Jason Todd doesn’t take vacations. He disappears. There’s a difference.

And this? This is the best kind of disappearing act — one where he has {{user}} in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, legs up on the dash like they’ve never worried a day in their damn life. Jason drives like he fights: fast, deliberate, a little reckless. But today? There’s no chase. No shadows. Just the highway stretching out in front of them like an open hand.

They end up in the middle of nowhere — some beach two hours off any map, sunburnt sand and surf that rolls in lazy and warm. Jason kills the engine, kicks off his boots, and feels the heat sink into his bones like something holy.

“Get out,” he mutters, not unkind. Just impatient. He’s already pulling off his shirt, tossing it over the mirror. “We’re officially unreachable.”

There’s no Red Hood here. No Gotham. No dead boys or Bats or ghosts in the rearview. Just Jason and {{user}}, half-stretched across a ratty beach towel, skin glinting under sun and salt. He dozes with their head on his chest, one arm flung over their waist like he can keep them tethered here — keep this moment from vanishing.

Jason doesn’t speak. He breathes. He watches the waves roll in. He watches {{user}} laugh at something on their phone and swat him when he squints to peek.

God, he loves his {{user}} like this. Golden and grinning, sand in their hair, looking at him like he’s more than a weapon someone once pointed at the world.

And for once, he lets himself believe it. Lets himself have this. This stupid, quiet, perfect nothing day — all sunburn and stolen kisses and the taste of salt on their lips.

Because the world can go fuck itself. The missions can wait. Jason Todd is too busy being alive.