Sarcasm and Inappropriate Jokes

"do you think they'll come if we watch long enough?"

gently, you pry your daughter from where she's perched on the couch. her tiny body clings to you, face contorting into a pout. "i'm sure they will, my darling. but it's bed time for you. you have school tomorrow."

"please, please let me stay up! just a little longer? i wanna see if one of them comes. we made dessert this time!" she points at the tiny cupcake sitting on the plate's edge, and her tiny letter stating simply, this is for you!

"superheroes work late at night, my dear." you set her down on her bed. you tuck her thin covers up to her chin, bumping your nose with hers. "to keep us safe while we sleep."

"do you think we'll see batman?"

"i dunno." you turn off the main light and flick on her nightlight. "i'm sure he's out there, but he's probably hard to spot, since he's dressed in all-black."

living amongst vigilantes still felt awfully surreal. a bit like a fairytale, a lot like a joke. but the longer you lived in gotham, the more you felt grateful for the absurdity of it all.

you drew your daughter's curtains and kissed her forehead. "i love you, sweetpea. i'll let you see what's been taken from the plate tomorrow."

"okay." she sighed, cheeks puffing out. she snuggled deeper under the covers as you tucked a stuffy between her arms. "love you, mama."

you smiled and closed her door. you couldn't ignore the twang of fear that pierced your heart each time you left her, even if it was just the two of you in your shitty apartment.

you pictured someone shattering her window. you could hear her screams now. ear-shattering, heart-breaking sounds that would leave scorch marks across your memory.

as much as you thought leaving food for vigilantes was adjacent to leaving milk out for santa, secretly you hoped someone was watching you. someone was taking care of you and your daughter.

there was only so much you could do to protect her. if it was up to you, you'd run from this city. would metropolis be better? safer? anywhere but here. if you had the money, that is.

you sigh, plopping yourself down on the couch before the television. sirens wailed distantly, city lights illuminating a world of crime and chaos. you stared at your reflection in the TV—nothing more than a smudged silhouette.

you're not quite sure when you drift off. usually, you're so good with your routine—lock the doors, close all the windows. but sleep wins tonight, pulling at your eyelids until your head falls too.

something is shuffling outside.

perhaps it's because you've lived so long in this city that you flinch awake. you know nowhere is safe.

your eyes flutter, and you register the time. 3:24 in the morning. gosh, you should really shower.

it's probably just some birds outside. pigeons and gulls always scavanging at that poor plate.

but just as you're about to turn around, you glimpse a reflection in the blacked out television screen. one that's not yours.

there's a smudge of red attatched to a body—a mask or helmet of some sort. it sat next to the silhouette's hip.

you froze.

someone was sitting on your balcony eating the food.

someone was actually here.

you're not sure how to react. where to go. what to do. was it really a vigilante? was it some villain taking advantage of the free food? just some random biker from the street?

you knew not to fight. your first instinct was to protect. to close the window you left open.

hands trembling, you wiggled off the cheap couch. the cushions whined at your missing weight.

your eyes never left the television screen—your only way to tell when the man sitting on your balcony made a move. if he twitched, if he adjusted his grip, you watched it. carefully. like you were studying him.

never taking a breath too deep, never moving more than necessary, you crept towards the window. only, when you finally inched close enough to feel the breeze, there wasn't one.

your eyes flitted down.

the window was closed.

and there the man sat, back to it, swinging his feet back and forth. golden light shimmers along his raven-black hair.

should you wait for him to leave? try to chase him off the balcony with that crowbar in your closet?

what scared you the most was the fact that he didn't seem malicious. often times, those people turned out to be the worst. so you stand and stare, perhaps a bit of a creep yourself.

you'd stay here all night and watch him just to ensure your daughter was safe.

your daughter. oh gosh.

what if this was all a distraction?

with little acknowledgement to the noise you now made, you raced towards her room and whipped the door open.

your daughter turns over in her sheets, groaning at the noise.

relief floods your chest.

you closed the door and returned to the living room.

the vigilante was tidying his space now. he was...folding the napkin laid out and arranging his utensils neatly.

you watched in awe, a bit unsettled by how...nice he was being.

he reached for his helmet, prepared to take off when he spots you staring at him from inside.

his eyes went wide, lips parting as he realized he's been caught. the two of you remain like that for a while. staring at the uncanny sight of the other.

it's only when he registers you've seen his face that he begins to move.

you take in the blood on his clothes. the empty plate. the wind through his black hair.

and soon, you're unlocking the balcony door and stepping out.

"what are you doing here?" your voice dropped low. attempting to be threatening.

"what do you mean what am i doing here?" he looks at you like you're crazy. he gestures to the plate and the letter your daughter left for any vigilante stopping by.

"i didn't...i didn't think anyone was actually eating these..." you never left out much food. only leftovers. mashed potatoes, rice. food that was about to go bad.

and you assumed the pigeons were scraping the plate clean.

well, wasn't this just a...big-ass pigeon on your balcony?

"of course i am," he says. with a shrug, he adds, "sometimes it's the only dinner i have."

"you're not...not here to hurt us, right?"

"if i wanted to do that, i would've."

"are you here to...protect us?"

"and eat your food."

you drag a hand down your torso. "o-okay." your breath shudders as you note the guns on his hips. the flexing muscles beneath his shirt. scars peppering his face.

"i'd never hurt you," he reminds you. "or your daughter."

well, fuck. he knows you have a daughter. of course he does. what were you thinking, leaving out food for strangers?

the rational part of you is beginning to realize that, yes, if he wanted to hurt you, he would've. but he hasn't.

his eyes glaze over you. "she's sweet," is all he says.

you nod. "i...i know. she's very kind."

"that's all a parent should ever want their child to be." he looks down and reaches into his pocket. without thinking, you race towards him and grip his wrist, hoping to stop him from pulling out a weapon.

he freezes. he doesn't look at you like you're stupid. like you're overreacting. his eyes promise reassurance.

gently, you ease off his wrist.

from the depths of his pocket, he pulls out a tiny black wallet. or what you presume to be one. but inside, there's no money or credit cards. only weathered pieces of paper.

every single one has your daughter's scribbles on it. whether it's a drawing or a messily written thank you!

"you...you keep her letters."

"now do you believe i'm not gonna hurt you?"

"i...i don't know."

the man shakes his head. "have the streets been quieter lately?"

recently, yes. they have been. "i...guess so."

the man only smiles. it's warm. a little playful. then he points across the street. "this is a bad area to be in right now. trust me, i know. i grew up in that complex. right down the street."

that must've been long before you moved here. long before rent became too high everywhere else that you had to resort to an area as dangerous as this.

"i know you're scared." he waves around your daughter's letters. "but you don't realize the amount of protection kindness gives you."

you simply whisper a tiny thanks.

the man looks you up and down. "not that i'm not grateful or anything. but i'm hungrier than i look." he nods down at the plate. "the cupcake was filling, though."

"r-right."

he gives you a taut smile and squishes his head into his mask. the red color glares under the amber city lights. without another word, he hops off the railing and disappears beneath the fire escape.

heart pounding, you lean over, eyes searching for him frantically.

your heart swells with skepticism.

but gratitude overwhelms it a second later.

you were safe. your daughter was safe.

so long as you kept feeding your 'personal' vigilante, he'd keep coming back.

am i insane for wanting to write a pt 2 to this or no...