Gaze Into The Abyss

the plaques in his hand feel heavier than they should. ‘for exceptional valor and strategic brilliance in the neutralization of villains” and “for outstanding contributions to civilian safety” bullshit.

all he did was what he always does: find the bad guys and blow them the hell up. but the cameras keep flashing, and a portly man in a too-tight tux is slapping his back and telling him he’s a credit to the nation. katsuki bares his teeth in what he hopes passes for a smile.

his agent, a harried-looking woman with a clipboard, had drilled it into him: “smile, dynamight. look approachable. you’re a brand.”

a brand. right now, he feels like a malfunctioning appliance about to short-circuit and take out a whole power grid. his eyes keep drifting away from the sponsor, scanning the opulent ballroom. it’s a sea of shimmering gowns and dark suits, of sparkling champagne flutes and forced smiles. but he only sees one thing. you.

you’re standing near one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights a glittering backdrop behind you. you’re not dressed in anything flashy, not like some of the other heroes here trying to outshine each other. your dress is a deep, muted blue, simple in its elegance, but it clings to you in all the right places.

your hair is swept up, exposing the long, graceful line of your neck that he has spent far too many nights thinking about. you look . . . ethereal. and completely, infuriatingly, absorbed in the man standing next to you.

the number two hero, is leaning in slightly, his voice a low murmur that katsuki can’t hear but can imagine. all calm and collected and fucking loquacious. and you’re nodding, your head tilted, a genuine smile playing on your lips as you swirl the red wine in your glass. you take a sip, and your eyes, bright and beautiful, never leave his face.

it’s the two weeks of silence that makes this unbearable. two weeks since the argument. two weeks since you walked out of his penthouse, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in the sudden quiet.

he’d been an idiot. a complete, selfish bastard. he remembers it with crystal clarity. he’d gotten his ribs busted on a mission, nothing too serious, but enough to warrant a few days of mandatory rest. and you, being you, had descended upon his apartment like a force of nature.

“no, katsuki, you are not getting up. you’re going to lie on that couch and you’re going to let me take care of you.”

“i don’t need a fucking babysitter,” he’d snarled, trying to push himself up, wincing as the pain shot through his side.

“i’m not babysitting you, i’m making sure you don’t pop your stitches and bleed out on your ridiculously expensive couch because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re hurt,” you’d shot back, pressing a firm hand to his chest. “now lie down.”

he’d hated it. hated the feeling of being weak, of being managed. it reminded him too much of his mother, of all the times she’d fussed over him when he was a kid. and in a moment of frustration, laced with a fear he refused to acknowledge, he’d lashed out.

“quit nagging me, you’re not my mom or my damn girlfriend, so just back the fuck off!”

the words had hung in the air, ugly and so fucking sharp. he’d seen the change in your face instantly. the soft concern in your eyes had hardened. you’d straightened up, and your expression became unreadable.

“you’re right,” you’d said, your voice quiet and its cadence devoid of all its usual warmth. “i’m not.”

and just like that, you were gone. you didn’t yell back. you just . . . left. and the silence you left behind was louder than any explosion he could possibly ever create.

he’d told himself he was right. that you were overstepping. but the satisfaction he thought he’d feel never came. instead, there was just a hollow ache in his chest and the phantom scent of your vanilla perfume on his couch cushions.

he hadn’t texted. his pride was sacrosanct, and he couldn’t bring himself to be the first one to break the stalemate. he’d waited for you, checking his phone every five seconds like a pathetic loser. but your name never lit up his screen.

the days after the argument bled into a week, then two. the only communication he had from you was a group text about the gala, one sent to the whole old class 1-a crew. and tonight, seeing you here, looking so beautiful and so far away, it fucking hurt.

“bakugou? earth to bakugou?”

katsuki blinks, dragging his gaze away from you. kirishima is standing in front of him, his trademark sharp-toothed grin looking a little forced. sero is beside him, nursing a drink and looking around the room with a bored expression.

“the fuck do you want, shitty hair?” katsuki grunts, his voice rougher than he intended.

“whoa, easy there, man. just checking on you. you look like you’re about to set the whole place on fire,” kirishima says, holding up his hands placatingly. “which, you know, is kind of your deal, but maybe not tonight.”

sero follows his line of sight, his eyes landing on you and todoroki. he lets out a low whistle. “ahh. i see. that’s the problem.”

“shut the hell up,” katsuki warns, his knuckles white around his plaques. he can feel the heat prickling at his palms, a sizzle that he has to consciously suppress.

“look, man, i don’t know what happened,” kirishima says, lowering his voice. “but you’ve been in a foul mood for weeks. and you haven’t stopped staring at her and todoroki since they started talking. it’s been like, thirty minutes. maybe you should just . . .go talk to her?”

“and say what? ‘hey gorgeous, sorry i’m a colossal asshole but i get territorial when you talk to other guys’?” sero chimes in, earning himself a glare from katsuki. “what? it’s the truth.”

“it’s not like that,” katsuki lies through his teeth. it’s exactly like that. he’s a fucking caveman. he sees you with someone else and all he wants to do is drag you away, mark his territory, prove to everyone — but mostly to himself — that you’re his. except you’re not. and that’s the whole damn problem.

“then what’s it like?” kirishima pushes, his tone gentle. he’s the only one ( excluding you ) who can get away with this, the only one who knows how to navigate katsuki’s landmines. “you guys are weird. you’re not together, but you’re always together. you stay at her place more than your own. you have her patrol route memorized. you text her more than you text us. but then you pull shit like this. it’s confusing for everyone, man. especially her.”

katsuki’s jaw ticks. he knows kirishima is right. he knows he’s been sending you mixed signals for years.

( it started wayyy back in kindergarten, when you were the only girl who didn’t annoy the shit out of him. the only one who stood up for deku when katsuki was picking on him he was being a pathetic crybaby, earning you grudging respect from katsuki even as he cussed you out for having a bleeding savior complex.

his mom had loved you, always saying how nice it would be to have a daughter like you, which had simultaneously embarrassed him and made him weirdly proud. you’d stayed close through all the chaos of ua, through internships and wars and the steady climb to becoming pro heroes. )

he’s always had a soft spot for you, a fact he’d rather die than admit out loud.

he likes taking care of you — he likes you taking care of him, even if he frames it as nagging. he likes knowing you’re safe, that you’ve eaten, that you’re drinking water instead of those disgusting energy drinks you love so damn much. he likes the way you leave your socks on his floor and the way you steal his hoodies. he likes all of it. and it terrifies him. it’s too much vulnerability and he doesn’t know how to handle it, so he defaults to what he knows: pushing you away before you can get close enough to see that he’s not worthy of you.

“i’m not talking to her,” katsuki says, rigidly “not tonight.”

“fine,” kirishima sighs, defeated. “but don’t come ranting to me when todoroki makes his move.”

katsuki doesn’t dignify that with a response. he just turns his back on his friends, his eyes finding you again in the crowd. you’ve just accepted your own award, a sleek thing for your humanitarian work, something about setting up a support network for young heroes with trauma. you’d given a short speech, and the applause had been incessant.

now, you’re back with todoroki, and he’s handing you another glass of wine. you touch his arm as you laugh at something he says, and katsuki feels a tiny spark in his palm. he shoves his hands into his pockets, clenching his fists until the urge to blast something subsides.

he seethes as the night begins to wind down. deku and pink cheeks leave together, their heads close together, smiling. raccoon eyes is dragging sparky towards the bar again. he sees you talking to ponytail, pointing towards the exit. he knows you. you’re about to call a cab.

fuck that.

he’s been an idiot. he’s been a coward. he’s let you slip through his fingers because he’s too proud and too scared to admit what he wants. but he’ll be damned if he lets you leave here in some stranger's car when he’s right here. he’s not letting you go that easily.

without so much as thinking, he starts moving. he cuts a direct path through the dwindling crowd, his shoulders set, his expression a thundercloud. he doesn’t care who he has to shove out of his way to get to you.

you’re still talking to momo, your back to him, when he reaches you.

“let’s go.”

his voice cuts through your conversation roughly. you freeze, then turn slowly. your eyes, when they meet his, are wide with surprise, then they narrow with irritation.

“huh?” you ask, your voice laced with disbelief.

he stares at you, jaw set. “i said. let’s go.”

momo is looking between the two of you, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in intrigue. you cross your arms over your chest, defiantly

“and why, exactly, would i go anywhere with you?”

“are you gonna make me beg you or some shit”he shoots back, his patience wearing thin. he sees your mouth open to retort, but he doesn’t give you the chance. he reaches out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. he doesn’t wait for your permission, just turns and starts pulling you along with him.

“bakugou, what the hell are you doing? let go of me!” you’re squawking, stumbling a bit in your heels as you try to keep up with his long, angry strides.

“shut up and walk,” he growls, not even looking back at you. as he drags you away from the gala and out into the night.

the bickering starts the moment you hit the pavement. a verbal sparring match that’s as second-nature as breathing.

“you’re an asshole, you know that?”

“yeah? well you’re a stubborn pain in my ass.”

“i wouldn’t have to be stubborn if you weren’t such a neanderthal who thinks he can just manhandle people whenever he wants.”

“i wouldn’t have to manhandle you if you’d just listen when i fucking talk to you.”

“you haven’t ‘talked’ to me in two weeks, bakugou!”

“you haven’t talked to me either”

the argument dies on your lips as he leads you to the valet stand. he gives the attendant his ticket with a sharp nod, his hand still firmly on your wrist. the sleek black porsche pulls up a moment later, its engine a low, predatory purr. he opens the passenger door for you, a gesture so out of character it momentarily stuns you into silence.

“get in,” he orders, his voice clipped.

you glare at him, but you do it. you slide into the plush leather seat, grumbling under your breath about bossy, arrogant pro-heroes who think they own the world. he slams the door shut, rounding the hood to get in the driver’s side. the moment he’s behind the wheel, the atmosphere in the car shifts. the music blasts on, some thrash metal band screaming about death and destruction, so loud it makes your teeth ache.

he doesn’t say a word. he just grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, the veins in his forearms standing out like cords. he peels away from the curb, the tires screeching in protest. you press yourself back into the seat, staring at the dashboard, refusing to look at him. the city lights blur past the window, streaks of color in the darkness.

ten minutes pass in suffocating silence. the only sound is the aggressive music and the low hum of the engine. you can’t stand it. it’s worse than the fighting.

“you know,” you start “for someone with such great taste in cars, your music taste is absolute garbage.”

he grunts. but he reaches over, his fingers jabbing at the touchscreen on the console. the screaming metal cuts off abruptly, replaced by the soft strains of an indie band you love.

you shiver, a sudden chill raising goosebumps on your arms. the air conditioning is cranked up to arctic levels. he notices, of course he does. he just nods his head towards the back seat, where his suit jacket is carelessly tossed.

you hesitate for a second, then sigh, reaching back to grab it. you shrug it on, the heavy fabric immediately enveloping you. it smells like him. that woodsy, smoky cologne he wears, mixed his the unique scent. it’s simultaneously comforting and infuriating. he reaches down without a word and turns the ac down a few notches.

but he still doesn’t speak to you.

“can i ask you something, bakugou?” you ask,

the constant use of his last name hits him like a punch to the gut. so it’s like that now? he grits his teeth, his jaw ticking like a time bomb. “you just did, dumbass,” he scoffs.

“don’t be a smartass,” you snap, your voice rising. “why the hell did you make me come with you if you’re not going to talk to me?”

“you’re the one who didn’t say shit to me all night!” he retorts, “i walked in, saw you, and you looked right through me. not even a fucking ‘hi, katsuki’”

“maybe because you didn’t say shit to me all week!” you fire back, turning in your seat to face him. your eyes are blazing, and in the dim glow of the dashboard, he can see how beautiful you are when you’re angry.

“yeah? maybe because you fucking left!” he scoffs, his hand slamming on the steering wheel. the car swerves slightly.

“don’t act like i wanted to!” you shout, your voice cracking with frustration. “i took off because you can’t make up your damn mind! one minute you’re acting like we’re a . . . a thing, and the next you’re pushing me away and making me feel crazy for actually giving a damn about you!”

“what are you talking about?” he growls, his eyes glued to the road.

“oh, don’t play dumb, bakugou!” you exclaim, gesturing wildly. “you stay at my place and make me breakfast in the morning. you’re always showing up on my patrol route to ‘check in’. you’re always sending me texts, being all ‘don’t skip meals like a dumbass’ and ‘drink some fucking water today like a normal person’ and ‘don’t stay up all night watching those shitty rom-coms, you’ll be useless tomorrow’ ! you’re the one who acts like we’re a couple, and then you turn around and make me feel like i’m wrong for caring about you!”

he’s silent. the only sounds in his porsche are your ragged breathing and the soft music playing from the speakers. he just drives, his face a mask of stone. the silence is worse than the yelling. it feels like a dismissal.

“well?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. “do you have anything to say?”

“well i’m trying to think,” he grits out, his voice low and strained.

but he hasn’t raised his voice. not once. through the entire tirade, he’s kept it level, controlled. because as pissed off as he is, as much as he wants to rage and scream, he can’t. he can’t scream at you. he can’t stay mad at you. not really. not when you look like this.

your glossy bottom lip is caught between your teeth, your brows are knitted together, your eyes are slanted with a fury that’s breathtakingly beautiful. your voice, high and pitched with emotion, is reverberating off the windows, filling the small space with your presence. he hates it. he loves it.

you look away from him, staring out the window, your shoulders slumping in defeat. and that’s when he breaks. one hand is still on the wheel, but the other moves, finding its way to your thigh. his touch is hesitant at first, then firm against the thin fabric of your dress.

“look,” he starts, “i’m sorry, ‘kay?”

you scoff, not looking at him.

“i fucked up but that doesn’t mean you need to run off with someone else,” he says, his voice strained with jealousy he can no longer hide.

you let out a humorless laugh, finally turning back to him “i didn’t run off with anyone else.”

“you know what i mean,” he insists, his grip on your thigh tightening slightly.

“no, katsuki, i don’t think i do,” you say, “why don’t you spell it out for me?”

“i’m not gonna spell it out for ya,” he grunts, his eyes flicking to you before returning to the road. “it’s bad enough he was hogging you all night.”

“are you jealous, katsuki?” you ask, your voice softening, a hint of realization dawning in your eyes.

“huh?”

“are you jealous, katsuki?” you echo, enunciating each word clearly.

“the hell?” he sputters, his composure finally cracking.

“jealous. like the feeling you get when you’re scared of losing someone to someone else and—”

“i’m not scared of shit!” he snarls, cutting you off.

the car is low on gas, the warning light a small, glowing beacon on the dashboard. he spots a gas station up ahead and swerves into the lot, pulling up to a pump with a screech of tires. he cuts the engine. the music dies, plunging the car into a heavy silence that’s more deafening than the noise had been.

he turns to you then, his face illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights of the gas station.

“jealousy is for fucking losers who are scared of shit they can’t control,” he says, “that’s not what this is. this is me being pissed off because i had to watch the only person i actually give a damn about laugh at some half-and-half bastard’s shitty jokes. it made me want to put my fist through a goddamn wall.”

he takes a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel.

“i told you to quit nagging me because this is confusing,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper. “i don’t fucking know where i stand with you. and i’m not used to feeling like this. i never know what to do, and i’m always fucking up and pushing you away. but i’m not jealous. i’m fucking pissed with myself for being a damn coward.”

and with that, he shoves his door open and gets out of the car, leaving you alone with his words and the frantic beating of your own heart.

you watch him through the windshield as he jams the nozzle into the gas tank, his movements sharp and angry. he stares blankly ahead.

he fills the tank. he replaces the nozzle. he gets back in the car. he starts the engine. he turns to look at you, his expression raw and vulnerable.

and you’re done. you’re done with the fighting and the silence. you’re done with the uncertainty. you lean across the center console, the plastic digging into your abdomen, and you cup his face in your hands. his skin is warm, his stubble rough against your palms. his ears and cheeks flush instantly, a deep, burning red that rivals his crimson eyes. a deep red that you can see even in the dim light.

“the hell are you doing?” he manages to stutter, his eyes wide with shock.

you don’t answer. you just close the distance and press your lips to his.

it’s not gentle. it’s all the frustration and longing and unspoken feelings of the last two weeks finally exploding. it’s teeth and tongues and desperate, hungry kisses. one of his hands comes up to tangle in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’re going to slip through his fingers. you get lost in it, in the taste of him, in the feel of him whimpering against your lips, until a loud, impatient honk from the car behind you shatters the moment.

you pull back, breathless, your lips swollen and tingling. he moans, a low, frustrated sound, and you can’t help but laugh. he looks like he’s about to get out of the car and start a fight, even though he’s the one blocking the pump.

“be patient for fucks sake!” he yells, winding down his window to flip the other driver off.

you’re still laughing as he pulls away from the pump and merges back onto the empty street. the sound of your laughter seems to quench some of his remaining anger, and a small, reluctant smile tugs at his lips.

“we left our conversation unfinished,” he says, his voice softer now. he glances over at you, and his eyes are funny. all soft and warm in a way you've never seen before. “can’t just kiss me out of the blue when we’re not done talking, dumbass”

“unfinished, huh?” you hum, a little flustered under his gaze. you can still feel the lingering sensation of his lips on yours, the ghost of his touch on your skin. “i thought we came to a pretty solid conclusion.”

he scoffs, but there’s no frustration in it. “we came to a conclusion about me being a coward. we still haven’t figured out what this is.” he gestures between the two of you. “i’m not good with labels and shit. and you’ve got so many expectations i probably won’t meet. i’m guaranteed to fuck something up ‘cause i don’t know how to be all . . . lovey dovey,” he says the words like they taste bad, “but i know what i want.”

he pulls up to a red light and turns his body fully towards you. the soft glow of the traffic light paints his face in shades of crimson, making his eyes glow like embers.

“i want you to stop looking at icy-hot and other extras like they’ve got something to offer you,” he says, “cause they fucking don’t. i’m all you need and i’m done pretending this isn’t everything to me.”

the man who’s too proud to ask for anything is asking to be your everything.

“everything?” you whisper, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he simply nods.

“define everything,” you tease, a smirk playing on your lips. you expect him to call you a brat, to accuse you of trying to rile him up. but it doesn’t come.

instead, he looks away from the road for a second, his gaze dropping to your hands, which are now tangled together on the center console. the red light bathes him in its unforgiving glow, and you see something shift in his expression. the defensiveness melts away, replaced by honesty that’s far more disarming.

“everything,” he repeats, his voice a low rumble, “is you living in my head rent fucking free.”

your smirk falters.

“it’s me getting pissed off for no goddamn reason when you’re not with me and i don’t know what the hell you’re doing. it’s me staring at my phone after that stupid argument, wanting to text you so bad my thumbs fucking hurt, but not knowing what the hell to say because i’m the asshole who made you to leave.”

he takes a shaky breath, his eyes fixed on the steering wheel now, as if confessing to it is easier than confessing to you.

“it’s me wanting to drag you away from icy-hot the second i saw you with him, not just because i was pissed, but because i’m greedy, okay? i want all that shit you watch in those dumb rom coms. i want an apartment, or a shitty little townhouse, i don’t give a fuck. i want to wake up and know you’re the first thing i’ll see. i want to cook for you because you seem to get off on neglecting yourself and someone’s gotta make sure you actually eat your goddamn three a day. i want to take care of you.”

he finally looks at you, and his eyes are burning with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

“that’s what everything is,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “it’s selfish. it’s me wanting all of your time, all of your attention, all of your annoying, stubborn, fucking beautiful self. all to myself. it’s me wanting to be the one who makes you laugh. it’s me wanting to be the only one who gets to see you like this. so yeah. you’re everything to me.”

the light turns verdant. the car behind you honks. but neither of you moves. you’re frozen in this moment. static in this raw confession that has completely dismantled every defense he’s ever built around you. he didn’t just answer your teasing question; he laid his soul bare on the console between you, waiting for you to either take it or leave it.

the world shrinks to the space inside his car. the honking from behind fades into a distant, meaningless buzz. your teasing smirk is long gone, replaced by a slack-jawed awe. you’re not breathing. you’re not sure you even remember how.

katsuki bakugou — the boy who called you a bloody samaritan for standing up for deku. the teenager who scoffed at every romance movie you made him watch. the explosive hero who snarls at cameras and sneers at press conferences — just confessed to wanting a life so domestic, so tender with you. and it sounded just like something straight out of one of those ‘shitty rom coms’ he claims to hate.

a choked sound escapes your throat, something between a gasp and a sob. you’re not crying, not really, but your eyes are stinging. you squeeze his hand, your grip tight enough to make him look at you, really look at you.

“katsuki,” you breathe, and his name is a prayer on your lips. “you. . you really want all that?”

he flinches, just slightly, as if your disbelief physically hurts him. the vulnerability in his eyes hardens into that familiar, defensive glower. “i just laid my damn heart out for you and you’re gonna question me?” he starts to snap, his old reflexes kicking in.

“no,” you shake your head. you lean forward, closing the distance until your forehead is nearly touching his. “no, i’m not questioning you. i’m . . . trying to believe it’s real.”

the anger in his face dissolves instantly. he lets out a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping. “it’s real,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “it’s always been real.”

your heart stutters, then restarts at a frantic, pace. all the years of friendship, the bickering, the unspoken tension—it wasn’t in your head. it wasn’t just you wishing for something more. it was real for him, too.

“tsuki, i’ve wanted this forever” you whisper back, your voice trembling. it’s like you’ve just defused a bomb you’ve been carrying around for a decade. the last of the tension drains from his shoulders, and he sags against you, his forehead resting on yours. he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again they’re the softest they’ve ever been and his pupils are blown so impossibly wide.

“me too” he breathes, reverently. “you have no idea.”

he finally starts driving again. you’re so close to your place now. rounding the corner onto your street. when he finally pulls up in front of your buildinh, he cuts the engine but doesn’t let go of your hand. he turns to you, his expression serious again

“i’m gonna say this once” he starts, his voice low. “so you better be listening.”

he leans in closer, “you’re not my mom. you’re not some random girl to me. you’re it. you’ve always been it. i was just too stupid to say it. so if i’m being a dumbass, you tell me. if i’m not taking care of myself, you nag me. if i’m pushing you away, push back harder. don’t you ever let me get away with that shit again. you hear me?”

“i hear you,” you whisper, your heart swelling so much it feels like it might burst.

“good,” he says, and then he’s kissing you again. it’s slower this time, deeper, a kiss that’s not born of frustration or desperation, it’s sealing of the deal.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “now,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. “are you gonna invite me up, or are we gonna sit here all night? i didn’t fill up my tank to just drive you home and leave.”

a laugh bubbles up from your chest, light and airy. you pull back just enough to look at him, to see the hope mixed with his usual cocky assurance in his eyes.

“i mean. . “ you trail off, reaching up and tracing your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, “after a speech like that, how could i possibly say no?”

he huffs, contently. he nips playfully at your thumb as it passes his lips. “don’t you fucking start with me,” he warns

you lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “i’m starting” you whisper against his skin. “come make it up to me before i change my mind”

that’s all the encouragement he needs. he’s out of the car in a flash, rounding the hood to open your door with an urgency that makes your heart race. he offers you his hand, and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet and into his arms right there on the sidewalk. he kicks the car door shut with his foot, the sound echoing in the quiet night, and then his arms are around you, lifting you slightly off the ground.

you laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “god, you smell good,” he murmurs, his voice muffled.

you’re not sure how you make it from the car to your front door. it’s a blur of tangled limbs, laughter, and kisses that are more about staying connected than anything else. he presses you against your door. he’s fumbling for your keys, his hands clumsy with impatience, and you’re not helping, too busy nipping at his jawline.

“give me the damn keys,” he groans

you hand them over, and he manages to get the door open after a few tries. he practically kicks it open, scooping you up again and carrying you over the threshold like it’s your wedding night. he kicks the door shut behind him, plunging the entryway into darkness, save for the soft glow of the city filtering through your windows.

he sets you down gently, but he doesn’t let go. his hands are on your waist, his forehead resting against yours.

“katsuki,” you whisper, your voice trembling as his calloused fingers slip the straps of your dress down your arms.

“shh,” he murmurs, his lips finding yours in the darkness. “no more talking baby”

and for the first time, you think you might actually be okay with that.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my to-”

The shake of your doorknob sobers you completely. No longer immersed in the book, but staring doom in the face. You weren’t expecting anyone. No one was supposed to be here, not at this time anyway. It was a little after one in the morning, which only meant one thing in Gotham.

Trouble.

The handle on your front door kept jangling, and you could hear the lot of them outside messing with the lock. Practically shooting off the sage couch, you dart toward your bedroom. The door shuts behind you as quickly and quietly as possible. Flipping the silver notch to lock you inside, adrenaline starts pumping through your veins. Your eyes are frantically examining all your furniture to fins the most feasible piece to block the door. In a desperate attempt at survival, you muster all the strength you can manage at 1 a.m. to push your dresser.

The dresser was ancient and colored with a faded spruce stain. Your brother had gifted it to you as one of his legendary Facebook marketplace finds.

He loved to play this game to see how much he could lowball the sellers and get away with it. After each buy, he would call you to tell you how much he managed to get discounted off. You could always hear the smirk in his voice, proud of himself and his bargaining skills. As you reminisce on the memory while pathetically shoving the dresser, you think of him.

This is exactly why he didn’t want you to get your masters at GothamU.

There was a whispering voice in your head that wanted to put off telling him about this as long as you could. You knew exactly what the phone call would sound like. The first thing he would do would be to tell you “I told you so” and the next would be him packing your bags to move you back to Central City.

The ricochet of your front door off the wall halts you in your tracks. The vibrations of the insane  force are felt through the foundations of your shitty apartment. You say a silent prayer to any deity listening when you finally manage to get your dresser to block some of the door. Your lamp next to the couch was still on and you hope their stupid enough to think that you didn’t really acre about your electric bill.

It’s only a matter of time until they realize that someone was in fact home.

Your phone lights up from your nightstand with a notification from your brother highlighting the lockscreen. That development springs you into action, finally making an attempt to ask for help. From what you could hear, there were about three of them out there. The drawers in your kitchen were being pulled off the rails, cabinets were being thrown open, books were being fanned out for extra cash.

It was a lost cause really, you were a broke master’s student who worked at the campus bookstore. They weren’t going to find much except frozen meals and too many annotations in between pages.

Tip-toeing to your phone, you hear them outside talking to themselves. What saves you is that you have a million little containers and trinkets that they’ll busy themselves with. It’ll take them at least ten minutes to rifle through and guess how valuable each of them are.

“Of course” you can’t help but mumble with shaking hands when you see the notification from him. Only Wally West would be up at 12:14 a.m. (Central City time) sending you an Instagram reel of Zuko in the leaked Avatar movie with a message that says “I can take him.”

I’ll take him in between the legs, you think to yourself as the edit plays.

Your guardian angel must have been tired of working overtime because something shatters in your kitchen, which catalyzes your self-preservation to kick in again. In spite of the fact you’re about to drop the phone with how much you’re shaking, your fingers manage to type out a message.

As much as I’d love to discuss how you cannot in fact “take him” I need your help

I totally can thank you very much But what’s up?

Someone broke into my apartment and I’m hiding out in my room

WHAT!?!?!?!

He instantly starts calling you. In any other circumstance an Instagram call would make you laugh, but right now you hit the decline button as fast as you can. The second it ends, another call comes through and you decline that one too.

Pick up the phone right now.

I can’t They’ll hear me talking Can you call 911 for me?

I mean I would love too but they’re not going to do anything You’re in GOTHAM. They’re probably dealing with a psychotic lion or something.

Your head falls back after reading the text. He’s not exactly wrong, but a very small part of you is trying to overpower the stressed one and stay calm. Tears are threatening your water line from terror, you’re positive that your heart is about to beat out of your chest. One of them keeps walking past the door as they tear apart your bookshelf and entertainment center, each footstep feels like a countdown.

You stare at your door with your heart in your throat when another text form Wally comes through.

I just texted Dick, someone’s going to be there soon For now go to your bathroom and barricade yourself inside This time when I call, you ARE going to PICK UP and sit with me in silence until someone gets there okay?

You barely finish reading the text when the green and red buttons appear on the screen again.

Instantly, your fingers go to the side of the phone to lower the volume. The only sound coming from either of you are heavy anxious breaths.

If it wasn’t for the no meta rule, you know he would already be halfway here. He’d threatened to break it multiple times on the grounds of you just having a bad day. You knew him not being here right now with this absolute disaster happening was killing him.

The quiet padding of your feet on the way to your bathroom sounded like bombs dropping to your ears.

Realistically, you knew they couldn’t hear it, but all your senses were at 110%. Every noise that came from outside of your bedroom felt like a crescendo to the climax of your worst nightmare. In a really strange and fucked up way, you were lucky. You’d been living in Gotham for a year and a half without having any real problems. It was about time to pay the piper.

Entering the bathroom, you delicately place your phone on the counter and shut the door behind you. The lights remain off while you slide down the wall. The timer of your call with Wally was the only source of light in the claustrophobic wash room. When it hits 2:07, they start trying your bedroom door. Wally hears it, the hitch in his breath obvious even on the lowest volume setting.

It’s going to be okay, I promise. They’ll be there soon.

His text only causes the tears to fall faster on your face. You just wanted tonight to be over.

Then you hear it.

The shatter of your living room window. It’s followed by a heavy set of footsteps that land on the floor. A few punches are thrown, some gunshots, and then you count three bodies falling to the floor.

The ringing in your ear is louder than you’re comfortable with and Wally speaks for the first time.

“Are you okay?”

It’s a miracle that you heard or even understood him. The broken speaker of your phone paired with his small whisper was almost impossible to make out.

“I think.” Is all you can say back.

Then there are three knock on your bedroom door that sends you flying to your feet. Phone in one hand and white-knuckling the counter with the other, every limb is shaking and your breathing hadn’t been coming out evenly for minutes. The room is spinning, and the aftershock is starting to sink in.

“Hey it’s me,” the voice comes out slightly awkward and you freeze. Recognition travels with a chill down your spine. “I took care of the them, you uh- you can come out now.”

There was like a million of the bats and bat-adjacent vigilantes in Gotham, and they sent him. Deep down when you heard the gunshots, you knew who it was. There was only one vigilante in that family that dared to go against the Batman’s gun ban. You were hoping that fate was going to give you a break, but that didn’t seem like it was in the cards tonight.

Once upon a time, this would’ve had relief washing over your body.

Wally used to bring you to some of the get togethers that the Titans held when you were younger. Then, thinking like a true older brother, Dick used to drag Jason along with him.

Safe to say, you both became fast friends.

You would talk about everything that came to your mind. Books, games, shoes, stuff going on in your lives, anything you could think of. Sometimes when you both got bored, you would sneak away to play video games in Wally’s room at the tower. Jason would always help you beat the levels you were stuck on in your latest save.

But, nothing perfect lasts forever.

Everything dampened when he died. It was awful to put it plainly. When he came back, it was almost worse. He changed so drastically, you almost didn’t believe that this was the same boy who gave you a forty five minute rant on why Jo was never meant for Laurie.

You couldn’t blame him for what he became, the experience was horrifyingly unique. Yet, you don’t think you’ll ever forget the last time you spoke.

It was a stupid argument in hindsight.

Dick had come to you one night, begging for you to try to get through to him. Apparently they all had given their best efforts into attempting to talk to him, and you were the last line of offense.

That was a year and a half ago.

A hesitant call of your name through the door takes you out of the memory flashing behind your eyes.

“Yeah,” your voice squeaks out with a cringe following. You didn’t realize how small it was going to sound. “I-I’ll be out, just give me a sec.”

Turning back to your phone, your throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “I’m all good Wall,” there’s a sound of relief coming through the speakers. It was almost as if he had been holding his breath for the entire three minutes of the phone call.

“Who’s with you?” The question was immediate. He heard the gunshots, he knew as well as you did who was here.

“Um,” your eyes dart up from his horrific contact photo to the door and then back down to the picture again, “Jason’s here.”

The silence from the other end of the phone was palpable. Wally knew how bad the last argument you and Jason had stung. He was the one who sat on the phone with you after. Blinking back the emotions, you steel yourself for what’s awaiting in your apartment.

You’re a big girl, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse than a shitty ex-best friend.

“I’m going to hang up now, okay?” Your hands are starting to shake again. “I gotta figure out how bad the damage is, I’ll text you with the updates.”

He could hear the words rushing to leave your mouth, a pathetic attempt at convincing yourself this was fine.

“Do you want me to come? I will, give me like ten minutes- fifteen tops, and I’ll be there. All you have to do is ask.”

You knew he would do it too, the reassurance was unnecessary. The gravity in his tone almost made you fall into the temptation. There was nothing you wanted more right now than for your brother to be here. He would know how to handle this. He would know how to wrangle Gotham vigilante’s and tell them to go to Hell.

Your strive for independence was going to be the death of you one day.

“I think I’m okay for now, but I’ll call if I need backup.”

“Okay,” a hint of defeat is mixed in with the sigh. “Well I doubt I’ll be sleeping much after this, so please just text me with what ends up happening.”

“I promise,” and because you know he’ll lose his mind all night you ask him for a different type of help. “If you want to make yourself useful, go back to scrolling on reels and send me some that I can watch later.”

“Aye Aye boss,” You can almost hear his smug grin when he gets a snort out of you. “I love you, I’ll talk to you later.”

“I love you too Wally.” When the line goes dead you hold the phone to your chest for a moment. Even with the levels of annoying you’re sure only Wally could reach, you truly could not have asked for a better brother. He always dropped whatever he was doing if you needed him.

Savoring the last moment of peace you had from the rest of the world, you lean against the counter and try to catch your breath. You were going to have to confront the disaster that was your apartment. The devil on your shoulder was contemplating to just leave it for tomorrow, but the angel reminded you that your book was out there.

Mustering up the final ounces of courage left in your stomach, you unlock the door to the bathroom. Thankfully the sanctuary that was your bedroom remained untouched, except for the dresser propped against your door.

The dresser was heavier than you remember it being a few minutes ago. Adrenaline strength truly unlocks a version of potential you didn’t know you had. The effort it takes to give you a clearing, leaves red imprints of the design on your palms. Your hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitation plain on your fingers. You were going to have to see him, you were going to have to confront him after seventeen months of no contact.

Left hand at your side, you crack each knuckle with your thumb before opening the door. Not letting yourself think too hard, it swings wide open. And there he is.

He was on one knee flipping the coffee table back over. His hands were filled with a bunch of the trinkets that made their home on it. When he hears the door open, his head whips in your direction. The air in the room depletes when the white slits of the mask meet your eyes. Both of you frozen, staring at each other with a decade of history lingering in a glance.

Uncomfortable with the silence, you start cracking the knuckles of your right hand.

You might as well have activated a sleeper agent with the movement. He suddenly remembers where he is, and shoots to his feet. Carefully cupping his hands, he moves to drop your belongings back on the table.

Peeling your eyes off his devastatingly gorgeous frame, you find the three robbers tied together hanging off your fire escape.

“I’m waiting on Dick.” His voice is gravelly and a bit panicked. In the back of your mind, you note that he turned off the modulator. “He’s on his way to pick them up and take them to the station.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you hum in reply.

Examining your apartment, it wasn’t as bad as you expected. Despite the few broken pieces of decor, the glass littered all over your living room from where Jason made his dramatically grand entrance, and your stuff being thrown everywhere, you were pretty lucky.

Noticing the way your eyes caught on the glimmering pieces of glass off the floor, he starts anxiously adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“I’m sorry about the window.” He’s rolled and unrolled the cuff of his left sleeve three times by the time he manages to speal. “I was in a rush and it seemed the fastest way in, I’ll pay for someone to fix it tomorrow.”

“I would hope so.” The answer came out like a reflex. You bite back the grimace fighting your features. You hadn’t even thanked him for the help before pouring gasoline on the fire.

He doesn’t say anything, yet his shoulders tense. Somewhere deep in places his pride won’t let him admit, he knew he deserved it, and that was enough of a punishment for you. He had to live with himself at the end of the day, what more could you ask for?

A clang on your fire escape steals your attention. Next thing you know, you’re being tackled in a bone crushing hug. If the blur of blue and black spandex didn’t’ give it away, the hints of Tom Ford cologne certainly did.

The hug is merely a second long before he pulls back and holds you at your shoulders.

“Good to see that you’re doing alright kid.” A grin is pulling at his face, but you can see the tension in his build. Wally had trusted Dick with this- with his family. That wasn’t an easy thing for anyone to do. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if something happened.

“Yeah I’m fine,” You try to laugh but it comes out weak. “I was overdue on my Gotham initiation anyway.”

 The dominos mask hides it, but by the subtle shake of his head you can tell there was an eyeroll that went along with it.

He lets go of your shoulders and you look back at the dump that was now your apartment. Jason and Dick hold each other’s gazes silently. They were speaking in the silence with movements you pretended to ignore.

You’re scratching your eyebrow when Dick starts, “Hey um, where are you staying tonight?”

Hand falling from your face, you turn to him. “What do you mean?”

Confused, he looks from you to Jason, then back to you.

“You know you can’t stay here for a few days right?” His head cocks to the side. “The cops have to come, investigate, tape it off, and we need to get someone to fix your window.”

Your eyelids blink slowly. You weren’t tired by any means, but tonight just got a hell of a lot longer. None of your friends were going to be awake and you would rather sleep under the bridge than try a hotel in Gotham you could afford.

“Fuck.” The curse barely audible when it leaves falls off your tongue.

“I mean,” Dick starts with a shrug of the shoulders. “You’re more than welcome to stay at the manor. Bruce won’t mind”

Jason’s neck snaps to Dick, the white slits of the hood widen a bit before narrowing again.

“I mean this with the upmost respect.” Your hand lays flat against your heart. “I would rather chew rocks.”

You weren’t sure how long you would need to try and find somewhere to stay, but you wanted to avoid the manor at all costs. You’d had the luxury of visiting a few times, but it always felt awkward. It was too big for you, and you really didn’t want to feel like an imposition.

Dick and Jason both snort at your reply. Both of them knew how you felt about the manor. It was breath taking, but it wasn’t somewhere you wanted to sleep in, especially for multiple nights.

“I’ll figure something out,” you sound unsure even to yourself. “I’ll just find some couches to surf for a while.”

“Yeah no, try again West.” Jason finally decides to speak for the first time since his brother’s arrival.

Your neck snaps in his direction and a fire lights behind your eyes, daring him to repeat himself. He had no right to tell you what you could, and couldn’t do. His opinions meant jack shit to you.

“Sorry kiddo,” Dick’s domino mask expands a miniscule amount, but still enough to notice. He looks like he’s been tasked to negotiate the terms of a peace treaty before World War 3 breaks out. “Wally entrusted us with your safety, which means we have to know that where you’re staying is at least somewhat protected.”

Understanding dawns on you in a cruel shiver up your spine. The second option about to be presented to you was dangling like a rotten carrot on a stick.

“It’s the manor or Jason’s place.”

Your jaw drops and you meet the latter’s gaze. The damn mask betraying no emotion, you however, don’t miss the little fidget of his foot. Your eyes narrow in between the boys.

“So what? My choices are the fourth or fifth circle of Hell?”

“C’mon the manor’s not that bad.” Dick tries to reason with you.

“Jason’s place is.”

He doesn’t deny it. No one does.

You should’ve chosen the manor, every nerve in your body was telling you that was the reasonable choice. Dick would be there for a few days, there was other life there. Yet, It was just too much and it was too far. Your commute to class would double and you liked your alone time too much to give it up.

Swallowing your pride, you turn to the boy you longer knew with a deadpan. “When do we leave?”

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

Jason’s apartment was surprisingly clean.

His apartment was embracing the minimalist aesthetic. He had never been one for many material goods because of how he was raised. That never changed, even after all the years he lived with Bruce.

The living room, where you were currently sitting, had barely anything inhabiting the space. The couch was dark and worn with some cracks in the leather, the entertainment center was a simple stand made of oak with a glass cabinet on the bottom, the TV was rested on top of it, a floor lamp next to the couch, and the last piece was by far the liveliest- his bookshelf.

It took up about half the wall. Every shelf littered with different genres. It was almost too personal to examine. Some books you recognized and some you didn’t. An odd wave of sadness washes over you when you see some books you’d never heard him talk about. It was still strange to you on some days that you were no longer in each other’s lives.

You knew he was out and about in Gotham, but your paths never crossed. Whether that was by design or some level of mercy, you never knew.

He was on the news at least once a week. It felt like cheating no contact, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the one indulgence you allowed yourself, to know that he was still alive and working with the bats. This way you didn’t feel guilty about holding the grudge for as long as you did.

You’d been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. The first line of the chapter was permanently engraved in your mind because of how many times you’d read it.

“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?”

For your Women in Literature class, you chose Frankenstein as the novel you were going to be analyzing in your paper. The assignment was to find a topic from a book and write fifteen pages about it in MLA format. It was an interesting class, but fifteen pages felt like overkill, it was double-spaced at the very least.

This was your third reread of the book this semester.

The first read was to familiarize yourself with the novel, the second was to piece together the paper, and this one was to find the evidence after you’d started the rough draft. It felt fitting that you were using a green highlighter for the evidence.

Sleep never came easy to you, and you had tried essentially everything. All the medicines, the teas, a warm glass of milk, counting sheep, all of it. At one point your doctors and family members suggested reading, which was probably the worst thing they could’ve said.

The last suggestion ended up with you staying awake all night with a book in hand.

Which is exactly what you were doing now. It was around four in the morning, Jason had brought you back to his apartment and then went back on patrol. He still hadn’t returned, but you weren’t complaining.

The less you had to interact with him the better.

In a pathetic attempt to finally turn the page, you start to read again. Making it to the third sentence on the page, you start to finally get immersed in the story again when-

The window slides open.

Your hands drop the book in shock and it clatters on the floor. Alarmed, Jason turns to you already prepared for a fight, forgetting that you were staying with him.

“What’re you doing awake?” He sounds truly baffled that you hadn’t managed to fall asleep. His hands move to the back of his mask and there’s a quiet hissing sound before it unlatches. He examines it for a second, checking for damage. Then his fingers slowly uncurl from the edge and it falls to the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You answer with a bite that didn’t fit your current state. You had stolen one of his mugs and warmed up some milk, bundled in a blanket on the couch, and had been reading under the lamp. “What the hell is it with you and the damn window?”

“It’s my place, I can use whatever entrance I want.” He turns to you with an annoyed look now. Your attitude seemed to finally start pricking at him. “I also didn’t think you’d be waiting up on me.”

“I wasn’t waiting up on you.” The answer comes out way too defensive for your liking.

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself sweetheart,” he mumbles and you scoff at him. You were starting to miss the quiet Jason that found you in your apartment.

He bends down to pick up your copy of Frankenstein and flips it around in his hands a few times. Looking back up at you, he raises a brow and you cross your arms.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs and tosses the book back in your lap.

“You obviously got something you wanna say Todd.” Rolling your eyes, you flick your left hand at him. “Go on, spit it out.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes at you and you want to pluck them out of their eye sockets. “It’s nothing, I’m just surprised you’re reading Frankenstein.”

“Why? Because I’m ordinary, because I’m not one of you?”

The words land right where you wanted them too, right in the center of his chest. His lips thin and you can see the flex of his jaw as it tightens. It was a terrible echo of the fight you’d had all those months ago. It was petty, but you’d been waiting to throw it back in his face one day.

“No,” his voice comes out softer than you were expecting, and his throat bobs while he tries to swallow his guilt. “I was just surprised because you didn’t read classics before. You used to ask me about them because you didn’t like the writing style.”

“Yeah, well things change Jason.” Your gaze doesn’t waver from his, even when he momentarily breaks away to look at his boots in shame. “People change.”

He knew that better than anyone.

With that, he glances back up to you. All the tension, all the anger, it was bleeding into the few feet between you.

“I’m going to go shower.” The sentence sounds distant from his body, as if he was just speaking into a void instead of ending the conversation.

You nod and purse your lips before picking up your phone. He stays there for a moment watching you as you attempt to look busy with swiping through the weather and notes app.

When he finally steps away into his room to head to the bathroom, you throw your head back on the armrest of the couch.

This was going to be a long week.

Dread takes over you, when the shower shuts off. You’d been trying to watch the five million Instagram reels that Wally sent you, but there was no hope in being able to focus enough to really watch them. Your brain was hyper focused on where Jason was in the apartment. He left the door to his bedroom open, so you see him pass from the bathroom to his dresser in nothing but a towel.

Your eyes may have been on your phone, but your concentration was on him.

There’s some shuffling in his room, movement of blankets you think, before he appears in the doorframe. You refused to look up until he cleared his throat awkwardly.

By some miracle you were able to hide the way your breath caught in your throat. It was unfair how he could be such an asshole and still look like that. His hair was damp, curling at the ends in a beautiful frame of his face. He had thin rimmed glasses that hung on the bridge of his nose, highlighting the piercing green of his eyes. He was in plaid pajama pants that were a smidge too tight around his thighs and ass. There was a cotton white t-shirt on that left little room for imagination as it clung to his arms and torso from where he hadn’t dried himself off completely.

The crush you had on him at fourteen was slowly becoming more valid in this light, but you would rather die than admit that out loud.

The most damning part about the whole scene was what he was holding. Tucked under his left arm was a pillow and a blanket under the right one.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other before finally admitting. “The bed’s been made.”

Your eyebrows furrow together. What the hell was he on about? Did he think you were going to sleep in the bed with him.

“Um- okay? Do you want me to congratulate you for making your bed at the ripe age of- what 22? 23?” Your phone drops face down onto the blanket you were covering yourself with. “I mean I know Alfred used to make it for you. I’m not sure how big of a feat this is.”

“I’m 23.” His expression falls to an unimpressed expression. He licks his lips slowly for a moment as if he’s using it to ground himself, and you hate that you catch it. You were learning things you didn’t want to know about yourself tonight. When his eyes shut in that annoyed manner and his tongue swept across his lower lip, the way your stomach coiled terrified you.

“I’ve made my bed before West,” The heat in your stomach only intensified at him calling you by your last name, leading your heart to sink a second later. “I was telling you, so you could get in it.”

“And why would I do that?”

His eyebrow is mirroring yours now, raised with confusion at a lack of communication. “Because I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You blink once, twice, then, “this is your place, you remember that right?”

Frustrated with the fact you would do anything just to fight him, he tosses the blanket and pillow to the unoccupied side of the couch.

“Oh my god-” He runs a hand through his hair and your eyes linger on every line of every muscle in his bicep. Thankfully, you manage to break away from the distraction before he realizes. “I’m trying to be nice and give you the bed. Did you think I was going to offer you a place to stay and make you sleep on this shitty couch?”

“The couch isn’t shitty.”

His hand drops from his hair, and while he doesn’t say it, you can hear the deadpanned “really?” that he was defiantly thinking.

The couch was old and thoroughly used. You could feel every spring in it on the bone of your ass, the cushion was flat, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the type of sofa that would be at your grandparent house because they refused to throw it out. You’d been subjected to worse sleeping arrangements than Jason’s thrift find.

“It’s not that bad Jason.”

“I wouldn’t even subject Tim to sleeping on this couch.”

That earns him a snort. He seems to celebrate the small win as something like a bridge between you two. Noticing the crease disappearing in his eyebrows and his shoulder relaxing, you catch yourself. It was always too easy for Jason to undo you, he knew the exact weak points to hit in order to break down your walls.

It flipped a switch in you, immediately tensing up again, and he noticed. He always did. He gives up trying to fight you on getting to the bed and takes his place on the other end of the couch.

“What’re you doing…?” The sentence is dragged out of you, exhaustion from the day slowly overtaking the anxiety that was keeping you up.

“Putting on the TV.” He said it so simply while picking up the remote from the coffee table, it was as if this was normal for the both of you.

“Why?” The question escapes you before you can swallow it. A flush creeps over your face, suddenly self-aware of all the questions you’d been asking.

He doesn’t seem to notice the pink now dusting the tips of your ears- well, if he does he doesn’t comment on it. He only shrugs and logs into Dick’s streaming services that he has a profile on. “It helps me unwind after the night. Having something on in the background distracts me enough that it makes it easier to fall asleep.”

He starts scrolling through his account while you nod at his response.

“Jason?”

“Mhm.”

“Why is Sex and the City in your recently watched?”

His cheeks deepen to a color dangerously similar to the hood he dons every night, his freckles disappearing under the blush. He coughs to hide the fluster and pushes his glasses back up his nose.

“It was part of a deal I made with Steph,” he mumbles, skipping right over it. “When I started talking to them all again, she made me start watching it with her. Every Friday night I would come over after patrol and watch two episodes together. It was nicknamed as my “anger management” work for me to try and survive two episodes without getting frustrated with one of them.”

“Uh huh,” every thing you learned about his new life was more shocking than the last. “And how’d that go?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

Who was this and what did they do with Jason Todd.

“That doesn’t explain why it’s still in your recently watched, though. You said you watched this with Steph, why are you on season three on your profile?”

He grumbles something unintelligible while looking through the other show options he has.

“Objectively… it’s an okay show.”

It takes all your strength not to break out in a laugh. “Just okay?”

He hears you smothering the giggle and meets your gaze. Despite his face drowning in pink, he still puts on a brave face. “I put it on after patrol sometimes. Is that what you wanted to hear? It doesn’t matter what fucked shit is happening to me, Carrie somehow always manages to take the cake in the shit show competition.”

“Well then, don’t let me stop you from your routine.”

His lips press together when the words leave your mouth. “I’ll pass thanks.”

“Why?” Your response came out more lighthearted than you’d planned on. This situation felt like an old normal you were no longer familiar with.

“You’re laughing at me that’s why.”

“I’m going to laugh either way.” You tease. “Might as well commit to the bit now.”

He stares at you for a few seconds. You don’t think anything of it, but he’s drinking in this version of you. A version that he thought no longer existed anymore. The version of you that trusted him.

He knows it’s not completely there, but this brought him hope. He didn’t think you were going to be doing much speaking through the week. Just this interaction was more than he could’ve dreamed for. He knew now that there was something he could work toward, that maybe there could be a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe the sun would shine on you both again.

So, not taking advantage of the smile pulling at your lips, he turns on the show. He’d turn himself into the biggest idiot if it meant you would look at him like that again. He would embarrass himself in every lifetime, every universe, every dimension if it meant he got to witness your smile one more time.

And with Carrie talking about how Big is leaving his wife, your eye lids begin to flutter. Jason, acting as a protective presence opposite of you, allows you the comfort you’d been looking for. Finally, you’re able to drift into a world that wasn’t so haunted.

Once your breathing evened out, Jason acted quickly. He picked you up bridal style and carried you to the bed you seemed determined to not sleep in. He tucks you in with the blankets cascading around you. Standing up to his full height, he takes one last look at you and makes a promise.

A promise that he’ll work every day to become someone worth trusting again.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

Most nights were like the first one.

You would come home from class or work and then make a home on the squeaky couch. Jason would be out and about running on errands or at the auto shop he picked shifts up at. Neither of you spoke much through the day, he left you to have your much needed alone time.

Then at night, after patrol he’d crawl in through the window and you would sit on the couch together. Some nights it was awkward with not much talking, other nights it was a weird in-between of what normal used to mean for you two.

You hadn’t forgotten the fight, it still stung most days.

You knew it wasn’t easy for him to come back. You weren’t so naïve. He had crawled out of his grave, was dunked in the Lazarus pit, fought in the league of assassins, and was still trying to find a place in the world.

It didn’t erase all the hurt however.

On the fourth night he looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“How’d you like it?”

Glancing up from your laptop, your eyebrows threaded together.

“How’d I like what?”

“Frankenstein,” he closes the book he was reading, Six of Crows- a recommendation from you. “You finished it the other day right?”

“Oh,” It sounded dumb but you hadn’t realized he was paying that much attention. “Yeah, I did. That’s not the first time I’ve read it though.”

“Oh,” he repeats. The vowel comes out in a breath from his mouth. “What’d ya think of it?”

“I liked it, I always liked the story. I’m reading it for a paper I’m writing for my Women in Literature class.”

He nods, accepting the answer. Still wanting specifics on your opinion, he continues to press. “What’s the paper on?”

“Basically,” you start out ready to summarize the topic in the same way you did for everyone. “It’s about how Frankenstein can be interpreted as autobiographical for Mary Shelley, and an expression of her experience as a child bleeding into the challenges she faced with motherhood.”

Your voice was robotic as you explained it to him. Countless of your classmates had asked you about your paper trying to get an idea for their own, and they all dismissed it. Despite it being a Women in Literature’s class it was a required elective, and unfortunately, you got stuck with one too many men who pitied the unreliable narrator.

Jason, however, surprised you.

He cocked his head to the side, barely shifting it to a thirty degree angle. “I… I hadn’t thought about it that way.” His face contorted together, the small dimple on his chin making an appearance as he actually thought about your analysis. “I’ll admit I don’t know much about Mary Shelley, despite that her husband seemed to be somewhat decent since he let her publish the novel, which is more than you can say for most men those days.”

“Somewhat decent is pushing it,” your tone was laced with disgust. “He was a cheater. He cheated on his first wife with Mary, and then cheated on her with her cousin.”

Jason’s eyes were wide and he shut his mouth as fast as he could. Biting his cheeks, he’s making his best effort to avoid saying something that would inadvertently piss you off. he had just managed to get civil with you and he didn’t want to waste it.

“What parts of the book are you using for the paper?” He was giving it his best effort to redirect the conversation so you would be in a good mood again.

“It’s a lot of the inner monologue for both the Creature and Victor.” You shrugged, going back to typing the outline. “In spite of there not being a lot of notable female characters, with the exception of Elizabeth, it had a lot of underlying feminine issues. Victor essentially goes through postpartum depression and rejects the creature. A lot of people also believe that the Creature remains nameless because she had a miscarriage at the time and didn’t name the baby. So the creature can be seen kind of like the child she lost, but also as herself. Since Victor went through life with a rejected creator, essentially on his own, it can be loosely interpreted as a mirror of her childhood. Her mother died when she was young and she was generally depressed like the Creature.”  

You hadn’t realized how long you had been rambling for until you finished. Your lips pressed together, almost biting them in the wake of your words running from you. Jason’s face remained a carefully crafted neutral expression, but he wasn’t as successful as he wanted to be. You didn’t miss the subtle twitches in his jaw, the way the last part cut deeper into him than anyone you knew.

Jason Todd who had an addict as a mother.

Jason Todd who gave his everything into being Robin.

Jason Todd who was failed by the world.

And in spite of it all, came back.

He could relate to this monster of a being more than anyone knew. So, when he listens to you talk about it as an innocent thing, as something who was a victim of the world that created him, something broke in him. Because now, there was hope you would look past all his wrongs, to see him as a man trying his best, instead of the monster fate was determined to make him to be.

He nods and by some miracle, makes more conversation with you about the paper and then you shift into a comfortable silence. A couple hours later when he’s transitioning to the nighttime routine, he takes you in.

He knew the week would be over soon. You would go back to your apartment and probably never look in his direction again. He wouldn’t take advantage of this- of you looking at him like the past few years hadn’t happened. That he hadn’t destroyed the only good thing in his life.

Eventually, Sex and the City comes on. It’s as if the universe finally took pity on him and gave him another miracle, letting you got comfortable in his presence. You started talking through the show, shitting on something- he wasn’t sure what.

His heart stopped when he heard the same scoff you used to do when you both watched Mission Impossible. He could practically hear the mumble, ingrained in his memory.

“There’s no way they would get away with this in real life.”

He didn’t move a muscle as you spoke, save for the few encouraging grunts or hums of agreement.

Jason Todd hated when people spoke through movies. He liked to sit, digest it, then talk about after, but he never minded it when it was you.

That’s actually how Dick discovered his crush on you when you were teenagers. He walked by his room and peaked in through the door frame. You were watching some romcom and you had spoken more dialogue through the scene then the film had in general. He was expecting Jason to blow a fuse, but it never came.

Dick teased him relentlessly for days.

He couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed, or care though. He would listen to you talk about anything and everything. Jason Todd would spend every night bleeding dry on the Gotham streets if it meant he got to come home and listen to the harmony of your voice. In those dying seconds he had left in that warehouse, his last thought was of every voicemail he’d never receive.

So now, here on this couch, he absorbs every word, carving it into stone. Every syllable from your mouth was like a recitation of the Bible to him, you were holy.

He didn’t think he’d ever be granted this luxury again. For now, he’ll take what he can get and maybe one day this could be his normal again.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

As if the past three nights were on replay, you fell asleep before him. He sighs in relief when he notices your eyes close and breath even out. Like every other night, he takes you back to the bed even if you’re determined to take the couch.

The next few nights are also the same. Small domestic moments highlighted by his flickering light bulb and uncharacteristic pleasure of 90s chick flicks.

It had become habit to wait for him to come through the window. You usually were up until this time anyway. Whether it was nightmares, small anxieties that kept you up, or just your general inability to fall asleep, you were up at all hours of the night.

It was weird. You weren’t expecting to feel any comfort in this apartment, you were prepared for the exact opposite actually. Yet, in his stupidly charming Jason way, he managed to make you smile. He got you to laugh. He cooked enough for two even when you said you weren’t hungry.

It was surprisingly peaceful.

Until the last night.

All the butterflies dropped to the pit of your stomach in seconds when he barreled in through the window.

Covered in blood.

His breath was coming out heavy and jagged. He was flat on his ass, arms and legs spread out as if he was cosplaying a starfish who had just gone to war.

“Jason-”

You’re not exactly sure how the words leave your mouth. Laptop forgotten, shoved off your lap onto the couch. Your legs carry you just far enough until you can drop to your knees next to him.

“I-” he coughs. “I’m alright.” His arm wraps around his midsection trying to press on the giant wound that went straight down from his left pectoral to waistline.

“Alright?” He winces at your incredulous tone. “Jason please, you can barely hold your head up.”

The clock had barely struck two, which was never a good sign. If he ever came home early, it was due to some catastrophic injury.

“You shouldn’t be up at this time anyway.” He somehow manages to get out in one breath, wincing again when his hand presses on his torso.

Pointedly ignoring the comment, you help him to his feet. Silence overtakes you two when you help him to the bathroom. He sits on the lid of the toilet. His head leaning against the wall behind it.

Deep, slow breaths are coming from his nose and mouth. A part of you hopes that it’s to calm himself and that he’s not fighting for his consciousness.

That is not a phone call you want to be making tonight.

He sheds the jacket, then the shirt. You’re left with a bloody bruised Jason whose red in the face. He’s staring at you with no hope, ready for you to walk away, to decide that it’s too much.

It’s quiet when you step out the bathroom to the little half closet. It’s quiet when you grab a hand towel and walk back in. The only sound now echoing through the apartment being the water pouring from the faucet onto the grey towel when you wet it.

You finally break the silence, when you sit on the edge of the bathtub. The wound getting uglier by the second, your hand hovers it, right before contact.

“This is going to hurt.” It’s barely a whisper, yet in this room, it could’ve been a scream.

He chuckles and it’s half concerning, half reassuring. “Do your worst darlin’”

The nickname does something to you, and your face flushes.

The towel makes contact with his skin and he hisses. Your hand doesn’t move, letting him adjust to the sting. Then with a small nod, you continue the first cleaning. Once all the grime is scrubbed away, you find the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink. The antiseptic is next, then the gauze, then the tape.

It took a little longer than thirty minutes to get him patched up. He’d have to see someone to get it properly looked at tomorrow, but this would be okay for now.

You couldn’t ignore the way he was looking at you the whole time. His eyes were swimming with guilt, pain, and something else you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

When you’re finally done, you stand to your full height. He’s looking up at you now from where he’s sitting. Both of you don’t pay mind to the biohazard on the floor next to you, just simply getting lost in each other again.

So much more was said in the quiet of the bathroom than in the past week you’ve been here. It feels like you’re seeing each other again for the first time in the fluorescent bathroom light. It was as if something clicked for you two.

“You’re not fourteen anymore you know that right?” You’re still looking in between his emerald green irises when you start to mumble. “You can’t jump straight into a fight and crash through my window expecting me to patch you up.”

His eyes are half lidded, squinting in disbelief, like he isn’t sure if this is real. That you’re here and teasing him.

“But you patch me up so well.” His voice is a low rumble, words meshing together out of delirium and exhaustion. “It’s also technically my window.”

A snort comes out of your nose along with a roll of your eyes.

“Let’s get you to bed big guy.” You start to hook his arm over your shoulder and he breaks into a sly smile.

“You think I’m big?”

“Yes.”

A small pout appears on his face when you won’t play this game with him. As much as you loved a good round of teasing, you were far too stressed to try and keep up with it right now. Your goal for the evening was to get him to the bed alive and make sure he doesn’t die.

Again.

After he lies down, you sit next to him on the bed with your legs crossed. He’s bound to fall asleep any moment now, but you want to keep his eyes open a little longer. It was part in worry and part selfishness. This way you could make sure he was actually okay by the time he drifted off while also getting to stare into the eyes that you used to feel like home.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology snaps you out of your daze. It’s the first coherent sentence he’s managed since busting through the window.

“It’s alright.” Your hands shake while you try to wave it off. “This is hardly the first time you’ve shown up beaten and bruised needing a cleanup.”

He came to you as much as he could to patch him up when you were younger. You’d had enough practice patching Wally up that he trusted you.

“No, I’m sorry about what I said to you that night.” Your veins turn to ice. “I was an asshole. You were trying to be nice and I pushed you away. That wasn’t fair to you.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I was a mess when I crawled out of my grave, the pit wasn’t a big help either. I was so angry with the world, upset that it brought me back.” His eyes lay on the popcorned roof now. “I was even more pissed that the world hadn’t changed while I was gone, it was still the same shit. I was horrible to everything and everyone. I… I lost my way.”

“You were the only good thing left here.” His eyes are back on you now. “When you came to see me, it scared me. It was like you saw right through me and everything I didn’t want to deal with was rising in my chest. I couldn’t handle it. So, I said some nasty shit to get you to go away. It was disgusting of me and it’s my biggest regret in this and every life I’ll ever live. I’ll never forgive myself for it. In a way, it felt easier to stay in that angry hole than to grow.”

You weren’t sure how you kept your breath even, it was like every time you managed some oxygen, it was robbed from you.

“Eventually though, I finally started getting help and wanted to get better. I’ve been trying every day to be better than who I was. To be someone who could be something. I don’t want you to think that these are excuses, they’re not.” His eyes are so conflicted, he can’t read your reaction and it’s terrifying him. “I just wanted you to know, I guess. If you never want to talk to me again, I completely understand. I’ll never bother you and I’ll leave you to your life.”

There’s a pause and your heart sinks.

“But if there’s a chance you’d be willing to try again, I had to give it a shot. I’ll spend every day making sure you know I’m serious about this. I’ll do it all this time. I’ll take you to dinner, I’ll give you your space, I’ll bake you cookies every Sunday night just like you always wanted.” His breathing pattern is broken and it shudders when he tries to breathe in.

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak. Your hands begun tracing the web of scars on his chest. A fingernail along the constellation he had over his heart. He shuddered, the intimacy of seeing him like this was almost as difficult as the vulnerability in the apology.

Eventually your hand lays flat on his chest, feeling the warmth. Your palm was right over his heart, it was beating a little quicker than normal but it was your favorite rhythm. His thumb and pointer finger wrap around your wrist. It was a loose grip, you could break out whenever and he kept it that way, but it was still strong enough that you could feel the hope behind it when he says,

“Stay.”

Your head whips back to him and desperation is written across his forehead.

There was still so much you had to talk about, so much you needed to get through. But right now, when he’s looking at you like you’re the most important person on the planet, you can’t stop yourself from indulging.

He watches you walk to the other side of the bed. His breath catches in his throat when you pull back the covers. He starts to believe in love again when you scoot closer to him.  

His eyes are on yours when you make eye contact again, mere centimeters apart.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats again. And this time, you know it.

You know he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for seventeen months.

Your hand rests on his cheek and he leans into it. His eyes close and he breathes in the feeling. You’re not entirely shocked when his arms are pulling you into him. The rest of the night passes with him whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

And for the first time all week, you both fall asleep together.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

Bonus:

Once he’s finished his own patrol, Dick Grayson appears at his little brother’s window.

Jason had disappeared after the fight in the middle of patrol. They knew he had gotten hurt but he said he would patch himself up at home. Bruce was fighting an aneurysm, trying to keep him safe but not push him out of his comfort zone. When Jason cut his comms, Bruce almost tore the apartment door from its hinges, but Dick convinced him that he would drop by and check on him.

What he finds however, renders him speechless.

Jason was in bed with the one person he thought was going to buy him a one way ticket to his grave again. His arm was wrapped protectively around your waist, almost in fear of letting you go. Even in a state of crippling pain, you were always his priority.

At the heartwarming scene, Dick has one thought that turns his body to ice.

Wally is going to kill him.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

A/N: Sorry guys I got kind of lazy with the ending but I hope you like it anyway! I’m really tired and wanted to finally get this out lol

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.

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

You still remember your first glance of his forest green eyes, when he had pinned you down with a blade to the throat, believing you were an outsider to his territory. If the apprehending voice of Damian's grandfather had been a second later, he wouldn't have had a fiancée and you wouldn't have lived to see your seventh birthday.

His gaze when he had looked down at you all those years ago clings like an aching, never healing wound. Disappointment. He must've expected someone greater, who rivalled him in his physical prowess and intelligence. Instead, he had you pinned to the ground, shame colouring your features that silently screamed burden.

The worst part was that it was the complete opposite for you— because you admired him greatly. It didn't matter which version of him. Damian Al Ghul, who sharpened himself into a living weapon—a cold-blooded ruler, before he became the Bat's new protege. Damian Wayne, who somehow eased his way into less begrudging smiles, who fails to notice his pets' fur still clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, who makes ill-timed jokes from his catalogue stolen from his older siblings.

That rare warmth he found here in Gotham hasn't and never will be extended to you. Still, you refuse to remain a burden, not to him.

You play your part as a useful shield in the one arena Damian still struggles to conquer—the social world. Despite his striking looks and quick wit, Damian's always held a shared disinterest in the politics of social snakes who mingled solely for their own selfish gains.

Maybe it was a guilty pleasure. For one single night, Damian was your betrothed, and you were his. Even if his fake smiles were plastered on too tight, or the brush of his fingers over yours set the scene of young lovers much too convincingly, you could let your mind rest and rely on his presence just this once.

His hand extends, placed at the small of your back as he leads you through the room to somewhere less crowded. Unconsciously, he occasionally rubs his thumb in comforting circles, sending goosebumps down your skin. It's easy to smile and exchange repetitive niceties while Damian's gaze remains locked ahead of his path. The polite act engraved into your bones, functions as your greatest defence for the both of you, slithering your way through.

You had already memorised the layout of the room before even entering it, and you know he knows that. So, Damian's decision to keep his skin in contact with yours, guiding you, must be purely performative. Skin-ship to lure the wolves into falling for the bait, as you eye many envious onlookers distancing themselves from Damian at the unseemly sight of his arm wrapped around your frame.

"Have you chosen a city for your further education?" Damian murmurs into your ear.

You have. Though you could never predict his line of thinking that could’ve possessed him to show vague interest in your decision. This wasn’t the first time his impulsive questions took you off guard from the routine you’re used to.

Your gaze narrows on him, trying to find his reasoning. "How I take my coffee in the morning wasn't enthralling enough for you?"

"Is Gotham one of your options?" He asks briskly.

Ah. Your gaze drops to the swallow in his throat, the tension in his question. He must be hoping you'd say no. Lesser the chances to be stuck in a suffocating room with you, performing duties for a faceless audience.

"If I say it is?" You test.

His gaze flickers, surprise adorning his features. It wipes itself away as quickly as it comes, and he gives a brief, imperceptible nod. "There are adequate institutions in the city. I can provide recommendations."

You raise a brow. "Of course, a future doctor already providing unneeded advice."

His expression thickens. “You think my chosen field does not suit me."

It blurts out before you can stop it. "No, I think it does."

He pauses. You wince.

"You do?" He asks, almost disbelieving.

"Is it that hard to believe?" You mutter, eyes fleeting around for a much-needed drink.

"I only wish to understand your sudden agreement." He pushes, unsatisfied with your vague answer.

"Damian." You sigh. "Of course you'll be an amazing doctor."

He watches you, trying to detect any deceit. His immediate suspicion triggers your nerves. You may not be able to stand him, but that didn't mean you were blind to his abilities or the empathy he tries to hide behind his permanent frown.

If he hadn't held a semblance of a heart, he wouldn't be here plastering on a fake mask much to his displeasure so you wouldn't bear the night alone.

He wouldn't be out at ungodly hours, working himself to the bone to ensure that there was always a protector in the night, to save someone's life so they could make it home.

He wouldn't have signed up for the most brutal course at Gotham's top medical university despite already having an inhuman schedule.

"If I thought you lacked the heart to save others, I would've laughed at your decision to remain with your father in Gotham." You don't know why you feel this need to explain yourself. It hardly mattered if you understood his decision. He wasn't someone who needed the approval of others before making his own.

"Gotham has changed you." You answer. "For the better. If I had to put my bets on anyone to be the best doctor in this entire city, it'd be you."

If it had been anyone else other than you, maybe they wouldn't have caught the parting of his lips, the rare astonishment in his eyes. It's brief, but enough to tell you that you have spouted enough nonsense for it to feel as if you ripped open a gaping wound for him to spit at.

"I need a drink." You mutter. "I'll be right back."

Your quick escape seems to have finally sent the message for a much-needed break from his presence. Compared to other occasions, he was—you wouldn't use the word 'clingy', but he was certainly acting as a guard dog around you tonight. Then again, there were newcomers at this ball who seem to be unaware that you're Damian's betrothed, opting to try for your hand whenever he was separated from you for too long. It should be a relief that he bothered to protect you—but it distracted your senses, being around him for too long.

It still stings that even after all these years, your complete belief in him hasn't faded at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to consider the possibility of you having faith in him.

Your glued frown finally serves a purpose, contrary to your mother's nagging, as it scatters the fidgety chickens around you to distance themselves, along with their prodding questions. Downing a glass of wine, it doesn't do its mandatory job of easing the vulnerability still pattering around in your chest.

"If it isn't the future Mrs. Wayne!"

It seems one wolf in particular has blinded senses of walking into the wrong territory.

Joaquin Reanes. A filthy, money-laundering jerk who pawns off his father's money from an instable empire that takes advantage of its many debtors to use as animals for unpaid labour.

"Reanes." You greet shortly, not even bothering to turn your body fully to grace him with your attention.

"I'm not surprised Damian's left you all alone, miserable at the bar." He sneers. "He's never been good company."

Your brow lifts slightly. "And what gave you the impression that you could talk down on my fiancé in front of me?"

"Admit it." He mocks coldly. "He's never going to go through with the engagement. Your finger will remain bare for as long as he desires, and from the looks of it, he doesn't seem so keen on having you as his."

Your grip on your glass tightens. A flash of his corroded hair, dead from extensive bleach, drowned in wine, appears in your mind. You swirl your glass once, considering.

"I, on the other hand—" His teeth gleams with predatory intent. "—wouldn't mind taking second-hand scrapes. How would you like to be a Mrs. Reanes?"

Your laughter, cold and piercing, echoes through the air. His smug expression falters.

"Over my dead body." You hiss, slamming down your glass to push your palm roughly into his chest, sending him stumbling back. "Even if Damian hadn't been my betrothed, I would rather die alone than end up with the miserable likes of you."

His mask drops, revealing an ugly wrath that matched his true colours. His hand swipes a free glass from the bar on instinct, as if he's done it many times before.

In a blink, a cold sensation drenches your shoulders. Your gaze drops down, unable to hide your disgusted shock. The bastard purposely spilled wine on you.

Your expression darkens, meeting his narrowed eyes that were filled with wicked intent.

"Oh, my apologies." His act doesn't even come close to the twisted excitement in his gaze. "My hand slipped."

To cause this display in a Wayne charity ball is declaring war. You didn't wait for any passersby to notice—no, you're fully prepared to start this alone. You can already imagine his rotten, bleached head smashed with glass and wine to match the stain on your shoulder, ruining his gleeful expression—only for a firm hand to wrap around your waist, brushing your drenched shoulder against a broad chest.

"Reanes." Damian's greeting barely registers past the goosebumps that spread along your exposed skin when you dare a glimpse of his expression. His eyes, swallowed by his darkened pupils and narrowed into sharpened blades, is filled with such loathing that even you're rendered speechless.

"Wayne." The slimy git greets, carefully manoeuvring his glass to hide his mocking smirk. "I was just having a lovely talk with your wife."

"Oh, wait." His pretence is an awful act. "My mistake. She is merely your fiancée. Has been for awhile according to the papers."

Damian's grip unconsciously tightens around you, puling you back discretely, his shoulder shielding you from the creep's intentional gaze.

"Having doubts, Wayne?" He taunts. "I've made my own concerns clear, though she seems to have mistaken my empathy. I was only conveying that if you take any longer to put a ring on her, it might suggest to others that she's easy to snatch away."

The atmosphere freezes. To say you're astounded at his audacity, his utter foolishness to not be terrified of Damian's wrath isn't enough. You're sure this moron has a death wish.

"Your confidence in your lacklustre charm is worth applause, Reanes." Damian's tone is so unbearably cold that it even makes you flinch. "Let's see if your will to survive is stronger than your pride."

"Is that a threat?" Reanes muses, but you detect his hesitation. "As the next Wayne heir, I doubt your decision to threaten me, a useful business partner, is particularly clever."

"You mean your tycoon built off your father's buried scandals and contributions to corruption with the previous Minister?" Damian announces casually.

Several figures within hearing distance have shifted their heads towards Reanes at the sound of Damian's accusation. Finally, sweat has begun to pool at the rat's brows.

"How did—" Reanes's attempt at recovery is poor, his face seizing into an awful mess in realisation of his mistake of trying to find Damian's weakness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, of course." Damian's glare has narrowed into what could only be his hunting eyes. "Hypothetically, let's say you were to ever come near my betrothed again. I will have every piece of evidence—invoices, letters, emails, phone calls—all prepared into a file sent to the GCPD by tomorrow morning. How long do you think your family has before they come knocking down the doors?"

Reanes's face has lost all its colour.

"You're bluffing." He stammers.

It was satisfying to see all of his obnoxious confidence shrink into oblivion.

"You made an advance on my wife. You made a pathetic attempt of a threat against me." Damian hisses. "I haven't thought of all the possible ways to make you suffer just yet, Reanes. Stripping you of your stolen power is only the start."

"Unlike your father and his poor disguise of power as his empire collapses on itself." Damian taunts. "I protect what is mine."

Dread fills Reanes's expression. "Wayne, I misspoke. I won't so much as look at her."

Damian doesn't look close to satisfied. There's a want in his gaze, to torment him further. "Apologise to her."

Reanes grits his teeth, shame flooding his vile features. Forcing himself to look at your feet—not daring to meet your eyes, he spits it out. "I'm sorry."

"You are to never show yourself in front of us again." Damian declares. "Consider your offered partnership declined."

Reanes's entire expression sours, but one flick of Damian's brow has him scurrying off into the crowd, not even bothering with apologies when dirty looks are casted on him for pushing his way out to escape.

Damian's glare is still pinned into the crowd, and you sense his restrained bloodlust, something you haven't felt to this degree in years. The boy you once knew, who harnessed the blade better than anyone in its ability to end a beating pulse, has sprung out with his fangs and claws.

You unconsciously place one hand onto his chest in an attempt to soothe him, guide his attention back to his own body. He flinches, as if he had forgotten he was in the very room.

His nearly feral expression finds its way to the state of your ruined dress, the stain on your shoulder. He lets out a short breath, rationality kicking the gears in his mind. "We need to get you cleaned up."

You nod discreetly, at a loss for words as his hand comes up to grab yours, intertwining your fingers together and leading you away to a desolate hallway.

His fingers, covered in rough scars from countless battles, are caressing yours more gently than you could ever imagine. He's still refusing to look at you, gaze pinned straight ahead to the nearest bathroom.

Pushing open a door with a sudden force, you're dragged in with such a swift movement, that you barely have time to scout the room before your vision is blocked by his gaze pinning you down.

The barely visible green in his eyes are swarmed by his dilated pupils, filled with bitter rage and conflict. You've never seen him this—unguarded. The events that unfolded earlier seems to have affected him more than you expected.

His lips part to say something, but his eyes flicker down to your drenched shoulder, covered in red. His eyes narrow into a vicious glare, and he lifts himself off the door, pulling something out of his pocket.

A napkin. He must've snatched it on the way without you noticing.

There's not enough shock generated in your veins to truly comprehend what just happened. Damian just called you his wife. It still rings in your ears like some prank that's been orchestrated to throw you off your beliefs on everything you were convinced he's thought about you.

"Damian."

He's turned towards the sink, running the napkin over running water, but his entire posture is off. Tense. Coiled into restraint that's bound to burst.

"I am fine." Even as the uncomfortable feeling of dried wine lingers on your skin, there's something about Damian's change in demeanour that pushes you to reassure him. You're not used to being unable to read him. "There’s no point of putting on an act here. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."

"Is that what you think this is?" He spits out, still refusing to look at you.

You freeze. His tone, which has always carried the Al Ghul's familiar patronisation, has descended into a cold rage that's never been directed on you before.

He exhales slowly, his mask slipping back into place as he turns around, cloth in hand as he approaches you slowly. Stopping in front of you, his eyes are narrowed—and the light in them has nearly extinguished. Leaving behind a darker shade of green that consumes you whole.

"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat to consume." His voice has dropped several octaves, and his gaze is unfocused—still trapped in his wrath. "As if you weren't mine."

Your eyes widen, steps instinctively moving backward but his arm wraps around your waist before you can retreat any further.

He doesn't make a single sound as his fingers wrapped around the napkin comes to touch your shoulder, stained with dried wine. His touch is frighteningly gentle as he wipes your stained skin, his lip curled in displeasure.

It's horrifyingly intimate, and the sound of your own quickened breathing is mortifying on your senses—knowing he could hear the effects of his strange, impulsive behaviour on you so clearly.

"I can do it myself." It sounds weak coming out from your mouth, even to your ears.

"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" He mutters, sounding desolate. "Never letting yourself depend on me."

You scowl. "Why would I depend on you?"

"As much as you would like to pretend it doesn't matter." He grits. "I will be your husband. I will be the one who will lay down my promises and swear my life to yours. Now and even in death."

Leaning in, you feel his breath tingle against your skin as he whispers into your ear. "Do you think I am someone who takes my promises lightly?"

You resist a shudder, your lashes fluttering involuntarily. "No."

He scoffs. "Yet, you question my choice to defend you."

His breath lingers over your skin, right over the spot he's just cleansed free of wine, still cool to the touch from the dampness of the cloth. The tension is thick, making it difficult to think clearly when he's all but crowded the remaining space between the two of you.

He's only irritated that he's been indirectly insulted when Reanes pulled that ploy on you. You know how this will go. He'll wake from his delirious temper, fold back into the cold statue you know to be your betrothed, and remember the line that has been established.

He won't cross it. The boundary that's been drawn by you from the very beginning, in respect for whatever remaining autonomy the two of you had left in this arrangement. You're sure of your predictions... till you spot his expression. It seems that only now—the lack of distance has kicked in for him. The sudden stillness of his frame reveals something you never thought you'd see in your betrothed. Hesitation.

Nothing could've prepared you for what comes next. Damian's entire body leans in, caging you against the door. Tentatively, he places a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on your shoulder.

The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Speechless, you can do nothing but stare at him with widened eyes, unable to comprehend what he just did. What it means.

"If you still have doubts about my loyalty." He mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, an unfamiliar intensity sealed in his. "Consider that my mark of a promise, which I intend to fulfil for the rest of my life. It was my mistake to make it seem as if you were easy to steal—because that will be impossible starting today."

This up close, you can count the freckles dotted under his eyes. He's always been dangerously tempting, but now, after he's defended your honour and stands before you looking the most wrecked you've ever seen him—you want to do something foolish.

Something you might regret but have been wanting to do from the moment he marked you as his.

It's instinctive, almost natural when your lips press against his. It's brief, slotted at the wrong angle from his height that automatically has you wincing. You're quick to pull away, unprepared and desperately trying to come up with some excuse to forget the ordeal ever happened, when you see it.

The crack in his mask, over the single action of your lips pressed against his, unravels a devotion you've never seen before. Laying right in front of you, bared in the open. That is not the look of a man who despises you. If anything, he looks as if his restraints have finally snapped.

That brief glimpse is all you see before he pulls you in. His arms cage your body, drawing you towards him until your bodies press together. With no sense of hesitation from earlier when he had marked your shoulder, he presses you back against the door, and kisses you.

No, how could you have hallucinated his hesitation? The way he kissed you now, mapping your lips with devout intention, it's as if he's been wanting—waiting to do it for ages.

You didn't realise it either—how starved you've been for him till this very moment. You had been so focused on how trapped you felt under the expectations of your family, the firm belief that he felt the same way, that you buried the attraction that ran deep in your veins.

You hated it, that this kiss was the admission of how he was your weakness in the first place. That he knew exactly how to unravel you, turn your world upside down with his decisive behaviour that commanded the entire room. That the match between the two of you pleased you more than it should, driving you to push him away because... only he could invoke such insanity from your shattered composure.

"A few minutes ago, you couldn't even stand me." You manage out against a brief pause for breath, pushing your palm against his chest.

He pulls away just enough to cast you a look of frustration.

"What I couldn't stand was my betrothed always attempting to push me away." He reveals. "Do you understand the frustration you've caused me?"

His gaze flickers between your bitten lips and your half-lidded gaze, hunger bleeding through his eyes. "You see all of me. Without even trying to, it was as if you were placed in my life to be my one, singular weakness. You already had me wrapped around your finger, drawing all of my attention—making it impossible to forget you even for a moment."

"My wife." He says it slowly, as if savouring it. "It is only because of you, that it feels as if I've been waiting my whole life to say those words. So, forgive me, for finding it difficult to restrain my displeasure when the woman of my devotion acts as if she would rather be paired with any other man than me."

Your brows furrow together at his words. "Why would I want to be paired with anyone else?"

His gaze locked onto you, narrows. "You claimed our match was a disaster waiting to happen."

"Yes." Averting your gaze, your admission comes out frail. "...Because I was compromised from the beginning. Even before our families put us together, I admired you. When my personal feelings got involved, the arrangement felt like a punishment."

"To be paired with someone for life that wasn't of my choosing was one thing, but for that person to be someone that actually mattered?" You swallow. "I pushed you away, because it hurt less if I made the decision to do so, rather than having to see your disappointment. Instead of being left to wonder that if you ever had the choice, would you even glance twice in my direction?"

He stares at you incredulously. "You believed that I did not want you?"

You pause at his tone. You didn't know what to believe, not with his actions just mere minutes ago contradicting everything in your system. You had been so focused on keeping your walls high, that you never thought to truly look into his gaze and search for what he saw in you instead.

"There isn't anyone else in the world that I would've sworn my life to." He declares abruptly. "If I had been given the choice in the first place, I would still be here before you. Yours."

"If you want my decision, I'll state it outright." He says, fingers coming up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I choose you. I had long erased myself of the expectations of what others want from me. My life is led by what I envision for myself, and you are in it. You always have been."

“I don’t believe that the choices of others define us.” He answers. “Even if this marriage hadn’t been arranged, I would have chosen you. I would’ve come back for you over and over—and asked for your hand. If you had other suitors, I would’ve rid your mind of all possibilities but me, because there is no one for me but you.”

"So, tell me." He says, and there's a vulnerability you never thought possible in him, echoed in the softening of his tone. "If you will choose me too."

Had he always looked at you this way, in such a soft, yet unyielding manner, as if his gaze had already been attuned to you in habit?

“If you feel unsure, I won’t force you to decide.” He offers, but his crestfallen expression pleads otherwise. “I won’t let you be bound by the obligations of our families. I want you to choose me—willingly—just as I have chosen you."

Has that ever been a question for you? Even in your denial, your fear of being rejected by the one person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with, you never doubted that the side of your heart had already engraved his name in secrecy.

You had always been his, even when you weren't sure if he was yours.

"I choose you, Damian." Your answer feels akin to offering your beating heart, only to reveal that it had always known the very same truth uttered through your lips. "That's never been a question. It's always been you, from the start."

His expression, tightened in exact preparation of being wounded, finally softens. He lets out an unsteady breath, his forehead dropping to rest on yours. In the quiet of this moment, you realise Damian looks devastatingly beautiful like this. Soft, vulnerable, and completely yours.

"I would very much like to kiss you again." He admits. "May I?"

You finally break out your own smile, and you sense the tension in his shoulders drop at the sight. "Only because you asked nicely."

His fingers still caressing your chin gently lifts your lips to his. This kiss is different from the first. It wasn't an explosion, a burst of restrained emotions over years of pining. No, it was softer. Gentle, in a true attempt to memorise your lips against his, shaping into a quiet whisper of a promise that this won't be the last.

When he parts, there's a soft quirk in his lips, as if he can't help himself from feeling that warmth in his chest.

"I still can't believe you called me your wife." You mutter, still unable to wrap your mind around it. Lifting your empty hand, you can't help but tease. "You're going to start a rumour on how a Wayne can't afford to gift his own wife a ring."

"You are right." He mutters in displeasure, and you suspect his mind has already wracked on another situation steps ahead just from your words alone.

"I suppose we'll have to arrange a marriage ceremony soon." Damian decides casually. "The last thing we need is more wolves thinking they have even a chance of your hand."

You think he's joking. You certainly were.

Yet, looking at his gaze which has now flickered to your ring finger, already analysing the measurement, you think there's a miscalculated understatement about your soon-to-be husband's proactiveness.

"What's going to happen to Reanes?"

Damian's merciful act earlier did nothing to fool you. He wasn't the type to leave loose ends.

His gaze darkens immediately, but his expression doesn't so much as shift when he says. "He'll be dealt with."

"The Al Ghul way?" You lift a brow. "Or the Wayne way?"

His lips quirk up imperceptibly. "I'm sure my siblings have creative interrogation methods they've been meaning to find an outlet for."

Pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he mutters. "...I'll just have a leading hand for tonight's patrol when we infiltrate Reanes's warehouse."

"So, the worst of both worlds."

A dark smirk crosses his lips. "Only what he deserves, Beloved."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

You can sense the tension in the air surrounding him as you approach and your hand finds its familiar spot in the crook of his arm.

You don’t get a word in before he speaks. “All this wealth, and for what?” And you can pick up on his tone immediately. It’s filled with distain and some sort of self-disappointment that he’s even indulging in this.

Though, you know he’s not ungrateful, rather so socially aware that you don’t think you’d ever fully grasp it with your noble upbringing. Most people see him as the charity case of the Wayne family, but you just see a boy struggling to adjust to the position he’s now in.

“For self indulgence, I guess.” You respond with ease though coupled with an unsatisfied tone that you’ve developed following a few too many enlightening conversations with him.

“I don’t get what makes us all deserving of this.” He adds with a sigh and weary shake of the head.

You squeeze his arm in a gentle show of support and feel him relax beside you - as he usually does in your presence. “Just keep your head high, my love.”

His chin raises with a practiced ease and concealed defensiveness and then follows you into the crowd.

The next hour of formalities passes with wearying slowness. Dizzying amounts of people greet you both, some with never-ending smugness and others with snide remarks that make Jason’s grip on you imperceptibly tighten in annoyance.

“Shall we go to the balcony?” You finally ask him and are quickly met with a nod.

The air outside is fresh with a spring’s breeze, ruffling your hair and the nearby trees. The stone of the railing is cold under your skin once you let go of Jason, though his arm snakes around your waist to keep you close. It even feels like the energy between you both relaxes with the newfound casualness of being away from the prying crowds. Though the symphonies of classical music filter through the glass.

“This is better.” You muse as you gaze out at the landscape, although much of it isn’t visible under the moonlight.

Jason takes a deep breath, soaking up the feeling of just being able to exist so calmly in your presence, before agreeing. “Much better.”

There’s a moment of silence where you both simply absorb up the calmness of the night before he speaks once more. “I feel like you’re the only thing that’s making this ball bearable.”

A chuckle escapes your lips before you can help it and he can see the sparkle in your eye as you gaze up at him. “Really? Surely the food is helping too.”

“Maybe a bit…” He responds, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I don’t think a massive cake is able to keep up with me the way you do, sweetheart.”

“Of course not. You’d devour it before it even had a chance.” You giggle.

His eyes narrow as they gaze at you with playful disdain, but you know that he’d never see you with anything other than true adoration. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Yeah, right.” You respond with a huff, grinning as you look back out at the surrounding nature.

There’s a moment where you let the contentment linger in the air before the tunes filtering from inside turn a bit more lighthearted. A small smirk pulls at the corner of your mouth and you step back. “Dance with me.”

His eyebrows raise but he still turns to face you. “You don’t like dancing, though.”

“In front of crowds.” You add playfully, holding out your hand to him. “Come on. It’s just me.”

He rolls his eyes with faux frustration. He doesn’t exactly have the most fond opinion of dancing, rather he spent many of his teenage years being forced to dance with princesses who were desperate for any sort of attention.

But this is you, the beautifully genuine person he’s loves. So he doesn’t hesitate as he steps forward and takes your hand with his other hand landing on your waist. Your free hand slides onto his shoulder and your eyes meet as you begin to sway.

The dance isn’t perfect, you bump into each other and stumble onto each other’s feet with every other step, but it’s no less affectionate. With every mistake, your laughter sounds throughout the balcony. There’s even a smile plastered on Jason’s face, a rare sight to many but the sounds of your happiness easily bring it out of him.

“I dread to think how your brothers would react if they saw this.” You say playfully as he twirls you across the tile.

He catches you instinctively against his chest as you step towards him again. “It’d be terrible.” He agrees, a smug smirk forming on his lips. “Tim would snitch about it to everyone because he finds it funny. Would ruin my cold reputation.”

“Good thing it’s just me, then.” You banter back.

“Definitely.”

The music begins to die down and you’re both left gazing at each other. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles once before he murmurs. “Don’t want to go back in yet.”

“Who says we have to?” You murmur.

“Bruce.”

“Right.” You pause as your hand slides up his neck and brushes into the hair at the back of his neck. “But… I don’t think he’ll mind if we’re out here for 2 more minutes.”

Jason lets a hum of agreement and his hand on your waist draws you closer as he leans down to you. The movement is so familiar yet still makes your heart flutter in your chest.

“True. Not like there’s anyone else in there that I’m going to dance with, anyways.”

And then his lips meet yours.

Clinically, he lives in chronic hyperarousal. His baseline state is control. Monitoring. Containment. His moral code is part of this too. Not just ethically, but in a structure way too. A way to impose order on a world that once collapsed without warning.

So when he desires someone, it feels wrong in a very literal, bodily way. His system interprets it as risk.

He notices himself becoming distracted by you. His attention pulled off task. His body reacting when you are near. He does not think I want you. He thinks my focus is compromised.

When you touch him, even gently, it overloads him. His body wants it. His mind stalls. He goes very still, eyes dark, breath shallow.

“Slow,” he murmurs, voice low and tight.

You answer softly, “Okay, I’ve got you.”

That’s what breaks him open.

Because Bruce is aroused by co-regulation. By someone else holding the emotional container. By being guided through sensation instead of managing it himself. By permission.

He needs explicit reassurance, not because he lacks desire, but because his brain cannot distinguish pleasure from danger without verbal grounding.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admits, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to know.”

And something in him finally gives. Because control is how he survived his parents’ deaths. Control is how he prevented himself from falling apart. So letting go, even slightly, feels intimately dangerous. Like allowing himself to exist in a body instead of a system.

Dick Grayson “Attachment-seeking exhibitionist”:

Dick’s erotic psychology is shaped by being raised in performance.

His parents died in front of an audience, mid-performance, in the same space where love, joy, and attention had always existed. His earliest experiences of love were public, theatrical, something to be watched and consumed. And then that love was stolen in a way the world could see. His grief was spectacle.

That reality didn’t just teach him that grief and love can coexist, it imprinted on him the idea that he himself, too, could be something consumable, that his body, his charm, even his emotions could be for someone else’s gaze or satisfaction.

Clinically, he fits anxious attachment almost perfectly. He regulates through connection. He feels safest when emotional states are mirrored and validated. He needs feedback to know where he stands.

That is why his desire is so interactive.

He wants your reactions. Your voice. Your breath. Your responses to him. He’s aroused by evidence that what he is doing is landing.

He talks during sex. A lot. Checks in. Adjusts himself to your energy. Not really out of insecurity, relational feedback is just how his nervous system stabilizes.

“This okay?” He asks softly.

You answer, “Fuck, yes. Keep going.”

He exhales. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

What disarms him the most is when you stop reacting and start holding.

When you’r steady instead of responsive. When you touch him without needing him to entertain you.

Because Dick’s deepest fear isn’t abandonment. It is being loved only for what he provides. Being charming, being bright, being the emotional center of the room.

So when he is wanted without performing, something in him goes quiet.

He stays closer. His voice drops. His touch becomes slower, more sincere.

With Dick, intimacy feels like being chosen for who he is when he is not trying to be anything.

Jason Todd “Trauma-wrapped touch-starved body”:

Jason’s relationship to sex is the most tangled, the most bodily, and the most haunted.

He grew up in neglect. Chronic instability. Emotional abandonment. A childhood where affection was inconsistent and safety wasn’t guaranteed. His attachment system formed around scarcity. Love was something you had to chase, steal, or survive.

Then he finds his mother again.

And she betrays him.

And he dies.

And comes back.

Psychologically, Jason’s body becomes a trauma object. Like a lot of victims of trauma, it holds memory. Pain, violence, suffocation, resurrection. His physical self is inseparable from death. He experiences his body as something that has failed to stay dead.

There’s a core belief living in him that shapes all intimacy: No one is supposed to want a body that’s been a corpse.

He’s hyper-aware of scars, stiffness, the sense that his body is wrong. Altered. He often feels like his body is borrowed, or counterfeit, or something that doesn’t really belong in the category of living people. It’s like he’s occupying something that should not exist.

So he leads with roughness. Sexual confidence, reckless flirting, touching first, making everything loud and fast enough that no one can look too closely.

But when you touch him gently, something breaks through.

Not rushed. Not joking. Just slow, deliberate contact. Like you’re not afraid of what you will find.

“Don’t rush me,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “Please.”

You answer, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And that’s when he unravels.

Jason uses sex as a way to access parts of himself that never got to grow up properly. The boy who wanted to be held. The boy who wanted someone to stay. The boy who wanted to be loved without having to fight for it.

In intimacy, he softens in a way that feels almost regressive. His voice drops. His movements slow. He becomes sweeter, quieter, more emotionally exposed than he ever allows himself to be.

Because that boy is still there. He just never had a safe place to exist.

His mommy issues aren’t about attraction to older women (though I dont think he’d rule out someone older). They’re more about wanting unconditional bodily acceptance. Someone nurturing, emotionally steady, who can desire him and care for him at the same time.

Because that tells his nervous system something radical.

That his body’s something that can be wanted instead of just being a corpse or a weapon.

And when the moment feels real, when he knows you’re not leaving, something slips out of him without permission.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like he’s surprised he is still capable of it.

After, he clings in small ways. Arm around you. Forehead pressed to yours. Staying physically close like if he holds on long enough, his body might finally believe it belongs in the world of the living.

Tim Drake “Overthinking sweetheart who just wants permission to exist”:

Tim’s desire is built around usefulness.

He grew up emotionally neglected in a quieter way. Parents who were there physically but distant, distracted, unavailable. He learned early that being competent is how you stay connected. That being needed is how you justify your presence.

Clinically, Tim is hyperfunctional. High cognitive control. Emotional restraint. Identity built around productivity and problem-solving.

So intimacy is the only space where his nervous system wants to stop being useful.

He starts careful. Attentive. Trying to read you, trying to do everything right. Checking in constantly.

“Just… tell me what you want,” he says softly.

You smile. “You. Right now. That’s enough.”

That’s what disarms him.

Because Tim’s aroused by being wanted without being evaluated. By being touched without being useful. By being desired without having to provide something in return.

When you take the lead calmly, confidently, without force, his body visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop. His breathing slows. His mind finally stops running scenarios.

He gets quiet, a little flushed, completely focused on you instead of his own thoughts. He melts into closeness. Becomes softer, more present.

After, he’s affectionate in that gentle, slightly clingy kinda way. Stays close. Talks more than usual. Lets himself linger in the space where he doesn’t have to be a tool.

it’s halloween when you go looking for him.

the neighborhood’s louder than usual, porch lights blinking orange, fake cobwebs sagging between railings, kids running in packs with sugar-high laughter that carries a little too far.

people say it’s harmless, say it’s tradition, say it’s just jokes. you hear someone mutter something about bad luck and black cats and you feel that familiar, irritated pull in your chest.

you grab a jacket and your keys and head out before you can overthink it.

you don’t have a plan, exactly. just a feeling that sits wrong in your chest, heavy and insistent. the kind you’ve learned not to ignore. halloween does that to people—gives them permission to be cruel and call it tradition, lets them dress it up in superstition and laugh while they do it.

you cut through the block behind the strip of houses, where the lights thin out and the noise dulls into echoes. trash cans line the alley like a bad idea, lids dented, wheels squeaking when the wind nudges them. one of the dumpsters is tipped slightly open, lid rattling every time a car door slams somewhere nearby.

something’s been left behind near it—a kid’s bike tipped on its side, one wheel bent in on itself like it was kicked too hard. a plastic pumpkin is still taped to the handlebars, cracked straight down the middle, grin split and useless now. it feels intentional. like someone decided it was easier to break something than carry it home.

at first you think you’re imagining it.

then you hear it—soft, panicked, trapped.

you slow to a stop.

there’s laughter, too. not close, but close enough. you round the corner and catch the tail end of it: a group of kids in cheap masks, one of them kicking the side of the dumpster before darting off. “bad luck,” someone says between laughs, like it’s the punchline.

“hey,” you snap, sharp enough to cut through them. “get out of here.”

they scatter, startled, bravado evaporating the second they’re noticed. the alley goes quiet again, except for the rattling lid and the small, broken sound coming from inside the metal bin.

you crouch immediately.

“it’s okay,” you say, softer now. “they’re gone.”

a hiss answers you—thin, defensive, more fear than threat. you peer inside and see him pressed tight into the corner, fur puffed up, eyes blown wide. black as midnight except for a clean white stripe cutting through his fur, stark and unmistakable, like it was painted there on purpose.

someone wedged the lid down.

your jaw tightens.

“that’s not superstition,” you mutter. “that’s just being cruel.”

you don’t reach in. instead, you grab a stick from the ground and use it to prop the lid open, slow and careful so it doesn’t clang shut again. the sound makes him flinch, body tensing like he’s bracing for another scare.

“hey,” you murmur. “i see you.”

your voice comes out softer than you expect, like you’re talking to something fragile instead of something everyone keeps calling dangerous. you don’t move closer. you don’t reach in. you just stay right there, knees pressed to the pavement, hands loose in your lap so he can see you’re not a threat.

he only settles when your hands stay where he can see them, fingers still.

his body stays coiled tight, every line of him drawn inward, claws scraping faintly against metal as if he’s deciding whether fear or hunger gets the final say.

the sound is sharper than you expect. harsher. it makes something flicker in your chest, a brief, unwelcome thought slipping in before you can stop it—maybe they’re right.

you let him.

you breathe slow on purpose, make yourself small in all the ways that matter. the night air smells like candy wrappers and cold metal and something burnt from down the block. somewhere a car passes, bass rattling windows, and he flinches again, a sharp little shudder that pulls at your chest.

“you’re okay,” you say gently, like reassurance is something you’re offering, not demanding. “i promise.”

you reach into your pocket carefully, narrating the movement without thinking about it. “i’m just grabbing something, sweetie. that’s all.”

when you pull out the treat, you don’t hold it up like a prize. you set it down instead, just outside the dumpster, sliding it across the pavement with one finger before pulling your hand back into your lap.

then you wait.

it takes time. long enough for your legs to start aching, long enough for another burst of laughter to float down the block and fade again. every sound makes him tense, but he doesn’t retreat further. that feels important.

finally, he leans forward. sniffs the air. pauses like he’s waiting for punishment.

none comes.

when he jumps down, it’s clumsy, awkward, like he hasn’t trusted his own footing in a while. he eats fast, eyes darting up between bites, waiting for the trick, the grab, the laugh.

you don’t give him any of it.

you just sit there, quiet company in a loud world, letting him finish.

when he’s done, he stands there uncertain, tail flicking once, twice. you slowly extend your hand, palm open, stopping well short of him.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say softly. “i’ll still stay.”

that’s what finally breaks something open.

he steps forward and presses his head into your palm like he’s been holding the night up by himself and finally decided to put it down. his purr starts hesitant, like he’s embarrassed by it, then grows steadier when your fingers scratch gently behind his ear.

you smile without realizing it.

“hi baby,” you whisper, fond and warm. “there you are.”

he looks up at you when you say it, really looks, and that’s when you notice his eyes—green, bright even in the low light, sharp in a way that feels more observant than aggressive. they soften a little when your fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like you’re not afraid of what you’ll find if you linger.

you smile without thinking.

“what’s your name, cutie?” you murmur, like it’s the easiest question in the world.

he blinks at you, purr stuttering for half a second, then continuing like he never meant to stop. you laugh softly and reach for the tag, careful not to tug, reading it by the streetlight’s glow.

ONYX.

you hum. “onyx,” you repeat, trying it out. “yeah. that fits.”

he leans harder into your hand, like he agrees. you think about the way people talked. aggressive. feral. dangerous. you look at the way he lets you cradle his head now, the way his claws stay tucked in, the way his whole body relaxes like he’s been waiting for someone to get it right.

“they really don’t know you at all,” you say quietly, more to yourself than him.

onyx flicks his tail.

you shift closer, careful, and when he doesn’t pull away you scoop him up just enough to rest his front paws against your chest. he stiffens for half a second, then melts again when you keep petting him.

“so scary,” you murmur, affectionate and teasing. “so mean. clearly a menace to society.”

he purrs louder, offended on principle.

you laugh, soft and breathy, and before you can second-guess it you lean in and press a kiss right between his ears. your lipstick leaves a bright little mark against black fur, messy and unmistakable.

you already brace for it—the scramble, the hiss, the way trust evaporates the second it’s asked to stretch too far. you accept the risk as soon as you take it, hands staying open, still, ready to let him bolt if that’s what he needs.

you stroke his back, slow and soothing, and think about how easy it is for people to mistake silence for hostility. how often stillness gets read as threat. how often something hurt gets called dangerous just because it doesn’t beg to be loved.

“you’re not bad luck,” you tell him softly. “you’re just… misunderstood.”

onyx presses his forehead into your chin like he’s sealing the agreement.

then he pulls back, not startled, not afraid—just done, the way cats decide a moment has reached its natural end. he hops down from your arms with a little huff of independence, tail flicking once like punctuation.

“hey,” you laugh softly. “okay, okay.”

he pauses a few feet away and looks back at you, green eyes catching the light. calm. like he’s committing you to memory instead of running from it.

he blinks slow.

then he turns and trots off down the alley, quiet and sure, lipstick mark still stamped right on his forehead like a secret only the night knows about. you watch until he disappears between the houses, the sound of his steps fading into the hum of halloween.

you sit there a moment longer, letting the quiet settle back in. thinking about reputations. about how easily people confuse silence for danger, fear for cruelty, scars for intent. about how some things don’t need to be fixed—just seen.

you stand eventually, brushing off your jeans, the feeling in your chest lighter than it was when you left.

and somewhere, not far from here, someone else with the same reputation has no idea that tonight—of all nights—the story is already starting to change.

jason comes home late, jacket half-zipped, helmet tucked under his arm, the night still clinging to him in the form of cold air and old exhaust. the neighborhood’s mostly asleep now, halloween burned out to candy wrappers and sagging decorations, porch lights flicked off one by one like the block’s finally exhaled.

he sets his keys down. toes off his boots. routine. quiet. the kind of careful movement you learn when you don’t want to wake anything that might already be on edge.

“onyx?” he calls, low.

there’s a pause.

then soft footsteps.

the cat appears in the doorway like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. tail high. eyes bright. whole. he pads over like he owns the place, hops up onto the counter with practiced ease, and sits.

that’s when jason sees it.

he stops short.

right between onyx’s ears, stamped clear as day against black fur, is a smudged lipstick kiss. unmistakable.

jason just stares.

“…what,” he says finally, flat and confused, like the word might rearrange itself into an explanation if he waits long enough.

onyx blinks at him. slow.

jason steps closer, squinting like maybe the light’s playing tricks on him. he reaches out, hesitates, then gently cups the cat’s head, thumbs careful, like he’s afraid to break something.

he makes sure his hands stay visible, movements slow and cautious, like he’s learned that some things only relax when they can see you coming.

his chest does something weird.

“someone touched you,” he mutters. not angry. not upset. just… stunned.

onyx purrs, leaning into the touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

jason exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. “…yeah,” he says quietly. “guess they didn’t think you were so scary after all.”

he scratches under onyx’s chin and the cat melts, trust absolute, like tonight taught him something important about hands and voices and the difference between cruelty and care.

jason leans back against the counter, watching him, the quiet settling in around them. he doesn’t know who you are. doesn’t know where you found his cat or what made you stop or why you left your mark like a promise instead of a claim.

but he knows this much: someone saw gentleness where everyone else kept insisting on danger.

and for reasons he can’t quite explain, that thought stays with him long after the night finally goes still.