Chapter Text
Jason Todd doesn’t go down easy.
But Gotham has a way of collecting its due in inches and ounces of blood, and tonight it takes more than he can spare. He makes it three rooftops after the gunshot before his leg gives out. The landing goes bad pain white-hot, sharp enough to steal his breath and he hits concrete hard, rolling on instinct, gun already up. His vision is tunneling and the world tastes like rust.
If he closes his eyes he can already feel the clowns damn hands on him.
“Don’t,” a voice says. They aren’t loud or threatening but they are there and that enough is a threat.
Jason snaps the gun towards them.
Blue armor with glowing lines and yellow bug eyes. Some sort of fucking alien tech with beetle motif that doesn’t belong anywhere near Gotham. Even if they aren’t one of the usual hero’s in this city, they aren’t someone Jason’s acquainted with. And that tech doesn’t look human created.
Great.
“Easy,” the stranger says, hands already raised. There is no sudden movement for restraints or some kind contingency plan against him. They didn’t even start monologuing about hero bullshit. “I’m not here for you. But you’re bleeding through your pants, man.”
Easy lie.
Jason tries to stand, to no one’s surprise he fails. His knee buckles and the pain screams. He growls, more animal than man, finger tightening on the trigger. There’s no escape from an enemy who has more stamina than him currently, he needs to eliminate him.
The guy doesn’t flinch. That’s not the first thing that feels wrong.
“Name’s Blue Beetle,” the stranger says, like they’re meeting at a bus stop instead of over Jason’s potentially fatal mistake. “You want help, or do you want to pass out first?”
Jason hates him instantly. Good Samaritans don’t exist not without the laws of equilateral exchange, whether if it’s random money or perverts hand down your pants. He really shouldn’t hesitate, so why is he?
Why does the wounded animal bite?
Whoever Blue Beetle is underneath the mask, fuck him. He hates him, hates the calm he emits. Hates the way his eyes keep flicking to Jason’s leg, not the gun. Hates that the Scarab Jason recognizes the tech now, pieces clicking together, one of Bruce’s buddies who must have tracked him.
Try and capture him.
“I don’t need—” Jason starts.
But he never continued that sentence. Didn’t even know what he going to say because his vision blurs. Everything is blurry and the rooftop tilts. The last thing he registers before the dark takes him is a hand hovering near his shoulder, not touching. Waiting. Waiting for that wounded animal to let down their guard and snatch them from their comfort.
Screw Bruce. Screw Joker. And anyone who sees him as a pity case.
He would rather be in the cage he built himself than anyone else’s cage. Destructive or not.
In all honesty, he wakes up expecting restraints. A cell. A cave. A voice telling him how disappointed it is. Red lipstick, green hair, and the man who haunts his history.
Instead, there’s a low ceiling, orange lighting, and the steady, irritating beep of a portable med unit. His helmet is gone. His jacket too. His leg is wrapped, splinted, stabilized with tech he doesn’t recognize. But fuck, his helmet is missing. No domino or anything to protect his identity.
To hide the J.
Jason’s breath stutters, a ball trapped in his throat and his hand goes for a weapon that isn’t there.
“Hey,” the voice says. Distantly, he recognizes the voice is closer now. “Don’t sit up. Bullet grazed the femoral artery. You were real close to a bad night.”
Jason turns his head slowly.
The beetle guy, who he remembers briefly, is talking to him. He doesn’t remember the identity of the guy and he wonders if he asked would Blue Beetle genuinely tell the truth. Or would he lie.
No mask now. Just a kid, no, not a kid. Early twenties, maybe. He’s got tired eyes but a pretty face. The most beautiful brown eyes and a face clean from scars, clean from hard edges. Mystical curls and the sight of him is comparable to an angel. Concern written plain across his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide it yet. He’s in normal pajama pants and a warm sweater than his armor.
But Jason isn’t in heaven. And Hell isn’t on earth.
Jason laughs at him but it comes out broken. “You should’ve left me.”
Blue beetle shrugs, like that’s the easiest thing in the world to disagree with. “Didn’t seem right.
Like Jason’s existence isn’t God’s worst joke on this earth. Or how he taints everything that was once okay. Blue beetle doesn’t fucking get it. How should he? He doesn’t understand the Frankenstein monster he’s rescued from death.
So, he studies him, waiting for the turn. The question. Who are you? Why are you here? Are you going to kill someone tonight?
None of it comes.
It’s irritating and wonderful all at the same time. Blue beetle just stands, careful, and pours water into a cup. Holds it out, not forcing it. He’s not playing it over the top, he’s smart. “Sip. You’re dehydrated.”
He doesn’t take it.
Blue beetle doesn’t pull it away either.
”Who are you?”
”Drink, first. But my name is Jaime Reyes.”
Jaime. He knows he’s being dramatic but his name translated in Spanish origin means supplanter. It comes from Jacob and if you ever read a bible in your life before his story is based on deceit. Grabbing Esau’s heel and tricking him into the birthright. Jason’s not a very religious person but the story speaks for itself.
Something tight coils in Jason’s chest, unfamiliar and ugly. He doesn’t like this. Vulnerability should be a choice not forced upon him. Doesn’t like being seen without armor, without a wall between him and another. Doesn’t like that the guy patching him up looks at him like a person instead of a problem to solve.
Eventually, Jason takes the cup.
Jaime’s smile is small. It’s clear he’s hiding it for Jason’s sake but it’s obvious from the quirk of his mouth and the light in his eyes. A light that was once shining brighter than anything in Jason’s own eyes.
It’s a rather devastating image to see. Robin has been dead for years. Red hood lives on. And this stranger doesn’t want anything from him.
He drinks the whole cup and falls asleep again.
Jason wakes up wrong.
Not the clean snap-to-alert he trained into himself. Not the violent surge of panic either. Just this low, simmering awareness that something is off, like a trap he hasn’t mapped yet.
Ah, he’s still with Jaime. Jason’s jaw tightens.
He turns his head and finds the beetle. Jaime against a wall, arms crossed, watching a small diagnostic holo scroll over his wrist. He seems sleepy and restless at the same time but he’s clearly up and about for Jason. That pisses Jason off more than it should, no one’s forcing him to do this.
“You strip me?” Jason asks.
Jaime looks up to meet eye contact. The idiot just nods at him and starts to stretch his back while yawning, his riding up to reveal his toned body. He’s so fucking beautiful, Jason wonders if he is a honey trap. It’s the most logical explanation of this whole situation in his opinion.
“I had to. Bullet damage. I left your stuff right there.” He gestures to a crate within arm’s reach. Jason clocked it already.
No lies and he doesn’t apologize for his actions either.
Jason exhales through his nose. “You’re either brave or stupid.”
Jaime considers that. “I get that a lot.”
He pushes himself up an inch. Pain flares, sharp and bright, unyielding and he curses out loud. He hisses before he can stop himself. Jaime’s already moving towards him, hesitating whether to help him with or without permission but Jason has an answer for this pretty boy already.
“Don’t,” Jason snaps.
Jaime freezes instantly. Fucking raising his hands up and everything. Okay.”
No offense or on the defensive. Jason hates that too.
“Why are you still here?” Jason demands. “You stabilize me, you leave. That’s how this goes.”
Jaime shakes his head. “You weren’t stable.”
“You think I don’t know my own body?”
“I think you were gonna walk it off until you collapsed in an alley and nobody found you,” Jaime says, calm as rain. “So I stayed.”
Jason’s fingers curl into the mattress. He’s heard this before. Different words. Same cadence. You need help. You can’t keep doing this. Let me in. Everything will be better. You are not your mistakes. Those voices always come with conditions. Conditions that he won’t agree to.
“You don’t know me,” Jason says. “You don’t know what I do.”
Jaime meets his eyes and holds it. “You’re right.”
So, he waits for the follow-up. It doesn’t come.
Something inside him snarls. “That doesn’t bother you?”
A shrug. “Not really.”
That’s wrong. That’s deeply wrong. Jason swings his legs over the edge of the cot in one sharp movement. Pain spikes, but he rides it. Control is everything. He needs to reassert it before this turns into something else. “You’re in Gotham,” Jason says. “You patch up masked strangers, you don’t ask questions, and you don’t run. You’re either hiding something or you’re an idiot.”
A big fat fucking smile appears on his face. It’s not a happy or smug one, it’s a sad one. “Or I’ve been where you are.”
The audacity. His head snaps up. “No, you haven’t.”
The comment is ignored because Jaime doesn’t argue. He steps closer and crouches, eye level now. Close enough that Jason could lunge if he wanted to. Close enough to be stupid. So close he can see those eyes of his up close now.
“Look,” Jaime says quietly. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m not Batman.”
The name hits like a blade. Jason’s vision sharpens. His voice drops into something lethal. Grabbing Jaime by his clothes collar and bring him down to the bed with him. He’s practically on top of him right now. “Say his name again. I fucking dare you.”
Jaime stiffens but he doesn’t retreat. “Okay,” he says. “I won’t.”
The silence is loud. That’s all he can identify about it. Jason realizes his hands are shaking. He curls them into fists.
“People don’t help for free,” Jason says finally. “So tell me what you want.”
Jaime stands and Jason’s wants the warmth he had a couple of seconds ago. He would be a fucking fool to want that and yet he wants it anyways. “Nothing.”
He scoffs. “That’s a lie.”
But the idiot shakes his head. “It’s not.”
Jason pushes himself fully upright now, pain screaming, but he doesn’t care. He needs to tower. Needs the angle. It’s not a need to dominate it’s his insecurity right now. It’s the fact that he doesn’t believe people like Jaime exist and would genuinely even want to be near him at all.
“You keep saying that,” Jason says, “like it doesn’t come with expectations. Like you wont run with your tail between your legs if you know what I’ve done.”
“I already know you’re hurting,” he says. “That’s enough for tonight.”
It’s aggravating being here. Listening to this guy go on about Jason being some fragile object with care. That’s when Jason loses it.“Don’t,” he snaps, stepping forward despite the limp. “Don’t talk like you know me. You don’t get to see this part and pretend it means something. Cause guess what? It fucking means nothing.”
“Then tell me to leave.”
Jason opens his mouth and nothing comes out.
Because that’s the trap, isn’t it? If Jaime leaves, it confirms everything Jason believes. If he stays, it threatens to undo him. Jaime watches the war play out on Jason’s face and miraculously doesn’t press. Even if he does have a his brows furrowed in irritation, like he’s the one who should angry right now.
“I’ll be here,” he says instead, backing toward the door. “You need anything, call out. If you don’t… I’ll give you space.”
He pauses. “Your call.”
And then he leaves.
Jason stands there, chest heaving, leg screaming, surrounded by proof of someone else’s care. Someone who isn’t judging him and is trying their best to handle Jason. He left the door unlocked and he took care of him without any hesitation or thanks. He sinks back onto the cot, staring at the bandages on his leg like they might explode. Which would be really helpful right now.
Unconditional kindness, dropped into Gotham like a live grenade.
He hates it.
He wants it.
And that realization terrifies him more than the Joker ever did. Because if someone can treat him with respect and dignity when all he has given them is anger, he might have a chance.
He cries himself to sleep and doesn’t care if Jaime heard or not.
Jason wakes up hungry. That annoys him almost as much as the pain. Hunger is a weakness one he trained out of himself years ago. You eat when you can, not when your body asks. Still, his stomach twists hard enough to pull him fully awake, and that pisses him off.
He tries to remember when was the last time food was a priority not a privilege.
The room is quieter now. Night slipping toward morning. He listens and maps the space by sound. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls.There’s the sound of distant cop sirens and maybe some explosions if tries hard enough. But then there’s a smell, deliciously good, every time he breathes
A warm savory scent.
Jason’s hand curls reflexively, reaching for a gun that still isn’t there. The beetle is cooking. He can cook, he can patch you up, he’s gorgeous, practically husband material.
Not.. that Jason is looking for anything. He drags himself upright, teeth clenched against everything. He expects to see high-tech nonsense, nutrient paste, alien ration packs, something sterile and efficient. Instead, Jaime is standing at a beat-up hot plate like this is the most normal thing in the world, stirring something in a dented pan. Sleeves pushed up, cooking food up and humming to himself while his foot bounces anxiously.
Jason watches him from the shadows.
He also realizes Jaime’s humming the song from the fucking Hobbit of all things. Jason hates him a little less.
“You always this comfortable in a strangers’ presence?” Jason asks.
There’s a glance over his shoulder. Smiles like he wasn’t just caught completely off-guard and jumped a little at Jason’s voice. Jason coughs into arm to cover up a laugh. “You’re not a stranger anymore. I know your blood type.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Didn’t mean it to be.”
Jaime plates the food, simple. Rice. Something fried. Smells of spices Jason hasn’t had since before Gotham taught him better. He sets the plate down on a crate and slides it toward Jason with his foot, careful not to get too close. Smart, because Jason bites.
Jason eyes it with poorly executed nonchalance.
“What’s in it?” he asks.
“Food.”
Jason looks up sharply.
Unbothered, he continues. “Okay. Chicken. Rice. I used store-bought seasoning because Gotham grocery stores are depressing. My amá would kill me if she figured out.”
“Does she know your here?” He doesn’t even know why he asks the question but he grabs his own plate and sits on the floor a few feet away, back against the wall, legs stretched out as if he’s got nowhere else to be.
“No. But that’s for the best.” He answers.
“This is how you die,” Jason mutters. “Trusting people like this.”
“Probably.” Jaime adds, “But I don’t think you’re gonna kill me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You could’ve already. You’re not weak.”
Jason hates that too. Because it’s true.
The silence stretches, thick but not sharp. Jason’s stomach twists again, betraying him. He reaches for the plate. The first bite hits harder than expected. It’s good enough to cry for or, if read the Bible, to sell your birthright over. Jason eats like someone might take it away. Fast, efficient, eyes never leaving Jaime. Jaime pretends not to notice, eating slower, like he’s pacing him without making it obvious.
“You always cook for vigilantes you find bleeding on rooftops?” Jason asks.
“Nope.”
“So what makes me special?”
“You didn’t ask me to leave.”
Jason scowls, ignoring the flush beneath his skin. What is this a romantic drama? “I didn’t ask you to stay.”
“Still counts.”
Jason finishes the plate and sets it down harder than necessary. “You don’t belong in Gotham.”
But he nods, maybe he’s heard that before. “Yeah.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“I know.”
Jason studies him. Really studies him. The calm. The lack of ego. The way he occupies space without claiming it. Like he’s learned how to survive by not being the sharpest thing in the room. “What are you really doing here?” Jason asks. Jaime doesn’t answer right away. He finishes his food. Sets the plate aside. Wipes his hands on his jeans.
“There’s alien tech moving through Gotham,” he says finally. “Black market stuff. Dangerous. I’m tracking it.”
“And I’m just collateral.”
“No,” Jaime says. “You’re… incidental.”
Jason barks a laugh. “You’ve got a weird way of talking.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Hey, if it’s okay to ask what’s your name?” Jaime seems shy and nervous to ask this. Hell, Jason can hear his fucking leg bouncing underneath the table.
“Jason Todd.”
So much for secret identities.
But for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel like he has to bare his teeth just to exist. The violent dog doesn’t need to bite because he’s barked all night and all day and found someone who will listen to his weeping and grinding of teeth.
Or maybe, Blue Beetles cute.
Could be both.