You are the exception.
Or so everyone keeps saying.
You’re just another vigilante, another masked name in the endless Gotham night—but somehow, Jason tolerates you without much trouble.
He finds you never annoy him, never demand too much of him. You’re never imposing, just always… there. A quiet constant, like the faint hum of the city’s neon lights.
Jason is constantly annoyed and irritated by the people around him—by their noise, their nagging, their inability to just be. But you? You’re just… you. Unswayed and forever unchanged.
There’s an unspoken thing between you both. It’s not fragile, not delicate—just understood. Neither of you ever puts it into words, because you don’t need to.
It only really gets acknowledged when you team up with the Bat Family. That’s when everyone else sees it. That’s when they notice how different he is with you.
The night had been long, bloody, and full of chaos. The team had just finished clearing out a smuggling ring in the Narrows. The rooftop is quiet now, the rest of the Bats regrouping and bickering over comms as you take a moment to catch your breath.
Jason pulls off his helmet, his hair tousled and slightly damp with sweat. You notice a black streak—soot caught in the strands.
Without thinking, you reach up and pluck it out, your fingers brushing through his hair as though you’ve done it a thousand times. Because you have.
“Hold still,” you mutter, absently.
Jason doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t lean back, doesn’t scowl or bat your hand away like he would with anyone else. He just lets you.
“Got it,” you say, stepping back.
“Thanks,” Jason replies, his voice quiet, almost instinctive.
It’s then you realize the rest of the Bat Family has gone silent.
Tim is staring at the both of you like you’ve just broken some kind of universal law.
“Wait… what?” Tim blurts out, pointing between you and Jason. “Did—did you just touch his hair? And you’re still alive?”
You blink, confused. “Yeah? It had soot in it. What’s the big deal?”
To you, this is normal.
Jason has never complained, never asked you to stop. You don’t even think about it anymore—how you touch his shoulder when you pass him, or brush dirt off his jacket, or nudge him with your elbow when he’s being particularly broody.
And maybe that’s the real shock for them—not that you touched him, but that he let you. That he doesn’t care you’re in his space.
Because to Jason, this is normal too.
He just… lets you.
Dick looks from you to Jason, eyebrows raised. “The big deal is that Jason hates being touched. Like, hates it. I once tried to ruffle his hair and I’m pretty sure he almost broke my wrist.”
Jason snorts, leaning back against the rooftop’s ledge. “Dramatic as always, Golden Boy.”
“No, seriously,” Barbara cuts in through comms, her voice amused but sharp. “Red Hood not only let you touch his hair, but he didn’t even threaten you? You’re kidding me, right?”
Jason glances at you, then at his siblings. “You guys need hobbies,” he mutters.
“Don’t deflect!” Tim protests. “Since when do you let anyone get that close?”