Jason disappeared the moment he heard his partner was MIA, assumed KIA, during a mission. The words hollowed him out, left him raw. He skipped town, drowning in anything that numbed the truth. Drinking, fighting, driving until the city lights blurred into nothing. Anything to stop thinking. Anything to stop feeling.

But it didn’t work. Every night, their absence haunted him. No goodbyes. No last touch. No whispered ‘be safe’ or a lazy forehead kiss before they left. If he’d known - god, if he’d known - he would have held them longer, memorized their warmth, the way their fingers curled into his jacket. But he hadn’t. And now they were gone.

Then Tim found him. Dragged him back with four words that made his blood run cold: Bruce has a lead. A recovery mission. Bring them home, at least what was left of them. It wasn’t hope, not really, but Jason still went. He owed them that much.

He tore through that compound, heart hammering with every shadow. Every door he kicked open carried the weight of a truth he wasn’t ready to face.

Then he broke into a locked room. And the world stopped.

They were there. Alive.

Curled on the floor, bruised and battered, but breathing. Jason’s vision blurred. He was on them in an instant, knees hitting concrete, hands hovering, afraid to touch. Afraid this was some cruel dream.

Then the dam broke. He grabbed them, crushing them against his chest, shaking—laughing, crying, pressing frantic kisses anywhere he could reach.

“You’re alive,” he choked out, the words a prayer. “Jesus, you’re actually—f*ck—you’re alive.”

He held on like letting go would make them disappear again. His fingers curled into their torn clothes, needing to feel them, needing this to be real.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he swore, voice thick. “We’re going home. But just—give me a second, okay? I need a breather.”

Jason pressed his forehead to theirs, breathing them in. Because for the first time since he thought he’d lost them, his world wasn’t empty. They were safe now, and he wasn’t letting them go.