The scent of old paper and gun oil was a familiar comfort in the dim light of the safehouse. Jason Todd, once Robin, now Red Hood, ran a whetstone along the edge of a blade with a rhythmic, grating shhhhk-shhhhk. His mind, for once, was quiet, lulled by the monotony of the task.

A memory surfaced, unbidden: Dick Grayson, leaning against the Batmobile with that infuriatingly charming grin, trying to explain the complexities of dating a Tamaranean.

“It’s not that complicated, Little Wing. You just have to remember that ‘k’norkka’ is a term of endearment and never, ever surprise her from behind during a solar flare.”

Jason had snorted, loud and derisive. “Yeah, sounds real simple. Next you’re gonna tell me you’ve got a Kryptonian on the side. Don’t you have enough trouble with earthlings?”

“Hey, love is a strange and unpredictable galaxy, Jason,” Dick had laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You never know where you’ll find it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll keep my feet—and my love life—firmly on the ground, thank you very much,” Jason had retorted, shaking his head. “I’ll stick to people who understand the important things in life, like a good burger and not accidentally incinerating their boyfriend when they sneeze.”

He’d meant it. He’d pitied Dick, in a way. The drama. The interstellar misunderstandings. The sheer, unadulterated weirdness of it all. It was so… Grayson. Jason was a creature of Gotham’s gritty, grounded violence. His world was built on concrete and blood, not stardust and alien diplomacy.

He never, ever thought he’d follow in his older brother's footsteps.

How common can that be? he’d thought, the very idea a joke.

Shhhhk-shhhhk.

The memory faded, replaced by the present. His current reality. The reason his sharpening had become a little too aggressive, the motions a little too sharp.

He sighed, setting the knife and whetstone down with a definitive clack. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers brushing the white streak. He looked across the room.

There you were. Peering at his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo with fascination, your hand gently tracing the embossed letters on the cover.

A fond, exasperated, utterly bewildered smile tugged at his lips. Oh, how wrong he had been.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered to himself, the words a low rumble in the quiet room. “Grayson was right. It’s a curse.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “So,” he said, his voice louder now, laced with a dry, self-deprecating humor he reserved for moments of supreme irony. “You gonna try and steal my copy of Dumas, starlight? Or are you just admiring the primitive Earthling binding?”

You looked up, your large, luminous eyes blinking slowly. A soft laugh filled the space between you. “The narrative structure is fascinatingly linear. And your paper is… delightfully fragile.”

Jason shook his head, a full, genuine laugh escaping him this time. He was a Gotham-bred crime lord, a man who dealt in bullets and brutality. And he was head over heels for a being who critiqued literature based on paper quality and molecular density.

“Common,” he grumbled to himself, though the warmth in his chest betrayed him. “Yeah, real common.” He was so screwed. And, he realized with a startling clarity, he wouldn’t have it any other way.