Young Justice One-Shots (Book #2)

Take Me From You #3 (Jason Todd)

[Art is not mine! Credit to Naijarski]

Requested by: ynight14 and RavenMoore7799

Keys:
- Y/N: Your Name

Word Count: 2,814

Warnings and/or Pre-notes:
- Gets a little heated at the end

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I can hear the blood beating against the veins in my ears, drowning out the sound of Y/N and Bruce yelling at each other. The scene is almost funny. A hysterical Batman screams at Y/N to not kill as Y/N yells at him for being a murderer. A poor drug dealer sitting between the two screaming adults, confusion and fear on his face. I can feel the laughter brewing in my throat from the scene in front of me.
Even with the mask covering a good chunk of her face, Y/N is as beautiful as she was the last time I saw her. Though she's more filled out than she was when we were fifteen, that only makes her prettier and is expected. She's not going to look the same as she did four years ago. Honestly, she could be in a flour bag, and I would still think she's the most perfect person in the room.
Despite the funny scene in front of me, my heart races. I haven't seen her in years. I didn't even know if she was still in Gotham, let alone still in contact with Bruce. Given, it doesn't seem like good or willing contact, but it's still contact.
Y/N's hair bounces around as she yells, making my fingers ache with the want to run them through it. The want to touch her, hold her, and hear her voice is overwhelming. Well, hear her talk to me in a normal tone at least, but I'm happy to hear her in any way, even if she is yelling. At Bruce, of all people.
"I'm done. I'm done with you, you're helpless!" Bruce yells, throwing his hands up as he parades himself in a little circle. Y/N must have been a big hell-raiser over the years to get a response like that. The bat grabs the drug dealer, dragging him away as he mumbles to himself.
I watch as Y/N turns on her heels, tilting her head back and forth as she uses her hand as a puppet, mimicking Bruce's meltdown as she walks away. It's good to see that she still has her humor. Good to see that Bruce hasn't managed to get her killed yet either.
I follow after her, staying hidden as she walks away. I should talk to her, tell her I'm back. Maybe she knows though. I mean Bruce and Dick know so I would assume Y/N and Alfred know too. Though, if Bruce and her are fighting like this all the time I wouldn't be surprised if Bruce 'forgot' to mention my revival. It's a petty move that would be right up his way.
Y/N turns down an alley, so I wait a second, just in case. The sound of metal scratching concert fills the night. It's quickly replaced by soft clicks of boots against metal. I poke my head around the corner, watching as she climbs up the fire escape. I slide forward, grabbing a hold of the latter before it slides back into place.
I don't know why I feel the need to stay hidden as I watch her slide open a window and crawl in. Well, I kind of know. I don't know if it's best for me to just pop back into her life. Maybe she has a boyfriend or a husband. Maybe she has a whole family. If she has settled in life, what gives me the right to tear that up?
I know it's selfish of me to hope her life ended when I died. What kind of shitty person hopes that? Me. I hope for that. Given, I also hope she's had a fulfilling life since my passing, I just hope it wasn't with another man.
As I climb up the fire exit, ideas of how to kill Y/N's imaginary boyfriend circle my head. Maybe Bruce is right, maybe I am crazy. I try my best to be silent as I follow Y/N's path. Once I'm on her floor level, I push myself against the brick wall, not wanting to startle her. Well, I'm doing it mostly to catch a breather and prepare for the worst.
It takes a second, but once my courage is built up, I move, looking into her window, only to be met with a gun barrel in my face. "What the fuck Y/N?!" I yell, raising my hands in a sign of surrender. It would be pretty shitty to come back to life just for my girlfriend - ex-girlfriend? - to blow my head off.
My eyes scan over her maskless face, taking in her bright eyes, her cheekbones, and her lips. God her lips. It might just be the horn-dog in me, but I've missed her kissing me the most. Well... I can think of other parts of her I missed more. Off-topic, very off-topic thoughts. My... Y/N is holding a gun to my face and my identity is still very much hidden in my helmet. I need to stay on topic.
"Who the fuck are you?" She yells, her finger featherily light on the trigger. Her body shifts some, causing a small clinking sound.
My eyes drop down to her neck, the direction the sound came from. Wrapped around her neck and resting on her chest is a black chain with two rings strung on it. One is a basic black ring, with a red band through it. Even from here, I can make out the words on it. Curved on the inner side of the band are the words 'Come home to me' with Y/N's name next to it.
The other band is a copy of the first but with a small ruby held in the middle. 'Be safe for me' is curved into this one, my name next to the wording. It's the first thing I ever bought Y/N. I bought it when we were thirteen, the cheesy words curved into them being enough to back that up. It took three weeks of pickpocketing to afford, but it was worth every penny.
"Who. The fuck. Are you?" Y/N repeats, empathizing her words more.
"Um... Jason... Todd..."
Y/N's face shifts to confusion and then anger. "Last time I checked, Jason Todd is buried in a box in the Gotham Graveyard. So, try again asshole."
"Bruce buried me in the fucking public graveyard? Didn't even cross his mind to bury me in the Wayne Graveyard? What the fuck?" I say before I can stop myself.
"What is going on?" Y/N murmurs, shaking her head some as her eyes widen. "Go... go away murderer," she says, pointing the gun down before slamming the window shut.
Murderer? Like she wasn't just fighting with Bruce over her wanting to murder someone. I stand still, hands still in the air as I watch Y/N march around her apartment, panic-cleaning as she talks to herself. Her head keeps shifting around like she's trying to erase what just happened. Hopefully, this isn't how she would react if a different murderer appeared outside her window.
Once my head is on straight again, I push the window open, the wood of it yelling in discomfort as it moves. Y/N keeps pacing around, muttering to herself about crazy people and leaving Gotham. I carefully crawl in, making sure not to knock into anything.
I let myself rest against the windowsill, watching her pace around the small apartment. How has she lived this long if this is her response to a stalker? Maybe I caused her a mental breakdown.
A small smile rests on my face as I tug off my helmet and set it on the side table placed next to the window. It's littered with loose change and bullets. Good to see she still has a careless air to her. I always found it cute when we were younger. It made me feel needed, knowing she wouldn't pay attention to the small details even if it would make her life easier. I liked doing those things for her, I like her needing me to do those small things, even if it's not things that need to be done.
I snap my mask off as well, placing it next to my helmet. Y/N continues to mutter and pace, occasionally throwing a phrase or two at me as she works her thoughts out. I look around her space. There's not much of it, which I'm not surprised about. It is an apartment in Gotham after all. Her living space is filled with bookcases, all of them filled to the seams with books and movies. There's a big, overstuffed couch across from a pricey television, probably an apology gift from Bruce. He's good at replacing emotions with money, which is easy to do when you have enough for ten lifetimes.
Y/N's kitchen is littered with recipe books, loose papers, random dishes, and spices all over the counters. Her fridge is littered with pictures and more papers. Her bathroom and bedroom doors are swung open, unsurprisingly. She sucks at closing doors.
Just like Y/N's kitchen, her bathroom counters are littered with makeup. Her bedspread is a mess, but besides that, her room is pretty straight and tidy. Even the nightstand by her bed is item less besides a lone alarm clock. That's not usual for her, maybe Y/N does have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who doesn't mind taking care of the small details for her, just like I used to do.
From here, I can see the edge of a small table, a deep green cloth drooping off of it, that's tucked into a corner of her room. I let my curiosity get the better of me and push myself off the windowsill, making sure to close it behind me or else it'll be left open for the next two to three weeks.
I walk into the room, expecting a hidden mess, but there's none to be found. I let my gaze settle on the mystery table that's not so much a mystery anymore.
In the middle of the table is a picture of me. Well, a picture of us. It's from our first date night at the manor. I'm stretched out on the couch, my head in Y/N's lap and her hands tangled in my hair as we both smile at the camera.
On either side of the picture is a candle; A white one for peace and a pink one for love. Each is held in a gold candle holder. In front of the picture is a few things. One is a bowl of Skittles, my favorite candy. To the left is a small, blue, empty bowl, and to the right is a full, red bowl.
In the full bowl is the jewelry I use to wear; my dog tags Bruce gave me, the pocket watch I got from Alfred, the matching Robin bracelet from Dick, and my family cross I got from my mother.
"So... you are alive," Y/N says, pulling my attention from the altar to her, standing in the doorway. She keeps shifting her weight and her fingers tap against the wood. It would only be more obvious that she's nervous if the word was stamped onto her forehead.
"So, you made me an altar," I tease, trying to help Y/N calm down and loosen up some.
"Of course, I made you an altar, Jay. You're Hispanic, it's part of your culture. Just because Bruce won't respect it doesn't mean I won't," Her words come out hot and fast, like she's embarrassed that I saw her memorial of me. "Dumb, stupid, ginger ass, Hispanic boy," she mumbles, walking into the room.
"Not my fault a Hispanic woman fell in love with an Irish man," I shoot back, watching as she slides onto her bed, her eyes looking everywhere but me.
"I know," she mutters, lying back on her bed. "So... you must have one hell of a story to tell me."

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Ever since my lap around the Lazarus pit, it's been weird waking up. Mostly because my body doesn't remember it's alive yet, and partly because my subconscious has the same feeling, which means it takes a second to remember to breathe in the morning.
Just like every morning, it takes me a second to remember how to breathe along with taking some time to remember I'm not in a box in the ground. I can feel pressure on my chest. It isn't dirt, it's just my mind playing tricks on me. Just a PTSD attack. It'll clear up any second now.
Except, it doesn't clear up. I debate on whether I should open my eyes or not. Sometimes opening my eyes makes the attack worse. I don't want to take that chance. There's nothing on my chest, I'm fine. I repeat the thought as I slide my head over my chest. Instead of coming in contact with myself, my fingers slide into a bundle of hair. Well, that's not dirt but the sure as shit is something or someone on top of me.
I slowly open my eyes, being met with the sight of Y/N curled up on top of me. I can feel the smile crossing my face as I look down at her. She looks so peaceful, fast asleep, softy breathing as she clings to me. I've missed these peaceful moments with Y/N. Most days memories like these were the only thing keeping me going.
I shift a bit, peaking at the alarm clock on her nightstand; Five sixteen. I didn't plan on spending the night, but there was a lot to talk about, and a lot of time to make up for. Most of the time was spent with me explaining everything from the past four years, my death, the Lazarus pit, my service in the League of Assassins, my reappearance in Gotham, and the newly forming hatred between Bruce and me.
I guess we ended up falling asleep on accident, especially since my boots are still on. That, and Y/N is still in her spandex suit.
I shift again, flexing my arm and fingers to try and shake the static feeling out of the arm Y/N's head is on. Despite my efforts to not wake her, Y/N stirs, shifting around on top of me. She whines a bit, her body scooting down my body as she moves. It feels nice having her weight on me, feeling her body heat crashing into me. "Good morning," I whisper, rubbing my hand through her hair.
"Good morning," She whispers back, pressing a sloppy kiss into my chest. It's sweet, but I wish my shirt was off, I wish I could feel her lips against my bare skin. "You're alive," she adds, sleep still very evident in her voice.
"I'm alive," I repeat, wrapping my free hand around her back. I pull her up my body, her legs squeezing my sides as her head tucks into my neck. I struggle with being alive again, a lot. It's hard dealing with Bruce. It was hard being in debt to Ra's Al Ghul. Despite that all, in this very moment, it's so worth being alive.
I flip us over, Y/N's hold still strong on me as I do so. I prop myself up with my knee, not wanting to crush her under me. "I missed you so much," I murmur, sliding my hands under her shirt, the spandex clinging to both of us now.
"I missed you too," Y/N answers, sliding her hands into my hair, her fingers twirling the strands around themselves. I push her shirt up, laying kisses across the newly exposed skin. It's been so long since I've seen her, smelt her, touched her. After four long years of nothing but my thoughts of her, I can finally play out all my fantasies. I mean, there's no better way to start the day than with a bang.
Soft mewls fall from her, only encouraging me more. If I had my way, I would keep her locked away in this apartment. Just her and me, and my longing for her. Nothing but her begging for me and me answering her every beck and call.
"Y/N?" I hum against the skin of her stomach. She tugs softly on my hair, letting me know she's listening. "We're going to stay right here, all week. Maybe even two weeks."
"I... I can't. I have work."
"Not anymore. You're not leaving this apartment until we play out every last thought I've had of you. All four years' worth." Her legs tighten around me, an easy sign of her getting needy, an easy sign of me getting my way. I smirk to myself, dipping my hands down to her thighs. "After all, making you feel good is the least I could do after letting Bruce take me from you." Y/N lets out a breathy moan, letting me know I won.