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the city could be quite peaceful, you had learnt.
when the late hours mingle, the yelling gets softer and the ever present jazz music dwindles. it’s so very peaceful.
before everything, before the baby—before you’d ended up where you were, you weren’t one to stay up past midnight.
always having one excuse after another for why you shouldn’t. however, with the incessant cries from your daughter—no matter what hour that is, you’d learnt to appreciate the night.
it wasn’t the best time for gotham. when the sun sunk low, when crimes could be hidden in alleyways ignored by the council.
but it was.. peaceful, very much so.
the night is when gotham is herself. maybe that’s why you sat there, in a rather stained and old chair, a baby to your chest as you hummed to an old song you listened to as a teenager, absolutely appreciating her beauty.
the small lump against your chest squirmed, her breaths getting louder only to grow into its peaceful rhythm again. your fingers tapped against her back softly as you found the beat to your song.
and, as if on cue, a certain neighbours boots thumped as he landed into his apartment. every night.
and you’d, only minutes later, land into your own bed with the crib beside it.
you hadn’t meant to learn his identity, it had happened early on when you first moved in. when you could barely remember his name and only knew him as the guy who bought sandra’s dog treats.
but, that aside. you hadn’t meant to find it out. it had been a stressful night, you’d finally gotten the baby to bed and you’d given a drawn out groan when you’d noticed the sun was peeking over the hundreds of buildings.
you’d stepped out onto the fire escape, needing some ‘fresh’…air. you hadn’t been a mother long, it was all weighing on you. and the fact your daughters father had so mysteriously vanished ..well, it was truly too much for you to bare.
but then you saw it, he had grappled in, using some sort of gadget. he’d lifted himself up, his leather jacket squeaking as he moved. he had thumped against the metal and given a modified groan.
and then he heard the shuffle of your dressing gown, he had snapped his head to you and tilted it. you remember being able see the way his shoulders drew in, the extra breath he gave and the tense curling of his hand in and out.
but, nothing was said.
and so, you both ignored it.
he had stopped by the day after, coming by on a false pre-tense. but nothing was said and nothing was done.
that had been a few months ago now, and you could both understand the silence that settled. the understanding.
one thing you had taken a keen eye on was well—he’d begun to show up more. and it wasn’t just for you. showing up with diapers, some baby food you remember telling him your daughter liked—and much more.
it was almost too much, too much for you to be able to repay without feeling guilty. but anytime you even tried to refuse he’d justified why you’d need it.
‘she’s six months now, right? she needs the peas, needs to grow strong’
‘Aw cmon, snow is picking up and the tiny fleece jacket will be great for time outside!’
‘she needs a teddy, needs to remember who i am..’
the last one had left you spiraling, not by what he said. (well, partly) but by how he worded it, the almost anguish layer that hovered over the words.
you’d sucked in a breath that time, just giving a nod as you watched your daughter wrap chubby (carrot juice stained) fingers around his arm, hardly getting an inch around the large muscle.
and she, well she’d grown fond of jason.
from paintings of jason with a massive splotch of black to signify him (in almost every painting there is just a large smack of black.)
to late nights, when the baby wouldn’t sleep and you were almost in tears, when your neighbour would lay on your couch. shirt off and the small baby grumbling to itself on his chest.
and to.. “Ja!” she cried, she had just learned to crawl and she was on a mission. jason stood by the poorly lit hallway, jacket still on and coated in rain with a bag of god knows what digging into his fingers.
he gave a boyish smile, his eyes crinkling and his head tilting slightly. he moved to his knees as he softly placed the bag down and gave a laugh.
“Well look at you go!” he says, and the encouragement alone has your heart beating. you stare from the place you sit, the old carpet resting your feet as you watched.
watched the large pound of man curl into himself, lower himself as much as he can to look at your daughter. watch as the ‘anti-hero’ deemed of pain,bring a finger out so she can curl around it and he can lift her up.
and watch as he holds her to his chest and rests his gaze on you, ruffling the hair that was slowly growing on your daughters head as her cheeks grow puffy and she grows giggly.
“Let’s say hi to your mommy” and he’d point, his head moving closer to your daughter as he’d give a brief glance only to look back at you. mouthing a ‘hi’ as he giggled in sync with your daughter.
you didn’t know when it happened, when moments such as these caused you to erupt into a bundle of softness, when you’d spend nights together in silence as tranquil as lavender.
when you’d crawl over his lap, the two of you whispering hushed apologies for what you knew what was inevitable, before eventually pressing your lips together.
when he’d lower himself ontop of you, only to make sure you were silent for the sake of the baby.
when… you slipped up and referred to jason as your daughters father, only for him to give a brief swallow and then nod to the old woman who had complimented the tiny hat she had on.
and then, it became nights where you’d trace a finger over every scar. both naked without any need to grow hot. he’d recount every one, every one he can remember at-least.
when your heart aches too much at the sound of the dread in his vocals you’d cease the questions, instead opting to kiss the side of his head.
it was never said, not verbally. but it was understood, almost like everything else in the growing relationship.
something had kindled, something deep and permanent.
jason would watch you scurry around as you searched high and low for the perfect stuff for daycare, he’d wrap two arms around you tight enough to calm you as you babbled on about how you’re not ready.
“is she old enough..” you’d sob out, tears clinging to the fabric of his shirt as snot rubbed up against it. “She’s nearly a year old, it’s best we put her in now, before it’s too late..”
he’d be there for you the day you drop her off, making sure to hold you tight enough you don’t rip out of his arms to retrieve your daughter once she begins crying herself.
he finds out a month later that you put him down as the other parent, and with that newfound knowledge he begins to do pick up’s and drops offs.
he’ll stomp in, blood and dirt sticking to him as he quickly washes up with the water from the kitchen sink.
shaking you awake softly to find out where the bag is, where her change of clothes is just incase, finding anything and everything she would need.
on pick up nights he’ll stop by right before patrol, shedding his red hood helmet and jacket and retrieving his daughter.
his daughter.
the first time he thought that, said it out loud he’d needed a minute to himself.
however, a week later when the three of you are out and he’s asked if it is his daughter, he holds his chin high and smiles.
for her first birthday he thought it’d be hilarious if it was red themed, he was too happy picking out banners and balloons for you to disagree.
your daughter had minded the coulor, instead opting to laugh as the balloons squeaked.
the first time dick met her he had been shocked. mainly because he thought he was a horrible brother, not picking up on the fact jason had had a daughter.
only for jason to laugh and explain the story. and from then on dick was ready to be an uncle, jason had pulled him up on it.
jason may be rekindling it all, but he had found himself a home, found himself a need to push through the many stab wounds or punches, the many iron tasting nightmares.
and he wasn’t too fond of dick—or any of the others, pushing themselves into something that was his own.
“Happy birthday to you!!” You laughed out, eyes on your daughter. jason remained by your side, hand on your hip as he watched, watched the two of you.
his two girls.
the polaroid photo taken of that moment showed the admiration, the way his eyes glistened as he adored the two of you.
the polaroid photo had also been copied, it’s on his fridge, it’s on the back of his phone, in his wallet.
and now, as he sits there, listening to you ramble on about her getting sick—causing you to grow sick, the stuffy nose and congested voice softens him a bit—about how you lost the fleece jacket and you shouldn’t of taken her outside.. he can’t help but smile.
the rains pattering on his shoulders, the cold is sweeping underneath his jacket and he’s crinkling the polaroid in his fingers, but he feels warm.
“go to bed, baby.” you gave a laugh, a little deeper due to the sickness, he can hear the sheets ruffling as you sighed. “I’ll be there when you wake up.” he added on.
and with that you said your goodbyes, he slid the polaroid photo back into his phone case, and he got ready to show his daughter the new teddy he got her.. in the morning though.