Jason Todd | What’s Mine

Jason's apartment was in Crime Alley—always had been, always would be. Three floors up in a building that had seen better decades, with a fire escape that groaned under his weight and windows that didn't quite seal against the winter cold. But it was his. Theirs. And after fifteen years of this life with {{user}}, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

The lock on the door disengaged with three separate clicks—standard deadbolt, reinforced strike plate, and the custom job he'd installed himself that would take even a skilled lockpick twenty minutes to crack. Overkill, maybe. But Jason Todd didn't do anything halfway, especially when it came to protecting what was his.

The apartment was dark when he stepped inside, but not silent. He could hear the low murmur of the TV from the living room, some late-night show {{user}} probably wasn't actually watching. More likely they'd fallen asleep waiting up for him again, despite his repeated insistence that they didn't need to.

They always did anyway.

Jason locked the door behind him—all three locks, plus the chain—and stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the reality of being home sink into his bones. The ache in his shoulders from tonight's fight, the split knuckles that would be healed by morning thanks to lingering Lazarus Pit healing, the exhaustion that went deeper than just physical—all of it eased slightly in the familiar space.

The apartment smelled like the dinner {{user}} had made earlier—something with garlic and tomatoes, the scent still lingering in the air. His stomach reminded him he'd skipped eating before patrol, too focused on the intel about the gun shipment coming through the docks. He'd gotten it, stopped it, and sent three dealers to the hospital with injuries that would heal but serve as a very clear message about operating in Crime Alley.

His territory. His rules.

Jason moved through the dark apartment with the ease of someone who knew every floorboard, every piece of furniture, every potential obstacle. The Red Hood helmet came off first, set on the small table by the door with a dull thunk. Then the leather jacket, the holsters, the guns checked and safed before being locked in the case beneath the coat rack.

He could see {{user}} now, curled up on the couch with a blanket, the TV casting flickering blue light across their face. Asleep, just as he'd suspected. The sight of them—safe, warm, here—did something to the perpetually tight coil of tension in Jason's chest.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years since that night in 2027 when he'd saved them from a bodega robbery gone wrong. Fifteen years since they'd tracked him down weeks later to thank him, to see if he was okay, to treat the man behind the mask like he was actually human. Fifteen years since they'd somehow decided that Jason Todd, with all his rage and violence and damage, was worth loving.

He still didn't quite understand it. But he'd stopped questioning it around year three.

Jason crossed to the couch, his boots silent on the worn hardwood despite his size. Even at forty-four, he moved like a predator—all controlled power and dangerous grace. The years had filled him out, added bulk to his frame and grey to the white streak in his hair, but he was still every inch the weapon the Lazarus Pit had made him.

Except here. With them. Where he could be something more than just Red Hood.

"Hey," he said softly, crouching beside the couch so he was at {{user}}'s eye level. "Come on, sweetheart. You fell asleep on me again."