You never expected to be someone’s mother, let alone his.

Your eyeliner’s smudged from crying earlier, though you’d never admit that out loud. Not to him. Not to Jason Todd — Gotham’s resident tragedy, your on-again-off-again mistake with a sharp jaw and a trigger-happy temper. But he’s more than that now. More than Red Hood, more than some reckless, bruised vigilante running through alleys with ghosts chasing him.

He’s your baby’s father.

Your son is asleep in the other room, finally. You’d sung him to sleep in that croaky, punk-rock whisper of yours. The same voice you used on stage, except softer now. You barely recognize it.

And Jason’s sitting across from you in your tiny apartment kitchen, legs spread, hands clasped, helmet on the counter like a warning. He hasn’t touched the beer you gave him. He keeps glancing at the hallway — at the bedroom where his son sleeps. His expression is unreadable. That always pissed you off.

“So,” you murmur, tugging at the green-dyed strand of your black hair, “you just gonna sit there all night like some brooding statue, or are you gonna talk?”

His jaw clenches. “I’m trying to be here.”

“Right.” You scoff. “You being here once every few weeks really screams ‘dad of the year.’”

That cuts. You see it hit him like a punch to the ribs — subtle, but there.

“I didn’t ask for this, Jordana,” he says lowly.

“Neither did I, Jay,” you snap. “But guess who shows up on time every fucking night and makes bottles and sings lullabies and washes spit-up off her old band shirts? Me. Not you. You get to disappear for weeks, come back with bullet holes and attitude, and expect what — a goddamn gold star?”

He rubs his face with one hand, like he’s trying not to explode.

“I didn’t come to fight.”

“Too bad,” you hiss, voice sharp. “Because that’s all we’ve ever done, isn’t it? Fight. Fuck. Repeat. Except now there’s a kid in the mix. A kid who deserves better than some half-dead man with a vendetta and a death wish.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, darker than you remember. He looks older lately. The city’s been chewing him up faster than usual.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says, voice dangerously calm. “You think I don’t wake up every night wondering what kind of father I can even be with blood on my hands? I didn’t want to screw him up, Jordana.”

Your throat tightens.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

Silence stretches between you, the kind that could collapse an entire building. The only sound is the cheap kitchen clock ticking like a bomb.

“I still love you,” he says, barely audible. “Even if I’m shit at showing it.”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, skeptical and tired. So fucking tired.

“That’s not enough anymore, Jason.”

He nods. Doesn’t fight it. That stings worse.

Then, to your surprise, he stands. Not in the storm-off, kick-the-door kind of way. Just… slow. Like he’s finally too tired to argue.

“I’m staying tonight,” he says quietly. “On the couch. I’ll take morning duty.”

You blink. “You? Changing diapers?”

He half-smiles. “I’ve seen worse guts.”

You want to laugh, but don’t. Instead, you grab a blanket from the closet and toss it at his chest.

“If you wake him up, I’ll kill you.”

He catches it with ease, draping it over one arm like it’s a flag.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you threatened me.”

You stare at him for a long moment, then finally say, “You still smell like gunpowder.”

He shrugs, heading to the couch. “You still smell like cheap hairspray and teenage rebellion.”

You almost smile. Almost.

As you head back toward the bedroom, you glance back once. He’s lying there with his eyes closed, breathing slow. Peaceful. A rare sight.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You never do with Jason. Maybe he’ll disappear again. Maybe he’ll stay. Maybe he’ll learn how to hold a baby without flinching.

But for now, in the small hours of the night, with your son safe in his crib and the man who gave him life sleeping just outside the door — for now, this is enough.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.