just get some rest.

“Absolutely not.”

“You have to rest at some point.”

“I bet Batman never sleeps.”

“As if anyone should ever put Batman’s behavior on a pedestal.”

Jason has a point, Graves has to concede that. But he will not, under any circumstances, allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, or in other words, to fall asleep. Instead, he walks away from the bed to the coffee machine plugged in atop the chest of drawers. Stale, cold coffee that he had brewed a few minutes ago awaited him. He takes one of the mugs but crinkles his nose when he sees the stains, stains he did not make, inside. He pushes the cup away from him. Perhaps he’d just drink from the decanter itself. The motel room was nothing special, and neither one of them would complain, having been raised on the streets of Gotham, but man, Jason sure knew how to pick ‘em.

“Do you think the mold on the pipes is dangerous to inhale?”

“No, I think it’s the safe kind. Or, safer.” Pause. “And you’re deflecting, jackass. Get in the damn bed.”

“Oh? People will talk.”

Jason removes the Red Hood’s mask, making sure his partner and friend could really take a good look at his unimpressed face. It has the opposite intended effect though, eliciting the faintest of laughs from him. In total his smile lasts no more than a heartbeat, a stolen heartbeat, as Jason’s own heart skips a step, fumbling. But the minuscule moment is more than enough, the damage is done, and Jason averts his gaze in shame and defeat.

It’s not like Graves doesn’t have a very good reason to decline rest, even if he knows that lack of sleep has been taking its toll. He quite literally looks like the walking dead, straight from the grave. Just thinking about the shadows entombing him again, trapping him in an existence far worse than death, makes his skin crawl.

“I know you’re scared—”

“I’m not.”

“—but I’ll stay up. Keep watch over you.”

Graves’ lips purse tightly. “Then you wouldn’t be getting any rest yourself.”

“I know, that’s why I prepared by sleeping in during the day.”

Ugh, he’s running out of rational reasons to not succumb, to keep refusing. The prospect of getting rest, just the mention of it, has dredged up a yearning he didn’t know he still had, every fiber of his being begging yes, please, yes. Traitorous brain, treacherous body; they didn’t deserve rest at all.

One last-ditch effort to protest, even if it's feigned. “So you’re gonna just watch me sleep? Creep.”

Yet he returns to the bedside, allowing himself to flop down on the mattress. That was a mistake, and Jason had not reacted in time to warn him, wincing preemptively instead. The motel’s mattress was not cushioned nor padded nearly enough, and he groans at the blunt impact. Closer to changing his mind on the whole sleeping business now, he stares up at the other.

“Now what?”

“You’re joking.”

“No, it’s been too long since I last did this. What do I do?”

“Uh… Close your eyes? Do you want me to fluff up the pillow?”

“I was joking.”

“I can never tell with you. Just sleep already, I’ve got you.”

Graves breaks into a smile—second time that night, a highscore—and Jason flicks his forehead before propping up the second pillow, settling in, and sitting up next to him. Graves turns over to his side to gaze up at him directly. Jason keeps his eyes locked with him, and they stay like that for a while, just looking at each other, the world's strangest trust exercise, before the minute hand on the tacky clock hoisted up on the adjacent wall, next to a spot of peeled wallpaper, has jumped several numbers and Graves’ eyelids are shut.

Jason keeps his promise, wide awake and keeping watch over his post in a manner that would make Heimdall jealous. He looks different like this, at peace, even though the dark circles under his eyes continued to drag on his face. Graves is a still sleeper, not a stir, and so he finds himself brushing his fingers against the man’s neck to make sure he’s still alive, the steady thrumming against his skin reassuring him. Then his touch gets a little more greedy, more honest with itself, and he traces his fingers up along the carotid to the jawline, where a few stray hairs were already beginning to grow again. Although he looked his age with it, Jason often found himself wondering what a clean-shaven Graves would look like. Like a kid, most likely. Combined with consistent rest, clearing the bags sitting above his cheeks, he would look like an entirely different person, and nobody would be able to tell who they were or what they did.

Jason knew he looked like an entirely different person now too. He doubted the Bats would recognize him, and the thought, though chilling, was a relief too. A relief in the sense that there could be anonymity in what he has done, what he still had left to do. Bad guys, having earned the title of villains, had changed the two of them beyond repair, and yet, here he was imagining the two of them laying together in an entirely different context. A normal one. Born into a middle-class family, setting realistic expectations even for his stupid fantasy world. The two of them work mediocre office jobs. Co-workers, maybe, like he’d seen on the reruns of old sitcoms on Cable TV. They wouldn’t be in some dingy motel room, no, but some humble little townhouse. It would be easy to tell based on interior decor whose personal touch was used: Jason would go for comfort, the kind of couch you’d see in a cottage, but Graves’ influence would be more modern, hard edges and angles everywhere. Graves would walk through the door, step on their welcome mat, dead tired after a long day, and Jason would greet him with a—

Jason’s finger continues its trail upwards, up from the hairs on Graves’ chin to his lips. God, did he want to. But it did not look like that was in the cards for them. In another life maybe, one where they weren’t vigilantes looking to hunt down and kill in the name of vengeance. In another life, where Graves could fall asleep without getting lost in shadows, and where Jason could say that he didn’t know what dying felt like.