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kingeorgey · 10 months

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i keep you clean (you surrounded me)

Jason Todd x OFC/Reader, 4.6k words

based on the Jason Todd fanfictions on ao3, written by Minniears and Janaswow . rosalie is a combination of the main characters in those books, and the oneshot draws inspiration from both fics.

please rb, like, and feel free to message me or leave asks / drabble requests! i highly reccommend checking out my ao3, just look at my other posts or search up my username on there. i just wanted ot test what happens if i post the full fic on here instead of linking to my ao3.

enjoy!!! :-)

The most stressful part of all this is making the calls to fix the sunroof. Really. And, honestly, truly, seriously, not even that is so stressful, since that task is reduced to an email for Rosalie. Admittedly, a hooded vigilante breaking into your property for the third (fourth? fifth?) night in the last two weeks was not an ideal situation for anyone but the window repair company, and at least the cost wasn’t coming out of her pocket.

What, then, had Rosalie failed to consider, in her attempt to bend over backwards making sure the vigilante knew that he was of no inconvenience to her? The (decidedly less ideal) consequences of the recurring vandalism-

His enemies catching on.

It had all happened in a blur. Between the fight or flight instinct, it was true that she had always drifted towards the lesser-known, and less convenient, ‘freeze’ instinct. The steely chill of a blade against her neck, a cacophony of gunshots and knife-on-knife scraping, and someone calling out her name had all fallen on ears that were as good as deaf at the moment.

It wasn’t that she was ignorant to the dire situation she was in, and the unfathomable level of danger surrounding her. Rosalie was an intelligent person, despite society’s eternal crusade to muddle kindness with weakness. She had managed just fine in Gotham on her own, and had not gotten involved with the many gangs and vigilantes of the city she called home. However, as life in Gotham went, the time had apparently arrived for her rite-of-passage gang involvement.

Everything in Rosalie’s line of sight became one massive blur of motion, shaken only when she was tackled. Instinctually, she awaited the impact that was to come- expecting the cement of the greenhouse, maybe a flower pot if they had been so unlucky. The result never came, however, and when she began to come back to reality she was confronted with the warmth of the arms that had her wrapped in a death grip, and radiated off of the jacketed chest that shielded her.

The scene Rosalie was enveloped in finally began to come into focus. Beaten, bloodied gang members were tied up to the feet of various display tables, droplets of their sweat and tears joining their puddles of blood and broken glass. It was silent, though, save for the voice of her protector coming into focus.

“I got you,” The voice rushedly repeated, the baritone bringing her further into the present moment. That was when reality finally set in, when she was no longer in a frozen stupor, no longer chasing the present second-

and, she crumbled.

In one extended motion, Rosalie was pushing herself from the Red Hood’s embrace with trembling arms and legs, bounding out of the shop’s front door. A series of choked gasps (that she hardly registered as being her own) quickly transitioned into a fit of sobs- which, for someone of her disposition, meant more noiseless, strangled sounds.

With legs that felt as weak as gelatin below her, she all but tripped out of the door and onto the pavement in front of the shop, a quivering arm pressed up against the brick facade. Droplets of her own blood soiled the roughened sidewalk, her gaze transfixing itself on each crimson bead instead of the door behind her slamming open, then closed. No frenzy follows- just the scraping of boots as the Red Hood sits next to her, leaning against a streetlamp with a blade-holding arm lazily draped over his knee.

“More will be on their way.” Breaks the quiet. The voice modulator, husky and reverberant, doesn’t strike fear (or even curiosity) anymore. It is familiar, and she wants familiar, yearns for it in a moment as impossible as this.

There are thirty highly complex muscles per hand. Sixty, total. Scientists of the highest caliber have been trying for centuries to recreate the human hand but have always found that something is missing. There is an art to the human hand- perfected artistry, from rolling wrists to feather-light fingertips.

Yet, when she lifts her hands to speak in the only language she can, it all falls short. Her fingers feel like pasta cooked ten minutes too long, and she is stuck staring at them without having gestured one word. Betrayal to the highest degree flashes in her eyes and, with her hands completely still, she looks up at the sunroof-breaking jerk she should probably be blaming for all of this.

She wonders how it is that an unchanging mask seems to be emanating emotion. As if, behind the kevlar and technologies, he might actually be feeling something.

Rosalie suspects it is pity that seeps through the disguise.

“I have a… someone is on the way for you, until everything blows over.” A trembling ghost of a nod is all she can manage.

Not long after this ‘conversation’, a sedan shows up with a flourish. The car itself is absent of any glitz or glamor. What brings it to life is the flourish of capes that follow- most notably, one accompanied with an all too familiar cowl. Were she a few years younger, Rosalie might have fangirled a little, like most Gothamites. For now, she continues to sit as she has since initially taking her spot on the sidewalk, though her eyes are now focusing on the newcomers instead of Red Hood.

“This is Rosalie. She’s-”

“How bad in shock is she?”

“Bad. Not hurt, if you’d let me finish.”

“Not that you know of. There’s blood on the edge of her sweater, could be hers.” It somehow brings Rosalie out of her stupor a bit, to hear Nightwing and Batman chide the Red Hood over someone as unimportant as her, and to Robin keeping a dead stare in her direction.

“She’s not speaking.”

“She can’t, remember?” Nightwing turns to Robin, exasperated, as Batman hurriedly takes over once more.

“We’ve got it. This won’t happen again, ma’am, we’ll make sure of it.”

Honestly, it makes her uncomfortable to meet eyes with Batman- metaphorically, of course. She can’t see past his mask. The greasy dinners with Red Hood had been much different, and they hadn’t even spoken a word to each other on those offhanded occasions, just quietly eating as she worked on inventory and a show played on her falling-apart laptop.

Batman seems to accept the shock as an answer, turning and leading his compatriots into her shop. When they are finally alone again, Red Hood stands and carefully helps Rosalie up until she is standing, his gloved hand firm around her upper arm.

“I’m taking you to a safehouse until the situation is handled.” Telling, not asking- though she is hardly going to argue with that solution, focusing instead on the warmth his hand provides against her skin, not meeting his ‘eyes’ once as she is ushered into the sedan.

In the passenger seat she tries to use her hands. Flexing, unflexing each slender finger, twisting her wrist. There is a great aching in her torso that begins to intensify as the shock subsides, and her neck is craned to look out the window for the entire journey. In the reflection of the tinted window and, in a moment where she has glanced just above the passing sidewalk, she can see the Red Hood looking over at her, a sustained check-in before he hurriedly averts her eyes.

The car ride is a strained silent.

She thinks that the vigilante can still see how badly she is trembling, even when her hands are finally able to muster enough strength to open the passenger door. Thankfully, he says nothing, crossing around the car in a few long strides to get the door for Rosalie and usher her into the safehouse.

Then, the strangest thing happens.

It’s not like a dam breaks- though, it’s not unlike that, either. It is grand and subtle and loud and silent and she stands still while her body horrifically crumbles into itself. All the air in Rosalie’s lungs expels itself at once and, no matter how hard she tries, it won’t come back. She is self-strangled, suffocating, until the very last second as dots speckle her vision- then, her body tortures her further by sucking in all the air at once and continuing until the Red Hood has hidden the car and locks the front door behind him.

Truth be told, the Red Hood seems shocked. It would dawn on her later that this, for all technical intents and purposes, would be his first time ever hearing her. And, of course, it was like this- horrible, disgusting, strangulated, this.

Or, is it not shock whatsoever? For now, he still stands inches in front of her, arms outstretched like he wants to do something about it but has not the faintest idea what that something should be. He seems confused. He wants to help, but doesn’t know how.

“Rosalie,” The modulator (surely not his voice) wavers, the arms remaining in their awkward half-outstretched stance as he continues. Or, tries to continue- begins to. Either his words fall short or he decides against saying what’s on his mind, opting instead to reach forward and engulf her in his arms.

Rosalie has a moral objection to leather, not even buying secondhand. She thought leather couches and faux-leather interiors of cars to be disgusting, and the handbags to be consistently gauche. The Red Hood, though, has a leather jacket on, and at this moment it is not gauche, and she has no objection to it- moral, fashion, or otherwise. In this moment there is no greater comfort that is able to be offered, and it is all she needs it to be. The material expands upon the warmth someone of his stature already emanates, and the worn material is unexpectedly soft against the few spots of her exposed skin that it meets.

The warmth, as well as his silence, aides in turning the choking sensation into normal sobs though, for her, even that sounds different compared to the cries of those who could produce noise. Minutes pass before she pushes the vigilante away from her just enough to bring a fist up to her chest, leaning with the other hand on one hip while making the circular motion with the fist on her chest. It’s a tired sign, something made even more evident to the Red Hood as he watches her shoulders droop further from their raised, tense position.

“Whatever you’re apologizing for-” One of his hands lightly swats at her fist, stopping the weak signing of her apology, “Don’t.”

The sigh that accompanies his command provides her some sort of proof that he means this. That he is the sorry one, that he, too, is exhausted from today.

Rosalie doesn’t figure the new stains on his leather jacket will help and-

Is that her blood?

Red follows her eyes, alight with fresh worry, to the stains on his sleeves and chest. His arms lift from his sides, turning over so he can assess the situation, and- yes, some of that is definitely her fresh blood from just moments prior.

“You’re bleeding,” He begins, ignoring the way she reaches for the hem of the leather sleeve and begins turning it back and forth between her thumb and forefingers.

Will this come out? -

Before she finishes her sentence, before she can go to sign ‘sorry’ again, he is swatting her hand lightly, letting his own fall to the small of her back. Delicately, he leads her to a washroom.

“Believe it or not,” He grumbles, guiding her until she sits on the edge of the tub, “I deal with blood pretty regularly, Rose-”

A comcially large first aid kit is pulled onto the floor to punctuate his sentence.

“So don’t worry about it.”

Neither of them say anything more as he begins to get all sorts of gauze and bandage out. Rosalie is zoned out, still reeling from her panic attack. Yet, she manages to catch the moment he almost lifts his mask up in front of her, stopping right before.

“I-” He pauses.

“Room across the hall, top two drawers of the dresser. Shorts and shirts. You’re covered in blood, so change and try and figure out where you’re hurt.”

He needs to unmask, and he must know that she is aware of that. It is true, however, that she is covered in blood, she obliges, allowing her hand to linger just a moment longer than necessary when she uses his shoulder to get up from the bathtub.

The shower sputters to life as she crosses into the bedroom. Granted, calling it a bedroom may be a slight overaggeration. It’s hardly a full room, there’s bullet shells and what she can only infer to be gun-related cleaning equipment strewn on the nightstand. Some newspapers are haphazardly taped to the wall with shredded bits of stickers from fast food restaurant bags, the likes of which show through a tied up garbage bag in the corner.

There’s no mirror in here. It’s a fact that Rosalie is most grateful for at the moment- the way that blood flakes off of her, dried down even though it can’t have been more than an hour since it all happened. Her face feels puffy, though from crying or bruising she can’t be sure. Faintly, she hears sharp breaths from the bathroom, where the shower has once more fallen silent. Rosalie figures he is fixing himself up and takes her time finding a thick T-Shirt and some running shorts, resisting the urge to fall back onto the bed and bloody that, too. The clean clothes remain in her hand as she finds her way back to the bathroom door, rapping upon it lightly.

When it opens he is masked again, leather jacket strewn over his shoulder and belt haphazardly looped through the waist of his pants. The Red Hood does not utter a word as he brushes past her, jerking a nod towards the shower. Rosalie obeys- once in, she turns the water as hot as the disgustingly outdated shower will allow, tries not to focus on the muddied crimson that pools in the bottom of the shower for minutes before it runs clean, tries not to relax in the steam for fear of letting her guard down and crying again. It is only once she has done this- tossed the towel aside, pulled the clothes onto her still dripping figure- that she works up the strength to look in the mirror.

She looks horrid.

Her face is bruised, puffiness subsided otherwise- her stomach, legs, and arms tell a different story. Black and blue from being thrown to the ground, more than a few cuts and two really good gashes on her rib and thigh. Rosalie’s neck still holds a bruised imprint from the knife, though little more than a knick is left as evidence, which she takes as a miserable sort of saving grace.

Rosalie makes a point to try and present herself as an optimist. Tries to smile, to brighten people’s day even if in the marginally important customer-servicey way. Tries to silently show waitresses and crossing guards she appreciates them. Consciously, intentionally, truly tries to be anything good, because she knows how- for lack of better word- sad, she can be. How sadness fills her full, paralyzes her some days until she has to call off of work and lay on the kitchen floor, limp. How lifting a coffee cup feels like an anvil, or taking a shower seems like such an impossible task, she alienates it until she can’t remember how she’s ever done it at all. Looking in the mirror, this is what she sees. Not the Rosalie she intentionally tries to be- the Rosalie she is. The Rosalie she works so hard to improve, all while forgetting that “running away from” doesn’t equal “improving upon”. Sad, sad. Sad. Sad. Sad.

An echoing ‘thump’ sounds as she falls back onto the rim of the tub, and she feels so miserable, she doesn’t even mind the usually so-irritating-it’s-scalp-burning sensation of wet hair on her skin. This thud must be audible, since a knock quickly follows, the Red Hood entering once again.

He is silent. Takes his time looking at her, she thinks, though it’s made all the more unnerving by the way she can’t actually track his exact line of sight unless he tilts his head.

He scoffs.

He falls to take a knee in front of her, swiping his hand to pick up a needle on his way down. The other steals a towel from a hanging rack and lays it across her lap, gloved hands as electric as flint and steel as they ghost the newly uncovered skin of her bare thighs. The free hand then wraps too-easily around her hip, adjusting her- and she goes in for a hug, out of instinct, when he turns his body just so. Leans in, arms around him, realizing too late what her physical instinct had done.

Red Hood pulls away with a bewildered jerk, and that’s when she fully realizes her stupidity. He wasn’t going for a hug- he had been adjusting her, to literally give her homemade stitches.

I don’t know why I did that.

His shoulders fall ever so slightly as she signs, gaining his composure before resuming his (close, close, so close to her that he can probably hear each quivering breath or smell the body wash she had used some of or-) position in front of her. He ignores the incident altogether.

“This will hurt. Don’t move.”

The pain is overbearing as she feels him sink the needle into her. Rosalie tries her darnedest to stay as quiet as he had when she was switching into his clothes- how used to this is he, she wonders?- though the effort is futile, and she surely triples the amount of time it should take with the pauses she takes to regain her breath, or squirm in discomfort. She is, after all, wiser than to do so while a needle hovers mere centimeters over her bruised skin.

It feels like years pass before Red Hood tosses the needle in the trash, tying off the final knot. He has some mercy, she thinks, watching him wait for the water to warm up before dampening a towel. This is some relief to the stinging where he has stitched her up, the final bits of crusted blood being dabbed away by the towel.

Really, Rosalie thinks she could have done that bit by herself, though she keeps quiet.

Rosalie finally drops his shirt from where it has been lifted up to her chest, allowing more access to the wounds on her side. Neither of them move beyond this. Not until Rosalie lifts her head, signing halfheartedly.

Are you? Okay. Are you okay.

In the bathroom is a light that has faded to orange, dimmed with age. It catches his mask as he shifts to look away, out of the doorway. It shines so bright for that single millisecond that she cannot help but cringe at the glare, no matter how quick it was.

“I’m used to it,” And though it isn’t the ideal response, Rosalie settles on it being okay for not. Not great, not horrible. Just okay.

They’re okay. They are alive, and breathing, and in a bathroom with a shitty light bulb. It’s okay.

Fueled by the newfound energy of coming to terms with their situation (as well as being physically okay, for the most part) Rosalie lifts herself from the edge of the tub. She stumbles forward, catching herself with a hand on Red Hood’s shoulder.

She lets it linger, turning to face him and lifting her free hand to sign.

New lightbulb.

Red is already lifting himself up, wrapping a supportive (and careful- he had been the one to stitch her up, after all) forearm round her torso while taking strides towards the bed.

“I’ll be sure to call you when I want a safehouse renovation,” He sets Rosalie down, placing his sole pillow vertically and rushing to find something else to prop her up with, “Maybe we can add a wraparound balcony, too. A chandelier, maybe.”

Swarovski.

“Glad you thought that was funny enough to waste time fingerspelling.”

His tone never once changes and, still, his voice is laced with sarcasm thick as tar, bubbling under each and every syllable. When Red Hood looks over, he sees a small grin on her, and a middle finger briefly directed his way. This, to him, is only made funnier by the fact that Rosalie normally tries to watch her language. He wishes she could see the way he is nearly smiling.

When Red Hood’s ‘eyes’ fall once more to the floor in front of him, Rosalie is sure to reprimand him for it, clapping with all the strength she could muster while coming down from all the shock. Upon looking up, he finds her in a most unusual position. Her arms are outreached to him. One falls, patting the space next to her.

It’s been a long time- if it’s ever been at all- that someone has beckoned the vigilante like that. With no ill intent. With gentleness, and exhaustion, and the air that it’s the most obvious thing to do in the world. That he should just go lay next to her.

So, in the most awkward way possible, he obeys. Red Hood turns, swinging a knee over her and falling on his stomach next to Rosalie. He’s since abandoned the leather jacket and, with only the restraint of his sweater and compression shirt, his muscles allow themselves to relax. For only a moment, he allows them to do just so, forgoing the usual tension caused by holding up the weight of the world.

In the moment, he had closed his eyes, though they open once more once his moment of calm is decidedly over. At least, he thought so, before opening his eyes to catch a sideways look of Rosalie staring down at him. Her eyes are lidded with exhaustion, managing to lock onto his own nonetheless.

Her hand lifts. She almost signs something, then pauses. The hand stays raised even once he registers that Rosalie decided against saying something. When it falls, it lands on his back. Up, down, and up again with a featherlike touch. He can’t help the way his breath hitches at the intimacy. Or the anxiety that rises with the realization that he is letting this happen.

“Did I ever scare you?”

You don’t.

“Did I ever, though?” Rosalie is clearly thinking over her response to the repeated question, moving to lay on her shoulder and look him right in his mask’s netted eyes.

Before I knew you better, maybe.

Then one day you were watching shows with me while I repotted some plants. And I realized I liked being around you.

Scary people aren’t usually that likable to be around.

I think you’re good. I think that’s why we’re here right now.

As Rosalie did her best to sign, her host did his best not to care too much about the words- which was, worth mentioning, going to end up an absolutely failed mission. Instead, he focused on the signing. The way that doing so while she was turned on her side prevented her from holding her hair back, and how it fell in front of her eyes, the brushing back of which would occasionally serve as the catalyst for the ending and beginning of a new sentence. How she, deluded from the adrenaline-comedown she was experiencing, did not shift uncomfortably or avoid eye contact, her gaze languidly moving between his eyes or wherever else on the mask her gaze happened to fall upon.

Red Hood wasn’t known for failing missions.

And yet, he felt nearly possessed as his hand raised up to his mask. In one swift movement it was disengaged, balled up in his hand as he brought himself up to lean on an elbow over her.

For her part, Rosalie seemed to wake up from her stupor, eyes widening.

“Jason,” He croaked out, swallowing a lump in his throat that arose as soon as he heard himself, “Todd. Jason Todd.”

Rosalie maintained her wide-eyed, slack-jawed look, though an eyebrow came to rise as she noticed her expression and snapped her mouth shut. Now she was sat fully up, comforter falling down to her hips.

J-A-S-O-N-T-O-D-D

“Yeah,” It came out breathless- something that seemed to bring a smile to Rosalie, and an equally breathless, confused laugh.

Why?

Jason paused at the question. Not for lack of understanding- for lack of answer.

For lack of confidence to give the real answer, more like.

“I just want you to see me.” He decided, an absentminded nod taking over as realization dawned. His face. What did he even look like anymore? A ‘J’ seared onto his cheekbone, scars that once made Deadpool wince for their multitude, surely some sort of black eye or bruise-

I do see you.

Jason snapped out of his runaway train of thought, looking (really, actually looking) back into her eyes. Finally feeling like he would burst, he did away with it. Get it out of the way, get ready for rejection for signs that seemed obvious but maybe he even misread because had he ever actually felt like this for someone before and maybe this was stockholm syndrome or he was taking advantage of the horrific way the day went and she didn’t even know him really and did he know her-

I like you J-A-

“I wanna date you,”

She stops fingerspelling as they run each other over with their words, staring at Jason still. Now they both looked like slack-jawed idiots.

Because, of course, they were both slack-jawed idiots.

I want to be your girlfriend, too.

She finally replies and, now that the hard part and secrecy and obvliviousness and crushy part of it was done with, they both find it easier to smile. Hers, Jason notices, lights up all the way to her eyes, while his is more of the hint of a smile.

She pays it no mind. Not that he can tell, anyways. Jason figures she is just appeased by the fact she can see him at all. He figures something grand should happen now. Maybe he should stand up and sweep her off her feet, kiss her and dip her like a tango dancer. Maybe he should surprise her with a penthouse or flowers or, at the very least, a dinner to outshine the 3 loaves of bread and vodka his cabinets were currently housing. But none of that happens. He sits there, stupid, looking at Rosalie. At his girlfriend, somehow.

Rosalie is the one who reaches out, running a hand through his hair. It’s experimental. He can feel her slender fingers glide through each strand, still dripping from the shower, one or two beads of water falling otno the pillowcase with a quiet ‘thwop’ sound. She moves to the nape of his neck- more new territory- and continues to trace down his biceps. Lightly, she nudges him until he is laying back on his stomach, and he is about eye level with her hips when he turns to face her.

Light hands find their way to the small of his back- up, and down, and up again, traversing each muscle, shoulderblade, and vertebrae. The muscles stretch with the intake of a deep breath, sinking back down seconds later, hands lifting and falling in featherlike synchronization. Up, down, and up some more.

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