#resurrection protocols

[rei-ismyname]

New York mourns Cyclops

Cyclops was slain very publicly in a plot by the fiendish Doctor Stasis! Hmm, maybe I could get a job writing solicits. Brevoort, holla. I do love that it's Emma who's there to resurrect him and stroke his brow. Jean is off planet, but it's known that they do this on the reg. The secret of Krakoan resurrection protocols must be protected, so the world believes he is truly dead for now.

The Quiet Council forces him to alpha test a battle suit built by Forge intended to protect non-combatants. Using it to pose as CAPTAIN KRAKOA, Scott visits his own memorial at the X-Men's New York treehouse. Duggan really twists the knife here with this devastated child and a wonderfully sincere public memorial. Sure, the Quiet Council or X-Force might have put it on to sell the secret, but there are strangers there weeping over his passing.

Cyclops was this kid's favourite and now he's sad. I really didn't expect this to be honest and it made me emotional. Perhaps it's the soul cruising 'hated and feared'/Cyclops is mutant Hitler stuff the previous decades had been filled with, but I didn't imagine Cyke having fans like this. We've seen them before and he's been on the cover of Rolling Stone, but compared to his previous public death it's night and day. Cyke himself is having some complicated feelings, as you would imagine. What else can he say in a situation like this?

This is a bit more light-hearted. Scott and Synch are chilling in the tree watching Negasonic Teenage Warhead make out with one of her many girlfriends. I love that there's no further analysis of her value as a potential X-Man - Synch thinks that alone means she'll make a fine member one day. I agree and good for her.

It's so sweet of these randos to bake banana bread 'for Cyclops' and give it to ... the first mutant they see? It doesn't get further context so I assume that's the case. I love everyone here - the world needs more love, banana bread, tree sitting, and kindness to strangers. NTW and all the WLW folks should have as many girlfriends as they like - for Cyclops.

[blushingphoenix]

Resurrection Protocols from House of X #5 (2019)

[samasmith23]

Hot dang! This trailer showing more artwork from the upcoming Ms. Marvel: The New Mutant miniseries has gotten me even more hyped to see what Iman Vellani & Sabir Pirzada do with the character as a inhuman/mutant hybrid! And it confirms my previous statement that the accusation from some fans that they’re “erasing Kamala’s culture & ethnicity” are bullcrap since not only does Kamala look like her normal self in he artwork present (her nose actually looks correct here in contrast to the Hellfire Gala preview pages where she’s resurrected; seriously, her nose looks incredibly off there…) but we get several apperances of her supporting cast like Bruno, her Ammi & Abu, and older brother Amir and his wife Tyesha & baby son Malik as well!

Like, as long as the actual Ms. Marvel solo-titles are contained to be written by Muslim authors, I feel a lot more confident less worried about the current direction of Kamala’s character like a lot of other fans are.

I just wish that Vellani & Pirzada were writing an ongoing for Kamala instead of a 4-issue miniseries, since for whatever reason Marvel has not let Kamala have an ongoing since March of 2021 when Saladin Ahmed’s Magnificent Ms. Marvel run wrapped up at Issue #18 (even though Kamala’s solo-ongoing titles lasted for a total of 75-issues under G. Willow Wilson & Saladin Ahmed’s pens). While the miniseries released in-between Magnificent and Kamala’s fridging in Amazing Spider-Man (2022) #26 have been very solid like Samira Ahmed’s Ms. Marvel: Beyond the Limit, I’m honestly baffled as to why Marvel hasn’t given Kamala another ongoing for quite awhile despite her massive success and popularity both in and outside of comics (she not only had a successful MCU Disney+ series, but was also the main star in the Marvel’s Avengers video game).

So if the Vellani & Pirzada penned Ms. Marvel: The New Mutant miniseries is successful, can we please finally have a new Ms. Marvel ongoing? It’s seriously long overdue for Kamala!

[cirrus-grey]

I'm writing this at almost 2am on wednesday morning and I'm not going to post it until public release but holy shit I'm in love with the new soundtrack I'm so fucking happy they hit the full orchestration stretch goal

[skyeoak]

In case you haven’t noticed, I'm weird. I’m a weirdo. I don't fit in. And I don't want to fit in.

Have you ever seen me without these stupid podcasts? That's weird.

[mechahero]

//Bootleg UI- I mean Dragon Install- I mean aw fuck

[farsight-the-char]

THE SECRET ORIGIN OF SARA GREY! Protecting the cosmos as Phoenix, Jean Grey has experienced near-limitless mystery and wonder – a universe of perpetual possibility! But nothing so magnificently unexpected as this: Her sister, Sara, has returned to life. Murdered by the Phalanx many years ago, another in a long line of Greys to lose their lives in untimely, violent ways, Sara nonetheless stands before Jean, alive and well. But – when?! Why?! How?! All of these are questions worth asking. And Jean Grey probably should. Needless to say…this would be a very different story if she did.

I feel there have been a few other surprise resurrections recently, though I welcome this one.

[goblin-jr]

PHASE III: REINTRODUCTION PROTOCOL

=============================================== CONFIDENTIAL – GOTHAM PSYCHOSOCIAL RESEARCH UNIT   CASE FILE #: JX-1989   DOCUMENT TYPE: Postmortem Longitudinal Trial Summary   TRIAL NAME: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL MASTERLIST: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL DESIGN: Three-Phase Emotional Disruption Model   STATUS: Closed   SECURITY CLEARANCE: ALPHA+   ===============================================

Study Brief

 Subject B re-entered Subject A’s life under concealed identity. Initial interactions were indirect, progressing to sustained proximity and emotional reinforcement.

Subject A developed attachment under misidentified parameters. Full identity disclosure occurred under emotionally heightened conditions. Results indicate unresolved grief, enduring attachment, and high volatility.

Read full report below.

---

(click on links to access log)

🎙️ [ACCESS: STUDENT BROADCAST ARCHIVE — HARVARDRADIO.COM] Podcast Transcript | The Crimson Hour Ep. 68 | “She Said No (And That’s the Problem)” | Host Commentary

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📎 [ACCESS: UNIVERSITY CORRESPONDENCE — HARVARD.EDU] Termination Notice | Financial Aid Rescission & Enrollment Discontinuation | Issued October 14 | Confidential Addressee

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🚌 [ACCESS: TRANSPORTATION RECORD — GOTHAM COACHLINES] One Way Bus Ticket | Boston to Gotham | Purchased October 16

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🏚️ [ACCESS: HOUSING CONTRACT — GOTHAM CITY RENTAL BOARD] Lease Agreement | 1448 W. Park Row, Apt #4B | Signed October 19 | Tenant: Y/N

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📘 [ACCESS: EDUCATION RECORD — GOTHAM CITY ADULT LEARNING CENTER] Enrollment Confirmation | Bridge Track Program | Issued October 24 | Student: Y/N

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💼 [ACCESS: EMPLOYMENT LOG — GOTHAM CITY UNIFIED LABOR DATABASE] Multiple Positions | Service & Gig Work Ledger | Active Record | Employee: Y/N

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Subject A: Age 21 Subject B: 3 years, 4.5 months post-resurrection April 27

Jason arrives early.

For once, he’s calm.

No adrenaline. No ghost-rage in his blood. Just nerves.

The rain started earlier this year.

Jason was already at the grave when it did—hood up, hands in pockets, the crowbar long gone. He’d showered. Put on clean gear. The plan was simple:

Show up. Say hi. Let her see him. Let her believe it.

He practiced it all in his head—what he’d say, how he’d say it, how he’d wait until she smiled before falling apart.

10:45 p.m.

She shows up early.

Jason sees her silhouette first, cutting through the fog. Slower than usual. Shoulders hunched. Hoodie sagging under the weight of rain and long shifts.

Her shoes are soaked through. No blanket. No bag. No book.

Just her. Exhausted. Smaller somehow.

She stumbles once stepping over a root. Doesn’t even curse. Just keeps going.

Jason’s breath catches as she hits the clearing.

Something’s wrong.

She doesn’t talk to the grave right away. She just touches it—soft. Like she’s asking permission. Then lowers herself to her knees like her bones weigh more this year.

“Hey,” she says quietly, forehead brushing the stone. “Sorry I’m early. I couldn’t go home first.”

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just listens.

“I had a shift. Then another one. Didn’t think I’d make it if I sat down.”

A long breath.

“I got kicked out,” she says flatly. “Harvard. Rich boy temper tantrum. He made some calls. They pulled my scholarship.”

Jason’s hands spasm. His body cannot decide whether to clench or let go.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t.” A pause. Her voice drops. “Didn’t want him- Bruce- to be right about me.”

She talks for a while.

Tells him about the bus ride back. The coffee shop job. The night classes. The leak in her ceiling. The time she had to eat a granola bar for dinner and pretend it was fine.

She doesn’t cry. Not once.

She just talks.

Soft. Matter-of-fact. Like reading off damage reports.

Jason’s whole body buzzes with the wrongness of it. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to joke. Tease the stone. Curse Darcy and flirt with ghosts.

But tonight?

She just… fades.

After about an hour, she stops talking.

No goodbye. No inside joke. No “see you next year, dumbass.”

Just silence.

She curls up beside the grave. Hood pulled over her head. Shoes still wet. Breath fogging in the cold.

And sleeps.

Jason had been waiting for this all year.

She showed up soaked, empty, too tired to fake it. No jokes. No book. Just her knees in the mud and her pride holding what was left of her together.

And he knew— She would hate this.

She would never want him to see her like this. Not exhausted. Not unraveling. Not defeated.

She would rather die than be pitied.

So Jason stayed in the dark.

Because tonight wasn’t about him.

And love meant not crossing the line.

--

🕵️ [ACCESS: PUBLIC THREAD ARCHIVE — REDDIT.COM/r/GothamSightings] Community Report | “Red Hood in Southside Again???” | User Submissions Logged 

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📣 [ACCESS: CUSTOMER FEEDBACK LOG — YELP.COM] Review | Bean & Gone Café | Reviewer: Chad R. | Entry Updated May 8

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💳 [ACCESS: TRANSACTION RECORD — LOCAL MERCHANT TERMINALS] Receipts Logged | Excessive Tips Flagged | Bean & Gone / Munchie Mart 

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🧾 [ACCESS: LANDLORD CORRESPONDENCE — DELVECCHIO PROPERTY MGMT] Maintenance Confirmation | Pest Control Approved | Unit: Apt #4B, Tenant: Y/N

--

Y/N snapped the tip drawer shut harder than she meant to.

Again.

The register beeped like it was offended. JoJo didn’t even flinch—just looked up from her phone with that deadpan stare that meant she was either judging her or waiting to help bury a body.

“Another hundred?” JoJo asked, not even blinking.

“One-fifty,” Y/N muttered. “On a twelve-dollar order.”

JoJo whistled low. “Okay, but at what point do you find your mystery billionaire and marry him for healthcare?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She grabbed the bills, shoved them into her apron, and stalked toward the back.

That night, she emptied every envelope under her mattress. Every absurd tip. Every impossible number scrawled on receipts. Every crisp, creased bill she couldn’t bring herself to spend.

$4,329.72.

In cash.

No name. No signature. Just guilt.

She sat on the floor and stared at it for a long time.

And then—like a switch flipping—her hands started to shake.

Of course. Of course.

Bruce Wayne.

That smug, shadow-lurking bastard must’ve found out she was back. Working double shifts. Eating gas station ramen. Sleeping under a flickering ceiling light with duct tape around the base.

And instead of calling— Instead of knocking— Instead of saying one fucking word—

He sent money.

She found an old envelope in the junk drawer. Dumped the cash in, fast and angry. Grabbed a pen. No flourish. No flourish was needed.

keep your guilt money.

She folded the note once, sharp. Taped it to the envelope. Stared at it like it had cursed her bloodline.

It was after midnight when she left.

She didn’t take the bus. Bus costs cash.

She walked.

Across half the city. Past busted streetlamps and cracked sidewalks and three of the corners she used to sleep near in high school. Past the bakery that always smelled like disappointment. Past the train station she’d once left for Harvard from.

She didn’t stop.

By the time she reached Wayne Manor, her feet hurt and her coat was damp and her fingers were numb—but her spine was made of fury.

The gates loomed in front of her, tall and polished and exactly as she remembered.

She stood there for a minute. Just breathing.

Then she crouched. Picked up a rock from the edge of the path. Slipped it into the envelope.

Weighted.

Final.

And then—without a word— She threw it over the gate.

It landed with a thunk on the gravel drive.

Y/N turned and walked away without looking back.

Let him read the note. Let him choke on it.

She didn’t want his money.

She wanted to be left the hell alone.

--

BATCAVE — May 22, 2:13 AM

Status: Debrief in progress Subjects Present: D. Grayson, T. Drake, D. Wayne, J. Todd, B. Wayne

“So, are we just not gonna talk about the fact that Killer Croc was wearing Crocs?” Dick asked, toeing off his boots near the console. “I mean, that’s commitment to the bit.”

Tim didn’t look up. “I already filed it under ‘mental warfare.’”

Damian scoffed from the corner. “You’re all idiots.”

Jason ignored them. Sort of. He was leaned back against the armory wall, picking at the edge of his gloves like they’d personally wronged him.

Until—

ALERT: PROJECTILE DETECTED. PERIMETER BREACH. LOCKDOWN SEQUENCE INITIATED.

Every screen in the cave lit red.

“Who the hell throws something at the manor?” Tim muttered, already flipping through the camera feeds.

“Someone with a death wish,” Damian deadpanned.

“Someone stupid,” Bruce corrected, stepping forward.

Jason just moved toward the screen. “Pull Sector 12. Zoom in.”

The exterior cam locked on. Gravel path. Gate lights. A single envelope lay on the drive, still spinning slightly from impact.

Not a package. Not a threat. Not a warning.

Just a rage-fueled piece of paper addressed in sharp black ink:

TO: BITCH WAYNE FROM: GO TO HELL

Underneath that, written in all-caps and vengeance:

KEEP YOUR GUILT MONEY.

The envelope had torn slightly on impact. Caught on the gravel. A few crisp bills peeked from the split. One hundred dollar note folded clean. A rock the size of a fist visible inside, for weight.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

It was his money. Every tip. Every envelope. Every silent drop at her register or mailbox or door.

He thought she hadn’t noticed.

Turns out, she had. And she walked it all the way here just to give it back.

A beat of total silence.

Then—

“…Wait,” Tim said slowly. “That’s your money?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Dick turned. “Dude. You’ve been funding her anonymously? For months?”

Jason crossed his arms. “I wasn’t trying to be anonymous.”

Damian snorted. “You failed spectacularly.”

Bruce stared at the monitor, unreadable. Still. Barely blinking. “She thinks it was from me,” he said finally.

“She would,” Tim said. “You’re the obvious choice for unsolicited financial intervention.”

“And she still threw it back,” Damian murmured, almost impressed.

Jason crossed his arms.

“I mean… you guys saw that, right?” he said. “She didn’t keep it.”

Dick smirked. “She chucked it with incredible form. Like varsity softball form.”

“Yeah,” Jason muttered. “She’s pissed.”

“You sound proud,” Tim said slowly.

Jason turned away from the screen, tugging his gloves tighter.

“Oh, I’m so proud,” he said. “Bitch Wayne got a rock in the mail. From my girl.”

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Bruce said, not impressed.

Jason ignored that.

He looked at the envelope one last time, then at the gate, then—somewhere no camera could track—toward her.

“…New plan,” he muttered.

Tim looked up. “New what?”

Jason cracked his knuckles.

“I make contact.”

--

The plan wasn’t complicated. Jason liked it that way.

He knew the alley behind her building was dirty, damp, and full of rats—human and otherwise. He also knew a low-level dealer had been working the block for weeks now, pushing light stuff to drunk college kids and the occasional night school burnout.

It wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t worth the suit. Wasn’t worth the attention.

But it was behind her apartment.

So Jason made it urgent.

He didn’t dig too deep. Didn’t check security. Didn’t run a full recon of the building. He didn’t want to know how bad it was. Not yet.

He showed up just before sundown.

Climbed up to her window. Plopped right down. Moved like smoke. Didn’t let himself look through her window—just paused long enough to slide a folded note through the small crack in the pane.

“Temporary stakeout. No danger to you. Lock your windows. —RH”

He noticed the broken latch right after. Rusted. Hanging by one screw. He made a mental note to have a second chat with her landlord. Maybe something about a crowbar this time. Or a window.

Jason repositioned on her fire escape. Cross-legged. Still. Watching the alley below like he’d done it a thousand times. He felt calm. Capable. Like this was right.

She’d come outside.She’d see the note. She’d see him.

And then, she would feel their undeniable connection, open the window, and profess her love. It was foolproof. 

Y/N got home around midnight.

Her backpack was heavy. Her jacket soaked. She had a paper bag under one arm and her keys already in hand before she even reached the stairwell.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the note. Read it. Sighed. Crumpled it in one hand.

Then, with the kind of exhausted precision Jason had only ever seen on grieving people and nurses, she reached for the curtain—

And closed it.

Not angrily. Not dramatically.

Just… done.

Lights off. Lock turned. Curtain drawn.

Jason stayed on the roof.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure what to do next.

--

STAKEOUT — DAY FOUR

This was officially the worst stakeout of his life.

Jason had done rooftop surveillance during hailstorms. He’d staked out mob hideouts in January without gloves. Once, he ate an entire protein bar that turned out to be six months expired just to avoid blowing his cover.

None of that compared to this.

Because at least in those cases, he had a target. A mission. A job to do.

Here? He was just... loitering.

Loitering outside the window of a girl who hadn’t looked at him in two days. Not since Day Two, when she peeked through the curtain for exactly 1.5 seconds and then closed it like she was doing pest control.

He hadn’t moved since sunset.

He’d counted exactly four rats, two alley cats, one dealer (still mid-tier, still boring), and zero signs that Y/N had any interest in acknowledging the helmeted vigilante nesting on her fire escape.

He was starting to take it personally.

His back hurt. His patience was thin. And his coffee had gone cold sometime around 9:00 p.m.

He was just about to call it—just about to tell himself he’d leave in five minutes, tops—when the window creaked open.

Not a curtain. Not a crack.

The full window.

Jason sat up straight, instantly alert.

Y/N leaned out.

Arms crossed on the windowsill. Hair pulled into a messy knot. Hoodie two sizes too big and sleeves pushed to her elbows.

She looked directly at him. “Listen,” she said, voice still dangerously even. “If this is about Gerald, I’m gonna stop you right there. Because Gerald literally ties his drug pouches with ribbons. He once left a baggie in someone’s mailbox with a thank-you note.”

Jason stared.

“I know this,” she continued, getting started now, “because I taught that man how to do cursive T’s a few months ago for a hundred bucks and a stale Pop-Tart. He paid in exact change and said, ‘Thank you, miss.’”

Jason opened his mouth.

She did not let him speak.

“Gerald,” she said, gesturing like she was introducing a sitcom character, “is not a threat. Gerald is a part-time dealer with a Yelp rating and mild anxiety. I could break his kneecaps in under two minutes and still make it to night class.”

Jason made a noise—could’ve been agreement, could’ve been fear.

She narrowed her eyes. “So unless there’s an actual cartel hiding in the bodega freezer, you can stop loitering on my window like a sad gargoyle and go bother someone else.”

Jason scrambled. “He’s… connected.”

Y/N tilted her head. “To who?”

Jason waved vaguely. “Bigger cartel. Out-of-town operation. Could be gun-running. Definitely not cursive.”

Y/N looked unimpressed.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, if you’re gonna keep lurking out here, just don’t scare the cats.”

Then she closed the window.

Didn’t slam it. Didn’t storm off. Just… shut it. Quiet. Final.

Jason stared at the glass, stunned.

So much for the moment. So much for the bonding. So much for the water.

Still—he smiled under the mask. She offered to commit acts of violence for him. 

The plan was working. 

--

💚 [ACCESS: VENDOR NOTICE — GERALD’S GOODS / PUBLIC MARKET BULLETIN] Store Update | Continued Operation Approved | Restrictions Applied

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STAKEOUT — DAY ELEVEN

It was getting bleak.

Jason had been camped out on her fire escape for eleven days. Eleven. He’d missed two minor muggings, skipped one whole safehouse rotation, and was now on a first-name basis with three alley cats and one concerned mailman.

Y/N had spoken to him exactly three more times since the Gerald Incident.

None of them were what he wanted.

Day Six: “You left food on my window ledge. That’s how raccoons get in.”

Day Eight: “Could you stop tapping on the railing?, I have work in 4 hours”

Day Nine: “Stop feeding Gerald. He keeps offering me coupons.

He’d pivoted his strategy. Brought better food. Left sticky notes with dumb jokes. Tried being helpful. Nothing worked.

She hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t invited him in. She hadn't even asked his name.

So on Day Eleven, just after midnight, Jason gave up all pretense of having a plan.

He knocked on the window once, then leaned in slightly and said the dumbest possible sentence:

“…Can I use your bathroom?”

Y/N blinked at him. She was sitting on the floor with a mug in one hand and a book in the other, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, expression unreadable.

A long pause.

Then she said:

“Are you serious?”

Jason shrugged. “I’ve been out here for, like, two weeks.”

She stared. Jason stared back. Internally panicking.

Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But if you bleed on my bath mat, I will kill you.”

She opened the window.

Jason crawled inside like a very polite burglar and immediately forgot how to function.

The place was small. Lived-in. Clean in the chaotic way that meant she was too tired to fake being put together. Books stacked everywhere. Couch slightly lopsided

She pointed to the bathroom and didn’t look at him. “There. In and out. Don’t touch my stuff.”

He nodded, heartbeat in his throat.

Once inside, he immediately did not pee.

He closed the door. Locked it. Turned to the sink.

The bathroom was small. Clean. Faintly pink. The kind of space someone maintained out of habit, not vanity. The light above the mirror flickered when he flipped the switch, then steadied. There was a hair tie looped around the faucet. A half-dead succulent in a chipped mug by the window. Toothpaste cap missing. A towel slung over the back of the door with an embroidered flower on it that looked like it came from a clearance bin at Target.

Jason stood in the middle of it, helmet still on, and breathed.

Then—slowly—he reached up and took it off.

The air was cooler on his face than he expected. The mirror caught him in full: tousled hair, dark circles, and that look he always got when the silence stretched too long—like he might flinch from his own reflection.

He looked awful. Not in the way he usually did. Worse.

Like a guy who hadn’t been sleeping. Like someone who’d been sitting on a fire escape for eleven nights hoping a girl who read Pride and Prejudice to gravestones might eventually say hi.

He stared at himself for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then splashed water on his face. Twice. Rubbed his palms over his jaw like it would help somehow.

It didn’t.

There was soap in a tiny ceramic dish shaped like a shell. Glittery, pastel pink. He stared at it for a full three seconds before muttering “what the fuck” and using it anyway.

The water smelled like coconut and something warm. Maybe vanilla. Maybe whatever scent meant “someone lives here and it isn’t you.”

He dried his hands on the towel. Realized too late it was her towel. Hung it back up very gently like it might press charges.

And then—because he was already spiraling—he started looking.

Not like a creep. Not really. Just... glancing.

There was a cup full of bobby pins. A near-empty mascara tube. A jar of Vicks vapor rub. Painkillers. A pack of gum. One very battered razor and—

Her shampoo. 

He picked it up like it was evidence. Opened the cap. Took a quick sniff.

Then froze.

Yep.

That was her.

Citrus and something warm. Something he couldn’t name. Something that smelled like sleep and soft laughter and the back of her hoodie after she’d been walking all day.

He blinked.

Stared at the mirror again.

“This is insane,” he said, out loud, to the drain.

The mirror agreed. Silently. Cruelly.

He didn’t stop snooping. 

His hand reached for the chapstick next. Pink. Untwisted halfway. Sitting like a loaded weapon on the shelf. He hovered. Pulled back. Reached again.

Nope. Nope.

He could not mentally survive indirect lip contact tonight.

Instead, he turned on the sink again, splashed his face a second time, and looked around.

Panic.

He hadn’t flushed.

If he walked out without flushing, she’d know. She’d definitely know. And then what? She’d think he didn’t pee? That he had a shy bladder? That he was snooping?

Which he was.

But not in a weird way.

Just a tragic, emotionally stunted way.

He flushed.

Waited.

Washed his hands again. Overcorrecting. Citrus soap. Same towel. Same careful dry.

He stared at the door. Helmet back on.

Then—deep breath—he stepped out, greeted by the sound of rain pattering against the living room windows. 

The rain was biblical.

One of those Gotham storms that sounded like it was trying to peel the skyline off the bones of the city. Thunder in full surround sound. Water hammering the roof like it was holding a grudge. The alley behind her apartment was already pooling into something that looked vaguely like a swamp.

Y/N stood at her window, hoodie sleeves pushed up, coffee mug empty, expression flat.

She stared down at the alley like she was waiting for it to apologize.

Then, without turning her head:

“…Yo. Gerald dipped.”

Jason, stepping into the living room, gave a dignified response . “What?”

She nodded at the alley. “Lace parasol finally gave out. Rain probably took it clean off his stupid little head.”

Jason craned his neck. She was right. Gerald’s usual folding chair was empty. The cooler full of whatever he sold was gone. A crushed Monster Energy can rolled through the runoff like it was fleeing the scene.

She turned after a moment. Raised an eyebrow. “You planning to just crawl back out there and rot?”

Jason blinked. “...Kinda?”

She sighed. Loudly. Like she was annoyed at the concept of him existing in space.

“I can’t afford the liability of you slipping off my fire escape,” she muttered, walking toward the kitchen. “You fall, you sue, I end up selling a kidney. That’s not happening.”

Jason just watched her.

She didn’t look at him when she said it—just opened a cabinet, pulled out a can of generic brand cola, and set it on the counter without ceremony.

“You want to sit for a while?” she asked, like it physically pained her.

Jason nodded. Too fast. Too eager.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. I can—uh. Thanks.”

She walked back toward the window and flopped down onto the couch like gravity won a bet. Jason followed, cautiously, perching on the very edge of the opposite cushion like a man trying not to disturb a wild animal.

Then he realized the problem.

The soda was still on the counter.

And he had his helmet back on.

Y/N glanced over at him, then back at the can. Then—without a word—she stood, grabbed it, opened the drawer, pulled out a bright pink curly straw, jammed it into the can, and handed it over like this was normal behavior.

Jason hesitated.

She stared. “You gonna take it or what?”

He did. Very carefully.

And then, with all the dignity of a man in full tactical armor drinking diet cola through a Lisa Frank accessory, he took a sip.

They’d been sitting in silence for maybe five minutes when she asked, “You affiliated with the bats?”

It wasn’t aggressive. Just flat. Tired. The kind of question that didn’t come from curiosity, but muscle memory—like checking the lock twice before bed.

Jason didn’t move right away.

He could feel her watching. Not suspicious. Not fearful. Just... waiting. Like someone who’d been burned before and had learned to ask the hard questions first.

He set the soda down slowly. Let the pink straw curl on itself like a secret.

“No,” he said.

It was the truth. And a lie. Both, kind of.

But it was what she needed to hear.

He could see it happen—the slow loosening in her jaw, the unspooling tension in her spine, the way her fingers relaxed against the fabric of the couch like she’d been bracing without noticing.

“Good,” she muttered. “Those freaks never told me he died.”

The room was quiet after that.

Jason didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He just let the rain fill the silence. Let it hum against the windows like white noise. She didn’t look at him again for a long time.

When she finally spoke, it was softer.

“Sorry. That was... blunt.”

“You’re good.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back to him.

“You don’t seem like one of them anyway.”

Jason shrugged, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

“You loiter. You drink soda through a straw. You’d trip in a cave and die instantly.”

“I’m an apex predator.”

She rolled her eyes. “You brought me dumplings in a shoebox.”

He raised the can again like it was a toast. “And yet, here we are.”

She didn’t smile. Not fully.

But the corner of her mouth twitched. And for now, that was enough.

She didn’t ask for his name. He didn’t offer it. They just sat there, listening to the storm try to peel Gotham open.

Eventually, she stood. Picked up his empty can. Tossed it in the recycling like it didn’t mean anything.

--

By the third week of the stakeout-that-wasn’t, Jason had a rhythm.

He came by every few nights. Always late. Never announced. He didn’t knock. Didn’t text. He just appeared on the fire escape like a guilty habit, boots scuffed, helmet fogged, and body language trying not to look like it needed a place to rest.

And somehow—without ever being formally invited—he started staying.

Y/N never asked why he came. He never said.

She just opened the window.

Their nights followed a strange kind of pattern. Jason would crawl in like a very large, heavily armed housecat. She’d be in her usual hoodie, curled on the couch with her laptop balanced on one knee and a heating pad strapped to her lower back like a battle injury.

The apartment wasn’t really built for guests. The living room was also the kitchen, which was also the dining room, which was also just the room. But she made it work. Kicked a blanket off the couch. Cleared a corner of the table. Pretended this wasn’t weird.

At first, they just sat.

Sometimes she put on old episodes of Chopped and yelled at the screen. Sometimes he read the crime blotter and gave her commentary like a feral news anchor. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all. Just sat. Breathing in the same room.

She never asked who he was. He never offered. And that silence between them felt sacred. Like a ceasefire they didn’t dare break.

Then—one night—he brought food.

Takeout. Thai. Still warm. He said it was extra from a thing. Didn't elaborate.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Just pulled two chipped plates from the cabinet, set them on the counter like she did this every night.

Jason hesitated. Hands still full of the plastic bag.

“I already ate,” he said.

She didn’t look at him. “That’s fine. I haven’t.”

Next time, it was shawarma. The time after that, dumplings. Then pizza. Then stir fry. Always with the same line:

“I ate already.” Or: “Can’t really eat in the helmet.” Or: “Not hungry.”

And every time, Y/N would split the food between two plates. Hand him one. Sit on the floor. Eat in silence.

And every time, he wouldn’t touch his.

On the fourth night, she snapped.

“If you’re gonna sit there like a haunted statue and watch me eat, you can leave.”

Jason blinked. “What?”

She set her fork down. Hard. “I’m not doing pity dinner.”

“It’s not—”

“Then eat.”

“I can’t—”

She stood up. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I’m not your project,” she said, voice low now. “You don’t get to show up here, drop off food like some sad vigilante DoorDash, and act like that counts as caring.”

His stomach twisted. “I do care.”

“Then sit your ass down and eat something.”

Jason stared at her.

She stared back.

He sighed—quietly—but took it.

Then came the blanket.

He kept it by the window now. A faded throw with frayed corners that smelled faintly like her shampoo and dust. Jason threw it over his head with practiced ease, tucking the ends under his chin so his face stayed hidden and his hands stayed free.

Y/N called it “his little cryptid cloak.”

He couldn’t talk with the blanket on—no voice mod, no helmet, no disguise—so he didn’t. He just sat there. Eating silently. A ghost in tactical gear, chewing sesame chicken like it was sacred.

Y/N, however, did talk.

She talked the whole time.

Mostly to fill the space. Sometimes to punish him.

“…so then my boss says we can’t wear sneakers anymore, like it’s a ‘professionalism issue,’ but I know for a fact Jo-Jo showed up last week in flip-flops and nobody said a damn word.”

Jason hummed under the blanket. She took it as agreement.

“And this girl in my psych class keeps saying ‘let’s circle back’ like we’re on Zoom in 2020. I swear to God, if she says ‘let’s unpack that’ one more time I’m going to commit tax fraud on her behalf.”

Jason nodded. Fork to his mouth. Still silent. Blanket bobbing.

Y/N sighed dramatically. “This would be less one-sided if you weren’t eating like the Phantom of the Opera.”

Jason flipped her off.

From under the blanket.

She snorted. “Okay, rude.”

He kept eating.

She kept talking.

It was the most peace either of them had felt in weeks.

--

📄 [ACCESS: INTERNAL OPERATIONS LOG — WAYNE FAMILY DIVISION] Mission Report | Subject Missing Post-Injury | Filed November 25 | J. Todd (Red Hood)

--

Y/N’s fork scrapes the bottom of the takeout container.

It’s the last of the noodles. Cold, borderline questionable. Hood dropped them off two nights ago and she meant to finish them sooner, but time’s slippery lately and grocery money’s been tight. She’s sitting on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles, heating pad dead beneath her, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the room.

She doesn’t bother with music anymore. She misses Spotify Premium.

She’s halfway through another bite when it happens.

THUMP.

A sharp knock—no, a thud—against the windowpane.

She freezes.

Head snaps toward the sound. Fork clatters to the plate.

For one wild second she thinks it’s a bird. A raccoon. Gerald, reincarnated.

But then she sees it. The shape.

Helmet. Leather. Bulk.

She exhales sharply. Stands. Walks to the window and pulls it open with more annoyance than alarm.

“What—”

Then she sees the blood.

His whole right side is soaked. The dark of his jacket is darker still, and there’s a sharpness to the way he’s standing—angled, braced, like the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hood,” she breathes. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t answer.

He stumbles forward—tries to step in—and her hands shoot out automatically, catching his arm. He’s warm. Too warm. His breath fogs the glass behind him.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, voice rising. “Sit. Sit down—now.”

He doesn’t resist. Just slumps, knees buckling like he meant to collapse. She guides him down to the couch—his usual spot—and watches, horrified, as he leaves a full handprint of blood on the cushion.

She kneels beside him.

“Where are you hurt? Hey—hey, look at me.”

He doesn’t lift the helmet. Doesn’t move. Just leans back against the armrest, breathing shallow.

“Okay,” she says, standing. “Fine. Stay there. Bleed or don’t, I’m getting the med kit.”

She’s already halfway to the bathroom.

She returns with the med kit and a clean towel she’s been saving for emergencies. Turns out this qualifies.

He hasn’t moved.

Still slouched against the couch, right leg extended, gloved hand pressed loosely to his side like that’ll keep the blood in. She kneels beside him again, tosses the kit open, and gently lifts his shirt to reveal his ribs.

His breathing hitches. She ignores it. She can’t stop shaking.

“I—I don’t know how to stitch,” she says, voice raw. “I’ve never done this. I can’t—”

“You can,” he rasps, barely audible through the modulator. “It’s just thread. You’ve sewn buttons, right?”

“This is not a button.”

“Still got holes.”

She wants to punch him. She wants to scream. She wants to cry.

Instead, she grabs the suture kit with fingers that won’t stop trembling and tries to remember anything she’s ever seen in a movie.

“Talk me through it,” she says.

Jason shifts, barely. “You cleaned it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Pinch the skin together.”

She does.

“Anchor the first one deep. Just push. Don’t think.”

She pushes.

He flinches. Hisses. But doesn’t stop her.

She stabs the needle through again, then again, lips parted, breath shallow.

“There. There. Keep going,” he mutters, slurring a little now. “You’re doing fine.”

“This is fucked,” she says.

“Totally,” he mumbles.

She gets through five stitches before she realizes he’s stopped answering.

Her head snaps up.

“Hood?”

No response.

“Hood. Hey—hey, come on—”

She reaches out, touches his faceplate. Cold. Still.

He’s breathing, but only just. Out cold. Head turned toward the back cushion, body slack, arm limp at his side. The moment she’d been dreading—being alone with this—has arrived, and it’s not cinematic. It’s not brave.

It’s awful.

“Shit. Shit, shit—”

She finishes the stitches with her whole body shaking. Wraps gauze with teeth clenched. Mutters every curse she knows under her breath. When she finally leans back, her palms are slick with blood and sweat and something else she refuses to name.

She wipes the blood off his helmet with the hem of her shirt.

Pulls a blanket over him.

And sits on the floor beside the couch like a kid trying not to look at the monster in the room.

She can’t sleep.

Not with him breathing like that.

Not with the way it hitches every few minutes, shallow and wet and wrong, like his lungs are trying to argue with his ribs. Like his body hasn’t decided whether it wants to keep going or not.

The helmet is still on.

She thought it was fine. He always wore it. Said he needed it. But now, in the silence of the apartment, with the storm finally passed and the fridge humming like it knows something she doesn’t—she’s terrified.

What if he can’t breathe in there? What if he suffocates and she sleeps through it? What if she wakes up and he’s just—

She bolts upright.

Back in her room, she throws open the dresser drawer and rummages blindly until her hand hits something soft and familiar—an old sleep mask. Faded pink. Fraying elastic. One of the eye patches has a cartoon sheep on it.

Stands there for a second, breathing hard.

Then she walks back out.

He hasn’t moved. Still sprawled across the couch, chest rising in slow, irregular beats. One arm fallen off the cushion. A streak of blood drying across the side of his neck.

She kneels again. Pulls the mask on.  

Her hands find the edges of the helmet. “Don’t die,” she whispers. “Okay? You’re not allowed.”

Then—carefully, slowly, blind—she lifts it off.

It’s heavier than she thought. The inside slick with sweat. It makes a soft, awful click as it comes free. She sets it down on the floor beside her and reaches up—still blindfolded—and cups his face with both hands.

He’s still breathing. Better now. Less noise. More air.

“Okay,” she says, to no one. “Okay.”

She sits there like that for a while, hands still on his cheeks, thumb brushing a raised scar near his jaw.

Eventually, she lets go of his face . She doesn’t take off the mask. She just curls up on the floor, forehead resting against the edge of the couch.

And listens. To his breathing. To the radiator. To the silence.

And when she finally lets herself sleep, it’s with one hand still reaching up—just in case he stops again.

--

Morning comes slow.

It creeps in through the smudged windows, casting pale gold across the floor, the peeling radiator, the crumpled takeout bag on the counter. Everything smells faintly like ginger and sweat and blood.

Jason wakes with a start.

His ribs scream. His side aches. His mouth tastes like metal and dust.

And his helmet is gone.

His eyes fly open.

He’s still on the couch—blanket twisted around his legs, shirt halfway undone, gauze taped awkwardly across his stomach. The light’s too bright. His heart’s too loud. And his face is exposed.

Panic claws up his throat.

Where is it? Where’s the helmet? How long has it been off? Did she see? Did she see?

He tries to sit up too fast and immediately regrets it, pain flaring sharp under the bandages. He swears under his breath, scanning the room, chest heaving—

And then he sees her.

Y/N is curled up on the floor, still in blood stained pajamas, limbs tangled awkwardly against the side of the couch. Her head is tilted back slightly. She’s breathing soft and slow.

And over her eyes—

A sleep mask.

Cartoon sheep. Frayed elastic. Still on.

Jason freezes.

She shifts slightly in her sleep, fingers twitching near her face. Then, as if pulled by some unseen thread, her hand drifts across the floor, brushes against his boot, and pauses.

She jerks awake.

Slow. Groggy. Like the world is coming back in pieces.

Then she sits up, stretches, and reaches beside her without looking.

The helmet’s right there.

She picks it up. Holds it out.

“Put it on” she mumbles, voice hoarse. “You scared the hell out of me, by the way.”

Jason doesn’t move.

She keeps holding it.

“I didn’t look,” she adds, quieter now. “Just… heard you struggling. Figured you’d breathe better without it. Blindfolded myself. That’s all.”

Jason still says nothing.

Just takes the helmet from her hands like it’s made of glass.

Their fingers brush. He grips it tighter. Puts it on, turns the voice modulator on.

“…Thank you,” he says.

She shrugs. Leans back against the couch again.

“Don’t die on my watch, Hood. It’d really mess up my Tuesday.”

Y/N finally pulls the sleep mask off.

Blinding light. Crick in her neck. Her whole body feels like it got into a fight with a vending machine and lost. But Hood’s still alive. Still sitting upright. Still breathing.

She exhales.

“Let me see,” she says, already kneeling beside him again.

Jason stays quiet. Tilts to the side slightly so she can peel the blanket back. The gauze is still holding. The stitches are—surprisingly—not awful. A little uneven. A little swollen. But clean.

She stares at them for a second. Nods to herself.

“Not bad,” she mutters. “For someone whose only medical training came the guy getting stitched.”

He doesn’t respond.

She pretends she doesn’t care.

“Don’t pull them. No jumping off buildings for a while. No cartwheels. No gunfights unless it’s urgent.”

She stands again and heads for the kitchenette.

The fridge greets her with its usual charm: One half-empty bottle of ketchup. A jar of olives. A single carton of milk.

She opens the cabinet. Cereal. One box. Crushed.

She does the math in her head. Stares into the abyss. Then grabs a bowl.

It’s just enough for one.

She pours it. Adds the milk. Doesn’t hesitate.

Walks back over and hands it to him.

Jason stares at the bowl like it might explode.

She shrugs.

“You almost died. You get the Cheerios.”

He eats slow.

Careful.

The sound of the spoon scraping the bowl is soft, muffled beneath the low hum of morning and the fabric of the blanket he’s thrown over his head. She doesn’t watch.

She ducks into the bathroom instead.

Ties her hair up with one hand while brushing her teeth with the other. Swaps out the hoodie for her “functional” shirt—stained, slightly oversized, halfway tucked into her jeans. Her socks don’t match. One of her boots is damp from last night’s rain.

It’s fine.

She’s used to leaving chaos behind.

She grabs her bag from the chair, keys already in hand, and opens the front door halfway before she turns back.

He’s still there. Sitting in her living room. Still under the blanket. Still clutching the empty bowl like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll be back by six,” she says, voice casual, like this is normal. Like this happens every day.

He doesn’t answer.

She clears her throat. “You can stay. If you want.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, a nod.

Small. Barely there.

She closes the door behind her. Locks it with a click. And lets the day begin.

--

🧾 [ACCESS: PURCHASE RECORD — ROTHMAN'S / SUNDOWN GROCERS] Home Furnishing & Grocery Delivery | Buyer: J.T. | Delivery: Unattended Drop

--

Y/N unlocks the apartment with the usual two jabs and a kick.

Her shoulder aches. Her feet are soaked. Her last customer of the day tried to return a sandwich after eating it, and Gerald had the audacity to wink at her in the alley like they were co-workers.

She just wants five minutes to breathe.

She pushes the door open—

And stops.

Her bag slips off her shoulder.

She sees the couch.

Brown leather. Low-backed. Wide-seated. Big enough to drown in. Soft enough to hold you when you can’t hold yourself.

She stares at it like it might vanish. Then she drops her bag, walks straight up to it, and presses both hands flat against the armrest.

It’s real. Soft. Cool to the touch. The kind of expensive that doesn’t come from pity.

And that’s when she laughs.

A full-body sound, unexpected and too loud for the apartment. She laughs like someone who hasn’t had a real reason in months. Laughs like she’s going to scare the silverfish out of the drywall.

Then she spins. Right there, in her socks, on the peeling tile. A full circle. Like a rom-com idiot. Like she’s seven.

Because she knows what this is. She remembers.

“Hear me out,” Jason had said once, the morning Bruce took him away. “The penthouse. “Oh god,” she’d groaned. “The couch is leather. Brown. Like rich people brown. But not ugly. Real classy.” “No. Velvet,” she’d fired back. “Deep green. With gold buttons.” “Velvet stains.” “I won’t spill.” “You’ll definitely spill.”

It had been a joke. A fantasy. A nothing-future built on soda and sarcasm.

But now—years later— Here it is.

She’s dizzy when she sits down. Breathless. Tears on her face before she even registers them.

And the feeling hits her like thunder: This is permission. This is Jason—her Jason—telling her it’s okay to be happy again from beyond the grave.

The couch is the sign. The Hood is the messenger.

He sent her someone.

She presses her forehead to the armrest.

“You son of a bitch,” she whispers, smiling through it. “You sent me a friend.”

The couch smells like new beginnings. The lamp glows like a pulse. Her apartment—normally cold, narrow, gray—is warm now. Lived in. Soft.

Safe.

She curls up under the new blanket, legs tucked beneath her, heart still spinning in her chest.

And for the first time since he died, She doesn’t feel alone.

--

The next evening, Jason stood on the fire escape with a bag of food in one hand and a heart full of static.

He didn’t know what he expected. An eye-roll, maybe. A sarcastic comment about boundary-crossing vigilantes and unsolicited furniture. A quiet “you didn’t have to” said in that voice that meant don’t do it again.

He definitely didn’t expect the window to open before he even knocked.

Y/N stood there, framed in the fading orange light, hair pulled back, hoodie sleeves rolled to her elbows. She looked at him for a long second. No smile. No sarcasm.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

It was careful—not rushed or needy—but firm. Real. Like something being set down that had been carried too long.

Jason blinked. His arms didn’t move at first. He just stood there, stunned, feeling her heartbeat against his chest through layers of armor and hesitation.

Then he let out a breath and hugged her back.

Slow. Gentle.

Not because she was fragile. Because she wasn’t.

“…Hey,” he said, voice low in his helmet.

She gave a soft little huff of air. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

Then she stepped back just enough to look at him.

Her eyes were steady. Clear. Tired in a way that went deeper than sleep, but still soft.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Two words. No qualifiers. No jokes. Just… gratitude.

Jason didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t think he’d need to. But she just stood there, letting the silence speak for both of them.

Then she glanced at the bag in his hand.

“Are those dumplings?”

He nodded.

She opened the window wider.

“Well. Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

He climbed in, boots hitting the floor with a thud. She locked the window behind him and flicked on the lamp.

Warm light. Soft couch. Two plates already out on the counter like maybe, just maybe, she’d been hoping he’d come.

They sat. Ate (Him under the blanket). Talked about nothing. Argued about whether Gerald was a criminal genius or just terminally polite. Laughed until their stomachs hurt.

And somewhere between the last dumpling and the first yawn, they stopped being ghosts.

They were friends.

Real ones.

At last.

--

🟥 [ACCESS: SUIT DIAGNOSTICS LOG — WAYNE TECH MONITORING] Biofeedback Report | Non-Combat Physiological Spikes | Subject: Red Hood (J. Todd)

--

🟩 [ACCESS: TERMINAL HISTORY — GOTHAM PUBLIC LIBRARY, #17] Search Record | Subject A - Flagged Queries Logged Feb 12 | Accessed via Public Network | Surveillance Filter: Active

--

APRIL 25

She didn’t look at him when she asked.

She never did when it was something that mattered.

Jason was sitting on the floor beside the couch, helmet still on, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his gauntlet like it might reveal the answers to every stupid thing he’d ever done. Y/N was above him, curled sideways, eating cereal from a mug because she refused to do dishes before midnight. The lamp flickered.

“You doing anything the 27th?” she asked, casually.

Jason’s heart dropped.

He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t press. Just took another slow bite, metal spoon clinking once against ceramic.

“It’s kind of a thing,” she said after a moment. “Not, like, a party. It’s personal.”

Jason made a noise in his throat. Neutral. Encouraging. Safe.

Y/N stared down into the last third of her cereal.

“I go somewhere. Once a year. Same place, same time. Every year since I was sixteen.”

He already knew where. Of course he did. But hearing it in her voice still made something crack.

“I bring a blanket,” she went on. “And coffee. And Pride and Prejudice, because I’m a walking cliché. I stay until morning.”

Jason felt like the helmet was too tight. His breath fogged up the inner HUD. He didn’t dare move.

“I don’t usually bring people,” she added. “Not ever. But I was thinking… if you wanted to come. You could.”

Jason’s head snapped up before he meant it to.

“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “It’s dumb. Just me talking to a piece of rock for a few hours. But—” She hesitated. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had since he died. I figured… maybe you should meet him.”

Jason forgot how to breathe.

For a second, all he could hear was blood. Not in a poetic way. Literally—his pulse roaring in his ears, chest aching like something was trying to claw its way out.

Friend. She said friend. But the way she said it—quiet, steady, true—it was like being handed something breakable and sacred and entirely undeserved.

He couldn’t speak. Not yet. Just nodded once, sharp.

Y/N smiled, small and crooked. “Cool.”

She set the mug down on the floor beside him. Not on the table. Right next to his boot.

Then she flopped back down onto the couch and pulled the blanket over her face.

Conversation over.

Jason sat there, unmoving, watching the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

His helmet’s readout buzzed softly—elevated vitals. No shit.

She wanted him there. At the grave. Not as a soldier. Not as a name in her search history. As him.

And he said yes. And he meant it.

God help him.

--

Subject A: Age 22 Subject B: 4 years, 4.5 months post-resurrection April 27

She walked ahead of him, as always.

Jason let her.

The graveyard was quieter than usual—just the hush of wet grass under boots and the low, steady patter of rain trying to decide if it wanted to commit. Y/N didn’t bring a blanket this year. Or coffee. Just her hoodie, her voice, and him.

Jason followed in full gear. Hood up. Helmet on. Silent as the grave.

Literally.

When they reached the headstone, Y/N stopped. Took a breath. Then another. The kind you take before walking into a room where a version of yourself still lives.

She crouched beside the stone and brushed her sleeve across the marble like she always did. Her fingers lingered at the carved name.

Jason Peter Todd. Beloved Son.

Then she leaned forward and kissed it.

Jason looked away so fast his neck cracked.

“Hi, dumbass” she whispered. “The train was late. But I’m here. I brought someone, too. Hope you don’t mind.”

She turned slightly—looked over her shoulder, toward the shadow behind her.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Jason moved slowly, each step feeling too loud. The rain got bolder. He knelt beside her but didn’t touch the grave.

Didn’t breathe.

“This is Red Hood,” she said, gesturing between them like they weren’t already shoulder-to-shoulder. “He’s… my friend.”

She smiled at the stone. Then at him. Y/N kneeled, and pulled him down as well. They sat cross-legged facing the stone. 

“The first one I’ve had since you.”

Jason thought he might die again.

“He’s kind of awful,” she added. “But he keeps showing up. And bringing food. And I haven’t wanted to punch him in two whole weeks, which is saying something.”

The rain thickened without warning—sheets of cold cascading from the sky like someone up top had finally lost patience.

Y/N looked around, squinting at the sky. “Shit. I forgot the umbrella.”

Jason, who hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes, reached into his jacket and—wordlessly—pulled out an umbrella-adjacent object.

Y/N blinked at it.

“Is that… Gerald’s lace parasol?”

Jason shrugged. “He left it in the alley. I picked it up on the way here. Thought we might need it.”

Y/N snorted. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

Then she opened it halfway and dragged him under it without asking.

It was immediately clear that it was not built for two people—especially not two people in armor and emotional ruin. Her damp sleeve pressed against his jacket. Their knees knocked. Her hair was sticking to his cheek plate, and she didn’t even bother fixing it. The lace was already soaked through; water dripped through every delicate stitch, pooling at the rim and falling in uneven plops around their shoes.

They looked at eachother.

And then—cracked. The kind of laughter that came fast and real, unfiltered and soaked through. Y/N doubled over, face buried in the crook of her elbow. Jason shook silently beside her, shoulders trembling, the sound muffled behind the helmet.

Gerald’s parasol sagged.

They kept laughing anyway.

She looked at the grave. Then at him. Then back again. 

“I brought him,” she said slowly, easing out of laughter, “because I think you’d want to meet the guy who’s making me happy.”

Jason’s throat closed.

Y/N glanced up at him, voice dropping to a laugh-soft murmur. “You’d probably curse him out for cuddling with your girl over your grave. But you’d like him. Maybe.”

Jason couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Then—

“I love him,” she said.

The words hung in the rain like smoke.

She turned to him, expression open. Real.

“I don’t know when it happened. I just know I look for him now. In the quiet. In the space between days. I like the way he shows up. I like the way he listens.”

Jason didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The rain hit harder.

She blinked at him under the parasol. “If that scares you, it’s fine. You don’t have to say anything.”

Jason didn’t move for a second. Then—

“Don’t be mad,” he said. Quiet. Rough.

She tilted her head. “What?”

He swallowed. Inside the helmet, his hands had started to sweat. “Promise me. Don’t be mad.”

“Red—”

“Just—just promise.”

Y/N hesitated. Her brows furrowed. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I promise.”

Jason closed his eyes for a half-second. Exhaled through his nose.

Then reached up and took the helmet off.

It was quick. Clean. No ceremony. Just a click, a lift, and suddenly—

There he was.

Her Jason.

Older. Sharper. Jaw clenched like it might break. Hair longer (is that a white streak?), damp with rain, curls flattened to his forehead. The same look in his eyes. Tired. Terrified. Hopeful.

Y/N stared.

Her brain went blank. Then full. Then blank again.

She opened her mouth and made no sound.

Jason flinched. “Y/N—”

“WHAT THE FUCK,” she blurted.

She lurched to her feet. The umbrella wobbled violently. Jason scrambled up with her, hands out like he was trying to keep her from bolting.

“No—no, it’s me, I swear—”

“You’re dead,” she said, pointing at the grave. “You DIED. This is YOUR GRAVE.”

“I got better?” he tried.

She made a noise like a boiling tea kettle.

Her hands clenched and unclenched three times. She spun in a circle. Muttered something. Took a breath. Shook her head. Stared at him again.

“You—you were dead,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re real.”

“I am.”

She reached forward—touched his chest, right over the armor. “You’re breathing.”

Jason nodded, too scared to blink.

Then she did something he wasn’t ready for.

She laughed.

Wet, broken, stunned. One huff, then another. And then, she flung her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

He froze.

Then melted.

Jason wrapped both arms around her and held on like the world was still ending.

She was shaking. Laughing and crying at the same time. His hoodie was soaked through now. So was hers. Neither of them cared.

“You’re such an asshole,” she whispered. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“I’ll die happy” he said, smiling into her hair.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her hands framed his face like he might disappear again if she let go.

“You’re real.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice wrecked.

“That’s all that matters.”

--

 PHASE III — REINTRODUCTION PROTOCOL: COMPLETE. CASE FILE #JX-1989 SUBJECT A: [Y/N] SUBJECT B: [J. TODD] STATUS: RESTORED

Final Investigator’s Note:

Subject A, long believed to be mourning an unresolved loss, made direct contact with Subject B seven years post-mortem under highly unorthodox conditions involving emotional confession, weather anomalies, and a formerly owned drug-dealer parasol.

Subject B removed helmet under extreme emotional duress. Subject A speedran the five stages of grief in under 60 seconds. No fatalities. Minimal property damage. Full romantic implosion.

Both parties appear to be fully alive. Fully in love. And fully ridiculous.

----

taglist : @4rachn3 , @mercuryathens , @the-halloween-jack , @milk-unleashed , @inkedinheels , @wonderbat385 , @feralwolfkat, @kasarian

[powdermelonkeg]

Gale of Waterdeep assorted headcanons:

He has photographic memory, hence his accuracy when recreating his tower during his last night

He was born during, and named for, a particularly bad storm that smacked into Waterdeep

He's 38 years old and 5'8" (173cm)

The Scroll of True Resurrection was his magnum opus, something he intended to use to bring back someone he cared deeply for, but with the orb, he was forced to repurpose it for his death protocol

He used to go on seasonal ventures with Tara. He'd be on the hunt for magical items and new knowledge, she'd be on the hunt for beholder jerky. It's where he got the stash of artifacts he had before the orb consumed them all

Is he a sorcerer? He'll tell you no. He's a very studied, very LEARNED wizard, thank you. He was casting Fireball, a 3rd level spell, at 8 years old. Of course, he could also fly at 8 years old, because that's also a 3rd level spell. That Storm Sorcerers can fly as a bonus action after spellcasting is mere coincidence.

He and his mother greet each other with a peck on each cheek and a hug

His previous romantic ventures, before Mystra, always fell apart at his magic. He'd be grand and impress them every which way, they'd ask what else he could do and want more, and he'd launch into whole lectures about the craft. It would always peter out about then; either they always wanted him to one-up himself, or they got bored of his studies and frustrated with his focus on them. Mystra was the first that felt like true love to him because she fell into neither of these pitfalls—but the absence of expectation made him nervous and lit a fire under his ambition, because how could he ever be enough?

He has his mother's eyes and hair, but his father's smile and jawline

He knows how to deal with panic attacks, not because he himself is often subject to them, but because his magical shenanigans when he was young often sent the housekeeper into a state, and he felt bad about it. Particularly after the magma mephit incident burned a hole in the carpet. His own first panic attack was just after he got the orb; Tara sat on his lap and purred like a motor to help calm him down

The man is demi. He has to believe there's a hint of interest in him in order to start seeing the attractive parts of another. Because of that, he thinks "smash or pass" style conversations to be pointless and trite. Of course, he reads into things too much, so he might THINK there's a spark of interest in him before there actually is one and react accordingly

He gets his articulate vocabulary and speech patterns from his time in the Blackstaff Academy, his tendency for jokes and his wild gesticulation from his father, and both his proud and romantic outlook from his mother. His wonder for the world around him has always been in his heart, ever since he began playing with magic

He and his father generally got along, but they had a series of arguments when Mystra came into the picture. Well-intended, civil arguments, none that ever ended in shouting or anything; more a quiet damage of disapproval that left Gale frustrated and feeling like his family didn't understand how great an interaction like he'd earned was

His father died in a carriage accident shortly after Gale moved into his own place. Gale had been trying to make a scroll of True Resurrection to get him back, but...well...

With the orb, statistically speaking, Gale should have gone to Laeral Silverhand about his artifact problem. With his search for "elder wizards" to address his condition with when you talk to him, as well as her ability to CREATE magical artifacts, she seems the best solution. But he hasn't gone to her, nor Vajra, the current Blackstaff of Waterdeep, because he was afraid that if they learned of his condition, he'd be evicted from Waterdeep for the rest of the city's safety (to speak nothing of how much it would hurt to see their disappointment in him)

On that same note, the reason he (according to Tara) left without so much as a note was that he'd gotten an impulsive decision to go to Silverymoon and ask help of Lord Methrammar Aerasumé, Alustriel Silverhand's son. And that's why he was in Yartar when the Nautiloid attacked

On the whole "who meddled first, Mystra or Elminster" topic: Mystra was alive but severely weakened, believed dead until she revealed herself to Elminster. As her Chosen, she'd have known his whereabouts; Elminster interacted with Gale when he was 8, and that's when Mystra became acutely aware of Gale's existence and began interacting with him, BEFORE she began speaking with Elminster (hence Gale's line about "she revealed herself to me")

Same note, when Mystra first appeared to Gale, it was as a child his age. Equal parts enamored with this prodigy who held innate understanding of her Weave, and "keep your enemies close" in regards to caution around where he could lead himself unguided

Their romantic interactions began after she came back to her power in full, though. I fully believe that she paid him the time of day in that regard because she could sense his love for her through the Weave, like how he can sense your intentions during his magic lessons. It was a moment of opportunity, both to indulge herself and to weave (heh) herself further into his future

The Blackstaff Academy gave quarterstaff self defense lessons. Gale was never particularly GOOD at it, but it got him enough to get by. Between that and the various staircases in his tower are why he's built the way he is

He's confident in his appearance, but very conscious of showing too much skin; he doesn't like feeling exposed, hence his camp outfit being as conservative as it is

He can make something palatable out of just about anything, but his cooking style prioritizes flavor WAY over health. Everything is fluffy and delicious and well-seasoned, and also drowned in garlic butter and cream sauces

Despite this, he's a picky eater on his own terms. Give him shelf-stable rations, he'll find some way to make a meal out of the parts he likes, then avoid the rest. Absolutely eats all the M&Ms out of the trail mix

What he drinks depends on his setting. At the bar? Waterdeep whiskey on the rocks. Romantic setting? Arabellan dry wine. Pleasant company to chat with? Tea. Late night studies? Coffee with a stirring of cinnamon. His wedding? Neverwinter ice wine

Besides Mystra, the deities he pays most attention to are Oghma, Sune, Azuth, and Lliira. His patronage at the House of Beauty in Waterdeep is one constant that's never been shaken by his studies

Sometimes, he pretends to be dramatic in the mirror: Doth thy mirror crack? (Thanks for the research, @galedekarios!)

Fully believe Wash My Pain Away to be his personal theme song, independent of the tadpole events

Despite owning a piano, he doesn't actually play it; there's a reason he's spelled it to play songs for him

He was born in late spring, and the season is one of his favorite subjects of poetry

He has sincere potential to be the next Blackstaff: THAT entered his deck of cards when it let him wield it back at the academy

[rei-ismyname]

How do you think about the krakoan resurrections, narratively, I’ve been reading more of the Krakoan line and while I’ve enjoyed the worldbuilding and the plotting related to the resurrection process(like how big of a deal it was for the secret to get out), I do appreciate it’s gone.

I feel letting everyone have a get out of jail free card, with exceptions to people who don’t want to get brought back(even then that didn’t work, good one Erik), spoils the stakes a little, and also funny in a morbid sort of way that despite all their suicide missions and long odds, it’s only now that our major xmen are dropping off like flies for these multiple deaths.

Apologies if this was incoherent, just observations i have reading so far

Worry not, it coheres well enough! A great question :).

I love it! I thought it was an amazing achievement for the mutants to have and a luminous yet fraught foundation to build a country and culture around. Five mutants working in concert to resurrect people! What a concept, and the mutant circuit itself was taken to exciting places even when it was mundane. It was a compelling developing world building choice in the need for secrecy while still being quite fragile. There's not as much redundancy as they'd like, for instance - though fortunately they didn't all die at once.

Of course, the flipside of that is how the worst person on the island managed to subvert it and burn the universe. That was fun too. It's no small thing to have power over life and death, and even seeing the younger mutants become so cavalier about it felt new and interesting.

Comic book deaths rarely feel like anything more than a setback, and the convoluted or unexplained ways people return tend to feel rote and predictable. I can't get excited about a solicit saying 'next issue an X-Man dies!' or similar because I know it's a temporary inconvenience to goose sales. In most cases creators already know when or how they're coming back. I didn't really see it as a get out of jail free card - more a paradigm shift that challenged writers to introduce more interesting stakes.

Taking that arbitrary, low stakes genre convention and pushing it to its logical endpoint struck me as a clever way to move past that tiresome sensationalism. Death doesn't have to be the only stakes, especially when mutants have more to lose than ever. A nation, vulnerable to external threats. A society built on quicksand. Bad faith actors living next door. Geopolitics! Any mutant can return without preamble to this brave new world, for good or ill. It wasn't a perfect safety net either - Otherworld, Arakko, dying publicly, the secrecy, requiring proof of death, the clone issue, etc all altered the paradigm with new stakes.

In short, HoxPoX stopped pretending that death was final or even meaningful and found new stakes to explore. I don't think Krakoa would have been as powerful without it, narratively and thematically. The fact that warriors were prioritised and precogs secretly banned set up dominos to explode in everyone's face. Mainly Chuck and Mags. The power they exercised over Mystique, for example, was so fucked up. That was always going to ignite and it didn't disappoint. They solved for death but they didn't solve for life - and that's the tricky part. As powerful as resurrection is, it's just as powerful a thing to have weaponised against you.

I do wish we got a book about The Five as characters, exploring their family unit, the pressure and position, the religious awe surrounding them. They're all pretty interesting people who barely knew each other beforehand (except Egg and Tempus.) They appeared in books here and there, but X-Factor and IXM (and HoxPoX to a degree) were their most substantial appearances. COVID happened at a terrible time for X-Men comics and messed up publication but I'm still happy with what we got.

As for how I feel about resurrection protocols being off the table (except for Chuck, apparently. Nevermind that it doesn't work that way) - it was inevitable and I think I've mostly just accepted it. From The Ashes is very back to basics and it wouldn't really fit, so I'm happy it's not being used RN. Definitely think R-LDS is a cynical and shallow idea taking shots at something wonderful for little gain.

Thanks for the ask! I hope it makes sense.

[average-mako-enjoyer]

Okay, I honestly have to talk about this because this post doesn't give me peace.

I can't reblog it because OP blocked me (for good reason, I'm sure), but I saw it and now I have to talk about it because I found it fascinating.

So this is a reference to the ME3(!) scene that happens after Tuchanka(!!), where Joker and Garrus participate in the joke battle, telling mildly racist jokes about Humans and Turians.

One of the jokes is about Joker himself:

"Why does the Alliance hire pilots with Brittle-Bone Disease?" and the punchline is: "So their marines can beat someone in hand-to-hand drills."

Another is about how to tell when a turian is out of ammo. And the answer is: "He switches to the stick up his ass as a backup weapon."

Personally, I don't think this is a shining example of a failure to criticize racism. In fact, I think it's quite the opposite. Their bonding activity here isn't about being racist, it's about making fun of militant racism among friends. They're literally joking about racist stereotypes here.

Joker: What do you call it when a turian gets killed by a horrible spiky monster? Garrus: Friendly fire. Come on, that one goes back to Shanxi. Joker: Eh, you gotta respect the classics.

I think it's pretty obvious what this dialog is really about, but okay, I could be wrong.

It's like the "you missed the point by idolizing them" meme, but in reverse, I think.

Every single culture in Mass Effect is depicted as xenophobic. The Asari, despite being galactic mediators, have a huge superiority complex. The Turians are a militant empire that believes in striking first and talking later. The Hanar believe that they are the enlightened ones, and they have a subservient intelligent species that they use for their purposes. Salarians believe they can perform inhumane experiments on members of intelligent species because... well, because they can and no one can really stop them. Every Volus we meet thinks they are superior to everyone else. Every Batarian... shall I even talk about the Batarians and how pathetic the excuse is to exclude them from the Council alliance when planets like Illium exist and thrive? How about Krogans?

Everyone here is racist. Everyone. That's the point. You can and should examine how you feel about that.

There isn't a nation on this good old planet Earth that is any different. There's something very animalistic about it, right? We are sort of born with xenophobic attitudes (don't trust people outside your group), and we have to actively unlearn this reaction to people and things we consider dangerous. That's why the portrayal of xenophobia in fiction is so important. It allows us to safely examine these prejudices and unlearn these behaviors. It's not Mass Effect's fault that you see this very clear message as enabling.

Again, it's not the game's fault, it's the fandom's fault. They vilify the Virmire survivor for standing up to this Shepard's decision. But I have to agree that instead of giving us 10 mildly interesting companions in ME2, the game probably should have explored the fuckery of Shepard joining Cerberus and the whole resurrection business much, much further. Still, the VS is right, and the fandom chooses to ignore it.

Let's talk about Ashley first.

Is she really racist? Because she literally goes ballistic when accused of supporting the human supremacist group. She is very, very polite to every alien companion in ME1. She also immediately becomes protective of Tali because of the way she's been treated, and it's pretty easy to tell from her dialogue that she can relate to Tali's experience (Williams' curse, huh?).

Humanity is the dog in the story she tells Shepard, and she's also right in her assessment of the Council and their willingness to help Shepard's cause. Her distrust of aliens is also a very reasonable thing. She's the officer on the super-secret military starship, she knows the protocol, and she should question Shepard's decision to allow aliens near the ship's critical systems. It's literally her job, and if Shepard doesn't want to sabotage their mission, they should be grateful that Ash is keeping them in check. That's what officers do. She's also right about this, because Tali does end up stealing the super-secret information from the Normandy.

So… is Ashley really racist? My answer is no. She doesn't need this thing to be part of her character arc, and it's not part of it at all. Ashley's story is about her family's legacy, about the prejudice and hardship she faced at every step of her career. She treated Tali like a little sister in 1, and she treats her the same way in 3.

Now Garrus.

Yes. He's racist. He was raised that way. Turians really believe in their superiority, and he acts and thinks accordingly. And you know what? You're supposed to be uncomfortable with that. You're supposed to see how fucked up his behavior and his views are. You're not supposed to root for him and his actions on Citadel and with Saleon and later on Omega.

You're supposed to see him for what he is: a broken, lost, traumatized person who can only see the world in black and white. And the most interesting and beautiful thing is that he knows that. He knows his flaws, and he tells them to Shepard, and depending on who your Shepard is as a person, they can reflect on that and see that about Garrus, and they can help him, or they can ignore it, they can actively enable it, they can be so stupid and so caught up in their own shit that they don't even understand it. Shepard's romance with him is supposed to be a little toxic, a little unsettling because of the power dynamics and because it starts when they are both extremely vulnerable. It's not supposed to be cutesy. They're both fucked up.

And there's a real interest in exploring how fucked up that is, how fucked up he is. Him joking with Joker and Wrex is an example. Him finally apologizing to Tali for his previous behavior is another. Him supporting Shepard when they decide to sabotage the cure is also an amazing example.

Again, you're supposed to be uncomfortable with that. Garrus talks to Shepard about the calculus of war. If siding with the Salarians gives the Palaven a fighting chance, he can live with that, and you know what? This is GOOD writing. It's very realistic, and it's something that feels like Garrus.

We're talking about a galactic war that no Council species has won in any of the previous cycles. Everyone is grasping at straws. The Krogan are literally going, "Reverse the genophage or we won't help you." It's everybody's Hail Mary.

In times of crisis, everyone becomes more xenophobic. That's literally what's happening in the world right now. The economic crisis makes people more conservative and more focused on short-term goals. Can we really blame Garrus for remaining xenophobic in such an environment? Is this a time for him to reflect on his biases?

Or would it have been better if Shepard had said, "Stop being racist, Garrus," and he had just stopped? Is that how character development works? We can literally see him letting go of some of his prejudices, but it's a long, long process, and the galactic war is not the best time for it, if I'm being honest.

This is where I agree with this post 100%, because this is a problem for this fandom. People are infantilizing Garrus and being incredibly misogynistic towards Ashley. But these games are begging you to question Garrus' behavior, and I don't think it's the fault of the games or the writers that the fandom just ignores all the not-so-subtle messages and makes posts about how Garrus hasn't really done anything wrong, and posts about how Ashley is racist, and posts about how the narrative isn't interested in exploring how troubling Garrus' racism is, and how this series fails to critique racism at all.

Phew. I'm done.

Honestly, if I were the OP and hadn't blocked me yet, I would have done so by now. I really don't want to be an ass to them, so I won't tag them or anything, but I found this post so interesting that I couldn't help myself. Hope you found it interesting as well. Pls don't send anything nasty to the OP or alert them of this post, I don't want to ruin their day or anything. I'm just doing my reading comprehension duty here.

[technarchussy]

one thing about kurt, he WILL lead you back to your faith even if you just repeatedly drowned bc of sebastian shaw and botched resurrection protocols 😂

[penguinly]

I know the actual reason why Wild has long hair in Linked Universe is because it makes him more recognizable and unique with the rest of the Chain but hear me out. What if he likes to keep it long because it reminds him of how long it’s been since before he died and woke up in the Shrine of Resurrection?

Like not only is there the fact that the length itself is an indicator of time but also since army protocol maybe had some regulations on hair length? It’s a reminder that he’s free now and even on the days it kills him to have to deal with it, he’ll gladly put up with it because it’s worth it to be able to look at his reflection and not see the lonely, crushingly anxious kid he remembers being before.

[batchilla]

Batgirl's resignation incident report

This folder never falls off the recently opened page. Indeed, the computers history shows it is opened at least once a night, at the end of a shift. It contains a transcript of a conversation, a compilation of security footage and two statements issued within 168 hours of each other. So, shall we commence with the security tapes?

Batgirl is slowly removing the shell of her armour, staring at the floor.

Batman, most of the way out of his suit, grabs her shoulder. She jumps, then nods. They stand in silence, until she says something, wiping her face. Batman goes very still. Then turns away. His face is visible from a camera in the front of the batmobile, which we now cut to. There is a moment of utter distress, then acceptance. He nods.

We cut to Batgirl on the main security camera, staring at his back in shock and distress. She says something else, and waits. She turns, and finishes doffing her suit in silence, still waiting. Batman has returned to his routine as if the interaction hadn't occurred. Batgirl leaves the cave.

Batman puts his head in his hands. We cut now to the hall outside the cave, Batgirl in civilian clothes stepping out of the secret passageway. The timestamp in the corner reads 05:03. The camera glitches, then goes to static, the corruption seeming to spread from the frames lone occupant. When it comes back, the time stamp reads 05:03 still. The hallway is deserted. The footage fast forwards through five days of comings and goings. Bruce leaves a large case next to where she disappeared, and a first aid kit. till at 13:08, it fails once more. We see Batgirl, nursing a sprained wrist, standing in the hallway wearing a suit similar to, but not her own. She picks up the bag, and takes the stairs up to her room. END SECURITY TAPES. TRANSCRIPT Batgirl: … I don't expect to be on patrol tomorrow night, Sir. Or… subsequent nights. I… I don't think I can keep going any more.

Batman: If thats what you feel is best. Batgirl: Steph is ready, She and Tim make a good team. Thank you. For the opportunity to serve Gotham. But I think we've both known for a long time that… that I need to stop. To take a breath. To escape all this while there's still something of me left. Batman:… The sound of the elevator door closing. Batman:…….. REPORTS

INCIDENT REPORT - A Concerned Parties: Batman Batgirl > In subsequent reports to be referred to as a civilian > Metahuman tag to be maintained. Incident nature: Resignation (amicable).

Notable information: Batgirl formally resigned her mantle and bequeathed it to Spoiler. Spoiler > In subsequent reports to be referred to as Batgirl.

Cited growing feelings of lack of self since the death of the second Robin. Should have been anticipated given prior concerns about their relationship. IMPORTANT Reality lapse incident occurred after leaving cave. Standard protocol obeyed. Also provided her bags packed by Penny-one prepacked in her room in the time she was away.

Personal notes: Will not make contact until she does. Getting out of this life is practically impossible. I refuse to make it harder. I will miss her. She needs this. Update: Seems to have settled in Central city. Will have Flash conduct a daily check in to ensure she remains safe and confirm occurrence of lapses. INCIDENT REPORT - B Concerned Parties: Batman. Batgirl. Well, not anymore.

Incident nature: Really? I quit. Forgive the glib nature of the report but frankly, I did say I was done.

Notable information: Spoiler has been trained well, if I do say so myself. With Robin wanting to return to the role after his sabbatical, they'll make a good team.

It happened again. Minor injuries. I'll be fine. Found my bags. Removed the weapons. I won't be living that life.

Personal notes: I didn't manage to say it when it all went down last month my time (last week yours) but… in near every other variation by now Jason has come back, by resurrection, miracle or by never being truly dead. But… I've checked every known scenario. He's gone and the suit has always felt like it was a lie, but he was my Robin so it was okay. I have to stop hoping for this world to be one of the kind ones, and that's on me.

I know you're having me watched. I'd ask you to stop but you'd ignore me, so I'll let it happen to feel like I have a choice. Messed up you still made me send in a report B. Here it is anyway, for whatever obsessive records you keep. Thank you. I'll miss this and I'll miss you.

[spr1ngbunnypvrin]

🐰 Easter Day Headcanon with William Afton!!!

Credit art: DannyBoBanny_ on Twt

🎩 First, the tone: It’s playful, weirdly soft, and tinged with his specific brand of dry wit. He’s not going to say he likes Easter—but you catch that faint twitch of a smile every time you mention it. Like he’s already planning something.

💐 Morning:

William pretends to be annoyed that he’s been woken up “early” (it's 10:00 AM), but he's already up, hair slicked back and sleeves rolled, with pastel-colored macarons on a plate. “Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t bake them. I bribed a very flustered French patissier at 7AM.”

He hands you a small, elegantly wrapped box. Inside? A hand-crafted rabbit charm, silver. It’s old-fashioned, delicate. “You said once you liked antique pendants,” he mumbles, feigning indifference while secretly watching your reaction like it’s a science experiment.

—

🥚 Midday Shenanigans (You started it):

You joke about egg hunts—and William scoffs. “Do I look like a man who scours bushes for cheap plastic eggs, darling?” Five minutes later, you catch him outside, very seriously hiding chocolate eggs behind tree roots, under flowerpots, labeling them with riddles.

His version of the egg hunt? More like a mini escape room challenge. “Clue one: I lie beneath the watchful eye of time. Find me before I melt.” (He hid it under the sundial.)

He insists it’s for “mental stimulation,” but when you find the final egg and it contains a tiny handwritten note that says “Proud of you, Bunny 🐇 — W.A.”, you know the truth.

—

🕯️ Evening (Soft William hours):

The two of you end up curled on the couch, his arm slung over your shoulders, the faint scent of bergamot and old cologne clinging to his shirt.

He’s wearing a ridiculous pair of soft rabbit ears. You made him. He grumbled the whole time. But he hasn’t taken them off in over an hour. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll replace your shampoo with epoxy resin.”

You talk about spring. Fresh starts. He grows unusually quiet for a moment, tracing lazy shapes on your arm. “I suppose,” he says eventually, voice low, “...if resurrection was ever real, it’d look like this. Moments like this.”

He absolutely buys the fancy Easter chocolate rabbits with golden foil and acts like they're for you. They are not. You catch him gnawing the ear off one by the fridge at 2AM.

If you fall asleep early, he tucks you in with a blanket and leaves a dyed egg with a mustache and monocle drawn on it beside your pillow. His version of love.

🐰✨ “Springbonnie’s Grand Entrance” (Alternate Easter Headcanon)

It started with a smirk.

That kind of smirk. The one that crept onto William's face like a secret he was dying to tell but absolutely wouldn't. He’d been acting suspicious all morning—disappearing into the basement with a large duffel bag, muttering about needing “proper ventilation” and “sealing protocols,” which, let’s be honest, never bodes well.

You asked if he was working again on Easter.

His answer?

“Mm, not exactly, darling. I do have a… presentation. A surprise. But you’ll want to mentally prepare yourself. I’m told it’s quite sexy.”

Cue you, blushing like a fool, blinking in panic. “Wait, what?”

William only grinned wider, kissed your temple, and whispered, “Wear something you don’t mind getting ruined.”

—

🥚 The Grand Reveal

You paced around the living room for ten minutes straight, your brain spiraling. What the hell did he mean by sexy? Ruined?! Was he going to show up in—

SLAM.

The hallway door burst open.

Out stepped Springbonnie.

Full suit. Big cartoonish eyes. Giant yellow fur-covered body. Ears that flopped slightly as he moved. The whole nightmarish ensemble. Except—it wasn’t Springbonnie the animatronic.

It was William.

In the full damn mascot costume.

But somehow, he made it worse.

He stood in the doorway dramatically, one giant foam hand perched on his hip, the other outstretched toward you.

“Are you ready… bunny,” he intoned, voice deep, affected with mock seduction, as the faint creak of suit hydraulics betrayed every movement. “For the most… stimulating Easter scavenger hunt… of your life?”

You froze.

Mouth open. Eyes wide. Brain melting.

“No.”

“Oh yes,” he purred through the vocoder hidden in the suit, stepping closer with horrifying squeaky footfalls. “Your first clue awaits, behind the forbidden eggshell of mystery.”

“What does that even mean?!”

“I don’t know, I made it up ten minutes ago,” he said, breaking character briefly and snorting. “But the look on your face is worth it.”

—

💀 Bonus (Because He Went ALL OUT):

The scavenger hunt was unironically brilliant. Cryptic clues. Hidden chocolate. One of the eggs exploded in glitter. He claimed it was “an accident.” It was not.

At one point he chased you around the kitchen, flapping the Springbonnie ears and yelling “EGGSECUTION TIME!”

He made up a game called “Find the Forbidden Egg” and refused to tell you what would happen if you lost. (You did. He cracked a real egg into your hoodie and called it “performance art.”)

Later that night, after removing the sweaty nightmare suit, he reappeared in just a robe, hair damp from the shower, and dropped a glittery pink egg into your lap. Inside? A small, silver ring in the shape of rabbit ears. “For being the only person mad enough to put up with me,” he said with a wink.

You didn’t speak for a solid thirty seconds. Then launched a couch pillow at his head.

[dekariosclan]

I can't help but send another ask - or, well, this falls more under headcanon territory - your insights into Gale are always so poignant and immensely entertaining!

Can't remember exactly where in Act 1, but at some point Gale mentions that during his isolation he warded his townhouse tower against visitors for their own safety. Now, it's easy to take that at face value and assume he meant standard boring ol' protection spells, but we've all seen his resurrection protocol.

Which led me to ponder the following: what do you imagine the ratio of "practical wards meant to harmlessly deter visitors" to "elaborate booby traps that put Home Alone to shame" is? Does he remember where they all are, or after returning to Waterdeep are there a lot of "ah, must have missed that one" moments while rescuing poor Tav from yet another trap they set off by accident? Is Tara part of the security system?

I just feel your thoughts on the matter would be positively delightful to read

Can I just say, I would legitimately pay a ridiculous amount of money to see a Gale / Home Alone crossover movie.

Ridiculous. Amount.

But since we will never be blessed with that, let’s chat about it here!

You are absolutely correct that Gale talks about warding his tower during his confinement! He mentions it during his conversation with Tav at the tiefling party, if you question him about being lonely during his confinement:

Now, for your ask:

The ratio of ‘practical wards’ to going full “Home Alone: Lost in Waterdeep”? I think it’d be 50% straight up barriers and 50% goofy booby traps…and honestly, I don’t think that the goofy booby traps are just a Gale thing. I think it’s a wizardly pride thing. Remember that wizard tower in the Underdark?! That guy had turrets with laser beams, an enchanted ass elevator, and a robot that needed a hug but would also kill you. Lorroakan had Ramazith’s tower set up with false portals, guards, puzzles that can disintegrate you and again, every wizard’s favorite, those damned laser beams.

I think Gale’s barriers and wards would be straightforward spells. His traps, though, I feel would be 190% more creative. And 190% more GALE, as every single trap would involve our favorite mirror image Gale popping up to say hello!

I think the barriers/wards would do fine for deterring most visitors—Gale did say he’d set up enough ‘to keep a small army at bay’—but in the event of a more persistent guest, Mirror Gale would politely provide ample (and increasingly passive-aggressive) warnings to try and persuade any visitors away:

“Hello there! You seem rather determined to make your presence known! Rest assured your visit has been noted; however, i must ask that you turn back from here. Have a lovely evening!”

“Greetings! You know, I would have thought it was quite obvious by the myriad barriers you’ve had to traverse that company is unwelcome, yet here you are! A more intelligent visitor would have likely given up by now, but it seems common sense won’t stop you, will it? No no, heaven forbid.”

“You don’t quite seem to be getting the hint. Tell me, are you often this belligerent and clueless? I shall make note not to invite you to any parties once my Tower is open to visitors once more.”

“Hello again! Ha-ha, ahh….are you quite sure you wish to proceed? I must warn you that I have been, ah, instructed to incinerate you if you go any further! Ah-ha, no hard feelings of course!”

Do I think Tara would be part of the security system? That’s a tough one, because while Tara CAN AND WILL cast a fireball with excellent accuracy when needed (as shown by the rooftop meeting if it goes sour), I think she would’ve been unable to commit to security duties due to having to go find magical Gale Dinner©️ trinkets for his consumption.

Finally, I would assume that Gale would take extra special care to ensure that all traps/wards have been deactivated when he brings his beloved Tav home—however, I could see there mayyybee being one or two missed. In which case, a quiet afternoon of Tav exploring their new home might suddenly be disrupted by a glowing Gale appearing and proclaiming, “Hello! Ah! Well—this is rather awkward, isn’t it? Despite ALL prior warnings, you have now breached my inner sanctum and sadly, must be punished for it. I shall now commence following you and reading a selection of Elminster’s teachings on the history of conjuration spells, which is sure to bore you so completely that you will long for death—”