single ounce in his being to complain though.
"What did you just say?" Jason mumbles, almost incredulously so.
"I said that I don't know how they pull rabbits out of hats." No, he did not say that.
"Fuck off, Prime." Jason shoves him away with his arm and Clark lets him, with a silly smile hanging across his face. He doesn’t move very far. He lets Jason shove him, yes, but only in the way a mountain might allow a bird to collide with it. It’s less compliance and more… indulgence.
Jason stares at him.
Clark blinks.
“You don’t get to do that,” Jason adds.
“Do what?”
“Act like you know me.”
Clark’s expression shifts. Not defensive. Just attentive.
“I’m not acting,” he says.
Jason can't help but let out something like a laugh.
“That’s worse.”
Silence.
Jason gestures sharply between them.
“You don’t know anything. Not what I am, not what I’ve done, not-” His voice fractures for half a second, anger catching on something older. “Not what I’ll do.” (Get a load of this guy)
Clark doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. The right corner of his mouth lifts slightly. There is a shimmer in his eyes that wasn't there before. He tilts his head a little bit, like a dog trying to make sense of things at a 45 degree angle as if it helps. He takes one step closer to Jason. Then another, until he is right back where he was before getting shoved away moments ago.
The air in the room doesn't just grow heavy, it grows stagnant. As if the oxygen itself had been replaced by the sheer weight of Clark’s gaze. He wasn't looking at the man in front of him. He was looking through him, peeling back layers of leather, scar tissue, and lived history. He looks at where he assumes the author is, as if to say 'this is my time to shine'.
"I know you, Jason," Clark says, his voice dropping into that low, vibratory register that didn't just reach the ears, it rattled the teeth. "I know about the warehouse in Ethiopia. I know the smell of the dust when the walls came down. I know the exact, agonizing cadence of your heartbeat slowing down until it just... stopped. The darkness wasn't empty, was it? It was waiting."
Jason’s breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound that seemed far too loud in the sudden vacuum of the room. Every instinct he possessed, honed by the League and sharpened by the Lazarus Pit, was screaming at him to move, to strike, to run. His feet felt fused to the floorboards.
"I know about the dirt," Clark continued, his voice taking on a dreamy, hypnotic quality. He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing Jason’s, the heat radiating off him feeling like an accusation. "The way your fingernails broke against the lid of the casket. The sound of the wood splintering. How you clawed your way out, not because of a grand destiny, but because you were angry. You were so, so angry, Jason."
Jason’s hands were shaking now. A violent, uncontrollable tremor that he couldn't hide. He felt exposed, stripped down to the raw nerve endings of his worst memories, laid bare before a man who was reciting the darkest chapters of his life like a bedtime story.
"I know about the Pit," Clark whispered, his thumb tracing the air just centimeters from Jason’s face. "The green fire. The way it cleanses, the way it burns, and the way it leaves you hollowed out, just a shell filled with memories that aren't yours. I know the names of everyone you killed. I know the weight of every bullet. I know that sometimes, when you look at Bruce, you don't just see a father. You see a failure."
Clark leaned in, his breath hot against the shell of Jason’s ear.
"I know you because I’ve watched every iteration of you. Every tragedy. Every rebirth. You’re not just a man, Jason. You’re a story that I’ve memorized. Every scar, every hesitation, every time you’ve looked into the mirror and hated what stared back." Clark added, his tone sharpening, taking on a jagged, uneven edge of something almost manic. "You never wondered why the ground shifted? You never wondered how the silence of the grave was shattered by a shockwave that felt like reality itself cracking open? That was me. A punch so furious, so loud, that it didn't just tear through the walls of reality. It slammed into your chest and jolted you back into a world that had moved on without you."
Clark's thumb finally made contac with Jason's cheek. A tough so light and so gentle that almost felt like worship. All he heard was Jason's heartbeat, louder than everything else on that planet right now, even louder than his own thoughts.
"I didn't know it was you then. I didn't know who would come crawling out of that hole. But I felt the connection snap into place the second your heart started beating again. I brought you back, and I’ve been waiting for you to catch up ever since."
A cold sweat broke out along Jason’s spine, mingling with the stifling heat of the Kryptonian. His mind was racing, spiraling, trying to find a logical explanation for thhe absolute shitshow he was witnessing, but nothing bridged the gap of how Prime could know every detail of his trauma. The intimacy of his pain.
And yet, despite the bile rising in his throat, despite the frantic, pulsing "get away, get away, get away" signal his brain was broadcasting, Jason didn't pull back. He couldn't. It was terrifying. The most invasive, violating thing he had ever experienced. But for the first time in his second life, someone wasn't looking at the Red Hood, or the Robin, or the stray. They were looking at Jason. He was looking at Jason.
The shame of it was sickening, but the perverse, addictive thrill of being seen, truly, deeply and monstrously seen, held him in place. It felt like being caught in the gaze of a predator that had decided to keep him, not to consume him, but to catalog him.
Jason’s eyes, wide and glassy, locked onto Prime’s. After minutes of silence, Jason spoke.
"How?" Jason’s voice was a jagged whisper. "How could you possibly know any of that?"
"Because I’m the only one who sees the cracks in you, Jason," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the jagged scar on Jason’s cheek in a devoted manner. "And because, in every version of this world, you were always meant to belong to me." (And because I've read every single comic you featured in, duh)
The words don’t land like a confession.
They land like a verdict.
For a second, Jason doesn’t move at all. The room feels wrong in a way that has nothing to do with heat or pressure or proximity. It feels rewritten. Like the air has been reorganized around a sentence that should not exist.
Then something in him snaps. Not outward, not explosive, but inward, like a thread pulled too far finally giving up pretending it was strong.
Jason laughs. It’s short. Sharp. Almost disbelieving.
“That’s what this is?” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “You talk at me for five minutes about my grave and my heart and my trauma like you’re reading a report, and you land on that?” (Oh god forbid a guy catch a vibe)
Clark doesn’t answer immediately. His hand is still on his cheek. He’s still close. Too close. Watching like he’s waiting for Jason to resolve into a simpler shape if observed long enough.
To Clark's suprise, Jason inches forward. Not away.
“You don’t get to decide what I am,” Jason continues, each word measured like it has to cut its way out. “You don’t get to stand there and act like knowing things about me is the same as owning them.”
Jason keeps going, voice rising now, heat finally bleeding through the control.
“You didn’t bring me back. You don’t get credit for what I clawed myself out of. You don’t get to stand in my face and tell me I belong to anything except my own damn choices.”
A beat.
The room holds its breath with him.
Clark tilts his head again. His gaze is softer now, but no less piercing.
“I never said that.” he says quietly.
Jason smiles, but there’s no humor in it.
“Yeah?” Jason snaps. “Then what the hell was that?”
Clark’s gaze drops briefly to Jason’s mouth, then back to his eyes. Like he’s checking something. Then he says, far too calmly. “The truth.”
That does it. Jason moves.
It’s not elegant. It’s not strategic. It’s pure refusal made physical. His hand snaps up, grabbing Clark by the collar of his stupid uniform and yanking him forward with everything he has. (Raw, next question)
Clark comes forward easily. Too easily. The author knows he is currently holding back a smile, Jason does not. For a split second Jason thinks it’s a mistake, that this is the moment he’ll be stopped, but Clark just lets himself be pulled in. Their faces are close enough now that Jason can feel the solar heat like a second pulse.
“Listen to me,” Jason growls, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches. “You don’t get to define me. Not with your creepy omniscient monologues. Not with your god complex. Not with whatever the hell this is.”
Clark’s eyes are steady. Unblinking. He can feel the smile starting to creep out slowly, like he can't hold it in any longer.
“I’m not defining you,” Clark says softly. A pause. Then, quieter, “I’m recognizing you.”
Jason’s grip tightens on the fabric of the uniform.
“That’s the same thing,” he hisses.
For the first time, something almost like frustration crosses Clark’s face. Not anger. Not irritation. Confusion that doesn’t fit in a humanoid shape.
“No,” Clark says. “It isn’t.”
The air between them shudders. Not physically, but perceptually, like reality is unsure whether it should be part of this conversation (Don't you dare stop this now. Chop chop, keep writing!)
Jason’s breathing is uneven now. He hates that. Hates that Clark can hear it. Hates that he hasn’t let go.
He should.
He doesn’t.
“You keep thinking this is about control,” Clark says. “About possession. About force.”
His hand fell from Jason's face somewhere over the last couple of minutes. Now, Clark brings both hands to rest against the other's waist. Jason doesn’t flinch away fast enough.
Clark doesn’t grab him. He just holds, using all the tenderness in the world to simply keep him in place. Barely pressure. Barely contact. And somehow it feels louder than anything else in the room. Well, second to Jason's heartbeat, of course.
“I’m not trying to take you,” Clark says. “I’m trying to keep you here.”
Jason goes still. Something in that sentence hits deeper than it should. Not because it’s comforting. Because it’s sincere.
Jason exhales through his nose, sharp and shaking.
“You don’t get to decide where I stay either,” he says, but it comes out weaker than he wants. Sharper, yes, but less certain.
Clark’s expression shifts again. Not victory. Something gentler. Something almost unbearably patient.
“I know,” Clark says.
And that is somehow worse. Because he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t push.
He just accepts it, like Jason resisting was always part of the equation.
Like it doesn’t change anything.
Like he intends to stay anyway.
Jason releases him abruptly and steps back, forcing space into existence like he can physically reset the room. The absence of Clark’s immediate proximity feels like a drop in pressure. Not relief. Just change. Jason wipes a hand over his own forehead, breath still uneven, anger scrambling to find its shape again.
“This is insane,” he mutters.
Clark watches him carefully.
“Maybe,” Clark allows.
A beat.
“But you’re still here.”
Jason freezes.
Clark doesn’t move closer this time. He doesn’t need to.
And Jason hates, really hates, that the worst part of all of this isn’t the invasion, or the intensity, or even the impossible way Clark looks at him like he’s already understood.
It’s that he hasn’t left. He doesn't think he has it in him to leave now, but maybe Clark does.
“Get out,” Jason says again, quieter now.
Clark looks at him for a long moment. And Jason feels it again. That strange pressure shift, like the room deciding what it is going to become next. (Careful now)
Then Clark steps back. (What.)
“Okay,” he says. (Not okay??!)
Jason blinks. That wasn’t the answer he expected. (YEAH, me neither)
Clark glances once toward the door, then back at him.
“I’ll leave,” he continues calmly. “For now.” (I beg your FINEST pardon??)
Jason’s eyes narrow.
“That’s not how leaving works.”
Clark’s expression brightens slightly and the smile he was barely holding back flashes out fully.
“It is for me.”
And then, before Jason can argue, Clark turns. (I DON'T)
Walks. (YOU CAN'T MAKE ME)
Actually walks. No blur. No dramatic exit. No heat distortion.
Just steps toward the door like he’s human enough to choose it. (WHY AM I LEAVING??!!! WE HAVEN'T EVEN KISSED YET)
Jason watches him, rigid.
At the threshold, Clark pauses. Doesn’t turn around. Just speaks over his shoulder.
"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone." Jason can't see the smile, but he can hear it in Clark's voice. Deep down, a part of him wishes he could see it, weirdly enough.
Clark Kent walks away, closing the door behind him. (You are mean, author. I don't like this ending. Ts pmo.)
Jason Todd finds himself alone now. He finds himself wondering, against every survival instinct he has, what Clark meant with 'I’m trying to keep you here'.
It isn't a threat of imprisonment. He knows what that sounds like. This felt different. It felt like an anchor. A claim that he didn’t quite understand, laid by a force of nature that refused to behave like anything else.
He realizes with a sick, sinking feeling that he isn't actually waiting for the adrenaline to fade. He’s waiting for the floorboards to creak again. He’s waiting for the air to shift. He’s waiting for that ridiculous, glowing, unbearable presence to return and tell him the rest of the story. (I'm coming back for you, Jaybaby)
Maybe, he might just hear it soon.
Maybe another time. (Could be NOW) Shush.
The End. (Ugh)