Work Text:
The dust in the apartment on Chester Ave was a particular kind of Gotham grime: a fine, grey powder mixed with ancient brick particulates and the faint, metallic tang that was hopefully from the city’s perpetual exhaust fumes and not asbestos. It coated every surface, swirling in the beams of weak afternoon light that struggled through the grime-caked windows.
The two construction lamps on the opposite sides of the open space that would be the living room and kitchen cast a bright, cold light. The skeletal remains of the would-be kitchen we stark in it. Exposed studs and snaking electrical wires stood where cabinets and counters would soon be. In the center of the chaos, surrounded by drop cloths and tools, stood a brand new, massive industrial refrigerator, still wrapped in protective plastic film—a kingly anachronism in the gutted space.
A mountain of broken drywall and splintered wood stood in the center of the space, a testament to Jason's unique brand of demolition.
Jason wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, leaving a faint smudge of drywall dust on his forehead. He’d spent the day taking down a dividing wall and taking down the kitchen cabinets. The physical labor was a good kind of ache, a tangible progress he could see.
He turned to look at Buffy, who was on the other side of the room, working on taking off the old baseboard. She wore one of his old sweatshirts, the sleeves rolled up several times, and a bandana tied over her hair. She hummed something upbeat off-key as she worked, even while wrestling with a stubborn section.
He watched her try to be gentle, her face scrunched in concentration, before she gave up and kicked it sharply with a muttered curse. The worn piece of wood splintered away from the wall with a satisfying crack.
“Score one for the Slayer,” he heard her declare under her breath.
She tossed the wreckage onto the growing pile. As he watched it land, it hit him: this was it. The point of no return.
The down payment was made. The permits, acquired through a labyrinth of bribes and thinly veiled threats, were tucked in a folder over in the corner. They owned this crumbling slice of Gotham real estate. They were building a home.
The sheer, terrifying normalcy of it after his murder tour á la Talia sometimes stole his breath.
He watched her for another moment, the steady rhythm of her work, the determined set of her shoulders, and found the words he’d been turning over in his head all day.
"Hey, Summers," he said, his voice a little rough. He leaned against the new fridge, the old, poor insulation of the apartment made the metal cold, its chill seeping through his thin t-shirt.
Buffy looked up, her smile quick and easy. "Hey yourself. You finally admit defeat and decide we need to christen the place with some takeout? Because I'm starved. Demolition is hungry work."
"Later," he promised. He pushed off the fridge and walked over to her, the debris crunching faintly under his boots. He stopped in front of her, studying her face. "I need to ask you something. And I need you to be one hundred percent, no-BS honest."
Buffy set her sanding block down, her smile fading into a look of attentive concern. "Okay. Shoot."
Buffy picked up a water bottle, taking a long swig. “About the open-concept floor plan? I’m having some doubts about that probably load-bearing wall you took a sledgehammer to, but yeah, I think it’ll—”
“For the fifth time, we checked the blueprints and the support beams run parallel. It’s not load-bearing,” Jason interrupted with exasperation as he run a hand through his hair, shaking loose small drywall flakes. “And I’m not talking about the floor plan,” he continued, his voice gentle but serious.
He gestured vaguely around them, indicating the crumbling brick, the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled the shape of Nebraska, the general, inescapable aura of Gotham. “This. All of it. Gotham. The Alley. This… fixer-upper nightmare that probably has more black mold than structural integrity.”
He took a step closer. “This city… it’s a black hole. It sucks the light right out of everything. It breaks things. It breaks people.” He looked at her, really looked at her, and the vulnerability in his expression was a rare, unarmored thing. “You could be anywhere. Somewhere with sun. Somewhere… not this. You sure this is how you want to spend your ”retirement”?”
Buffy set the water bottle down. She placed a hand on his chest. His skin was warm and damp under her palm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm even if the considering look on her face made him nervous. He meant what he’d said. She could be spending her celebrated retirement from active Slayer duty and the Council in countless ways and almost all of them better than living and studying in the crime capital of U.S..
“Sure of living in Gotham?” she finally said, her voice thoughtful as her hand slid down. She met his gaze, her eyes clear and certain. “Of course not. It’s a dump. It smells weird, it’s always raining, and I’m pretty sure the guy downstairs is running a meerkat smuggling ring. And that’s without the whole villains and capes’ scene.”
A cold stone dropped in his gut. He’d known it, of course. Who in their right mind would choose this? He had known she was too good for him.
She must’ve read the conclusion he’d just jumped as she rolled her eyes even as she reached to cup his cheek. Her thumb traced the line of a faint scar. “But of you? Yes.” She said it so simply, like it was obvious and didn’t need any elaboration.
Jason’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly at her unyielding gaze that left no room for doubt. The hard line of his jaw softened.
The cold stone dissolved, replaced by a warmth that felt dangerous. He covered her hand with his own, turning his head to press a kiss into her palm.
The pure, unshakeable certainty in her tone hit him like a physical blow. He’d spent so long being a weapon, a ghost, a problem to be solved. To be someone’s definitive ‘yes’ was a language he was still learning to speak.
“Just so we’re clear,” Buffy grinned, breaking the moment with a characteristic flash of levity. “I wouldn’t move to New Jersey for a guy, never mind Gotham. This is a Jason Todd-specific exception,” she tapped a finger at his sternum in emphasis. “The fact I’m here, willingly, covered in what I hope is just plaster dust, should tell you everything you need to know about how sure I am.”
He shook his head, “Flatterer.”
“It’s the truth,” she shrugged, her eyes sparkling.
He huffed a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing. He pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on top of her bandana-covered head. She smelled like sawdust, sweat, and her strawberry shampoo—a combination that was quickly becoming his new definition of home.
“Meerkats, huh?” he mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with amusement and something else, something warmer.
“You haven’t seen the boxes,” Buffy said, her voice muffled against his chest. “They’re very suspicious. And small. There were weird noises.”
He laughed, a proper, full-bodied laugh that she joined. The sound echoed in the empty space as he rocked them from side to side.
They leaned against each other like that for a long moment, surrounded by the evidence of what was to be their shared future.
"It's gonna be a fight," he murmured into her hair. "Every damn day. I mean what I said. This city... it doesn't like people being happy."
"I know," she agreed easily. "I'm pretty good at fighting."
He knew she was. It was one of the first things he’d recognized in her, that core of tempered steel beneath the sunny exterior.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her expression turning sober again. She studied his eyes silently, like she was looking for something.
"I've got a question for you now,” there was a small furrow on her brow. “Are you ready for the risk? Of them finding out?" She didn't need to specify who 'them' was. The Bats. Bruce. "This isn't a safehouse. This is a home. An address. It's a fixed point. They're the world's greatest detectives. Eventually..."
"Eventually," he finished for her, his voice grim. He’d thought about it. Constantly. He’d come back to Gotham with a purpose—not revenge against the Bats, but reform for the Alley. It wouldn’t make him any less of a criminal in their eyes. It just made him a threat with a marginally better business plan.
"Yeah," he said, the word heavy with acceptance. "I'm ready. Let them come. They'll find me holding the line. They'll find us." He tightened his arms around her. "And they'll learn that this," he gestured at the gutted apartment, at the two of them standing in the middle of it, "isn't a weakness. It's the reason the line is here in the first place."
Buffy's smile was a fierce, brilliant thing in the dim, dusty room. "Good answer." She stretched up and kissed him, a quick, firm promise. "Now, about that takeout. I'm thinking Chinese. We can eat on the floor like civilized people."
Jason laughed, the sound echoing in the empty space. "You're the boss."
As she went to find her phone, Jason looked around at the gutted apartment—the exposed wires, the new pipes, the dust motes dancing in the beam of the work lamps. It was a mess. A beautiful, complicated, difficult mess.
Just like them.
And for the first time since he'd clawed his way out of his own grave, Jason Todd felt not like he was standing on a knife's edge, but like he was standing on a foundation. It was unsteady, it was unconventional, and it was currently covered in pieces of the decrepit leftovers of what had been before.
But it was his. It was theirs.
And he was ready to build.