Your knee jitters up and down constantly as you remain at your perch in the locker room, ignoring the ache in your thigh from the repeated strain. The sound of the crowd bleeds through the walls as much as you try and tune it out, roaring to a peak occasionally whenever one of the fighters lands a good punch. You thought it would get easier, after knowing Jason since you were kids, being his partner for years – but it never does. The aching suspense never fails to curl like a vice around every nerve, setting you alight every time Jason stepped into the ring.
You’d felt bad at first, when you’d told him you wouldn’t – couldn’t – watch him fight live anymore. It had been one thing to watch him as a junior, all kinds of rules and regulations in place to protect him. But now that he was grown, a professional, it was just too much to stand to the side as the man you love takes hit after hit, to watch the blood drip from his brow. He lived for it, you knew, but you could never manage to feel the same. It had been a blow at first, your refusal to be there at the side of the ring, but you’d done your utmost to reassure him that you were still in his corner, and eventually he’d accepted. You always watched the highlights together, when you knew he was home, safe and victorious.
It's Tim that breaks you from your thoughts, bursting through the door with his suit askew, “He won! Knockout in the fifth round!”
“A few cuts and bruises, potentially a sprained wrist. Leslie isn’t sure yet. But he’s fine.”
Tim retreats fairly quickly after that, returning to the celebrations with the rest of the family. You have to question if the rush of relief that bleeds through you at Tim’s words is anything akin to the adrenaline Jason feels when he fights, if so, you can understand why he’s so addicted to the sensation.
The next half an hour or so pass quicker with your mind at ease, and it feels like only seconds have gone by until the door to the locker room slams open, revealing your fiancé in all his glory. He’s alone, as you knew he would be – he always makes sure he sees you alone before the rest of the rabble pool in.
His hair is wet with sweat, the white strands at the front tinged ever so slightly pink with blood. There’s a large gash on his brow, shining and smeared from where it’s been blotted with Vaseline, and from the leftover marks around his eye you can make out exactly where it’s dripped down across his skin. The eye itself looks rosy and sore, and you know well enough that it will be quite the shiner by the time he wakes up in the morning. None of it detracts from his smile however, bold and beaming, and he rushes forward to take you into his arms.
“Did it, baby,” he practically purrs into your neck, “I won.”
“I’m so proud of you, Jay,” you hum back, hesitant to grip him too hard out of fear of any currently unknown injuries that won’t plague him until the high wears off.
“Always for you,” Jason pulls away to press a kiss to your wrist, “Always win for you.”
“It’s a good job, really,” you muse with a grin, “Because I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you lost.”
“C’mere,” he mumbles, and the kiss that he presses to your lips is scorching, mingled ever so slightly with a metallic twang. You should be used to it by now, how wired he is after a fight. It’s a perfect fusion of desperation and conviction as his still-wrapped hands seem to explore every inch of you, yours resting tenderly at his shoulders.
You can feel the temperature in the room rise as he begins to move forwards, pushing you back in your seat with an almost rabid enthusiasm, and you can feel his fingers beginning to slip under your shirt.
“Jay, do we really have to do this every time?” Dick’s words and general presence in the room make your face burn bright pink, but Jason does nothing more than turn to throw him a sharkish grin, not a hint of shame in his eyes.
“Clearly, because they sent you in before everyone else to make sure the coast was clear,” Jason teases, hoisting himself up from his looming position over you.
It’s only then that everyone else begins to file in: the rest of Jason’s siblings, Bruce and Alfred, Leslie and a few of the other medics in training. It’s a constant buzz around him, people badgering him with questions about the fight and inspecting him for any further injuries.
It’s nothing more than a hum in your ears. In spite of the swarm in the room, his eyes never stray from your own, and the smile never leaves his lips. His message is loud and clear, and the same as after every fight: that any victory in the ring pales in comparison to the one that scored him you.
SAVE ME BOXER JASON 😫😫😫
literally could not get this thought out of my mind, wrote this in like half an hour, chomping at the bit to write more tbh
If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don't like it, leave me alone.
