He looked disheveled—his hair fell over his forehead messily, his tie had loosened and crooked over his wrinkled dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Your eyes flickered to the backrest of his chair, where his blazer was draped over and left abandoned.

You sighed in disappointment at the sight.

It seemed that he took the hint, because he quickly said, “I just need to finish up this report, Bruce wants it done by next week.”

You rounded his chair, and walked over to the window behind him, looking out at the view below you. Even in this time of night, Gotham was still wide awake.

“When?” you asked, still admiring the city from above through the window.

“On Tuesday.”

Today was Friday.

“Tim.”

“I know,” he rushed out, pausing his typing and swiveled around in his chair to finally find your gaze, stifling a yawn with his palm. “I’m almost done with this, then we can go home.”

You tried to ignore the weird flutters that erupted in your stomach at the words ‘we can go home’

Snap out of it!

You shook your head to dispell the uninvited butterflies, and try to focus on the more important matter right now.

Because you were angry at him, for, again, disregarding his health for the sake of work. You never minded that he's very hardworking—in fact, that's one of the things you admired most about Tim, and you knew you could not be angry for that.

What you did mind was how he always puts everything else besides himself first, how he would often regard his well-being as an afterthought.

And you hated how you had to remind him of it over and over again. Sometimes, it'd even come to a point where it would lead to an argument. Maybe you were just paranoid, but still, you couldn't help but worry.

That's why you planned on lecturing him. Again.

But the look he's giving you was not helping at all.

The city lights outside reflected in his eyes, clearly, so blue that you would've spent hours memorizing the exact shade.

And you were getting off-track.

“You’ve been holed up in here all day.” you stated, and you knew your guess had been right.

Tim sighed, running his hand through his hair, taking off his glasses, and you tried your best to not let your eyes linger too long. “I’m sorry.” he said, meeting your eyes, “For bailing on you. I know we've planned this out since weeks ago. I swear I’ve even pinned it in my calendar, but things came up, and I didn't have time to check my phone—”

He was rambling, and it took you a second to catch up.

Oh.

He thought you were upset because of that.

“Tim-” you tried to get his attention, but he kept on rambling.

“—and I know that's like, a really shitty excuse, and you're probably mad at me right now—”

“Tim.”

“—but I promise to make it up to you when I have the time—”

“Timothy.”

His mouth snapped shut, cutting his rambling off short.

The room went silent, and that was when you took your chance to speak. “Can I talk now?” you asked rhetorically, lips slanting to a slight smile, taking a few small steps closer to where he was sat. In return, you saw him tensing, posture rigid on his chair whilst he looked up at you. You caught the way his palm flexed on the armrest of the chair. “Right. Okay, yes. Thank you,”

“I am upset,” you expressed honestly. His expressions fell and you felt a twinge of guilt before you went and continued, “But not ‘cause you bailed on me.”

You gestured for him to swivel his chair around with a finger. He looked confused but obeyed anyway, turning around to face his desk again.

“But because you overwork yourself too much.” You put your hands over his shoulders and started massaging the knots and kinks off his tense muscles, which made him groan quietly and relax more into your touch. “Have you even had a proper meal at all today?”

“I had coff-”

“Coffee doesn't count.”

Tim scoffed, “You, out of all people, can't be talking.”

Unfortunately, you couldn't help your case on that subject.

“Yeah, but this isn't about me.” You brushed him off with a snicker, hands still focused on kneading his back, shoulders, and the back of his neck. “Try again.”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “…I had half a bagel this morning?”

You blinked, staring at the back of his head, a little bit dumbfounded. Was he serious? “You’re fucking hopeless.”

“I’m sorry…?”

You sighed again, failing to form a response that didn't include the words ‘you’re an idiot’ or anything else that would've remotely counted as an insult.

A few minutes went by in silence, the sound of the clock ticking the only thing breaking the quiet, as you were deeply focused on giving your best friend a massage— which you were quite decent at doing.

“Wrap it up,” you whispered at last, nodding at the monitor that was still on. “We’re going home.”

He turned his head, catching your gaze. “But-”

“You’re literally two seconds away from passing out right now, don't argue with me.” you snapped exasperatedly, fixing the man a heated glare. “You’ll get your report done faster when you're well-rested—which right now, you are not.”

Tim fell silent for a moment, letting your words sink into his head. It surprised you when he suddenly chuckled, quiet, but his eyes flickered with amusement. “You sound like Alfred.”

You huffed out a small laugh at that, admittedly feeling a bit of pride swell in your chest at the, in your humble opinion, compliment. Replying pointedly, with a slight smirk, “And he's always right, so he'd definitely agree with me.”

“Unfortunately.” The man shook his head, lips tipped to a grin.

Finally, you let your hands fall from his shoulders. Then snached his blazer off the chair, and tossed it on is lap before starting towards the door, not before turning on your heel and pointing a finger. “If you don't get your ass off that chair in the next five seconds, I will personally manhandle you out of there.”

He mumbled something under his breath as he shrugged on the blazer, but you didn't catch the words, having already stepped a few feet away from him.

“What was that?” you hummed distractedly, shortly glancing his way while you grabbed his coat off the hanger by the door.

“Nothing.”

You frowned, brows knitted in confusion, but quickly shrugged it off. He'd tell you if he wanted, and if he didn't, then you won't push.

Taking off his glasess, Tim placed it inside his desk drawer. His eyes catching onto the small Polaroid picture laid next to it in the small trinket tray you gave him, and he couldn't help but pause to admire it.

It was of him and you in Paris when you went there two summers ago. The Eiffel Tower lights shone behind the two of you as you faced the camera with matching beaming smiles. Your hands were folded atop his shoulders, his arm was wrapped around your waist while his other hand was occupied with the camera.

Your eyes were closed from the bright flashes of the camera, but he was looking right at you.

“Did you bring the car?” he asked finally after closing the drawer shut. Stretching in his seat for perhaps the first time in hours, groaning tiredly. Standing up after he'd switched off the computer, lazily throwing on his blazer, and approached you.

You made a face; you were stubborn, not stupid. Anyone that takes a cab this in Gotham is either very optimistic and brave or a is newcomer. Most of the time, either one of those scenarios would end up unpleasantly. “Duh. Contrary to my constant rants about hating life, I still would like to live it some more, thank you very much.”

You handed him his coat, watching him put it on. It looked great on him. But you averted your eyes before he could notice you.

Turning your head over your shoulder, you said, “You're sleeping for the next ten hours, by the way, nothing less.”

He sighed a worn-out “Yes ma'am,” and did a mock salute. Good. You were going to make sure he gets enough rest and enough food in his system, too. Since he's apparently shit at doing those things himself.

He opened the door and let you exit first, following hehind you as you made your way back to the elevator.

Cold night air swept back your hair the second you stepped out of the building with Tim in a tow, the rustling of trees mingling with the sound of vehicles honking not too far away from here.

You let your feet lead you to your usual parking spot as you fished out the keys out of your jacket pocket.

Tim held out his hand, silently asking for the keys. For, usually, he's almost always the one who would drive your car whenever you're out together.

But not tonight.

“No,” The vehicle unlocked with a beep. You jutted your chin towards the passenger’s side as you walked towards the driver’s one. “You’re being the passenger princess this time.”

The man was quite literally dragging his feet in exhaustion. So, for the sake of both your safety, it would be best if you drove.

Besides, you found driving to be relaxing, despite not being the best at it.

He stared at you. You stared back, almost expecting for him to insist, as he usually did, but you inwardly cheered when he didn't and complied.

You hopped in the car, throwing your bag haphazardly to the backseat while Tim sat back comfortably, a weary sigh drifting past his lips. “Fucking hell.” The sound of your seatbelts clicking in sync followed after.

“Yeah,” you hummed, starting the car, the engine revving to life, “That’s what happens when you don't enough sleep.”

For half the ride, the car was filled with muteness when you told Tim to get some shut-eye; and he did for a few minutes, but you could see that he wasn't very comfortable and was failing to sleep.

So, now, quiet random conversations filled the silence, slowed songs playing quietly in the background from one of the shared playlist he had picked out.

Purposefully avoiding the night traffic on your normal route—you were too tired to deal with all of that. You just couldn't wait to cuddle with your cat soon— you took a shortcut that would lead to a street just a couple blocks away from your apartment.

Was it a sketchy route? Absolutely. But who cares?

“Oh, we're not going to the manor?” he asked mid-conversation, probably after noticing that you didn't make the turn.

You kept your eyes ahead, “No, I’m taking you to my place.”

You knew him enough to know that if he was at the manor, the man would just get his hands on the Bat-computer and get his nightly business done.

Yeah, that's not happening.

He wasn't on patrol duty tonight, and you'd help him make better use of his time. Like getting a proper ten-hour sleep. And eating well without skipping meals. And anything else that doesn't involve work.

The silence on his end made you turn your head, and you were met with a smirking Tim Drake; the kind of smirk that told you he's on the verge of saying something dumb.

“To your place, huh?” he drawled out, cocking a brow, and you narrowed your eyes, flickering between him and the road ahead. “At least buy me a drink first.”

There it was.

Your jaw slacked, and choked out a shocked chortle. Unbelievable.

Was he flirting with you, or were you also equally as sleep-deprived and highly delusional? Your bet was on the latter.

But boy, was he in for a surprise.

You reached out—eyes still locked on the road because you valued your life and his, too—and opened the glove box, taking out the unopened bottle of water and offered it to him with a matching smirk on your lips.

A wheezing laugh rumbled out of his chest after he started at the bottle in your for a few seconds. The sound, in turn, making you laugh even louder.

“Unbelievable,” He shook his head, grinning ear-to-ear as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a large swig. “You just had to pull the Uno reverse on me.”

“Expect the unexpected.”

“Fair.”

“Uh-huh, so can I take you home, now?” You asked, feigning eagerness, then frowned when the green traffic light flashed red. Bright light spilled through the glass, coloring your surroundings a deep scarlet tone once you hit the brake.

A few other vehicles, as expected, ignored the lights and continued to drive away anyway.

The sight had you pursing your lips. You sort of wished you weren't such a rule follower.

“Sure.”

You quickly brightened up at that. “Yay! You yielded surprisingly fast.”

“You literally pestered me to,” he said blankly, his words threading through a yawn once more, scratching an itch on his forehead with a finger, “If I hadn't, you would've waited on the couch until you fall asleep. Couldn't do that to you.”

You glanced over at him, eyes softening for a fraction of a second.

That was sweet, but why were you even surprised at all? Tim has always been sweet. Not in the flowery proses kind of way, but in an absolute way that had you knowing that he's always there for you, even without him needing to say it out loud.

A certainty that kept you afloat, even through the worst waves of your life.

The thought made you smile.

“You’re smiling.” Tim observed, and you failed to notice how his eyes were locked on your lips.

“What I can't smile now?” you asked lightly, watching as pedestrians crossed the road.

“You can,” he stated, nodding his head. “I just wanna know what's inside that pretty head of yours that's making you smile.”

How do you tell your best friend of your whole twenty-one years of life that he was the main attraction in your mind, and that he was the reason why you were smiling without spilling out the contents of your heart and potentially ruin your friendship?

Yeah… no.

Instead, you asked, side-eyeing him, “You saying you only caved in for me, Timbelina?” Your fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel.

He took your hand from the wheel, squeezing it tight once, “For your poor, ill-postured back, actually,”

The addition had you scoffing incredulously in offense, even so, you couldn't help but cackle. “I’m sorry, but last I checked I wasn't the one who was practically draped over my computer like a hunchback. Don’t compare my perfect posture with your atrocious one.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, honey.”

You felt your cheeks burn at the nickname, despite the familiarity of it, the endearment never failed to have you flushing.

You leaned back in your seat, waiting for the lights to turn green, glaring at the street light like it would change if you do it hard enough.

It didn't.

“You’re so concerned about me all the time,” You started slowly, answering his earlier question with an omission— a truth, yet not the one on the front of your mind. Your little hand holding had somehow escalated into a lazy round of thumb war. “I wish you'd act the same way for yourself.”

He was winning, but you're not one to give up so easily. “But then you won't be scolding me anymore if I did that.” he said quiet and casually, his thumb dodging yours.

“Is that you saying that like it when I scold you?” You raised a brow, a crooked grin forming on your mouth, wide eyes clashing with his, red tinted from the lights ahead of you.

“That’s exactly what I'm saying.” His grin was sharp as he finally managed to pin your thumb down.

“Masochist.”

The car had gone quiet, and you hardly noticed it with Tim’s deep blue eyes pinning you in your place, hand still woven loosely with yours.

He didn't look away.

You didn't look away.

Not to wander around to his other features, not to the dark circles around his eyes, not to the strand of his hair that fell over his eyes.

Just to your favourite shade of blue.

It might've been the trick of light, or you might've imagined it, but you saw the way his gaze dropped to your lips for a split second, before it returned to your eyes again just as quickly.

The sound of a loud horn honking from the car behind had the two of you jolting, hands ripping away from the other’s, it was only after a hot second you realized that the traffic lights had finally turned green.

“Oh, shit.” You choked out, straightening awkwardly in your seat, heart racing as you hurried to drive again with the driver behind you honking more rapidly in impatience. You didn't do well under pressure.

When your heart rate had slowed, neither of you talked again for a good fifteen minutes after that… whatever that was.

A while later, only a few minutes away from your apartment, you ran into a surprise.

From a small distance, you saw a familiar motorbike parked in front of a small convenience store; the owner of the said motorbike leaning against it with a cigarette hanging off his lips, not-so-subtly stealing glances at the person who was behind the cashier inside the store.

Oh, you knew that look, even from here.

Sharing a look with Tim, who had also spotted the man from a distance—the tension back at the stoplight had dissipated, you were glad—you pulled up by the curb just outside the store, right in front of Jason. You returned his scowl with an innocent grin as you rolled down your window, while Tim gave a brief, mocking wave beside you.

“Well, what do we have here?” Your eyes darted between his sharp, glaring green ones and the very questionable bright purple PEN sign on the glass door behind him.

Was this some type of an erotica shop? you thought suspiciously. But what was Jason doing here?

Embarrassingly, you had to squint for a good few seconds to realize the fact that it was actually a sign that said OPEN, but the lights was burned out of the one singular ‘O’ letter.

*Not an erotica shop, then. Just a normal convenience store. Yeah, that makes more sense

“Your mom,” Jason snapped instantly, a wrinkle forming in-between his dark brows. Removing the lit cigarette from his teeth, smoke wafted out of his lips when he added, “Get out of my face.”

Tim took the words out of your mouth, the amusement heard clear as day. “No, no, no, I think we'll stay for a bit,” Your breath hitched when he leaned over the center console to peer behind his brother, most likely to assess the person at the cashier.

He was really close.

Driven by the sudden nerves, you took out your phone, unlocking it and… did nothing with it. It looked stupid, so you just clicked on a random app— the camera app, specifically. And just let the phone hover in your hands, hoping it would distract you and dispel the heat in your cheeks.

“The fuck do you want, huh?” Jason bit out sharply, though when his eyes connected with yours, there was a knowing glint there.

You turned your eyes away.

You breathed easily when Tim leaned back again, but your phone slipped from your hold and drops under your seat. You ducked down awkwardly in the cramped space, struggling as you tried to find it in the dark.

“Why are you out here,” said the younger of the two brothers, gesturing silently with his hand, eyes flickering to you. “staring inside there? That's a bit stalkerish of you, Jay,”

You heard Jason chuckle dryly. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You snorted, still trying to find for your phone, that was so much more difficult to do in the dark, plus, it was starting to feel a little claustrophobic. “He’s not wrong, Timmy,”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, honey.” You could hear the frown in his tone.

“I’m on no one’s side. I’m on the side where the truth is- yes!” you exclaimed cheerily when you finally found your phone.

Sitting upright again, puffing out a relieved breath, you turned your head and saw Tim, and he was oddly pink in the face. Which made you glance towards Jason, who had a smug smirk on his mouth.

You blinked in confusion. You were definitely missing something.

“…anything you wanna share with the class, boys?”

Jason looked away first, coughing a small “Nope.”

Tim cleared his throat, suddenly observing out the window and not meeting your eyes. “Uh, no.”

You slid your gaze between them, trying to gauge their expressions. That ended up being a fruitless attempt now that they've both looked elsewhere.

“You're being weird.” you told them, catching Jason glancing back at the store again. He looked a bit longing. It was kind of pathetic, to be honest. Now you were sure that he was looking at the cashier. You’d been unsure earlier.

Briefly, you see the pretty cashier glance out at him, you were sure that they were smiling shyly from inside the store.

Oh, so it’s like that, huh?

Your sight went back to Jason, and that he was smiling. Smiling! It was a small twitch on the corner of his lip, but there's no mistaking that it was actually a smile.

But before you could point that out, Tim piped up, “I’m not, but I did just caught Jason yearning—and that smile, too, and I took some pictures.” He lifted his phone which showed the exact scene you've just seen, and now it's caught on camera.

You marveled at the pictures as though they were some priceless art. “Oh my gosh, I freaking love you.”

He froze for a moment, then cleared his throat again. “Sending those to the group chat, by the way.” And he did just that. Sending the pictures with no context whatsoever.

For now, you just have to wait until the others see it and chew him out with teases.

He hid it well, but you knew the tells of a panicking Jason Todd, and right now is the perfect example of that. “Do that and I'll rip your faces off.” he threatened gruffly, but his voice held an almost imperceptible strain.

Cute.

“You smiled, Jay. And I have the perfect twenty-twenty vision.” Tim pointed out, now he's the one who's looking mischievous.

"I don't, but, yeah, I agree with him," The two men snorted, you ignored them. You went on, equally as smug as your counterpart. “That was a smile, Todd, I didn't know you could do that.”

The second you hear his phone buzz in one of those many pockets, you started the engine, readying your escape.

“You little shits-!”

And that was your cue to leave.

You stomped on the accelerator, yelling out the window: “Bye Jason! Tell your sweetheart we said hi!” and drove off, leaving a disgruntled, and possibly freaked out Jason alone at the wake.

After greeting a small “Hi,” to Walter, your doorman, you and Tim dragged your feet over to the elevator, pressing the button on for the seventh floor.

Your best friend slumped on the mirrored wall across from you once the doors had closed, head lolling down, sighing quietly.

“Don’t sleep yet,” you told him in a murmur, watching the numbers ascend from G. “Have some food, at least, I’ll cook something up.”

He muttered your name in protest “It's midnight.” That single sentence held so much disagreement by his tone alone.

You shrugged, “So?” The doors slid open, and you walked out, carefully so your heels wouldn't make much noise, heading for your unit—Unit 710.

Your keys jingled as you took it out of your pocket, then heard the muffled pitter-patter of paws scratching on the other side of the door, and you took a deep breath before pushing it the door open.

As expected, a very chunky and feral ball of pretty black fur attacked you with a very loud yowl, tiny sharp claws dug into your pants.

You barely stepped a foot inside.

“I left you for an hour.” you deadpanned, frowning down at Clover, your cat, as you removed your jacket and hung it on the coat rack, then removed your shoes and slipped on your slippers before you ambled in.

No dirty shoes are allowed inside your place. God knows whatever gross germs had touched the soles of people’s—including yours—shoes.

Tim did the same behind you, laughing quietly. “Let her be. She has abandoned issues,” He picked her up as soon as he slipped on his sandals and went further inside with her practically purring in his. hold.

You watched with a sour look, you could've sworn she looked smug when her beady green eyes were on you.

That little traitor. You were the one who feeds her everyday, takes her to the vet, bathes her, give her treats, and yet, she still preferred her absent dad.

“You spoil her. Now she hates me.” you huffed, turning off the harsh light of the room, and instead, went around to turn on the small lamplights you have around.

“She doesn't hate you,” he insisted, watchful eyes following you as you circled around the room, leaning against the wall. “She just likes me better. Don't you?” He kissed Clover’s head, petting her fur softly and put her down again.

You decided that you weren't going to ridiculous and be jealous of your cat.

“Asshole.” you laughed, scrunching your nose at the Clover when she trudged towards you, big eyes observing you at your feet. You tilted your head over to the hall where the bathroom was, all while you sauntered over to your bedroom to go change. “Wash up. I’ll see if I could cook something up really quickly.”

Tim pushed himself off the wall and called after you, “You really don't have to.”

You closed your bedroom door without an answer, leaving him at the living room.

And he acquiesced afterward, raising his voice a tad so you could hear him from your bedroom, groaning, “Fine, but I’m washing the dishes!”

Wonderful.

About fifteen minutes of your fabulous skincare routine later, you exited your bedroom; hair thrown up carelessly, now clad in a large shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You headed for the kitchen, fetching a few ingredients from your fridge and pantry when you're there. As well as your appliances whilst you settled on cooking a one-pot pasta with a recipe you've found on the internet a while back.

Clover was acting as a little helper—as in, she helped clean your floor by eating the parmesan that you had accidentally dropped—and just hover by your feet as you hobbled between the kitchen island and the stove.

“No,” you drew out in warning for the third time, distractedly stirring the pot as your cat jumped on the counter and start sniffing the spices again.

She had been doing that repeatedly.

Clover sniffed again and recoiled, dashing away, sneezing. You felt terrible when you couldn't stop your snort. “I told you.”

Turning off the stove when you finished cooking, you transferred the pasta onto the two plates you've prepared, eyeing the pot approvingly when you saw you measured the portions perfectly this time.

That was when Tim walked in; hair mussed and damp from the shower, clothed in a white t-shirt and sweatpants.

He stopped short in his tracks.

And just stared at you like he was stunned.

You put the empty pot on the sink, amongst the other dirty dishes and utensils that you've used earlier. “Hey, come here,” you ushered, pulling out your stool on the island and sat down. “I made pasta. Not as good as Alfred's but this is way better than those cardboard-like frozen pizzas you like.”

You looked up when he didn't say anything. He was still standing in his place. “Hey… you good?”

He blinked, shaking himself out of his you-induced stupor. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” He strolled in and took a seat on the stool next to you. “Thanks for making this.” he whispered, and your heart warmed at the sincerity in his tone.

“Yeah, of course,” You flashed him a soft smile in return.

And you both ate your food, occasionally talking over mundane topics. And once you finished your meals, as Tim promised, he volunteered to wash the dishes, whilst you just sat on the counter by him, accompanying, if you will.

By the time you start to feel tired, you both migrated towards the couch after brushing your teeth, Tim reminded you of how bad it was to sleep right after dinner, so you both agreed on doing calm activities to pass the time.

That was alternating between reading and conversing to avoid sleep for at least an hour.

“Oh my god, why is he here?” Tim gaped in surprise, reading over your shoulder. He wasn't much of a reader—much less a romance reader—so his every reaction to the stuff you read are always amusing to you.

And somehow, you've successfully roped him into reading one of your romance books with you. And he's enjoying it, too, which was a rare occurrence.

“He broke his engagement, and travelled six hundred kilometres just to be with her, isn't that so sweet?” You were raving, yes, you were aware of that. But you also couldn't help but to gush over one of your favourite books.

“Damn,” He whistled lowly, turning the page. You let him, even if you hadn't finished reading that page; you've read this book a good ten times more since you read it the first time.

He finished reading a few more chapters when he noticed you yawning. It was nearly two in the morning, and you were starting to feel tired: not enough for you to sleep yet, but enough for you to fully relax.

“Hey,” Tim whispered in your ear. “You tired?” He closed the book, putting it on the side table. Then he shuffled to lay next to you, pulling you in to his chest.

You curled yourself up in his arms instantly, sighing at the warmth that enveloped you once you did. “Kind of,” You confessed in the same gentle whisper. “Talk to me. About anything, so I can sleep.”

He cocked a lazy brow, his voice a low rasp. “How does that work?”

You closed your eyes, “I don't know. Your voice just puts me to sleep.”

“You basically just called me boring.”

“Yeah, I did.”

A pause.

“Your lack of hesitation hurts me.”

“Deal with it.”

His chest heaved as he let out a long sigh. “I'm sorry.”

Those two words made your eyes snap open, and sought for his in the dim light. “For what?” you asked, mouth pulled to a frown.

“For bailing on you,” he said again, and you almost objected when he continued on, “You've been planning that outing for weeks. And I told you I had time, but then I forgot about it. I don't know, I just feel so guilty.”

You waited to see if he would say more, when he didn't, you began, “Tim, don't apologise,” You gaze aligned with his. “I’m not mad. Or- well, I was, at first. But mostly at myself. The reason I suggested those plans in the first place was actually for you.”

“For me?” He seemed confused.

“Mhm,” you nodded, “You've been so busy these past few months, I thought that maybe it'd be nice for you to take a break for once, even just for a weekend.”

His eyes softened as he looked down at you. He was speechless, as if your words had completely thrown him off-kilter.

Then he laughed. Soft, and sweet, and beautiful. For some reason, that made you laugh too.

He tucked an unruly tendril of your hair behind your ear, and for the first time, the butterflies didn't leave you flustered, just comfortable. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

You nestled under his chin, words dampened by his skin. “I don't know, maybe you should keep me around.” And in your heart, you knew this was what home felt like. Maybe one day you'll be brave enough to say it out loud. But in the meantime, you'd tuck this little secret to yourself.

He breathed deeply, arms tightening around you like a blanket.

“Maybe I will.”

❀ honorary mentions to my lovelies @livlocus @yuunarii-arii @your-mommy-ems MWAH ily all so much🫶🏻

You lean back against the counter. Marjorie cornered you as soon as you walked through the door. Your apron is hung over your shoulder. You wanted to get back to work as soon as you could. To have something to distract yourself with and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get the chance to see Jason again.

“Why would I?” Marjorie waves a hand. “Does he pay well?”

You raise a brow at her eager tone.

“He’s the Jason that buys the expensive cigarettes.”

Marjorie squints her eyes at you. Her wrinkles become even more pronounced with her furrowed brows.

“The Yellow Spirits?”

“Oh,” she gasps. “You’re talking about the Jason you have a crush on!”

God help you. You should have stayed at the hospital.

“That’s not—” you sputter a reply, “—that’s totally not what’s going on.”

Marjorie tilts her head at you. Her eyes glint. You don’t like what that means. You’ve raised your hands again. In protest now. And you hope they cover your flushed cheeks.

“You chose a good one,” Marjorie nods in approval.

“Please, do not talk like that.” You groan into your palms.

“He saved you, he’s not too bad on the eyes—”

“Oh, my god.”

“—he pays well. The most important bit. If he asks for a date, do not act frugal. Go somewhere expensive, kid. You’re completely hopeless, so I have to help you.”

“Can I just,” you try to change the subject, “organize the cigarette stand or something?”

Marjorie sighs. There’s a small piece of actual worry in her tone. For a moment, you think you imagined it. She steps closer to you, raising her hand to grab your shoulder. You have to lean down a bit to reach her height.

“Only if you don’t steal Yellow Spirits for your boyfriend.”

Never mind.

“I’ve never shoplifted.”

“Look at you,” she grips your shoulder tighter. “You haven’t denied the fact that he is your boyfriend.”

“I can’t tell if you’re threatening me or not, Marj.”

“Just don’t make out in the shop.”

“You’ve actually gone crazy in the time I was in the hospital.”

“I don’t care if he played hero. He pays just like any customer.”

“So,” you tut, “no favoritism?”

“You can show that favoritism outside the shop. However you want to.”

She lets go of your shoulder, but not before patting you in the most affectionate way that Marjorie is capable of. She looks you up and down, eyes trailing to the small stitches peeking out of your clothes. You pull down your sleeves by instinct.

“Only the cigarette shelf,” she says.

“Only the cigarette shelf,” you parrot back. “And maybe the counter? Please?”

“Okay, fine,” Marjorie groans. “But you’re out of here by five. Or six.”

“That’s so soon,” you look at the clock—4:12 PM.

“It’s your fault for coming in at all,” she clicks her tongue. “Be thankful I’m letting you go instead of locking you up in here.”

You nod your head. She returns the gesture and starts walking back to her little manager’s office, which is huddled at the back of the convenience store. She slams the door.

You sigh. The stitches still feel a bit raw. You try to limit your movements as you step behind the counter. The cigarette shelf is the same as you left it. Marjorie didn’t keep the shop open for some reason. You think it’s because she secretly cares about you and misses your presence.

You unlock the stand. The Marlboros and Yellow Spirit packs catch your eye.

You can’t get Red Hood—Jason out of your mind. No matter how hard you try. Your hand lingers on the cigarette pack. In your mind, you try to remember his lighter—the silver was cold to the touch. You want to trace the Latin engraving again. Somehow, that leads to the thoughts of his scars resurfacing—the river-like form of them as they trail down his arms. The way he gestured you to light his cigarette, the way he leaned in and you—in your awestruck reverie, lost in his dim sea-green eyes—lit it for him.

You shut the cigarette shelf shut. Fuck. You’re actually doomed. Absolutely doomed.

You’re just glad Jason wasn’t here to see Marjorie figure out your…crush, if that’s what you could call it.

What you don’t notice is the motorcycle across the street. It’s parked in a way that you can barely see it from the counter window. You don’t notice the biker who hasn’t moved from his spot, the very same man who has scars like rivers and green eyes hiding under the helmet.

Jason’s grip around the handlebars tightens. From your flushed face and constant stares at the cigarette shelf, he can only hope you were thinking about him.

He knows he’s acting like a complete creep right now.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s watched you. He stopped by during the days he was free from patrolling. Even subconsciously circled your store while on patrol. He’s gotten weird looks from Tim already.

That night, he didn’t even notice him sneaking up. It was two weeks ago. The rooftop near the store.

+++

Jason had his binoculars out—binoculars, like some kind of birdwatcher—and Tim had landed behind him without a sound. Which was ironic, considering the stern lecture that followed.

Tim had snatched the binoculars right out of his hands. Peered through them. Spotted you behind the counter, restocking the cigarette shelf.

“Is this the cashier from the robbery?”

Jason had snatched the binoculars back. “Mind your business.”

“You’re stalking them.”

“I’m protecting them,” Jason swung a kick near where Tim was standing, getting a quiet swear as a response.

“Sure,” Tim rolled his eyes. “Do they know that you watch them? I, personally,” he laid a hand on his chest, “would want to know if a vigilante was stalking me. This is a horrible basis for a relationship.”

“Do I badger you about your honey?” Jason swung again, and that time it hit the target.

Tim stumbled and barely caught himself. His ears went pink.

“She’s not my—” He stopped midway. “You know what? Continue stalking your cashier.”

“They’re not my cashier.” Not yet anyway. Jason shoved the binoculars back into his jacket. “And you’re the last one to talk about stalking.”

“I don’t stalk. It’s called being prepared. Totally the opposite of whatever you’re doing here.”

“What you call being prepared is actually being a freak, Drake.”

Tim crossed his arms. Leaned against the ledge. Looked out toward the store—toward you, still behind the counter, completely oblivious.

“Fine,” Tim said. “But if you’re going to keep doing this, at least talk to them. The binoculars thing is sad.”

The city hummed below. Somewhere, a siren wailed.

“Just don’t screw it up,” Tim said finally. “They seem nice.”

“They are.”

“Then stop watching from rooftops and go inside.”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

Tim snorted. “You said that last week.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Sure you do.”

Jason swung at him again. Tim dodged. Grappled away with that stupid, smug look still on his face.

Asshole.

But he wasn’t wrong.

+++

Tomorrow, he told Tim. Today is tomorrow.

God, this is so stupid.

Screw it.

He takes off the helmet. The fresh Gotham air bites at his cheeks. It oddly feels exhilarating. The idea of seeing you after so long is running through his bloodstream like fire.

It only takes him a few seconds to cross the street. In his complete daydream, he doesn’t even look both ways. His gaze is locked onto your figure. The way you move behind the counter. He notes the way you bite down on your lip while counting the cigarette packs. The way you readjust your collar and expose just a small piece of your neck.

He probably mirrors your flushed look right now. Who could blame him? He can’t take his eyes off of you, no matter where you are—in a sketchy convenience store, leaning on the counter, or in a hospital, berating him as if he’s not one of Gotham’s most feared men.

His hand grabs the door handle, twisting it. In his mind, he’s a man with blood caked into his skin, running through the grooves of his fingertips. But you don’t seem afraid to get your hands dirty by luring him in—lighting his cigarette with the smoke spreading between the two of you.

You scare him more than anyone. That spurs him on more than anything.

He steps through the entrance. The bell above rings. It only takes you a minute to turn, eyes trailing to him. Your lips form into a small “O” as you take in his figure. It’s as if there is lightning playing on his skin.

Just as he planned, your eyes first trail to his exposed tattoos. He can’t fight back the smirk that’s forming on his lips.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Teasing bastard.

His voice sounds as if it’s been dipped in honey—hoarse at the edges, but luring you in with a promise of something more.

You completely forget the key to the cigarette shelf in your hands. Your fingers flex, tightening around the sharp key.

“Oh—” you feel the edges dig into the skin of your palm, “—Crap.”

The smirk on Jason’s face disappears, replaced with a frown. He steps near the counter, gesturing for you to move closer. His hands are outstretched. There are faint callouses spread throughout the skin. You can trace a single scar over his palm.

He notices your stare and chuckles in response. The sound is light, escaping his lips with a hiss.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.”

Speaking of biting… Your eyes trail back to his arms. You manage to take a step closer to him, placing your hand in his. He turns your hand palm up. He does this while keeping eye contact with you.

In any other situation, you’d rip your gaze away from him. You’d find something else to focus on to somehow ignore the heat spreading from your palm to your entire body.

His fingertips trace the skin irritated by the key’s edges. There’s a small trace of red across your palm, but the skin isn’t cut.

“No blood. Lucky you.”

“For once,” you snort.

He doesn’t let go. His grip stays firm around your hand, but it never gets too much. He softly tugs your palm near him—like an offer. It’s more like he’s pleading for something. You’re the one leaning over him, looking down on him. His elbows are on the counter, the cold of the surface is probably seeping into his skin, but if he feels as flushed as you do—which you think he definitely does, considering the pink hue of the tips of his ears—the sensation won’t bother him.

He seems to be focused on you to care anyway.

You lean closer, your body following how his hand tugs you towards him. You swallow. He’s so close. Too close. Too close for a convenience store with Marjorie in the room next to you two.

“Someone might see,” you warn, but your voice is missing the bite.

“Let them see,” he mumbles while bringing your knuckles to his lips.

He doesn’t kiss like a gentleman from a black-and-white movie. His lips are surprisingly warm. They’re softer than you expected. His lips don’t leave your knuckles. The skin just above the bones is slightly bruised. You don’t remember how or when the bruises formed. Probably in the struggle.

You can’t focus on the whys and hows, especially now.

Jason’s eyes are half-closed. You can still see the sparkle of his eyes behind those lashes. It’s as if he’s memorizing the feel of your skin, the grooves of it, the way the colors bloom into faint purples and yellows.

His brows furrow at the sight of the bruises. You want to say something. You’re sure he’s spiraling—blaming himself or something ridiculous. You’re about to form at least a single word, but the sensation of something warmer on your knuckles knocks the breath out of your lungs.

You feel the barest slip of something softer. Wetter. It slides across the purple-yellow bruise.

For a moment, you both stay frozen in time. You don’t move your hand, half flustered beyond measure and half too curious to see what he will do. Jason doesn’t look up, but you can see his eyes widen. He’s surprised himself just as much as he surprised you. You think he’s more baffled by the fact that you haven’t stopped him.

You tilt your head, taking in his expression. His lips are parted against your skin, like he couldn’t help himself. As if he had entirely forgotten where he was.

Your fingers curl.

“Jason?”

He pulls back. His lips are glossed over. His ears are pink at the tips.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back.

You almost whine at the loss of contact.

Will he be creeped out if you tell him to continue?

Definitely.

He started it, though.

“Don’t be,” the words escape your lips before you can stop them.

Jason’s expression contorts. His lips are stuck between a crooked half-smile and being parted in a gasp. You can’t tell which one you want more—for him to take the lead again, or for him to be under your mercy for once.

“You’re going to get me in so much trouble,” you say, voice so quiet only he can hear it.

He’s so close you’re sure your breath grazes his ear as you speak. He leans towards the sensation.

“Worth it.”

He turns your hand over, pressing another kiss to your palm. Right near where the key dug in.

Your knees feel weak.

“I,” you try to find the words, “can’t tell if you’re doing all of this on purpose just to fluster me.”

“Maybe,” he doesn’t deny it. His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “Is it working?”

Before you can answer—before you can even think about answering—the office door creaks.

You yank your hand back like you’ve been burned.

Jason doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even move. Just looks at you with those stupid green eyes, that stupid little smirk, like he knew exactly when Marjorie was going to interrupt.

Bastard. Charming bastard. But still.

The door doesn’t open all the way. Just a crack. Marjorie’s voice slips through.

“I’m making coffee,” she calls out. “Anyone want some?”

You glance at Jason. He glances at you.

“No coffee,” you say, voice too high. “We’re good. We’re fine. Everything’s normal.”

“Didn’t ask if everything was normal. Asked if you wanted coffee.”

“No. Thank you. No coffee.”

The door creaks shut.

You exhale, pressing your forehead against the counter. The laminate is cold. It does nothing to cool you down.

Marjorie opens the door again, and you’re sure you feel your heart actually jump out of your chest. Jason only snorts at your expression.

“Kid, you’re going home.”

“Wait, what?” you ask, voice still high.

“I gave you one rule,” Marjorie pops her head out of the manager’s office. “Do you even remember it?”

“Don’t shoplift?”

“You shoplifted Marjorie’s stuff?” Jason asks you with an insufferable grin that you desperately want to wipe off his face.

Maybe with a punch.

Or a kiss.

He seems like the type of guy to enjoy both.

“No!” Marjorie’s voice rings out in the whole shop. “Don’t-make-out-with-your-boyfriend rule during work! Even if the shop has no customers in the building.”

Jason looks back at you. The grin has grown even bigger—it’s now a full-blown smile. Giddy even. Your heart tightens.

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“He’s not?”

“I’m not?”

“You haven’t even taken me out on a date yet!”

“A shame,” Marjorie tuts. “You know, the pier is a good idea for a date. They’ve got good hot dogs there.”

Jason’s grin falters for a second. Suddenly, he rises from the counter. There’s a familiar flicker in his gaze.

“Then let me give you a ride home. We can plan out the date then.”

“I,” you sputter, “I mean, yes! But only if you want to. Not that I’m against it. It’s just a pier date is kind of expensive. Minus the hot dogs, I guess—”

“It being expensive is the main point,” Marjorie’s voice rings out again.

“I know what I said,” his voice is full of certainty. “I could give you a ride home.”

“On your motorcycle?”

He tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Better hold on tight.”

Marjorie clears her throat. “I’ll be in my office. Locking the door. Not listening.”

She disappears. The door clicks shut.

“It’s just a single ride,” he says.

“Just a single ride?” you mentally scold yourself for repeating it. “That sounds like it means something else.”

“Well, now that you point it out—”

“—just, give me five minutes.”

Jason nods with a breathless chuckle. He steps back. The bell rings as he opens the door.

“I’ll be outside.”

And he’s gone.

And you’re about to melt on this very spot.

You press your palms against your eyes. Count to ten. You grab your bag from under the counter. You snatch a Marlboro from the cigarette shelf and hope Marjorie will forgive you for this one transgression.

Marjorie’s door cracks open.

“Five minutes,” she says. “Not six.”

“Okay, goodbye!” You run past the counter, throwing a wave over your shoulder. “I’ll definitely clock in after well, all of this?”

”Just go!”

Your apron is left forgotten on the counter.

“Kids these days.”

+++

The bell hasn’t even stopped ringing behind you before you spot the bike.

The motorcycle is parked right outside, and somehow it’s exactly what you expected. Matte black, all of it—the tank, the hardware, the mirrors catching nothing but grey Gotham sky. A leather bag is buckled to the tank, worn at the edges in the way that suggests it’s been there a long time. It’s a heavy thing, broad, and low to the ground.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to.

Of course, this is his bike.

Jason is already near it, helmet tucked under his arm. He’s got a second helmet hanging off the handlebars.

You stop dead on the sidewalk.

“You weren’t kidding about the motorcycle.”

“I don’t kid about things that go fast.” He holds out the extra helmet. “You scared?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You take the helmet. It’s heavier than you expected. You fumble with the strap for a second before his hands cover yours.

“Let me.”

Oh, my god. His hands are way too close.

You totally haven’t daydreamed about this.

He buckles it under your chin. His knuckles brush your jaw. His eyes don’t leave yours the whole time, while your gaze flickers between him and his knuckles—the skin is almost white, as if he’s nervous.

“There,” he says. “Now you won’t die.”

“Comforting,” you quip. “You’ve got a way with words, Todd.”

He swings his leg over the bike with a chuckle. The suspension dips. He twists the key, and the engine rumbles to life. The sound is low and guttural, like something waking up.

He looks back at you. As if he’s expecting something, he jerks his head toward the seat behind him. The idea of actually getting on his bike is too much. What will you even hang onto? His shoulders?

Hopefully, his waist.

Maybe staying in the store was a better idea.

“You coming or not?”

Get it together.

You step closer. The bike is taller than you expected. You put a hand on his shoulder for balance—his shoulder is solid, warm through his jacket—and swing your leg over. The seat is narrow and firm. You can feel the engine humming through it, a vibration that settles right in your chest.

“Hold on,” he says.

“To what?”

He reaches back. Grabs your wrists and pulls your arms around his waist.

“That.”

Everything about him is firm. Your chest presses against his back. He’s warm. You place your cheek against his shoulder. You can smell leather and smoke and something underneath—soap, maybe.

“Don’t let go,” he says.

Then the bike lurches forward, and you hold on tighter. You can feel how his entire body strains beneath your hold, as if your touch is affecting him, just like what his touch does to you.

The city blurs past. Streetlights smear into streaks of orange and yellow. The wind is cold against your cheeks, but his body blocks most of it—broad shoulders, that stupid jacket, the way he leans into every turn like he’s part of the machine.

You lean with him. It may be instinct. You can’t help it, your fingers twitch—just where your knuckles graze his torso. The skin beneath his shirt is warm despite the biting cold air. Your knees feel weak. You can make out the small shape of something square in his jacket pocket—maybe a lighter. The one that exposed him to you.

Never in your life have you been so thankful for someone’s smoking habits.

You let go of his waist, one hand staying looped around him and the other digging in your pocket. Jason looks back, silently asking if you’re okay. You tap a finger on his torso. You hear a huff through his helmet as a response.

You take the Marlboro pack you borrowed—or stole—from the cigarette shelf. Leaning your chest even closer to his back, you slide the pack into his pocket.

“So, you do shoplift,” Jason says, the words are muffled through the helmet.

“For you,” you wrap your arms around his waist again.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

You groan against the crook of his neck. He chuckles in response.

At a red light, his hand comes down to rest over yours and squeezes once. The touch is reassuring. You move your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

“Doing okay back there?”

“Ask me when I can feel my legs again!”

“I’d rather ask now,” he says, his voice just below a whisper. You can hear the sound reach you, consider how close he is. “I can feel you blushing, you know. You’re warm.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. The sound vibrates through his back, through your chest, through the bone. You tighten your arms around his waist. He turns slightly. You raise your head in response. His eyes are locked onto yours. Before you can ask what he’s planning, his lips graze your forehead. It’s a bit of an awkward movement, considering the helmet, but it gets your cheeks hot either way.

The light turns green. He twists the throttle and the world speeds up again.

+++

He pulls up in front of your building. The engine cuts out. The sudden silence is almost louder than the roar. You don’t let go right away. Neither does he. Your legs have completely given up on you from the ride. Plus the feel of his torso under your hands, the kiss on your forehead—

“We’re here,” he says.

“I can see that.”

His thumb traces a circle on your knuckles, just like in the store. Then he pulls away, swinging off the bike. He offers you a hand.

You take it. Your legs are wobbly. He steadies you with a hand on your elbow.

“Told you,” he says. “Not going to let you fall.”

You unbuckle the helmet and hand it back to him. His fingers brush yours. You almost lean in, instinctively searching for his touch.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Seven. The pier.”

“You’re really set on those hot dogs.”

“I’m really set on you.”

You might actually melt.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You’re about to step back towards the apartment entrance, but a thought stops you.

“How do you know where I live?”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see how his fingers twitch.

“The hospital,” he says. “They gave me your paperwork. Thought I was your emergency contact.”

“You didn’t correct them?”

He looks at you. There’s something soft in his expression, a familiar glint in his eyes. The streetlights reflect in his gaze.

“Didn’t seem like the right time to argue.”

You can’t turn around. Not yet. There’s a thought forming—one that you’re not sure how it will end, but the warmth spreading in your body moves you on its own despite the cold. Despite the beating of your heart.

You take a step near Jason. His eyes follow you. There’s confusion in his expression as his brows furrow. You lean over, and your lips brush his cheek. His skin is surprisingly soft—even the faint scar running down the cheek is tender.

He goes very still.

You pull back. Your face is hot. Your heart is loud in your ears. You’re sure you look ridiculous.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For the ride. For the hospital. For—” you gesture vaguely at all of him, “—everything.”

Jason blinks. His lips part, but close just as soon.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is rougher than before. “Yeah, I—” He clears his throat. “Any time, sweetheart.”

The nickname lands differently now. Like there’s something tangible here. Like you won’t only hear him say that in some sketchy shop, behind a counter.

You turn towards your building. Your hand is on the door when he speaks again.

“Hey.”

You look back.

He’s still standing by the bike. One hand is in his pocket. The other is holding both helmets. The white streak in his hair catches the streetlight.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Seven. The pier, remember?”

“I know.”

“Just wanted to make sure.”

You smile. It’s as if you can’t help it.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight.”

You slip inside and close the door. You lean against the wood. There’s no one else in the apartment lobby. The silence doesn’t bother you one bit. The beating pace of your heart is still ringing in your ears.

Through the glass, you watch him stand there for a long moment. Then he shakes his head—at himself, probably—and swings a leg over the bike.

The engine rumbles. The taillight disappears around the corner.

You press your finger to your lips. His cheek was so soft.

You’re so gone.

+++

You don’t get a wink of sleep. You’re mostly sure it’s not because of the concussion. You’ve been staring at the ceiling fan in the middle of your bedroom. It turns and turns nonstop, just like your wandering thoughts.

The sheets feel too warm, bordering on hot. Maybe you’re even sweating. You turn on your stomach. The pillow isn’t cold like before. You punch it and groan into the cushion

All of this because of a date. You haven’t been on a date with a guy you actually wanted to impress in a while. And you really want to impress Jason.

You turn on your back. The ceiling fan is still turning. The faint buzz is starting to annoy you. You try to close your eyes—to force yourself to sleep—but every time you do, you’re back on that motorcycle. His back against your chest. His hand over yours at the red light. His lips on your forehead.

His lips on your forehead.

Seven o’clock. The pier.

Does he even like hot dogs? Or those carousels? Would he want to take pictures in a photo booth? Will he hold onto the picture?

You flip onto your side. Your phone screen blinks 2:47 AM at you. The ceiling fan is still turning. The whole apartment has gone quiet. It’s as if you’re holding your breath.

You have no idea what to wear.

You’ve known this man for what amounts to a handful of shifts, one robber, one hospital visit, one motorcycle ride, a kiss on your forehead, and weeks’ worth of interaction back when you thought Jason and Red Hood were different people.

Now you know something about Jason Todd that most people in this city don’t know. The man who saved your life, made sure you were safely transported to a hospital, sat in the waiting chair as you dozed off to sedatives, is the same person who patrols Gotham with guns on his back, helmet over his face, and a reputation that strikes fear in the heart of most.

You know he’s Red Hood. You’ve known for a few weeks—since the robbery attempt he saved you from. And that’s big, obviously. That’s the kind of thing that should make a normal person reconsider the whole situation from the ground up. But here’s the thing, you can’t reason around—

You’re not actually afraid of Red Hood.

You’re afraid of how little you know Jason.

Red Hood, you’ve seen. Red Hood walked into your store bleeding and smelling like smoke and gunpowder, calling you sweetheart just like a certain regular of yours—Jason. You just never connect the dots. You didn’t even have the chance before someone pointed a gun at you for a few hundred bucks. Red Hood saved you from that—he’s a known quantity. Terrifying when he wants to be, yes, but known.

Jason Todd is a person. A real one. A person who gets pink in the ears and gets nervous whenever you flirt back. He traces circles on your knuckles. He didn’t leave your side in the hospital—most of you don’t even remember other than IV bags and the mumbling of nurses. He apparently listed himself as your emergency contact. He kissed your hand in front of Marjorie and didn’t flinch when she walked out.

And tomorrow you’re going to take that person to a pier. A date you asked for, half-awake from a concussion in a hospital bed.

And he’s going to eat a hot dog, and you’re going to eat a hot dog, and then what? Will you make conversation? About what? You know he smokes Yellow Spirits, and he might speak Latin, but you’re not completely sure. You know how his expression shifts when someone actually takes the first step. You know how he tugs on his clothes when he’s nervous and thinking of something witty to say. You know he worries often, but doesn’t want to show it.

But you don’t know his favorite anything. You don’t know what vices he has other than the cigarettes. You don’t know what he does when it isn’t patrol. You don’t know what he sounds like when he’s tired, or bored, or genuinely happy about something unrelated to getting a reaction out of you.

You groan. Your pillow gets turned over and punched once more for good measure.

You really need to pull yourself together.

+++

Across the city, Jason is also staring at his ceiling.

He’s been staring at it for three hours.

Though he’s on his couch instead of his bed. The sheets were too soft. The couch is just the perfect balance between comfortable and rough that keeps him on the line between half-awake and thinking about you.

There’s a live police scanner perched on the table, just a step away from the couch. He’s been listening to GCPD officer Hunnigan complain about someone leaving cupcakes outside the precinct, worried about the possibility that there might be a bomb in the box.

There’s no chatter about your neighborhood. Thankfully.

The thing keeping him awake isn’t the date—or not just the date. He’s done things that require significantly more nerve than a pier and a hot dog. He’s bled on rooftops and talked his way out of more situations than he can count. A date shouldn’t be the thing that has him counting ceiling cracks at 3 AM.

He should probably look into fixing those cracks. You probably won’t like it when you come over.

Then it hits him—his mind is so used to the idea of you actually wanting him fully. He’s even thinking of you visiting him. Not if, but when. Jason can’t remember the last time he let himself actually enjoy something and think he deserved it at the same time. He can only dirty his hands with blood for so long before his being starts wanting something else. Someone else.

You asked him out—took the lead like no one else. Made all of this real when he thought it was temporary.

That’s the part he can’t stop turning over.

His phone buzzes.

Goldie is calling.

Jason stares at the screen. It buzzes again. He picks it up.

“Why are you calling me at three in the morning?”

“Just got back from patrol,” Dick says, still slightly out of breath. “Saw you were online. Figured you’d ignore a text.”

“I would have.”

“I know.” There’s a pause. The sound of him moving around—setting something down, pulling off a boot, probably. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Jason.”

“It’s nothing, Dick.”

“Is it the date?”

How did he even know— Tim.

“It’s the date,” Dick says.

“Goodnight.”

“Hey—hey, don’t hang up. I’m not going to make fun of you,” Dick pauses for a second. “Much.”

Jason drops his arm over his face. He lets out a muffled groan. He stares at the ceiling.

What is actually going on with him?

The fact is, he doesn’t know the answer to that. He doesn’t know what your apartment looks like. He doesn’t know if you take your coffee with anything in it. He doesn’t know what you sound like when you’re not behind a counter, on familiar ground, armed with a job to do and a register to hide your hands behind.

He knows the way you bit your lip, counting cigarette packs. He knows the color your knuckles went when you gripped the counter during the robbery. He knows you shoplift Marlboros for company and that you’ve been thinking about him—he’s almost certain—the same way he’s been thinking about you.

He knows all of that.

He doesn’t know you.

“I don’t actually know them,” Jason says. “Outside the store. I know how they act behind a counter. That’s the whole of it. Which, I guess, isn’t that big of a problem, but it is big to me. What if I want to give them flowers for the first date they themselves asked me out on, and I don’t even know their favorite color to get the proper flowers? Do they even like flowers?”

There’s silence on the other end. He should have never mentioned the flowers. Dick will never let him live it down. But a few tulips would be nice.

“Oh,” Dick says, his voice too soft for Jason’s liking. “Jay.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“That’s a very loaded oh, Jay, Dick.”

“Okay.” Dick pauses again. He can hear Dick opening what sounds like a cupboard. “Can I say something?”

“Are you seriously eating while giving me a lecture?” Jason deadpans. “You know what—sure, you’re going to say it anyway.”

“I don’t think you’re scared of not knowing them,” Duck says it slowly, like he’s gathering the right words as he goes on. “You’re scared of them knowing you. Right? That’s what it actually is.”

Jason doesn’t answer, which is an answer on its own.

He never expected you to actually ask him out, like you wanted him to stay in your life. For a moment, his heart stopped beating when the lighter fell out of his pocket that day. He was afraid you were going to look at him with an expression filled with fear, worse than you gave the bastard robber who hurt you. Every smile from you across the counter was one of the very few moments of kindness he allowed himself to have, and now, you’re giving him the chance to have more.

He doesn’t know if he deserves it.

“Yeah,” Dick’s voice rings out again. “Okay, here’s the thing, though—they knew enough about you to have asked you out, you already said yes. That counts for something.”

“It’s only a date, Dick. What if I’m not exactly what they thought I was?”

Dick stays silent for a moment. “You can’t assume before they tell you that themselves,” He clicks his tongue. “I’m just saying—go. Talk to them like a person. You’re good at that.”

“I’m genuinely not. But thanks.”

“Wear something without a bullet hole in it.”

“I have several jackets,” Jason bristles. “I’ll have you know they like my jackets very much.”

“How adorable,” Jason can imagine the ridiculous smile in his voice now. “Goodnight, little wing. Make sure to buy them flowers. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Wait, what kind of flowers—”

The call ends.

Jason holds the phone above his face for a second. His hold on the device loosens. He sets it on his chest.

The scanner crackles. Officer Hunnigan has concluded that the cupcakes are not a bomb. Gotham finally breathes out.

+++

The morning takes the longest and shortest amount of time you’ve ever experienced. It’s all a haze—your schedule passes by in a blink, but somehow you remember every impatient second.

Your bed felt too soft to leave, but you couldn’t waste a single second. You flung the sheets off your body and took in the cold breeze in stride.

By stride you mean that you burnt your food. You had completely forgotten about the eggs sizzling, too busy with the plants—the basil that you call Basil, and the palma you call Paloma—that needed watering. You had to make do with half burn sunny side ups.

Choosing an outfit was even more hectic. After staring into the mirror and rummaging in your closet for a concerning amount of time, you finally decided on a combination that checked all the boxes for you. A teal check shirt—that reminds you of the color of Jason’s eyes—hanging open over a cream lace-trim shirt—perfectly fitting for the pier. The leather at the waist of the wide beige pants reminds you of all of Jason’s leather jackets. You wonder how he’ll look tonight.

At half past four, you end up in a small antique stall near your apartment, turning something over in your hands. You’ve seen him handle his lighter with care, like it’s something precious to him. While you genuinely don’t want to encourage his smoking, you so want to get him a gift that isn’t too much, but not too little at the same time. You’re turning a cigarette case over in your hands.

Silver, engraved, scroll-work pressed into every edge, a cross at the center of it. It’s not entirely identical to his lighter—different enough to be its own thing. Definitely old enough to have some history to it already. You turn it over once. It catches the shop light.

You buy it, putting it in your jacket pocket.

+++

He’s already there.

You see him from a distance—near the carousel, one elbow on the railing, looking out at the water. He’s wearing a distressed leather jacket, worn brown at every edge, open over a teal silk button-up that’s soft enough to have been washed a hundred times. He looks like he found the clothes in a very good pile and put them on without thinking, which means he thought about it, which you clock and feel a warmth already settling in your chest.

His white streak catches the late light. He looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be, like he was meant to be here, like the tourists flowing around him are the ones out of place, like absolutely nothing in the world could make him look uncomfortable standing exactly where he’s standing.

Of course he does.

He turns before you reach him. Some trained thing—he turns and hides one side of his body quickly. Strange. His eyes land on you, and he straightens up, one hand coming out of his pockets.

You cross the last of the distance.

The first thing he does is look at you—actually look, the way he does from across a counter but without anything between you—and then his gaze drops once, sees your outfit, and something shifts in his expression that isn’t quite a smile yet.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a very specific tone for nothing.”

He nods toward you. “You’re wearing—” He stops. Looks down at his own button-up, then back at you. The teal of his shirt against the warm brown of his leather.

Teal. Both of you. Without any coordination whatsoever.

“We match,” he says.

“We do not—”

“We match a little.”

“That’s—I didn’t—” You look down at yourself, then at him, then back at yourself. “This is what I always wear.”

“Me too,” he says, and the corner of his mouth pulls up.

“You’ve got that smirk on your face,” you point at him.

“I’m literally not doing anything,” he raises his hands as a laugh escapes him.

“You’re smiling about it. Look at you—all giddy about us matching.”

“I’m not smiling. I might be giddy about—” Jason stops mid-sentence.

“About what?”

“About the flowers I got for you,” he finally says. “I didn’t know your favorites, so I badgered the receptionist at the flower shop for a good hour before the entire staff settled on tulips.”

Now you realize why he was hiding his side—he was covering the flowers. A small bouquet sits easily in his hand—five or six tulips, stems still green and dewy, heads just beginning to open. Petals in soft blush and cream, edges faintly flushed like they’ve caught a little sun. The stems are gathered loosely, tied with thin twine, wrapped in simple brown paper that crinkles when it moves.

“Oh, Jay,” you can’t contain the surprised tone in your voice. “Thank you. I’ve never gotten flowers on a first date. This is so thoughtful.”

Your fingers brush as he hands the bouquet to you.

“I’m glad you like them,” he says, voice slightly shaky.

“Like them? I love them.”

The smell is divine, too. The petals are soft to the touch as your fingers graze them.

Maybe you shouldn’t have been worried at all. Maybe—just maybe—tulips, hot dogs, and the pier in the evening is the perfect date.

+++

The hot dogs are, in fact, good.

You eat them at the railing overlooking the water. The bay is grey and moving, catching the last of the afternoon light in pieces. The carousel music drifts from behind you—the looping kind that should be annoying but, thank god, isn't. Gulls argue overhead—which is annoying.

You are aware, with the particular sharpness that comes with being out of your element, that this is the longest uninterrupted conversation you've ever had with him. There’s just the railing, the water, and the fact that you don’t actually know what to say to him.

You learn things. Even if it all goes a bit slowly.

He doesn’t volunteer much, but if you hand him a thread, he’ll follow it—you mention the weird overnight hours your store keeps, and he tells you about a diner upstate that only opened between 10 PM and 3 AM, best pie he’d ever had, in the middle of nowhere, and he’d stumbled into it during—he pauses—a long drive. You don’t ask about the drive. You can guess.

You tell him that your landlord doesn’t let you keep pets, that you’d love to own a cat. You tell him you almost switched jobs twice, but something about the night shift felt like your own city, like Gotham belonged to you in some small way between midnight and six.

He looks at you when you say that. Something shifts in his expression.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know that feeling.”

“I bet you do.”

A second passes. He looks back at the water.

“I don’t talk about it,” he says. “The other thing. In case you were—”

“I know,” you say. “I’m not asking.”

“Good.”

“I mean—I have questions. Objectively. I think anyone would.”

“But you’re not asking me about it.”

“Not yet, but I know it’ll take time. I can wait. I’m willing to wait.” You allow.

Wait for him.

That pulls the corner of his mouth up.

+++

The cigarette case comes out somewhere between the hot dogs and the carousel. It had to—or you’d probably melt on the spot if it stayed in your pocket for any longer.

“I got you something,” you say. Then, immediately, “it’s not a big deal. Don’t make a whole thing of it.”

You’re not sure your heart can take it.

You hold it out. He goes still in response. His eyes trail over the engraving. His fingers graze yours as you hand it to him.

“I’m not sure if you already have one,” you say. “I mean, if you do—I’m not trying to replace it. And then the bouquet, this case feels a bit underwhelming in comparison,” you stop. “I’m doing the thing. Blabbering. Sorry.”

"I like listening to you," he says, and you have to ignore the heat in your cheeks. “You don’t have to explain yourself if you don’t want to,” he stammers. “I’m glad you thought of me. Thank you.”

He has no idea how long you’ve been thinking of him.

His thumb traces the cross at the center, then the scroll-work at the edges. He puts it in his jacket pocket.

“It’s so you have something to remember me by,” you say. “In case this goes terribly, and we never speak again.”

“If this goes terribly,” he says, “you can have it back, as a keepsake.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Then we’d better hope it doesn’t go terribly.”

+++

It doesn’t go terribly.

It goes strange, though. Not bad-strange. The particular strangeness of two people who know pieces of each other, trying to find the whole. You catch yourself mid-sentence more than once, reaching for a thing to say and realizing you don’t actually have the context for it—you don’t know his schedule, you don’t know who he spends time with when he isn’t patrolling, you don’t know if there's a life outside of this city that he misses or if Gotham is the whole of it.

You ask about the languages. He'd dropped it into the conversation casually, like it was nothing, like he wasn’t watching to see how you’d react.

“How many?”

“A few.”

“That’s not a number, Jason.”

“Six.”

“Six?”

“It‘s useful.”

“I’m sure it’s incredibly useful for—” you pause, gesturing vaguely at all of him—“what you do. But also, six?”

“Would you like me to prove it?”

“I absolutely would.”

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. You feel the weight of it.

“Enta ahla min al-qamar nafsu.”

You try to make sense of it—five or six words in something that sounds like it came from further down his heart than the other words he’s told you.

“What was that one?” You ask.

“Arabic.”

"What did it mean?”

He pauses for a second. His eyes trail to the sky. “That the moon is out.”

You look up. The sky is not yet dark enough for the moon. You look back at him.

He’s already looking at the water.

Liar, you think, and feel your face go warm without knowing exactly what those words meant.

“You like showing off,” you say.

"I like to show off when you’re paying attention.”

“I’m always paying attention.”

“I know,” his tone is so light. “That’s the thing. You’re impressed with me.”

The carousel music turns behind you. The water moves. Your heartbeat is louder than any background noise. You try to snap your gaze away from his. A small photo booth catches your attention.

“You’re too cocky,” you start. “I have the perfect idea to humble you.”

“Really?” Jason raises a brow. “I’d like to see you try.”

You gesture to grab his wrist. He lets you go with no complaints. Your fingertip grazes his pulse point. You can feel the unsteady beat of his heart. He moves his hand, pinky settling against yours, and then his palm covers your hand entirely, and his thumb traces that small circle on your knuckles—the same one as always, the one he probably doesn’t know he does.

You lead him towards the photo booth. The city glitters across the water. The string lights along the restaurant edge blink on, stringing gold over the railing. The crowd moves in tandem. His hand sometimes settles on your back, grazing the clothed skin—like he’s making sure you get through the crowd.

“Photo booth?” Jason’s expression changes.

“Afraid of getting your picture taken?”

He snorts. “C’mon.”

Now he’s the one leading you towards the booth.

+++

The booth is near the front of the pier, tucked between a posters-and-prints shop and a churro stand. The curtain is dark red and crooked. You look at it and then at him.

“On second thought, I don’t think we’re going to fit.”

“We’ll fit.”

You fit barely. His shoulder is pressed against yours, arm behind you to make room, and your knees are almost touching in the cramped plastic seat. The screen counts down.

3—2—1—

The first shot: you, mid-laugh at something he said too low to be anything but for you, and him, watching you laugh like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Like he wants to bottle the sound up to hear it over and over again.

3—2—1—

Second shot: you make a face. He doesn’t. His one arm is around your shoulders, chin tilted down, smiling into the top of your head.

3—2—1—

You turn toward him. He turns toward you. You can feel his nose graze your cheek as you turn. His eyes have never looked so dim—a small sparkle against the sea-green. You swallow.

The machine spits out two warm strips. You take yours. The last frame: his mouth against your cheek, your lips are parted, both of you slightly blurred, mid-motion.

You look at it for a long moment.

He looks at his copy for a moment too. Then he takes out the cigarette case— your cigarette case, the new one, still without a single cigarette in it—opens it, and tucks the photo strip inside against the silver interior. He closes it and puts it back into his pocket.

+++

The pier is quieter now. The crowd has thinned out—families with young kids gone home, couples migrating toward the bars and restaurants furthest down. The string lights are brighter against the darkening sky. The water is black and restless.

You walk with your shoulders touching. His hands find yours again. You two try to talk about the small things.

He tells you about a book he’s reading. You tell him about the plant Marjorie keeps forgetting to water, the one you’ve been secretly taking care of for months.

“I knew it,” he says.

“Knew what?”

“You’re a plant person.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“That’s absolutely a thing.”

You roll your eyes. He squeezes your hand.

You pass a bench near the end of the pier. It’s old, wood slats painted green, chipping at the edges. The railing in front of it looks out over the water. No one else is around.

“You wanna sit?” He asks.

“Do you want to sit?”

“I asked first.”

You roll your eyes again, but the gesture has no bite.

You sit.

The wood is cold through your pants. The wind is picking up, coming off the water in gusts. Jason shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can say anything. It’s warm. It smells like him.

“Now you’re going to be cold,” you note.

“I run hot.”

“That’s not—” you stop to shake your head. “Smooth. Very smooth.”

He lets out a breathless laugh.

You sit in silence for a while. The water moves. The string lights flicker. Somewhere, a boat horn sounds in the distance.

“The moon’s finally out,” you say. You reach over, turning his face towards yours with your fingers on his chin. “What did you actually say before?”

He swallows. His eyes are wide. The green is almost gone, swallowed by the night.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“I will. Someday.” His hand drops and finds yours on the bench. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want you to wonder.” His mouth twitches. “Because I want you to think about it on the walk home. And tomorrow morning. And the next time you see me.”

He leans in. His lips graze your forehead. They’re soft on your skin.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”

+++

The walk is everything you expected it to be. His hand is in yours. He didn’t come to the pier with his motorcycle. Your heart hopes it’s because he wanted to walk you home, wishing to spend even longer with you. His jacket is still around your shoulders.

You haven’t returned it. It’s not like he has asked for it back. You have a feeling that he won’t.

The streets are empty. You don’t feel afraid, not with Jason by your side. A cat darts across the sidewalk and disappears into an alley. Somewhere, a door slams. A radio plays from an open window—some song you don’t recognize.

Jason’s thumb traces circles on your knuckles.

You stop in front of your building. Everything feels different from last night.

You turn to face him. His hands fall and find your hips. Your hand finds his chest—the teal button-up, the one that matches yours, the one you’re going to think about every time you open your closet. Your other hand grips the bouquet closer.

“Tonight was good,” you say.

“Tonight was great.”

You lean up. Your lips graze his skin as you kiss his cheek. His skin is warm.

“So, the day after tomorrow,” you say. “It’s my day off.”

“I know.”

“Right,” you raise a brow. “You already know my schedule.”

The tips of his ears turn a light shade of pink. You can see the faint dust of the same color across his freckled cheeks.

“I’ll visit,” he says, fingertips tracing small circles on your hips.

You pull back. Your hand is on the door.

“Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the tulips. For not being weirded out by the cigarette case. For—” you gesture with your hands, “—everything, I suppose. I know I say thank you a lot,” just like last night, “but I mean it. Every single word.”

He smiles at your nervous expression.

“Any time, sweetheart.”

You should go inside. You know you should go inside. But you don’t move. Neither does he.

“I’m going to figure out what you said, by the way.”

His expression flickers.

“You can try.”

“Is that a challenge?”

His mouth curves. “More like a promise.”

You two end up with your gazes locked onto each other. The streetlight buzzes. The city hums. Somewhere, a siren wails in the distance. It’s close, then far, then gone.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You slip inside and close the door. Your grip around the handle is strong, knuckles straining.

Through the glass, you watch him stand there for a moment. His hand is in his pocket—touching the cigarette case, probably, or the lighter, or both—and then he looks up at the window. He knows you’re watching.

You think about the weight of his gaze on the walk up the stairs. And in the shower. And in bed, staring at the ceiling.

You’re so gone, but you don’t mind at all.

⋆˙⟡ extra notes: thank you to jo again for witnessing me write this wip & rory for translating the arabic text for me. honestly, it was such a ride to make this. i wanted to keep it a tad realistic, reader won’t jump into a relationship with a vigilante they don’t know yet. there are two scenes here in which jason drops them off. they are similar because they are parallel scenes, showing the progression of the relationship before and after the date.

⋆˙⟡ tag list: the people who asked for part two — @cnqfeusd ; general tag list — @simpingmyassoff @deluludaydreamerr @mistbornwithawritingproblem @eas-8 @borednessa @xolollipop @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @fromrory @coffeelovingreader @loserinadress @currentblasphemy ! if anyone wants to be added or removed send me a message.

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.

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