idk im trying my best

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).

Groggily, you squint at him. “Jay…?” Your voice soothes his rising panic.

“What happened?” he demands.

“Huh?”

“You said you were dying.” Now that he’s calmer, he notices a can of soda and a box of doughnuts on the coffee table, along with an open bottle of pain killers.

“I was," you answer.

“But you’re alive?”

“To you."

He blinks at you, waiting for a better explanation. “Baby,” he urges, “what happened?”

“I got my period.”

“That’s it?”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

His brows furrow, and his hands come to take yours in his own, holding them tightly as if he’s scared you’ll slip away. “Thought it was something more serious.”

“Dude, I’m literally bleeding out of my—“

“Don’t call me dude,” he interrupts sternly. “First of all, you need healthy shit, not whatever you’ve been eating all day. Secondly, tell me you didn’t pop more than two painkillers, because I swear—” He sighs and stands up. “And where the hell is your heating pad?”

You stare at him until tears well up in your eyes.

“Shit—sweetheart?” He sits back down on the couch and easily pulls you into his arms, pressing a rough kiss to the side of your head.

“You’re so nice,” you say, voice wobbly.

“Don’t cry over that,” he mumbles against your hair. “s'cause I love you.”

Those words only make your tears fall.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” The pads of his thumbs wipe your tears away.

You sniff, curling into him. “Leave me, and you die.”

His lips curve up. “Dying sucked anyway.” He smooths your hair back so he can look at your face properly.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“From when I fell from heaven?”

“Sweetheart.”

“A little,” you mumble. “The cramps come and go.”

He offers his hand silently and you tilt your head curiously.

“A while ago, you said my warmth fixes everything,” he explains.

“I was drunk.” Still, your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his hand under your shirt so it rests on your lower belly.

Immediately, his touch helps, like a flame being snuffed out. Not gone. the pain still pulses beneath. But it's muted, like smoke curling in the air.

Swallowing, you glance up to see him looking at you, strands of white hair falling across his forehead, jaw working with worry— even knowing you technically aren’t dying.

“Next time, text me like a normal person.”

“And miss out on seeing you worry? no thanks, you're hot when you get worked up."

he snorts. “that all you like me for?” he murmurs against your ear.

Your hand comes down to rest atop his larger one— the one on your lower belly. “I love your hands, too.”

“Course you do,” he says dryly, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your stomach. It’s quiet after that. You doze off in his arms. And he stays, listening to the steady beat of your heart.

It grows in the darkness, vines suffocating the sunlight and roots locking you in place— the roads aren’t a safe space to be walking around by yourself, there is no welcome mat, no comforting smile or hands to hold. You’ve heard stories of girls walking home alone in Gotham, how they’d been snatched off the street or pricked by the pain of never Neverland.

It was an unfortunate truth to the city, that women and children would never truly be safe, a truth proved by the too many friends broken and mangled. Yet, you find yourself alone again, walking under buzzing streetlights and listening to the melodies of moaning and heckling and frightened girls. Even after all this time, you’re still not used to it—the inherent violence of your hometown… maybe it’s because it happens with your eyes open, it’s not a secret or a rumor whispered on the street. It’s all true, a dazzling insectile truth that feasts on it staying in the dark—thus, you’ve tried not to give it enough of yourself to do anything to you.

Instead of cowering in shadows and waiting with your blanket over your head, you brave the storm, stepping out into the shivering city with a smile on your face. It’s just passed seven, your shift at Pamela’s ending in a heap of fry grease and spilled coffee, eating you up and spitting you out into the dangerous night. The sun has just now passed the tower of Wayne Enterprises, taking away the one thing that could potentially keep you safe on the hefty walk home. Your apartment in Chinatown isn’t too far from the financial district, yet the moon settling itself content and hefty in the sky, makes it feel miles and miles away.

You wish you took Barbara up on her offer to get her dad to take you home, wish you didn’t have a complex that forced you to be so independent all the time. She asked every day without fail, a text accompanied by countless happy faces and a promise that she would keep asking, but you always said no; you wouldn’t let your issues give Jim another job to do, you respected him to much for that. Though, the way the night is going you really wish you didn’t—everything would be so much better if you had somebody to take you home.

The Diner had been busy—hot and sweaty due to the people and the new weight pulling you down, an obnoxious phenomenon you’re still not used to. You’d been there all day, covering for one of the other girls so she could take her sick kid to the free clinic—You’d been happy to do it, happy to be asked, and for the opportunity to make some extra cash, yet the creeping exhaustion urges you to never pick up another shift. It’d been long and strenuous, hours and hours of unsolicited advice and advances from greedy businessmen and dirty cops.

Three months ago, that kind of shift wouldn’t have caused anything than an eyeroll, but a lot changes in three months.

The summer night is just chilly enough that you feel goosebumps growing beneath your work dress, it’s probably just the breeze, but a treacherous voice inside your head tells you that you’re just scared. It’s different now, it says, the city is vicious to women and children, a traitor to all the lovely innocent things in the world.

The streetlights flicker above you and you think you can hear glass breaking… somebody breaking into some poor bastard’s storefront to be sure. Downtown is full of dangerous lullabies: break-ins, chaos, violent barking – the sound of Gotham tangled into one awful song. You feel a little afraid, a healthy dose of paranoia working its way up your throat, panic forcing your steps to grow faster and faster.

You know if you run, someone will be there to chase, so you force your shoes to stay grounded on the concrete; wait a couple seconds before your left heel follows your right.

You’re halfway home when the bravery leaves you, courage leaking out of you like a watering can. Gotham is never pitch black--always neon and incandescent under the starlight-- but it does nothing to make you feel better: the city at night will eat you alive if you let it.

Fear is familiar in a place like this, your oldest childhood friend and the lover that will never leave you; it’s as much a part of you as the skin that wraps around your bones. You really wish you had somebody to walk you home, a warm hand to fit itself around your waist and help carry some of the weight… strong eyes to look into when the alley grows too quiet. It’s a dangerous wish in a place like this, but one you make anyway, a quiet hope that he’ll come to you again.

You only take a couple more steps before you hear him, whistling a jaunty tune and making his steps heavier and louder so you wouldn’t be scared. You will never forget the first time you heard that sound: the thunderous stomping of combat boots on cement, the top 40’s hit listlessly falling away in a whistle, the clicking sound of violence being strapped away in a holster. It was a melody that’s grown quite familiar, the sound of nighttime and dreams, wishes and bad decisions—a melody that is ever contrasting the sound of his voice,

“Now, what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ all alone?” The voice says, modulated under the muzzle like mask you’re sure he’s wearing. It’s robotic and angry, yet there’s a piece of Gotham hiding away in the vowels—living in the consonants and the space between words.

“I’m not alone now am I?” you respond, sweet and saccharine.

“Why don’t you turn around and see for yourself,” the voice whispers. “If you’re brave enough.” You feel your head turn before you really urge it to, falling into his dare like a little kid at a sleep over. Your neck almost snaps in the speed of it, yet when you find yourself looking behind you there’s no one there: just the empty air you’d left behind. “Made you look.” He laughs.

“That’s not nice!” You say as you turn around, jumping a little at the image in front of you. It’s obvious it’s been a long day for him too, his armored form slouching a little… his chest moving up and down in a heave. You wonder what he left to meet you here, you wonder how he knew where you’d be… you wonder a lot of things.

“I’m not nice, darlin’” He responds, scrambling up to follow you as you regain your earlier speed.

“Okay, then stop following me.”

“Maybe you’re following me, have you thought about that?”

“Hood, either walk me home or shut up.” You tell him, your tired workworn voice cutting like glass. When you first met him, you would never have dreamed of talking to him this way, yet time and time again he rewards you for being mean. It seems like he likes you better when you’re tough and angry, rather than the sickly-sweet version he first met.

It’d been on a night just like this, sleepy and battle-worn, and you’re sure he could see just how scared you were, but he had brought you home without a word. All he did was follow, a silent soldier in the chilly night, he’d said nothing until you reached your door—even then it hadn’t been much, just a reminder not to go home alone (a lecture you surely could never listen to).

Your friendship, (f you could even call it that), was built under streetlights and in between fragments of conversation. He was nice to talk to, funny in a way that reminded you of boys you went to school with, and kind like a street cat. It was odd, how sometimes you felt like he was your closest friend, yet you didn’t really even know him—you had no idea what his name was or what he looked like, but you felt like you could share anything with him and he wouldn’t judge you, not really.

“Man, you just get meaner and meaner,” he huffs, but even through the modulation you can tell he’s happy.

“It’s from all the times I have to see you.”

“Oh my, why are you so feisty tonight?”

“My shift was terrible,” you sigh. “It was full of gangster wannabes and shitheads who work at the WE.”

“That sucks. Want me to go and rough ‘em up for ya?” He laughs.

It sounds like a joke, like something you just say to impress a girl, but you know with every part of you that he would go and hurt those men if you’d asked him to. You can see it in his body, how his muscles tense under all the Teflon and leather, how his masked eyes fall onto your still shivering form.

“Nah, they’ll get what’s coming to them one day.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He sighs, the distaste seeping out of his lips.

His steps are heavy and slow, but there’s something in his posture that tells you he’s holding himself back, like he’s forcing himself to slow to your pace. From the news, you’ve seen what he’s capable of: headless bodies and gunshots and mangled corpses… you know he is a loosely contained weapon, yet there’s something about him that makes you feel unduly safe rather than scared.

You’re almost home, just a block away and some change, and finally you feel just a little lighter. You’re not sure if it’s his elusive company or the knowledge than in just a few minutes you’ll be surrounded by the dim lights of Barbara’s countless lamps and the shower heating your skin, but some of the fatigue seems to be easing its way off your shoulders.

It's when you’re a few paces from your apartment steps when the Red Hood speaks again, interrupting his silence for another lecture. “Y’know I thought I told you to stop walking home all alone.”

“You did tell me that, and I ignored it.” You huff.

“C’mon, beautiful, it’s not just you anymore.” He says, pointing his masked stare down at your belly. The reminder of your baby is an unwanted one, as is the way his gloved hand sweeps its way atop the slightly swollen flesh. The sight of the grisly fabric around your tummy provides silken butterflies to make their way to your chest, a feeling of both tenderness and panic. You remind yourself that you don’t know this man, that he is an unknown weapon built for war and murder, yet the view of him—armored and masked and unknowable—tender and soft at the sight of your growing child, warms you from your head to your toes.

“Trust me, I’m glaringly aware of the little monster.” You smile, the tender shape of it giving away your true feelings.

“Just,” he sighs. “If you’re gonna walk home, keep going the same way okay? I almost didn’t find you, when you turned left at Pearce and Hyacinth instead of the next block over.”

“Yeah, okay Hood.” You laugh, turning away from him to climb up the steps to your home. You know he’s still breathing behind you, you know he won’t go finish his patrol until he’s sure you’re safely inside, so you stall for a minute—holding your hand on the handle without turning it and allowing yourself a few more minutes with your white knight. “Thanks again, Hood.” You whisper before letting yourself in.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

At 7 AM you are awoken to the urge to throw up, your stomach contents rushing upwards in a cascade of acid and bile. Having passed your first trimester a few weeks ago, this certain friend has become fortunately more sporadic, yet it stills decides to sneak attack you like this. You make it to the bathroom in time, but the retching leaves you desolate and once again frustrated at past you’s decision to be a mother.

Since that fateful day you’ve been through nothing but body pains and nausea, headaches and hormones. The first few weeks had been awful, the changes in your body corresponding with the steps you were taking to change your future—you’d left your apartment in midtown and the shitty boyfriend who came with it and started taking more and more shifts at Pamela’s Café to fill your rainy-day fund.

It was all awful, but you do what you gotta do, so within a fortnight of realizing your body was housing another you were moved into Barbara’s place in Chinatown and taking prenatal vitamins that were pathetically expensive.

As your head falls back to hit the tile, you ruminate on all these horrid symptoms and remind yourself that at fifteen weeks your baby is starting to grow eyelashes. A silly, miraculous thought that brings a smile to your clammy face, it’s the size of an apple—a fruit full of goodness that will be entirely you.

It’s the one thought that keeps you trekking through every vile day of pregnancy and Gotham living; you’re sure the women of Metropolis have a better time having babies, what with Superman there to kiss their foreheads… all you have is Batman, and you’re not convinced he’d even like babies.

“Are you okay in there?” you hear from outside the door, Barbara’s sweet voice full of concern. She’d been so worried about you lately, anxiety creasing her eyes and compassion coating her voice every time she saw you. She loves you; you know that better than you knew anything, yet you’d rather her get back to the blunt and humorous way she used to interact with you.

You’d been friends since your brother started work at the station, an alliance made in defiance of male dominated barbeques and the senseless worry of your male family members. She’s your best friend, your older sister and closest companion… there is no one else you’d rather be worried about you, but you really wish she didn’t have to be.

“Yeah, B.” you sigh, letting out a heavy huff of breath. “Just throwing up again.”

She knocks one more time against the door before it opens, jostling a little as her chair wheels into the little bathroom. She’s bright eyed and beautiful, her red hair glinting a little from the window above the tub and smiling even as the concern worries its way at her brown eyes.

“Teeny still giving you trouble?” she asks, pointing her gaze at the little bump peeking out of your nightshirt.

‘You know it.” You groan. “I’m starting to think this mom thing isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”

“Yeah well… at least you’re glowing!” Barbara exclaims, her freckled arms coming out to wave around your silhouette. You’re still slouched on the ground, your skin itchy and sweaty, muscles aching and eyes rolling—you can see yourself in the mirror, pathetic and gasping still… glowing your ass.

She leaves you with a laugh and a promise to bring you a glass of water, and you feel so lucky to be someone somehow deserving of Barbara Gordon’s friendship. She is unfairly good, a woman full of nothing but hope and well wishes, and she’s been here for you more than anyone else you know. Over and over again, she has been here to hold your hair and take you to appointments—she was there when you first heard the baby’s heartbeat, starry eyed and smiling like you just hung the moon.

She was your best friend; you really hope one day you’ll make it up to her.

Once the water is consumed and a shower is graced upon your skin, you feel almost brave enough to live another day. It might be the smell of your shampoo or the sound of Barbara watching reality TV in the living room, either way you have more confidence in yourself than you did before.

Maybe your shift tonight will be better than yesterday’s, maybe it will be quiet and easy--hopefully you’ll get out of there before the sun goes down and Barb goes to bed, and everything will be perfect.

Your contraband coffee sits steaming on the kitchen counter, a gift from the girl grinning at you from in front of the TV. Her show is yapping off a petty argument between two women, (something about wanting the same pair of Louboutin’s), and the hazy glow from the TV ignites her smile into something wicked.

“So how was your date with destiny?” She asks, her fair eyebrows raising and a silly wink blinking from her right eye.

“I have no idea what that could even mean, Barbara.” You laugh, one of your hands lifting to brace your back as the other brings the sweet caffeine to your lips.

“You know,” she giggles before lowering her voice into a whisper, “Red Hood.”

Oh, so that’s what she’s on about. You love her, really you do., but since you let it slip that Red Hood walks you home sometimes, she’d been giddied and annoying, like a school child singing about sitting in trees.

You set a dull look upon her, rolling your eyes with a smile as she chants a refrain of “tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“I’m telling you it’s not like that, Barb.”

“What? you don’t get hot under the collar for your caped crusader?” Barbara giggles, the sweet sound filling you with fondness for the older girl.

Her question rings in your mind—it’s true that you find yourself enjoying the vigilante’s company more and more, and yes: when he calls you sweet names and dares to touch you with his leather gloves you get a little warm and dizzy… but that doesn’t matter. A crush on the Red Hood will bring nothing but pain, and you’re supposed to be toughening up for your little monster’s arrival.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel, B.” you say, “The only thing that matters now is keeping us all safe and happy, okay?” your hands come to wave around the three of you, encasing your bodies in imaginary fairy dust.

“Okay,” she says, drawing out the last syllable. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” You tell her before laughing out, “And Red Hood doesn’t even have a cape.”

“Okay, okay!” she laughs before coughing and sweeping an awkward hand through her unbound hair. “Hey, listen, I know I told you I’d come with you to your next appointment, but something came up.”

“Oh, okay…” you tell her, your voice a little quiet. “Don’t worry about it, Babe. I’ll just go by myself it’s fine.”

“But you were supposed to find out the sex!”

“I can wait if you want to find out with me?” You really mean it, if she wanted to find out with you you’d wait, no matter how badly you wanted to know. In truth it wouldn’t really matter, at the end of the day all you wanted was a healthy baby, but you can’t deny wanting to know more about the little person you’re growing.

“No, no, no,” she huffs. “You shouldn’t go alone; I can get someone else to take you?”

“Yeah? Like who?!” You exclaim. “Your dad? I love Jim, but no thanks to having Commissioner Gordo at my OB/GYN.” You can see it now, Jim—awkward and lovely—and doing his due diligence as a father. He’d be sweet of course, but the thought of showing up with the city’s police commissioner sends anxiety down your spine.

“No, babe! I can get Dick or one of his brothers to go.” There’s something about the way Barb says it that makes you suspicious, the glinting look in her eye and the slightest shrug of her shoulders on the word “brother.”

The inclusion of Dick in this conversation isn’t too strange, he was one of her closest friends and regular intruder on all things girl talk and gossip. What was odd was the way she brought him and his family up, like she’d been waiting to talk about them all morning.

Her relationship with the elusive and famous Wayne family was one you didn’t really understand, there was a closeness between them that seemed way more than being at the same bougie Gotham government parties with their fathers. Yet, she kept the mentions of them to a minimum, a reality that seems to be in direct contrast to the way she’s offering them up as her understudy now.

‘What are you planning, Gordon?” you ask her, your eyes squinting and your left index finger rising to point at her chest.

“Nothing! I just thought it would be nice to have some company.” She sighs, her eyes rising to meet yours as she settles her features into a pout.

“Don’t look at me like that! You know what it does to me.”

“Please, let me get one of the boys to take you! I worry about you! please, please, please!”

God, that pout—you could really never deny her anything, since meeting you’d wanted to do anything to make her happy: to impress her like she really was your cool older sister, and she knew it. She really was feeling wicked this morning, if she was this ready to use your love for her against you.

You guess it wouldn’t be too bad to have one of them there, you don’t really know any of them as well as Dick, but B. obviously trusts them and you’re sure it would turn out okay eventually. God, you must love Barbara a lot for even considering this.

You can’t even imagine the way the nurses at your clinic would look at you with one of the Wayne boys trailing after you, a sight almost to good to be passed up. This thought paired with the ever-growing pout on your best friend’s face is what cracks you, so finally you tell her:

“Okay, fine.”  Sighing out the last word with a big huff of breath.

“Oh my god! Yay! You must love me!” Barbara giggles.

“Yeah, Barb. I must,” you tell her, smiling as she gets her phone out—surely, to text Dick. “Just make sure, they’re not late okay?”

“I promise, scouts honor.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You’re going to murder Barbara.

After two weeks of heinous shifts, migraines, and relentless promises, you’ve officially lost any semblance of patience for some guy being late to pick you up. After agreeing to have one of her boys take you to your appointment, Barbara swore up and down that it would be just like if she was there with you, but this was proving more and more untrue as the clock ticked farther away from the time she told him to arrive.

When she told you which boy was free to come with, you were unconvinced and a little weary of seeing him. Barbara rarely spoke of him, and when she did it was with a soft sadness that reminded you of how your older brother looked at you when you were disappointing him. When his name came up in conversation with Dick it was hushed like a secret, like a rumor passed in high school hallways or a ship in a bottle. You didn’t really know anything about him other than his name, and even that was a tiny thing in the sea of unknowable things.

You’d only met Jason Todd once, a year ago on a hot summer night—dreams were at the touch of your fingertips and the tequila buzzed through your veins like gas thrown in the ocean; everywhere it touched the waves burned. He was massive and looming, yet his baggy sweater and the wired headphones dangling from his collar made him look more like a schoolboy than a soldier. He had come to take Barbara home, smiling a little at the sight of the two of you spinning in spirals and giggling through Miley Cyrus lyrics. His grin was loose and noncommittal, as if it could be taken away far faster than it would be given.

You can remember thinking he was handsome, the sleepy look of him—curly hair a mess and under eyes purple—he had a shiner over his left eye and his lip was split, a look that brought a sweet little warmth to your drunk tummy.

He hadn’t really said anything to you that night, just nodded and asked if you needed a ride home too, swiveling the car keys around his index finger. You’d said no then, the creeping presence of your boyfriend lurking back at your apartment convincing you it would be a better idea just to walk or get a taxi. You can’t remember much more, just that he’d given you an unconvinced stare and a promise that if you called Barbara she could get him to come back for you.

You wish you could go back in time and take him back up on the offer, the rest of the night was awful: like when a dream suddenly becomes a nightmare, or the feeling that comes after waking up and remembering that real life was still going on.

That night was all you had of Jason, a daydream that kept you up sometimes as you thought about the mystery of him. You’d liked him then, but as your body grows hotter and hotter in parking lot of Pamela’s, all that fondness turns to distaste as he gets later and later.

The August sun is unforgiving, humid and gross from all the smog, and the black pavement sends waves of heat to wrap around you. You’re already hot all the time, sweaty and uncomfortable; knowledge that Barbara has, and one of the reasons she promised you she would make sure whoever she got would be there on time. You’re really going to kill her when you see her… you love her to death but whatever plan she has cooked up is causing you more grief than anything else.

It’s half past twelve when he finally arrives, his car sweeping into the parking lot in a rush of smoke and noises an engine really shouldn’t make. If you didn’t see it driving you might think it was nice, a rich boy’s bright orange Camaro with two black stripes running up the hood. You know intuitively that it was expensive, yet the smoking and the clacking and the way he looks a little frustrated behind the wheel tells you that the price might not have been worth it.

Jason looks a little shocked to see you waiting outside for him, a surprise that he hides faster than it stayed on his face for—he looks handsome again, messy in a way you’re beginning to think is native to him, baggy clothes nestling him in too many layers for this summer heat; you’re getting hot just looking at him.

He looks happy to see you though, eyes bright and mouth upturned, his hand rising to flick a little wave at you—moving his index and middle fingers back and forth, beckoning you closer like a king at his throne. This, paired with the already growing annoyance from the heat and his lateness, aggravates you into a fully formed bad mood.

Barbara Gordon is really lucky she’s your best friend—she should feel loved without measure for you going along with her stupid plans, because this has already graduated to awful, and you’re not even in the car yet.

“Hey, C’mon in!” Jason yells, his voice less gruff than you remember it being.

You make your way to the car, fanning yourself with one hand as the other reaches out to open the door. The handle is hot to the touch, and upon opening the smell of cigarettes and stale bat burger assaults your nose—you know he’s doing you and Barb a favor, but surely the boy knows that pregnant women could throw up at any moment.

“Hey,” you say, a little colder than you intended.

“Hey.” He smiles, a warm living thing that wakes up the rest of his face. In pictures he always looks angry or bored—countless newspaper headlines featuring the world’s most annoyed stare—but here and now he looks alive and joyous, like a dog after a long walk. “Sorry I’m late, Barbie told me your appointment was at one and for some reason I thought that meant I was supposed to pick you up at one.” He says this in a rush, like it was imperative to get all the words out, so you’d understand faster.

“It’s fine, Jason,” you sigh. “let’s just go okay, the clinic is uptown, and the lunch traffic is gonna be crazy.” His eyes widen a little at the sound of his name, but it’s probably just because you sound so dejected; you’re sure it’s not often that Jason Todd has to placate sweaty pregnant women. He starts driving once you get your seatbelt on—staring wide and weary as you pull harder and harder to get it to wrap around your still growing belly—speeding off the same way he arrived: in a cloud of smoke and noise that can’t be good for the environment.

He looks handsome driving, his right hand holding onto the gearshift with all the lax of someone practiced and precise, and his left beating out the rhythm to a 90s RnB song. He keeps looking over at you and apologizing again—for being late, for the mess, for the lack of AC—He seems unpracticed in the art of apologies, the “sorrys” foreign on his tongue and weak compared to the rest of him, yet he continues, nonetheless.

The drive uptown is hot and full of music you haven’t heard since childhood bus rides; Jason isn’t full of conversation, but he is in constant movement. His fingers tap on the steering wheel, and his left knee bounces up and down; when his hand isn’t on the gearshift its in his hair—pulling at the mess of curls.

“Is that real?” you ask him the next time you see his slender fingers make their way into the inky ringlets.

“Uh, is what real?” He responds.

“The white in your hair, is it real?” you ask again, eyes pointing up at the impossibly white streak falling into his eyes. You remember seeing it that night outside the club, how the curliquecurlicue cascaded over his forehead in tufts of ice white. It looked so soft that night, fluffy and mussed about, now it’s inky and coiled: a little wet looking from the gel tangled into the curls.

“Oh, um. Yeah, I started going grey a little early I guess.” He laughs, but there’s something pained about it… some secret story buried beneath deep giggles.

“I’ll say… what are you like twenty-four?”

“Twenty-two.” He answers, smiling at you for a second before his eyes turn back to the busy Gotham streets. “How old are you? Barbie said you around my age.”

“Yeah twenty-two,” you tell him. “y’know you seem like you could be any age… like you could tell me you were thirty or eighteen and I’d believe you.”

Your words seem to make him a little sad, the repetitive tapping stalling for a few seconds before he speaks again.

“I get that a lot actually, Bruce—my dad,” He says, scrunching his nose a little as he does. “Used to tell me I was an old soul, and Alfred would tell him that that couldn’t be true—he said I had to be on my first life, I was so young.” He’s smiling as he says this, but his spine is still stuck in that tense form that betrays how relaxed he really is.

It’s interesting how he reacts the same way about his family as they do about him—that quiet separation that is more telling than you think any of them realize.

You make casual conversation after that, filling up space until you make it to the clinic. The way he took you was full of impossible shortcuts and illegal turns, he drove like an asshole—fast and selfish as he cut people off and sped up to not let anyone in. You’re not sure if this was just because he wanted to get you there on time, or if he always drove like this, but there was something sort of appealing about it. Your mom did always tell you to be careful of the bad boys… and you get the feeling that it doesn’t get much worse than Jason Todd.

You arrive at your doctor’s office nine minutes before your appointment was supposed to start, something that causes anxiety to seep into your belly. You only have a few minutes, but you find yourself clutching at your bump and sighing into the hot leather of the Camaro’s seats.  You’ve been able to hide behind the easy conversation and the hot irritation running over your skin, but now with the doctor’s office looming in front of you the familiar worry creeps back into your veins.

It’s like this every time, the massive paranoia reaching into your skull and telling you that there’s something wrong with your baby—that you messed something up with them without even trying to. This is the main reason why Barbara comes with you to these things, so that somebody will hold your hand and tell you you’re doing everything you can to make sure the little guy is happy and healthy as it grows. You miss her, you really do, and the thought brings tears to begin welling at your eyes. You don’t really have time for this, but you can’t help it, you’ve been wanting to cry since last night when you felt the baby press a little foot against your bladder.

“Hey, you okay?” Jason asks, his neck bringing his head down so he can see your eyes better. He’s so big, it’s almost comical seeing him lower himself to your level, but he does it anyway no matter how uncomfortable it looks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You sniffle, wiping  your nose with the back of your hand.

“Hey, don’t do that…” He whispers before stretching out the sleeve of his sweater and offering it to you like it was some sort of hankie. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine, I’m sure everything is really stressful for you right now.” Jason’s eyes are piercing you, green as a lake and beautiful in their concern. There’s no part of his current worry that seems inauthentic—he’s so earnest, sincere in his worry and his panic, he looks sort of funny: this version of him, obviously stressed and not used to dealing with sobbing women.

The thought makes you laugh, sending you into quick giggles that break off into periodic weeping.

“Look at your face!” you laugh, wiping more tears with his still extended arm. “You’re so freaked.”

“Well, I’m not really good with tears or emotions, or girls.” He sounds a little embarrassed at the last part, like this wasn’t something he wanted to admit to you though it was more obvious than anything he’s got going on.

“Why did Barbara send you and not Dick then?” you ask, “he’s good with tears and girls from what I’ve heard.” Jason looks a little put out at the mention of his brother but doesn’t do more than let out a little frustrated breath.

“he’s too busy in BlÜdhaven.”

“Well, what about Tim?” you ask, just to see if it would annoy him more—it does.

“They were all too busy! Okay?” He exclaims, his voice dull and exacerbated. “You got me, sorry if that’s not what you wanted.” He whispers, but it has no heat—just little and wistful.

“No, I’m glad you’re here, Jason.” You tell him, finally coming down from all the laughter and crying, though you still have slow tear tracks trailing down your cheeks.

Your words graze over him like the world’s best present, bringing a charming and childish smile to his handsome face. “I gotta go in now, though, you gonna come? Or are you staying out here?” you ask as you unbuckle your seat belt and begin lifting yourself unsuccessfully out of his car.

“Do you want me to come?!” He asks, wide eyed before he scrambles to help you out of the passenger seat: leaping out of the car with more grace than you thought a guy his size could have and jogging towards your side of the car.

“If you want…” You mumble, unconfident in your response. In truth, you’d like nothing more than for him to come with you—it was scary being back there all alone, with no one but a doctor and the quiet beating of your baby’s heartbeat. “I mean you can leave and come back or whatever, you don’t have to come back with me if you don’t want too.”

Jason looks unconvinced from his place above you, lowering his eyes down to yours as his spine brings his body down to reach your hands. His skin is cold to the touch, a sensation that seems impossible in the 100º heat, it’s nice and cool and welcoming to your sweating skin—so nice you almost want to snuggle against him and burrow like an animal on a sunny day.

He lifts you fast and easy, like your weight is nothing too him, and it probably was… what with how big he seemed to be. Once he has your feet on the ground and your hands back to your sides, he looks at you again—evergreen eyes squinting like two winking moons.

“I’ll come with you,” He says, “I’ll do anything you want—just don’t cry again.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course, you couldn’t really keep your promise of not crying again, not when the Doctor squeezed cold gel on your swollen belly and proclaimed…

“It’s a girl, Jason!” you cried happily, bringing your hand out to playfully slap at his bicep. He’d been great, albeit a little panicky: standing by your side and averting his eyes when it seemed like you needed some privacy. He had smiled the whole time, a lazy happy thing that only got bigger as he stayed in the little room—he whispered to you through it all, telling you how cool everything was and how cute the “little monster” was cradled in the sonogram.

He'd been a little embarrassed when the Nurses Assistant thought he was the father, but he rallied fast—his smile returning, soft and lovely, before he told her: “oh no, ma’am, just a friend.”  

When the doctor told you the baby was a girl, he brought his hand to your shoulder and squeezed, grinning down at you as you beamed. It was obvious how excited he was, but nothing could beat the joy you felt; you’d been saying for months that all you wanted was a healthy baby, but secretly you wanted a little girl so badly.

Maybe it was all the Gilmore Girls you watched or the non-relationship you had with your own mother, but the idea of having a daughter was a dream you couldn’t stop having. From that very first day you saw those two little lines confirming every suspicion you had, all you wanted was to be able to think about pink floral onesies and princess dresses.

You’re just so happy, and you can’t stop crying even though you promised Jason you wouldn’t.

The appointment didn’t take very long, but the afternoon sun has only gotten hotter and you’ve only gotten hungrier: two aspects that cause you to dread getting back into Jason’s treacherous Camaro. This makes you cry harder, clutching at Jason’s arm harder, before you say again:

“It’s a girl!”

“I know!” Jason laughs, grinning big and happy, his hand coming up to cup yours where it squeezes his muscle. “That was all so exciting, I get why Barbie is always talking about the baby… she really is just tiny in there.”

“Barb talks about me and the baby?” you ask, a little surprised though you guess you shouldn’t be… Barbara talks about him and his brothers to you, so why wouldn’t she talk about you to them? Still, the knowledge brings a sweet shiny smile to take over your pouting face (as well as his use of “she”, it’s a girl!)—you take back all the things you were thinking about her earlier, you love her so much.

“All the time,” He smiles. “She’s really excited for you, y’know? She talks about it every time I see her… it’s almost like she’s the one having a baby.”

“Yeah, well, she’s kinda been the little thing’s dad since I moved in—I wake her up to order me pizza in the middle of the night, and she has to rub my shoulders while I cry or I’m a nightmare to live with.” You laugh, giggling at the truth of it.

He laughs louder than you’ve ever heard from him, a massive laugh that moves his whole body: his head falling back and his Adams Apple jumping. He’s really, really pretty, you think; so handsome its almost crazy… boys really shouldn’t be this pretty, it’s not good for poor girls like you who really need to stay away from them.

You can feel his hand still clutching yours from your hold on his arm, cold and rough against your own. It seems impossible that he could be this cold, he’s swathed in layers and standing under the steaming August sun… so how is he still so chilly?

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” you ask him, moving your hand from his arm and moving it up to his forehead—his hand still holding yours, moving up, up, up until it reaches his face. The skin there is cold too, chilly like a Gotham winter. Is he sick? You ask yourself, trying to think back to how he acted when you first got in his car… did he do anything that seemed unwell, or does he just run at this impossible level of chill.

His eyes find yours, intense green shining down at you with a wide gaze. You realize how close  you’ve been standing, chest to chest—your belly being the only thing to cause some sort of separation between the two of you. Your hand is settled on his forehead, centimeters away from the white curls waterfalling down—you want to touch it, pull at it and make it fluffy like it was that night last summer.

You feel crazy, a little dazed and breathless, but that was probably just because of the sun and the ever-flowing hormones running through your veins. Jason’s still staring at you, his other hand sweeping down your form and finding a place on the middle of your back, his touch electric and freezing.

“I’m just fine,” He whispers , saying your name softly as his green eyes rush out blinks, like he’s clearing his eyes over and over again to make sure this is really happening. His voice wakes you up, bringing your sight down from the shock of white down to his green gaze, you really are so close to him.

You jump away as if you’ve been stung, stumbling back and holding your belly to protect it from invisible dangers. He looks as shocked as you feel, like he never thought he’d get that close to you. “You hungry?” he whispers, his tummy moving up and down rapidly--the only thing other than his eyes that give anything away.

“Sure,” you breathe, your voice so soft it almost gets lost among all the cars parked in front of the clinic.

“Okay,” he nods, finally giving you back that beautiful little smile. “I know a place.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

He’d taken you to some diner outside the city, it was dim and smelled like pancake batter and stale coffee, but it was perfect. He let you talk to him about the baby, about Barb and Pamela’s, about anything and everything that came into your head. He didn’t say much, you were learning that about him—he was still water, a crystalline lake with endless depth beneath sunlit ripples—though, every now and then his husky Gotham voice would rise over the timeless soundtrack of the restaurant to ask you something.

Jason was constantly turning the conversation back onto you, to names you like and where you work, what you did the day before and what did you wanted to be when you grew up. He rarely talked about himself, but you were finding hidden truths in his pauses and phrases, truths that you could bet he didn’t want you to find.

That was weeks ago now, and you really couldn’t get him out of your head. You tried, albeit not hard enough, to rewrite the day into something else… Yet, the truth of the strange intimacy and the way it felt like you’d known him, (or some piece of him) before filled you with warm, loose feeling in your bones.

You remember how Barbara looked at you when you’d come back home that afternoon, starstruck and suspicious, like she knew something you didn’t. When you told her the baby would be a girl, she cried and giggled and clutched you to her chest as tight as she could with your belly in the way. She kept telling you how happy she was that Jason could be there for you, so so happy… the way she said it gave way to deeper feelings that you aren’t sure you fully understood, but you were beginning to; it seemed like Jason was that unknowable force to everyone in his life, even to Barbara who usually could sniff out truth like cadaver dog.

After that day Jason orbited your life like a second sun: showing up in the morning to drive you to work, bringing you little treats in the form of nasty cravings you happened to mention to him, smiling when you let him feel the baby kick.

It seemed to you a little odd how closely he was tying himself to you, but you comforted yourself with the knowledge that he didn’t have many friends—maybe he was just lonely, and your particular brand of irritation had done something for him. It didn’t really matter though, you liked him, oddities included; he was truer than most people you’d known, earnest in ways you hadn’t really knew existed.

For all the chattering about the black sheep-troubled Wayne boy, Jason Todd was sweet and helpful—a few weeks ago he helped you buy a crib and when you wouldn’t let him splurge for an expensive stroller, he showed up with one a couple days later under the guise of someone “leaving on the street.” He offered himself up as a helpful hand: filling in for Barbara when she couldn’t be there for you, taking you to the grocery store in his abominable car, or helping you baby proof the apartment.

He’d done so much for you, and you aren’t quite sure why… Everything you’ve ever heard of him paints these actions in a strange light, knowing that the boy is perceived to be uncaring and cruel, yet in the moments you’ve shared with him all he’s ever been is kind.

Last week you had been sitting in his garage, covered by a light sweater and baggy maternity overalls, as you listened to him huff about how you shouldn’t be working so much. All you could see were his legs, grease covered cargos inching out from under his car, and all you could hear was the sharp metallic sounds of metal on metal mixing in to his dissent. You’d been surprised by how much he sounded like he cared, how frustrated he was when you told him you’d be working another twelve hour shift the next day—his eyes turned into little crescents and his mouth became impossibly pouty before asking you, “what about the baby?”

You’d been so struck by him, this sweet man who had no reason to care but did. You remember wanting to see his face, how you yearned to seen the sweat trickling down his forehead and trace the grease covered lines of his hands.

Currently, you were replaying what he said to you this morning as you refilled coffees and dodged wandering hands. He’d driven you to work, pretty and sunlit—miles and miles of tan skin splayed out under his T-shirt—it was almost hard to pay attention to him, he was so radiant, like a statue being built right in front of your eyes. He’d gotten warmer over the weeks you’d spent with him, more and more teeth shining on display as he smiled… more stories lifted from his lips.

His voice even got warmer, sweeter and happier as he replied to your questions and asked his own. This morning he’d been so lovely, a hundred-watt smile burning your retinas and that one stubborn curl teasing you from where it fell over his eyebrow. You can’t erase it from your head, the way he’d asked if you’d thought of any names yet. His fingers tap-tapping against the steering wheel as he waited for your answer.

“I’m not sure,” you’d told him, “I feel like maybe I need to wait for her to be born so I can read it in her eyes… do you get what I mean?”

You were sure he wouldn’t, not even Barb understood and she knew everything. It seemed so important to you, this idea that your baby would tell you herself, yet you can’t stop thinking that maybe it was some sort of denial. Like maybe you were refusing to think of a name because then it would all be real,) (as if it wasn’t now what with her limbs stabbing all your internal organs).

“No that makes total sense,” He surprised you. “Like what if you pick out a name and she comes out looking completely different than you thought she would—a Brooke doesn’t look like a Peyton.”

“Is that a One Tree Hill reference?”

“It doesn’t matter,” He laughed, taking his hand off the gearshift to wave his hand around. “I just mean, you shouldn’t feel like you have to defend yourself to me—or anyone—she’s your kid, you could wait until she’s like six and have her name herself if you really wanted to.”

You were so surprised; this boy continued to shock you with his endless waves of understanding and empathy, this boy who was becoming someone quite special to you.

“What would you name her?” You asked him without really thinking of the consequences. “If she was your baby?”

He looked so  shocked by this question, a little embarrassed it seemed by the rising pink on the plains of his face and the way his rapid tapping became impossibly faster. Yet, he answered honestly anyway, like you knew he would… You couldn’t really count on Jason Todd for anything other than being honest.

“I don’t know if I’ve really thought of it,” he told you. “I don’t think I ever really imagined myself with kids, but if she was my baby—” he coughs, “ well if she was my baby I’d name her after someone I really loved, someone who I knew would look after her if I couldn’t.”

“Do you have someone like that?”

“Yeah, um. My kind of grandpa Alfred… he’s really the only person I trust completely.”  This stuck you as something painful, this boy with tons of brothers… with his sister Cass and his friend Roy he sometimes talks about. Theres’s so many people who love him, who can’t help but be wrapped up in his elusive energy, yet there is only one who he feels it from. What a lonely boy, he is, lonely and beautiful and something daring.

“You’d name her after Alfred?” You had asked softly, “How would that work?”

“Well, his last name is Pennyworth,” he smiled a little, like there was some joke you were missing. “So, I guess Penny.”

The way he said it, soft and electric, had circled your head all day. He had looked so incredibly fond, so happy to be asked and to have an answer, the image of it wouldn’t leave you, and you’re not so sure you wanted it to. Not when you got out of his car, not when you waved goodbye and got that last quicksilver smile… even now as you mopped the floor for the umpteenth time today could you really think of something else.

In truth, you had a little crush on him—the way you liked strangers or characters on TV, like he was imaginary… unknowable. How couldn’t you, with his straight teeth and his loser boy charm. He seemed like something out of a teen drama, like he would only emerge if The Fray started playing—a boy made for mood lighting and cigarettes, night and truth.

It was all a little teenage and silly, more than a wish and less of a dream, a reality that you were sure wouldn’t come true but wanted it too all the same.

The word “crush” seemed apt to you, a violent word for the dangerous way you feel about him… like he could squeeze your heart between his cold hands and you’d still give him a starry eyed smile.

It really must be the hormones, or the wish to have a family to bring your baby home to. Sure, you have Barb and your little apartment, yet there was a large piece of you that still wanted her to have a father. It seemed like an important thing to have, a pillar to hold you both up when the world was falling apart… you hadn’t chose the right person to create her with, but you want so badly for her to have someone to grow with—someone other than you and your constant neurosis, someone strong and resilient; kind and miraculous.

You couldn’t get it out of your head that Jason could be this person, what with his soft smiles and comforting eyes. He would be a great father, you just knew it, strict sure but oh so amazing. The kind of dad that sneaks her ice cream and have dance parties to Selena Gomez and Hannah Montana; he’d surely let her paint his nails and play with littlest pet shops and barbies, perfect and sweet and everything you wish you had as a little girl.

It was just a little crush, a blooming want that took seed last summer and has only grown since seeing him again. A little crush that kept you up at night and buried stars in your belly, tremors in your fingertips and knives in your heart. It was just a little crush, yet you couldn’t stop thinking of your baby being his—of your little girl being Penny, this miracle grown from the two of you, shiny and darling and lovely like him.

But you can’t change the past, and there was no way Jason would have you. Not with your stretch marks or the way you were agitated all the time… there could be no way he’d desire someone who was always crying, who wanted to eat celery and raspberry jam for breakfast and was always sweating. He was young and handsome, and more alive than anyone you’d ever met before—there could be no part of him that wanted you, no piece that yearned for a baby in a couple months, or a commitment that was longer than your lease.

You wanted him, it was true—a terrible truth that you’d deny if/when Barbara asked—but it wouldn’t do, he deserved a life much more than you could give him, even if all you wanted was the opportunity to give him one.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

 The night was a looming ghost.

It was quieter than usual, summer heat cooling into a slight autumnal chill; the sounds of the city were dimming with the season, all signs of life disappearing with the warmth. Gone were the block parties and high schoolers giggling up and down the street, contraband fireworks and friends smoking on their stoops… It was quiet, hushed like a dying person’s last breath; It was terrifying.

 A Gotham that is silent is a city lying in wait.

You had just left your brother’s house; you had made your way there after work instead of going straight home—a split second decision that had invaded your thoughts after getting off early. You had taken three steps out of Pamela’s and remembered the last time you called him, how he had seemed a little sad and nervous.

It was a little bittersweet seeing him; sure, it was always nice to sip on sweet tea and chat with his wife, but your brother wasn’t the happiest about your decision to have a baby by yourself. He was even less happy about your indignant dismissal of any kind of help he could offer, which he reminded you of every time you made your way into his home.

You’d left a little after seven, the sun only a sliver in the sky, making way for the indigo of blue hour to cascade over your skin. The quiet scared you more than the darkness, Gotham was always dark (whether it be smog or stars, or some villainous plot), but it wasn’t always hushed.

You weren’t too far, just a couple blocks farther than your usual walk home but coming from the opposite direction threw off your bravery. As well as the lack of your midnight companion… you’d gotten so used to having Hood be your shadow, it felt odd being without him. It’d been so long since you walked alone, since you felt true fear creep up your back and eat at your heart. It was different now, being scared, having your child’s heart beating with your own and knowing that if something happened to you they’d be hurt too. It was this thought that brought you to your apartment faster, your steps thunderous on the concrete in their urge to be home.

The fear was scratching at your skin, every sound making you jump and clutch at your belly tighter and tighter. Maybe you could call Jason, maybe he’d come get you like he came for Barbara last summer, curls fluffy and sweater donned—his smile electric and painful. But you were almost home, so close there would be no point…

You were walking so fast it felt like you were flying through the neighborhood, your footsteps taking you closer and closer to your front door—you’re moving quicker than you’ve been able to since your pregnancy reached around the fourth month mark, faster than you’ve ever moved maybe. You were just so scared, but your apartment was so close all you had to do was run and you’d be there.

Crossing the threshold felt like arriving on a different planet—for every dead zone there’d been outside, your home was alive and vibrant. Sure, it was still quiet—Barbara was probably still at work—but the color and mingling smells of the two of you brought you out of your stupor. You willed your heart to slow down, every exhale felt like a blessing; you’re home, you’re safe, you’re home…

Yet, you still couldn’t turn from your place at the front door, your forehead heavy on the wood, and your fingers still clutching the deadbolt. There was something a little amiss in the apartment, a slight change in the oxygen, but maybe that’s just the residual fear still eating at your brain matter.

You stay there for what feels like forever, willing tears not to fall and murmuring comforts to yourself and your baby. Nothing had even happened, it was childish and irrational, like a little kid asking their father to check the closet for monsters. Yet, you can’t get it out of your head that something could have happened to you, to your daughter—and no one would have known.

You find yourself going through the motions for the rest of the night, cleaning up and listening to happy music just in hopes that the fear will ease from your bones.The apartment was warm and cozy, still sweet smelling from the candles lit earlier in the day. The heavy curtains were drawn tight and the deadbolt latched, and your corny show was static on the television. It was a perfect night, warm and breezy, you’d walked home by yourself—without the familiar company of the imposing vigilante—it’d been so long since you walked alone, in a way it’d been sort of nice.

You still haven’t checked your phone since you left your brother’s, the residual fear forcing you to glue yourself to the couch; it’s been buzzing like crazy—message after message that you just can’t seem to motivate yourself into looking at. You’re sure whoever it is will forgive you tomorrow, but tonight you have to be alone—it’s the only thing you think will disintegrate the anxiety still sitting in your stomach.

An anxiety that seems to only worsen as the night goes on and Barbara doesn’t come home, and your baby seems awfully still. Anxiety that grows and grows until the imaginary monsters don’t seem too imaginary anymore…

You found yourself humming a little to your baby, caressing the skin around your swollen belly just to feel her tiny foot pressing back. It was everything, a feeling you would never get tired of—even when the day was horrible, when all your wants were miles and miles away from you and  you just can’t catch a break, this feeling is all you really needed.

It’s this comfort that draws you into sleep’s sweet embrace, drowsiness invading all your senses and clouding your thoughts with dreams instead of desires. You never go to bed this early, but lately you’ve been needing more rest like your baby is a body snatcher corrupting you and stealing your energy.

It is these thoughts that you dream about, alien parasites and children who siphon energy from their mothers—not so much nightmares… it’s more like old cartoons; the voices a little sinister from being out of time.

You wake to a dull pain in your back: a symptom of falling asleep sitting up, it moves up and down your shoulders and into your spine. At this point, aches and pains and general comfortability was becoming a closer friend to you than you thought was possible. Yet, you could never get used to the burning feeling of waking up in pain.

The living room hadn’t become any darker than it was before, but that couldn’t really tell you anything… Gotham had only two light settings: sunstroke and city lights. The only thing that really told you how long you’d slept for was the next episode playing and the crick in your neck.

Also, you really had to pee—but that was your factory setting these days so.

It took you thirty minutes to become comfortable again: going to the bathroom and finding a little snack in the refrigerator and rewinding your show to see what you missed.

It starts with a quiet clang on one of the windows, the only one that faces the street and not the alleyway next to the complex. A sound like a rock hitting a windshield, fast and shocking amongst the fearful evening, a sound that would be meaningless if it didn’t happen again.

You had just lit the candles and found the perfect lumpy corner of the couch when the glass clinked again; It was incessant and obnoxious, a clacking on the southernmost window that became louder and louder the longer it went unanswered. In the rest of the world, somebody throwing rocks at your window might be romantic—Romeo and Juliet and the like— here in Gotham it could only mean pain and horror,. There was no way you’d be opening up that window—not for anything or anyone. Your show was just starting to get good, and there was no future that would have you missing petty revenge and corny romance to see to whatever Gotham nonsense decided to make itself your problem tonight.

The problem was the tapping was moving, shifting to other windows before finally becoming a knock at your door. It was booming and worrisome, a knock someone gives when there’s danger on the other side. This had you creeping to the door, your hand on your belly and a bat being grabbed by the other one—you were trying your hardest to be quiet, but your heavier stature transfigured your easy steps into hard and heavy ones. It took almost all the bravery in your bones to look through the peep hole, inching closer and closer as you held your breath— it was becoming painful now, how quiet and courageous you were trying to be.

But what you saw at the door wasn’t some scary murderer like you were expecting… rather it was the one scary murderer you were sure wouldn’t hurt you.

“What are you thinking?!” He asked you when you finally opened the door. He was lightning clashing in your living room, walking around you in circles like a predator closing in on his prey. You’ve become so used to his presence, so sure of the fact that he was safe that you truly forgot this man killed people—maybe it wasn’t a good idea to invite him up to your home. “Huh? Do you have an answer or are you just gonna stand there?”

“I’m confused,” You say. “What is it that you want me to say?”

“Where were you?” He huffed. “I waited but you never showed up,”

“I was at my brother’s house,” you whisper, feeling the anxiety filled night ease it’s way back up your throat. He wasn’t helping, his voice modulating into a tough robotic sound and every inch of skin covered up. What you needed tonight was human comforts, not this predatory creature. “I just got home, I… what do you want me to say?”

“What do I want you to say? How about sorry, how about you say you won’t do it again,”

“I’m sorry?! Why do you even care so much?”

It was strange to be arguing with someone when you couldn’t see their face or hear the true timbre of their voice. Stranger still when that person didn’t have any right to argue with you anyway, you don’t owe Red Hood anything, you don’t even know him.

Sure, sometimes he spoke to you when he walked you home, but usually it was just you twaddling on about nothing for forty minutes. This seemed so odd, him showing up here in the middle of the night and yelling at you.

“Why do I care?! Why don’t you care? You’re pregnant, you’re alone, and this is Gotham.” He sneered, his shoulders stooped low and his hips swaggering as he moves closer to you.

“I don’t see how any of this is your business.” Your voice is sharp now, growing more and more irritated as the night goes on.

“It’s my business to care about civilians who continue to endanger themselves.”

“Really? So you go to every pregnant woman’s door and yell at them for walking home alone.”

“Maybe I should,” He says, still huffing closer and closer to you. “But I don’t know why anyone would walk home alone when Scarecrow’s sent a letter to the Gotham Times saying he’s gonna fear gas the whole city.”

“What? What are you talking about?” you ask, feeling that familiar fear settle over all your internal organs. Your hands shoot to your tummy, cradling the little baby residing under all the muscle and skin. Is that why the city was so quiet? Were you the only person in the city who didn’t know not to be on the street?

“Scarecrow. Fear Gas.” He sighed, his gloved hands moving to sweep over his steel helmet.

Tears start welling again, stinging your eyes in their urge to fall. The nights just been too much for you, too much fear and anxiety and now you’re hearing that all you were feeling wasn’t just in your head—something terrible really could have happened, and you would have been all alone.

“Hey, don’t—don’t cry.” Red Hood whispers, the words coming out scary from his mask. It just makes you cry more, the gruff tone and the attempted comfort. Its much more natural for this creature to be yelling and huffing and lecturing, the sight of him making himself small and quiet and comforting is just too much to bear.

It isn’t long until real tears are falling faster and faster, all your nightmares coming alive in your head. You turn yourself around, facing the kitchen rather than the leatherbound man, you can’t stand to look at him and see all the alternate tragedies that might’ve happened.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you, please just don’t cry.” He says again, finally closing the distance between you. His heavy leather jacket breezes your arms as his hands come out to clutch at you, his tactical gloves rough against your skin. He’s turning you around to face him, gentle despite how rough his exterior seems to be. It’s almost like all the heat has run off of him, gone is the anger in his voice and all that remains is a nervous rustle.

You allow him to turn you around, your face falling into his armor as more tears fall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” you cry.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He whispers. “Really, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, are you okay? Is the baby okay?” He asks, moving is hands from your shoulders to slide off one of his gloves. He brings his ungloved hand to your face, using his thumb to sweep away the tears off your cheek.

It shocks you, feeling his skin on yours—his hands are so cold, rough and freezing, and he is so tan. It surprises you so terribly that you feel the tears drying up on their own, your eyes locked on the little scars twining their way across his wrist and palm.

“I’m alright,” you whisper.

“And the baby?” He asks again, his hands are still cradling your face, and he uses them to angle your face to look up at him. He’s so cold, unknowable and unreachable, but you could almost imagine how he might be looking at you through his mask—with concern and compassion.

“She’s okay, I think—she’s been really quiet tonight, she hasn’t been kicking as much, but I think its okay.”

“Okay.” He says, moving away from you and stepping back closer to the window. He doesn’t look at you again until he’s about to step back into the night, turning his head to look through you one last time. “Check your phone,” he tells you. “and don’t ever walk home alone again—I’ll know if you do.”

As he falls into the darkness all you can think about are his hands, the scars and the cold, how pretty the honeyed skin was.

He was freezing, colder than the night and lovely, and as you find yourself tucking into the covers for the night, you can’t stop thinking about another boy with cold skin.  

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

“Babe, you have to come! I can’t be liable for what I will do if I’m there all alone.”

“Barb! Please don’t make me go, I’m gonna have to pee a million times and there is no way I’ll get my swollen feet into any of my heels.”

“Please, please, please!” Barbara whines, “if you really loved me you would come with me!”

“Barb!”

“Dick is gonna be there! And Timmy! And Jason will come if you go…”

“Barbara, I don’t want to go,” you tell her, laughing at the way she circles you in her wheelchair. You don’t know how she does it, you’re getting dizzy just watching her.

“We don’t have to stay the whole time! Just long enough for my dad not to give me any lectures, okay? Please?”

Maybe it’s the way her big eyes ogle you or her continuous pleading, or maybe you just love her—but you feel yourself slipping farther and farther into agreement. It would be nice, you think, to dress up and make yourself pretty: painted nails and sparkly eyeshadow.

It’s this thought, (and Barbara’s owlish eyes) that lead you to saying yes. However, you really weren’t thinking of the consequences, nor the true reality of finding a dress that would fit you, or shoes that could be both pretty and fit over your swollen ankles.

You’re sure Barbara will look beautiful, (she always does) you’ve seen her all dressed up for gala’s and governor’s parties—last time she looked like Thumbelina, beautiful and wispy as she left with Dick. You’re not sure if you could measure up… you didn’t have any beautiful clothes or any secret charm you could conjure up. Yet, no part of you wanted to disappoint Barbara, so when she dragged you to department stores and insisted on using her “only for emergencies” credit card on a new dress and shoes and grossly expensive makeup, you let her.

She was so excited, she kept yapping on and on about how excited her dad was to see you again and how happy Mr. Wayne was happy you finally said yes to an invitation—Like seriously, Bruce Wayne!—and as much as you didn’t want to ruin her vibe, you couldn’t help but feel as though you were harboring a secret.

Your crush on Jason was surely too obvious to hide, but you wished to keep it away from the eyes of your friend for as long as possible… It could never work, especially now with all the suspicion you’ve built up since last Saturday; When Red Hood took his glove off and you felt his skin, the delicious icy feeling of it, you couldn’t stop feeling as though it was achingly familiar.

The revelation felt heavy in your bones, and denial was creeping along your skin like goosebumps—if Jason Todd was Red Hood, there was no way that Barbara didn’t know (she knew everything), and that reality hurt worse than you thought it would.

You share everything with Barb, every little nagging thought that eases its way into your psyche, and you thought that she did too. But if your masked vigilante was your friend, it would surely mean that she had a whole other life that you knew nothing about… you’re not angry, (you could never be mad at her for real), just sad; emotional at the thought of being excluded—like a little girl being skipped over in volleyball.

So instead of thinking about this—about all the coincidences and similarities you’ve been discovering about the two boys in your life—you let your best friend dress you up and paint your eyes with sparkly eyeshadow. The dress she chose is a pretty light blue, a shimmery fabric that made your skin shine when you stood in front of the dressing room mirror, and left a trail of glitter through the mall.

You’re helping her with her hair now, braiding the fiery strands with practiced precision as she sings along to the speaker. She’s so lovely, milk soft skin and eyes like emeralds, and she’s smiling at you through the bathroom mirror; it breaks your heart, thinking of her keeping secrets from you… maybe you’ll just never bring it up, keep your suspicions safely locked up in your head till one of you is on your death bed and it won’t matter.

Though you can’t stop yourself from worrying about her, when she had her accident you were still in high school—moony eyed and ridiculous fifteen—you remember Jim calling your brother, how you wept until your sinuses burned and your skin itched from the salt. You’d been worrying about her until last year when you had to start worrying about yourself, now you’re thinking maybe you should’ve been paying more attention.

“What’s on your mind, goose?” Barbara asks you, looking a little more concerned than she did a few minutes ago. Your childhood nickname shocks you, unused to hearing anyone but your brother refer to you with it—its full of childlike memories, dreams of fudgesicles and the smell of fireworks in the city, your brother tucking you into bed and Barbara taking you to get your nails done for the homecoming dance…

It’s warm and comforting, but among all the worried thoughts and disguised anger, all it does is make you more upset.

“Nothing, B… just thinking about how pretty you’ll look, like a princess.”

“Me?! I’m amazed by your beauty every day, you’ll be like-glowing around the dance floor.”

“I won’t be dancing, Barb.” You laugh, “I’m so pregnant I can barely walk without waddling and you want me to dance… In front of photographers and journalists? You’re insane.”

“Hey, I’m gonna get you on the dance floor!” Barbara giggles, the sound twinkling into the music. “I’ll get Jason to sweep you off your feet in no time.”

You laugh, but the reminder of the boy makes it a little weak. You haven’t spoken to him since that night the Red Hood came knocking on your window, leaving his hundreds of worried text messages unanswered—you’re not upset with him, how could you be? Jason doesn’t owe you anything; if he is the Red Hood, all it means is he’s been taking care of you longer than you’ve known…

“Have you met him?! Jason is not gonna wanna dance with me.”

“I actually have met him, my love, and I know he’ll dance with you if I scheme it right.”

“Save your breath, Barb.” You giggle, “I’m just going for the finger food, I gotta see what Bruce Wayne’s money can do.”

She laughs and starts humming along to the speaker again, sitting still for you as you tie off her braid. You trade places, her sweeping in front of you so you can sit on the toilet as she does your makeup. It’s nice, reminiscent of weekends long past and facetime calls as she taught you how to put on eyeliner; You find it funny how she has to adjust for your tummy, settling her elbow on the swell of it as she sweeps blush along your cheek.

“I love you, you know.” She whispers as she passes a mirror to let you see her creation, sparkly and bright like a firefly or a disco ball, her pretty smile all teeth. “I’m so happy you’re coming with me tonight—I know it’s not your scene, and that you’d rather just stay here and watch Real Housewives of Coast City, but I’m really so excited about dancing with you.”

“I love you too, Barb.” You tell her, setting the mirror down so you can cage her in your arms. She’s so slight, familiar and comforting, maybe you can let everything go; live in ignorance and allow her to make her own mistakes without worrying about her, but you know you won’t be…

You’d never been good at letting things go; ignorance might be bliss, but paranoia is a parasite.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The Gala is in full force when you arrive: City Hall lit up and encased by black cars and women in fur coats. You recognize Jason’s Camaro instantly, parked somewhere definitely illegal and out of place amongst the shiny sedans and silver sports cars. From this vantage you finally understood why Jason deigns to drive it around—why he’s spent so many afternoons laying underneath it and fiddling with gears and pipes that you can’t begin to understand… You come to realize the silent protest the orange car represents, how obviously he tells the world he’s not what you think he is.

The thought makes you smile as Barbara leads you into the party, jostling her way through men in expensive black suits and ladies covered in diamonds and pearls. Her neck is craning up to look for one of the boys, you’re sure, her orange braid glinting shards of fire as it jostles back and forth.

You try to keep up with her, but the smell of Chanel No. 5 and arrogance floods your head and makes it difficult. Everywhere you look there is someone you only know from the news, people who’ve controlled your city one bad decision at a time, and your best friend—sweet silly Barbara who you once saw snort soda pop up her nose—looks right at home amongst them.

It’s all extremely overwhelming; this must be how Cinderella felt, you think, to step out of her rags and into the limelight knowing she could never truly be drawn to it.

The room is lit up by bright crystal chandeliers and the music is something out of a Keira Knightly movie, timeless and slow. Theres’s people dancing to it, twisting and turning around stately men’s arms as the viola sways and laughing to themselves when their feet stutter.

You feel very much out of place, you’re one of the youngest people here (a sight that feels a little shameful paired with your swollen belly), and seemingly one of the most underdressed as well. You left the apartment feeling whimsical and pretty, yet now the familiar insecurity seems to bubbling its way back up to the surface.

The silk of your dress doesn’t seem to stand toe to toe with all the tulle and chiffon, and you are blatantly aware of your necklaces inauthenticity next to the politicians and billionaires young wives. Suddenly you feel like an imposter, like a little girl playing in her mother’s closest, or Carrie at the prom—just waiting for the blood to pour.

“Oh, thank god, you’re here!” You hear, before feeling a warm hand settle on your shoulder. You turn to see Dick Grayson, warm and brilliant in blue suede and silver cufflinks. His smile is full of straight teeth and his eyes are huge lakes of cerulean; on first glance he looks every part the prodigal son, yet there’s something debauched and mischievous in his glance. “You ladies, look gorgeous,” he tells you both, looking side to side to take in your and Barbara’s outfits.

He moves his hand off your shoulder to lean down and hug Barbara, tugging on her braid a little as he says something in her ear—you’re always a bit struck by their closeness; the way they move like littermates seem to have telepathic conversations. After all these years you’ve learned not to be jealous of him, but the sight of it now (when you’re full of insecurity and concern) ignites some of that old pain you used to feel when she was too busy with her older friends to hang out with you.

You can remember old school days when she’d have to turn down your offers of slumber parties and Chad Michael Murry movies because she was spending the day with Dick. You think she had a little crush on him then, always pink cheeked and giddy when she’d tell you: “I’m sorry, babe! I’m gonna be with birdy tonight.” The way she said it, like he was Elvis or something, used to bring your prepubescent self to disgust. Some of that old feeling rises now, seeing him handsome and obviously wealthy—a socialite from another time.

You shake the thoughts off as you allow Dick to lead you somewhere less crowded, he walks in-between the two of you: his hands hovering along Barbara’s chair and your back as he continues complimenting you both. “Really I am so jazzed you guys are here. I was going to have to start planning my brother’s downfall if I had to spend another minute of him whining.”

“Jason?” you ask.

“No, Tim—but I love that he’s the first one to come to your mind.”

“Her and Jason are gonna get married,” Barbara says, singing out the words in a taunting jaunt. The tone of it brings back sullied memories of days past, of homecoming dates and first boyfriends. You hadn’t realized she felt so strongly about you and Jason, maybe it was foolish of you to not see it (what with all the teasing and knowing glances), but you truly thought she wouldn’t want you to date one of the boys she grew up with.

“Barbara Joan Gordon!” You yelp, laughing out a scoff as your ears are clouded by the Dick’s booming laughter. You can feel a heat blooming on your face, and you hope to god that the piles of makeup Barbara forced unto your skin hides it well.

“What?! Dick knows all about your crush on his little brother.”

“I can’t believe this,” Dick says, still laughing. “You’ve been here for five minutes and you’re already betraying each other. I must be a bad influence.”

“One of these days, I’m gonna kill you both.” You sigh. You’re already exhausted, emotionally and physically—you really do wish you stayed home to watch real housewives.

“Who are we killing?” You hear, the cozy timbre of the voice lighting your skin on fire.

You look up to see a suit covered Jason Todd, the black blazer snug on his shoulders and his tie loose around his neck. You feel yourself  looking him up and down, your eyes flickering down to his boot covered feet and up to his fluffy curls—this makes you smile, imagining Jason getting dressed for his father’s gala in the laziest way… hell he looked more put together the day he drove you to the clinic. He’s smiling back at you, but you can’t seem to miss the slight twinge in his green eyes: it turns them into watery kaleidoscopes.

“Dick and Barbara.” You tell him, watching as his hand rises to tug at his white strands. The movement brings your attention to his ears, noticing the cigarette tucked at the top of one and the other shining with gold hoops.

He truly embraced his role as the black sheep tonight, it seems—a look that brings a warmth to sit over your skin and a shy smile to play at your lips.

“Hmm, well I’ve been trying to get rid of this guy since I was fourteen, but Barbie seems innocent,” He jokes. “So you might have to convince me.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t do anything she asked you too, Jay.” Barbara giggles, her eyes growing more devious as a little blush rises to Jason’s cheek.

You take a minute to drink him in; you rarely get to see him embarrassed… you’re so used to seeing a careful confidence stitched around his skin like the seams on his suit, that seeing the red bloom on his skin fills you with a sweet adoration.

“Mind your own business, Barbie.” He huffs, yet his warm gaze betrays his true fondness. His eyes turn to look at you again, never leaving your face. “You look beautiful.” He tells you, and you can tell he means it—there’s something about his gaze that is just so sincere, it brings a shiver to whisper over your skin. “Are you hungry?” He asks you, his hand pointing somewhere in the distance.

You can’t trust your voice not to betray you, so you nod and try to ignore the wolf whistles and mocking from dumb and dumber, as you follow him back into the fray.

The hors d'oeuvres were placed lovingly on an old banquet table, tiny sandwiches and macarons stacked in pretty pyramids urging on your appetite. Jason pours you some punch as you make up a little plate, looking on fondly as you sip at the ruby liquid.

“So, I didn’t think you really liked these things.” You say, leaning back onto the wall in a mirror of his body language.

“I don’t”

“Oh, well then why did you come?”

“Barbie said you were gonna be here,” He starts, his voice a little nervous and unsure. “and I thought you could use a friend.”

The smile he gives you is a thousand fallen meteors; it’s every sunrise and the first rain of autumn. He’s so handsome, unfairly so, with his blushed pink cheeks and lazy glance—it’s getting harder and harder to deny yourself truths. Not when he sits with you through the gala and creates funny stories and ridiculous accents to go along with all of his father’s guests. He speaks more now than he usually does, oddly more comfortable in his family’s world than any of them will let you believe; he plays the part of the billionaire’s son with expertise, armed with a smirk and a thousand-dollar watch.

Still, you can hear the dissent rise up in his diction: how he looks at the men and women in their fancy clothes, and the way he sneers when one of them look at you a certain way. You’ve become disappointingly comfortable with these sort of looks since your belly began growing and your hair became shinier and your smile dimmer: it has become almost impossible to miss the way people decide they know everything about you just from the missing ring and swollen stomach donning your figure. It wasn’t something you really thought of anymore, but the sight of Jason coming to your rescue one glare at a time makes you feel a little hot under the collar.

He'd been sitting with you for some time now, giggling with you as you watched Barbara roll her eyes at journalists and stuff her face with crab rolls. He brought you plate after plate of food and seemed happier the more you filled your tummy—tugging at stray piece of hair and calling you a “good girl” as you bit into another cucumber sandwich. He’d been so wonderful, handsome and good natured in way you never thought you’d see with his father hiding somewhere in the room. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you to dance… How could you say no to that glint in his eye? How could you say no when he asked you so sweetly, under his breath like he just knew you’d say no, but had to ask anyway…

He took your hand shyly, freezing you with the touch of his fingers—a dangerous reminder of current revelations—and led you to the dance floor with a quiet surprise.

You’re not sure how to dance to this kind of music; you’re much more accustomed to thumping club classics and mid 2010s glitter pen hits, the kind of melodies made for jumping and screaming along, rather than this lilting symphony. Raising your left hand to sit on Jason’s shoulder is a little bit more than awkward… you feel watched and messy, full of insecurity about where to put your feet and the weird space allotted between you to fit your leave room for your belly. Yet, when you look up at his wide green eyes, all you can feel is safety emanating from the evergreen hue.

“Do you know how to dance to this?” you ask him, your voice hushed into a whisper.

“Yes.” He whispers back. “Alfred made me take cotillion lessons when I was a kid, can you imagine it? little boy straight off the street and into polite society? It was awesome.” He says, drawing out the last word.

The image makes you laugh, a big huff that makes more than a few people to stare at you, but all you can see is Jason’s smile. He’s beaming from ear to ear, laughing at you or with you it doesn’t matter—you’d do anything to see this smile, warm and hungry and all him.

He proves the authenticity of his story quite quickly, sweeping you around the waxed floors with an elegance that always shocks you. His hands are only warm from holding your own, and his eyes never leave yours—not once—he spins you around and grazes a hand onto your belly when you turn a little fast. Jason is gentle and lovely and he doesn’t even grimace when you step on his toes, just smiles and uses the arm on your back to lift you gently back into step. You’re out of rhythm and ridiculous, giggling as he tells you more about the rich boy lessons of his youth, and time moves faster and faster around the dance floor.

When the song shifts into a slower waltz, Jason moves you closer to his chest, pushing you as far into him as you can be with your tummy in the way. He smiles down at you like you hung the moon, and you would if it would get him to look at you like that.

You bite your lip and lean into him, promising yourself that you’ll tell him what you know—let him in on the secrets you discovered. You know you should, if you had a secret identity and my friend found out you’d want to know… but the feel of his arms around you and the sight of his fluffy curls breaks your heart too much to find the words. Maybe later, you think, you’ll let yourself open up the chasm after the dance; it’s too wonderful now, the knowledge that you’ve heated him up and made him smile and blush, you’ll let yourself ruin it later.

“You’re so pretty,” He whispers into your hair.

“You too,” you giggle.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, I mean it.” He says, pushing away from you a bit so he can see your face. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, really sweetheart—I can’t believe someone as beautiful as you is dancing with a prick like me.”

His accent is harsh and thick as he says it, inundating the words with home and late nights in the City—its might be your favorite sound, his voice… the sound of it calling you his “sweetheart.”

“I..” you start, “I mean it too, I’ve thought you were cute since the first time I saw you.”

You’re barely dancing now, just swaying along in place as he looks at you—awe-full and irreverent.

You feel like you should tell him now, break the illusion before it gets too far. You’re not sure how he’ll take the news of your knowledge, whether he’ll be angry at your discovery or proud of your detective work, either way you know he deserves to hear it from you. You’re about to confess when he pulls away, shattering the intimate moment with one glance over your shoulder.

“Jason, what?—” you begin to ask, turning around to see Bruce Wayne looking right at you. He looks different in person, scarier and larger than the Gotham Times makes him look. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he was more than Jason’s adoptive father: they looked alike… same judging stare/same intimidating stance.

“Hey,” Jason whispers, turning your body back around so you’re looking at him rather than the harsh glance of his dad. “How about you say goodnight to Barbie and Dick, and I’ll take you home, huh? I just gotta talk to the old man.” He sounds more at ease than he looks, an old panic glazing over his eyes.

“Okay,” you nod, smiling at him before stepping away; shivering a little as your manufactured warmth leaves your skin.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Barbara was very excited when you told her Jason would be taking you home, eyes fiery and devilish as she wished you luck and bid you to be careful. You worried as you waited for Jason to remerge, barely listening to Barbara and the Wayne Boys as they giggled bits out at you—teasing their missing brother in his absence. If you weren’t so nervous you’re sure you’d be laughing along… Tim’s impression of his older brother was a brooding mockery of a 90’s love interest, a caricature of a heavy Gotham accent heavy on his tongue. You found yourself nervously smiling along, breathing out a tiny giggle at Dick’s booming laughter, the boy positively beaming at his brother’s expense.

The gala had barely waned, and you were a little shocked at how much energy everyone still seemed to have. You’re exhausted, bone tired and ready to rest in your regular people comfy clothes. You can feel your little girl stirring under your dress, bouncing around in the way she always does before you close your eyes to go to bed—it hurts a little, but the feeling of her alive inside of you brings a little peace to your ailing heart.

“Oh, I hate everything ‘cept batburger and my beautiful car! I’m gonna marry the orange monstrosity!” Tim groans, dropping to his knees in a mock confession.

“How will I survive without the loving touch of my camaro?! I have to marry it so we will never be separated!!” Dick cries.

“I can never live without the sound of her engine screaming and breaking down!” Barbara pouts.

Their performances are well crafted, good impressions only because of the undercurrent of fondness underneath the teasing. A sight that brings little giggles to escape you, laughter that only grows as the man of the hour shows himself again. He’s walking up behind his brothers, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply they’re almost touching, there’s a smile propped up on his face but it’s one that’s unfamiliar to you—devious and affronted at the same time.

He sees you looking at him and winks, his eyes alight with mischief as he brings his index finger to sit over his smile. Quietly, with surefooted steps and a battle stance to rival Ares, he sneaks up on his brothers and grabs them both by the neck: clutching at them like their two scruffy dogs.

“What are you two morons doing now?” He asks, looking into their shocked faces with a suspicious one of his own.

“Just giving your friend some entertainment before you whisk her away.” Dick smiles, grinning at his brother like a mad scientist.

“Uh huh… Let’s go, hon.” Jason says, directing the last part to you.

“OOOO! Hon!” The three stooges coo at him, giggling at his annoyed glance and whistling at the sight of Jason placing his hand on your back.

“Alright, alright… enough with the peanut gallery!” He shouts back at them. “You okay?” He asks you, leaning down to hear your answer better.

“Just fine, Jason.” You smile, “You?”

“I’m perfect, are you kiddin’ me?” He smiles, “I got a pretty girl on my arm and I’m leaving my idiotic brothers in the dust.”

“I like your brothers,” You say, just to see his eyes get all squinty again.

“You don’t like ‘em better than me though, do ya?”

“Course not, Jason…” You tell him, smiling as he leads you out of City Hall and back onto the Gotham streets.

You’re much more used to the rain ridden concrete and humming danger of the city than the illustrious top shelf of the city’s elite. Familiar with what it means to be out here with Jason, even if this time he’s himself rather than the leather coated version of him you met first. The rain makes his curls all frizzy and his smile more at ease, falling back into the daydream image you have from last summer, except this time you know him: you can recognize his exhaustion and the slight shyness he tries so hard to hide.

You like him more than anyone you’ve ever met, not just because of your infatuation, but because of the friendship you’ve built on Fridays at the diner and walks home; created in the spaces between a squelching engine and the struggle of putting together a crib.

He leads you to his Camaro, the black stripes looking more dangerous than usual under the dim streetlight. His hands only leave you to open the passenger door, waiting for you to sit yourself down before his cold body comes to lean over yours; pulling the safety belt as far as it can go before locking it in place and tightening it around your belly.

“Good?” He asks, his face close enough to feel his breath fan over your lips, close enough all you can do is nod.

The drive home is quiet, an environment that would be peaceful if not for the rumbling thoughts circling your mind. You know you’ll have to tell him before you say goodnight, you have to let him know you discovered his secret—you’ll make him understand that you’re not afraid, keep him as your friend forever and deal with the fact that your best friend might be up to no good. Nothing has to change, yet you feel as it will… there’s a part of you that knows without a shadow of a doubt your life will not look the same tomorrow morning, and you’re not sure if you want it too.

He takes you back the long way—almost like he’s stalling too—leading his car through neighborhoods you’ve never seen and up hills where the old Gotham mansions sit growing ghosts. Halfway home he inches his hand away from the gear shift to clutch at yours, grasping it until he had to move it back. You’re sure he can tell you’re a nervous wreck, anxious with his skin on yours and anxious without it—you really like him so much, and you’re not sure you can stand if tonight ruins it all.

It takes an hour to get back home, but eventually his orange monster is sidling up next to the curb in front of your apartment. It takes all your strength to ask him to come inside, and even more prayers when you see him amongst all your things. He looks like he could be one of them, another thing you could put up on your shelf and keep safe and sound.

“I’ll never get tired of you ladies little girly apartment,” He giggles, picking up Barbara’s prized High School Musical throw blanket and analyzing it like a piece of evidence at a crime scene. The lamp light bathes him in a pretty angelic glow, painting him into the princely figure you’re not sure anyone but you really sees—handsome and magnetic and entirely yours… if he wanted to be.

“Don’t make fun, Jason.” You advise, “The house is perfectly cultivated to show the young woman’s experience.”

“Sure, hon, don’t mind me.” He says, grazing his hand on the counters and smiling at you from your place in your bedroom’s doorway. “There was something you wanted to talk to me about right? That’s why I’ve been allowed in the inner sanctum?”

“Yeah, just… why are your hands always cold?” Your question obviously surprises him, the words causing his eyes to grow wide and his lips to separate.

“I don’t know, I run chilly—you know that.”

“And the Scars?”

“I had cats as a kid,”

“Cats with five-inch claws?” You ask, your voice raising just a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, sweetheart.” He whispers. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Hmm… Well, did you know you tug at your hair when you’re nervous?” You ask him, catching him with his fingers entwined in the inky black locks.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He scoffs.

“The other night you kept grazing your helmet, like you wanted to grab at your hair.” At your words all the frustration falls from his face, replaced with a sadness you didn’t expect. He looks crestfallen, a man awaiting the gallows with a quiet submission you didn’t know he contained.

“Huh, I knew you were a smart girl…”

“You’re not gonna deny it?” You ask, confused at how easy he accepted defeat. All you’ve ever heard of Red Hood is that he never backs down, how he’s inescapable and unknowable, but the man in front of you now has fallen into your hand easier than you would’ve expected from him.

“What’s the point? I like ya cause you’re smart.” His words bring a heat to your stomach, your blood rushing through your body and encasing you in a warm fluttery feeling. Though, you can’t let yourself step away from the line of questioning that’s been assaulting you since you saw him last.

He walks closer to you, his head angling down and his eyes searching yours—he’s trying to figure you out, or he already has and he’s searching for something deep inside your irises, either way his face comes closer and closer until you can feel his words touch you. “Ask me anything and I’ll answer you, I just hope you’ll listen.”

“Are you the Red Hood?”

“Yes.”

“Does Barbara Know?”

“Yes.” He whispers, “She knows everything—she could see the future if she wanted to.” He smiles a little, his grin moving closer to your lips.

You’re gonna kill Barbara, you think, after Jason kisses you you’re gonna go back to city hall and kill her. You already knew, but the confirmation turns all the poison into vitriol—she can’t help herself from getting in trouble, can’t step away from it even when all it does is cause her pain.

“I’m gonna kill her.” You whisper to him, “And you… for keeping it from me.”

He’s getting closer to you, his body encasing you in a cool chill and his sultry sweet smell. He’s smiling, a little grin that looks a little too happy for the threat you just gave.

“Tomorrow.” He breathes. “Don’t be mad at Barbie, she keeps herself and everyone else safe.”

“How safe?” You ask him, your words coming out so quiet you almost can’t hear them. He’s moving impossibly closer now, his hands wrapping themselves around your back/his nose caressing yours/ his breath releasing right into your lungs.

“Safe as life,” He sighs, his words whispered against your lips. His kiss is gentle, like him, and he tastes like eclairs and champagne and he holds you like a glass vase. His lips are so cold, icy like a slurpee on a hot day—you want so badly to warm him, to consume the sugary sweet taste of him and get brain freeze. It brings a rush to your gut, the knowledge that all his heat his stolen from you, the idea of your kiss bringing him back to life like he’s Aurora.

He pushes you farther into your room, lifting you up to hover over the ground and reach his lips better. His hold is stable and strong and his kiss is still so gentle, only getting headier as he lays you on the plush of your mattress—his body hovering over yours and smiling as he moves away to breath. Still, he is only a kiss away, smiling above you as he moves to kiss you again. His tongue moves along the seam of your lips, slipping into your mouth and drinking you in like you’re another glass of starry champagne.

“You’re so pretty,” He sighs, bringing his hands to hold onto your cheeks as you break away.

“Don’t lie to me, Jason.” You whisper.

“I never lie, sweetheart, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen—I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Even with… y’know?” You ask, wiggling from underneath him to bring your hands to sit on your belly. His eyes soften, and his hands slip from your face to rest against yours. He looks so soft, lovely and warm like you’ve never seen from him before.

“I’ve had a crush on you since last summer you know?” He huffs.

“What?”

“Last summer, when I picked Barbie up from that club and you were spinnin’ outside—I thought you were so pretty, like a little nymph or something. It broke my heart to hear you had a boyfriend, even though I wasn’t sure I would even do anything about it if you didn’t… I asked Barbara about you over and over again, hopin that one day she’d say you’d broken up with him; she told me how he sucked, how he didn’t deserve one ounce of your time, and you just looked so free that night—a little bird flyin’ around,” He laughs. “I actually jumped up and down like a little kid when she told me you were free again… my free girl.” He smiles, his eyes looking down where your hands lay, and moving to rub his fingers around the stretching silk.

“I thought you were cute that night too,” You smile, sinking into the feeling of his hands caressing your tummy.

“I know.” He laughs, “Barbara told me that too.”

“That witch!” You squeal, smiling bigger when you hear his booming laugh.

“I don’t care that you’re pregnant, sweetheart.” He says when he’s done laughing, raising his eyes until they’re looking into yours—in this light his irises seem like vials of poison, glowing and dangerous as they seep into you. “I never really thought about babies, whether I wanted them or not, but I know I love ya and I would do anything to share this with you… if you’d let me.”

“You love me?” You ask, searching his bright eyes for some kind of trick.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He giggles, “I don’t baby proof just any girl’s apartment.”

“You love me?!” You laugh, giddy and insatiable.

“I love you, sweetheart.” He whispers, kissing you again and again as you giggle. “And I’ll love your baby, however you want me to—I just want to help you.”

“I love you… I love you.” You say against his kisses, gasping and giggling as it becomes heavier and headier and more lush.

You never thought this would happen; were sure all your daydreams would stay hidden under the cover of desire and want. But Jason is kissing you like he’ll make all your dreams come true, like you’re clay awaiting his hands to be formed into a masterpiece.

You can’t think when he’s touching you like this, when his hands are squeezing sighs out of you and his lips are stealing your breath. You’ll remember to be angry tomorrow, you’ll prick and prod questions at him and beg to know everything there is to know. You’ll pick a fit with Barbara and hug her until you’re sure she’s safe and sound. You’ll take Jason to get a car seat for the Camaro, and make him throw away all his cigarettes.

Tomorrow life begins, but here in this moment you’ve never felt more alive—this moment with Jason Todd and creation in your bones.

Life is just beginning.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

EPILOGUE… one year later.

The night surrounds you for miles around, and all Jason can hear is the screaming whine of your little baby. She sounds so angry, screaming pitiful little cries that clutch his heart in paternal misery. It woke him up out of a deep sleep, shocking his body to move in closer to your side—your arm holding him tight and keeping you locked against him. His rustling wakes you up, forcing your sleep ridden eyes to open—looking at him like he’s betrayed you in the worst way.

“I’ll get her,” He mumbles, sleep coating his voice in a brilliant heavy nectar. He presses a kiss to your forehead and smiles at the way you shiver, scrunching your nose and sinking back farther into the comforter before he can leave.

He approaches the nursey with the quiet steps he usually only uses for stakeouts and ambushes, pushing the door open and greeting his baby with a pout. She’s so angry, her little hands tight against the bars of her crib and  her big eyes squeezed closed. She whines more at the sight of him, sobbing out loud gasps as he moves closer.

“Now, Now honey—Daddy’s here.” He coos, shushing her as she weeps. “Oh, you’re so sad, my love. What’s got my little monster so upset, huh?” He reaches for her with his scarred hands, reaching under her bottom and around her neck to keep her safe until she’s in his arms.

At the touch of his cold skin she quiets, her screaming whines becoming less and less until her wide green eyes meet his own. Every time he looks at her he’s shocked at her beauty, your smile placed on her tiny lips and your attitude living in her voice box. He loves the both of you so much, he’d kill or be killed for you.

“There she is, my little girl huh. You’ll go back to bed now, won’t ya?” He whispers, giggling at her sleepy eyelids. “Give mama a break, okay? Even heroes need to rest. I would know.”

He holds her to his chest and sways back and forth, just like he did that night you danced with him for the first time. He waits until she’s in the sandman’s cradle before he puts her back in her crib, kissing her goodnight and watching her rest for a few minutes.

“My baby.” he whispers, sweeter than he would’ve thought possible from himself. “My little Penny.”

He steps away from his daughter quietly, shuffling back into your arms with all the reverence of a worshipper—kissing your skin until you fit yourself back into his side. You’re always so warm, lush and beautiful and everything he’s ever wanted. He’ll never stop thanking you for loving him, for giving him his whole world.

Tomorrow he’ll have to tell you… write it into your skin and around your heart so you never forget.

He’ll have to thank Barbara, thank her again and again until she knows how grateful he is, but of course… Barbara Gordon knows everything.