Work Text:
Jason’s memories of you have gotten fuzzier since coming back from the dead. This is strange, alarming almost, considering that when he first woke from his eternal slumber, the only word he could remember from his past was your name.
Y/N.
He had the faintest memory of your face, the smile that curved, but nothing more. When he took up a new life as the Red Hood, his past had returned to him, and with it all the details of you. Your name, face, aspirations, favourite book, the way you smelled. But as his anger grew, as he leaned further into his life as a vigilante, further into his resentment of Batman, his thoughts of you became less clear.
The image of your face seems distorted now. Your smile has twisted into nothing. He can no longer remember why you liked the things you did, nor can he pinpoint the scent he once knew so well.
He loved you. He knows that much. But why?
The snow on his shoulders is shaken off as he uses his grappling hook to launch himself atop a building. He crouches on top of it and tries to ignore the memory of Batman perching by his side. Old habits die hard, he supposes. But he's not the boy he used to be.
Still, some part of his old self lingers beneath the surface, in that fuzzy echo of you. And he's determined to find out the reason, even if it crushes every ounce of his soul. It can't get much worse, anyway, he thinks.
He's already done his research. He knows your address, license plate number, university and major. He knows that at this time of night, you'll have gotten back from work and probably be making dinner in your apartment. In the building that he's sitting across from right now.
He counts out the windows. Seventh floor, third from the left. One, two, three. He can see light from some of the windows of the building, but his angle provides no view to the apartments inside. he'll have to go over. He stands.
Then, he hesitates. Because for as much time as he's spent thinking about you and trying to find you, he never planned what to do when he has. What even is his goal? To ruin your life by bringing up bad memories? To ruin his own life by seeing the one you've built without him? Something digs into the crevices of his chest painfully.
No, he thinks, I just want to see how you are.
He steels himself and swings across to the building. He counts as he goes – one, two, three. The curtains are shut so he can only see his reflection, but the fourth window, where your living room would be, is ajar, light streaming out into the dark of the night.
Glancing into the window next to him (your bedroom, he thinks), He almost flinches. He'll never get used to the glowing green of his eyes, which serves as yet another reminder that he's not the same boy he used to be, because that boy is as good as dead. He wonders for a moment if you would recognise him. He pushes the thought aside.
He inches closer to the open window until he's right beside the opening. His breath turns shallow knowing that you're so close, and he feels his heart hammering in his chest, so quickly and painfully that he's sure it's going to burst out.
He hears feet shuffling inside the room and freezes. His heart hammers in his chest and he wills himself to stay silent.
The footsteps grow nearer and he sees a shadow forming on the windowsill until he knows you're standing at it. So close. You're so close.
He tries to move away a little so you won't see him, but as his foot makes contact with the side of the building, there's a scuffling sort of knock against the brick. He watches with bated breath as your shadow wavers.
Then, he hears it.
"Jason?"
Your question comes out as a whisper, but he hears it and it's so clearly you, and his stomach lurches.
Something tugs at his heart, and he feels himself moving towards you, as if he's being pulled along by some invisible string.
Then, he's at your window, pulling it open higher and looking at you.
He sees your face, more defined than he remembers. Your hair is less messy, and your eyes are more tired. But he knows it's you and all of a sudden his heart is clenching and contracting like it hasn't known what it's like to beat properly until it saw you. It's been stagnant all these years, he knows, and as he rakes his eyes over your face, he can't help but climb through the window urgently, taking off his helmet and mask as he does. He's afraid that you were never real, and that you'll slip from his mind again; he's afraid because his heart is finally remembering what it feels like to love you.
The shock on your face isn't as profound as he thought it would be. Your expression twists, as if you're going through a range of emotions. Surprise, confusion, recognition, grief, contemplation.
"Jason," you say. It's no longer a question.
He nods.
You stare at him for a moment, then you step closer and your arms wrap around him.
Jason's heart feels tender in his chest, as he wraps his arms hesitantly around you as well. You fit well together, and it feels more natural than he expected, to slot his head in the space next to yours. He inhales slowly and a tear slides down his cheek.
"You remember me," he mutters.
You hold him closer and Jason feels warm, alive for the first time since his death. "How could I forget?"