Moonstruck
jason todd x reader
aka sober thoughts and all that
warnings: intoxication
Jason has a thing about drinking around you. He’d kind of skirted around it for a while when you were first dating, but after a while you’d noticed he never really has more than a drink or two regardless of how much you had. The only times you ever see him drink more is when he’s downing whiskey as a pain mitigater when he needs stitches. You’d initially assumed he just wasn’t a big drinker, but eventually you’d come to realize it was more of a matter of not wanting to lose his inhibitions around you.
You know he’s still working on trusting himself, even sober, because he’s terrified of accidentally hurting you. But you have a hard time imagining him losing control like that in any state and you’re nearly certain he’s just being hard on himself.
You’ve been falling in and out of less than peaceful sleep for the past few hours, having trouble easing yourself while your boyfriend is still out. You at least attempted to get to bed earlier tonight because for once he isn’t out fighting crime and risking injury, though you haven’t found much more luck than usual.
You lie on your back, half ready to give up and turn on a movie while you wait.
You’re momentarily startled to hear Dick bellow out your name, no regard for the fact that it’s nearing three in the morning and you have neighbors. He’s not much of a shouter so you’re instantly on alert, worried that he or Jason are hurt.
You fumble out of bed and rush to the living room, surprised to find your fire escape empty. You turn, proceeding towards the front door, opening it cautiously.
“Dick? What—” You don’t need to finish your question because the second you take one good look at the two of them, the state of them is immediately clear. Dick, who’s barely standing upright on his own, supports your boyfriend's weight via Jason’s arm slinged around his shoulder.
“Hey!” Dick grins at you, far more lively than he has any business being this late at night. “Sorry, couldn’t remember which apartment was yours.”
You nod pensively, “Well the perspective’s different than when you’re coming in through the window.”
He continues on past that without thought, “I’ve come to deliver,” he says, gesturing up to Jason with a bit of a strain. You’re pretty sure there were supposed to be a couple more words at the end of that sentence but you understand well enough anyway.
You nod, eyebrows raised and try to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dick.” He shifts your boyfriend off of his shoulder to lean him up against the door frame, where Jason places a majority of his weight.
You eye him warily, not confident in his steadiness. He seems to hold well enough against the heavy door though, his eyes drifting around the tiled floor. Your attention shifts to Dick, who’s clearly satisfied with a job well done and ready to go.
You tilt your head, seeing him turn away. “You good?”
“I’m great!” He calls out with a thumbs up. You watch as he staggers away, nearly missing the exit.
You look back over at Jason, who’s already staring at you with a soft gaze. “You’re pretty,” he fawns, irises blown out and flickering all over your face.
“Oh you’re drunk drunk.” You grin, watching him stumble forward a bit.
He shakes his head, looking a bit dizzy after, “Shoulda seen Tim.”
You pause mid laugh, “…Who drove you here?”
He falters at that, gaze falling to the floor. “Uh…” He winces, “Damian…”
You nod slowly, eyes wide, “We’re gonna talk about that tomorrow.”
“He’s better than you’d think.” You’d hope so.
Well, at least he’s spending time with his brothers.
You sigh, straightening your posture in preparation for the job to come. “Alright, come on big guy,” you pull him up from his slant against the wall, hauling him into the same position he’d been in with Dick—though you’re struggling significantly more to hold him upright. “You gotta help me out here, Jay,” you grunt, trying very hard not to fold under his weight. You swat the door shut behind you, making peace with the fact that he’ll scold you in the morning for not locking it.
He presses an uncoordinated kiss to the side of your head as you try to shuffle him along, not interested in the least in easing your labor. His self discipline isn't quite gone, but his awareness of how big he is sure seems to be.
You wobble from the heavy weight of his arm around your shoulders, holding onto him by his waist. You manage to get him to sidestep your cat, narrowly, though Salem hisses at him all the same. Jason takes no notice. You stumble into your bedroom with only about 30% of his usual balance aiding your effort.
He collapses onto the bed the second his legs hit the frame, pulling you down with him. You lie, somewhat awkwardly, on his chest as he holds you tight—probably tighter than he would if he were sober. It feels nice though.
You lie your cheek flat on his chest, relaxing against him. “What’d you guys do? Thought you were just having an easy night.”
He takes a deep breath before answering, “Raided Dick’s liquor c—” he stops, mulling over his words. “...Bruce’s liquor that was in Dick’s cabinet.” He annunciates every word in that sentence very carefully.
You squint speculatively, “Didn’t take Dick for the stealing type.”
He grumbles, “He’s not. ‘Less it’s Bruce.”
You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face, “Aw, you really do take after your big brother, don’t you?”
He scoffs at that, “I don’t. I’m the one who gave him the idea.” Yeah, that sounds right.
He taps on your cheek lightly and you pick your head up to find him looking at you with puppy dog eyes.
“What’s that look for?”
“Can I kiss you?” his eyes drop down to your lips, “I really wanna kiss you.” He’s nearly whispering and you feel your heart skip several beats at the feeling of his eyes on you like this.
You press a light kiss to his lips and he practically purrs.
You pull back, admiring the serene expression on his face. “You taste like whiskey.”
“I like whiskey,” he says honestly.
You smile, nodding. “I know. Don’t know why, but..”
He leans in for another kiss but you parry, only letting his lips meet your cheek. He frowns grimly, attempting to chase your lips.
“Lemme kiss you,” the pout on his face is adorable and while you hesitate to deny him, you retreat, resting your chin on his chest.
You smile wistfully, tracing his cheekbone, “You’re drunk, baby.”
“‘M not that drunk,” he tells you, though everything about him says otherwise.
Your hand falls flat on his shoulder. “Your eleven year old brother drove you here.”
He shrugs, “He can drive the bat…batcar? Bat…”
“Batmobile,” you finish.
“The batmobile.” he nods, as if he was seconds away from remembering. You suspect he wasn’t.
“Bruce lets him drive it?” you question, wholly disbelieving.
“No.”
Enough said.
“You’re gonna be hungover as hell in the morning,” you mumble, taking in his uninhibited demeanor.
He nods that off, “‘S okay. You’ll be here, right?”
You tilt your head, observing him chalantly. “Where else would I go?”
His arms snake tighter around you at that, giving you a little squeeze before relenting.
“I wanna marry you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face and tucking it neatly behind your ear.
You blink rapidly a few times, “What?” You push yourself up on his chest, sitting up on his abdomen.
“Wanna marry you.” He repeats, eyes lidded as he breathes easy under you. “You’re m’favorite person…want you t’be my wife.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat. “..You want me to be your wife?”
His lips are slightly parted and his pupils are wide as he stares up at you, taking in your features carefully. “‘Course I do.” He brings his fingers up to your cheek, touching you softly with all the wonderment of a little kid. “You’re so pretty.”
You’re quick to return, “So are you.” Especially right now.
He shuts his eyes momentarily, shaking his head morosely, “You gotta stop bein’ so nice t’me,” he lets his hand fall to rest on your thigh. “Don’t deserve it.”
“Shut up,” you lour, “You deserve it more than anybody.”
“No. Not more than you,” his hands knead at your thighs like it’s an instinct. “You deserve everything.” He closes his eyes, tilting his chin up as his head sinks further back into the pillow. “Think I’d do anything you wanted.”
“Jay—”
He continues on, “Want you t’be happy. Wanna make you happy.”
Your face falls into an expression of dazed awe, “You do make me happy.”
He dwindles at that, “No, really happy. Take care of you. Build you a house, give you babies. Wha’ever you want.”
He paws at your thighs, trying to get you to come closer again to him. You lay back down on top of him and his hand instantly buries itself in your hair, stroking softly. “You’re just…you’re so perfect…” He turns his head to mumble against your forehead, “Feel like I dreamed you, sometimes.”
You breathe deeply against the crook of his neck, eyes feeling glassy. “I love you.” It’s all you can get out, and it’s not enough, but it’s all of it.
“I love you,” he says like he’s trying to turn it into gospel. “So much. I love you so much, so fuckin’ much.” His words start to get lost in his weary babbling.
Your chest feels full and you can distinctly feel every beat of your heart against it. Or maybe it’s Jason’s heart. But what’s the difference?
You press a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. “You’re really sweet when you’re drunk, you know that?”
He hums lowly, head lulling against yours.
You still for a second, finding his breathing has slowed and his hand has seized its movement in your hair. His soft breaths fill the air as you press a kiss to his collarbone before settling in completely. “You’re gonna love when I tell you about this in the morning,” you whisper, letting your eyes shut too.
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One of the scariest things that ever happened to me was when I was working at Red Robin. I was around eighteen and I worked as a host. I answered phones, opened doors, and seated people. The job wasn’t strenuous.
One night, the phone rang. It was fully dark outside. My shift was almost over and my mom was picking me up because I still didn’t have a car of my own. She was waiting in the parking lot when the store phone rang.
I picked up with a chirpy greeting and slammed into a horror movie when a gruff voice informed me that he could see me. He had a shotgun pointed into the building and I’d see brain matter sprayed across the walls if I didn’t do what he said. My brain froze in blind panic. I couldn’t believe this terrible thing was really happening to me.
The restaurant was all windows, visible on all sides by the parking lot except for the kitchen. He could be looking in from any direction, shotgun leveled on customers, or coworkers, or me. “Do you hear me?” he asked.
I stared in blank terror, not answering until he yelled, “Do you fucking hear me?!”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Do you have a cellphone?”
“Yes,” I was so transfixed with fear it hadn’t occurred to me to lie.
“Give me the number.”
My mind suddenly whirred into panicky circles. I couldn’t give some crazy man my phone number, I needed to do something else but I couldn’t make up a number either because my head was pounding with adrenaline. My frightened head latched onto the only other number I had memorized.
I rattled off my mothers phone number.
“You’re going to hang up the phone, walk to the back dumpster with your cell phone in your left hand, and I’m going to call you. No one has to die tonight.”
I stood shaking with the phone pressed to my ear.
“Hang up.”
I hung up the phone. I was trembling, but I knew there was no windows in the kitchen. If I got to the kitchen I’d be safe, and that’s where he told me to go so I could make it there if I just held it together.
I made it to dry storage and met one of the assistant managers exiting. I broke down in sobs and started garbling in incoherent fear. He looked utterly flabbergasted by this, as I had the reputation of being the most level headed of the host staff.
He asked me to wait at the bar. He rushed off to try to finish what he was doing so he could deal with me. I was too scared to leave the kitchen hallway; I huddled as close the end of the bar as I could get without leaving the safety of the wall.
I was sobbing when the bartender looked over and saw me. She gasped in outrage and had me into the managers office in a blink, arms around me asking what was wrong, what was wrong.
I was finally in an enclosed room with a locking door. The gibbering in my head calmed to the point that I relayed the whole thing to the bartender. Near the end, the manager returned. He had my mother in tow.
She was furious, hearing the tail end of my death threat call. Apparently, while sitting in the parking lot she’d received the call I had been too scared to get.
The man had asked if she was me, and she was instantly combative. She didn’t tell him anything, just demanded to know, “Who’s This?” He hung up.
He’d called back once just saying my name and she’d angrily asserted, “No.” He hung up.
My mom was furious and confused and marched into the building. Part of her anger was that I’d given away her phone number. She’s a violently private person. My manager had been making sure the servers knew they didn’t have a host when my mom burst in on a mission of vengeance. He quickly escorted my rampaging mother to the back room and they were both in time to hear I’d received a death threat.
My mom rounded on my manager demanding to know why they hadn’t called the police and he pleaded that this was the first he was hearing about it. The police were called.
My mom and I waited in a booth while my nerves jangled with anxiety. No one had checked the cars outside for shooters and now I was sitting here exposed, surrounded by windows. She tried not to be mad about me giving her number given my emotional state, but she wasn’t thrilled with me.
A police office showed up an hour later. I answered her questions and my manager asked if I wanted anything. Everyone at the table looked astonished when I requested a root beer float. But by god, I wanted one.
The officer assured me that most events like this did not happen on site, that the caller wasn’t here. I didn’t believe the dowdy woman sitting across from me had even bothered to do a security sweep but I drank my float and tried to forget the darkness of the night staring in from all those windows. The clear line of sight on me from every side. The image of brain splattering against the glass divider. I drank more root beer.
I got a day off to calm down. On closing shifts after that my heart would pound when the phone rang and the bartenders all agreed to be on phone duty for me. A private investigator came in one day and I recited the whole event again. He’d been hired by the company as Red Robin’s nation wide had been targeted by the same caller.
The investigator told me he was working on it. That dozens of other businesses across the country had been called. He told me that if I’d given the caller my real number I would have been subjected to sexual assault over the phone.
I was starting to feel stupid. Everyone I told was so sure that he’d never even been present. That I’d never been in danger. The only thing I could console myself with was that many other girls had given him their number, but I hadn’t. I started forcing myself to pick the phone back up on closing shifts.
A few months later I was notified that he’d been arrested. The private investigator hired by a fast food restaurant had done what the police force hadn’t and tracked him down to a small town in the Midwest. My testimony was one of dozens used to convict him and for a while I received checks for 0.23 cents as reparations for the mental distress.
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