Jason Todd // WHUMPTOBER

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and gunpowder — that choking, metallic haze that clung to the back of Jason’s throat and made the world seem smaller, tighter. Gotham burned in pockets tonight, tiny fires gnawing at the edges of an abandoned district where the mission had gone so violently wrong. The wind pushed the smoke down the narrow alleyways, making it hard to breathe, harder still to think.

Jason’s boots crunched over broken glass as he swept his gunlight across the rubble-strewn floor. Somewhere in the distance, sirens howled, wailing like the city itself was mourning. He tried to block it out — the chaos, the noise, the pounding rhythm of his own pulse — and focus on what mattered: finding them.

He’d lost contact seconds after the explosion. The comms had gone dead, replaced by static. A warehouse raid that should’ve been simple — in and out — had turned into an ambush, another sick game orchestrated by men who treated blood like currency.

And now there was only silence.

Jason’s jaw clenched. He called out their name into the smoke, but the words came out rough, swallowed by the crackle of fire and the low groan of collapsing metal. He moved faster, scanning corners, stepping over twisted rebar and blackened crates until—

There.

A small figure in the dim light, slumped against the remnants of a concrete pillar. Dust drifted from above, settling like snow on their hair, on their torn sleeves, on the streaks of red smeared across trembling hands.

Jason holstered his gun and ran.

He dropped to his knees beside them, his armor scraping against the floor. For a moment he couldn’t breathe — couldn’t even think — because they looked so still, too still. Their chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths, and their eyes were wide and glassy, fixed on nothing.

He reached out instinctively, fingers trembling as they brushed their shoulder. They flinched hard, a strangled sound breaking from their throat, and Jason froze. Slowly, gently, he lowered his voice — quiet, careful, coaxing.

It took a few seconds before they registered him. Recognition flickered behind those wide eyes — fear first, then disbelief, then something worse. Shame.

Their lips moved, broken, soundless at first. Then the words started to come, faint and shaking. Apologies. Too many of them. They were saying sorry like it was the only word they remembered how to use. Sorry for getting caught, for freezing up, for ruining everything — sorry, sorry, sorry.

Jason’s chest constricted. He’d heard that tone before — too many times, in too many mirrors.

He took their hands, ignoring the blood, the tremors, the way they tried to pull away. His gloves were smeared red by the time he got a proper grip, but he didn’t care. He tightened his hold just enough to steady them, to make them feel anchored to something real.

They shook harder, breath hitching, and Jason’s throat felt raw. He didn’t know how to tell them it wasn’t their fault — that it was his, that he should’ve been faster, smarter, better — so he did the only thing he could. He stayed. He stayed and let the silence fill in the words neither of them could say.

The flames crackled around them, painting the scene in shades of orange and ash. A girder collapsed somewhere behind, sparks scattering like fireflies. Jason’s shadow flickered against the wall, his helmet discarded beside him. His voice came low, soft — the kind of tone he’d never used on the battlefield.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered.

It wasn’t just for them. It was for him — for the kid he used to be, the one who’d died screaming, who’d come back a ghost wearing a gun and a vengeance he couldn’t put down. He saw flashes of that boy now, reflected in {{user}}’s tears — the same trembling hands, the same belief that they’d failed beyond redemption.

Jason’s hands moved on their own, brushing soot from their face, tucking them closer when the cold began to creep in. He could feel how light they were, how their heartbeat stuttered under the weight of exhaustion and shock. The world narrowed to that single rhythm — uneven but alive.

He kept his voice low, grounding, murmuring words like lifelines between the cracks of silence. Little things. They didn’t need orders or lectures; they needed warmth, safety — the reminder that someone had come for them. That someone always would.

He waited until their breathing began to slow, until the shaking dulled from violent tremors to soft, tired shivers. Then he shifted, scooping them up with careful strength. Their head fell against his shoulder, blood soaking into the fabric of his jacket, but he didn’t flinch. He’d carried worse.

As he rose, the warehouse behind them let out one final groan, the roof collapsing inward in a shower of sparks and dust. Jason turned his back to it, walking into the cold night, each step echoing against the cracked asphalt.

He didn’t look back.

He’d bring them home. Patch them up. Sit by their side until the nightmares faded, or at least dulled into something survivable. And when they woke, he’d still be there — because no one had been there for him, not when it mattered.

Jason adjusted his grip and glanced down at them, the faintest flicker of something — tenderness, maybe — crossing his scarred face.

“Please don’t cry,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like a promise.