in the trenches

saying he "liked what you did there… looks good" while raising a single painted digit at his own hair when you changed up a style

and yeah you did something new but the fact this dude pointed it out just annoys you

just the nonchalant way he did it makes your jaw clench

you haven't even had a real conversation and its getting on your nerves

moments at odd hours where the both of you were the only ones in the same room

it was oddly comforting, not being alone and having another warm body near you

smirks you caught out of the corner of your eye

you just assumed he was some weirdo before being formally introduced by Arkha

it all seemed to click in that moment

oh… he's the big shot here

that makes sense

yeah you were going to stay as far as you could from him

but that didn't last long

you were sent out with his crew and that's when you noticed

he was oddly… nice to them

not that cocky ass you assumed

it was oddly charming, like he was actually a caring person

they were seemingly in on it after a while when they realized how his demeanor seemed to change when he was around you

like he wasn't exactly keeping on that leader mask

Riyo, Rudo, and Zanaka became wingmen of sorts

leaving an empty seat next to Enjin at chow time

the three of them suddenly needing to go somewhere, leaving the two of you alone

a mission that went wrong was the only reason you started dating officially

it went sideways, almost leaving you a greasy spot on the ground

and it set him off, running his mouth about how you needed to be more careful

you snapped

"what the hell is your deal? you act like you care?"

he would hesitate for once, his calm look cracking, sucking in a cheek

you would notice, how he seemed to pause

"don't do that again, my heart cant take that shit," is all he would say, his hands still at his sides, tilting his head, "you get it now?"

"oh."

dating him?

he has the spirit

one of those like fiercely protective

not out loud though

someone bothering you?

he casually walks over, draping an arm over your shoulder or a thick arm around your waist

doesn't even have to say anything, just a flat gaze

"you done here?"

they leave pretty quick

always putting you first

we know damn well with his leader tendencies

that doesn't inherently mean he doesn't trust you

no he pushes you to be your best

even if it doesn't come out with soft words, he needs to make you know your capable without you needing constant encouragement

not in a mean way but in a self identifying way

one of those guys who insists on driving

no matter how much you complain about how he's a shit driver

the most you can do is force gas money into his hand with him begrudgingly taking it

it usually takes three times of back and fourth until he finally gives in

lives for you telling him off

someone has to be the one humbling him

gets one of those little shithead grins as soon as you catch him doing something stupid or just when you raise your voice

don't worry he's right where he wants to be

blows his cigarette smoke into your face just to get you angry

it takes everything in him to not fold over with laughter when you snap at him

quality time isn't dinner dates

its just being in each others company

your jobs aren't something to take lightly

one bad expedition and you're gone

quality time is maintaining your vital instruments while having small talk

including each other in the quiet comfortable moments, just existing

a romantic gesture is remembering the off handed comments you say

You mentioned liking a specific food?

its left in a thick brown paper bag on your desk a few days later with a claim of "i bought too many don't want to let them go to waste."

sitting next to each other?

he's moving your legs to rest over his lap, not saying anything, and just mindlessly tracing on your shin with his fingers

letting you continue anything you're preoccupied with

crashes in your room at HQ more often than not

he claims the walk back to his own bed is too far

it's a fib and you know it, he uses it too often

its a good excuse to stay longer, to spend the night

he's all muscle and sharp angles, claiming the mattress is uncomfortable in his room

your extra chub is comfortable

something warm and soft

waking up tangled in your blankets, one tattooed arm slipped under your sleepshirt pressed into your stomach pulling you close, and his head tucked into your neck is something he is hooked on

and he isn't too keen on letting it go

genuinely, he won't let go

you try to get up to use the bathroom and he's mumbling some morning voice bullshit about "no. stay. warm." in your ear while you're fighting for you're life trying to slip away.

NSFW

we already know he's into curves

a whore for hips and an ass

it don't matter if its a little booty or a big one, booty is booty

bro is starving and dinner is sitting right there

a whistle

"look at you, trying to get me in trouble? gonna be the death of me babe."

body worship king

hands all over you

a large hand on your hip, slightly digging into your flesh as he leans over you, pulling you into him

"got me over here all worked up yeah?"

he's a strong guy, what's the point of being all toned and ripped if not to throw around some weight

certified munch

won't leave until your practically pushing his head off of your pussy, overly sensitive

his chin glistening, hair sweaty and fallen from its gel, face red and hot and blushing, a finger still curled inside your folds

yeah its a pretty sight

get used to it babes, you lucky bitch

often he'll just eat you out for his own pleasure

in it for the love of the game

loves face sitting

gets mad when you just hover

he's below you pulling you down onto him, fingers hooked around your plush thighs

"i'm not gonna break, and hell if that's how i go i'll be a happy man."

loves it when you're on top, his back propped up against the bedframe, watching with half lidded eyes

his hands are on you, kneading your figure, not intentionally leaving bruises but he can't help it

you're just so plush, and warm, and sopping wet

"just… fuck, use what you need outta me"

not exactly a submissive man, but he loves not needing to think for once, letting you do whatever you need to do to get yourself off

thats enough for him to go over the edge

he's there to help, loves being of service to you

doesn't mean that he wont flip you over and finish it off, pounding into you while your legs press around his waist, nails scratching into his shoulders

not the biggest in dirty talk

very big in other areas ;)

including those shuddered breaths against your ear, his jaw clenched attempting to hide his grunts

You try to find his gaze, but Jason covers his face. That's when you see the wet spot at the crotch of his tac pants. He's also hard if the bulge behind the stain suggests anything.

"Couldn't stop it," he says miserably. "Tried everything. Ignored it all day. Please go. Fuck, 'm so sorry, sucha fuckin' creep—"

"Jason," you say, hushed and kind. "It's okay. Hey, it's fine. Pollen?"

He nods, and he looks quite pathetic, standing there with his arms uselessly at his sides, huge cock heavy in his jeans, the zipper stretching from the weight of it. It's always been a passing thought, how much bigger Jason is than you. You have to look up to meet his gaze, and he can move you around easily. Not that he ever touches you; if he does, it's only in an emergency.

It's a little frustrating actually, the way Jason has to complicate everything. This could be so simple if he let it. Let you.

Jason would run for the hills if you pulled down your underwear and rubbed your wet folds against his crotch, like a cat in heat. But his skittish behavior hasn't stopped you from thinking about getting bent over the arm of his couch, one thick forearm wrapped around your belly as Jason pushes into you, hot mouth on your neck. You'd love nothing more.

But this isn't about you or what you want. This is about Jason and how he's, yes, technically sick. His eyes are bright with fever, a flush traveling down his neck and probably spreading across his chest. You know he was working last night—has he been pollened for a day? Pushing through it, ignoring every sign that something was wrong?

"Can I touch you?" you ask, keeping your voice quiet and light, like you're approaching a wild animal.

Jason shakes his head. "No. 'F you do, I'll–I'm gonna—"

Cum. The realization is like a bolt of lightning to your brain. That's what happened not five minutes ago: you felt Jason's forehead for fever, and he's so desperate, body taut like a too-tight violin string, that the slightest touch tipped his body over the edge. And it wasn't enough. Jason came and stayed hard. He's probably been leaking all day, his cock and balls painfully swollen, demanding he tend to his base urges.

You've never seen Jason physically intimate with anyone; you can’t even imagine him jacking off, though you know he must do it. Under the covers, maybe. No—in the shower. Where he could wash it all away as quickly as possible. Your brain goes fuzzy thinking about Jason's huge palm wrapped around his dick, desperately stroking himself until he comes, catching himself with a hand against the shower tiles. Does he have to do it twice for relief? Three times? Does the pleasure overtake him, make him stupid and noisy?

You could do that. Jason's a hair-trigger away from creaming his jeans again. You imagine doing it over and over until his hair is a mess, cheeks blotchy and red, and he's whining, unable to form words.

"I can help," you say gently, like you're being a charitable friend.

Not the truth, which is that this is making you easy and wet, and if Jason wanted to push into you, it'd be like pressing a thumb to the skin of an overripe peach. He'd find little resistance, and you'd gush around him, tight and pulsing. Jason would feel your heartbeat in your cunt as you grew wetter and softer around him, messily sucking him in. And when he came, it'd spill out of you, preparing you for when he'd inevitably have to go again.

"No," Jason says again—the only word he knows. "I can't—'s wrong, don't wanna make you uncomfortable." He sounds wrecked, pleasure and guilt overwhelming him. He wants you, you know that, and he's angry at himself for wanting you like this. No shield to his desires, no self-control. But Jason has only ever been self-controlled. And you've been wishing for months for a crack in that control.

"Jason," you say, lilting and melodious, like a siren song. "Oh, honey, it's okay. Really. I want to. You're sick. You can't fix it alone. Let me help."

"I dunno if I can control myself." He looks at you finally, fear-stricken. "I don't wanna be out of control. You gotta have the upper hand."

You frown. "Jay, sweetie, I trust you. Honestly, I think it'll be okay—"

He shakes his head violently. "No. No, don’t. 'S wrong, all of this is wrong. Just go. I'll wait it out." He grits his teeth, like he can defeat his body out of sheer willpower.

But even more than your desire is your inability to see Jason hurt. Especially if you can fix it. Most of the time, you can't do anything. You aren't strong or skilled enough to go out at night with him, and you aren’t much of a nurse. All you do is bring him food, call him and tell him you were thinking about him, rub your clit and dream about his weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock emptying into you.

This time, you can do something.

You lick your lips, choosing your next sentence carefully. "Maybe there's something that'll make you feel safer. What if I stay on top? Or you keep your hands behind you? Or—"

"Cuff me." The direction is a rasp. "There's some in my bag."

You hesitate. "Jason, you can touch me. I really don't m—"

"Please." His chest heaves. "'S the only way I'll feel okay 'bout this. 'F I know I can't touch you, that this won't happen the way I planned, and you won't get hurt, I can do it."

You press your lips together, debating. You can't work through Jason's guilt and repression in an evening. And the pollen is burning through him; you suspect that it won't release until he cums inside of you.

"Okay," you say. "Do you want to go to your room?"

"No." He sits on the floor against the couch. "Here's fine. 'S what I..."

What I deserve, he doesn't say. You don't comment, instead going to his duffel bag to fetch the cuffs. They're at the bottom and you take them out.

"Key's on the side."

You take the little key out and set it on the coffee table. Then you pause, the open cuffs in your hand. Jason licks his lips and slides down, so he's lying on the floor. His hands go up to the leg of the couch. You understand immediately and fit the cuffs around his wrists, locking them so he's secured around the couch leg.

Your fingers graze the inside of his wrist and he whimpers.

"Too tight?" you ask.

"No, fine," he says breathlessly. He shifts, biceps on full display at this angle. "Don't unlock me till the pollen's gone. Even if I beg, d-don't."

Whatever thread of control Jason still has will disappear once you seriously make the effort to cycle the pollen out of his system. You know how it works; Jason's warned you against it a million times. Yet it's him that's here now, powerless and needy.

You pet his cheek. He grunts.

"Please," he whispers, and you nod.

"I know, Jay. I know, honey."

You pull off your shirt. He squirms, hips bucking.

"Sorry," he says, ashamed.

He looks away as you fully undress, tossing your clothes aside. You're naked and unselfconscious as you crawl onto him. You work on his jeans zipper and pop the button. Jason lifts his hips so you can pull his jeans down. His gray briefs are even darker than his jeans—Jason's presumably either came or leaked pre-cum for hours.

You thumb the bulge, which is a little cruel, but the sound Jason makes is worth it. He keens like a dog, trying to arch and move away from your hand simultaneously, like it's too much and not enough. The cuffs rattle against the couch leg.

"Oh God, fuck," he says, and cums again. You feel the warmth bloom under your fingers, the sticky patch getting stickier. His erection doesn't flag a bit; it's like nothing happened.

If you were meaner, you might work him to insanity this way. The curiosity of how many times Jason can cum without getting soft burns in you, but you know that he's being extremely vulnerable, and you don't want to take advantage.

Still, the urge lingers...

"Sorry, baby," you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. A little more cum gushes from his cock from that. You feel yourself getting wetter. "I'll get to it now. One second."

Your tits rest against his chest as you wiggle his briefs off. And there's his cock, the product of nearly twelve straight hours of arousal. It's dark red, almost purple, the veins plump. His hair is matted with cum, balls drooping heavily at the base.

He'd be so good for breeding, comes the unbidden thought. It's like everything else Jason does is a distraction; why does he run around Gotham, using his body to fight, to take a beating, to protect, when it should be against yours, pumping you with his cum?

"You're so full, huh?" you say, letting his cock drag against the front of your pussy. The head catches on your clit and you both whine. "Fat, leaky dick with a full load. Do you get like this thinking about me?"

Maybe you're meaner than you thought. You're gluttonous, eyes lasered in on Jason's reaction. His face screws up, embarrassed but helpless to how his cock tightens in warning at the question. Why are you asking? Don't you understand that he's tried so hard not to let you see him like this? Jason's a soldier first, a weapon, a tank. His body is good for bruises, not bites.

"Jason," you say in the voice that can make him do anything. "Tell me, honey."

"Y-yeah, yes," he says, the corners of his eyes wet. "But I control it. 'S not a lot, I swear. I can control it."

"Oh, yeah, I know you can," you say, soothing like a balm. "You're so good. I like you so much, Jay. I've been waiting for ages for you to do something about it. You treat me so well. Why didn't you tell me sooner? Poor baby, so hard you're crying."

He shakes his head weakly. "N-not, not cr—"

You swipe a thumb under his eye, collecting a stray tear. You suck it clean, salt hitting your tongue. "No? I can taste it. That's okay, pretty. Pretty boy, just wanna grab at you every time you stop by. You're so strong, so capable. It's okay now, Jay. I'll help."

You look behind you so you can take his cock in hand, positioning it so he slides home. Jason wails as he lands inside of you, and he thrusts as soon as he's deep enough. He doesn't stop, and you watch his thighs flex, sinewy muscle and fat cushioning you as he fucks you.

"That's it, baby, there you go," you say, cunt tightening around him.

You can't resist it either. Jason's cock fills you so well, almost too much, but in a good way. You feel him in your belly, and you crook your knee up so you get him even deeper. Now his thrusts alight the muscles in your hips, your legs, your stomach with pleasure.

You ruck his shirt up so you can grope his stomach, digging your nails into the fat and pressing until you feel muscle.

"Oh, fuck, fuck," Jason says, back arching from the floor. "Fuck, oh my God, I can't stop, I can't—"

"Don't stop," you order, holding him by his shoulders. You lean in, so your nipple is in front of his mouth. "Will sucking my tits help? Make you cum faster?"

Jason has his mouth on you as a reply, latching onto your breast and sucking. He bites down gently and you moan, grabbing your tit and squeezing so he can get more of it in his mouth. His tongue laves the flesh, hips never stuttering in their rhythm.

Hot cum fills your pussy, almost immediately dripping down your thighs, it's so much. But Jason doesn't stop. He doesn't soften either.

"Oh my God," you say in awe, looking at where your bodies are joined, where Jason's cock slides in and out of you rapidly. "Fuck, baby, you're gonna knock me up. You can't help it. I saw your dick months ago. Just for a moment, saw it swinging, with your huge balls. Couldn't stop thinking about it after that. Touched myself thinking about you mounting me like a dog, big and stupid, fucking me till it stuck. And now it's gonna stick, whether you want it to or not."

Jason cries out, pulling against the cuffs so hard the couch moves and squeaks against the floor. A mix of apprehension and excitement strikes you—can Jason break the cuffs? Probably not... but what if he did? What if he proved just how much at his mercy you really are? What if no amount of reassurances or restraints could stop him in this state? If Jason wants to grab you, pick you up and fuck you with your face to the floor, hand on the back of your neck, maybe there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Your eyes flutter at the thought. You hardly need to put in effort to ride him—Jason's fucking you just fine even without his hands. You kiss his neck, biting down hard, and Jason moans, loud and long.

"Oh fuck, 'm sorry," he says, slurring his words. "I'll finish soon, I swear. Sorry, sorry—"

You rub your clit while he babbles apologies. You're close, and you want to cum before Jason finally gets soft. You ignore his sloppy thrusts and the way the cuffs clink.

"I'm gonna cum," you say, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest. "Stop apologizing so I can fucking cum, Jay."

"'Kay," he says, nodding fervently. "Yeah, please cum, want you t'feel good—"

Your pleasure peaks, clawing up your back. Your nipples are so hard they ache, and your whole body pulses as you orgasm, your pussy gripping Jason like a lifeline.

He instantly follows you, and this time, he cums for much longer, filling you almost uncomfortably so. It leaks out of you, spilling onto Jason's thighs and the floor beneath. He's frozen while he cums, eyes clenched tight as his body finds the relief it's needed for hours.

"Oh," he says, blinking through more tears. The sudden change between animalistic hunger and cool, controlled relief must be whiplash.

Jason swallows hard and looks at you. You curl up against him, letting his softened cock fall out of you. Absently, you rub his still-clothed chest with your knuckles.

"See?" you say, not looking at him. "Was that so hard?"

Jessie Bromlin is a marketing analyst who works on your floor. She’s the second friend you made at Wayne Enterprises since you started working here almost a year ago. She’s pleasant, chatty, and has been here long enough to show you the ropes.

She also is almost never at her desk. You have no idea how she gets her own work done. 

Fail! says your computer. You frown. “That should’ve worked.”

“What should’ve?” Jessie asks. 

“Just some code. I don’t know why it’s not working.”

“You should take a break. Let’s go to Penny’s. They’re doing special roast sandwiches for Christmas. Ooh! Are you going to the gala in two weeks?”

“There’s a gala?”

“Of course! It’s Bruce Wayne. All the WE employees get in free. It’s a lot of fun. Good food and music. And alcohol.”

You grimace. “I don’t really do Christmas work parties.”

“No, trust me, this one rocks. You’ll have fun. Oh my God! We need a Santa. I have to go find one. You wouldn’t happen to know a Santa, would you?”

You smile, glancing up from your screen for a second to look at Jessie. “No, sorry.”

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Nothing. I’ll catch up with you at Penny’s.”

“‘Kay. Peace.”

You try the code again. This time, there’s an error message you’ve never seen before and the monitor flickers. Weird. You google the error message, but there’s no results. You send it to the IT group chat.

You: hey, anyone know what this means?

[img_5.png]

Sasha: doesn’t look familiar

Toby: did you google?

Mikey: idk. run it again with a different input and see if you get the same msg

You ignore Toby, because Toby never has anything helpful to contribute, only the glaring obvious. You’re new to back-end work; at Emerson Corp, you mostly did front-end design stuff concerning the user interface. But this position at WE has given you a chance to practice more back-end work, and you work extra long and hard on projects as a result, trying to prove yourself. You do Mikey’s suggestion and run the test again with a different input. This time, the program automatically quits, the window closing. You smack your desk in frustration.

Maybe Jessie’s right. You need a break. So you turn off your screen and grab your wallet and coat, heading to the elevator. You pull out your phone.

Unknown Number

You: hi. can you meet tonight? after work

?: What’s up?

You hesitate. This is probably just your paranoia from last year’s situation with Emerson. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You scroll; the last message you sent is from five months ago, when there was a news report about a fire by the docks, caused by Black Mask. 

[August 24th, 2025]

You: oh my god I just saw the news are you okay??

[August 25th, 2025]

?: Hey. I’m okay.

You start to type I think there’s something weird happening with the work computers when you see shoes in your peripheral vision. You freeze and barely avoid colliding with a security guard. He turns around and smiles. You smile back.

“Hi, Peter,” you say, pocketing your phone.

“Hey,” he says. “Y’okay? Did I swipe ya?”

You shake your head. “All good. I haven’t seen you in so long!”

Peter adjusts his shades, grimacing. You’ve never seen him without his nondescript, red baseball cap or his shades. They’re black. You can’t even see if his eyes are light or dark. 

“Yeah, been on the late night shift more often than not,” he says. “How’s it goin’?”

Peter is tall, and big. You’ve only seen him a few times with his sleeves rolled up, but you can tell he’s muscular. Which makes sense, considering he’s a security guard, but you’ve never seen one who looks like they bench press cars on their lunch break. Peter was your first friend—first anything, really—at Wayne Enterprises, when you started in January. He’d carried your box of stuff to your new desk and had shown you where the restrooms and vending machines were, all without you asking. It’s like he’d sensed your anxiety. When he first approached you, you feared the worst, wondering if maybe you’d brought in a gun without knowing. But he’d merely introduced himself, and asked if he could help you get to the floor you needed to go. 

Peter’s not always around, because the security assignment changes, according to him. But somehow you bump into each other when he’s on your floor. 

“It’s okay.” You sound mopey to your ears. You know Peter will pick up on it.

“Rough day?” 

You shrug. “Just some code I was fiddling with. It’s been giving me a hard time. Almost like it’s—”

You stop, catching yourself. You like Peter, but this isn’t a conversation for him. You don’t trust him like that. 

“Like…?” he prompts.

“Nothing. Anyway, do you know about some Christmas gala? Jessie was telling me about it, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”

Peter leans against the wall, sending a waft of his cologne in your direction. You can’t place where you’ve smelled it before, but it’s nice. Spicy and woody. He smells like a man, and if you weren’t such a nailbiter, you’d probably shoot your shot. As it is, you don’t want the reason you leave this job to be because you had a falling out with a security guard. 

“Sure. Pretty spectacular, if you’re into that. The big boss and his kids attend. There’s food, drink, dancing. He doesn’t spare any expense.” Peter snorts. “Not when it comes to work, anyway.”

Your eyes widen. Peter has, for the most part, never had a bad thing to say about the company, or Bruce Wayne, who you’ve only seen once at work. 

“Is that derision I hear?” you ask. 

Peter smiles a little. “Maybe. I just hate parties. Bruce makes such a to-do out of ‘em.”

You nod. “I hear you. Jessie said it would be fun, but I’m not so sure. I think I’d rather stay home. Too much excitement for me.”

“Well, no one would fault y’for it, if you did. This isn’t that kinda company.”

You blink, surprised. “Oh. Good to know.”

He looks at his watch. “You should eat something. ‘S way past lunchtime.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re worse than Jessie. I’m going, alright? She said there’s Christmas special roast sandwiches at Penny’s. Want me to bring you one?”

He smiles. “Nah, that’s okay. I ate. Thanks, though.”

“We should eat lunch together sometime,” you say, pulling out your phone and opening your messages. You start to type again. I think someone is hacking the… but you delete it. You have no idea if any hacking is going on. You can hear his voice in your head. Gotta ease those nerves.

You look up, realizing how rude you’re being. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

“I said sure,” Peter says. “Y’seem glued to your phone today. Got a hot date?”

You make a face. “Not at all. Sorry. Work is distracting me. I’ll catch up with you later?”

He nods. “Count on it.”

You continue your trek to Penny’s, stepping onto the elevator. Employees get a monthly lunch allowance, which can be used at the company cafeteria or at neighboring restaurants. You’ve never worked for a company that cares so much for its workers. Wayne Enterprises provides full healthcare coverage, including mental health services that you don’t have to pay a dime for. Emerson barely provided healthcare and dental. He couldn’t have cared less about his employees.

Why he’s in jail, you think, putting your coat on and bracing yourself against the cold air as you sweep through the revolving doors and onto the pavement. Gray slushy snow is clustered around the curb, and you sidestep it neatly as you cross the street to Penny’s, a local cafe. You open the door, the bell overhead ringing. Penny’s has been around for decades, according to the locals. It mostly attracts nearby workers at lunchtime, and plenty of WE employees can be found here throughout the day. You wait on line, scanning the cafe for Jessie. She’s sitting with some people from her department. You still aren’t keen on sitting with people you don’t know at work. It’s part of every job, but at Emerson Corp, you would alternate between eating at your desk or on a bench across the street when it was warm. 

The little sign that says Christmas Sandwich Special has an empty row behind it. The woman in front of you asks about the sandwiches. 

“Sorry, no more today,” the chef says. “We’ll have more tomorrow. We didn’t know there’d be such a high demand.”

So you order a tuna fish sandwich instead and a cinnamon roll. Sweet treats are an important part of your work day. You wonder if Peter likes cinnamon rolls. You purchase another, on impulse, to bring him. 

“Hey!” Jessie waves at you, calling your name. “Come sit with us!”

Well. Here you go. 

You sit next to Jessie, who scoots over to make room for you. She goes around the table and introduces you to the five other people. Three work in Marketing, one works in Finance, and one works in PR for the company, Marisol. You say hi and keep your coat on due to how often the door opens and heat rushes out. 

“Marisol was just telling us about the conference she covered with Tim Drake last week,” Jessie says. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Wow. Tim Drake. How’s he?”

“Not bad, actually,” Marisol says. “And I’ve worked with a lot of CEOs. You’d think he’d be unbearable because he grew up with Jack Drake and then immediately was invited to the Wayne fortune, but he’s actually decent. He never misses a Xanax dose, which helps.”

Dennis, one of the Marketing people, nods soberly. “Sometimes my anti-depressants are the only thing that gets me through the day.”

“Marisol soft-launched Tim and his boyfriend last year,” Jessie says proudly. “Best press I’ve ever seen.”

“We were worried about that one,” Marisol admits. “Not everyone’s as forward thinking, even in Gotham. But, um…” She leans in, and gestures for you all to do the same. “Okay, you obviously can’t tell anyone. It’ll probably come out soon, but I don’t want it to come from here. I… I think Tim might be cheating.”

Jessie, a great lover of theatrics, gasps. “No!”

“I’m not surprised,” says Bianca, the finance worker. “He’s lived with Bruce Wayne since he was fifteen. What do you suppose a boy learns being around him all the time? No morals, that’s for sure. I’m sure all of his kids are screwed up in some way or another.”

Marisol rolls her eyes. “Bruce Wayne would have to be in a relationship longer than a day to get a chance to cheat.”

“I still think all his flings are a cover for his long-term relationship with Batman,” says Dennis.

“No one wants to hear your crackpot theories, Denny,” Bianca says. “Anyone with eyes can see that Batman’s with Catwoman.”

“My throuple theory! Batman, the cold, stern lover. Bruce, the—”

Bianca holds up a hand. “Please, spare me.”

“Anyway,” Marisol says, and delicately sips her ginger ale. “Back to my gossip. Tim Drake disappeared from his hotel like five times. He wouldn’t tell anyone where he went. In my experience, that’s classic affair behavior. And he’s been doing this for about three months, you know, dipping from meetings, working later, having long lunches and not putting them on the company credit card so no one can see what restaurant he was at. It’s definitely suspicious.”

“I hope he’s not cheating,” Jessie says. “They’re such a cute couple. And when they settle down and have kids? Adorable! Although, I don’t agree with nepotism. I support class consciousness.”

“If you caught him, are you sworn to secrecy?” you ask.

Marisol shrugs. “Probably. I mean, he wouldn’t want an Instagram post about it, that’s for sure. My own morals aside, this is the job, you know? It sucks but it is what it is.”

You shiver, biting your sandwich. You wouldn’t want to be on either side of that. Secrets stress you out. Doubly so if you’re keeping them for someone else. 

A glob of tuna suddenly plops onto your coat collar. Another lands on a button. A third on a pocket. 

“Shit,” you say, putting the sandwich down with too much force. Jessie instantly passes you a wad of napkins, and you try to dab the mess up as best as you can. But you can already tell your coat will smell like tuna, onions, and pickles for the rest of the day.

“Poorly constructed sandwich if you ask me,” Marisol says.

“Well, at least tomorrow’s laundry day.” You shrug off your coat. You abandon your sandwich for the cinnamon roll. Jessie pats your shoulder consolingly. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure no one on the train will notice the smell. It already smells so bad!”

You snort. “Thanks, Jessie.”

****

There’s no way the train will mask the smell. 

You stare at your coat, debating. It was a mistake to keep it under your desk; you’re pretty sure the heat from the computer has made the smell a hundred times worse. A janitor was kind enough to give you a recycling bag for it so no one rioted over the smell. But still. You’re hesitant to take it out of the bag now. You don’t know if you can handle dirty looks for a forty-minute train ride. And you don’t want your other clothes to smell. 

What’s worse? Peter left early, so you can’t give him his cinnamon roll. 

You go outside. It’s cold, especially now that it gets dark at practically noon. But if you walk fast, it’ll be fine, right? You pull your scarf tighter around your neck. 

“What are you wearing?”

You spin around, clutching your chest. Red Hood is leaning against a streetlamp, arms crossed. Half of him is shrouded in shadows, which would freak you the fuck out if you weren’t more irritated than anything. 

“Don’t do that!” you say. “Jesus Christ.”

“What did I say about that Lexapro, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “You said Xanax. And I’m in therapy, okay? She wants me to try this before committing to meds. Have a little faith in me.”

“Oh, I’ve always had faith in ya. Except now, ‘cause you’re not wearing a coat when it’s fuckin’ thirty-three degrees out.”

“I spilled tuna on it. Tuna, onions, pickles… the tuna essence has seeped in.”

“Tuna essence is better than pneumonia.”

“Nag,” you mumble. 

“What was that?”

You look up wearily. “Nothing. I didn't know you were coming. I never texted you back.” 

Hood takes off his brown bomber jacket and takes your coat bag and purse. He puts his jacket on you, holding it steady while you dazedly stick your arms through the sleeves. Then he zips it up to your chin. What the fuck.

“Tell me now,” he says.

“Hood, you’re cold!”

“Talk fast.”

“Dude.”

“Oh, you don’t have anything to tell me? Alright, then I’ll just head out.”

“Wait!” You shimmy your hands through his ginormous sleeves. “Okay. I think something shady’s happening at work.”

Hood crosses his arms. You’d think that he’d look less intimidating with your yellow purse over his shoulder and a recycling bag with your coat in his opposite hand but, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. His gray tac suit is skin-tight, outlining every curve of muscle and fat. His pecs look obscene. 

Oh no. No, don’t look at that. Think of something else. Toby’s hyena laugh. Tuna juice smell. Santa Claus… Hood as Santa Cl—no! Nope. 

Hood seems to take your silence as anxiety. “Okay, I know we’re gettin’ close to when the stuff happened with Emerson last year, but—”

“Come on,” you say exasperatedly. “Do you think I’d want to ruin such a great job?”

“No, but I think the mind’s a funny thing and you get nervy sometimes.”

“This isn’t that. Can I tell you my evidence?”

He holds a hand out. “Go ‘head.”

“Okay, so I’ve been working on this piece of code for, like, months, and it won’t let me finish this program. And I’ve worked on difficult code before, so that’s not the problem, but it’s like now there’s a firewall installed that’s preventing me from accessing stuff. And it only happens when I work on the security part of it, but no one else is experiencing this problem. Today, I tried again and it closed me out of the program! Just shut off! That’s not normal.”

Hood sighs. “Look—”

“Wait! Another thing is that when I returned to my computer after lunch and tried to work on the program again, I saw that Tim Drake had edited some of my code. The CEO, Hood! That’s totally weird. And…” You take a deep breath. “This woman from PR told me about how Tim keeps disappearing from meetings and stuff and how she thinks he’s cheating, but what if it’s something more nefarious? What if he’s messing with the company’s security system?”

“If Tim Drake was doing some shit like that, there’s no way Bruce wouldn’t know about it,” Hood says.

“How do you know? Bruce Wayne doesn’t really seem all there.” You point to your head. 

Hood snorts. “Looks can be really deceiving, trust me. I checked him out. He’d know.”

“But—”

“Hey,” he says softly. “I think it’s fantastic you’re so alert about this stuff, but everything’s fine. I wouldn’t have suggested you work here if it was dirty.”

“You aren’t listening to me!” you say, balling your fists. “Hood, I really think there’s something happening. Why don’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you.”

“Then why won’t you even poke around? You love to poke.” And shoot, but you hope he won’t go there. 

“I’m not gonna break into Wayne’s company just ‘cause of some weird code. That’s not enough. And maybe Timbo really is cheating. That’s a moral failing but it’s not a crime.” He rubs the chin of his helmet. “‘Course, his boyfriend would kick his ass if he knew…”

You scowl. “It isn’t a coincidence. There’s no such thing as coincidences.”

“You sound like me.”

“Someone has to!” you say, throwing your hands up. “Apparently, Red Hood no longer operates on a reasonable amount of suspicion and paranoia.”

“Alright, alright. How ‘bout this: we’ll do a stakeout tomorrow night. I’ll set up cameras and everything. But if nothing’s out of the ordinary, you drop it. Capisce?” 

“Yes,” you say, spirits lifting. “Yes, that's very good. Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure. How’s work, besides that?”

“It’s good.” You smile, thinking of Peter. “Security’s nice.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You look up, remembering yourself. You and Hood do not have that kind of relationship. You’re not sure what relationship you have, but it’s not that. 

“Yeah. A-anyway… do you like cinnamon rolls?”

If you could see Hood’s face, you imagine he’d be raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Cinnamon rolls,” you repeat, going to your purse, which is still over Hood’s shoulder. He obediently holds it while you take out the box from Penny’s. You hold it out to him. 

“What’re you—”

“It was for my friend, Peter,” you say. “But he left early, I guess. He didn’t tell me he would, I don’t know why he wouldn’t but…” You shake your head. “Anyway. Do you want it?”

“You have it,” Hood says gently. 

“I already had one. It was my reward for enduring tuna essence. Please take it, Hood, I want you to have it.”

So he takes it. You smile. 

“They’re best warm. You have an oven, right?”

He snorts. “What, y’think I’m some miscreant who squats in abandoned warehouses?”

“No! No, I just… I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you cook. Most guys your age don’t.”

“I cook,” Hood says. “Quite a bit, actually. I make a mean lasagna.”

You grin. “Really?”

“Sure. Peer-reviewed. I’ll make ya one sometime.”

That flusters you, and you clear your throat, fidgeting to take your purse from Hood. He takes it off and puts it over your shoulder. 

“I should go,” you say. “Um… oh! Your jacket—”

“‘S a long walk to the train,” he says, backing up, holding your coat. “Just keep it. You can give it to me when we meet for the stakeout.”

“Hood, I’m not gonna take your jacket,” you say, beginning to take it off. 

“Seriously. ‘M fine. I got Pit water in me. Helps insulate.”

You try to hand it back, but Hood’s faster. He dodges you, darting away before you can throw his jacket at him. 

“See ya tomorrow!” he says, and disappears around the corner. With your coat. 

“You have my coat, man!”

Nothing. You huff, shoving your arms back through the sleeves. Vigilantes. There’s no reasoning with them.

…His jacket really is warm. You wonder what the lining is made of. It’s so soft. 

****

“Where’d you get that jacket?”

Jessie is already at your desk when you walk in. You look up, frightened. Your heartbeat slows as you realize Jessie’s genuinely curious. She slides around your cubicle and touches your sleeve. The leather is taken care of. You don’t know much about clothing that’s not made of cotton or polyester blend, but from what you understand, real leather jackets require upkeep. It’s clear that Hood does that. It’s obviously worn—aside from the fact that it smells like man cologne, there are scratches and patches from God knows what. Probably bullets and knives. But it’s soft, warm. Well-loved. 

“I think this is real leather!” Jessie says, impressed. “What’s it lined with? Wow. I didn’t know you wore that. Pri-cey.”

“I don’t,” you say quickly. “It’s from my—” What? It belongs to a crime lord you’re sort of friends with? You grimace. “Uh, I found it thrifting.”

“Oh, I love thrifting!” Jessie gushes. “Do you think Ben would like thrifting?”

You unravel your scarf. “I don’t think three-year-olds care much about clothes. Like, at all.”

“True. Ugh! I have no ideas on what to do with him. They’re coming this weekend.” She rubs her temples. “And her husband has, like, very high expectations. High expectations? Fuck him! Did he push Ben out of his fucking va—”

“Jessie,” you say, widening your eyes. “Why don’t you take Ben to the community theater’s showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”

She claps her hands, pointing at you. “You’re a genius. That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”

You watch her sprint away, presumably to do anything but her work. You glance behind you, where Toby and another coworker is trying to see how much balled up paper they can land in the wastebasket. You roll your eyes.

Well. You can do your job.

You type your login and wait for it to load. You take off your—Hood’s—jacket. This is terrible. Where could he have possibly taken your coat? 

You pull out your phone. You’ve considered changing his contact name, but it feels weird having Red Hood as a contact. My close, personal friend Red Hood. You don’t want to call him Todd, because that’s probably not his name. And anyway, it’s too normie for a guy who wears a helmet and shoots people on the daily. 

Maybe not on the daily. Weekly, at most. 

You: can i have my coat back today?

?: I would never hold your coat hostage. :)

You: could’ve fooled me. don’t be surprised if yours has tuna juice on it.

?: Ho-ho, ha-ha, comedy! Your coat isn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Be grateful.

You won’t win that argument, so you don’t try.

You: sooo grateful. are we watching pineapple tonight?

?: Tf is pineapple?

You: that’s you know who’s code name… aren’t u supposed to be a super experienced vigilante?

?: Pineapple is a terrible code word. You’re supposed to replace the whole action, like “I’m taking out the trash.”

You: okay man whatever. are we taking out the TRASH tonight?

?: Yes. 7pm. Parking garage across the street. I’ll call you. 

You put your phone in your bag, exhaling. This isn’t even that good of a jacket. Yes, it’s warm, and soft, and smells good but… your coat has character! And not the ballistics kind. You’re pretty sure that the mended hole on Hood’s jacket sleeve isn’t because he snagged it on a fence.

You open the program you’ve been working on for months. The screen freezes, the code glitching. The cursor moves on its own, flicking around the screen. Your eyes bug out of your head. You perform an emergency override, something you were taught when you first started working for Emerson. When you work with sensitive information, being able to pull the plug is crucial.

You force-quit the program. The screen goes dark. 

Well. Shit. 

****

“Have a good weekend!” Jessie calls after you. You flinch, not realizing anyone was behind you.

You tuck your scarf tighter, smiling. “You too.”

“I got the tickets for Charlie Brown,” she says happily. “I dare that prickly mother-in-law to top that!”

“You’ll be his favorite aunt for sure.”

Jessie reaches to give you a half-hug. “Thanks. Have you given any more thought to the gala? You can bring a plus-one for free!”

Like you have anyone to bring. “Well…”

“We can go together. The party favors are so good, too.”

“Maybe,” you say. “I… I’ll think about it.”

Jessie shrugs. “Okay. See you Monday!”

She heads off in the direction of the company parking lot. You wait until she’s out of sight before you cross the street. Your phone rings. You answer.

“Fourth floor,” comes Hood’s voice. “Left side. Black Jeep.”

“Isn’t a black Jeep kind of an obvious stakeout car?” you ask, following his directions. You step onto the elevator and press four. “Isn’t that what the FBI drive?”

“You watch a couple of cop movies and suddenly you’re an expert, huh?”

The elevator doors open. You walk down the parking lot. You’d be terrified if you weren’t on the phone with Hood. “There must be some truth to those, right?”

“Ha, not really. ‘Cept the fact that they make cops a lot smarter in the movies than they really are.”

“The police are stupid in Die Hard,” you say, opening the passenger-side door of the black Jeep. There are no other cars on this floor.

Hood hangs up, watching you as you get in and close the door. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. “Die Hard is unrealistic for other reasons. Who could take out twelve guys barefoot?”

You could, you don’t say. You decide not to mention that John McClane was also shirtless and barefoot for the last third of the movie, making his kill count extra impressive. Hood could probably take out thirty men barefoot and shirtless. Hmm…

“Your coat’s back there,” he says, pointing to the backseat. “Had it dry-cleaned.”

“Oh.” You blink. “It doesn’t need to be.”

“Helps it last longer,” Hood says. “Preserves the insulation.” He tilts his head, presumably eyeing his jacket on you. “Y’don’t have another coat? Yours is wearin’ thin.”

“What’s next? Eating steak five times a week? I don’t have money for two coats, Mr. Moneybags.”

He hums, resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the back of your seat. He lifts his hips to sit more comfortably. You look straight, focusing on a lit window across the street. Your cheeks are hot. 

“I’ll getcha another coat for Christmas,” he says casually, and it wouldn’t fluster you so much if you didn’t think he actually meant it. 

“You don’t have t—”

He holds up his hand on the steering wheel. “Can’t let my best informant freeze.”

“I’m your informant?”

Hood looks at you, helmet eyes glowing. “No.” He pauses. “You’re my… I dunno what.” He clears his throat. “The cinnamon roll was good.”

You smile. “Yeah? It was from Penny’s.”

He hums. “Never been. I’ll have to try. You cold?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Your jacket is really warm. My friend Jessie asked what it was lined with.”

“Alpaca. I got it on a job in the Andes.”

“With Roy?”

“Wow, you remember that. Yeah, actually, with Roy. He was the friend I had to break out of prison.”

“Does he also do…” You gesture. “This?”

“He does more international jobs these days, but yeah. Great guy. Better than me.”

“I think you’re good,” you say quietly. 

“Mm. Most people wouldn’t agree.”

“Then most people would be wrong.”

Hood doesn’t say anything. He reaches behind him and pulls out a set of binoculars. He gives them to you.

“You’re in charge of those, ‘kay?”

“Okay.” You put them to your eyes, finding the WE building. Some of the windows are lit, which isn’t weird. Some floors work later than you. “When I was working on the program today, I couldn’t even get on. It crashed and logged me out.”

Hood’s quiet. You pull the binoculars away and look at him.

“What?” you ask.

“That’s strange, I gotta admit.”

You perk up. “So something could be going on?”

“Don’t get excited. Let’s just see.”

You wiggle in your seat. “Vindication!”

“‘F I didn’t know better, I’d think you want a corrupt CEO.”

“It’s our Christmas tradition,” you say, grinning. 

Hood laughs. “Jesus, I hope not.”

You put the binoculars back to your eyes. You pan up, up to the thirtieth floor, and…

“Hood!” You put down the binoculars. “The light is on in Tim Drake’s office. I saw him leave! And I asked his receptionist if he was available to make sure, and he said Tim had a business dinner.” You unlock your door.

“You did all that?” Hood asks. “Hey, hang on!”

“It’s smart, right?” you say excitedly, happy that your suspicions seem to be confirmed. “I’m terrible at lying, though. When his receptionist asked me why I wanted to speak to Tim, I got so flustered I blurted out that I had a personal surgery for him to green-light.” You thump your head. “Stupid.”

“Takes practice, lyin’ on your feet,” says Hood. “Try exhaling as you say the lie. Your voice levels, your breathing regulates.”

You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Sometimes I think, ‘what would Hood do?’ And I knew you would’ve questioned the receptionist first.”

“I dunno if I should be flattered or worried that you’re thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d do.”

“What do you mean? You have good advice sometimes.”

You wait for him to get out. Hood closes his door and locks it. 

“Just sometimes?” he asks. 

“Other times, your advice is scary. And illegal.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough.” 

You start to walk to the exit. 

“Hey, slow your roll,” Hood says, catching up to you. “What exactly are you gonna do?”

“If Tim’s up there after hours and he lied about leaving, then surely he’s doing sketchy stuff, right?”

He sighs, glancing at the WE building, then at you. “I want you t’be careful. I mean it.”

“I’m always careful, Hood. More than you, remember?”

“Well, lately, you’re like a fuckin’ Black Widow, so I feel like y’need a reminder.”

“Have you met a Black Widow?”

Hood nods. “Once. Nice lady. Scary as hell. And she was careful.”

You preen at the comparison. If she scared Hood, she must be one hell of a woman.

Reluctantly, Hood leads you out of the garage. He makes you stay three steps behind him the whole time. You enter Wayne Enterprises through the back entrance with your key card. Hood promises that he’ll erase the log, at your insistence. You take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor, then walk up the extra flight to the thirtieth, so that the elevator sound won’t alert Tim Drake. That’s your idea. Hood is impressed. 

You sneak to the hallway of offices. Sure enough, light peeks out underneath the door. But what can you do? It’s not like you can just kick the door down. 

“Let’s get closer,” you whisper.

“Let’s not,” Hood says, holding you back by the collar of his jacket. “Stakeouts take patience. You gotta wait for an opportunity.”

The door opens, light spilling out into the hallway. Tim walks out, away from you and Hood. You run. You don’t think about it. If you did, you’d probably better digest what a fantastically dumb idea it is to run into Tim Drake’s office alone. 

“Wait!” Hood hisses. “Stop! Son of a—”

You quietly open desk drawers, flick through files, anything you can. Nothing. Tim’s desk is unusually clean. And then it hits you. Duh. A CEO in their twenties is going to be digital. So you move the mouse and override Tim’s login. You go straight to the program you’ve been struggling with for months, and sure enough, you’re able to get on. The edit history shows that Tim was indeed the one who removed your and others’ access to the program. 

Your phone buzzes. 

?: Hide.

Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you log out and turn off the screen. Frantically, you search for a place to hide. There’s only the tiny closet. You run in, pulling the door shut. A coat in a plastic dry cleaning cover hangs on the end, and you have to bend your head to stand without bumping your head. The door has Venetian blinds cut into the wood, and you peer through the slats. Tim walks in, followed by two men. One you recognize as state senator Brian Osborne, who’s trying to run for governor this year. His face is plastered all over the conservative towns in New Jersey. He’s in his thirties, and housewives of right-wing voters adore him. You don’t trust anyone with perfectly white teeth. Or someone who’s too orange. The other man seems to be a bodyguard, which is smart. Why doesn’t Tim Drake have a bodyguard?

“Please sit,” Tim says. He looks perfect even though it’s nearly nine o’clock at night. You’ve never seen him not look perfect and put-together. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear. 

Your chest hurts.

“I have to say, I didn’t expect your call,” Osborne says, sitting across Tim’s desk. “Considering who your father is.”

“Bruce doesn’t represent me,” Tim says coolly. “Anyway, I know a good deal when I see one.”

“Fantastic. So where will the exchange happen?”

“Wayne Enterprises is having a Christmas gala next week, at the Gotham Gallery. I have a private collection room where no one will bother us.”

You shift, your shoulders stiff with pain from how you’re hunched over. Your movement causes the coat on the hanger to rattle. Shit.

Osborne turns his head, looking at the doorway. “Is someone else here on the floor?”

Tim Drake looks in your direction, and you swear he locks eyes with you through the slats in the door. Your heart stops. 

Something clatters down the hallway, much louder than you were. Tim gets up, following Osborne out the door. “There shouldn’t be anyone else. I checked.”

They leave his office and you listen for their fading footsteps before you slip out of the closet. Your hands are clammy with adrenaline. Blindly, you go the same way you came, eyes peeled for Hood’s helmet. Someone grabs your wrist and you open your mouth to yell. It’s quickly covered by a gloved hand. You thrash, but another hand pats your waist, and you relax, relief nearly making your knees buckle. 

“Un-fuckin’-believable,” Hood hisses in your ear. “Was I speakin’ in tongues when I told you to wait?”

He drags you backwards, pushing the stairwell door open. He lets go of you when the door clicks behind you, and you turn around.

“That was so scary,” you say, breathless.

“Oh, yeah? I couldn’t tell with the way you charged in like a bull! What the hell has gotten into you?”

“I knew you’d cover me,” you say.

“Don’t ever do that again. I’m so fuckin’ serious. That could’ve gone so wrong and—”

“He’s working with Brian Osborne!” you blurt.

That blessedly makes Hood stop ranting about your safety. 

“Are you sure?”

You scoff. “No, Hood, it was some other orange conservative freak with sink porcelain teeth. I thought you said you trusted me!”

“I do, I do, ‘s just…” He groans. “Shit. What else did ya find out?”

“They’re going to meet and do the final exchange at the Wayne gala next week. Something about security technology, I’m not really sure. That must be why I couldn’t log on today!” Your mouth forms an O, gears in your mind turning. “Hood! You have to come to the gala. Then you can take down Tim Drake and Osborne in one go. It’s perfect!”

“Oh, is it? I’m so glad you got my Friday night plans all set. Wayne’s gala is extremely high-profile. ‘S not like Emerson’s Christmas party. I can’t sneak in as Santa this time.”

“I can be your eyes,” you say. “And you’ll just stay in the shadows until you can catch them in the act.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ so close to them. Tonight almost went to shit. Osborne’s no joke. His PR is so good ‘cause he’s so damn bad. He’s been on my list for a long time.”

“Well, this is your chance to get him,” you say. “And it’s not like I’d gun him down. As soon as I find out when he and Tim are meeting, I'll text you, and you’ll do the rest.”

“You get a new job and all of a sudden you’re Butch Cassidy,” Hood mutters.

“Isn’t this the best way to take down Osborne? Catching him in the act?”

“Yes.” He sighs. “Yeah, it is, but…”

“But what?”

Hood shakes his head. “Nothin’. You’re right. If you’re really sure about this, then fine, we’ll do it. Or… I could go alone.”

“I can do it, Hood, honestly. My anxiety is a lot better.”

He hums. “‘S not what I meant, sweet. I know y’can do it, I just… this stuff is dangerous. Seriously.”

“I helped you last year,” you say.

“Yeah, and y’did a great job. But that was under dire circumstances, y’know? I pretty much peer-pressured you into it.”

“I wanted you to dress up as Santa.” And be my fake-boyfriend, you don’t add.

He groans. “I remember. That beard shed everywhere.”

You laugh, then turn, suddenly remembering where you are. “Shit. Will they find us?”

“Nah, they left. I saw ‘em get on the elevator before I found you.”

You sag in relief, then tense again. “What about the cameras?”

“I put ‘em on a loop. What kinda operation you think I’m runnin’ here?”

You smile. “A good one. Obviously.”

He lightly taps your shoulder with two fingers. “C’mon. Think that’s enough spycraft for one night, yeah?”

You go to the elevators and go out the side exit this time, on the opposite corner. As you wait for the light, you point at a billboard advertising The Mighty Crabjoys.

“I love them!” you say. 

Hood follows your finger. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I tried to get tickets for their concert next month but they sold out in, like, fifteen seconds. Same thing happened to me with Hozier.”

“Hozier’s cool. I like him.”

You cross the street to the garage. “You do?”

“Well, sure. It’s Hozier. I dunno much about Mighty Crabjoys, though.”

“Their music is fun.”

“I’ll have to try it.”

You ride the elevator up in silence. Tonight was scary, but not nearly as much as last year’s events. You’re getting good at this!

“My therapist suggested doing things that scare me, to help with my therapy,” you say as you get into Hood’s car. “She said she thinks exposure will help me the most.”

“Doubt she meant this stuff.”

You shrug. “I dunno. I think I’m getting better at facing my fears.”

Hood turns the key in the ignition. “‘M such a bad influence.”

“You’re not,” you say, but you don’t expand. You don’t point out that before last year, you were terrified of Red Hood, of what he stood for, but now you understand that he’s more on your side than any grubby-handed politician who swears to stand for you. For all of his hard violence, Hood is fair, and kind, and really fills out those pants. You’ve had the occasional dream since last year’s party, where Hood is still your Santa boyfriend, but not because you’re chasing a criminal. And all you see are those blue-green eyes, boring into you like he knows your heart races when you’re around him, and it’s not because of any anxiety attack. 

The drive home is quiet. You gave Hood the address and it’s been silent for minutes. No music. You wonder what kind of music Hood listens to. You wonder all sorts of things about him.

“Thanks for believing in me,” you say, while you wait at a light.

Hood nods. “Yeah, well, you called it ‘bout Drake, so—”

“No, I mean…” You flatten your palms over your pants. “For helping me with WE.”

“You helped yourself.”

You shake your head. “You helped me and you didn’t have to. You were really nice, Hood. No one’s ever been so nice to me before. I think… I think meeting you was the best part of my year.”

“Yikes,” he says, maybe trying to release some of the tension. It’s not a bad tension, but it’s heavy nonetheless. Like Hood doesn’t know what to do with your honesty. 

You laugh, watching downtown Gotham pass you by. “I guess getting my new job was pretty good too.”

“Well, I’d hope so.”

You fold your hands in your lap. This feels like a moment you’re going to replay over and over in your head tonight. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Thank you too,” he says. “Not just for helpin’ me take down one dirty CEO at a time. But thanks for, uh, bein’ a friend.”

You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road.

“We’re friends?”

He shrugs. “‘F y’don’t mind bein’ friends with the bastard Red Hood.”

You smile and think of your coat in the backseat. “No. I don’t mind at all.”

****

Friday, gala night, comes sooner than you expect. Miraculously, the program at work doesn’t give you any more trouble. But you worry about working on it, conscious that it might be part of a dirty deal and Brian Osborne’s campaign for election. So you twiddle your thumbs and call out sick once, which you never do. You let Jessie distract you with pictures of her nephew. And above all, you do not contact Hood. 

Not that he told you not to, or anything. It’s just a personal rule you’ve set for yourself. You felt jittery when you got out of his car last week, your dry-cleaned coat in your arms. You thought about it all the way up to your apartment, and then you stared at it while you made dinner and watched Die Hard. 

Maybe this will be the last time you meet up with Hood. At least for a year. A part of you is sad that soon, you won’t see or speak to him regularly, after he nabs Tim Drake and Brian Osborne, and the fact that you’re disappointed terrifies you.

“Hey.” 

Peter’s standing in front of your desk. He has a bag with Penny’s logo on it. He sets it on your desk. You look up at him.

“Hi,” you say, staring at those black, black shades. “Happy holidays!”

“Happy holidays,” he says. “D’you like cinnamon rolls? They had a special this morning. Two for one.”

You laugh. “Oh my God. I actually was gonna bring you a cinnamon roll last week.”

He grins. “Yeah? We must be psychically linked.”

“Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“‘M sure.” He watches you pull out the cinnamon roll. There’s a plastic fork and knife in the bag too. How nice. 

“You got a fork,” you say, opening the container. “How’d you know I hate getting icing on my fingers?”

He shrugs. “Intuition. Psychic connection. Take your pick.”

“Thanks,” you say. “Seriously. I needed this.”

He nods. “I figured. I saw your name on the list for tonight. Changed your mind?”

“Oh.” You lick icing off your lip and swallow hard, pretending to chew for longer than you need to. “Yes, actually. Jessie wore me down. And I thought, why not? You’re working security, right?”

“Yeah, probably, but you might not see me. I’m s’posed to stick close to the Wayne heirs all night. Timmy and Dickie.”

“Dick Grayson will be there?”

Peter nods. “Yeah. Pretty much the whole family. Bruce takes his galas very seriously. This one is the biggest one of the year.”

Maybe you should text Hood that he’ll need to be wary of all those Wayne kids. You don’t need Hood’s involvement—or yours—splashed across page one on the Gotham Gazette next week.

“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” you ask.

Peter shakes his head. “Not really. I’m not a believer or celebrator of much.”

You blink, pursing your lips. Peter tilts his head.

“What?” he asks.

“No, nothing, just…” You laugh. “I don’t know, I feel like someone’s said that to me before. Deja vu.” 

“Huh. Maybe I got that from a movie or somethin’.”

You smile. “Like Die Hard.”

“They say that in Die Hard?”

“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something a friend said. So, no plans? Are you working?”

“Pretty much all break,” says Peter. “Actually, ‘s kinda unfortunate. I got tickets to see The Mighty Crabjoys next month, but I can’t go ‘cause of work. Been tryna unload ‘em so they don’t go to waste, but no luck.”

“Really?” You sit up in your desk chair. “I love them, actually. I wanted to see them.”

“Did ya? Shit, that’s perfect. I’ll email ‘em to ya.”

“Are you sure you don’t want them?” you ask. “You could make a crazy resale profit.”

“Oh, don’t cha know? They pay me the big bucks to protect Wayne’s secrets.” Peter grins. “‘M retirin’ in a month.”

You laugh. “Did you find out you’re a secret Wayne heir, or something?”

Peter runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Mm. Somethin’ like that. Nah, don’t worry ‘bout the money. Think of it as a one-year celebration of your survival at WE.”

“Ah, well.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly bashful. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Peter.”

He clicks his tongue. “Now that’s not true. You made your own way.”

You smile, small and proud. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

Chatter from the hallway draws your attention. Tim Drake walks onto the floor, flanked by three people you don’t know, and Dick Grayson. Peter clears his throat.

“I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, gently tapping your shoulder. “Break’s over.”

“Oh, okay. Happy new year if I don’t see you.”

“Happy new year,” he says. “Y’deserve a good one.”

Peter leaves through the stairwell door on the opposite side. You stand when Tim walks to Toby’s desk, which is three desks down from yours. You don’t know why you stand, but you feel like you should. You notice he’s wearing the coat you bumped into last night in his closet. Your heartbeat ratchets. 

Tim says something to Toby, who looks terrified. Good. You hope he said something along the lines of do your fucking job. 

But then Tim looks at you. And so does Dick Grayson. You nearly swallow your tongue. 

They walk to you. Tim shoos everyone but his brother away, instructing them to “find something constructive to do.” They scatter.

“Who was that you were talking to?” Tim asks.

“W-what? You mean Peter?”

“Peter,” Dick echoes. He’s smiling, but it makes you nervous. He’s studying your face like he’s trying to pick you out of a lineup. “Do you know Peter very well?”

“He’s—I mean, we’re friends. He’s a security guard.”

Dick nods, no longer looking so intense. “Hmm. Okay.” He sticks out his hand. “Dick Grayson.”

You wipe your hand in what you hope is a discreet fashion so you don’t rub sweat on Dick Grayson’s palm. “Nice to meet you.” You say your name.

“You too,” Dick says. “Finally.” 

When they don’t say anything else, you start to fidget. Your gaze darts between them. “I’m sorry, am I in trouble or something?”

“No trouble,” Tim says. His eyes narrow at you. Shit. Shit! “Everything’s fine. There were some bugs in the program your team’s been working on, but Toby figured it out.”

You highly doubt Toby has ever figured out anything of importance: code, the female body, normal responses to a funeral announcement. And the way Tim and Dick are staring at you feels like an interrogation. 

“Oh, great,” you say, taking a deep breath and exhaling as you speak, like Hood taught you. “I hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been working on the program for months. Mostly front-end work.”

Tim’s smile is polite but frosty. “I appreciate it. I know you all work extremely hard.”

“A company would be nothing without I.T.,” Dick chirps. 

You laugh nervously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”

He smiles knowingly. Dick Grayson is reported to be wholly pleasant and friendly. Right now, you feel like you’re being hunted for sport.

Tim checks his watch and nods crisply. “I have a meeting.” He sweeps a glance across the office. “Keep up the good work!”

They leave. Air fills your lungs once more. You sink into your chair. Then you pull out your phone.

You: oh my god oh my god 

You: hood

You: hood

You: please

?: What’s up? I’m working.

You: TIM DRAKE IS ONTO ME 

You: are you SURE he can’t tell i was taking out the trash?

?: Excellent use of code. Yeah, I’m sure. Take a breath. What do you mean he’s onto you?

You: okay well he fucking came to my floor and he asked if i knew this security guard which isn’t part of it but he had this LOOK hood. and dick grayson was there too and his smile was so freaky, it’s like he knew exactly what i was thinking

? is typing… 

You watch the speech bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again. 

?: He asked if you knew a security guard? Who?

You: peter. he’s my friend. hood i think my cover’s been blown

?: You don’t have a cover. Your identity is literally a programmer at Wayne Enterprises.

You: oh my god even worse!!!!

?: Please try to relax. None of that means anything. I’ll check on Drake when I finish what I’m doing. 

You: THIS COULD BE LIFE OR DEATH

?: Warhead

You’ve been gnawing on a fingernail this whole time. The text annoys the shit out of you, but you obediently open your drawer and take out a Warhead from a party-size bag and pop it into your mouth. You’ve been on the hunt for a candy that’s even more sour for the bigger panic attacks, but the Warhead works today. 

You: maybe i shouldn’t go to the gala

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Wait. If you don’t go, you’ll be home. You’ll be unaccounted for. That’s exactly how people go missing. No, it’s better to be at the gala, close to Hood. Tim Drake can’t assassinate you if you’re at the same event as him on the night of his exchange with Osborne. 

You: nvm that’s how ppl die. i’ll go

?: Are you eating the Warhead?

You: yeah

?: Eat another one. 

You do. 

****

You: does this look okay?

You: [img._6] 

Jessie: you look great!! I love that color :) dark red is perf for xmas

You look at your reflection, smoothing down your dress. You wanted something glamorous, and you sifted through three different discount sections at three different Macy’s. You lucked out with this dress: dark red, long-sleeved, long skirt but not too long that you’ll be tripping all night. And you can run, if need be. Not that you think you will. But still.

You: i’ll be in a red dress btw

?: Okay. How do you feel?

You: fine. Are u already there? 

?: Almost. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.

You pocket your phone and grab your purse, heading out the door. It’s luckily not snowing, or you’d take a taxi. But the walk to the train isn’t too bad. You’re back to wearing your coat, which is good, because it goes better with your dress than Hood’s would. But you kind of wish you could’ve worn his. It’s admittedly warmer.

The gala is held at the Gotham Art Gallery this year. Bruce Wayne had made a statement that all of the proceeds from tonight’s event would be donated to the local orphanage. He’s Gotham’s biggest philanthropist. You don’t have any particularly strong opinions on him. He seems decent enough, for a billionaire. His son, however…

Well, whatever. That’ll be over soon enough. You have the utmost faith in Hood tonight. 

The gallery is hosting the party in its main hall. The roof is made entirely of class, so clear it looks like the night sky is bearing down on you all. The moon is an inky dot of cream above you, almost but not quite full. Waiters circulate with appetizers and alcohol. You take a flute of champagne when it’s offered, but you only take a few sips. You need to be sharp to help Hood. 

Bruce and Dick go on stage to talk about the gala, but you’re not listening. You look around. You don’t expect to see Hood, of course, but your eyes are peeled for Peter. He said he’d stick close to Dick, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

…Then again, neither is Tim. Huh.

You take out your phone.

You: have you found the trash?

?: Lol. Not yet. Stay put. Relax. I’ll let you know when I take care of it.

You take a deep breath and try to do as Hood says. It feels weird to not be directly involved. Your phone buzzes.

?: Pretty dress.

Your face immediately goes aflame. What do you say? If you were being honest, you’d say that you didn’t wear red just because it’s Christmas. But you feel that that’s too bold. Bolder than you’re willing to be. 

You pocket your phone, too alarmed to say anything. You gulp more champagne, forgoing your rule. Hood told you to relax, right?

The night goes on. Jessie lures you to the dance floor. She introduces you to more people at the company. 

And then you spill champagne on your dress. 

You sigh. “Great.”

Jessie is sympathetic. “No! Oh no, not again. Want any help cleaning up?”

“No, it’s fine.” You wave her away, a little uncoordinated from the alcohol. “Be right back.”

You start your hunt for the bathroom. It’s only a little champagne, but it’s right on your neckline, and it’s uncomfortable. At least you won’t smell like tuna. 

You pull out your phone. 

You: spilled champagne :P

You finally find the bathroom and carefully dab the champagne with a wet paper towel. Then you check your phone again. Your message remains unread and unreplied to. 

A cold, sinking feeling pools in your stomach. You tap Hood’s contact, about to call. You pause. What if he can’t answer the phone? 

This is just your anxiety talking. That’s why you avoid drinking; your anxiety always gets worse. But maybe you have a right to be worried now. Hood always responds quickly. If not in depth, then a simple yes. Why wouldn’t he respond now?

You throw away the paper towels and leave the bathroom. What did Tim say? His private collection room.

There are some staff, but they clearly don’t give a shit about wandering guests, too busy catering to demanding one percenters. You’re not the next 007, but it’s easy enough to find the private collection room. The door has been left slightly ajar, and you carefully pull it open. There are wooden crates piled everywhere, so you duck behind the nearest stack. 

There’s a pause. You cringe. Did you make too much noise?

“I didn’t hear anything,” Tim says. 

You crawl on your hands and knees, shuffling so you can peer around the crates. Osborne has his bodyguard from last night, as well as three other men. Tim is alone except for—

Oh God. Peter?

Your lips part in shock as you take in the sight of your formerly favorite security guard. Your mind races. Is this why he was so evasive about his schedule? Why he didn’t care about selling the tickets? Yes, you’re sure that being a massive jerk-off and helping billionaires commit crimes is very lucrative. 

You scowl. He can’t see you from this angle, but you sort of wish he would, even though you can very clearly see his holstered gun. Would he even care, seeing you? Or would you be another body to dispose of? 

You lean back against the crates. Your reaction time is a little slow from the champagne. You pull out your phone and text Hood again.

You: security guards suck ASS

You put it away and watch Tim take out a briefcase. He opens it for Osborne. You can’t see what’s inside. Osborne opens his own briefcase, and those contents you can see. Stacks of cash. 

“Committing election fraud has never been easier,” Tim says airily. 

Osborne laughs. “Fantastic. You’re my inspiration, Mr. Drake.”

Maybe you should be recording this. You open the camera app and press record, trying to be steady as you zoom in. Peter is on his phone. 

Ding!

?: Where are you? 

“Shit,” you whisper, trying to mute your phone. 

Peter looks up and sees you. You shoot him what you hope is your meanest face.

“What the fuck is this?” Osborne asks, snapping his fingers. One of his goons wastes no time in going and hauling you up by your arm. 

“Let go of me!” you shout, swatting at him. He holds you firmly. 

Tim looks at you icily, blue eyes wide. You fear he’s going to order Peter to kill you right then.

“Who are you working for?” Osborne asks you.

You lift your chin, feeling more confident than you feel. Damn champagne. “The Red Hood. And he’s gonna kick your ass.”

Tim glances at Peter, chewing his lip. He nods at you. “Take care of her.”

“No,” Osborne says. “Let’s see if this Red Hood character does show. He’ll be looking for his partner, no doubt.”

His confidence makes you queasy. Did Osborne already get to Hood?

You find it hard to believe. Hood can handle himself, no doubt. But he had to sneak around tonight, didn’t he? If he is somewhere, like a basement or shoved into a dusty sarcophagus, no one will be looking for him. 

“I can handle her, sir, honestly,” Peter says, and you hiss at him.

“Traitor,” you snap. He ignores you.

But Osborne doesn’t. He squints at you, then Tim, then Peter.

“Do you know her?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Tim says. “Let him take her into a back room so we can get on with this.”

Osborne shakes his head, closing his own briefcase. "No, this is fishy. Red Hood’s partner happens to stumble onto our deal? …You almost got me that night at the office, explaining away the noise. Well, not tonight. I smell a rat. And I take care of rats immediately. Finish it."

The guard pulls out a gun and cocks it against your temple. But you’ve barely felt the press of cold metal before it’s gone, your arms free. He's on the ground, blood gushing from both legs. Peter’s gun smokes. 

Gunfire erupts. Peter dives for you, dragging you behind crates. You fight him all the way. 

"You asshole," you snap. “You fucking asshole! How can you do this? Tim Drake is—”

"Stay here," he says, angrier than you've ever seen him. "Un-fuckin’-believable."

You peer around the crates. Tim is wrestling with one of Osborne’s goons who has a gun. Peter goes for the other two. They fire and you duck back behind the crates. 

“Should’ve known not to trust a Wayne!” Osborne shouts. “Especially one who beds men! Just like your filthy father!”

“You fuck men too, Brian,” Tim says, heaving the guard over his shoulder in a very impressive takedown. Since when does Tim Drake know MMA? “Does your fanbase know that?”

Peter fires and Tim snaps, “Don’t shoot, dumbass! The art is on loan!”

“I’m the dumbass? Meeting here was your bright idea!” Peter snarls, and that voice sounds very familiar…

Osborne’s bodyguard punches Peter and cracks his shades, which fly off his face. Peter instantly knocks him out cold. Seafoam eyes, such an unusual col—holy shit. Holy shit. 

“Hood?” you blurt, so surprised, you forget to hide. 

This time, Osborne fires at you. Hood shoots at Osborne, who flees. He wastes no time in grabbing you, swinging you back behind the crates. You peek over and see Tim follow Osborne out, with the remaining two goons at his heels. 

You whip your head to look at Hood. Peter. “What the f—”

“Shush.” He scoops you up, hoisting you over his shoulders like you're a sack of potatoes. You writhe in protest. 

"What the hell! Put me down, Neanderthal!"

“You’re unbelievable, y’know that?” he says, carrying you out of the collection room and down the hallway. 

“I’m unbelievable? Exactly how many identities do you have, Peter Todd Red Hood?”

Hood sighs and sets you down. You’re in the main part of the gallery, which is currently closed to guests, but you doubt Hood gives a shit about that. It’s empty, and that’s what matters. He holsters his gun and rests his hands on his head, like he just ran a marathon.

“Guess you want an explanation,” he says.

You put your hands on your hips. “That would be nice, yes.”

Hood smiles a little. You frown.

“What?” you ask, aggravated.

“I dunno. You used to be so skittish ‘round me. Now you’re, like, hm. My friend, I guess.”

You drop your arms, startled. “I…” You look away. “You’re working for Tim Drake. You’re no better than Osborne.”

Hood scoffs. “Even if I was dirty, you wouldn’t catch me dead working for Timbelina. No, sweet, ‘m not. I’m the same Red Hood you’ve always known. Still after the bad guys. But Tim Drake…” He pauses. You look at him. “Is Red Robin.”

“What?”

He raises his right hand. “Swear it. And, uh, my name is Jason. Jason Todd.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s s—”

“Ward,” Jason cuts you off. “Yeah. But trust me, I wouldn’t be here willingly. See, uh, you’re actually a spectacular spy. Like, better than the FBI.”

“I am?”

“Sure. Tim’s not really a corrupt CEO. He was just playin’ the part to lure Osborne. We’ve been after him for a while. No one was supposed to detect anything ‘cause nothing’s public, to protect Tim’s image, but…”

“I’m really good at my job,” you say breathlessly.

Jason grins. “Y’sure are. I couldn’t deter you, and I couldn’t tell you the truth. Didn’t wanna endanger you. I tried to make y’drop it, but you wouldn’t quit. Could go into the detective business, honest.”

“Wow.” You lean against a pillar. “Sorry.”

Jason shrugs. “‘S okay. Was fun.”

He edges a little closer. He probably thinks you won’t notice but you’re a detective. 

“So you were Peter this whole time. You were… watching over me?”

Jason licks his lip, mouth forming shapes. “I mean, officially, I was makin’ my identity legit so Osborne wouldn’t get suspicious. I saw you when you came in, and I guess I couldn’t help but say hi. I thought you’d recognize me, but those shades were worth their money.”

“I remember those eyes,” you say quietly.

He clears his throat. “Right. So, um, I guess I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. And then we kept talkin’ and, I dunno. Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything, I guess. For enterin’ your life and stayin’ in it. I get it if y’want me to leave you alone.”

“No.” You take Jason’s hands, so his fingers rest on the insides of your wrists. “Hood—sorry, Jason. You make me less nervous. And I’m relieved that your alter ego isn’t a bootlicker.”

Jason’s face is disgusted. “No way in hell.”

“Can I make a confession?”

“Oh, well, I’ve already made about three, so evening it up would be great, yeah.”

You swallow. "Okay. Well, last year when you pretended to be my Santa boyfriend, I kept thinking about what if it had been real."

Jason's pupils are enormous. "Yeah?" he whispers. "Was it a good thought?" 

You nod. "I felt so conflicted, thinking about you and also thinking about Peter. And now…"

“Mmhm?”

You look at Jason’s lips. He has a scar that cuts through his Cupid’s bow, but it’s quite pretty. The Red Hood has a pretty mouth. Huh. 

“Is my pulse steady?” you ask, looking at him through your lashes. You lift your wrists slightly. 

Jason’s eyebrows lift in realization. “Yeah. Not one lie told.”

“I wish you’d kiss me.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway. He’s taken off his gloves, so when he cups your neck, hot, rough skin sears you. Oh, you like him. Lightning shoots down your chest and back. He’s a shy kisser, and that pleases you even more. There’s something thrilling about the fact that you can make him moan first. Just from a kiss.

Footsteps echo on the marble, and you pull back, fearing Osborne and his men. But it’s much worse: Tim Drake is ten feet away, holding a bo staff.

"Really?" he asks, annoyed. "This is why you couldn't follow us?" He nods at you. "Hey."

"Hi," you say, utterly mortified. "I am so sorry. Please don't fire me."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "What, for sucking face? Please. Bruce will be thrilled to know that Jason isn't nearly as maladjusted as he thought."

"Fuck off," Jason says, pulling you closer by your waist, almost subconsciously. 

"Crowbar victim."

Jason’s gaze is steely. "Ninety-nine. Failed. Clone attempts."

Tim looks impressed. "Wow. Dug deep for that one."

"I've been reading B's files to fill the gaps."

"There’s some fucked-up shit in there."

"Seriously." He looks at you, and it’s like his entire expression changes. You wonder if he’s been looking at you like that the whole time. He turns to Tim. “Gimme a minute.”

"Fine, whatever. I'm gonna track down his bodyguard. I think one of them hacked my computer last week.”

“Actually, that was me,” you say. “I overrode your firewall.”

Tim's eyes widen slightly as he looks at you. "For real?"

"Yeah, I was looking for your edit history on the project. When I, you know, thought you were on Osborne’s side.”

Tim doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that you thought he was evil for several months. "Wow. Wanna come work for me privately?"

Jason grunts. "Back off."

Tim grins with all of his teeth. "Okay, I'll spare you. Hurry up.”

Jason flips him off. You turn to him after Tim's gone. "So he’s your brother?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But… legally?”

He sighs. “Unfortunately. And the one you met a few days ago, Dick? That one’s mine too. Legally. He’s on different meds, though.”

“Oh.” Your eyebrows rise. “Oh. So when Dick asked today if I knew Peter very well…”

“He did not mean in the coworker way, no. They all think we’ve been secretly dating for a year.”

You frown. “But we haven’t.”

Jason throws his arms up. “Tell me ‘bout it! World’s greatest fuckin’ detectives. Psh. I told them to butt out, for the record. Told them they didn’t know what was goin’ on. And do they listen? Does anyone listen to me in this godforsaken family? Nope!”

“I listen,” you say.

Jason immediately softens. “Yeah, you do.”

“I think you should probably go help Tim, though.”

He waves a hand lazily. “In a minute. He’s fine. Tryin’ to figure something out first.”

“What?”

“Whether I believe in Christmas miracles or not.” Jason pushes his tongue under his lip, smiling. He leans in to kiss you again. You meet him in earnest.

But you don't see Jason in action. He's not Red Hood or a vigilante or anything else besides himself around you. He's just Jason, your sweet boyfriend, who cooks for you and brings home trinkets he thinks you'll like. He's wildly funny, clever, a movie buff. He leaves his reading glasses everywhere, and he much prefers to sleep facing you, your limbs entangled.

So sue you if you forget, sometimes, just how deadly competent your boyfriend is. And the maintenance that's required to upkeep such skill.

He's got headphones in, and you hold off on sending him a text. Jason always seems to sense when you're around, finding you before you find him. So you wait, if only to boast your own stealth later.

What Jason's doing, however, makes your face immediately hot. You've never seen him lift weights, and maybe that's for the best because it all looks obscene to you. Jason's exercising his legs, thrusting his hips up to lift the weights. You can't see how much weight it is, but it looks like a lot. His thighs plump up with each rep, the muscle gaining shape, then returning to rest.

If you were closer, you'd get to hear the sounds Jason makes: quiet grunts, sighs, hums. You know he isn't loud—ever, even when you encourage him to be. The gym would be no exception because Jason would never want to be rude or make people uncomfortable.

But oh, you're teetering into dangerous territory now, watching Jason lift, because you wish you could hear his sounds and feel his breath. You'd like to press down on his stomach and hear him whine, the muscles tender from exertion.

"Hi, sorry, are you needing help?" the woman at the front desk asks. She snaps you out of your trance of grossly ogling your boyfriend. Jesus, you must look like a creep.

"Oh! No, sorry, thanks. I'm waiting for my boyfriend. Over there." You weakly point at Jason.

"Oh, okay," she says brightly, letting you be. Maybe you don't look as creepy as you feel. That's good.

Jason finishes his reps. When he gets up from the machine, his loose tank top rides up, showing you his sweaty backside. Oh Lord. You turn around and take out your phone, sending a quick text.

Hi baby! I'm here at the gym :) take ur time <3

Jason pauses and looks at his phone. It's not long before he scans the gym and his eyes land on you. He lights up, waving. You wave back, your throat dry. He types on his phone. The notification pops up.

Just got one more exercise, then I'll be out okay? I love you

You give him a thumbs up. Jason returns it and wipes down the machine. Then he moves to the dumbbells. This shouldn't be so bad, right? Jason's arms are delicious, but—oh, he's squatting. With the weights. Mother of Pearl.

It's a good thing Jason's facing the side, so he can't see how you're laser-focused on his ass. You have a rounded appreciation for Jason's body, but maybe you've been neglecting his glutes. Wow.

Reel it in! Christ. What's up with you? It's not like you and Jason are going through a dry spell. Jason always pleases you, as sweet as pie. Right now, you'd like to chew on him.

He finishes up and you go to sit by the door, so it doesn't look like you've been lurking. Jason comes out a minute later, face shiny with sweat. He has a hoodie on, unfortunately hiding his body, but that's okay. You're patient.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, cheeks flushed. "'M all sweaty, so if y'don't wanna hug, I totally g—"

You cut him off with a hug, and he nearly lifts you off the ground, your toes dragging. His pulse pounds against your hand. It's clear that the adrenaline from the workout makes Jason eager and excitable. He's usually not so open with affection in public, but you're not complaining.

Jason is indeed sweaty, but it's a clean sweat mixed with his deodorant. His hair is spiky with moisture. He smells so much like a boy, like a really cute, jacked boy who likes you and can toss you onto a bed if you wanted him to. And do you ever.

You'd grope his ass if you didn't think it would get both of you banned for life. So you keep it PG, pretending like you haven't been wet for the last fifteen minutes.

"Hi, Jay," you say, your soft voice masking how dizzy with lust you are. Who needs pizza? You can eat Jason for dinner.

"Hey, honey," he says, brushing your cheek with his knuckle. God. Jason's tender and you want to jump his bones. "This is such a surprise. Thought you were working late."

"It ended early, so I came by. Wanted to see you. And I ordered pizza for us to pick up."

Jason melts even more, if that’s possible, leaning in to kiss you. "So nice of ya. Didn't have to."

"Wanted to," you say, eyeing his massive shoulder. Don't bite! "Should we go?"

The pizzeria is a few blocks down, and Jason's apartment is a few blocks from there, so you two take your time walking. Jason holds your hand. He's so warm from the gym. His skin sears yours.

"I actually saw ya before you texted," he says. "Couldn't say hi while I was doing my reps though."

"Oh," you say, swallowing. "That's fine. Those reps looked, um, intense."

Jason shrugs. "They get a little easier the more you do 'em, but yeah."

"You didn't seem to struggle." Your voice is totally giving away how much you liked it. It's no surprise how Jason looks at you now.

"I guess 'm just practiced," he says slowly. You know he's scrutinizing you, watching for your tells. "Did you... like watching me?"

"I wasn't watching you."

Jason laughs, low and sure. "Baby, I saw you. You were glued to that spot. Thought you were just bein' sweet and attentive until..."

"Until?" you ask, voice pitched up. You stop walking. He stops with you.

He grins. "'Til now." He leans in, hands going to your waist, mouth near your ear. "How much did y'like it?" He's begging. Jason loves when you tell him how much you want him, how good he is to you. It gets him hotter faster than anything else.

You carefully fit your knee between Jason's legs and press. He whines, a broken sound, not hushed enough for being in public. You have to be mindful, even if the sidewalk is empty. But the sounds Jason makes are tempting. You quite like how eager he is after the gym.

"Be good, and I'll show you when we get home," you say.

Jason draws back and looks at you, half-lidded. He nods. "Y-yeah. Okay."

He nods sympathetically, probably ready to offer a solution like leaving dead rats on your boss's doorstep. But you suddenly find something far more interesting, something that has you sitting up and momentarily forgetting your woes.

"When did your hair get so long?" you ask, straddling Jason's lap. He accepts you easily, one hand resting on your hip to brace you.

"Is it? Jus' cut it a month ago," he says, free hand running through his dark curls. Fluffy, baby curls poof and gather at the nape of his neck. You've always been jealous of how fast Jason's hair grows and how thick it is.

"You look like you're gonna sing about how we all need to love each other," you say, grinning. "Another month and you'll rival Dick's mullet era."

Jason rolls his eyes. "I'd never hear th' end of it from him."

You shrug, pushing a curl behind his ear. "I dunno. I like it, Jay. You look really cute."

"Yeah?" he asks, bashful as ever over your compliment.

You grin, immediately endeared. Your hand travels deeper into his hair, gathering a fistful.

"Yeah, I do, sweetie." You lazily meet his mouth, and Jason's eager as always to touch and be touched. He kisses you sweetly, thumb rubbing circles on your waist.

You're not really thinking about what you do next. Jason's kissing you, and you're holding his hair. Usually it's not long enough for you to get such a grip on it.

He squeezes your thigh. You pull.

Jason moans loudly into your mouth, hips jerking forward. You exhale in surprise, your grip loosening. Your mouths part.

His face is red, as red as it gets after a long workout, or that time you made him come so hard he cried.

"F-fuck, sorry," is the first thing out of his mouth. You feel him shift his hips away from you, and the realization strikes you like lightning: Jason's hard from a few kisses and a hair pull.

"You so don't have to apologize for that," you say, going on your knees so that you can grab his face and look down at him.

Jason looks up at you, teal eyes big from this angle. He's got long lashes and freckles dotting his nose. You rest your tongue on your teeth, and your fingers creep back into his hair. He holds your waist, like he can't help but touch you.

"You liked that, huh?" you ask, grip tightening again.

Jason's face is still red. "Um, you—it, well, it caught me off-guard, but... yeah. Sorry."

You pull his hair again, a little harder this time. He moans again, struggling and failing to be quiet. His pink lips form a perfect O, lids fluttering. You want to eat him alive.

"What did I say about apologizing?" you ask sternly.

Jason's back straightens. "You said not to. Won't do it again."

"Good boy," you say, sinking back down to kiss him. You feel him hard against your thigh, and the thrill of Jason getting so worked up in your hands makes you hot.

"Mm, maybe we should leave your hair long." You suck a mark on his neck. Jason whines.

"'F you want me to, I will," he says, hips shifting under you. You grind against him and Jason makes a choked sound. He's so fucking easy.

"Oh, yeah?" you ask. "It's my choice, huh? Never mind the fact that you're already big and hard from a little kissing and pulling. I barely have to do anything and you're gagging for it. You want me, baby?"

Jason nods vigorously. "Yeah, y-yeah. Want cha. Anything you want, I'll d—nnngh!"

You pull again. Jason's hips lift so high and fast that you go up with them. His strength makes you dizzy. The fact that he's hard and docile beneath you makes you dizzier.

The tailor begins to measure the length of your body to the length of your future veil and that's when you lose patience. You push past her, off the tailor’s step riser, and stomp out. She’ll probably complain to the king how difficult you're being, and he'll lecture you tonight at supper. Lettie will try to soothe him, because Lettie's the only one who gives a damn about you in this palace, but it will be in vain. You've acted particularly egregious these past months.

You can't bring yourself to care. The monotony of life sits on your chest like a weight. It's like you'd been living in ice before Gotham, frozen in meeting expectations. Sneaking to the cinema then was nothing compared to the things you’d like to do now: run away to another country, make friends, go somewhere where no one knows or cares if you’re a princess. Now you're impatient, outspoken, unruly to the point of agitation. The guards and your father have all but lost their tempers with you. Your father has begun to hint at marriage, even going as far as to invite two princes on two separate occasions as possible suitors. You were as terrible as you could be to them, until Lettie interfered and dismissed them both. Both instances resulted in your father screaming at you and you stubbornly moping in your room. Life is stagnant since you returned from Gotham, and you have no idea what to do about it. 

You go to the palace gardens and find a secluded bench. Your usual spot when you need some air and to pretend like you’re free. 

Sometimes, out of weakness, you google the Red Hood. Recently, he was in the middle of taking down a local mobster called Black Mask, whose face frightened you. A citizen had recorded Hood fighting Black Mask on a roof. You rewatched the clip several times, transfixed by Hood's fluid movements, the way he wielded himself as a weapon. He'd taken down several of Black Mask's men easily. More than once, you scolded yourself for not taking Hood's number. Though who's to say he'd have given it to you? And really, it was only a kiss. Hood probably isn't thinking about it. He’s a busy man.

Better that you didn't get his number, actually. Better that you came home and returned to normal. Except you can't return to normal. 

"I convinced the tailor that you were ill."

Lettie is on the garden path, walking to you. Her white work shoes click on the paved cobblestone. 

"I can handle the king's lectures,” you say, crossing your arms and angling away from her on the bench. 

She hums. You feel her sit down next to you. "Certainly. Though what if a lecture becomes finishing school?"

You make a face at the thought. "I'd just escape." Briefly, you picture Hood waiting at the bottom of a two-story dormitory as you climb down on tied bed sheets. You smile.

"Yes, I suppose you would."

Lettie’s joints creak as she shifts to get comfortable. She's too old to be babysitting you. You're too old to need babysitting.

Her hair is fully gray. It's been that way for a couple of years. She refuses to dye it. It's a privilege to grow old, she always says. You're still not sure if you believe her. So far, being young isn't so wonderful. Is being old really much better?

"I wasn't trying to be cross," she says, taking your hand into her lap. You feel her cool gold wedding ring press against your knuckle. "I simply don't want you to crash into reality. You're growing up. It's the hardest thing to do."

"I know," you say. You're silent for a while. Then, "I'm sorry that I stormed out."

"Which time?" she asks, squeezing your hand.

You laugh. "All of them."

"Hmm. Forgiven."

You sit there a little longer in the garden, listening to the bubbling fountain that has two marble cherubs, water pouring from their open palms. You rest your head on Lettie's shoulder, using less of your weight than you used to so her arm won't ache.

"Do you still have nightmares?" she asks.

"Sometimes." You’ve had them since you returned from Gotham.

"I'm sorry, my darling. You shouldn't."

You shrug. "It's to be expected, I guess."

You wonder if Hood has nightmares. You're certain he does. Your own nightmares make you feel closer to him in that way.

"So, when will you tell me about the boy?"

You flinch, sitting up. "What boy? There's no boy."

Lettie laughs. "Oh, I'm sure. A lady in love denies it instantly."

"There is no boy, Lettie," you say firmly. "Father barely lets me out on my own. How can I meet a boy to fall in love with?"

"Like with everything else, you manage to find a way." She smiles, teasing. "I'm only sorry you won't introduce him to me."

You sigh. "It's impossible to. That is, er, if there were a boy."

"Of course," she says, eyes twinkling. "Speaking in hypotheticals."

"Precisely. He isn't from here."

"A foreign love? Interesting. Doesn't surprise me, though. You've always had a traveling spirit."

"It doesn't matter." You shake your head. It's silly to think so often of him. You have your life and he has his. "It wouldn't work out anyway."

Lettie takes your hand in hers. They're wrinkled with age but still soft. These days, she never skips her lavender-aloe nighttime balm. Her hands crack otherwise. Many nights you’ve massaged her aching hands and put soft gloves on to soothe the skin.

You look at her, at her dark eyes, her gray curls pinned away from her head. You look at her heart shaped face, the face you've known since childhood. Your only friend. Your only ally. Some nights, you feel guilty for not thinking of Lettie that night in Gotham. You imagine she was worried sick when she got the news. She hugged you for a long time when you came home.

But you think if she met Hood, got to know your savior, she wouldn't have worried so much.

"Life has a way of working out," she says.

You want to believe it. Lettie's never lied to you before. 

Three days later.

Someone is shouting in the throne room. You only have to listen for a few seconds before you realize it's your father who's shouting. And he's shouting for the guards. Fear washes over you. You dash for the throne room, mind careening toward the worst-case scenario. 

As soon as you enter, you freeze. 

In front of you is your father at his throne, snorting with anger like a rhinoceros. And in front of him is the Red Hood, his arms crossed as three guards point spears at him. Your exhale is punched out of you at the sight. 

“Hey there, princess,” says Hood, not turning around. 

You bite the inside of your cheek briefly. Smiling would be extremely inappropriate right now. “Hi, Hood.” 

“Seize him!” your father orders. The guards advance, and you see Hood reach for his holster. You move before you can think about it. 

“Father, no!”

You race across the foyer, nearly slipping on the marble. You place yourself between the guards and Hood. The guards stop, bewildered. Pointing their spears at you would be treasonous. 

“Princess,” Hood whispers, barely audible. His gloved hand grazes your elbow, quick enough to be an accident. But you know that Hood's touches are never accidents. 

“Daughter! Remove yourself this instant!” your father thunders, eyes blazing. 

“No,” you say, and the closest guard is forced to lower his spear. 

Your father sputters. “What–!”

“This man saved my life,” you say. “He's a hero. You cannot treat him like some thug!”

“Not that I'm not used to it,” Hood adds, unhelpfully. 

“This man is the Red Hood of Gotham,” says your father. 

“Nah, I'm the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

The guard begins to raise his spear again.

Hood scoffs. “Man, if I wanted you dead, you'd be on the floor already.” 

Your father looks about ready to blow a gasket. His face is plump with anger. 

“You scoundrel,” he says. “You barged in here and attacked my guards!”

“I think incapacitated is a more fitting wo—”

“Father, please,” you interrupt, because if there's one thing Red Hood lacks, it's diplomacy. “Red Hood rescued me, or are you so quick to forget favors given by common men?” 

“Ouch,” says Hood. 

You turn, putting your back to the guard and your father. “I'm sorry,” you say quickly, eyes wide. “I didn't mean that you're common, just that you have no title and therefore—”

“I know what y’meant.” Hood sounds like he's smiling. “‘S good to see ya, princess.” 

You smile quickly, wary of the eyes on you. You turn back to face your father. He's stomping toward you. Hm. Not a good sign. 

“Father—”

“Look, Majesty,” Hood drawls. “I didn't come here to stir up trouble or corrupt the pretty princess. I promise I have no interest in doing anything but good things for your lovely country.” 

Your father doesn't stop in his tracks. You stay put in front of Hood. Your father wouldn't dare lay a hand on you and you really don't want him to be bested in a fight with Hood. You love your father (most days) and that's exactly why you're trying to prevent his humiliation. 

“I don't care why you're—”

“Why did you come?” you ask, before your father decides to do something rash.

“Nice of you to ask, princess,” Hood says. He gently moves past you, so that he’s face-to-face with your father. You want to touch Hood in warning, but you think better of it. That would throw your father over the edge. “I came because a man named Michael Jamison is in your country, and if you don't let me take care of him, he's gonna do some serious damage. Treason-level damage.”

“If there was an enemy in my country, I'd know about it,” says your father. 

“No, you actually wouldn't. He knows how to hide his tracks. He's got his fingers in every pie: weapons, drugs, cutting off people's fingers. All the specialties. My partner and I have been tracking him since he moved his operation from South America and holed up here two weeks ago. All I want is to take him back to Gotham.”

“All you want?” Your father raises a brow. “Are you not infamous for your firearms, Red Hood? I recall that they're not only for decoration.” 

Hood shrugs. “Thought I'd spare you the nitty-gritty.”

“My answer is no.”

“‘Scuse me? He's operating right under your nose. If you let him run wild, you'll put yourself and your citizens in danger.” 

“You have no proof a person like that exists. And even if he did, my police would take care of it.” 

Hood snorts. “Yeah, sure. ‘Cus cops are so trustworthy.”

“I handle matters in my country. Not you. You have no jurisdiction here, Red Hood. You're incredibly lucky I haven't jailed you by now. It's only by the grace of my wayward daughter that you're not rotting in a cell.”

“That's cute that you think your prison could handle me,” Hood says. 

“Is that a challenge?”

“It's a fact.” 

Right. Now seems like as good a time as any to step in. 

“Father,” you say. He glares at you. You barrel on. “Red Hood is very good at what he does. He's a vigilante who’s not affiliated with Batman, but still very capable. He deals with domestic matters with impeccable skill. I think that it would be wise to investigate—” 

“No,” your father says. “And I am finished discussing the matter.”

“Fine,” Hood says. “I'll go.”

You swing your head to look at him. He doesn't even incline his head to you. Go?

“Excellent,” your father says. “Leave immediately.”

“Sure,” Hood says. “You don't wanna deal with a potential coup? Fine by me. I'll go right home. Jamison will destroy your country and escape to somewhere with a large desert or forest where I can bury his body.” 

“Excellent,” your father says airily. “My men will personally escort you to the tarmac.” 

“Fine.” Hood begins to walk away, then stops, turns. “Oh, one more thing. Jamison has plans to assassinate you so your adversaries can take over. Okay, take care!”

“What?” you ask, stepping toward him. You turn to your father. “Father, we should—”

“How do you know this?” your father asks. 

Hood looks at him straight on. “I’ve been doing this for a long time.” He pauses. “I studied under Batman. A long time ago. His reputation precedes him. You can trust that I know how to gather intel and how to take down bad people. It’s my job. I dealt with Jamison a while ago and I thought I’d destroyed all his assets, but he’s back, and he’s not someone you wanna ignore.”

Your father snorts. “Am I meant to take you at your word?”

“Yeah, actually, you are. ‘Cus I took care of the princess and I didn’t want to see her caught in the crossfire of a political coup. She’s the only reason I bothered to put you in the loop, Majesty.”

You bow your head so no one will see how utterly pleased you are by that. 

Your father sighs. For the first time in a long time, you see how aged he is. It’s hard to see him as anything but your father the king when he’s ordering you to marry before the end of the year, but now, you see him as he is: an old man who needs protecting. Protection that you know Hood can provide.

“Please listen to him,” you say softly. “Please. He wouldn’t lead you astray.”

Your father looks at you. He’s no longer glaring at you, but he still squints, like he’s trying to figure something out. He looks at Hood, who gives away nothing with his stance and helmeted face. You wish you could hide your emotions so easily. 

“Red Hood, if you can provide substantial proof that this person is staging a coup in my country, then we may go from there. But I refuse to act on a guess.”

“I can do that,” says Hood.

Your father nods and finally gestures for the guards to stand down. You exhale fully. 

“Return to your chambers,” your father says to you. “We will speak later.”

You blink. “What? Father, if this concerns your safety, I should—”

“You will not be in this conversation,” he says firmly. “I will handle this alone. Go see Lettie. I know you dismissed that tailor before she could fit you for your new gown.”

“This is outrageous!” you say, and your father’s eyebrows raise.

“Do not say another word,” he warns. “I have been more than patient with you today—”

“You’re my father!” you burst. “How can you exclude me from this? Don’t I matter? Your own daughter! How can—”

“That is enough.” Your father gestures for a guard to escort you. “Please take the princess to her chambers. We will discuss your defiance later.”

“Plans for a coup wouldn’t ignore the princess,” Hood says. “It’d be good if she was—”

“No.” Your father looks angrier with you than he had with Hood, eyes blazing. “Get her out of my sight.”

The guard leads you away and out of the throne room by your arm. As the doors slam shut, you wrench your arm out of his grip.

“I can walk myself!” you snap. 

The guard backs down, bowing. You don’t go to your chambers—your last act of disobedience. 

No, you go up the back stairs and behind a false wall, where there’s an entrance to a passageway that runs along one wall of the parliament chamber. A thin, silken banner covers the vent you peer through, so you can see most of the chamber but it’s tinted red. There, you wait. And listen. You try to slow your breathing, fuming from your father’s dismissal but not wanting to give yourself away. Your father walks in first, sans guards, followed by Red Hood. 

“If you try anything, I’ll see you hanged,” your father says.

“Sure, Your Majesty. Whatever you say.”

Your father sits at one end of the long, polished wooden table. Many times, you’ve watched him and members of Parliament discuss matters. It was your only view into your country’s politics before they happened. Or else you were as clueless as Calpatia’s citizens. You didn’t want to be a princess who didn’t concern herself with her own country. 

“Well? Show me your irrefutable proof, Red Hood.”

Hood takes out a small laptop. He opens it and types, then shows it to your father, who puts on his glasses, squinting at the screen.

“This is a network where jobs are posted for mercenaries. Call it a dark web Glassdoor.”

“I see. And this is how you find work?”

Hood snorts. “No, I’m a little more exclusive than this. I choose what I need to be involved in. But it’s a good way to track activity. Now this…” He types. “Was posted two weeks ago. And this is footage of Jamison entering the country.”

“Jamison is looking for men to do his dirty work,” your father says with a grimace. “All of this happens on the internet now?”

“Yup. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

Your father shakes his head. “It’s all very confusing to me. My daughter is the one with the technology knowledge.”

“Well, she’s of a different generation, so it tracks.”

“Yes.” Your father looks at Hood. “I suppose you’re of the same generation as she is, then. I can tell that you’re young. Young men always give themselves away.”

“I’m actually forty-seven. I work out.”

Your father ignores him, looking at the screen. Finally, he sits back.

“Alright,” he says. “I believe you about Jamison. Should I presume that you have a plan?”

Hood shrugs. “Sure. Pretty simple, actually: get out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jamison isn’t gonna waste time, Your Majesty. He’s gonna take you and the princess out as fast as he can. He knows that every additional day he spends in the country increases the chances of him being discovered. We can’t risk going after him while you’re still here.”

Your father nods thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. That’s a good plan.”

That’s a terrible plan. Every good spy film has taught you that bait is the best way to lure out the enemy and make them more likely to make a mistake and fail. Leaving the country would basically let Jamison walk out without a hitch. There’d be nothing stopping him from trying again in a new country. What’s wrong with Hood? He should know better. 

“I’d lend my services to get you out safely, of course,” says Hood. “Otherwise you’ll be sitting ducks.” He glances at the vent where you’re watching from. “‘Scuse the expression.”

You startle. How did he–?

“Red Hood, before I choose to accept your consultancy, I want to make it very clear that your relationship with my country and everyone in it is strictly professional,” your father says.

“Your guards really aren’t my type, Y’Majesty.”

Your father’s expression tightens. “Do not play a fool. You know exactly what I mean. I’m sure that you attempted to seduce my daughter while you were rescuing her in Gotham; it’s no wonder she’s been so wild since she returned from Gotham. I know it’s only through her training that she resisted you. She is a princess, a future queen, far above you, and I will not have her tainted by you. She might think you’re a dashing young man, but I know your kind very well. A mercenary, whether you use the label or not. A thug.”

“Please, I’m blushing,” Hood says.

You’re far from Hood’s easy humor. You’re accustomed to your father’s snide remarks about how you don’t know any better, but wrapping that up in an insult to Hood has you hot with anger. You glare at the gauzy shape of your father, layered in red. Tell him off, you think. Give him some Gotham.

“If I find that you even attempt to consort with my daughter, assassination or not, I will certainly make your life hell. You are tentatively welcome in my country, but you are not welcome to her.”

Hood laughs. “You’re wasting your breath, Majesty, really. Princesses are a dime a dozen in my line of work. She’s not the first princess I’ve met. Anyway, I don’t accept payment in the form of kisses. I expect something more material.”

You gasp, covering your mouth with your hand.

Your father raises a brow. “Is that so?” 

“Well, like the princess said, I did rescue her. For free. Actually, all things considered, I think that my payment would be compounded. I saved her life, now I’ll save yours.”

Your father chuckles. “If there's one thing I can appreciate, it's your audacity, Red Hood.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Hood says, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms. “You know how far the dollar stretches. Or, uh, the euro. A guy's gotta eat. And considering that no one in your country alerted you to this impending coup, y’really don’t know who to trust. I’ve always found financial support to be good insurance that I do my job well.”

You blink rapidly, hurt and furious at once. You can't believe what you're hearing. This can't be the same man that took you for a slushie and carried you back to your hotel. 

Your father sighs. “A mercenary after all. I suppose I am glad that your sights are set beyond my daughter. Fine, I am willing to discuss payment. I will not pay you in full until my safety is confirmed. But I suppose I can give you a deposit.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

And you watch in horror as your father writes Hood a check and how Hood happily accepts it. “A pleasure,” he says. “Such a lucrative pleasure to protect kings.”

You hurry out of the tunnel, eyes hot. How could you be so stupid?

You skip supper. Lettie tries to talk to you but you ignore her efforts and all the efforts of the other maids. Months wasted on someone you thought you loved. All you've done is lie in bed until evening, despondent. That's what you're doing when an origami lily sails through your open window and lands on the floor. You sit up and look at it, wiping your eyes. Another paper shape soon joins it: a swan. You get up and go to your window. 

Hood is fifteen feet below, on the grass. He waves, casual and effortlessly cool in a way that would've made your heart swoop before. Instead, your mouth curls into a sour pucker. 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy silken drapes,” he says, hushed. “I always thought it was gross for the prince to climb her hair. Who knows where his boots have been, y’know?”

You bare your teeth at him, anger overriding your hunger and headache. 

“What are you doing here?” you hiss.

Hood pauses. “Wanted to tell you what King Pops and I discussed. And I forgot my grappling hook at home, so…”

“I know what you discussed!” you snap. You whirl around and grab a pearl and ivory comb that you got for a birthday present off of your vanity. You return to the window and hurl it at Hood with all your might. He catches it with one hand. The comb doesn’t even crack. Bastard.

“What the–?”

“There's your reward. Compounded,” you spit viciously. “Had I known you were so eager for material wealth, I wouldn't have offered anything else!” 

Hood scoffs. “Princess, I know you're smarter than that. You know that was all an act.”

“Was it? I was very convinced. Especially when you took the money. I'd no idea you were such an actor, Red Hood.” 

You slump down against the wall next to the window, not wanting to see him anymore. The memory is always better than reality. You know that now. 

“Wait, c’mon, none of that was true! I didn't want a reward. I never wanted a reward for rescuing you, okay? Don't you think I'd have asked for one sooner if I did?”

“You were only waiting for an opportunity to ask,” you say, voice wobbly. Great. Here come your tears again. “You didn't even really want to see me except to butter my father up for a reward. You probably barely care about Jamison being here at all.”

“Shit, hey. Aw, please don't cry,” Hood says. 

“I’m not crying!” you shout through tears. You hope the guards will hear and drag Hood away. 

“Shit. Shit. This isn't how it was s’posed to go. Princess, don't cry ‘cus of me.” 

You bring your knees to your chest and bury your face in them. How could you have been so naive? It's one thing for this feeling to have fizzled due to the distance. But having Hood here at home, revealing his true intentions in front of you is the worst thing that could've happened to you. You were deluded to think it would turn out any way but terribly.

Suddenly, there’s a hand lightly touching your shoulder. You flinch and look up. Hood’s crouched in front of you. Between two gloved fingers is your white, floral-embroidered handkerchief, which he must've found on your vanity. You guess that the comb you chucked at him is back on your dresser too. 

“Don’t cry over me, princess,” he says softly. “Hate that we keep meeting like this.” 

You stare at him, forgetting your tears for a moment. “How… how did you get up here?”

Hood nods at the window. “Climbed.”

“It's three meters up.” 

“Yeah.”

“And the guards? There are always six in rotation on this side of the castle,” you say.

Hood tilts his head. “Y'think I can't evade a few royal guards?” 

“Oh.” You're extremely impressed but you don't want to admit it. “I should have you arrested for trespassing.”

“Nah, you could have me arrested for way more than that. I mean, if they found you crying with me here, you could easily claim I was attempting to hurt the Crown and that'd be treason. Don't forget my earlier threats and break-in. King Pops would probably draw and quarter me at this point.” 

Your eyes widen in alarm. “Hood, that's horrific! I would never let him draw and quarter you. We never practiced that in Calpatia. It's positively barbaric.”

Hood shrugs. “‘M sure you could make an exception for someone that really deserved it.”

You shake your head. “If this is your way of apologizing, it's awful.”

“Actually, I was trying to cheer you up.”

“Then it's doubly awful.” 

“Yeah. Not so good at the sweet talk part. Which you know.” 

You hum. “Yes, you're quite bad at it. Too bad Batman isn't here.”

“Alright, I deserved that.” 

“You did.” 

Hood waves your handkerchief. You take it and dab your cheeks. He crosses his legs and sits in front of you. He’s bigger than you even at this height. The memory of the kiss hits you then. Inappropriate. 

“Look, ’m sorry I said those things,” he says, head down. “But I can’t have Papa Majesty thinking ’m tryin’ to seduce you. He’d launch me into the ocean before I found Jamison. But none of what I said back there was true. I don’t want a reward for rescuing you or for stopping Jamison. I took the check but I ain't gonna cash it.” 

“And princesses being a dime a dozen? How many have you kissed before me?” you ask scornfully, brows furrowed.

“Zero,” Hood says, looking up. “Not just princesses—I haven’t kissed anyone before you. Or after you. That was all true, what I said in Gotham. No one’s ever wanted to kiss me. Then you—I mean, a princess wants to kiss me? Shit, that’s like, so astronomically out of the odds, it never even entered my realm of possibility.”

“That’s silly,” you say. “You aren’t that terrible of a kisser.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad to see you’re in such high spirits now,” Hood says, pulling a knee up and resting his elbow. You can see his belt and the taper of his waist. 

You bite your lip, trying to hide your smile. “I suppose that I am feeling better now, yes. I… I sincerely apologize for my outburst.”

“Y’mean when you threw a comb at me?”

“I knew you’d catch it.”

“Uh-huh.”

You lean in, giddy now that your tears were for naught. Hood is here. In your room. It’s… well, it’s scandalous, for one. It’s a dream, for two.

“I’ve never had a boy in my bedroom,” you say. “It’s very improper.”

“Oh, yeah? Careful, princess. You almost sound excited about the impropriety.”

“That's absurd,” you say.

“Mm. As absurd as you spying on us in a secret vent?”

Your eyes widen. “So you did know I was there.”

Hood nods. “Sure did.”

“Then why did you say you came to keep me in the loop?” you ask. 

Hood rubs the back of his neck. You lift your chin, feeling victorious. 

“You came to see me,” you say, smirking. “Didn’t you?”

“Well—”

You lean forward on your knees so that you’re taller than him. You cast your gaze down at him, feeling confident despite the fact that you can’t see Hood’s face. 

“Didn’t you?” you say again, grinning.

“Just wanted to make sure you were takin’ the news okay,” he mumbles. 

“How very valiant of you, Hood. I think your plan is terrible, by the way.” 

“‘Scuse me?”

You shrug. “I must be plain with you. You’ll almost certainly miss the chance to capture Jamison if we leave. And moving my father when we've no idea where Jamison is hiding is too risky and it makes us unstable. Calpatia is our home. Being on our home ground is better tactically.”

“Tactically? The idea is to prevent an assassination, not go to war. And it'll take time for Jamison to move into position.”

“But we want to catch him,” you say. “Haven't you seen those spy films? They always use bait. Besides, my father's departure will worry the citizens. There'll be civil unrest. Instability will only benefit Jamison.” 

Hood's quiet for a moment. “I was tryin’ to play it safe.”

“I know,” you say, eyebrows pinching. “That isn't your style. Why?”

“I didn’t wanna scare you, or put you or your dad at risk. This is a lot. We should play it safe.”

“Hood, I have something that Jamison doesn't. Well, two things. I have you, and that’s why I’m not afraid to stay.” He coughs quietly at that. “And I have a lot of knowledge of Calpatia. Come with me.” 

You stand and wait for him to do the same. You’re reminded again of his size, how he’s like a shield to you. He smells like the jasmine flowers from the palace gardens. You take him by his elbow and lead him to your desk.

“Alright.” You take out a map of the city from your drawer and bend your desk lamp to shine the light more thoroughly on it. “This is the city. Countless tunnels run underground, see? I have heard that some go for miles outside the city center, though I've never investigated it for myself. If Jamison has employed citizens here, he'd definitely be using these tunnels. He could hide his assassins in the tunnels.” 

Hood sighs. “And there's too many to know where he'd be hiding, so we'd be putting you both in danger if we tried moving you out.”

“That is what I was thinking. I don't know how far along Jamison is in his plans. But if he's been here for two weeks, I imagine that he has enough strategies at his disposal. There are too many variables for us to risk moving my father, and we don't have enough men to search everywhere. It would take months and triple the manpower to find him.” 

“Know somethin’? You're killer at military strategy.” 

You smile, tip one shoulder up. “Do you think so?” 

“Oh, you've got the brains for it, definitely. And people would never see ya comin’, princess.” 

You turn so you're facing Hood. He's close enough that you're pressed against the desk, the edge of it against your hip. You look at his helmet, at those glowing eyes. For months you've ached to know what color his real eyes are. What any of him looks like underneath his mask. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asks. 

“I was… I was just thinking about how we would lure out Jamison.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” You promptly turn and face the map again. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, if we're talkin’ about using your dad as bait, then it'd need to be a big enough situation where he'd feel comfortable with trying to assassinate the king.”

You gasp. “Oh! Oh, Hood, this is perfect! You're a genius. Well, I'm a genius, but you helped.”

You race to your nightstand and set your laptop up on the edge of the bed, kneeling. Hood follows you, looking over your shoulder. 

“Is that a video of me fighting Black Mask?” Hood asks. 

You click out of the tab as fast as humanly possible. “No. I don't even know who that is.”

“Been googling me, have ya?” Hood sounds undeniably smug. 

“That's preposterous. I'm very busy. I don't have time to search you up, Hood.” 

He gracefully doesn't say anymore. You quickly pull up the advertisement for the city festival that you created.

“Here it is. Here is where we can trap Jamison.” 

“‘Festival of Embers,’” Hood reads. “Wow. Did you make the flyer?”

“Yes.”

“Looks really good, princess. Didn’t know you were an artist.”

You preen. “I dabble. Anyway, it's a countrywide celebration, and they celebrate it for many days outside of the city. But here in the city, we have a masquerade ball on the first night as an official commemoration. Many dignitaries and officials attend.”

“Masquerade, huh? Yeah, that would definitely appeal to Jamison. Closed space and he can disguise himself. Good thinking, princess.”

“Then you’ll propose this to my father?”

Hood sighs. “It’s a good plan, but I don’t wanna put you in danger.”

“My father has many guards. I would be fine. And you’d be in charge. I trust you.”

“You do?”

You look at him in confusion. “Of course I do, Hood.”

“It would give me a better chance of catching him…” Hood nods. “Okay. I’ll tell your dad.”

“Lovely! Oh, this is so exciting.”

“An impending coup is exciting?”

You wave him off. “You know what I mean. And now, I must go sup a late meal. You are dismissed.”

He snorts. “Generous of ya to let me leave.”

“You’re welcome.”

He gets up and goes to climb out your window. You step forward.

“Hood, wait.”

He stops, turning to face you. You press your lips together. How easily you forget how a princess ought to behave when you're around him. But you get the feeling that Hood doesn't mind so much. 

“I… I wanted to say that I'm grateful for your presence. And your help.”

“‘S nothing,” Hood says. 

“No, it is something. I am glad you're here.” 

“Happy t’be here, princess,” he says quietly. 

You smile. “Good night, then.”

“G’night.” 

Hood disappears behind the wall. You don't watch him leave, too afraid of the ache his departure causes. You take the paper swan and lily and put them on your vanity, next to the comb. 

The next day, you sneak into the parliament chambers again and listen to Hood propose your plan to your father. He agrees after some persuasion. You try not to let it get to you, the fact that your father would trust Hood, who is essentially a stranger, over you, his own daughter. But you can’t let that get in the way of your focus, which is to protect your father (and, by extension, yourself) from Jamison. 

“You will be there at the party then, I presume?” your father asks Hood towards the end of their meeting.

“‘Course. I’ll be lurking and shit.”

Your father raises a brow. “I would appreciate it if you'd not be profane in my presence, Hood. Come, now. Surely you’ll partake in the festivities. Besides, my men are very territorial about their duty to the Crown. It’s better for everyone if you blend in with the crowd. Would it not go against the point of you being here if you’re out in the open in your helmet and guns? That isn’t subtle at all.”

“I didn’t exactly come dressed for a masquerade ball,” Hood says.

“No, certainly not,” your father says, looking Hood up and down. “But no matter. One of the tailors will design you a costume, on my charge. A sign of good faith, since you’re putting effort into keeping me alive.”

Hood hesitates, and you see him look in your direction, at the vent you’re peering through. “Yeah. I’m, uh, trying my best.”

Your father nods jovially, in infinitely better spirits than he was yesterday, despite discovering his impending assassination. Probably because you two haven’t crossed paths at all today. “Then it’s settled. One of the maids will direct you to the tailor today.”

“I really don’t need a tailor and all that sh–ugar. Can’t I just wear off the rack?”

Your father tilts his head. “I do not know what that means.” 

Hood sighs. “Never mind. Look, Your Majesty, I don’t sit for tailors. Not good for protecting my identity. Get me? I appreciate the offer.”

“They could go to your hotel, if you’d prefer.”

“That’s a negative. Only a select few see the goods.”

Your father makes a face. You stifle a laugh.

“I… see.” Your father shrugs. “Well, if that’s how you feel. You can give your measurements to the tailor then. Or are those confidential as well?”

“S’pose that’s okay. Sure, I can do that.”

They get up. 

“Wonderful. And Hood? I trust that you are keeping everything we discuss here confidential. That includes talking to anyone in the palace.”

“What am I, an idiot? ‘Course it’s all confidential,” Hood says.

“That is not to say that I don’t trust my subjects. But I do not want any of our plans to reach the princess. She doesn’t need to worry about this.”

Your jaw sets. Hood pauses in leaving, crossing his arms. 

“She’s really smart, Majesty,” he says. “She’s not some airhead. And I think she’d have important ideas to contribute to the plan.”

“I know that my daughter thinks she is clever,” your father says. “Too much so for her own good, in fact. However, she’s not knowledgeable about the world, and because of that, she would get hurt. It’s better that she focuses on other matters.”

“God,” Hood says. “You dads really are all the same, huh?”

Your father lifts an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tryna keep her in the dark isn’t gonna work. She’s worried and she’s smart and she’s gonna find out about stuff eventually, whether you want her to or not. It’s up to you whether you wanna be there for her. But you’re hurting your relationship in the meantime.”

“Red Hood, you are here for our safety and that is all,” your father says coldly. “I do not need nor desire your opinions on how to manage my daughter. I am magnanimously choosing to forgive your insolence. Good day.”

“Right,” Hood says, clearly holding back. He goes to leave. “See ya.”

Your heart sings. No one’s ever so freely laid praise upon you, especially about your brain. You’ve been called beautiful and gracious and poised countless times. And those are nice compliments, but no dignitary or ambassador cares enough to say things besides what a lovely gown, Your Highness. Not even your own father thinks you’re capable of anything beyond getting dressed in the morning. 

You race out of your hiding spot, hoping to catch Hood before he leaves the palace. He hadn’t said when he’d see you again, in your room or otherwise, and you want to see him again in these precious few days that you have him. You don’t see him in the foyer or in any of the nearby hallways, so you go to the garden. There are a couple of secret hideouts in the shrubbery and stone walls that you’re sure Hood would find and wait for you there. You check the bushes first, then the false wall that leads to a secluded, overgrown part of the garden that’s a blind spot for most guards who don’t know to check here. Then you see a peek of red within the bushes and you walk faster, excitement restored. 

“Hood!” you say. “Hood, those things you said—”

A man steps out of the bushes. It’s not Hood.

You stop, frightened. “Oh! Intruder! Intruder! Help!” You grab a fallen branch and wield it at him. “Just–just stay back! I will hit you!”

“Whoa, jeez.” He holds up his hands in defense. One arm is a prosthetic and looks to be metal. His copper hair is tied back in a small ponytail, a bow strapped to his back. He’s wearing similar gear that Hood wears, but it’s short-sleeved and maroon. His face is scruffy, and he has on red aviators and a backwards, gray baseball cap. He sort of looks like if a frat bro became a superhero. Hood teams up with the strangest people. 

You shake the branch at him. “Back up!”

He backs up. “Your Highness, I swear I don’t mean you harm. I’m with Hood.”

You stop, squinting at him. “Prove it.”

“Sure, sure. What do you wanna know?”

“Um… what is his post-patrol food and drink of choice?”

“Oh! I know this.” He snaps his fingers. “Buffalo ranch roller and blue raspberry slushie from 7-Eleven. Bam.”

“And who did he first eat these items with?”

“Dick.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He inhales through his teeth. “Ah, I mean his brother. Obviously. That’s just what I call his brother because he’s a… jerk.” He makes a face like he’s in pain. “Did I pass the test?”

“I… suppose so.” You don’t lower the branch, frowning at him. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Arsenal. Hood told me to meet him here. We’re tracking down Jamison together. I’ve been laying low since he waltzed into the palace and pissed off the king.”

You perk up. “Hood’s coming here?”

Arsenal sighs. “Guess not. I’m gonna call him now… okay? Please don’t hit me with the branch.”

“If you try anything, I’ll kick you in the groin,” you say, lifting your chin. “I have been trained in self-defense.”

Your self-defense teacher from when you were sixteen was a beautiful, strict woman, who was rumored to be the heiress of an underground assassin network. She favored swords the most. She was the only person, besides Lettie, who actually intimidated your father. You miss her. 

“I totally believe you, Your Highness, and I promise I will keep my distance. Look, I’ll put him on speaker. You can hear from him that I’m cool.”

You nod. “That is agreeable. Dial.”

“Okay, great. I love when things are agreeable.” He dials on his phone and it rings. Hood answers on the first ring.

“Yeah?” comes Hood’s voice. You try not to react too obviously to the sound of his voice.

“Dude, what the hell? You ditched me.”

“Sorry.” Hood sighs. “I dunno what’s goin’ on with me. I got in a fight with the king—he’s just so dismissive of her, y’know? What an asshole! She’s the one who came up with the idea! I got mad ‘cause she’s—God, if you met her, you’d get it. She threw a comb at me yesterday. What a woman. She smells like a meadow—”

Arsenal coughs loudly. “Ohhh, you’re on speakerphone! Her Highness is actually here with me.”

There’s a solid three seconds of silence. You fear the line has dropped. Then: “What.”

You swallow and lean forward. “Hi, Hood.”

“Hi, princess.” You can’t decipher his carefully neutral tone. “What’re you doin’ with Arsenal?”

“She found my super secret hiding spot,” Arsenal says.

You roll your eyes. “Do you think I don’t know the ins and outs of my own garden? This is hardly a hiding spot.”

“Yeah, I can see why you like her so much, Red,” Arsenal says. “She threatened me with a crotch kick.”

“Attagirl,” Hood says.

You beam proudly. “Thank you, Hood. I was looking for you.”

“How come, princess?”

“Well, I…” You glance at Arsenal. He sighs and hands you the phone, taking it off speakerphone at the same time. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I apologize for threatening you with a branch.”

“No sweat. Happens all the time. I’ll be over there, not eavesdropping.”

You put the phone to your ear. “Hello, Hood. You’re off speakerphone now. Arsenal gave me the phone.”

“Got your way, huh?”

“I always do,” you say sweetly. “I was looking for you because… well, it was very kind what you said to my father about me today.”

“He’s fuckin’ ridiculous. How d’you deal with him?” He huffs. “I thought my dad was a pain in the ass. Thank God he’s not a king. Well, not legally.”

You hum. “It takes a lot of practice to deal with him. But please don’t jeopardize the plan by arguing. I know he can be frustrating, but truly, you don’t need to fight him for my sake.”

“He was sayin’ stupid shit,” Hood says petulantly.

You smile. “He often does. Thank you for defending me.”

“I’ll always defend ya, Princess. But, um, I better stay away for a bit to let him cool off, yeah?”

You’re mournful at the thought of Hood staying away. Your time together is already so limited.

“Did you talk to the tailor about your costume?” you ask instead.

“Yeah, I gave him my measurements. He said he’d deliver the costume to my room.”

“Wonderful. I’ll make sure he doesn’t put too many feathers on it.”

“Feathers?”

You giggle. “Kidding. So, I smell like a meadow?”

Hood clears his throat. “I, uh, think Arsenal needs his phone back.”

You fiddle with your dress, delighted by how flustered he is. “In a moment. I’m quite enjoying this.”

“Please, Princess,” Hood says, voice husky. “Show mercy.”

You bite your lip. “Very well. I am a benevolent princess.”

“I know y’are. And you can trust Arsenal, okay? I trust him with my life.”

“I trust you with mine, so I believe you,” you say solemnly. You hesitate, wanting to ask him to see you again before the festival, but you don’t think you have a right to request such a thing. “Goodbye, Hood.”

“Bye, princess. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

You hand Arsenal the phone. He nods gratefully and holds it up to his ear, listening for a bit and humming, then hanging up. 

“What hotel are you staying at?” you ask.

Arsenal snorts. “Hotel is a very generous descriptor for where we are. Hood wanted to stay inconspicuous which means we’re roughing it. We’re at the Calpatia Inn.”

“Then you should go that way,” you say, pointing. “You can cut through the woods and find the main road while avoiding the guards.”

“Thanks, Your Highness.” He does an awkward half-bow. You watch amusedly. He winces. “Yeah, that wasn’t right, was it?”

“It wasn’t bad,” you say. “But you do not need to bow. A friend of Hood is a friend of mine. No formalities required.”

“You’re Hood’s friend,” he says, nodding slowly. “Huh. Right. See you later, Your Highness.”

“Goodbye,” you say, watching as Arsenal disappears behind the wall and in the opposite direction of the castle. 

You allow yourself a tiny squeal when you’re completely alone. He thinks you smell like a meadow!

The city is abuzz with excitement about the festival, which is three days away. Meanwhile, your father is wreaking havoc on the castle inhabitants. Not only is he stressed with expense approvals and security arrangements, but he's also insistent on not letting you go anywhere, under the guise of the assassination threat. You know that he’s stressed and when he’s stressed he’s more strict. But instead of your usual defiance, you’ve decided to be as complacent as possible so he doesn’t discover your wild plan (falling in love with the Red Hood). To do this, you have agreed to the worst thing possible: a courting. 

Viscount Archibald Gramsley has graciously told you to call him Archie. You do not extend the same courtesy, and you make sure he addresses you as Your Highness. True, you're playing nice with your father today, but too much cooperation would make him suspicious. Luckily, you know how to strike a balance. 

You and Archie are in the garden for tea, in the nice, white wicker chairs, shaded under the large oak tree that nearly reaches the top of the palace. You used to attempt climbing to the top but never got further than the first branch. You wonder if Hood likes to climb trees. 

“I have twice as large an estate at home,” Archie says, lazily lifting a well-groomed eyebrow. “It would please me to host you instead next time, Your Highness.”

You smile tightly. “Nothing would please me more.”

“Fantastic. I'll have it arranged.”

Archie was the first on your list of potential suitors, and instead of going through the pain of vetting them all, you agreed to go in order of request. Now you wish you had studied the list more closely. Archie has been talking about himself for a little under an hour, and you’re debating which fork would be best to stab him with. 

You wish you could have tea with Hood instead. Does he like tea? He seems like he would. And he probably has freckles on his cheeks from the sun. Scars, too? You think so. A man like him can't go without getting keepsakes from fights. You stir your tea absently, thinking about what color eyes Hood has while Archie blathers on. 

“You know, Father worried me when he said I'd be meeting the Princess of Calpatia, but you're more beautiful than I thought you'd be. It's refreshing, to say the least,” he says. He loudly sips his tea. 

Archie is short and wiry. He could be handsome if he never spoke a word, but his lack of wit unfortunately ruins any good looks of his. He's very proud of his blond hair and smooth skin that's probably never seen an hour of sun. You thought meeting in the garden would be good for what is certainly a vitamin D deficiency. 

“Are you sure we couldn't have tea inside?” he asks, wrinkling his nose when a dragonfly soars past. “It's quite sunny today. It's… unpleasant.” 

Seriously, who hates the sun? You take a large gulp of tea. Your tutor from your childhood would rap your hand with a ruler for that but she's not here, and you don’t care if your manners disgust a so-called prince. You wouldn’t see Archibald again even if he was the last man on Earth. 

Then again, as far as choosing men that would survive the end of the world, he wouldn't be on your list. Hood would be, though. He’d be wonderful in an apocalypse. You imagine him sweeping you away on his motorcycle, telling you to stay close and to hold on as you weave through the hills of Calpatia. You would almost certainly survive with Hood watching over you. He’d find an abandoned cottage for you to rest in, and when he was sure you were alone, he’d delicately unlace your bodice, careful not to rip your dress—

“I beg your pardon, are you listening?”

You blink, zone back in. “My apologies. What were you saying?”

Archie’s mouth puckers. “I was saying that your father said you were looking for a husband.”

“Oh! Well, I have been wanting to travel first,” you say. You can’t let Archie think you’d seriously consider a proposal. What’s more, if he does propose, your father will stop at nothing to push you to accept. And if you decline, he’ll make you accept the next royal pain that looks your way. And there’s always someone worse.

“Travel, yes. I also enjoy traveling. We could do that, before we settle down.”

“Surely you must have other prospective marriage offers,” you say quickly. “Better than me. My estate is small, as you said.”

Archie nods. “True. But princesses from larger countries are such chores to manage.”

He’s obviously never met you before. 

You smile wanly. “Is that right?”

“Quite.” Archie sips delicately from his teacup. “They have such modern ideas about independent rule. I myself am in line for my own throne. You understand.”

Good God. 

“I think that a king and a queen should rule equally,” you say.

Archie looks like you’ve just told him you like to chew barbed wire. “With all due respect, that is preposterous. Princesses are not trained in diplomacy or politics. A queen’s role is important but separate from the king’s duties.”

Yeesh. Where did your father find this man? The last century? 

“I… Archie, I think perhaps—”

Thwap!

You both flinch as an acorn hits the side of Archie’s head. He whips his head around, searching for the offender. “What on earth was that?”

“I don’t know,” you say, looking around. “Perhaps the tree dropped an acorn.” 

Archie rubs his head. “You ought to instruct your gardeners better. If they cannot do their jobs, then—”

Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

Three acorns drop from above, all hitting Archie right in the center of his head. He leaps from his chair, outraged. His cheeks are pink with anger.

“What is going on?” he shouts. “Who is doing that?”

“Archie, it’s probably just a squirrel—”

“Filthy rodents!” he screeches. “They ought to be shot!”

You blink, watching him in disgust. Out of the corner of your eye, you see movement. A red vest. You laugh, then cover your mouth.

“What is so amusing about this?” Archie snaps. “Are you ill?”

Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

“No, not at all,” you say, muffling your laughter. This time, the acorns come from multiple directions. Archie screams, swatting them away, and your giggles become uncontrollable as he flails like a monkey. 

“Bastard squirrels! Filthy creatures!” he screams, and you gasp. Archie looks at you with wild eyes, panting.

“I…” He swallows. He smooths his hair and his suit, trying to regain his composure. “I–I apologize for my outburst. I did not—”

Thwap! Thwap! 

Archie bellows a yell, kicking the chair and knocking the teacup onto the ground. It chips at the rim. You stand up, lifting your chin.

“I request that you leave,” you say sternly. “Now.”

“Fine!” he yells, and stomps back inside the palace, shoving through the guards. 

You exhale and pick up the teacup, then you point to the gardens. “I am going for a walk to clear my head. Please make sure that Viscount Gramsley finds his way out.” 

The guards nod understandingly, and you go toward where you saw that glimpse of red. You spot a red origami bat near a jasmine bush and you quickly pick it up and tuck it into your dress. 

“Didn’t work out?” 

You smile at the voice hidden in the bushes. “Unfortunately not. Some mischievous squirrels.”

“Shame. Gotta watch out for them.”

“Indeed.” You resist the urge to stick your hand into the bushes and find Hood’s hand. “Is the plan going well?”

“Sure is. Everything’s going smoothly.”

You nod. “That’s good.”

The urge to ask to see Hood again before the festival bubbles up. You can’t get enough of him. It should frighten you. 

“So, you’re interested in meeting a prince?” 

You make a face. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am already in love.”

You cover your mouth, hoping Hood can’t see your embarrassment. 

“Oh,” he says. “I—”

“Anyway!” You bite your lip, mind racing for a subject change. “Er, please tell Arsenal thank you for the acorns. His aim is impeccable.”

Hood snorts. “Dunno what y’mean. He told me he’s been practicing his curtsy. “See ya soon, princess.”

“See you.” You pick a jasmine from the bush, walking back to the palace. You bring it to your nose. It smells like Hood. 

The Next Night

Boom!

Somewhere, something hits the walls of the palace. The sound makes you flinch, and you rush out of your chambers to see the commotion. The guards that are usually posted down the hall are gone, so you follow the shouting. There’s a second set of doors that separates your chambers and the hall from the rest of the castle, and you push those open.

On the carpet is a palace guard being restrained by three other guards. As you approach, he looks right at you, eyes wild and hateful. A guard steps in front of you, gently shielding you. You peek around his shoulder, watching the traitor struggle.

“I’ll kill you!” the guard shouts. “You’ll be sorry, you stupid brat. You and your father destroyed my home. You don’t deserve this palace! You don’t deserve it!”

He’s dragged away and the heavy doors close after him. His ranting is muffled now, but you can still hear it in your mind, feel his frightening blue eyes cutting through you like ice. 

The guard in front of you asks, “Are you alright, Your Highness? We prevented him from entering your chambers.”

You feel sick. “Yes, thank you. I-I am fine.”

Another guard sighs. “If it’d been a minute later, y’might’ve been—” 

The first guard nudges him. He shuts up.

“We’ll be nearby if you need anything,” says the first guard sympathetically. “Please try to rest, Your Highness.”

You’re suddenly exhausted as you shuffle back to your room. The hallway seems longer than usual, and you stare at the portraits and ornate windows on the walls. Paranoia strikes you then: what if there are others? What if they break in through the windows? You pick up your pace then and race to your room, closing the doors behind you. Mindlessly, you rub your arms and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the floor. Tears come to your eyes, and you let them fall. 

What if the plan doesn’t work? What if your father dies?

Your curtain moves and you flinch. It’s happened. They’re here for you. 

But then you see the heavy black boots and the tactical vest and you exhale in relief. No, you’re safe. You are always safe with Hood. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, climbing gracefully over your sill.  

You quickly wipe your cheeks. Your face feels puffy and hot. “Hi.”

Hood stops at the edge of your room, right by the window. You watch him take off his boots and walk to you in socked feet. He sits on the floor next to you, not touching you, but close enough to. You see now that his clothes are spattered in blood. Your mouth opens in horror.

“Hood, why are you—”

“Arsenal and I intercepted some of Jamison’s men before they got to the palace. They tried a sneak attack. Got messy. I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

You clasp your hands in your lap. “No. But he was so close to me, Hood. The guard said that if it had been a minute later, I would’ve… I would’ve been—”

“‘S not true. People always say stuff after the fact.”

“Don’t lie to me, Hood,” you say, glaring. “Don’t try to protect me in my father’s misguided way.”

His shoulders go up, then down as he exhales. “Okay. Sorry.”

You shiver, adrenaline coursing through you. “I suppose I would be an easier target than my father, considering the placement of my chambers. We should probably put more guards after… after we have checked their backgrounds, of course, and reinforce the—”

“Princess.” Hood kneels in front of you. He takes off his gloves, careful not to get blood on you, then holds the sides of your calves over your nightgown. Your exhale is punched out of you. He looks up. You can’t see his eyes, but it makes you feel better that he’s meeting your gaze somewhere behind his helmet. 

“He wouldn’t have gotten to you. I wouldn’t have let that happen. And y’don’t need to figure out security measures. We’re doing that right now.”

“I don’t need to be coddled, Hood,” you say sharply. “I understand the reality of the situation.”

“Not coddling you,” he says. “Supporting someone who’s scared isn’t coddling them.”

The image of the guard’s face hits you again. The strands of spit pulling from his teeth as he screamed at you, his wild eyes. How can anyone be so full of hatred toward you? What have you done to make him want to hurt you?

“I just… I don’t understand what I’ve done. Why is this happening?”

“No, hey. This ain’t a reflection of you. Jamison is the devil, seriously. And he only works with people who are just as twisted as he is. It’s not you, y’know, it’s… really, really bad business.”

You feel tears begin to swell again. Hood rubs your legs. “I kept wondering why I was kidnapped in Gotham,” you say, voice warbly with tears. “If there was something different I could’ve said or done… maybe I’m a terrible princess. Even you hated me when we first met.”

“No way, I didn’t hate ya. I was… I was havin’ a bad night, to be honest. Didn’t have to do with you. And you’re not a bad princess, okay? Not a bad anything. Nothing that happened in Gotham or tonight was your fault. Got me?”

He squeezes your legs. You nod.

“Yes,” you say. He’s so close. You’re reminded of that night in Gotham, how his bulk unnerved you. Now, you feel overwhelmed in a good way, Hood at your feet like a guard dog. His hands are still on you. You feel drowsy and warm.

“Anyway, ‘m glad we met. Despite the circumstances,” he says, stroking your clothed calf with his thumb.

“Well, that is because I am spectacular company and quite irresistible.”

He throws his head back and laughs. You bite your lip at the sight, sick with pleasure. You can face anything with Hood at your side, you think. 

“Oh, man. Think y’might’ve cast a spell on me,” he says when he catches his breath, tracing your ankle bone with a knuckle. 

“I hope so,” you say, heart beating fast. He hums.

The adrenaline is fading and exhaustion hits you. In Hood’s presence, you feel as safe as you possibly can be. You believe that he wouldn’t have let that guard hurt you. But you also know that he can’t be everywhere at once.

“Hood?” you say quietly.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Will you stay the night with me? I’m afraid… what if Jamison tries again?”

“He won’t.”

You frown. “I won’t sleep a moment alone.”

“Princess, I really don’t think I should—”

You clutch his hands. They’re calloused and cool. He has thick fingers. “Please? Please, Hood, I feel the safest with you. Just for tonight. Then we’ll catch Jamison at the festival tomorrow and it’ll all be over.”

He sighs. “If I stay…”

You nod eagerly. “Yes?”

“No one can know. I’d be gone before dawn.”

“Yes, of course. So you’ll stay?”

“...I’ll stay. Despite my instincts.”

“Oh, wonderful! Hood, you’re wonderful.” You want to hug him, but you think better of it when you remember the blood. Even so, hugging is not proper for a princess. You stand and smooth the wrinkles of your nightgown. “Good. Yes. Shall I find you some pajamas?”

“Uh, no, you shall not.”

“You cannot wear your gear to bed, Hood. It’ll be very uncomfortable. Besides, I do not want you sitting on my furniture when you have blood on your jacket.” You wrinkle your nose. 

“I’m gonna be on the floor anyway.”

You roll your eyes. “That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said. You will not lie on the floor like a house pet. No, you will sleep on my chaise lounge.”

You aren’t completely gone; you realize that having Hood sleep in bed with you would be a little much, even for your recently developed lack of decency. Hood is probably too much of a gentleman to sleep in your bed, anyway. But you won’t let him hurt his back sleeping on the floor. Not when he has to be at his best tomorrow night.

“Your chaise?”

You point to your baby pink chaise with gold accents that’s next to your bed. “It’s comfortable; I have fallen asleep on it while reading.”

“Jesus. This kinda thing is bad for my reputation, y’know.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t sit in it without removing your blood-stained clothing, please.”

He sighs like you’ve just asked him to fetch you the moon. “You always get your way, don’t you?”

“Essentially, yes. You can shower in my en-suite. I’ll sneak into my father's chambers to get you some clothes.”

“Oh no, no no. That's where I draw the line. No way am I wearing King Pops’ stuff. He’s not even my size.”

“Then how will you change clothes?”

Hood looks at the window. “Well…”

Twenty minutes later.

“I resent this,” Arsenal hisses from below.

You peek your head over the windowsill and wave. “Hi, Arsenal.”

“Hiya, Princess.” He scowls at Hood. “I still resent this. I don’t care that you’re in love or how beautiful the princess is.” He nods at you. “And you are quite beautiful, Your Highness.”

You laugh. “Why, thank you, Arsenal.”

Hood snaps his fingers impatiently. “Less yappin’. Not gettin’ any younger here.”

“I should never have to look for your underwear. Hood, man, we’ve been through a lot, but touching your underwear is far from being on my bucket list.”

“It’s clean, asshole,” Hood hisses. “Will you just throw the bag up?”

Arsenal sighs and throws the duffel bag up to your window. His aim is impressive, like Hood’s. You’re glad that they’re both on your side.

“Hold on,” you say, and you get the picnic basket of palace dinner you packed for Arsenal, in exchange for his magnanimous delivery of Hood’s underwear. Hood helps you attach it to his grappling hook so you can send it down. 

“Princess, you’re the sweetest,” Arsenal says. “See, this is what I’m talkin’ about, Hood. Manners. Grace. Politeness. You can learn a thing or two.”

“You’re one to talk,” Hood says, flipping him off. 

“Jerk. Sweet dreams, Princess. Sorry about that crazy guard guy.”

Your smile is thin. “Thank you, Arsenal. Will I see you tomorrow at the festival?”

“For sure.” He grins at you, and it would probably make your face hot if you weren’t shoulder-to-shoulder with the Red Hood. “Save me a dance?”

“Don’t answer that,” Hood says. “She only dances with princes, jackass, not your ugly mug.”

You smile, patting his hand. “Don’t be jealous, Hood. A princess’ job is to be diplomatic and dance with all of her subjects.”

“Yeah, hear that? Diplomatic. Look it up, Red!” Arsenal crows.

“Fuck off.”

Arsenal shrugs and blows you a kiss. You snort and wave. 

“Good night, Arsenal,” you say.

“Night, Princess. Jerk-off.”

“Fuckhead. You’re watching the north wall tomorrow,” Hood says.

“Gotcha. See ya both.”

He disappears around the wall, picnic basket in tow. Hood closes your window and locks it.

“He’s nice,” you say, biting your lip to hide a smile. 

Hood whips his head around so fast, you almost laugh. “You like him?”

You smile indulgently. “I find him charming. Though not as charming as you.”

“Yeah?” He inches closer. “I’m charming, huh? I’ve been told as much.”

You laugh. “No modesty! Go shower.”

Hood comes out in a cloud of steam exactly seven minutes later. You’re already in bed, and you close your laptop on your lap. The front of his white tank top is a little damp, drops of water running down his neck and getting absorbed immediately. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his arms, soft when at rest but bulging with muscle when he bends them to stretch out his tank top. You catch a glimpse of dark hair on his chest and oh, the Red Hood is a brunet.

He has on black basketball shorts for modesty, though you have no idea what’s modest about Hood’s impossibly large thighs. Briefly, you recall the internet trend of people crushing watermelons with their legs. 

“Bathroom’s free,” he says. “I bagged up my clothes, don’t worry. No blood in your room, princess.”

“Oh, I—yes, that’s good. Thank you. Isn’t it uncomfortable to wear the helmet with wet hair?”

“Nah, I have a drying mechanism built in for when I have to go diving in the Hudson on a case. Learned that the hard way. And it’s cushioned inside, so I can sleep everywhere.”

“You think of everything,” you say, watching as he approaches. You have to crane your neck to see him from this angle, and your heart jumps at the thought of Hood climbing atop you, bracketing you with his arms and legs. You think about if his helmet were off, and if he dripped water onto you, and where that water would land, and would he wipe it away with his hand…

“—don’t have t’worry about it, okay?”

You blink. “I… I beg your pardon, Hood, I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Yeah, I see that. What were you thinkin’ about?” 

He squats at your bedside, resting his elbows on the bed. That flexes his biceps. You feel light-headed.

“I was just thinking about tomorrow. I’m worried,” you say, not completely lying. 

“Hey, it’ll be fine. Y’know I’d never let anything happen to you. I was sayin’ that Arsenal and I are gonna vet the guards on your protective detail, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Thank you, Hood.”

Is this what it’s like to fall in love? 

“No sweat. It’ll be over in a minute,” he says. “Morning after, you’ll be amazed at how light y’feel. Happens every time I finish a case.”

You turn on your side, putting your laptop on the nightstand. You prop your head up on your hand. “So you’re a detective. Like Batman?”

“Well.” Hood stands and stretches, pulling his elbow over his head. His tank top rides up, showing you a sliver of his happy trail. Goodness. He settles in the chaise, reclining. “Kinda. I definitely practice methods that Batman doesn’t approve of. But he trained me, so yeah, I owe a lot of what I know to him.”

“What was it like, training under him?”

Hood sighs. “It was fantastic. ‘Til it wasn’t.”

You frown. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk about lighter things.”

“Sure. What’d ya think of Archie?”

You roll your eyes. Hood chuckles, shoulders shaking. 

“Please,” you say. “I’ll spare you. Father’s choices for suitors are always horrendous.”

“‘S so medieval that you still have to do that. Marry some guy you don’t like for the throne.”

“My mother felt the same way,” you say. “She was only queen for a year before she abdicated and divorced my father. She couldn’t stand royal politics.”

“Wow. Didn’t know a queen could do that.”

“She wasn’t royal by blood. She met my father while abroad and they fell in love. And I guess she thought that she could do this: be a queen, love my father. But she could only do one of those things. She got sick a few years later. My father would hardly leave the hospital. I didn’t see him for weeks at a time. I know he misses her everyday, and I’m grateful that he loved my mother so much that he carries her through his grief. But it changed him for the worse.”

“You don’t miss your mom?” he asks quietly. 

“I miss the idea of a mother,” you say. “But how can I miss a woman I never knew? I can only love the people who have tried to make my life better, who love me to the best of their abilities. My father would do anything for me, except let me marry who I want. He loves me the way he knows. What more can I ask him for? Anything else I desire, I must carve it out for myself.”

He hums. “That’s—you’re really understanding of people. You’d make a great queen.”

You smile. “Do you think so?”

“Yeah. I think you can have anything you want, princess.”

“I think you can too,” you say, hushed.

He laughs, but it’s sad. “Yeah, dunno ‘bout that.”

“No, you could,” you say. You could have me.

He looks at you for a long moment. You have never seen his eyes, and yet Hood’s gaze unravels you every time. You’re certain he always knows what you’re thinking. It scared you at first. Now it feels like a blessing to have someone who can read you so well. It feels like fate. 

“You should get some sleep,” he eventually says, leaning over to turn off your bedside lamp. “We got a long day tomorrow.”

“Okay.” You pull the covers over you. You’re glad you told the maids to not come in and prepare you for bed. “Good night, Hood.”

He turns off the light. Your room is shrouded in darkness, but you can still see the dim glow of Hood’s helmeted eyes. They should scare you. 

“G’night, princess.”

When you awaken, you’re soaked in sweat. Your neck sticks to your pillowcase, and your body feels baked, trapped under the covers. You struggle, your breath thin. You don’t remember your nightmare, but you know what it was about. Ever since Gotham, all your nightmares are the same.

“Hey.” Hood’s figure looms over you. You see his helmeted eyes. “You were screaming. I…”

You reach for him without another thought. “Please come.”

And immediately, he goes, climbing into your bed, sitting cross-legged. Gingerly, he opens his arms, and you cling to him tightly, fisting the back of his tank top. He holds you back, petting your spine. You’re sweaty and your breathing is too fast and your nightgown is rumpled. You are not a princess right now. You’re just you. Hood doesn’t seem to mind.

“I dreamt about the night in Gotham,” you whisper. “I… I haven’t stopped having nightmares about it since I came home.”

“‘M sorry,” Hood says, words thick with guilt. “I should’ve found ya sooner.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. “Just bad business.”

He hugs you tighter. “Yeah. Gotham’s cursed like that.”

“I’m going to miss you when you leave, Hood.”

“Me too, princess. But I’ll come visit. I’ll sneak into your window. ‘M gettin’ real good at it.”

You laugh, your throat thick with unshed tears. “Too good.”

“I’m just so cool. What can I say?”

You pick your head up from where it rested on his shoulder. You hold his forearms. His hands are cool but the rest of him runs hot.

“Please stay in my bed,” you say. 

“Princess. Honey, that’s not proper. C’mon, y’don’t want me in your bed.”

“I do. How can you not tell? I want you everywhere, Hood.”

He shudders. “Shouldn’t say those things. Y’know better, princess.”

“Please,” you say again, resting your hand on his neck, where his pulse throbs. “Or I won’t sleep.”

You feel him swallow. “A-alright, okay. Lie down.”

You smile triumphantly, and lie down. Hood lies next to you, taking care not to touch you. You slip your hand under the sheet and feel for his fingers. He lets you link them together.

“Always get your way, huh?” Hood says.

You smile into the darkness, eyelids heavy. “Always.”

You wake up slightly groggy from last night’s events, but you’re otherwise well-rested. And, to your absolute delight, Hood is still in your bed. You move your head slightly to look at him. He’s rolled onto his side, facing you, shoulder touching yours. 

“Oh my.”

You jerk away from Hood, shooting to sit up. Lettie stands in the doorway, a stack of fresh linens in her arms. She sets them down and stares at you. Hood startles awake, and it takes him less than a second to roll out of your bed, sleep-rumpled. He freezes when he sees Lettie.

“Lettie, it isn’t what you think,” you say. 

She raises her eyebrows. “My dear child, I’m really not sure what to think. Mr. Red Hood, is it?”

Hood pulls down his tank top and tucks it in, trying to look more presentable. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Hood is fine.”

She looks at you, laughter in her eyes. “I see. Well, ‘Lettie’ is quite fine as well. Do you often share beds with princesses in your undershirt, Mr. Hood?” 

“Lettie!” you hiss, face aflame. “Gods above. He was protecting me.”

“Is that what the young people call it?”

“Oh my God,” Hood says, looking up at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ. I’m gonna go. It was, uh, nice to meet you, ma’am—Lettie. Princess?”

You nod, forgetting your embarrassment for a moment in favor of getting your last looks of Hood. “Yes. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Promise,” he says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. He briskly circles around your bed, bowing his head as he passes Lettie, getting his bag.

“Indeed, don’t forget your belongings!” she says cheerily.

“Yup. Yeah. Thank you.” Hood shuffles to the window and puts on his boots. He doesn’t lace them before he’s throwing his legs over your windowsill, disappearing in a moment. You stare at the cloudless sky long after he goes.

“So. Foreign boy?”

You whip your head back to glare at her. “That is not funny. He really was protecting me. I was frightened after last night. I had another nightmare, and I asked him to stay. He was a perfect gentleman.”

Lettie’s expression softens. “Oh, my dear. Yes, I heard about the incident this morning. I was in town last night, or I would’ve checked on you. Are you alright?”

“I am fine. Hood was… he comforted me.”

“I see.” Lettie’s eyes are fond. “You really like him.”

You sigh. “I really do, Lettie. He’s… oh, he’s just not at all what you expect. He’s kind and funny and so brave.” 

You leave out the details about Hood’s biceps. For your and Lettie’s sake. 

“And he visited you? That’s dedication. I’m sure he’s very busy in Gotham.”

“He came here for work,” you say. “It was a very good coincidence. Well, bad, because of the coup plan, but…”

“But silver-lined,” Lettie says.

You nod. “Yes. But he’s leaving after the festival tonight.”

“Oh, darling.” She comes to your side of the bed, sitting next to you. You scoot closer and lean on her shoulder. She rubs your back. 

“I’m going to miss him so much, Lettie,” you say. 

“I know, my dear. But you know that things have a way of working out.”

And with all your heart, as you look out the window, you hope that Lettie is right. 

“Thank you for coming,” your father says for what feels like the hundredth time to a couple dressed in matching purple Volto masks. They curtsy and you return it, smile strained. It’s only been a little under an hour and you’re already exhausted. You hope you’ll get to enjoy next year’s ball more. Ideally without any assassination threats.

“Stand up straight,” comes your father’s sharp reminder. “I expect you to dance with at least three suitors tonight. We must keep up appearances and there are plenty of prospective husbands here.”

You sigh. “Yes, Father.” You feel his eyes on you and you turn to look at him. “What is it?”

“You aren’t fighting me,” he says. “It’s odd. What are you planning?”

“Nothing. If you want me to dance tonight, I’ll dance. Though I maintain that I can help with the plan. Er, whatever the plan may be.”

He shakes his head. “I want you as far from me as possible. Jamison is after me, not you. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. But… I suppose you ought to focus on other things tonight, besides finding suitors.”

You perk up. “Really?”

“I don’t want you to be distracted if something does happen. But… promise me you’ll try to participate in the festivities. We don’t want to alert our guests that anything may be amiss. You are the face of tonight.”

“That isn’t true. They look to you for guidance, Father.”

He smiles and reaches over to stroke your face in a rare display of affection. “In some ways, yes. But you’ll be their queen one day, and you are in the public eye whether you like it or not. Think of the impression you want to make.” He looks at you for a moment longer. “You look like your mother. She would’ve been very proud of you, you know.”

You blink away the wave of emotion that fills you. “Thank you, Father.”

You look out at the sea of people in the ballroom. Dozens of couples dance, laugh, flirt. You try to focus on greeting new guests instead of your longing to join them. The musicians have begun to play a smoky waltz, rich and extravagant. 

“Good evening, Your Majesty.”

You turn at the new voice. It’s an odd mix of a proper affectation and not. This guest is alone. His eyes flick to you briefly, before returning to your father. He bows deeply. He has a red Colombina mask etched with black and gold. His suit and cape are extravagant and match his mask. Tucked into his belt is a sword, completing his costume of a rugged, mysterious Casanova. But covering his mouth is a black sash of fabric, like he’s an outlaw, or a—

“Welcome. I hope you’ll enjoy the festival,” your father says. “Her Highness, Princess of Calpatia, my daughter.” He gestures to you.

The mystery guest bows deeply to you. He gets close enough for you to see his seafoam eyes, piercing through the shadows of his mask. His lashes are thick and dark. Your heart stutters.

“Princess,” he says, and you’d know that voice anywhere. Your lips part, about to call his name. He puts a finger over the sash, where his mouth would be. You remain silent. 

“It is the utmost pleasure to meet you.” He addresses you, not your father, and you smile. “If it pleases you, may I have this dance?” 

“What did you say your name was?” your father asks.

“I did not say, Your Majesty. I apologize. The name is Gregory. Prince Gregory. Greg, if you prefer.” 

You grin. 

“I see. Well, alright. I suppose that is fine. Go ahead.”

You take your prince’s hand. He helps you down the dais carefully, mindful of the poof of your skirt. 

“Don’t worry, Princess.” He eases you into a waltz position, one hand on your ribs, the other holding your hand. “Promise I won’t tear up this dress.”

You can't stop grinning. It's incredibly inappropriate. “I should hope not, Hood. This cost more than the last one.”

He hums. “‘S beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

You tuck your chin coyly, pursing your lips. “I wore red for you.”

He sucks in a heavy breath. His gaze flips your stomach. “For me? Not very proper of ya, Princess.”

“No,” you say, voice husky. You wish you could feel his pulse on your mouth. “It is not.” 

“How’d y’get away with that? Didn’t King Pops vet your dress?”

You smirk. “Do you think that I cannot handle my overprotective father, Hood?”

“Nah.” He turns and pulls you closer for a moment, chest against your back, before resuming the polite amount of distance expected between a princess and her guest. “I know you can handle yourself.”

The crowd has made a space for you and Hood to dance. Some watch, some don’t. You aren’t concerned. Hood’s eyes drift aside periodically, checking your surroundings. But for the most part, his attention is all on you. It overwhelms you in the best way. 

“How did you manage to do this without my father knowing, Prince Gregory?”

His eyes tell you that he’s smiling. “Needed to go incognito. Can’t have the Red Hood stompin’ around, raising flags. ‘Sides, y’think I can’t handle your overprotective father?”

You let your hand creep up from its place on his broad shoulder, until you’re cupping the back of his neck. He inhales sharply. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“It would be foolish of me to doubt you can’t handle anything that comes your way, Hood. If there’s a word to describe you, it’s competent. Among other things.” 

He squeezes your waist. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Y’know what. Your dad’s watchin’ me like he wants to string me up the flagpole.”

“Since when do you care about being good?” you whisper. 

“Since you stopped, apparently.”

“You have pretty eyes, Hood.” And he does. They’re so much better than anything you’ve conjured in your imagination. You can last another year without Hood after discovering the color of his eyes. You’d wait a decade to know the color of his lips. 

“Not as pretty as yours, sweetheart,” he murmurs, holding you against his chest for a moment as the song ends. Then he steps back and bows. You laugh.

“So formal,” you say, curtsying. 

“One of us has to be,” he says, eyes mischievous as he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles through the sash. You feel his warm breath on your skin. 

“I only want to dance with you,” you blurt before he can go. “Don't leave, please.”

Hood squeezes your hand. “You’re my dream, pretty girl. But I gotta check security first. Jamison’s probably arrived by now. Go dance with the real princes.”

“I don’t want to,” you say, probably sounding as whiny as you did when you first met Hood.

He clicks his tongue. “C’mon, be good for me, yeah? I’d never leave ya hangin’.”

Reluctantly, you let him slip his hand from your grip. 

“Be careful,” you say fiercely. “Really, Hood. I mean it.”

“Hey,” he says quietly in your ear. “Nothing’s gonna happen. I’m real good at this. Never had the Royal Guard on my side, so it’s gonna be easy as pie. If you see anything, tell one of the guards. Arsenal’s outside. Jamison’s going down tonight, princess.”

Your heart is in your throat. You swallow it back down, straightening your back. Hood needs you to be a princess tonight. And that is what you do best.

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“Oh, I’d be the world’s biggest asshole if I did that. No way would I leave without seeing you again, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon. Save me another dance.”

And then he’s gone, easily slipping into the crowd. A man approaches you, one of the visiting diplomats. He bows, and you curtsy, falling back into the rhythm of the festival. You spend the next hour on high alert, dancing with anyone who asks. You keep a sharp eye out for Hood, but he hasn’t returned to the ballroom yet. Probably, he’s doing a diligent check of security, and you’re grateful that he takes his job so seriously. But it’s your last night together. You want one last dance. And… maybe even a second kiss. 

“You dance beautifully,” your current partner says. A general, judging by the medals on his costume and his straight posture. He’s dressed up as a knight, his mask serving as a helmet. He has a scabbard around his waist with a bejeweled sword. 

“I like your costume,” you say, trying to be polite.

He grins proudly. “The sword was custom-made. Would you like to hold it, Your Highness?”

“Please,” you say, grateful for the distraction.

He takes out the sword and sets it carefully into your hands. He reminds you that it’s sharp, and you remember not to roll your eyes. 

“It’s a beautiful piece of work,” you say, taking the sword in hand. “The swordsmith did an excellent job. Perfect weight, balance, quality.”

The general blinks. “I had no idea you knew so much about swords, Your Highness.”

Go figure. “I used to fence.” 

He keeps talking, but you’re no longer paying attention. There are guards running toward the palace kitchen. You glance at the dais. Your father is gone.

You don’t think. You just run.

“Where is my father?” you yell as you enter the kitchen. Pots are strewn across the floor. Soup is dripping from a stovetop. You whirl around to face the guards. The captain steps forward.

“What happened?”

“Jamison was disguised as a waiter. There was a confrontation between him and the chefs. We think he took the king and went through the garden.”

“That wouldn’t work. There are too many people, and the gardens lead to the palace wall. It’s a dead end.”

The captain sighs. “Your Highness, I calculated this to be the most likely escape route. Jamison will want to get to his boat as soon as possible. We’re wasting time discussing it.”

You turn to the frightened chef, who looks like he might faint. “Is there anything that stood out to you about Jamison? Anything he said, did, wore?”

The chef lights up. “Yes! Yes, Your Highness, he was wearing these awful muddy boots instead of the standard loafers. That’s what made me confront him in the first place.”

Tunnels.

“He’s going through the sewer grate that leads to the tunnels under the city. I was right. Get Red Hood and tell him to meet me at the—”

“Your Highness, with all due respect, you are not in charge of this plan. There is a protocol to follow,” says the captain. He turns to the guards. “Men, follow me. Fan out and search the garden.”

“My father will die if you don’t listen to me!” you shout. 

But the captain ignores you. Angry tears sting your eyes. Why won’t anyone listen to you?

The chef steps forward. “Where do you think he will go, Princess?”

You wipe your cheek. “The sewer grate on the south side of the palace. That’s the closest escape. I’m going after him.”

You run out of the kitchens and out into the warm summer night. People are still laughing, drinking, dancing, unaware of the tragedy that looms. You will never forgive yourself if you lose your father tonight.

You go to the south side. Three figures stand near the sewer grate. One of them is struggling. You tear off your mask and brandish the sword, furious and terrified. You point at the closest man’s neck.

“Let go of my father,” you say, body tight with adrenaline.

“And you must be the beautiful Princess of Calpatia. What a pleasure.”

“Jamison, is it?” You push the sword further so the tip is against his neck. He inhales sharply. 

“Now don’t be hasty, Princess. Especially when it’s you, and…” Jamison looks behind you and laughs. “Oh my God. Just you? That’s pathetic.”

Jamison’s thug holds your father, his thick arm wrapped around your father’s neck. You glance at him. 

“Father, are you alright?”

“Please, please run,” your father begs, and the thug crushes him in his grip. Your father wheezes at the pressure. You can see his cheek is dark with blood.

“Father—” Tears well in your eyes, and you blink them back. You take a deep breath. You must be brave. You aren’t back in that Gotham warehouse. You are home. “Let him go. I’ll hurt you!”

Jamison laughs. “You think I believe that?”

You’re shaking, and Jamison sees that. You push the sword harder. Blood wells up at the point, and Jamison winces, but his mean smile doesn’t drop. 

“Kill me, then. Kill me and John here will beat you unrecognizable and leave you to die, and you’ll be lost in Calpatian history.”

“Run, please run,” your father begs, moaning in distress. “Do not hurt her. She doesn’t know any better, please—”

Crack!

The sound of a gunshot tears through the air. Jamison turns, and in the second he’s distracted, you hit him hard on the back of the head with the hilt. He growls, taking out a gun and trying to aim, but you slash his wrist with the sword. He yells, shouting profanities and clutching his wrist with his other hand to stop the bleeding. 

“I’ll kill you!” he screams.

“No, you won’t.”

Hood appears from behind, and now you know the source of the gunshot. Relief washes over you. His mask is gone, replaced with his helmet, and he’s wearing his brown leather jacket. 

“Hood,” you say, overwhelmed with love. You almost say as much, but you catch yourself. You are a princess right now. 

Jamison sighs in disgust. “Red Hood.”

Hood looks at you, gun pressed against Jamison’s back. “Hey. Y’okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Fine.”

“Good.” He knees Jamison, forcing him to the ground. He takes his gun and throws it aside. Several guards appear, surrounding your father and John, who realizes he’s outmatched. He releases your father. 

“Hey, Jamie,” Hood says, and you can hear the daggers in his voice. “Long time no try to kill. You’re lucky the princess is fine, or you’d already be dead, fucker.”

“Another second and you would’ve found her body in the sewer,” Jamison sneers.

You take a step forward and kick Jamison in the stomach. He groans in pain, hunching over. You look at Hood, who nods.

“Nice one.”

“Thank you. Get him out of my sight.”

“Yes, Captain,” he says, and you smile. 

Hood hauls Jamison up. Several guards take him from Hood. The Captain of the Guard tries to slink away in the chaos, but you stop him.

“Captain,” you say.

“Princess,” he replies uneasily. 

“Had Hood not come in time, my father would’ve died. Perhaps I would’ve too. This negligence on your part was unacceptable.”

“Your Highness, the most likely escape route was through the—”

“Perhaps some time abroad will cure your misplaced judgment,” you say. “That is all. Dismissed.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but when you glare at him, he salutes and leaves, hurrying to catch up with the others. 

“That was very foolish, what you did.”

You turn and face your father, who is frowning. He’s still bleeding, but that doesn’t soften his expression. You lift your chin, prepared for your final battle of the night.

“I will not apologize. You were in harm’s w—”

He cuts you off with a strong hug. You’re speechless as your father pulls you to him, hugging you so tightly, you fight to breathe. But you don’t tell him to loosen his grip. You just drop the sword and put your arms around his shoulders. 

“Do not apologize,” he says, and you can tell he’s crying. “My brave girl.”

You inhale shakily, unable to do anything but hug back. 

He steps back, wiping his eyes. “I know that I am hard on you. I’m afraid of so much. But you… you can take care of yourself.”

You nod frantically. “Yes, I can. I promise.”

Your father presses his lips together. “I see. I will remember that.”

He smoothes down his clothes and looks around. It doesn’t hurt this time, watching him put his feelings aside and regain composure. 

“Hood,” he says.

Hood steps from out of the shadows, startling you. “Majesty?”

“I trust that you will see the princess safely inside.”

“Of course, sir. Guard her with my life.”

Your father looks at you. You smile. He nods, then walks back inside. 

Now it’s just you and Hood. The stars are out, and there’s a warm breeze. The sounds of the party are muffled, and you’re relieved that the guests weren’t frightened and forced to evacuate. 

“Arsenal found a bunch of Jamison’s men. The guards are gonna search for the rest of the night to find the rest. But he’s finished, don’t worry.”

“Oh.” You exhale. “That’s very good. Thank you for… everything. For saving me. Again.”

“You kidding? You saved yourself, Princess. But…” He closes the distance between you, taking your hands. Your eyelids flutter. 

“I’ll always have your back,” he says. 

You lick your lips, itching for a kiss. Can he tell? Part of you hopes not. The other part, however…

“Those were some killer sword skills.”

You grin. “Thank you. I was trained by an expert.”

“Hm, I can tell. The moves seemed familiar.”

“Did they?”

“Mmhm.”

You rub the insides of Hood’s bare wrists. You look at where his lips would be, under his helmet. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he whispers.

“How much I’d like to kiss you,” you say. 

Hood takes a sharp breath. “Still?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you again since you first kissed me, Hood.”

You clutch Hood’s hands, squeezing. He squeezes back before letting go.

“Jason,” he says. 

You blink. “What?”

“My name. ‘S Jason.”

“Jason.” He shivers when you say his name. You brush your fingers along the sliver of skin between the collar of his costume and his helmet. “Jason, will you kiss me?”

“Yeah, yes. Anything y’want.”

He goes to take off his helmet. You close your eyes, listening to the hiss of air and the click, and the helmet hitting the grass. He touches your cheek with one cool, ungloved hand. His thumb traces circles on the apple of your cheek.

“I…” The hand drops. Your eyebrows knit, but you don’t open your eyes. “I want you to see me. ‘S only fair, so you can decide if y’really wanna kiss me again.”

You open your eyes, about to protest. Jason’s face startles you. His eyes are a vibrant teal when they aren’t shadowed by a mask. His hair is dark and curly, like you suspected, but there’s a shock of white in the front. His nose is big, with a bump in it. Tens of scars decorate his face, most of them silvery with age. He has a particularly deep scar on his upper lip and another on his eyebrow. His face is strong and masculine, one you’d find on-screen as a rugged cowboy.

Jason looks down like he’s ashamed. His lashes are thick. 

“No Prince Greg here,” he says quietly.

How can he say such a thing? Doesn’t he see how gone you are for him?

“Jason,” you say. “I am in love with you.”

His mouth parts in surprise. You step forward and kiss him before he can speak, arms looping around his neck. You bury your hands in his curls, combing through them. Jason catches you, making a surprised noise against your mouth. He holds you by your waist and dips you slightly as he kisses you back. You sigh, nipping his lip, and Jason makes a tiny noise in his throat.

“Don’t you know?” you say, pulling away. “Princes are terribly overrated.” 

He smiles gently, holding you tighter. “Is that your royal decree, Princess?”

“Obviously.” You take him in some more, and it’s like bathing in moonlight. “You owe me a third kiss. You can’t leave until you give it.”

He leans in and kisses you, holding your chin between two fingers. “Good?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No. Now you owe me a fourth.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Todd,” you say, stepping into the sterile patient room. 

“Please just call me Jason,” your new patient says. You look up. 

He’s tucked into the plastic chair in the corner. He barely fits. You can imagine stuffing himself into the tiny chair was wildly uncomfortable.

“Jason, then,” you say, ever professional. “Please have a seat on the examination table.”

You take a pen out of your lab coat pocket and walk over, waiting as Jason ambles to the table and sits. He doesn’t even need to awkwardly hop or shuffle; he’s so tall, he can just sit. He keeps his hands clasped on his lap.

He towers over you, even sitting. The elevated table certainly doesn’t help your size difference. But Jason sits very politely, ankles tucked together, looking at you but not in a confrontational way. In fact, he seems nervous. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jason,” you say. “I understand you’re here for a physical.”

Jason nods. “Can’t go into the field without it.”

“And for good reason. Ensuring you’re physically fit to go out there is very important.” You flip through the information on the clipboard. “It says here you’re six feet, three inches and two hundred and sixty-four pounds, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. 

“Fine, good. I’m going to do some quick tests, alright? Check your heart, lungs, reflexes. The usual stuff. Is it alright if I touch you?”

“Um.” He shifts, making the paper crinkle. “Yeah, ‘s fine.”

“Are you sure?” you ask. 

Jason nods. “‘M sure. Sorry, just been a long time.”

You smile quickly. “It’s alright, Jason. I understand. You’ve nothing to be nervous about. I’m sure you’re in excellent health.”

You check his blood pressure first. You roll up his sleeve, revealing a large bicep. You have to plant your feet to pull the velcro tightly around his arm. Then you squeeze.

“You’ll feel a little pressure,” you say as the machine tightens, then releases. Jason breathes evenly, as he’s no doubt been trained to do. 

“Good,” you say, and remove the wrap. “Very good, Jason. I’m going to check your heart and lungs now, alright?”

He nods. You put the stethoscope in your ears and reach for him. Jason flinches as you touch his belly. You tilt your head.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

“Y-yeah, just didn’t expect it.”

You lift his shirt gently and pull it higher, higher, until it catches on his nipples, which poke through his shirt. You gesture for him to hold his shirt, and he does.

“Cold in here, hm?” you ask.

He nods, looking at the floor. You keep your face blank and place the stethoscope against his heart. You listen to his heart pound, and it’s even, if not a little fast. 

“Breathe in,” you say, and Jason does. You listen to the air fill his lungs without any intrusion, strong and full. “Exhale.” 

He exhales, and you move the stethoscope down. “Breathe.”

Jason breathes, then exhales. You hum and remove the instrument.

“Everything sounds fine to me. I’m going to check for lumps. You know, anything out of the ordinary.” You look at him for a moment. “It’s better if you just remove your shirt for this part.”

So Jason does, carefully folding it and placing it on the counter nearby. You cup Jason’s belly first. He flinches again but doesn’t pull away. His stomach is soft, but you don’t have to press far to feel solid muscle. You move up and press against his abs. Jason grunts softly. You press harder.

“Feel good?” you ask. 

“Mm, mmhm.”

Your hand travels down to just below his belly button. You press. Jason hisses quietly.

“Hurts?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No, doesn’t hurt, just…”

You press again. His leg twitches. You ignore it and go up his chest, fingers grazing his scars and the dark dusting of hair on his chest. You cup his right pectoral. Jason jumps.

“Wh-what’re you—”

“All part of the exam,” you say. “Try to relax. If something hurts, tell me.”

You squeeze his pec, kneading the fat between your fingers. You flick your thumb over his nipple. Jason makes a tiny, choked noise in the back of his throat. He looks down at you from the table, breathing heavier.

“Hurts?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. You switch to the other pec, groping that one. A blush begins to spread from his neck down. 

“Is—ah, is this really necessary for the e-exam?” he asks.

“In your line of work, of course. One can’t be sure where injuries might be hiding. I need to be thorough. You want me to be thorough with you, don’t you?” 

You pinch his nipple between your thumb and forefinger. Jason’s hips jerk.

“Y-yeah,” he says, lids fluttering. 

You release his pec and crisply click your pen and write on your clipboard.

"It’s hard, isn’t it?”

Jason looks up, startled. "Wh—um, what?"

“The job,” you say, tucking the pen in your pocket. “Your work is physically demanding, yes?”

“Oh. Well, I guess. I mean, been doin’ it so long, ‘s not so bad.”

“Any performance issues?” you ask, taking out a rubber glove from the box.

“‘Scuse me?”

“There’s a lot of stress in what you do,” you say, opening your cabinet and pulling out the medical jelly. You set it on the counter next to him. “Performance issues are common. Please remove your jeans.”

“Wh—”

You hold up a hand. “I understand it’s embarrassing, this portion of the examination, but I’m a professional, Jason. I’ve seen it all, truly. You’ve nothing to worry about. We’re just going to test your reflexes and make sure all of your muscles are in working order.”

Obediently, he pops the button open and pushes his jeans off. You wait coolly as he folds them and puts them aside. 

The first thing you notice is that Jason has thick, muscled thighs. You take the tape measure and unroll it, wrapping it around his left thigh first. 

“Flex your leg for me,” you say, and Jason does, bending at the knee. The tape measure strains where you’ve pulled it taut, the muscle bulging.

You gently tap his leg and he relaxes. Then you do the other thigh. You squeeze his calf and Jason bends his opposite leg. 

“Very good,” you say, making a note on your clipboard. “You’re a very good listener, Jason. I’ll make a note of that too.”

You roll up the tape and set it aside. Then, you step close enough so that his legs touch your front. 

There’s a bulge in Jason’s briefs, his cock obviously chubbed up under the black material. You tilt your head.

“Are you aroused, Jason?” you ask, reaching for your pen. 

“I, um—” He licks his lips. You track the movement, gaze piercing. “‘S just a lotta touching and—”

“But I’ve hardly touched you,” you say, eyebrow knitting. “This is very unusual. Do you often get aroused so easily?”

Jason shakes his head. “No, n-no, I—usually, I’m really good at controlling it.”

“Usually? So you do get aroused often?”

“No,” Jason says, frustrated. “‘M not constantly getting ha-hard, ‘s just—a-ah!”

You hold his cock through his briefs, squeezing curiously. Jason gasps, bucking into your hand. You nod in realization.

“Oh, I see. You’re big. Yes, you’re very big, aren’t you?” You cup his balls. Jason whines. “It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far. How do you manage to get anything done with this?”

“Gh–huh?” he manages, legs parting as you play with his cock. 

You let go before Jason can get fully hard. There’s already a wet spot on his briefs. You tut.

“You should’ve led with this, Jason,” you say, flipping the cap of the medical jelly open. “You shouldn’t hide anything from your doctor. Though it’s hard to hide this, hm? Miraculous you can still focus on what I’m saying.”

“Don’t–don’t understand,” he says, shifting his legs. You gently step between them, and you’re confronted once again by your size difference. Jason completely engulfs you like this, but he’s docile, remains good and still as you inspect him.

"Just relax," you say, squeezing the cold jelly into your hand. You rub it between your fingers to warm it up. Then you pull his briefs down with your free hand and stroke his cock with the other.

Jason chokes out a gasp, his massive shoulders coming up to his ears as he jerks forward.

"Excellent reflexes," you say.

Jason's cock quickly swells to a full erection, growing larger. He's quite the specimen from a scientific perspective. You put your other hand on his neck and feel him throb in time with his pulse. He shakes in your grip.

"No irregularities here. You grow erect quite fast. Do you touch yourself often?"

"'S that really necessary to ask?" he grits out, hips jerking as you stroke down.

"Everything between us is purely confidential,” you say. “And yes, it is necessary. Well-endowed individuals should touch themselves regularly. Especially someone in your line of work. I can't imagine how humiliating it would be for you to be rendered useless on a mission because all the blood in your brain is being used to fill your enormous cock."

Jason whines at that. You let go of his neck to make a note on your clipboard. You stroke him all the while.

"I-I'm perfectly capable of focusing without jerking m’self off," Jason says, blinking hard. His Adam's apple bobs.

"Are you?" You release his cock immediately. Jason hisses at the loss of contact. "I'm very interested to see this firsthand. Let's do a test. I'll ask you some questions, and you'll try not to think about how you'd like to come all over my hand. Ready?"

"Ye—hah!"

You calmly begin to stroke Jason again, this time faster. He grips the edge of the table, trying to contain himself. His eyelids flutter.

"Please report the events of your previous mission," you say.

"I, um—okay, I was d-downtown 'cause there were some lost sh-shipments in the—nngh. F-fuck."

His hips buck uncontrollably. You stop, lips pursed. Jason groans, chest rising and falling fast.

"Jason," you say patiently. "We can't complete the exam if you can't control yourself. I thought that you could, that you didn't turn big and dumb and messy when you're touched. Was that incorrect?"

"No, no, 's true. I can be good. I can control myself," he says, voice thick.

"If you can't, I can always end your exam here," you say.

Jason shakes his head. "No, I can do it. I can complete the exam."

You hum and squeeze more gel into your hand and rub it between your fingers.

"Okay, then," you say. "Please continue."

You begin to pump Jason's cock in earnest, with firm, measured strokes. His breath stutters but he manages to keep talking.

"I-I was downtown and I decided to talk to my source first. He's usually at the docks, so I-I—"

"Slow down," you say. "You're talking too fast."

"I—I'm tryna—oh m'God—" Jason whimpers, tears gathering in his eyes. "I wanna hold it. I can hold it."

"It's alright." You stroke harder. He shakes his head.

"It's alright," you say again. "Your balls need to be emptied. You won't be able to think until they are. You need that release. Good, sweet boys with big, fat cocks often experience this. It's nothing to be ashamed of. You can't focus otherwise."

Jason shakes his head, red-faced. "'S not true. I can focus, 'm not just thinking with my dick—"

"No, you're not," you say, voice neutral as you pump him. "Because you have no thoughts when you're hard. And you won't until you orgasm. So try to relax, Jason. This is all part of the procedure. You're doing wonderfully."

Jason looks at you, mouth open, lips bitten pink, and he can hardly get another word out before he's stiffening. A second later, he's coming all over your hand and his stomach.

He doesn't stop for a long time, coming and coming. You watch with great interest as his release dribbles down your hand, his stomach, and his thighs.

"Look at all of that," you say. "I couldn't contain your release in my hand. Do you always ejaculate in such large quantities?"

"Jesus Christ—yes, okay? I come a lot and it's fuckin' embarrassing."

"I see. It would seem as if your body was made to breed," you say. "Perhaps you should take the hint."

Jason groans and tries to pull away. But he's not fast enough, and you see that...

He's still hard. Your eyebrow rises. You squeeze him experimentally. A drop of cum bubbles from the tip.

Jason pants, lashes wet. "Pl-please, I don't—I c-can't—"

"Fascinating. Is one orgasm not enough?" you ask, hand still firmly wrapped around his cock.

His fists curl, crumpling the paper on the table. "No, I can—I'm fine, it'll go down—"

"It clearly won't," you say, and release him. You snap off your soiled glove that's covered in Jason's cum and throw it into the wastebasket.

Jason's chest heaves. His cock is an angry red. "'M fine. It'll go away. 'S gone down before."

"Jason, in order for this checkup to be effective, you need to be completely honest with me. I have to make sure you're physically fit to do your job. It would seem that you must masturbate multiple times a week because you can't think while you're erect. I can see why—if I had a big, thick cock like yours that was frequently hard and leaking, I'd stroke myself to completion each time too."

"Y'make me sound like some kinda animal when y'say it like that," he says, leaking onto his stomach. You shrug.

"In a way, you are. You fit nature's stereotypical fertile phenotype. A rutting bull, a virile ox, a prized, stud racehorse. You are otherwise capable and strong, but your base needs are immediate. Biology has made it so that you have as much opportunity to impregnate as possible."

Jason's ears are bright red. "'M not knocking anybody up."

"No, but you could. It would be a waste for you not to, frankly."

You toe off your shoes, unzip your pants and pull off your underwear, so you're left in your blouse and lab coat. You fold everything neatly and set them aside.

"Wh-what're y'doing?" Jason asks, hazy and unfocused. His pupils are blown as he takes in your legs.

"It's obvious that you're frustrated," you say. "Penetration will soothe your agitation."

You join him on the table. Jason doesn't move, gaping at you.

"I-I don't—I don't need you to—"

"Yes, you do," you say calmly, slotting your legs over his. "What will you do? Go out there in the office with your big, leaky cock? Make a mess for anyone to gawk at? They'll see how dumb you get when you're hard. You won't be able to make it home; you'd sooner spurt all over your jeans the second you pull them on."

You put a hand on Jason's chest and ease him back, so he's lying down. You brace yourself with hands on either side of his head.

"I'll fuck you to completion, and you'll feel much better. You'll be able to think again. Someone of your condition can't be left alone like this," you say.

"I don't—I can't—ah, ah!" Jason's eyes squeeze shut as you sink onto his length. His hips begin to move before you've bottomed out.

"Jason," you say clinically. "Please try to control yourself. I've not even gone all the way down."

"Tight, s-so tight," he blathers, back arching off of the table. "Pussy so hot."

"I understand, but—oh!"

The words die in your throat as Jason sits up with you halfway on him. He wraps his arms around your waist, grip like a vice, and plants his feet on the bottom step of the table. He bottoms out in one go, slamming into you.

"Oh my G-God, yeah—" he moans, fucking up into you in earnest. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

You pet his hair soothingly, which quickly turns into holding onto his head as he moves you the way he wants. "This is wonderful progress you've just made—mm—I-ah—think this is an important step for y-you."

"'M sorry," he says, panting against your chest. "S-sorry, can't hold it—"

"Don't apologize," you say, as Jason adjusts his grip and fucks you so deeply, you're sure you'll feel it for days.

"Wanna be gentle, w-wanna be good for ya," he says, caught on a sob.

"It's alright," you say. "You were made to-ngh—get hard and breed. You can't do anything else. You'll impregnate me right now. My womb will be unable to hold all of it because you'll come so much."

Jason whines, slick with sweat. He huffs in your neck, cuddling you close and thrusting. "Y'smell nice."

He paws at the hem of your shirt, forgetting his place, then stops and keeps his hands away. "S-sorry," he mumbles, nose on your collarbone.

You hum. "Oh, I see. Would visual stimulation help?" You undo the buttons of your shirt, coat still on. Your tits jiggle with each thrust, held by your bra cups.

"Holy f-fuck," Jason whispers, staring at your breasts. His strokes speed up, fast and sloppy.

"Does it please you, being inside of me? Seeing my body? Accurate data is very important to me, Jason."

"Y'so pretty," he says. "So, so pretty. C-can't believe y'let me touch you. Nicest doctor I ever met."

"I feel fully penetrated," you say. "You should be proud. Next time, you'll, ah, mount me."

Jason nods frantically. "I—I—"

"Easy, easy," you say, your own head going fuzzy at his brutal pace. "Empty that big cock so you can form a sentence. That's it."

Jason's noises turn high and whiny, little ah-ah's that are muffled against your neck. He squeezes you as he comes, hot and thick, right into your cunt. His cock twitches with aftershocks, cum spurting in little bursts.

He groans long and low as his cock finally goes soft. His cum drips down your thighs and his. You stare at where he's still inside of you, still thick and pulsing after coming. You squeeze your legs, enjoying the stretch. Jason moans weakly, jerking against you.

"Y'didn't come," he says gloomily. "Fuck. 'M so sorry."

"Jason, I'm your doctor. My job is to make sure you feel your best. And now that you've come, you can focus on other things. Like your partner's release."

He nods eagerly, still inside of you. "I can. I'll make y'come."

“I’m sure you will,” you say, gaze roving over his body. “I think we ought to meet regularly. Perhaps twice a week. I believe that will help your stress levels considerably.”

Jason looks up at you like you’ve hung the moon. “Anything you want, Doc.”