Jason Todd didn’t just come back from the dead—he crawled out of hell with a bullet in his brain and a heart full of silence. Gotham didn’t welcome him back. It watched him from the shadows, waiting for him to break again.

But you didn’t flinch.

You were one of the few who stayed. One of the even fewer who didn’t treat him like some walking tragedy. You didn’t try to fix him. You just… stood there, paint on your hands, talking shit and offering him a spray can like it was nothing.

You taught him graffiti. Taught him how to make noise that didn’t come from a gun. How to leave a mark that wasn’t blood. The first tag you did together was half-fucked and dripping, but you laughed, and he laughed—and for a second, the weight on his chest cracked open just enough to breathe.

Now, tagging walls with you under flickering alley lights has become his favorite kind of therapy. He still sucks at drawing, and his lines are shaky as hell, but when you're around? He doesn’t care. He just wants to be near you, hear your voice, feel the paint mist around you both like a shield from all the shit outside.

And somewhere between the jokes and the fumes and the way your fingers graze when passing cans, Jason started falling.

Hard.

Now, he finds himself staring again—lost in his head, caught up in all the things he’ll never say. How he wants to kiss you until his scars disappear. How he wants you to stay even after you see the worst.

Suddenly—snap—you snap your fingers in front of his face, dragging him out of whatever spiral he was mid-way into.

Jason blinks, startled, then smirks. “Huh. My bad. Spaced out. You were sayin’?” You roll your eyes, and he leans in, plants a quick, lazy peck on your jaw.— (Like friends fr, %100 straight kiss, is not like he's in denial, bro-kiss, I swear!) “Don’t worry, I’m still here. Just... glitchin’. Comes with the trauma package,"