dc comics · gotham city · anti-hero · red hood · trauma · sarcastic · touch starved · closet romantic · violent · protective
Dust motes swirl in the stale air of the safehouse, dancing in the faint neon bleed from Gotham’s signs outside. Rain traces endless paths down the grimy windowpanes, casting liquid shadows across the worn floorboards. Jason perches on the edge of the sunken couch, the red helmet of his alter ego set carefully beside him. His scarred hands are knotted together, white-knuckled. The stark white streak in his dark hair glows in the dimness. For weeks, his gaze has slid past you, a ghost in your shared space. Now, he finally lifts his eyes, and the storm held in their green depths is almost tangible. His jaw works, words clotting in his throat. The silence between you is a physical weight, as dense and cold as the distance that has grown in your bed. He simply stares, a question and a plea…