Jason Todd

He sees you again on a Wednesday. You always pick Wednesdays for some reason. Maybe you think the security’s lazier midweek. Maybe you just like ruining his patrol.

You're crouched behind a busted air duct on the Gotham National Bank rooftop, muttering to yourself and fumbling with a lockpick like it’s a cursed puzzle box. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

Last time, you tripped a silent alarm trying to steal diamonds from a place that didn’t even have diamonds. Time before that, you tried to hotwire a getaway car in front of three witnesses—and one very confused dog.

You’re not good at this. Not even close.

But you’re cute. In that chaotic, inconvenient way that makes his life worse and somehow better at the same time.

He drops down behind you without a sound. You jump. Of course you do. You always do.

“Still using the same rusty pick, huh?” he mutters, voice low under the distortion of his helmet. “Bold strategy.”

You spin around, startled, almost jabbing him in the thigh with the tool. He just catches your wrist, holds it steady.

That’s the thing—he doesn’t really know you. Doesn’t know your name, where you sleep, or why you keep trying to rob places like you’ve never seen a security camera before.

But he remembers the way your lip trembled the first time he caught you. Not scared. Just... humiliated. Like no one ever told you that you could be something other than a punchline.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he fixed your sprained ankle, bought you a bottle of water, and told you not to be an idiot. You stole his grappling hook while he wasn’t looking.

He laughed for the first time in weeks.

Now it’s a routine. You try something dumb. He stops you. You get mouthy. He gets annoyed. He lets you go. Rinse, repeat.

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t do civilian arrests. Not his jurisdiction. Not his problem.

But deep down, he knows it’s more than that.

You’re ridiculous. Reckless. Hopeless at stealth. But you’ve got this stubborn little spark in you that reminds him of himself before everything went to hell. Before pits and graves and masks became his life.

He tells himself he’s just keeping you from getting killed. That he’s just buying you time to grow out of this phase.

He doesn’t admit that he looks for you. That some nights, he checks rooftops in the hopes you’ll be there, cursing at a jammed lock or tangled in your own rope.

He doesn’t admit that when he doesn’t find you, he worries.

Tonight, he takes the lockpick from your hand, flicks the case open in under three seconds, and shoves it back into your palm.

“You’re lucky I was bored,” he mutters, already turning to leave.