Melpomene

Bruce was not particularly excited about this date.

She was pretty, certainly, and the very picture of the kind of woman the media expected Bruce Wayne to date. She (Samanatha? Savannah? He remembered her surname, at least) was a B-list celebrity he had been introduced to at a charity foundation–really, she and her producer had been there to promote her movie more than the foundation.

She was nice enough to make Bruce feel bad about his behavior. Honestly, he hadn’t intended to take her out- it was her producer who suggested it in an email to his personal assistant, offering charity compensation in return for some publicity with his new star. A PR relationship for just one evening. Bruce had been hard pressed to turn the offer down, given he had been out of the public eye for a few weeks at this point. He wasn’t even sure if she knew that her producer had set them up, or if she even cared.

Regardless, he played his part well and tried to push thoughts of the recent case he had been working on out of his head. The tabloids had grown suspicious of his departure from his usual abundance of parties and events.

It was for that reason that he didn’t mind the very obvious photographer standing on the corner of the street. Bruce stepped out of the car and into the street, catching sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye. While he would normally walk around the back of the car, he walked to the front, the side closest to the photographer, this time. He made sure to plaster an excited smile on his features as he opened the door for his date and helped her out of the vehicle. Bruce offered a polite wave to the driver and escorted his date inside, ensuring the photographer could snap a few shots of the two of them.

His date giggled and blushed, having noticed the figure at the end of the street. She wrapped herself around Bruce’s arm as he led her inside the restaurant, her chest puffed out at the notion of the world seeing her on the arm of the billionaire.

He put up his best front during the meal, really. He flirted, teased, listened to her talk about filming her movie–under other circumstances, he may have even been interested, at least for the night. But, Bruce was tired, and was far more concerned about tracing who owned the weapons depots in the Narrows. His thoughts slid back to the case each time until he suddenly remembered to snap his attention back to his date.

Bruce finally excused himself for a moment, after a few glasses of wine and his best attempt at witty banter, and hid in the bathroom for a few minutes. He splashed water on his face and righted his tie before stepping back into the restaurant proper. His date (Sabrina, he remembered) tapped idly on her phone. Her eyes lit up when he sat back down and she turned her screen towards him.

“They sure do work fast,” she joked and presented Bruce with a tabloid headline and photo of the two of them outside of the restaurant. In the image, she spoke animatedly to him and clung tightly to his arm. Thankfully, in the photo Bruce appeared just as engaged.

He cracked a smile and leaned back in his seat, allowing himself to feel a slight sense of relief. “I hadn’t even noticed the paps were there,” he lied.

Weeks later, Bruce spotted the same photographer again, this time lodged in a crowd with several others. It made sense–Bruce had arrived at the new Mayor’s inauguration with Dick in tow. It was rare that he brought his barely teenaged ward into the spotlight, preferring to keep him out of the public eye as much as he could until Dick was old enough to make that decision for himself. That, and it made it easier for Dick to maintain his ulterior identity without interference.

Unlike last time, Bruce made sure to make direct eye contact with the cameras and wave, rather than pretend to be oblivious. He noticed that you, the photographer he scrutinized while attempting to make his gaze look sweeping, had failed to lift your camera. Instead, the object hung limply from the strap around your neck.

Bruce ushered Dick inside Gotham City Hall and turned to face the cameras once more, posing briefly for individual photos with his hand raised in a wave. He noticed that this time you did raise your camera and take a few photos, now with Dick out of sight.

Curious.

“I take it the event well?” Alfred inquired the morning after the event as he placed breakfast (brunch, really) on the table in front of Bruce and Dick.

Bruce shrugged as he plated his food. “Just the usual low-life lobbyist trying to make the Mayor a quick buck. Saw some names associated with Maroni. I figure we may need to look into the Mayor’s recent associates,” he admitted as he tucked in. Dick, cast him a sly grin over his plate of eggs, excited by the prospect. Bruce returned the toothy grin with a thin-lipped one of his own.

“Well, the tabloids certainly appreciated your presence,” Alfred spoke with a mirthful lilt to his voice. He placed a tablet on the table between the pair of vigilantes, displaying recent tabloid headlines. Each of them focused on his boisterous ‘drunkenness’ the night before.

Much to Bruce’s surprise, a few of the headline images depicted him in a different light. The images were almost artistic, rather than the usual grainy, motion-blurred paparazzi images. His eyes scanned the name the images were credited too.

Yours. He hadn’t even noticed that you had been in attendance. He scrolled through the tabloids, noticing your name pop up a few more times under associated images–clearly, you were still working as a freelance photographer, but it appeared you had stepped up your game, so to speak.

He nodded and grunted in acknowledgment through a mouthful of food as he passed the tablet back to Alfred.

Bruce arrived early to the annual Thomas Wayne Medical Foundation fundraiser. It wasn’t often that he arrived early to functions, intentionally so, but this was one that he refused to bring a carefree attitude into. His father and the work he had done for the city deserved more respect than that.

The fundraiser, held yearly at Wayne Manor, had gained more traction this year than it had in previous. More Gotham elite insisted on attending and, as expected, had brought along outside guests. Bruce was fairly certain he had seen some wealthy businessman from Star City included on the guest list–that was certainly a long flight for just a gala.

As a result of the event’s increased popularity, Bruce found himself stuck longer than intended at Wayne Enterprise entertaining investors who sought his undivided attention before the event. Why their proposals couldn’t have been forwarded to his PA or board members, Bruce would never understand.

Regardless, Bruce found himself arriving at his own home for his own party just before the party began. Unsurprisingly, reporters had already gathered on the lawn in the hopes of catching sight of the elites in attendance. Each of them wore lanyards stating which agency they worked for–a few had party access listed on their lanyards, permitting them attendance into the actual party.

The driver halted the car halfway up the driveway and Bruce stepped out with a quiet ‘thank you.’ Guests were already trickling in before the main event began. Bruce adjusted his tuxedo, thankful once again that he kept a spare in his office, and plastered on a broad, charming smile.

Cameras flashed as he approached and he raised a hand to wave politely. They lined the walk towards the front steps in a tight cluster, reporters and photographers alike leaning forward to catch his attention. Bruce warmly greeted those he recognized, particularly tabloid heads-

He paused, surprise taking him for just a moment. You stood at the edge of the crowd with your camera raised and pointed towards him, the shutter rapidly clicking. He recognized you instantly, despite the camera obscuring your face and the more business-attire black dress you wore compared to the casual street clothes he had previously seen you in. You looked striking–the dress hugged you in just the right places and flared in the others. Compared to the gowns other attendees wore, it was nothing to glance twice at, but…

Bruce sidled up to the reporter next to you, letting his eyes glance off of you in what he hoped was a casual fashion. “Hey Arnett. How’s the Post treating you?” he greeted, shaking the familiar reporter's hand.

“Just fine, Bruce, just fine,” the balding man greeted, returning the firm handshake. “Don’t suppose you’d have time for me later?”

“Maybe, sure,” Bruce answered noncommittally as he slid past the man with a wide smile. He paused in front of you and tilted his head to the side curiously. You lowered the camera to reveal a doe-eyed expression, suddenly very aware of the billionaire staring right through your lens. He pointedly looked at your lanyard, taking care to read your name off of it. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

“Uh…” you managed to squeak out and quickly glanced at the reporters on either side of you, as if he could be speaking to anyone else and you were just mistaken.

Bruce buried his hands in his pockets. “Thought I saw your name in the Gazette recently.” ‘Recently’ was a stretch–it was about two months ago at this point that he had seen your most recent photos of him.

You perked up and beamed brightly at him. “Yeah, I submitted a few shots to the Gazette a bit ago. I work for the Gotham Post now, though,” you gestured towards Arnett, who placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed affectionately.

“Our best photographer, I guarantee it,” Arnett encouraged, giving you a slight shake. You blushed sheepishly and batted his hand away teasingly. “I tell you, Bruce, this one’s got real potential.”

“You flatter me too much,” you protested.

Bruce nodded along with Arnett’s words. “No, I agree. I liked your work.” You brightened even more, softness returning to your eyes at the praise. Bruce tilted his head and tapped his right cheek with a single finger. “I like that you get my good side.”

Your eyes dropped to half-lidded and your smile turned coy. “I’m not sure you have a bad side, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s stomach flipped pleasantly. Huh. It certainly wasn’t his first time hearing a line like that form a reporter, but… he rather liked the sweet way you said it. Better yet, you held his gaze firmly as his grin turned wolfish, all teeth and charm.

“Will I see you inside?” he asked, leaning slightly closer.

“If my boss lets me,” you answered with a bump of your elbow against Arnett’s arm. Bruce glanced at both of your lanyards, spotting a lack of guest privilege listed on them. Disappointing.

“If he doesn’t,” Bruce began, knowing full well your boss had no control over your admittance, “I’ll be sure to tell security to make an exception.” You beamed at him as he turned and continued making his way inside.

To your surprise, security really did make an exception. You were new to events like this, and barely understood the admittance rules. Security let you through easily after the guests arrived, although Arnett was not so lucky. Upon security halting his entry, he held you hostage on the front step and explained in an abundance of detail who you should seek out, what angles he hoped for, and implored you to please get him a few interview dates.

You took dutiful notes on the notepad you kept in the camera bag slung across your shoulder, fully expecting to not meet any of Arnett’s demands. The squat, balding man had given you a list of names that went in one ear and out the other despite how quickly you attempted to keep up with your pen.

You would be lucky to find even one of these names in the crowd, particularly considering you didn’t want to feel disruptive. It was already a privilege for you to be allowed admittance to the private event at all. Your best bet was to simply take as many photos of guests as possible, or at the very least take some creative shots of the event for broader headlines.

At the very least, you could build your portfolio and move your way up the Gotham Post.

You hesitate to move through the crowd, feeling out of place. The party was in full swing, and guests prance around with flashy, art deco attire customary of the Gotham elite. You, on the other hand, were dressed more akin to the servers milling about the room, rather than the well-dressed attendees. 

Certain the camera strung around your neck and the associated bag across your back drew more attention than you desire, you hid behind your lens again. You lift your camera to your face and adjust the image distance. The chandeliers in the event room glimmer like starlight captured in the warm ambience. If you angled just right, you could keep the chandelier in the center frame and capture the crowd from shoulders up (for the most part). You adjust slightly, maintaining your rule of thirds-

The image distorts and you furrow your brows in confusion. Had your lens gotten wet? You lower your camera, intent to turn it and inspect the glass, only to realize the distortion had been caused by a champagne flute presented to you just below eye level.

In a confused daze, your eyes follow the hand around the neck of the champagne flute to the tailored tuxedo sleeve, to the pressed collar and white white bow tie, until your gaze finally settles on Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you greet warmly, your surprise thinly veiled. The camera slips from your fingers and returns to its hanging spot on the strap around your neck as you reach for the glass offered to you.

“Enjoying the party?” he asks as he falls in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and surveys the crowd. He holds a full glass in his right hand, a mirror of yours. You notice a signet ring on his pinky, emblazoned with a cursive ‘W.’

“I am now,” you admit. He turns his head towards you and arches his brows, a playful look in his piercing blue eyes. You noticed, curiously, his eyes are closer to grey than they are to pale blue under the warm lighting. “Are you bored of boozing and schmoozing yet?”

Bruce barks what you think was a genuine laugh, caught off guard by your comment. “Eternally,” he answers with a toothy grin. You return the expression with one of your own. For a man in his early-thirties, he appeared nearly boyish at your joke. “Can’t say I find much enjoyment in events like this.”

“I can’t blame you. This is my first and I’m already overwhelmed.”

“Not much of a partier?” You shake your head in answer to his question. “Quite the career you’ve picked, then.”

You shrug. “Most people ignore the photographer. You’re an anomaly, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrects, and you feel your cheeks warm. You probably shouldn’t have been caught off guard by the familiarity–Arnett called him by his first name after all. Perhaps he was informal with most reporters.

“Bruce,” you echo, rectifying your earlier statement. He turns back towards the crowd, finally taking his eyes off you, and you find you already miss the attention. “Honestly, events like this are just a stepping stone. At least, I hope so. I’d like to get away from glamor shots and paparazzi work eventually, but… it’s where the money is.” You take a sip of your champagne, hiding from what you expect to be judgment from the wealthiest man in Gotham who clearly did not mind the publicity he got from people like you.

Instead, he huffs out a laugh, like your comment was the first genuine thing he had heard all evening. “I can’t blame you. Personally, if I could take a step back from it all, I would, too.”

At that, you turn to look at him and find him already, once again, gazing back at you. He is as handsome as the tabloids say and your photos make him out to be, you note, as he fixes you with a charming grin. You find yourself surprised by your admittance, thinking, despite what others in your profession say, there may be more to Bruce Wayne than that of a playboy.

Bruce sets his untouched champagne glass down on the tray of a passing server and you blink away your sluggish thoughts. “Have you seen the grounds yet?”

“From a distance.” He offers you his arm instantly, clearly meaning to lead you. You hold up your hands in protest. “Your guests-”

“- Don’t give much of a damn about me, honestly. This party could happen without me and the results would be the same,” he debates, his arm still extended in invitation. You hesitate for just a moment before settling your hand on his covered forearm. Bruce smiles warmly as he directs you away from the crowd and towards the open doors that lead to a balcony.

Warm, early-summer air coasts around you, carrying a floral scent with it. You tilt your head back and allow the breeze to brush pleasantly over your skin, a welcome reprieve from the stuffy atmosphere of the gala. Your eyes adjust to the dark evening as Bruce guides you onto the balcony, then towards a set of stairs to the left. You place both hands on his arm to steady yourself as you take down the steps in tandem, falling into an easy pace.

The grounds are stunning–it’s a shame that everyone is stuck inside. Your fingers itch to reach for your camera as you wander down a gravel path lined by manicured hedges, broken only by lilac bushes in full bloom. Lights dapple the property, adding more ambiance than spotlight.

“What drew you towards photography?” Bruce asks, breaking the comfortable silence between you. You lean into him and he eagerly draws you closer until your shoulder is pressed to his arm.

“I suppose… I’ve spent my whole life in Gotham, and I love this city to death, but there are parts of it that deserve to be seen.” You level him with a stare out of the corner of your eye. “Darker parts, I mean. Corruption. I wanted to showcase that, but…”

“You got stuck with tabloids,” he finishes for you. You nod in affirmation.

“It pays the bills, but it’s not the angle I want to present,” you admit. “I’ve been working on a collection about Crime Alley that I’d like to submit to publishers for review. No one deserves to live like some people here do, but not many people seem to want to make a change at the street level. I doubt it’ll get picked up.”

Bruce is silent for a beat, and you worry you’ve misjudged him for a moment. He seems like he’s on the same page as you, but what if the papers were right about depicting him as shallow-

“I wish I could do more for the city, too,” he finally states, and you breathe an audible sigh of relief. His opposite hand comes to rest atop yours on his arm, offering an affectionate, familiar squeeze. “I know half of these galas don’t make much of a difference for most Gothamites, but… well, there’s only so much I can do as Bruce Wayne.”

Your brows furrow at that comment and you turn to scrutinize him carefully. He doesn’t elaborate, and you shrug off the tail end of his statement. “I was offered an entry-level position at the Daily Planet, the one in Metropolis.”

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to hesitate. “Do you want to take it?”

“God, no,” you laugh, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. “Gotham is dirty, and dangerous, and corrupted, but it’s home. I would prefer to pull back the curtain and make the city a better place than abandon it. I’m not sure how well photography can manage that, but it’s something, at least. Not all of us can launch off of buildings like the Bat, right?”

Bruce’s lips quirk up in a subtle smile. He guides you up the steps of a small pavilion ringed by golden string lights located not far from the balcony you entered the grounds from. Your hands release him and clasp the railing as your eyes close. The warm breeze passes over your face, drowning out the dying sounds of chatter and car engines. It seems the party is finally starting to clear out.

“I should probably head home soon,” you remark quietly, trying and failing to hide your disappointment. “I don’t think I got any of the shots my boss wanted, but… I had a good time.” You turn to face Bruce and smile coyly at him.

The light cast by the string lights frames Bruce as a statuesque figure, as handsome as he is formidable. It strikes you then how broad he is, filling out his tuxedo. You try not to ogle and think about what may lie under the tuxedo.

Your thoughts are cut short as his hand crosses the railing to settle on your wrist. Bruce lifts your hand, then slides his from your wrist into your open hand. Your eyes slip half-lidded as he presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles.

You expect him to release your hand. Instead, he keeps yours clasped in his and lowers your joined hands to the railing. Your heart patters in your chest, growing faster as the seconds stretch between you. Maybe…

You take a step closer, nearly chest to chest. He leans over you slightly, eyeing you playfully as his lips quirk up at the corners in a subtle smile. Your heart thunders now as you hesitate, steadily building courage. 

You press up on your toes and brush your lips tenderly against his. It can hardly be considered a kiss, more an invitation of one than anything else. He takes the invitation eagerly as his free hand rises to cup your cheek and press his lips more firmly to yours. It’s a tender kiss, but it takes your breath away all the same.

You chase him the moment you feel him start to pull away as your mouth slots against his. You feel Bruce sigh against you as he tilts his head to accommodate your insistence. Your hand fists his tuxedo jacket, dragging him closer as his lips part against yours and drag you back under for more.

When you fall back on your heels, he follows you with open-mouthed kisses that nearly make your toes curl in your shoes. His tongue brushes across the seam of your mouth and you part your lips eagerly. You think that it’s quite possibly the best kiss of your life. It’s unbearably gentle, and yet each sweet press of his lips against yours draws every thought out of your mind without fail.

For just a second you think it’s silly that you’re weak in the knees until his hand still clasped around yours releases and moves to hold your waist. You think that’s when you finally give way to something more demanding, when you feel the heat of his wide palm on your waist. You want to feel it under your dress, on your skin-

Your camera bumps against his chest, causing you to pull back in surprise. He follows you for just a second, his eyes fixated on your lips. Bruce’s pupils are blown wide, and you imagine yours are much the same. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as his eyes rise to settle back on yours.

“Do you want to come back inside-?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation and surge to kiss him again. His breath catches this time as he leans into you.

You’re nearly lightheaded with glee as Bruce’s hands settle on your waist and he half drags you back towards the Manor. He parts from you only to hurry you across the gravel path, stopping periodically for feverish kisses that leave your lips tingling and demanding more.

When you reach the foot of the staircase up to the balcony, Bruce’s lingering kisses find the corner of your mouth, your jaw, and your neck. Your hand winds into his hair as his teeth drag teasingly over your skin, and you bite back a sound that waits in the back of your throat. He practically pushes you up the stairs, and you step backwards and up, mindful not to catch your heels.

Once inside the Manor, you find yourself briefly pressed against every available surface. His kisses are hungry, and you return them with equal fervor. Your hands bury in his hair, squeeze his arms through his tuxedo jacket, and drag his collar aside to expose untouched flesh. You smile victoriously as a breathy sigh passes Bruce’s lips when your teeth nip at his jaw.

The moment your back is pressed to a door you begin unfastening his bow tie. His kiss is all tongues and teeth as you slide his jacket off his shoulders, and you revel in it. You were wrong–this has to be the best kiss of your life. Bruce kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air.

He dips slightly as his hands find the hem of your dress and he pushes the fabric up, exposing more of your flesh to him. His hands knead your thighs and his nails tease you in gentle scrapes that have you gasping against his lips. He smiles against your mouth and finally opens the door, ushering you into the room.

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to be pinned as you press him firmly against the door. You both kick your shoes off, your heels disappearing somewhere into the darkness of his bedroom, while your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt. He helps you, stripping the fabric from his body and is quick to yank his undershirt over his head next.

You take a step back to marvel at the man in front of you, lips parted in silent praise.You were right to wonder what he may be hiding under his attire–your hands settle on warm, firm muscle, pulled taut with anticipation. You meet his eyes for just a moment then quickly pull your camera bag over your shoulder and toss it to the ground. You unloop the strap of your camera from your neck and gently place it atop its associated bag, then promptly sink to your knees.

“Fuck-” Bruce groans as your nails drag down his chest before your palms settle on his thighs. You press your cheek to the prominent bulge in the front of his slacks and gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. He sucks in a sharp breath as one of his hands winds into your hair. “You don’t have to-”

You press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, his hand twisting in your hair as a result. “I want to.”

You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, then his hands are on his slacks without a second thought. You wait eagerly on your knees as he unzips his slacks and slides the fabric and his briefs down his thighs. You nip the exposed flesh of his thigh just as his cock frees itself from the confines of his garments and bobs upright. Bruce kicks the fabric away and you once again lean back to take him in.

He seems hesitant to move as you watch him, taking in the full length of him and the flushed head of his cock. Bruce breathes a sigh of relief as your hand settles on the base of his cock. He expects you to glide your soft hand across the length of him, and instead finds himself biting back a moan when you lick the length of the underside of his cock.

Bruce’s breath hitches and one hand settles in your hair while your tongue swirls around his tip. His head falls back against the door with a grunt as you flatten your tongue against him, seal your mouth around him, and slowly take more of him in your mouth.

“Fuck-” he groans as your hand pumps what your throat can’t reach. Your throat vibrates as a groan escapes you and a gasp leaves his mouth. You pull back, keeping the flat of your tongue against the length of him, and suck before descending again.

You close your eyes and quicken your pace, occasionally rolling the flat of your tongue against his length as the tip of his cock hits your throat. Your head bobs and his grip on your hair tightens each time you bottom out.

Bruce’s head lolls to the side and watches you with parted lips. “God, you have- no idea how good you look… taking me like…” he groans and knocks his head against the door once more.

Your eyes open as you bob and slide your hand in tandem, a devious thought worming its way into your mind. Your free hand skitters across the floor until your fingertips brush over the canvas of your camera bag. You snatch it and drag it closer until your fingers find the cold plastic of your camera. Fumbling with it until your fingers find the grip, you lift the camera and present it over your head to Bruce.

His panting pauses for a moment and you worry he may be panicking on you. You nearly withdraw your offered camera, until his cock jumps in your throat and his hands shakily grasp the object.

“Holy- fuck…” he gasps as his hand fists your hair. His hips gently push forward, the tiniest motion than as you moaning around him in appreciation. At that, his hips snap forward and the tip of his cock bullies its way into your throat with each gentle rock of his lips. “Just like that, beautiful, just-“

You hear the telltale snap of the camera shutter. His hips stutter as you moan around him, your eyes sliding closed. His cock twitches, and you think he might be about to cum-

Bruce yanks you off him and you whine as cock leaves your throat. Your whine is promptly silenced as he drags you to your feet and his lips crash against yours. You sag against him, and Bruce wraps his arms around your waist to stabilize you. Once you find your footing, one hand is quick to find the zipper of your dress and tug it down while the other handles your camera still tight in his grasp. 

You gasp against his lips as his hands wind beneath your dress and shirk the fabric from your body. You shrug the dress from your shoulders and allow him to pull it down your body. As the fabric pools at your feet, you kick it to the side and press your body against his.

Bruce’s insistent hands on your hips usher you backwards until your calves hit the edge of what you assume is a bed. You drop to a seated position and he chases your lips with hungry kisses. You feel the weight of your camera drop to the bed beside you just as the man in front of you sinks to his knees.

You have half a mind to be embarrassed about the fact that you tremble in anticipation when his knees hit the floor, but that thought quickly vanishes the moment he places one leg over his shoulder and drags his lips across your calf. You lean back on your elbows and watch his lips draw closer to where you need him, his teeth occasionally nipping your flesh and making you jump.

When he reaches your knee, his attention turns to your other leg which hangs limply over the edge of the bed. His lips glide up your thigh and you whine impatiently. You think you might die when his nose finally brushes your core over the fabric of your underwear.

“Bruce…” you moan, your voice rising to a demand. He meets your demand as his tongue laves a flat stripe over your underwear. Your hips buck and he withdraws just enough to loop his fingers around the fabric and tug it down your legs.

He doesn’t wait for you to beg. The first press of his lips to your clit makes you jolt. He repeats his earlier motion and drags his tongue through your folds, gathering your wetness. Your head drops to the bed, your back arches, and you buck against his mouth.

“Good?” he asks, warm breath fanning over your flesh. In response, your hand settles in his hair and drags him closer. Bruce chuckles against you as he dives back in, setting a steady rhythm of flicks and sucks against your clit. Your hips push up against his mouth as he works, dragging moans from your throat.

Bruce pulls you closer until your ass nearly hangs off the bed and throws both legs over his shoulders. Your thighs tighten around his head briefly in response and he moans, prompting your hips to buck. One of his arms loops over your pelvis, keeping you firmly in place. Your head lolls to the side, catching sight of his signet ring on his hand as he buries his tongue in you.

Your fumbling hands reach for your camera as you tremble against his mouth. Shaking, you grasp the plastic and aim it at him. “Can I?” you ask, earning an eager moan from Bruce in response.

The shutter clicks, and he groans against you as if it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever heard. You drop the camera beside you and recline on the sheets once more as you move against his mouth. You feel Bruce’s thumb settle on your clit, circle once, twice, then everything goes tight.

Your back arches as you clamp down on nothing and tremble through your orgasm. A choked out whine escapes your throat as you tug at his hair, unsure if you want him to stop or keep going. His tongue pulls you through it until you finally stop writhing. Your chest heaves as you deflate on the mattress.

“Oh my God…” you mumble. Bruce chuckles and stands at the foot of the bed. He leans over you and presses another tender kiss to your lips. His hands glide over your flesh, slowly working feeling back into your limbs.

“Good?” he reiterates. You mumble a quiet ‘mhm’ against his lips and he laughs again. His hands usher you to move further up the bed and you do, allowing him space to crawl over you. Bruce settles between your thighs, his cock resting against the bend of your hip as he kisses life back into you slowly.

He moves in the moment your thighs part to accommodate him. You shift and brush your wet folds against the head of his cock, feeling it catch your entrance. Bruce rests his forehead against the crook of your neck and pushes forward.

You choke out a gasp as the length of him fills you in one slow, fluid motion. You tighten around him and he groans, pausing as he hilts inside you. You push your hips against him and he takes it as an indication to draw back slowly. You whine as each agonizing inch drags slowly against your walls, and your nails settle on his back, grazing and demanding more.

His hips snap forward hard enough to make the bed frame jolt against the wall, and you keen. He builds a steady rhythm, drawing out slowly then slamming his hips forward. Each time you gasp and writhe beneath him. When his pace picks up, you see stars.

“Thought about you all night,” he groans as his lips coast over your throat and shoulders. “Thought about what you’d feel like around me- fuck, you feel perfect, gorgeous-” You claw at his back with a whine.

Bruce sits on his heels and drags you with him. His hands grip the backs of your knees and tugs your legs over his shoulders. One hand winds over your thighs, keeping your legs against his chest while his other settles over your clit. Your back arches as his deep thrusts quicken to a punishing pace. Your eyes roll back as you tighten around him.

“Fuck, just like that-” he gasps as his hand leaves your clit and fumbles across the bed. His wandering hand finds the camera, lying forgotten beside you. His rhythm falters for just a moment before picking up again as he turns the lens down, snapping a photo of his cock sliding through your folds. “Just like that, baby, stay just like that-”

Your back arches as your eyes roll, and the camera drops back to the bed with a bounce. “Come on, baby, give me one more,” Bruce pleads as sweat beads on his brow he leans forward, folding you nearly in half, and you wail as his cock reaches deeper, brushing against a spot inside of you that makes you clench.

He coaxes a shattering orgasm from you. Your legs drop from his shoulders and wrap around his waist as you tug him down to your chest and tremble. He moans, keening high as you clench around him, and you wish you could hold on to that sound forever. Bruce presses his forehead to yours as his thrusts once, twice more than spills inside you.

You stay like that for a while, clinging to him as you come down from your high. Your thighs tremble around him and you feel him soften inside you. He makes no move to pull away. Feather-light kisses dust your hairline as he whispers praises to you.

When Bruce does finally pull away from you, it’s only for as long as it takes him to retrieve a warm, wet cloth and clean you with the same focus he had fixed you with in the garden. You pull him to you and kiss his knuckles appreciatively. When he stands again, his hands find your camera and return it to its rightful place in your bag by the door. He’s quick to climb back in bed with you and pull you tight to his chest.

You press tired kisses to his lips, the curve of his mouth molding perfectly with yours. The kisses drag out slower and slower until he pulls away and settles you against his chest. You fall asleep tracing scars on his flesh that you hadn’t noticed in the darkness.

The next morning, Bruce would rather be anywhere than a board meeting. He slumps in his chair at the head of the table as board members report the various investors and donations gained through the previous night's event.

He tugs at his collar, his fingers sweeping over an already fading red mark you had left just beneath his shirt. His gaze lowers to the table as his mind wanders to the feeling of your thighs wrapped tightly around him-

His phone buzzes in his coat pocket, and he withdraws it in what he hopes is a discreet fashion. An unknown number flashes on his screen. Opening the text message, Bruce’s eyes widen seeing the photos of the previous night’s escapades. His cock in your mouth, his mouth between your thighs, and-

His chest tightens as three dots pop up below the image, indicating you’re typing. Bruce’s cock hardens in his slacks as he waits. His phone buzzes in his hand as you finally hit send.

Dinner tonight?

You were certain Tim was mad at you. Sure, he rarely reacted with anything other than a level head, and almost always had a reasonable explanation for not texting you back, but you were absolutely sure that this time he was mad at you. I mean, you had all but told him you wanted nothing to do with his family!

Alright, that wasn’t quite true. You did want to have next week’s dinner with the Wayne family, it was just that your band had finally landed a gig the same night at a nice venue–not a rundown dive bar this time! It’s not like you wanted to back out of dinner, but you had, and then you hadn’t heard from Tim for the rest of the day. It seemed like a reasonable excuse to your bandmates to request a dinner reschedule, but how often did Tim leave you on delivered for almost a full day?

Well, pretty often, admittedly. He was a busy guy, between his work with Wayne Enterprise and his… night time activities… The more you thought about it, the more likely it was that he had just gotten caught up and hadn’t been able to respond yet.

But it was too late to talk yourself down now; you were already standing on the front step of Wayne Manor at 5AM. Oh God, what if he got even madder knowing you had waited for him to finish his patrol? Was that too stalker-ish?

Time seemed to slow as your heart leapt into your throat the moment the great oak front doors of the Manor creaked open. Alfred stood in the space, ever in his crisp uniform, looking wide awake despite the hour.

Alfred greeted you warmly, and you nervously smiled back. He lifted one brow and tipped his head pointedly towards the object in your arms. “A gift for Master Drake?” You nodded sheepishly. Alfred stepped aside to usher you inside with a flourish of his arm and a wide, thin-lipped smile. “I do believe he just returned from his outing. I would recommend checking his quarters first.”

“Thanks, Mr. Pennyworth,” you responded hurriedly as you scurried off before he could urge you to call him Alfred, as he always did. You darted through the darkened manor, up the grand main staircase, down a series of wide hallways until you came upon a much narrower one. You took a sharp left down the narrow hallway and came to a halt in front of Tim’s door.

You second-guessed yourself the first several times you meandered the manor on your own. Each door looked the same in this wing–was Tim’s the third or fourth door? The place was a maze, and you often wondered how long it had taken each of Mr. Wayne’s wards to learn the many sprawling passageways. Now, it was easy to come to a stop in front of Tim’s room and know it was his.

Now, you had spent so much time in his room, on his bed, scribbling notes in your journal. Pages sprawled between the two of you, dappled with prospective music notes, while Tim reviewed your lyrics. He had an eye for composition that you sometimes lacked–you liked to take a thought and run with it in meandering prose. Tim grounded you and helped you filter those prose into a more manageable 4/4 timing scale.

For the first time in a while, you hesitated outside of Tim's room. What if this made him even more mad at you? You couldn’t stand the thought, partially because you had no idea what Tim would actually look like if his anger was directed at you. Sure, you had seen it on the news sometimes, the brutal but tactical way he handled thugs in Gotham’s dark alleys. But that was different. He never looked at you that way… unless you had royally screwed up this time and upset him and the rest of the Wayne family.

A huff left your lips, the only sound besides your shuffling feet against the ornate rug that adorned the lavish floors. Well, no point in turning around now.

You hefted the vintage boombox over your head and pressed play.

Music blared in the hallway, filling the shadows with late-90s punk. You cursed and began fidgeting with the volume controls. You forgot to turn the volume setting down after your last band practice-

“What the fu-” a comparatively quieter voice broke your panicked concentration. You turned just in time to see Tim wrench the door open with a look of confusion. His pajamas were rumpled, his shirt barely pulled down all the way as if he had just rushed to adjust it on his way to the door. His frown immediately eased, and his brows pinched together in mild amusement at the sight of you. “What are you doing?”

“Apologizing,” you answered flatly, standing frozen with the blaring boombox still in your arms.

“Apolog-” a near scoff left him, cut off by the creak of a door further down the hall. You both turned to see a bleary-eyed Damian stick his head out of his own bedroom door with a trademark scowl that rivaled his father's. “C’mere.”

You yelped as Tim snatched you by your arms and dragged you into his room. He kicked the door shut behind him and pulled the boombox from your hands. You sucked in a deep breath-

“I’m sorry I upset you, I swear dinner is important to me and I know it’s Dick’s first night home in a while and you wanted everyone there-” Tim reduced the volume on the boombox and carefully set it on the floor while you babbled, the music now a quiet background sound. “-And obviously what’s important to you is important to me, but we can’t skip this gig, I genuinely think it might actually put us on the map-”

“I’m not mad.”

You deflated, losing your steam in an instant. From beneath your lashes, you cast him a bashful stare. “... You’re not?”

“No.” Amusement seeped into his tone. You wrung your hands and cast your gaze to the floor.

“I figured since you didn’t text me back…”

Tim’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t? Fuck, it must have slipped my mind.” You nodded slowly. Yeah, that made sense. He did that sometimes–his brain would work so fast that he would be on to the next thing before he had even fully completed the first. Sometimes, when Tim was excited about something, his brain would move so fast that he wouldn’t complete a sentence before moving on to the next thought–you had gotten good at filling in the gaps, and thought it made you stronger as a couple. That did not translate to text anxiety, clearly. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m mad at you for rescheduling, so you’re apologizing with a- a boombox at five in the morning?”

“I made you a mixtape, too.”

His lips parted as his jaw hung slightly agape. “You- you made me a mixtape?”

“Of all our favorites,” you admitted shyly. You crouched to pop open the cassette tape and withdrew the piece that you had spent all night working on. Tim’s hand settled on your elbow as you stood straight again, steadying you, while the other reached for the tape. 

He turned it over and inspected the list of songs you had written in the neatest handwriting you could manage. The first was one you had listened to on your first date–you had picked it up on the distant radio in a cafe and unconsciously began matching the timing by tapping your fingers against the table. The next was his favorite from an album he often put on when he was working through a case. Third from the bottom, your favorite from the first concert you both attended. Beneath the songlist sat a little “I love you” that he reverently ran his thumb over.

A muted squeak of surprise left you as Tim wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, and you immediately eased into his arms. It was a silent thank you, one you drank up with equally quiet appreciation. “When did you have time to make this?” he questioned, turning his attention back to the cassette.

“Uh… like, a few hours ago. After practice.”

At that, he turned his full attention to you. “You haven’t slept yet?”

Your brows furrowed. “... No..?” Tim crouched to replace the cassette, then stood and began tugging you towards his bed. You sputtered out a protest as his fingers laced with yours. “I have work in like three hours-”

“Me too,” he responded stubbornly and sat on the edge of the bed. 

You stood between his legs, shifting nervously from foot to foot, as his hands coasted reassuringly over your arms. “And you swear you’re not mad about me missing dinner?”

“Dick’s in town for like a week. I rescheduled for Saturday–don’t worry, I already checked the schedule you sent me to make sure there’s no overlap,” he soothed. Your lips twitched up in a smile. 

You let him pull you into bed, and you flopped down beside him, pressed tight against his chest. One hand slid rhythmically up and down your back, while the other played with your fingers splayed across his chest. His thumb brushed over the callouses that dappled the tips of your fingers and palms from years of instrumentation.

“Dick also said he’d love to see your band play. He wants to be able to claim he saw you guys before you get mainstream,” Tim broke the silence, warm breath fanning your hairline. You chuckled and squeezed his hand. “I would too, if you’re alright with that.”

You tilted your head up and stretched to press your lips to his in a tender kiss. Ironically, of all the reassurance he had given you, the kiss was what made you feel the most at ease. You pulled back a couple of inches to take in his tired eyes and warm smile. “As long as you don’t get embarrassed when your brother hears the song I wrote about you,” you teased.

Tim’s cheeks warmed, dusting a light pink against his pale skin. “I’ll try not to.” You laughed and clung tighter to him, the tension finally melting from your body.

It had been almost two weeks  since you had seen Bruce. Well, that wasn’t quite true. You had seen him, but only in passing–a hand brushing against your back as you rushed out the door to work, or a soft kiss pressed to your forehead that barely woke you from your dreamless slumber. Too many mornings now you had woken and splayed your hand across his side of the bed to find it cold and untouched.

You couldn’t blame Bruce for being absent. You knew the case he was working on was important. Hell, all of Gotham knew its significance, what with the panic occurring each night in the Narrows. But after a week of a ghost wandering your home while you slept, the mere thought of your husband had you pressing your thighs together and loathing the cowl.

Safe to say, you were frustrated.

You sat alone in the backseat of the Wayne family limousine. Not even your adoptive children had bothered to go with you tonight, too busy searching for the arsonist running rampant in the island district to keep you company. Tim had, blessedly, chosen to cover for Bruce tonight and give him a much-deserved break.

And yet, you still sat alone in the limo on the way to yet another pointless gala. You glared down at your phone, rereading Bruce’s most recent text for the umpteenth time, sent while you were getting ready for the evening.

Closing with investors. Will meet you at the tower.

The very same investors that you were hosting this damn gala for. You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. Sure, Bruce hadn’t stopped in at the Enterprise much this week–you had pulled most of the strings for this event, in all honesty. The least he could do was take some of the weight off of you, right? That’s what you tried to tell yourself, at least, to keep your knee from bouncing so much that it would begin to ache.

So you left early to pick him up from Wayne Enterprise on your way to the gala. When you had heard about the patrol schedule change, you had hoped Bruce would be home to get ready with you–you had even picked out a perfume you knew he liked, although you felt silly spritzing it on your neck in the silence of your bedroom.

All this space in the limo and nothing to do with it. You dropped your phone on the leather seat beside you and sprawled out in an undignified manner. Whatever. Bruce probably wouldn’t even ride home with you–it was more likely that he would travel straight from the gala, to the cave, then to his nightly patrol. Whatever. You were mad at him anyway.

Not really. But pretending to be mad at him was easier than thinking about how much you missed him. You just knew seeing him at the gala, with his attention stolen by the Gotham elite, would drive you nuts.

Your frustration was simmering by the time the limo slowed to a halt outside of the Wayne Enterprise. With a sigh, you adjusted your attire, slipped your phone into your purse, and leaned towards the door with one hand outstretched. You expected that you would have to rouse him from his office and drag him by his tie-

The door creaked open before you had a chance to lay your hand on the handle. In its place, jet black slacks and a matching leather belt at eye level, your hand hovering just above with fingers outstretched. You licked your lips and slowly tilted your head up to meet Bruce’s gaze. Mirth filled his piercing blue eyes. He always let his emotions show more freely without the cowl. His eyes narrowed into a softer expression, tired and maybe a bit reverent. 

God, he looked good in a tuxedo. It was almost unfair how well the black fabric complemented the graying hair at his temples and the sharp blue of his eyes. You gazed up at him from under your lashes, lips parted slightly. His hair was slicked back, something he had taken to in recent years–he felt it made him look more mature, more like the ‘former party animal who had finally settled down’ that the media so often portrayed him as these days. One corner of his mouth raised in a subtle smile. You half-expected him to make a flirtatious comment, and your cheeks warmed in anticipation.

“Are you going to scoot over for me?”

You scoffed and jumped away from the door. His chuckle fell on deaf ears as you turned your back to him and sulked, glaring out the window at passing Gotham traffic. You heard the door click shut and his knuckles rap against the privacy wall separating the back of the limousine from the driver. The car rocked forward and pulled steadily into traffic.

A warm hand settled on your thigh, just above your knee,  and squeezed gently. His lips ghosted the side of your neck, and you raised your shoulder in defense against the ticklish feeling. The fabric of your dress bunched just slightly as his hand innocently slid an inch or so higher, allowing him to lean further towards you.

“New dress?”

“No,” you answer dryly. His hand slid from your thigh until just his fingertips brushed the fabric. You leaned back subtly, pressing your back to his chest. “I bought it on our holiday in Sri Lanka a few years ago.”

Bruce hummed in thought and pinched the fabric between his fingers. You twisted and peered at him over your shoulder, your head resting against his chest. “I enjoyed Sri Lanka.”

You huffed a laugh. “We didn’t leave the hotel.”

“Then I enjoyed the hotel in Sri Lanka,” he amended. Bruce leaned over you until his lips brushed against the corner of your mouth. You tilted your head back and to the side, allowing him better access. The resolve you had to stay mad at him vanished as quickly as you melted against his chest at his kiss. “Missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

Your mouth twisted into a wry smile against his as you turned in your seat until you were facing him. His hand on your thigh drifted to your knee as you twisted, while his other settled on your waist and pulled you subtly closer. You pressed a more insistent kiss to his lips, and he angled his head to return it with fervor.

Bruce pulled away, and you leaned in to chase him. His hand on your knee came to rest on your jaw, making you pause. One salt-and-peppered brow rose teasingly, and his blue eyes fixed on yours sternly. “You’re supposed to say you missed me, too.”

Now it was your turn to hum in acknowledgement. Undeterred by his halting hand on your jaw, you shifted onto your knees and leaned into him once more. Your lips skimmed across the space where his shirt collar met his skin–you felt Bruce shiver as you trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses upward, no doubt leaving deep red kisses across his skin.

Your nose bumped the corner of his jaw, and he tilted his head, allowing you more space. You crept closer, placing a hand on his chest to balance yourself on the car seat. Bruce exhaled a warm breath against your skin as your teeth caught the lobe of his ear.

“Can I show you how much I missed you?” you questioned breathily. 

It was rare to see Bruce blush. It was subtle, and you had to know what you were looking for. It always started at the tips of his ears and moved downwards. His chest would often gain more color than his face, and you thought it was a shame that you couldn’t see it now. You knew he was blushing, though, by the way his hand on your waist tensed in a delicate squeeze.

Your hand on his chest trailed slowly downwards, crossing the broad planes of his chest and taut stomach. Bruce shifted in his seat as your fingertips brushed over the sharp line of his hip bone beneath his slacks. He seemed to relax as soon as your hand left him and planted on the seat beside him, your torso now bent across him.

“We’ll be at the venue in a few minutes,” he protested weakly.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek. You balanced with your hand on the seat while the other bunched your dress around your knees. “I only need a few minutes to convince you to leave the gala early.” Bruce huffed through his nose, his jaw tightly clenched, as you swung your leg across his lap, hovering in a straddle over him. “... Or maybe to convince you to skip it entirely.”

Bruce laughed dryly as his hands settled on your hips. In return, your hands rested on his shoulders–you tugged him forward until his shoulder blades left the back of the seat, and you wrapped one arm across the back of his neck. “Not a chance-”

You pressed your pelvis against his and ground your hips in a slow roll. A puff of breath escaped him and fanned the edge of your jaw as Bruce hung his head. You angled your hips to grind against his half-erect cock, already straining against the front of his slacks. “So you did miss me,” you teased as your lips returned to his neck.

Bruce’s hands gripped your hips tighter and guided your rocking movements against him. He groaned as your teeth nipped at his skin and sucked gently, leaving a subtle mark that would quickly fade. A curse fell from his lips as he pulled your hips jerkily across his.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned with his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You pressed your chest against his, using your arm around his shoulders to help you balance.

“You seem pretty alive to me,” you countered as you rolled your hips forward against the hard length of him. His hips twitched upward in response, and a breathy sigh escaped him at the feeling. Bruce wrapped one arm around your lower back and held you flush against him as his hips rocked in tandem with yours.

The ragged whine that crept from your throat encouraged him as his pace picked up. You tipped your head back to give his teeth access to your neck. Teeth dragged against your soft flesh, tugging gently before trailing down to your shoulder. You let out a gasp and buried one hand in his hair as his teeth sank playfully into the soft meat of your shoulder.

“Fuck, Bruce,” you moaned as you rolled against him and tugged at his once perfectly styled hair. Arousal pooled in your underwear as warmth spread from your pelvis, and you wondered how long you could keep this up before you dampened the front of his slacks-

The limousine rolled to a stop. Bruce captured your lips in a heated kiss. You groaned against his lips, an agonizing sound that accompanied the slowing of your hips. “We’re here, darling,” you mumbled against the plush curve of his cupid’s bow.

Your husband surged forward and crashed his lips against yours, nearly knocking you backwards off his lap. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip. His tongue dragged across the seam of your lips to part them, allowing him to taste you. Your hands rested on his shoulders and gently pushed. Bruce finally took the hint and drew back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Five more minutes,” he demanded, his hands already reaching for his belt.

Bruce Wayne:

Wayne Manor captivates you all the same each time you see it. You stand beside your parked car in the circular driveway, gazing up at the limestone mansion. Its face is a distinct mix of Georgian architecture and noir themes. You can’t imagine Bruce Wayne appreciating the complexity of the gargoyles looming over the gutters, or the Victorian framing around the windows–you could, however, picture him skinny-dipping in the stone fountain behind you.

You were surprised when the billionaire invited you on a date. You had almost denied him, not wanting to add to his rather extensive list of female companions. But your last few conversations with him at various events had caught your attention. In private, he seemed more down-to-earth than the tabloids gave him credit for.

The grand front door opens seamlessly–you half expect it to creak like some horror movie piece of foreshadowing, followed by a strike of lightning. Instead, all that greets you is Alfred, the kindly butler you had spent a few occasions chatting with when wanting to avoid the crowd for a while at events.

You smile affectionately and exchange pleasantries as Alfred takes your coat. “Master Wayne is waiting for you in the dining room,” he offers. Your suddenly anxious expression causes his lips to twist in a knowing, patient smile. This building has always been a maze to you. Weren’t there two dining rooms?

Alfred, blessedly, led the way. You followed him through the manor, admiring artwork and sculptures as you went. Whoever had furnished the interior, likely not Bruce himself, had an eye for rich design. You reach a set of ornate walnut doors, and Alfred pushes one open. He announced your arrival to the room, and you stepped inside.

Bruce quickly stands from where he previously sat at the head of the table. A brief look of relief passes over his features before settling into that charming playboy smile you had grown familiar with. You return a polite, albeit nervous, smile as he approaches, and you hear Alfred shut the door behind you.

“You look great,” Bruce breaks the silence as he comes to a stop in front of you. So does he–in fact, this is the first time you’ve seen him dressed down, and he still looks good. He wears a plain white button-up, of course, with the top button undone, and gray slacks. It’s nice to see him out of the tuxedo you often see him in.

You lift a teasing brow. “Just great?”

His smile widens. One of his hands reaches forward to clasp yours, and he raises it to his lips. He presses a brief kiss to your knuckles. “Stunning,” he amends. You’re beginning to understand how he manages to charm so many high-profile individuals. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He maintains hold of your hand, to your surprise, and leads you to the far end of the table. It’s a smaller table than you had previously seen in the Manor–in fact, you’re fairly certain this is the second dining room. This table, although still far larger than most Gothamites would have, probably only comfortably seats ten people.

Bruce pulls your chair out for you, and you take a seat. He sits himself once more at the end of the table, immediately to your left. Dinner is already laid out on the table, an impressive spread that could easily pass for something at a high-end restaurant. 

“Did you make this yourself?” you ask. Bruce sputters, and you look up in alarm to see him drawing his glass of water away from his mouth. You cover your mouth with your hands and suppress a giggle.

“Uh… I helped,” he answers and sets the glass down. You narrow your eyes playfully. “Alright, well, I told Alfred what I thought you might like. He did the heavy lifting.”

You begin scooping the first item onto your plate. “Well, you both have my thanks.”

Conversation passes idly as you tuck into your meals. You both seem tense, and you’re certain Bruce has noticed it too by now. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him–he was handsome, obviously, and very polite so far. But all you could think about was the ridiculous tabloids and scandalous activities he was known for. The reserved man sitting beside you seemed totally different.

You exhale and steel yourself, thinking of a way you might be able to ease the tension. “What do you like to do?” A simple, painfully average first date question.

Bruce thought for a moment. “Well, the company-”

“Not Wayne Enterprise,” you correct and set your fork down, turning your full attention to him. “Or the galas. What does Bruce Wayne like to do when no one else is around- no models, or photographers, or… uh…” You wave your hand around in thought.

“... Marketing officials?” he offers with an amused expression.

“Sure,” you answer with a shrug. “What do you like to do when no one else is around?”

Bruce sits back in his seat and thinks for a moment. You consider that maybe he doesn’t spend much time alone, but that can’t be true. You’d done your research before coming here, and you knew he didn’t party all night and day. So… what did Bruce do in his free time? Now you were genuinely curious.

“I suppose I like to read,” he supplies. It’s a surface-level answer, one that makes you even more curious.

“You know,” you begin, fixing him with a coy expression, “when you invited me out, I was expecting another one of your fancy events–an opera, or something like that. Not dinner.”

“Would you have preferred an opera?” he asks with a quizzical raise of his brows.

A peal of laughter escapes you, and his lips twist in a wry smile. “Not for a first date. I’ve only been once, and I enjoyed it, but I’d rather be able to talk to you above a whisper,” you admit.

His blue eyes pierce yours with a steady gaze. The set of his brow had eased, and he finally looked relaxed. He leans conspiratorially closer. “Next time, then.”

You smile. “Next time.”

Dick Grayson:

Dick is running late. Well, that, or he had stood you up. 

He was supposed to pick you up an hour ago. It had been so long that you had checked your texts no less than five times, thinking maybe you had somehow misread 6:30pm as 7:30pm, and then again as 8pm, as the time was now fast approaching.

Sure, maybe he had gotten tangled up at work. Cops work weird hours sometimes, right? You groan and lean your head against the back of your couch. He would have at least texted you if that was the case, right? You have no idea. It was your mom, an EMT who had worked with Dick a few times, who had introduced you. You honestly hadn’t expected him to ask you out at all, even after the few conversations you’d had, moderated by your mom when you brought her meals at work on late nights.

You glance at the clock on the wall, glowering as the second hand ticks closer to an hour and a half past the initial meeting time. Give it ten more minutes, you rationalize with yourself. Then you can take off all this lace and frills and maybe see if any of your friends want to go to some dingy dive bar tonight. Who needs a date with a charming, male model-looking guy anyway-

The doorbell rings, and you leap to your feet in an instant. You dash around the couch in what you can only describe as an embarrassing scuttle, lunge for the door, and wrench it open.

“I am so sorry,” Dick blurts before you even have a chance to open the door all the way. “I completely understand if you want to cancel-”

“If I want to cancel!?”

“- I swear, I got roped into an arrest at work, big case, big drug bust, they needed me,” he looks practically panicked as you open the door fully and lean against it, gazing at him with wide eyes and raised brows. It looks like he’s still in his work clothes, like he had rushed straight to your house. He has a death grip around a bouquet of tulips and what looks to be a box of chocolates. “I know I should have given you a heads up, and I am so sorry.”

You narrow your eyes at him and hold your chin high, doing your best to stand up for yourself like your mother always tells you to. “I thought you stood me up.”

Dick groans and hangs his head dramatically. “I know, I’m sorry.” He extends the tulips and the chocolate box to you–the paper around the tulips is your favorite color, you realize. “I got these. It’s not enough, but I hoped it would at least open the door for me to give you a proper apology.”

You take the tulips and the box, and bring the flowers up to your nose. They’re fresh and smell lovely. “The restaurant definitely didn’t hold our table past thirty minutes.”

“I ordered takeout,” he responds quickly. That surprises you. “From that place you said you went to with your friend. I couldn’t remember exactly what you said you got, but I ordered something I thought was close.”

Huh.

You must be staring at him like a deer in headlights, because he quirks a sheepish smile and takes a step closer. “I know it’s barely a start, but I really want to make it up to you. I was looking forward to this,” he admits. “I figured we could eat takeout, maybe you could show me your favorite movie.”

You fix him with what you hope is an intimidating glare. “Alright, fine. You get one more chance.” Your heart flutters at his relieved smile.

Jason Todd:

The date is going really well. Certainly, the best date you had been on in a long time, maybe ever. So good, in fact, that after you had finished lunch, Jason had decided to tag along with you elsewhere.

Maybe it was because not much was really different now. You and Jason had met at the place where your brother liked to work on his motorcycle–it was a small place, one where you had to rent tools by the hour. You had visited him once after work, and he had introduced you to Roy. The next time you visited, Roy introduced you to Jason. Admittedly, every time you went back to the shop was just an excuse to see Jason.

Conversation flowed easily between you and Jason on those days you had visited, although he was much quieter than you. You knew it had taken some coaxing on Roy’s part to get Jason to finally ask you the question, and you were glad he had.

Jason had sort of invited himself along on your errands after what was supposed to be the end of your date. Sure, it was maybe a little odd to see your date pushing your shopping cart while you read over the list, but it was also nice. The conversation continued, and he seemed to be opening up a bit more–you didn’t feel like you had to pry answers out of him like you had that first day in the shop. And, better yet, it was nice to know that he also hadn’t wanted the date to end when you announced that you needed to continue on with your day.

“Can you hand me that?” you ask him, pointing at an item in the freezer section. He slides open the door and reaches inside, “Sorry, the one above,” you correct. You see him smile as he reaches for the item, then passes it to you. “That should be just about everything.”

Jason casts a pointed glance at your admittedly very full shopping cart. “You sure you don’t need to buy the other half of the store?”

You laugh and bump your shoulder against his as he settles his hands on the cart and begins pushing it towards the registers. He’s good at that–immediately stepping in to take pressure off of you. You expected that for the half of the date he had planned, but it was nice to see him doing the same for the impromptu half. “I have family coming into town later this week. Didn’t want to have to make too many trips back here.”

Jason acknowledges your comment with a quiet mm. You double check your list one last time as you make it to the register, while he begins putting items on the conveyer belt.

“Oh, shoot,” you mutter under your breath. 

“What’s up?” he asks as the cashier begins scanning and bagging the items. You look up to find him already staring at you, having momentarily paused his evacuation of your cart. You blink once, twice, staring back at him. He was a man of few words, as you had learned today, but he didn’t do or say anything without meaning it. It made spending the day with him so easy.

“Uh… I meant to stop by the bookstore a block over. My sister has been talking about this new book coming out by any author she likes.”

Jason nods and returns to placing the items on the conveyor belt. “You were thinking about getting it for her, for when she visits?” You nod and scoot past him towards the register. “... You care if I tag along? Been meaning to pick up a new read for myself, too.”

You beam at him, thankful you don’t have to part ways yet. “That’d be great.”

Tim Drake:

“What about this one?” you piped up, brandishing an ugly, chartreuse lampshade in front of you. It’s an atrocious mix of lace and velvet, tied together with a weird-looking glass bobble at the top.

Tim whips to face you and wrinkles his nose at the sight. “Why does it smell weird?”

You roll your eyes and hold the lampshade to your chest. “It’s an antique, duh. Some old lady probably had it.”

“Or Poison Ivy, maybe,” he grumbles, grimacing at the offensive green color. “It’s brighter than that uranium glass we saw earlier.”

You hold the lampshade in front of you and inspect it with a contemplative hum. “Would you rather wear this as a hat, or drink from one of those uranium glass cups?” you question as you run your fingers through the tassels on the bottom edge of the lampshade.

“I think I’d rather go to sleep and never wake up.”

You giggle at his response and put the lampshade back where you found it. So far, the second floor of the four-story antique store was full of fun treasures for you to share with Tim. He leaned towards the more practical items, wondering what sort of lives people had lived with these things. You, on the other hand, were enjoying pointing out the goofiest things you could find to your date.

“I swear, half of this stuff has to be from out of the city. I mean,” you hold up a wooden duck decoy, presenting it to him. “Come on. No one’s hunting ducks in Gotham.”

You look back at Tim as he shrugs. “Who knows what guys like Falcone and Maroni do on their vacations?” You watch as he turns back to a shelf full of old picture frames.

You slide in beside him, eyeing the old photos in each frame. Photo albums sit on some of the lower shelves, and you kneel to flip through those. “Some of these pictures are… way older than I’d expect,” you say, catching his attention. Tim squats down beside you, eyeing the black-and-white family photos in your grasp.

The art deco scene of the roaring twenties had stuck around in Gotham, but to see the decade in its original form was… odd, to say the least. You flip through photos of families, all thrown together in one book for easy storage. 

“Kinda weird that you can just buy these, huh?” Tim asks, nudging your shoulder.

“Yeah…” you muse thoughtfully, thumbing through the dated pictures. Some of them have dates and names written on them. You wonder how many of their relatives are still alive and in the city, and have no idea that these photos are here. “You ever think about what people might think of us in a hundred years?”

Tim is silent for a moment, and you turn your head to look at him. He’s closer than you thought he would be, but that doesn’t bother you. “Not really, no. I hope I can leave something good enough behind that people remember me… but, I’d rather focus on what people think of me now.”

Now it’s your turn to bump his shoulder. “Very practical of you.”

He cracks a smile. “I try.” You grin back and place the photo album back on the bottom shelf. When you look up again, your eyes land on a shelf, eye level with you, and across the room.

“Hey, check this out!” You bounce to your feet and take his hand in yours, practically dragging him to his feet and across the room. You stop in front of the shelf full of old vinyl records and begin flipping through them. “You said there’s a record player at the Manor, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think any of the stuff I like is old enough to be here-”

You let out a quiet, victorious cheer, withdraw an album from the stack, and hand it to Tim. He stares down at the cover art for The Clash’s album Give ‘Em Enough Rope with wide eyes. “You were saying?”

Tim lets out a surprised exhale and inspects the vinyl sleeve for damage. Next, he carefully slips the record from the sleeve and searches its shiny, black surface for scratches. “Wow, it’s… in good condition, too.”

“Sounds like you have to have it,” you answer, lifting your chin high with pride.

Tim directs his bright smile towards you. “I guess so. We can give it a listen together.”

Jason shouldn’t have run out like that–he knew that, but, God, what else was he supposed to do when you looked like a mirror of his own thoughts? He did everything he could to avoid mirrors.

He felt sloppy. Crouched on the edges of rooftops, scanning the alleys below, all he could think about was how your waist might have felt beneath his kevlar gloves. You can touch me. Those words haunted him, rattling around in his helmet like a mantra. He should have- well, maybe not that, but he certainly wished he had.

You were dangerous. The way you looked at him like you wanted to piece him back together? It was all Jason had wanted in the six months since he had dragged himself from his grave–to have a place to call home again, and someone to wait for him there each night. And if the traitorous muscle beating in his chest longed for someone who so desperately wanted to do that, then why should he hold back?

In the days since he had last seen you, Jason had decided two things: one, that you were potentially just as fractured as he was; and two, that you would rather put other people together than potentially cut yourself on your own shards. Admirable to some. Terrifying and intoxicating to someone like him.

The worst part was Jason didn’t even want to stay away. It was probably the right thing to do. It would certainly keep you safer–being entangled with an up and coming vigilante was the last thing you needed when you could clearly barely pull yourself out of bed for work in the morning. He was doing you a favor by keeping his distance, no matter how much he wished to be sitting on your fire escape instead of some dilapidated apartment complex.

That didn’t stop him from thinking about the sweet press of your lips against the rough fabric of his gloves. He had practically memorized the way your soft skin deformed across the rough texture. He’d thought too much about where else he’d like to see your lips. Jason shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It was better, safer this way.

That was why he found himself walking your usual route home every night in the hopes of seeing you. He was keeping his distance.

Jason groaned and placed his helmeted head in his palms. Who the hell was he trying to fool?

He stood stiffly and meandered along the edge of the rooftop, the heavy soles of his boots just a few inches from the ledge. Even walking the route you usually took, he hadn’t spotted you in days. Maybe you were the one avoiding him. Maybe he had finally done enough to piss you off and not want him to come back. He wasn’t sure–he wasn’t brave enough to go by your window again yet.

It had been quiet recently, probably due to the heavy snowfall Gotham had received. His police scanners were oddly silent, save for the occasional domestic issue. His leads on his other cases had gone cold for now, and Jason was thoroughly bored. It was hard to turn Crime Alley around when all the crime was shut away in buildings he couldn’t enter. He didn’t particularly feel like being shot on sight while looking for trouble in the Iceberg Lounge.

So, he wandered. It didn’t take him long to find himself in the red light district. The alleys here were narrower and the buildings shorter. He kept to the shadows now and avoided banks of snow. The crunch of snow under his boots would be a dead give away for anyone, especially those as alert as residents of Crime Alley.

His steps slow upon hearing hushed voices around a corner. Not unusual for the shady dealings of this neighborhood, particularly couples who tried (and failed) to keep quiet behind bars. When he turned the corner, he expected to find himself walking into some sort of public indecency.

Instead, he found you crouched in front of a child. You had one hand placed comfortingly on the boy’s arm while the other brushed his hair out of his tear-stroked face. He couldn’t have been older than ten, and his tan cheeks were red from the frigid air and thick tears that streamed down his cheeks. You cooed sweet words to him, words that Jason couldn’t pick up and wished were directed at him-

You turned your head to look at him, despite his noiseless approach. Your brows pinched into a thin scowl and Jason froze in place. The little boy released a hiccuped gasp, and you squeezed his arm reassuringly.

“Why don’t you go find your mom?” you coaxed the boy without taking your eyes off of the vigilante that loomed like a beast in the shadows. The boy understood it wasn’t really a question and scampered into the building he had his back too–a bar, if Jason remembered correctly.

“What’s a kid doing here?” his thick, modulated voice broke the silence. You rose to your full height and dusted snow off your knees.

“His mother works here,” you supplied coldly. You crossed your arms over your chest and fixed him with a cold stare. “She couldn’t get time off work, can’t afford a sitter, and is worried about his shit-faced father taking him from the apartment when she’s not home.”

Jason’s hands curled and uncurled in tight fists at his sides. Gone was the nervous tension in your body the last time he had spoken to you, instead replaced with the confidence of a panther waiting to strike. He shivered, your gaze reminiscent of that first time you had caught him lingering on the rooftop.

“What does that have to do with you?”

You rolled your eyes and began marching towards him, your boots crunching in the gravel and snow. He watched with curiosity, expecting you to saunter up to him–instead, you moved to walk past him, further into the red light district. His hand moved so fast to snatch the bend of your elbow that you flinched and stopped in your tracks.

“You should go home.”

“I still have errands to finish,” you protested.

“None that are worth your safety.”

“As I see it, the only one hurting me here is you.” Jason was quick to release your arm at that, his hand hovering in front of you timidly. Your expression softened as you stared up at him from under your lashes. “I promise, I can take care of myself.”

You were right, of course–Jason didn’t know half of what you had gone through to get to this point. You weren’t even from Gotham, but the macabre atmosphere mimicked your attitude towards life with an intensity you couldn’t ignore. Everyone here was just clambering to find some purpose, and if they couldn’t, well, it was easy to drink yourself to oblivion in a back alley.

Yes, like everyone else in this crime-drenched city, you fit in as easily as a shadow. You had learned to take care of yourself, at least enough to stay alive; and, in turn, you had learned to direct what energy you had left towards others. Similar to what Red Hood spent his time doing, you assumed.

Your tongue felt tacky, glued to the roof of your mouth. You took a cautious step towards him, closing the gap–not quite as close as you had been the last time you had seen him, but close enough that it was all he was thinking about.

You reached a timid hand towards his, your finger tips brushing over the rough kevlar with a ghost of a touch. Just like last time, he held perfectly still. So rigid, he may as well have been in the thick of rigor mortis. You imagined pallid flesh beneath his helmet, hair having lost all its volume, eyes glazed over with a thin, dry film. You imagined that’s how you looked to most people–a corpse just waiting to die.

“If you’re so worried…” you swallowed thickly as your hand closed over his kevlar-clad fingers, “walk me home?”

You thought you maybe heard a puff of air through the modulator in his helmet. Your brows pinched together as you waited for a response, knowing not to expect one.

Truly, Jason’s tongue felt like a limp instrument, unstrung and incapable of uttering a note. He swore he could feel the warmth of your skin through his gloves, although it was probably just wishful thinking. Wishful, yes, to feel the softness of your palms against his skin. He imagined the lines of your hands and the ghost of your touch on his flesh would be just as gentle as the rest of you.

He likened you to a lamb, briefly. Soft, timid, and a little naive to be touching him like this, holding his hand as if the fabric of his gloves wasn’t stained with blood. But, watching the way you took another calculating step forward, now nearly chest to chest, he thought perhaps he was the lamb, and you were the predator seeking something to sink your teeth into.

A croaked sound left his throat–he wasn’t proud of it, and he was thankful that the modulator hadn’t picked up the sound. He watched the downturn of your brow and the contemplative pout of your lips. Lips he had thought about far more than he should have. His hand twisted in your grasp and his fingers curled around yours, replicating your touch. The strain in your brow eased, and his chest shuddered with a ragged exhale.

Jason felt like a fly tangled in a web as he watched your other hand cautiously reach towards him. His head cocked, turning to follow the movement of your hand, but otherwise frozen. Repeating a motion you knew he hadn’t seemed to mind last time, you curled your hand slowly and pressed the heel of your palm and folded fingers against the edge of his helmet.

“I don’t expect you to fix me,” you whispered and watched the red helmet tip back to fully face you. You wet your lips as your chest quivered with a heavy breath. No, if you couldn’t even fix yourself, how could you expect him to do it? You had tried everything–diet, prescription, therapy, sleep–the only thing that got you out of bed every morning and shook off the cold stupor that followed you everywhere was the thought of living for someone else. “But maybe… I could help you. If you’d let me.”

His hand tightened its grip around yours in what you took as a reassuring squeeze. It was wishful thinking, probably, but you took it to be as good of a sign as any. You leaned up until there was barely any distance between you and your reflection in red. Your warm breath fogged the smooth metal, and you prayed it didn’t obscure his vision.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to the side of his helmet, where you estimated his jaw might be.

The statuesque vigilante in front of you didn’t move. You gauged his stalwart reaction from the corner of your eyes as you moved further up the side of his helmet and pressed a lingering kiss to where you expected his cheek would be. You held for a pause and pulled back slightly when his hand left yours and trailed up your arm.

Emboldened by his hand coming to rest on your elbow in a loose grip, not coaxing or halting in its presence, you moved to the other side of his helmet and repeated the motion. His other hand moved to your waist, hovering at first–you shifted your weight and his open hand bumped against your hip. That seemed to be enough for him as the rough fabric of his glove settled on your hip, squeezed, then drifted to drape around your waist.

You pulled back slightly and the helmet tipped forward to follow you, as if chasing. At that, your lips parted in what you hoped to be a relaxed smile, and you leaned back in. This time, your lips hovered just above where you imagined his were. Your eyes moved from the helmet in front of you up to where you thought his eyes might be.

The moment you began to lean in, his hands flew from your body like he had been burned. You leapt back in alarm, half expecting him to lash out at you in panic as he was sometimes prone to. Instead, his hands gripped the edges of his helmet and yanked. Red metal thunked against the earth, casting up fresh snow in its wake.

You didn’t even have time to process his features before he descended on you like a tidal wave. His mouth pressed against yours harshly, messy and unpracticed. His hands gripped either side of your face, scared that you would pull away after everything you just gave him. His heart pounded in his chest like he couldn't stand the thought.

Instead of pulling away as he expected, you looped your arms over his shoulders and tugged him closer. He groaned at the feeling of your body pressed against his armored chest, perfectly molded against him–you took the opportunity to part his lips with yours, and Jason thought he might just pass out. His head felt thick and airy, oxygen deprived even between kisses, in the same way it does with a new concussion. He let his heavy head loll to the side and allowed you to deepen the kiss.

It was a mess of teeth and desperation, he would admit that. There was nothing suave and sexy about the way Jason pressed you against the alley wall and towered over you, he thought. He just took what you gave him, greedily licking into your mouth, replicating the way your tongue had just brushed over the back of his teeth. Take, take, take. That was all he ever seemed to do.

One hand moved from your face to your waist, curling around you to crush you against him. Escape was hopeless, not that you wanted to. Your teeth sunk into his plush bottom lip and he gasped against you, a despairing sound that had your hips pressing forward against his.

The tension in his shoulders eased with each pass of his mouth over yours. His hands grew more curious, taking sweeping passes of your body. His rough gloves smoothed over your coat, then slipped under and gripped your shirt so tightly you thought for a second he might stretch the seams. You melted at the thought. Let him ruin your clothes if it means he keeps kissing you like that.

Your fingers crept into his hair and tugged at the short strands. His teeth playfully nipped at your lip in response and you groaned into his mouth. His hands tightened on your hips at the sound and tugged you forward. You knew you wouldn’t feel the hard length of him through all of his gear, but maybe if you focused hard enough you could at least pretend-

Jason’s lips trailed down your jaw, and tugged your scarf and coat aside to get at your skin. It was messy and bruising, the way his teeth surged against your skin and his lips left fire in their wake. You let out a breathy sound and ground your hips forward.

His hands on your body slowed, likely in anticipation of pulling away. You took the opportunity to drag kisses and gentle bites across his skin, down the length of his jaw to what little of his neck was exposed, and across his chestplate as you sunk to your knees-

His hand lashed out to grip your elbow, freezing you with your knees half bent towards the ground. Your other hand found purchase on his belt. Your pinky brushed on what you guessed is a handgun. “What the fuck are you doing!?” he hissed through bared teeth.

Your cheeks flushed. “Uh…” you gritted out, thinking that was fairly obvious. You took in his face, still partially covered by a mask over his eyes. Black hair stuck up at odd angles, a white streak of hair plastered to his face, likely from the helmet. His cheeks rapidly reddened, exposed to the cold. His lips were bitten and bruised, and you noticed a healing split in the skin now dry and cracked open again, dabbled with maroon. Scars meandered over his cheeks. God, he was handsome.

Jason yanked you upright so forcefully that you stumbled forward against his chest. He held you tight against him and one hand moved to pinch your jaw. “I’ve got people trying to gun me down every night, and you think it's a good idea for me to literally be caught with my pants down?” he hissed through gritted teeth. 

Oh. Fair point, you thought.

“Fuck,” he spat, like the word itself harmed him. His hands gripped your face firmly and he dragged you into another bruising kiss. You didn’t have time to reciprocate before he pulled away again. “Come on,” he urged, his hand snatching yours just as he ducked to retrieve his helmet from the snow.

“Where?” you asked, half in a daze as he dragged you further into the red light district.

“Home.”

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

It was raining when you finally exited the art gallery. You tugged your windbreaker tighter around you as you huddled closer to Jason under his umbrella. Jason– you’d learned his name only a few minutes earlier while you dug through the coat closet for your jacket–after you had already invited him over to your studio.

Maybe this was a bad idea–you know, inviting a strange man into your private space and all that. You knew two things about this man: his name and that he enjoyed reading. Serial killers like to read. What if he was a serial killer? Was it too late to change your mind now?

Probably, yeah, considering your shoulder was wedged against his ribs while his hand sat firmly on your shoulder, keeping you close to his side.

It wasn't a very big umbrella–or maybe it was just that Jason seemed huge in comparison–so he had pulled you firmly against him as soon as you stepped outside into another dreary Gotham evening. He had placed his hand respectfully on your shoulder, tentatively at first, as if to gauge the waters. You honestly might not have minded if he’d put his hand on your waist. That was just because it was windy, though, and you were cold in your thin slacks.

It definitely wasn’t because you were already appreciative of the broad planes of his palm across your shoulder.

Your thoughts wormed around before finally settling on the sculpture of Moses by Michelangelo and the thick cords of muscles captured in plaster. Sweeping passes of stone that formed a broad persona, towering over everyone, even when sat in a chair. And yet, the sculptor had taken the time to include one muscle, magnified by the raised pinky, such attention to detail that you would have failed to capture without a reference. Maybe Jason would be willing to sit for you-

“Watch your step,” he spoke, jarring you from your thoughts. You stutter-stepped to a halt, then felt his hip push against you in a nudge to take to the left. A car passed, coming up from behind, and drew a wave through the storm drain with it. Water careened up onto the sidewalk, dousing the spot where the two of you had stood just moments ago.

Jason kept walking, thinking nothing of it, and you went with him. You turned over your shoulder to glance at the spot, then twisted back to look at him. You hadn’t even heard the car coming.

He came to a halt when you reached the street corner, easily deferring to you. You cleared your throat nervously and then guided him to the right without crossing. “Not too much further,” you offered, and he grunted a quiet acknowledgement. You picked at your nails nervously. His hand on your shoulder squeezed gently.

You exhaled a soft sigh when you finally reached the door to the three-story gallery studio. There were a few emerging artists who paid the gallery for use, you included, with the hope of displaying art within the gallery walls. You, much to your surprise, were one of the lucky few who had gotten that opportunity. Not that it meant much tonight, with how few sponsors you’d spoken to tonight.

But, you thought as you fiddled with the lock while a warm presence loomed behind you, maybe tonight wasn’t a total bust.

Jason followed you dutifully as you made your way into the building. The first floor was the public area–pottery and painting classes hosted by the gallery and local artists, small prints, and a few other random assortments of commerce generation. You paused in the doorway and shirked your jacket.

“I got it,” he offered, sliding the doused fabric easily from your arms.

You stuttered out a garbled mix of protest and thanks. “It’s- it goes-” Oh. You hadn’t even gotten halfway through your sentence before he entered the open doorway to the left of the front door and hung your jacket from the peg on the wall, quickly followed by his, then the folded umbrella. Your lips parted in surprise–you hadn’t even needed to tell him. “Thanks.”

He was close on your heels when you made your way up to the second floor, too. The staircase was old, as most of Gotham was, and it creaked in protest under your combined weight. Your feet tapped against the worn wood floors as you made your way down the second-floor hallway to the second door on the right.

Your cheeks flushed with sudden embarrassment at the state of the studio. Maybe, if you’d been expecting company, you would have cleaned up more. It was a simple room with a small circular table surrounded by stools sat in the center of the room, framed by shelves full of supplies against the far wall, a second desk, and a light table that you hardly ever used. Untouched canvases leaned against the wall, while the ones in use sat on three separate easels distributed throughout the room. Paint brushes, paint tubes and cans, cups of water, and lumps of plastic-wrapped clay littered every available space.

“Can I, uh, get you anything? Tea?” you asked tentatively, turning to face the stone-faced man behind you. He loomed in the doorway and filled the space as if… well, he kind of looked like he belonged there the whole time.

A wry smile split his lips. “Do you have any cups that don’t have paint water in them?” he teased. You flushed and swore you could feel warmth spread from head to toe. “Black tea is fine.”

You skittered across the room to the kettle that sat atop one of the many shelves of supplies, the wood surface marred by errant paint strokes and scratches. You withdrew a clean mug from one of the cupboards and set to work.

“You can-” you started with a glance over your shoulder to find him already seated on one of the stools at the table, book in hand. “... make yourself at home,” you finished. A pleased, warm feeling settled in his chest.

“Are these references?” he asked, thumbing through the book. You squinted at the cover, realizing it was a sculpture book you had been perusing in your spare time over the last week or so. You’d forgotten that you had left it out on the table.

“Yeah. Painting is my primary medium, but, well, I figured I’d try something new. I’m not too good at it yet.” You dropped a teabag in the mug and set it aside to steep.

“If your sculptures are even half as good as your paintings, I’d say you’re more than good.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Jason,” you teased.

“It got me here, didn’t it?”

You freeze in place, one hand hovering over a cup with a few utensils in it. When you glance over your shoulder, you find that he has already fixed you with a sly look. He holds your gaze for a pause before his attention drifts back to the book in his hands.

You clear your throat nervously before stirring the tea. “Hope you don’t mind that I don’t have milk.”

“I’m not picky.”

Of course not. He seemed so in control, even at the gallery. He was… statuesque, simply put. Carefully observant, quick to act, and at ease. No indication of tripping over himself, like you.

Well, other than when his gaze had slid right over you the first time he had seen you in the gallery. So maybe not as observant as you thought. Or, as you had always assumed, you were just easy to miss.

You crossed the room and set the mug of tea down gently in front of him, careful not to bump the various cups and items on the table. Jason reached for the mug immediately and blew a soft breath over the surface, sending steam billowing away from him.

You watched him closely, memorizing the pout of his lip. It was a feature you had not quite gotten yet in clay–the soft structure, especially when wet, always sagged too much. Your fingers were more capable of producing the raw anguish of Bernini’s Daphne than the stalwart expressions of Rodin’s Burghers of Calais. But, maybe if you studied that pout long enough…

And the broad planes of his hands, featuring sharp knuckles and thick veins. Perhaps focusing on such large details would allow you to better incorporate them into daintier hands in the future. Your brow pinched, watching the way his hands clasped tightly around the mug, the jagged ridges of his knuckles protruding gently under the skin–had he broken his knuckles before?

Jason cleared his throat, snapping you from your stupor. You startled and settled your gaze on him. “So where’s this sculpture I’ve heard so much about?”

“Oh!” You jarred into action and pushed away from the edge of the table that you had unwittingly leaned against in your evaluation of him. “It’s just- I keep it wrapped in plastic to keep it moist. More of a bust than a sculpture, really.” You skittered over to one of the cabinets and squatted to retrieve the clay mound from within. “I’m not nearly good enough for plaster yet, still trying to get the basics down.”

You gently plopped the bust down on the table and unwrapped it, presenting the brown clay face of a man. The features were, admittedly, alright. You would have liked it if the angles were sharper, but for now, you were satisfied with the anatomical practice this provided you.

“This is the basics?” Jason asked, his voice softer now, maybe a little breathless if you had to guess. You quirked a brow.

“Yeah?”

He let out a low, impressed whistle, then took another sip of his tea. Your cheeks warmed, and you averted your gaze back to the sculpture. The stool next to his creaked under your weight as you dropped atop it and scooted closer to the table. You dragged a mug of water closer to you and a sponge, ready to continue working the clay. Maybe, with a visual reference, you would finally be able to get the nose right.

You worked in comfortable silence, only broken by the turn of a page as Jason flipped through the book or asked a question, seeking to understand what you were doing. You answered easily as the tension in your shoulders slowly eased away. Every once in a while, you chanced a glance at his side profile–on the third glance, you turned the bust and began working on the ridge of the clay nose, mimicking the arch of Jason’s.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he spoke, drawing you from your thoughts once again. You cocked your head in question as your hands slowed on the wet clay, waiting for him to elaborate. “I honestly hate events like that. Too many people, and none of them… really take a good look at anything, y’know?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes playfully, thinking of all the sponsors who would rather rub elbows with each other than take a look at new works in the gallery. “Oh yeah, I know. If you hate it so much, what brought you there in the first place?”

“Family thing,” he answered curtly, and you knew better to press that line of conversation. If he had been so willing to leave with a stranger without stopping to talk to his family first, then that was all you needed to know.

The quiet of labor consumed both of you once again. By now, it was approaching well into the middle of the night, and the rain outside was finally beginning to slow. Jason had not given you any indication of planning to leave anytime soon–in fact, he had stretched his legs out in front of him under the table as far as he could while still balancing on his stool.

After a while, a frustrated huff escaped your lips. You had tried adding clay, removing clay, reshaping, and wetting it. Nothing seemed to achieve that sharp angle you envisioned, the slight curve that showed a breakage in the past, or the heavy arc where the nose met brow bone.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s just not… coming as easily as I thought it would.”

“Maybe you need a break-?”

You grumbled a protest immediately and waved a wet, clay-covered, dismissive hand at him. “No, I’m definitely in a groove, it’s just… I feel like I can’t get my fingers to map the slopes correctly, if that makes sense.” You turned your head to look at him, and by the pinch of his brows, you could tell that it definitely did not make sense. You sighed and paused, thinking how best to explain. “I look at it as… there’s already a person in there, and I just need to scrape the excess away. But, if I scrape too hard-”

“You take out the person underneath.” Excitement bloomed in your chest as you nodded eagerly in response. So he didget it. “So why don’t you try something different, if the, uh-” he gestured to the bust, “- hands-on approach isn’t working for you.”

You held his gaze for a moment, lost in thought. Yeah, maybe he was on to something. You stood quickly and made your way over to the sink, feeling Jason’s gaze following you the whole way. You washed your hands quickly, the graying sediment sloughing off your hands slowly under the warm water. It had sat just long enough to get sticky, leaving your skin feeling tacky and dried out even after a thorough wash. You scrunched your nose in distaste.

You held Jason’s gaze firmly as you made your way back over to him, a wry smile twisting on his lips. His brows rose in interest as you passed your stool and continued towards him. Jason pulled his legs forward and scooted the stool backwards, allowing you space to stand in front of him and lean against the table. He propped his elbows on his knees and fixed you with an equally firm stare.

Your brows furrowed into a deep pinch, scrutinizing his expression. The dim lighting in the study, albeit made darker by the midnight hour, highlighted the sharp planes of his face and deepened the sunken shadows across his cheekbones and jaw. You tilted your head, wishing you could see how the light cast across his face if his head was angled just so–maybe that would help you get the angle of his nose right.

Your hand reached forward unbidden, hovering a few inches from his face. Thinking better of it, you dropped your hand and placed your palms on the wooden table on either side of you. “You don’t think it's weird that I’m..?”

Jason shrugged, as calm and unperturbed as ever. “People have given me worse stares for less.” You chewed nervously on the inside of your cheek.

He sighed–not a frustrated or irritable sigh. More of a… resolute sigh. One unwavering in his convictions. You frowned as he scooted his stool closer and crowded into your space. In response, you hoisted yourself up onto the surface of the table and sat–he only scooted closer. Your legs dangled and bracketed his own, his knees pressed against your calves.

His hands were next, moving with a confidence that you wished you possessed. The warmth of his palms wrapped around your wrists and brought your arms forward. You leaned with him, bringing the two of you even closer together, not that he seemed bothered at all. An embarrassed flush dusted your cheeks.

“Jason-”

He placed your hands on his cheeks, silencing your protest before it had a chance to fall from your heavy tongue. “You’re not bothering me.” His warm breath fanned gently across your face. You swallowed nervously and nodded.

Your hands moved slowly at first, tentatively tracing the contours of his cheekbones. Your thumb slipped below the crest of bones and lightly followed the underside that remained cast in shadows. He had a few scars on his face, ones you hadn’t really noticed before. They were thin, all below his cheekbones aside from one that criss-crossed thinly over one side of his face. A formerly split lip, recently healed. A broken nose, left crooked, probably caused him to gently snore in the night. His brow was heavy set, as if bent in a permanent scowl.

You turned your head to the left towards your sculpture, planning how you could incorporate these details into the clay. A warm hand was quick to settle on your jaw and drag your gaze back to center. “What-”

The protest died on your lips as his brushed against yours. It wasn’t even really a kiss, more an offer of one. Delicate, not testing–the same way he had grasped your wrists minutes ago, or placed his hand on your shoulder when leaving the art gallery. It was gentle, like you were the art.

You sank into it. What else could you do, really, when he held your chin between his thumb and forefinger like that? His other hand fell to your waist and tugged you, somehow, even closer to him. You balanced on the edge of the table, leaning your weight against him. You had been right–his palm did, in fact, slot as perfectly against your waist as it had on your shoulder.

The kiss was a worshipful caress of his lips against yours, firm in want and soft in motion. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, earning a pleased sigh from him, and threaded your fingers into his hair. 

Perhaps now you knew how it felt to be Canova’s depiction of Psyche revived by Cupid’s kiss. His hands settled against your body like you were clay to be molded, and he had an artist’s touch. The lingering brush of his lips drew sparks of color in your mind, filled with hazy fantasies of what you may conjure the next time your brush touched a blank canvas. But, for once, maybe all of that could wait until dawn.

In retrospect, maybe you should have made two trips.

You tightly clasp a wavering stack of boxes in your arms, packed to the brim with files and ledgers needed for the latest small development project the Wayne Enterprise accounting office had fixated on. The top box teeters, the file folders sliding from one side to the other with each micro-correction to balance the stack. You crane your neck, fighting to look around the boxes as you weave your way through the crowded office toward the elevator.

Just an intern carrying a big stack. Not important enough for people to move out of the way, you think as you step aside and allow a financial advisor to take up the entire aisle that could easily house both of you. But no. You’re just an accounting intern.

You huff and continue on your way, struggling to ignore the way the corners of the bottom box dig into your biceps uncomfortably. Maybe if your boss hadn’t taken the day off– you stutter-step out of the way of another employee– and left you to take all of these boxes up by yourself– you knock your hip against the coffee table and suck in a sharp breath between your teeth–

Barely minimum wage intern. That’s all you were.

You huff and scowl. When you finally reach the elevator door you turn at an angle and bend backwards just enough that you can see the button. Carefully, you balance the top of the stack against the wall and jam your elbow against the up button.

The elevator doors snap open with a ding that rattles your brain and draws your lips into a tighter frown. You wedge the toe of your shoe against the wall, shimmy your shoulders, and shuffle the stack back into place.

The elevator doors start to close.

“No, no, no, no-” You stumble over to the door, struggling to keep the stack upright as it teeters under your suddenly increased speed.

“You got it?” a voice calls.

“Yes-” you snap through gritted teeth. “Maybe,” you correct as the top box begins to slide.

“Here, let me help,” the unfamiliar voice calls again and a hand passes by at the top of your vision to secure the top two boxes. You breathe and audible sigh of relief at the sudden decrease in weight in your arms and the return of your vision-

A young man stands with his back pressed against the elevator door frame to prevent the doors from sliding closed. He holds the two boxes securely in his arms. When you meet his eyes, he gives you a friendly, reassuring smile.

“Thanks,” you mumble, your cheeks warming with subtle embarrassment. You definitely could have handled it on your own. Definitely.

“No problem. Which floor?” he asks as he scoots back into the elevator. You quickly follow, suddenly much lighter on your feet. He adjusts the boxes to rest against his chest on one forearm, his now free hand hovering over the buttons.

“Uh…” you pause, watching him balance the heavy boxes with ease. Maybe you need to get to the gym more. “Twenty-eighth.”

“Marketing?”

“Project management,” you offer, hefting your single box higher in your arms. “I’m interning with the accounting department. My floor manager has a project she’s working on and wanted me to… take all these files to project management for review, or something. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he asks. You turn to him and see him quirk a brow, the corner of his mouth angled up on a curious smile to match.

You heave out a dramatic sigh and lean against the wall of the elevator, watching the floor number slowly climb. “I just don’t really get all of the- the business side of it, or whatever. I just like numbers, I don’t really care what the other departments do with the numbers, y’know?”

The man breathed out a short laugh. “I’m sure no one has any complaints about you wanting to do the heavy lifting.”

You scoff and shrug the boxes in your grasp playfully in his direction, “Oh, yeah, like the numbers are the heavy lifting,” you drone sarcastically. Your comment pulls a bubbly laugh from him and a smile splits your lips. It sure is nice to have an actual conversation with someone in this office building. It seems all anyone wants to do is rush around and dump work on other people.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s handsome- young, probably about your age. He looks familiar too. Maybe you had seen him around the office before. “What floor do you work on?”

“None in particular, I just kinda bounce around,” he answers with a shrug and a tilt of his head your way to meet your gaze. You nod slowly and hum. Looking at him this way, the poor man looks worn out. Sure, his suit looks perfectly tailored–unlike your blazer, you can’t quite afford that yet–and his hair is done just so to look a little messy, but not like he’s just sprinted to work. It’s the bags under his eyes and the set of his shoulders that draws you to ask a question.

“They keep you busy? You look… tired.”

He groans and his head thumps against the elevator wall. “Not enough coffee yet, unfortunately.”

“Yeah? How do you like it?” He tips his head and lifts a brow. “The coffee. What do you take in it?”

“Oh, just black. I don’t have enough time for the fancy stuff. Except for the long days, I might throw a Red Bull in there too.” You wrinkle your nose at the mix of energy drinks. Did he… did he mean to say he puts Red Bull in his black coffee? “Yours?”

“Oh, uh, well I just got this nice french press from my parents. Been using that a lot. Other than that, you know, the works. Lots of sugar. I think the sugar helps keep me awake, too-”

The elevator dings and the doors push open to reveal the twenty-eighth floor. You huff a sigh and adjust the boxes in your arms. “- Alright, I-”

“I’ll help you,” the man offers. You snap to look at him in surprise. “Come on, you shouldn’t have to carry all this yourself. Lead the way.”

A flush creeps up on your cheeks and you bite back a protest. Someone in this building is being nice for once, and friendly too. Take it and run. “Well… There’s a cafe two floors down. How about I treat you to that black coffee as a thank you…?” you trailed off, waiting for him to fill in the unanswered question.

He’s already nodding before he even answers. “Tim,” he answers the unasked question with a wide grin, a hint of eagerness in his pretty eyes. Uh oh- when had you decided that? He stared expectantly, to which you caught, uttered a quick apology, and told him your name. “I’d shake your hand, but-”

You groaned. “Gotta put these down first.” You hoisted the boxes higher in your arms and strolled out of the hallway with Tim close behind, a noticeable bounce in your step now.

Red Hood had to bend and scrape to get through your window. Had you not been in shock at the turn of events, you might have laughed at the sight of this broad, heavily armored man thrusting his arms in front of him and cocking his whole body at an angle to fit himself through your narrow window.

When his shoes touched down on the floor of your modest apartment he tracked snow in with him. Snow and slush, and despite knowing it would leave a mess on your old wooden floors you thought it looked like quite a pretty combination. You liked the grayish look of the rivulets that fell from his shoes as he stepped into the room.

Your heart beat faster when he finally stood to his full height. He rolled his shoulders and cocked his head from side to side, stretching the no-doubt sore muscles. He was broad and filled the entire space like the tiny interior was shaped around him. He hulked there like a wolf eyeing a rabbit. Were his jaws parted in hunger and salivating beneath his helmet?

He finally moved, one hand fiddling with the fingertips of his other glove. His shoulders slackened, curling in on himself slightly.

Your cheeks warmed as you snapped your attention away from him. This was definitely a mistake. This man was a known murderer and, from what you had heard from your associates in Crime Alley, was steadily building his own criminal network within the city. This was a horrible idea.

But you were lonely.

When was the last time you’d had company over? When was the last time you had spent more than a night in this apartment?

Jason observed you carefully from where he stood beside the window, watching you flit away from him. You drew your bottom lip between your teeth and turned your back to him, hiding that doe-eyed gaze. With your head on a swivel, you paced around your dimly lit apartment with a twitchy awkwardness that betrayed the discomfort you were trying to hide.

The apartment was messy. Jason felt less bad about dripping slush onto your wood floors when he saw the stack of dishes piled in your sink, the unopened letters and bills on the folding table in the middle of the room, and the basket of unfolded laundry on your orange couch. His brows furrowed beneath his helmet as he scanned the room from his position beside the window.

Like a moth to a flame, his piercing stare dragged back to you. You stood in the center of your kitchen watching him with that familiar nervous, flighty expression you maintained while meandering the twisting back streets of Crime Alley. Was it that same anxiety that got him caught by you weeks ago?

You held out a beckoning hand to him. Jason’s heart thudded in his chest.

You watched Red Hood, your own heart pounding as you stared at the unmoving figure shrouded in darkness. Backlit by moonlight. Blanketing the devil with a halo.

“The dishes?” you asked, your voice barely above a squeak. The man twitched as if your timidity spooked him. Red Hood lifted the dishes to his chest and stepped across your apartment in a few long strides. You flinched when he lurched to a stop in front of you, his movements clunky and intimidating. He didn’t move like a lithe panther like he had on the rooftop the first night you saw him–no, he moved like a teenager relearning his body after a growth spurt. All sharp angles and quick movements.

You avoided touching him as you took the glass baking dish and plate from his gloved hands and set it on the counter.

“Um,” you start, with no particular thought in mind as you skitter towards the fridge. You hear the sound of fabric shuffling and look over your shoulder to see his head cocked to the side slightly. He’s so close now, practically barricading you in your own kitchen. The apartment was so small, he could probably lash out and grab you before you had a chance to run away. A fox in a rabbit’s den.

How strong was he? If he were angry, could you throw you across the room? Would he even need his gun to kill you, or could he clasp his hands around your throat and squeeze? How much biting, scratching, and kicking would it take to get him off you?

If he pinned you down, would you even try to fight back?

You flushed as warmth spread through your traitorous body. Your shoulders trembled as you stood in front of the open fridge, filled to the brim with Tupperware and leftovers.

“I… do you like chicken parmesan?” you asked, your voice cracking. Your question is met with silence.

When you look over your shoulder you find the Red Hood looming in the corner of your kitchen, staring down at a picture frame. You liked the frame–silver, with pretty flower details at the corners that reminded you of spring in a place you didn’t call home anymore. The frame was empty, leering at you and your empty life.

“I don’t have anything to fill it with,” you answer his unspoken question, swallowing the lump in your throat. His helmet tilts again, jaw angled towards you–you can just make it skin in the thin space between the high collar of his compression-fit shirt and the edge of his helmet. You lick your lips.

“No family?” he asks. Your heart should have leapt into your throat at that–it was the sort of thing a serial killer would ask a victim to test the waters.

“None that would notice if I were gone,” you admit in a whisper. Red gleamed in the dim light of your kitchen, the solitary light in the corner of the living room illuminating his stiff figure. “They… had plans for me. College. Career. Things I didn’t want- not that they ever bothered to ask what I did want. It’s probably extreme, but… it was easier to disappear than tell them no.”

Or it’s easier to run and hide.

Jason tilted his helmeted head to the floor, his brows drawn together and lips pursed in a thin line. Growing up with- being raised to be a detective made it easy to parse out what you were doing. You were running. No concrete roots anywhere, ready to disappear again at a moment’s notice. You barely let yourself build a life, sequestered in this rundown apartment building for the sole purpose of dedicating yourself to something else. Anything to make you forget how lonely life had made you.

He knew that feeling.

“You were right the other night, y’know,” you said, rousing him from his thoughts. Jason lifted his head and fixed you with a cold stare. “When you said I don’t know what I’m doing? You’re right, I don’t. I don’t know why I’m here.”

You held his gaze steadily for the first time all evening, daring him to judge you. Some days you wondered if anyone would care if you disappeared–the answer always came back with a resounding no. That shook you to your core. No one wanted you, the hermit on the fifth floor with a dead-end job, no friends, no family.

But maybe if someone depended on you… maybe someone would mourn you, too. If you could give yourselves to others, bury a piece of yourself in their souls, maybe they would feel a piece of themselves break when you inevitably shattered.

It wasn’t kindness. It was survival. Desperation. A need to be remembered, held, cherished, and you clawed for it in the only way you knew how. Subservience.

Red Hood held your stare. Your gaze captivated him in a way he hadn’t felt since he watched the timer tick down to his death. His exhale came out shaky, his hands trembling at his sides because-

Because you got it. That ache that seeped deep into his bones, that desire to mean something to someone so viscerally that they would fight for you. Bruce had never done that.

Jason found that in the children who demanded he play games with them late on his patrols. He found it in the grateful mothers who thanked him for scaring dealers out of their neighborhoods. He found it in the fathers who stood beside him and fought for safer streets.

He found it in the reverence in your gaze.

“What do you want?” he asked, modulated voice breaking the tense silence. You blinked rapidly at his question, chasing away scattered thoughts.

“What?”

“You said… you said your family never asked what you wanted,” he hesitated, unease slipping into his rough voice. “What do you want?”

You hesitated for a moment. Jason’s gaze dropped to your parted lips before returning to the burgeoning hope in your eyes.

“Home,” you responded with a timid smile. Jason flexed his fist at his side.

When was the last time he had called something home? The Manor, maybe. Six months for him, nearly three for the rest of the world. Home wasn’t something he deserved when he had come back so wrong. Like a newborn fawn struggling to stand on tremulous legs, he fought to learn the body he had been reborn into that didn’t feel like his. He came back angry, volatile, wrong, wrong, wrong-

“Are you okay?”

Jason flinched. “Fine,” he answered curtly. He turned away from you and planted his hands on his countertop, fingers curling against the lip of the linoleum with a bruising grip. His chest heaved with deep breaths, huffing like a bull. Control wasn’t something that came easily anymore.

And then he felt you standing by his side. You, who seemed too sweet, a kindness he certainly didn’t deserve. You, who reminded him of the things he wanted but couldn’t- shouldn’t have.

“I’m not sure what I did, but… it’s okay to be upset,” you spoke softly, leaning beside him. “I can… I can go in the other room if you need a minute.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he answered with a huff, bringing one hand up to his helmet. What was he supposed to say to you, a literal stranger? That anger was easier for him to process than anything else? That it came naturally since his time in the Pit?

“Can I touch you?”

Jason’s heart raced. Every muscle in his body tensed, pulled taut with shock. His mouth felt dry, his tongue tacky, and sweat beaded on his brow beneath his helmet. You were asking to touch him?

When you finally did, Jason felt his heart stop. Your hand upon his upper arm, covered by his jacket, felt apprehensive. If not for every cell in his body on alert, he might not have felt the earnest touch.

Your own heart pounded. You didn’t take his silence as a no, but it certainly wasn’t a yes either. So you held still and offered a gentle touch to the soft, worn leather coat he wore over his armored figure. A vigilante, a murderer, a criminal, allowing you to touch him like it was the most natural thing in the world to both of you.

Or maybe just to you, given the way he shook under your hand. Perhaps you had misinterpreted the situation and inflated your significance. Of course, you had. What was a gnat to a hawk, if not a pest? You pulled your hand away.

Red Hood lashed out and your breath caught in your throat. His gloved hand tightened around your wrist in a harsh grip–not bruising, but firm enough to draw a whine from deep in the back of your throat. He relinquished his grip immediately, his shoulders sagging at the expression on your face.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered. Your hand remained raised between the two of you, and he wasn’t sure if it was a barrier or an offering. He twisted slightly to face you, looming over you in the shadowy kitchen. Jason hesitantly lifted his hand, the same that had gripped your wrist moments before. Slowly, he brought his open palm up and rested it against your wrist in a quelling gesture. “I scared you.”

“Only a little,” you answered with a shy smile. His stomach twisted. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to be a perfect gentleman when I invited you in here. It’s okay to be overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed. That was a good way of putting it. Overwhelmed by the way you smelled, how you twisted your wrist to press your palm flat against his gloved hand, and the well of sadness and longing in your eyes. Overwhelmed by life, by hatred, by you.

You interlaced your fingers with his. Jason swallowed the lump in his throat. When was the last time someone had dared to touch him like that? You lowered your joined hands to rest comfortably between you and Jason’s eyes followed, wrestling with the image of your smaller hand cradled in his. It looked unnervingly natural.

“I get it. I’m not very good at talking to people either.” You offered a reassuring smile. “But you make it easier.”

Jason scowled beneath this helmet. “Why? Because you’re talking to a helmet and not a person?”

You scoffed a playful sound that brought warmth to his cheeks. “No, because I’m talking to you. You actually bother to listen.”

Jason couldn’t imagine anyone not listening to you. Your voice sounded like a melody compared to the roar of his own thoughts. Thoughts that suffocated him, made him feel less than and undeserving. That wasn’t his fault though. His past had forced him to respond with vitriol. The way you looked up at him from under your lashes with a pretty frown on your lips quieted those thoughts, even if for just a moment.

Jason turned his wrist, dragging your hand with it. He brought your joined hands up and pressed your knuckles to the edge of his helmet. It was the closest he could bring himself to a thank you, although he wasn’t sure what he was thanking you for.

Your breath stuttered. Red Hood pushed your knuckles firmly against the cold surface of his helmet, just off-center of where you assumed his mouth was. Your heart thudded in your chest, and despite the thick gloves he wore you were certain he could feel the frantic beat of your pulse on your wrist.

His grip was tight, but not demanding as it had been earlier. Your cheeks warmed, your lips parting in a silent question as you stared at the expressionless sea of red in front of you.

Warmth pooled in your belly and crept tantalizingly across your skin. Yes, he could break you… but he wouldn’t. At least, you didn’t think so. But, God, if it meant he would continue to touch you like that, you would let him break you. He cradled your hand like a lifeline, like you were the last thing keeping him rooted. The only thing that mattered in a torrential sea of emotion that you could barely stand to sail alone.

You took a step closer. You expected him to flinch, but he remained steadfast, his helmet angling down slightly to watch you closely. You tugged on his hand and he relented, allowing you to guide him as you pleased.

Red Hood let out a choked noise through his helmet when you brought his gloved knuckles to your lips. The barest touch, one that he couldn’t feel through the kevlar, and yet his heart beat wildly against his ribs. Your lips ghosted over the fabric for just a moment, barely a hint of a kiss, before you pulled away.

His free hand twitched at his side. Your gaze flicked down at the motion and the corner of your mouth quirked up in a half smile.

“You can touch me,” you offered, giving his hand a squeeze.

Jason thought he might die.

“I’d ruin you,” he answered, his voice warbling in desperation.

Loneliness, anger, fear, longing- he saw it all on your face. You felt the same weight he did, and yet you basked in it and let it guide you towards something better. Or maybe something worse, if it was guiding you towards him.

“I’m already ruined,” you said, clasping his hand between both of yours.

Jason jerked his hand away. Your hands fell limply at your sides, disappointment clear in the way your brows knit together. He took a lumbering step back, feeling like he had let you down again. That was all he was capable of, he was sure of it. He couldn’t let himself get entangled in your life without sending it all crashing down.

He was gone before you had a chance to protest. You shuddered at the blast of cold air that filled the room through the open window. Sunlight peeked over the Gotham skyline, draping the sky and your mood in a cloudy gray.

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

A last-minute call from Stephanie had changed his plans. He had planned to take the weekend off with you since you had just finished midterm exams and were feeling a lull in your college workload; but, if Steph was calling him for backup despite knowing his weekend plans, it was too important to ignore.

So, Tim hurriedly gathered what he needed. He was underprepared–too few supplies in his toolkit, given he didn’t want to bring extras into your apartment. He regretted that now and thoroughly wished he could hide a stockpile in the back of your closet. You would let him if he asked.

“I’ve got a cup steeping,” you called from the kitchen, your voice carrying through the adar door to the small bedroom Tim changed in. “You want some before you head out?”

“Coffee?” he asked with a crooked grin. He could picture the way your nose no doubt wrinkled in disgust.

“Tea,” you responded with an exaggerated sigh and a hidden smile. “Y’know, the one that’s actually good for you.”

“Coffee can be good for you,” he debated with a smile. Tim sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the door, and worked on pulling his boots on. They slid on easily over his socks–a comfortable pair you had gotten for him for his birthday after complaining about his feet aching after patrols. The comfort the socks brought him made it easy to ignore the pink flamingo pattern. “It helps boost metabolism and antioxidants-”

“And causes anxiety and sleep disruption,” you argued, your voice suddenly much closer than the kitchen. Tim turned to look over his shoulder at your figure standing in the doorway, sipping from the warm mug in your hands. “You and I both know you need more sleep.”

“I sleep best when I’m with you,” he replied. Tim stood with a tired sigh and adjusted his feet in the boots.

“Have I mentioned how much I like the suit?”

Tim laughed, turning to face you and your teasing grin. Your eyes roved over the suit, taking another sip as you ogled. “A few times, yeah.”

You hummed in reply then lowered the mug from your lips. “I prefer you without the cowl. The domino mask shows how handsome you are.”

“Being handsome doesn’t exactly help me stop crime.”

“It does if your good looks distracts them enough,” you quipped. Tim scoffed playfully and turned his back to you. He pulled his belt from the suitcase he had brought with him and fastened it around his waist.

“What, like how you get distracted?”

Tim fiddled with the buckle of his belt, waiting for your clever response. His brows rose when you held off as he adjusted the straps across his chest and centered the emblem. When he finally turned to face you again you were staring at him from beneath your lashes, a coy smile on your lips.

“Sorry, did you say something? I was too busy admiring how you look in that tight spandex-”

“Alright, enough out of you,” he chastised with a shake of his head. You barked out a laugh at his response, admiring the blush that rose on his cheeks. You set your mug of tea atop the dresser beside the bed and made your way over to him.

Your hands slipped beneath the tactical straps that crossed his chest. His hands landed on your waist, bunching the soft fabric of your pajamas beneath his gloved hands. “You look nice,” he uttered quietly.

You scoffed. “It’s the same pajamas I wear every time you come over.”

“And you look nice every time,” he answered, pressing a kiss to your temple. You huffed in response and your hands moved up, one cupping his cheek and the other tangling in his hair. You tipped his head, chasing his lips with your own.

“Wish you could stay,” you muttered against his lips between slow kisses. He hummed in response and cupped your jaw with one gloved hand. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to?”

Tim pulled away and fixed you with a stern look. You sighed and dropped your forehead to his chest with a dull thump.

“I’m going to watch your favorite show without you while you’re gone.”

Tim gasped softly in offense, although the way his hands moved across your back and pulled you flushed against him told a different story. “Criminal. You know I could throw you in Blackgate for something like that?” His hands cupped your cheeks and lifted your head, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Good luck,” you huffed out a laugh. “I’m a highly skilled individual. My boyfriend taught me self-defense–I’m not going down without a fight.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he responded, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. You sighed in defeat when he took a step away, his hands moving deftly to his cowl and pulling it over his head. “Gotta go. Spoiler wants backup before she proceeds with her case.”

You smile warmly, hiding the disappointment as best you can. “She’s lucky to have you watching her back.”

Tim hesitated for a moment as he backed towards your bedroom window, staff in hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I know. Stay safe,” you answered with a reassuring smile. He returned the expression as he slid the window open and planted one foot on the ledge outside. He nodded curtly in response.

Tim didn’t linger. The faster he could get this done, the faster he could return to the warmth of your apartment and enjoy his weekend off.

Jason had tried to rationalize why he kept coming back. Really, he had tried. He had to make sure you weren’t hiding something. He didn’t trust the packages you handed out. He was just making sure you got home safe.

But what could you possibly be hiding when you appeared to lay your soul bare on Gotham’s filthy streets? What didn’t he trust about the packages when he had seen their contents with his own eyes? Why did he need to make sure you made it home safe at all?

None of it explained how comfortable he had become on the balcony across from your apartment.

Jason glowered under his helmet as snow fell in thick clumps, whipped about by the harsh breeze. You left your window open sometimes when the wind had died down. Tonight was not one of those nights. He stuck to the shadows, scrunching his shoulders, and crouched on the balcony–you would have to look out of your window and up to see him. That fact did not provide him with any sense of relief.

The lights were off in your apartment save for what he assumed was a lamp out of his view. He could hardly make out the furniture he seemed to know so well from a distance; the second hand couch you had shoved against a wall and the foldable table that was constantly covered in a slathering of random items. One of the three chairs you owned was dragged beneath one of the three large windows that allowed him to view into your apartment. To the right of the three large windows was the fire escape and the small window beside it. The thin curtains were drawn on that window.

In the two weeks Jason had been observing you he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. You didn’t seem to spend much time at your apartment, using it primarily for sleeping or preparing your deliveries. He could tell from your clothing that you worked some middle management, decent paying job like most Gothamites in this neighborhood. He knew when you left for work, when you got home, what kind of music you liked.

He knew your name. Of course he did, that had been the first thing he had hunted for after lurking outside your apartment the first time. Lurker. Jason had never described himself as that before. It seemed to be a lot of what he did now.

The curtains by the fire escape window drew back and Jason tensed as he always did. He watched with narrowed eyes as you slid the window open, placed something on the ledge, and closed the window again. It had become a ritual by now–you, leaving gifts for him every few days, and him, never accepting them. He never strayed too close to the items you left out, and they were always gone by his next visit.

Jason curled his fingers, the tips of his new gloves pressing into his knee pads. He worked his jaw, grinding his teeth together. The one dim light in the apartment went out, and his bated breath went with it.

He stood with a ragged sigh. So that was it, the end of his nightly routine. The sun would rise in a few hours and he needed to be tucked back into his safehouse before then-

What was that smell?

Jason jerked his helmeted head towards the fire escape. A tray sat outside the window, too big to rest on the ledge, and steam wafted upward as heat met wintery chill. Even through his modulated helmet he could smell the sweet, sugary aroma that stifled his rampant thoughts.

Caramel. It smelled like caramel.

Jason hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. He knew getting closer was a bad idea he likely wouldn’t be able to come back from. If he moved that mental boundary even an inch forward- give an inch, take a mile. That was all Jason Todd knew how to do anymore, afterall.

Snow crunched under his heavy work boots. The fire escape rattled subtly, the sound muffled by the wind. His mind screamed to stop, turn around, leave, and don’t come back. All of that came to a screeching halt when he saw brownies topped with a caramel drizzle in a glass pan. When was the last time Jason had warm brownies, or anything sweet for that matter? Not since-

Jason shook his head as if the act alone would clear the thoughts that tumbled through his head. Since dragging himself from the Pit, his diet consisted of scraps and canned food. Nothing like this bitter thing that stunk of home and burned itself into his memory.

One couldn’t hurt.

Right?

Jason was becoming too predictable. Shadowing you on your route home, lurking outside your apartment most nights, pursuing you through the tangled mess of streets in Crime Alley. It was all a recipe for disaster when someone finally caught onto the pattern. Jason couldn’t afford patterns, not when it put him in danger. And maybe put you in danger, too… not that he needed to be bothered by that. You weren’t some street urchin who needed his protection.

Yet, still, he hid in your shadow like a sheep dog trailing a lamb.

He sat on a different perch this time, making the fire escape platform that belonged to the apartment above yours his new home. He sat in a crouch, occasionally shifting to stretch his hips and work sore muscles. His elbows were planted on his knees, his eyes cast downward through the grating. The platform below was illuminated by the lights inside your apartment, that familiar golden glow bathing the rusted red metal.

Jason’s stomach lurched when the window slid open, softly clicking into place at the apex. Your hands extended slowly, clasped tightly around a plate wrapped in plastic.

“Stop,” Jason spoke up, breaking the silence.

The plate crashed onto the metal platform. He expected your hands to disappear back inside in fright and slam the window shut behind you. He expected that window to never open again.

Instead, you surged forward with your hands firmly planted on the snowy ledge. In the blink of an eye your entire torso was outside the window, your neck craning to catch a glimpse of him above you in the darkness. Jason’s heart thundered in his chest as your eyes finally met his helmet.

“Stop what?” you asked, and he thought his heart might stop at the sound of your voice.

“Stop that,” he growled with a tip of his helmeted head towards the fallen plate. He leaned forward and planted one gloved palm on the grated platform, glaring daggers at you. “I don’t need your help.”

You shuffled about so that you could sit on the ledge, paying no attention to the thin dusting of snow that no doubt wetted the pajama pants you wore. Jason squinted in the darkness at your shirt, the image of some musical group emblazoned on the front. Was that your favorite-?

That wasn’t important.

You gripped the ledge on either side of your thighs and leaned back as far as you could, holding yourself at an angle so you could stare up at him. He wished you would glare, sneer, pout- hell, if you laughed in his face it would be better than the doe-eyed stare you fixed him with.

“I just thought you might be hungry.”

His thoughts came to a screeching halt. This was Red Hood you were talking to–the new, violent vigilante who used decapitation as a means of sending a message. Jason who, quite frankly, fed himself not because he felt he deserved it but because he needed fuel to continue fighting. And here you were, gazing up at him with a blank expression as if talking to a man in kevlar and armor was the most normal thing in the world.

“I don’t need you to feed me,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

His eyes scoured yours beneath his helmet, memorizing their color, their shape, their emotion. He expected this would be the last time he would see your eyes, after all.

There had to be some reason you were doing this–people don’t just do good things. There had to be a motive. Maybe it was some sort of short-term fame you desired, being the person to finally get a close-up look at the savage animal that roamed Crime Alley at night without first having its fangs sink into you. Maybe this was some cheap attempt at an exciting seduction, one that would leave him angrier than he already was.

Or maybe you were just plain stupid.

Jason thought back to your apartment. Empty and cold and barely lived in, and, given the eagerness with which you presented yourself to him, perhaps you were the same. Lonely and stupid.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he snapped, teeth bared.

You glared. A nasty, pensive, bitter expression that sent a pleasant chill down his spine. Why did you look so sweet like this?

“Fuck you,” you snapped with equal measure. You gripped the bottom of the open window, slipped back inside, and slammed the plastic frame behind you. The glass rattled mockingly at Jason, who jolted at your sudden departure.

Oh.

Maybe he thought you looked sweet because that hateful glare was how Jason expected people to look at him. Hate, he could handle–maybe even revel in it, at this point. It was certainly easier than being loved and inevitably letting someone down.

So why did he feel like, despite your nasty glare, he had let you down?

Jason crouched there for a while after you left, long after the lights had gone out. When he finally stood, his joints ached from the long night and his chest felt heavy with unwanted emotions. His hands gripped the railing of your upstairs neighbor’s fire escape, then he swung himself over the edge.

His boots landed loudly on the metal grate of your fire escape. He stood there for a long moment, glaring at the dark window with its curtains tightly drawn. It was cold and uninviting–not that he deserved anything more. His gaze fell on the forgotten plastic-wrapped plate on the ground, then flicked back to the window.

Jason hated how much he thought about you.

His safe house apartment was, somehow, more barebones than yours. Jason lived stolen paycheck to stolen paycheck–he couldn't exactly get a job when he was legally dead. So, he spent his days preparing for his nighttime excursions, preparing to remold the Gotham criminal underworld.

Or washing dishes, as he was doing now.

Your dishes. That’s the only reason he was thinking of you, of course. Otherwise, the week he had spent far from your apartment meant nothing to him. He had left the glass baking tray and dinner plate sitting on his counter for too long, and, well…

He honestly wasn’t sure why he was washing it. He had no intention of returning the items, not when he was trying to stay as far away from you as possible. Well, except for two days ago when he had followed you through Crime Alley.

Jason just needed something to occupy his mind after his patrol. He scrubbed at the glass harder, as if the grating of the sponge could absolve him of his own sins. Blood on his hands, again. They deserved it. They always did.

Would you say the same?

Jason growled and dropped the dish in the sink, his soapy hands clasping the edge in an iron-tight grip. His knuckles turned white under the pressure, the bones sore and skin torn from endless nights of fighting. Why did his mind have to circle back to you again? Always back to you, what you were doing, if you would approve of what he was doing, what you were thinking or feeling.

It was the damn dishes. Yes, it had to be the fact that he was washing your things that made him think of you. Otherwise, he didn’t care what you thought, or did, or anything.

You were too damn sweet for his taste anyway.

Maybe if he returned the dishes and finally purged you from his life he wouldn’t think about you again. One last trip to your apartment–he wouldn’t even have to see you, he could just leave the items on your fire escape and be done with it. Knowing you, you were asleep by now and would be until mid-morning. He could leave it outside your window and if it was buried in snow before you realized it was there that wouldn’t bother him.

Jason hadn’t realized he had geared back up until he was standing beside his window. He blinked once, twice, staring down at the helmet in his hands. His heart thumped wildly in his chest.

He scoffed. He had forgotten the dishes in his haste.

Carrying the dishes during his traversal across the city wasn’t any easier the second time. He kept the plate and the glass pan tucked under one arm, carefully judging his leaps before launching himself between buildings and scaling walls. This would have been easier with his old equipment-

No. No, that door opened to a world of trouble he didn’t need. He would make do with what he had, and he would do a better job of cleaning up Crime Alley than anyone else ever could. Technology wasn’t important.

The tension in his shoulders eased when he landed on that familiar balcony across from your apartment. It was about four in the morning, and he was certain you would be asleep–the lights were out, the curtains drawn, and that was the only indication he needed to prove himself right. Jason stared for a moment longer, taking in the comforting silhouette of your apartment. He had memorized all the details weeks ago, to the best of his ability at this distance.

His heart drummed in his chest as he swung across the wide alley between the buildings. He landed hard on your fire escape and staggered to regain his footing, unbalanced with one arm immobilized by the damn dishes. His free hand hit the wall beside the small window to hold himself upright. Jason squeezed his other arm tighter against his side, pressing the dishes against his armored chest in an attempt not to drop the fragile items.

The window slid open.

Jason’s heart jumped into his throat as he tipped his helmet down to see you staring up at him, neck craning with your head out the window. Your eyes were wide, lips parted, brows scrunched together in confusion. His cheeks burned, a sharp shiver rolling down his spine.

He straightened and skittered away from the window. Your bewildered expression followed him, tracing up and down his armored figure with intrigue. This was the closest you had ever been to the mysterious vigilante–could anyone blame you for staring?

Then your hungry gaze dropped to the dishes tucked under his arm. Jason swallowed dryly as he watched the corner of your mouth cock up in a subtle grin. The familiar color of your eyes met his, and his chest ached.

This was a horrible idea.

“I waited,” you broke the silence. You shifted until your shoulders were out the window, your hands planted on the windowsill to hold you upright. You tipped your head, nodding in the direction of the building across the street. “I saw you there one of those last nights. I thought… I thought maybe you might come back. I looked for you there.”

Any retort died in his throat the moment you spoke. Part of him wanted to drop the dishes and run. Part of him wanted to scream at you, tear into you until you were nothing but little pieces. That was all he was good for anymore, ripping people apart. It wouldn’t be hard either.

You aren’t worth my time.

I don’t want to owe you.

You’re making a mistake.

Those were all things he wanted to or should say.

“I didn’t think you would want me to come back,” he answered truthfully.

You beamed. His breath caught raggedly in his throat and his thoughts came to a screeching halt. When was the last time someone had looked at him like that?

“Do you want to come inside?” you offered. You offered the very thing he had been craving for three weeks. A chance to step into your sweet domesticity, to satisfy his curiosity, to experience something warm and comforting. You cocked your head to the side, fixing him with that doe-eyed stare.

No, he knew he should say.

“Yes.”

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

The first time Jason saw you, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. Enamored was too strong a word to describe the way his gaze followed your figure far below him. Captivated, maybe? Yes, captivated by the nervous way you sidled into Crime Alley, moving like an anxious cat as you hugged the wall and kept to the shadows. Skittish, and clinging tightly to the box in your hands as if it might grow legs and run away.

He watched you closely from his perch on a fire escape. The nearby flickering neon light cast a glow over you and the dirty street. Your breath fogged in front of your face.

Jason climbed to the edge of the fire escape, then stepped off onto a windowsill. He moved across the face of the building that way, clinging to sturdy drain pipes and window ledges as he loomed over you. You turned right onto an open street, and his brows furrowed beneath his helmet.

His eyes narrowed when you scampered across the open street and towards a dilapidated overhang that shadowed the entrance to an abandoned building. That was a squatter house, one he frequented on his patrols. Pretty bird in his territory, clothes too nice for this part of Gotham… what were you doing here?

His question was answered when the door to the building swung open with an echoing creek. A man with a thick beard and a knitted hat met you at the door. The warmth of a fire inside the building backlit him, obscuring his scowl.

You outstretched the box in your arms to the taciturn old man. He pulled back the cardboard flaps and looked inside, delivering a curt nod of approval in response. He snatched the box from you unceremoniously and quickly shut the door to the biting cold and your lingering gaze.

It was beginning to snow when you stepped out from under the building's cover. You rubbed your hands up and down your arms, then scampered back across the street and hid in the shadows once again. Jason watched you go, unmoving from the ledge he perched on in the darkness. When you were finally out of sight he dropped to the ground.

The light dusting of snow crunched under his boots, turning to dirty slush as he crossed the street. His gloved hand rose to rap against the creaky door. A curse came from inside, followed by shuffling.

The old man opened the door. Red Hood shouldered his way past the man and into the den, lit by the warm glow of fires in metal trash cans. There must have been twenty people inside, three or so up and moving and passing out… blankets?

“Got yourself a new delivery person, Roger?” Red Hood asked as he turned to face the old man, the firelight glinting off his helmet.

The man, Roger, crossed his arms over his chest and glared a bitter, distrustful glower. “That a problem?”

He paused for a beat, glaring at Roger through his helmet. “I need to know who’s coming in and out of the Alley,” Red Hood retorted, a mean scowl hidden on his face. His helmet turned on a swivel, taking in the state of what used to be a restaurant. “Thought I told you not to start fires in here. Don’t want you to get-”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning, yeah, heard you the first fifty times,” the old man answered with a dismissive wave. He moved around Red Hood on achy knees and snatched the now empty cardboard box from the ground. “Not much other options. You saw the snow coming down out there.”

“I won’t let you freeze to death.”

Roger scoffed and tossed the box into one of the makeshift fire pits. The flames sputtered a weak ‘thank you’ and hungrily consumed the cardboard. “Look, kid. We appreciate the bravado, but you can’t help all of us.”

Red Hood huffed out an angry breath. “I can’t clean up the Alley if-”

“You can’t clean it up at all,” the old man snapped, catching Jason off guard. He ground his teeth together when Roger turned away and marched across the open room. Jason followed close behind, teeth digging into his cheek. “It’s just how things are, kid. You’re too wrapped up in this filthy cesspool as is. We can’t exactly afford to repay you.”

Jason halted beside a fire pit. Roger froze several steps ahead of him, sensing the vigilante’s hesitation, and turned back to him with a raised brow.

“That goes for your delivery person, too?”

Roger shrugged and buried his hands in his coat pockets, chasing away the burning pink that blossomed across his cold fingers. “You’re not the first one I’ve told to not bother. It’s nothin’ malicious, I’d reckon, but self satisfaction is still a hell of a drug.”

Jason’s knuckles were bloody beneath his gloves the next time he saw you. 

The canvas of his gloves rubbed the split skin raw each time he opened and closed his fist. His eyes were wild beneath his helmet, darting across the rooftop he stood on for any other signs of life–well, life beyond the one figure who seemed to still be struggling to breath. The man leaned against the wall, face bloody, hand pressed over his abdomen, eyes closed. He looked better off than his companions.

Drug dealers. Jason lifted his helmet high enough to spit on the corpse a few feet from him, the rapidly dissipating heat of the pooling blood steaming up the cold night air. Served them right, he told himself.

It was when he looked down at the street below, gauging the drop, that his gaze zeroed in on you. A familiar figure weaving through the shadows. Your gait was burned into his memory. He knew it was you, despite the thick wool shawl wrapped around your head and shoulders to protect from the biting wind. Another box in your arms.

Jason stepped to the ledge with narrowed eyes. What were you doing this time, so close to the center of the most crime-ridden district of Gotham? The tips of your boots kicked up dirty, slushy snow, piled an inch thick on the scarcely used backroad. He walked along the ledge, following you from easily fifty feet above. His shadow fell in behind yours, looming like a wolf behind an unsuspecting lamb.

You turned left. Left, towards the red light district side of town. Jason scoffed and hopped down from the ledge, his boots crunching on gravel–if you wanted to get yourself killed, that was your own prerogative. You didn’t belong in Crime Alley anyway. Not his problem.

Jason carefully tugged on the gloved tips of each finger, slowly releasing the fabric. With a grunt, he yanked the canvas and shook his hand at the sting. His broad, scarred hands were dappled with bruises along his knuckles. Green met red in tender circles, purple blooming at the peaks of his bones. He clenched his fist, watching the skin split along the ridges, crimson rapidly filling the valley. The damage wasn’t as bad as he had originally thought. His fingers pried open the glove, surveying the inside. Maybe he should invest in some gloves with better lining…

He twisted to look over his shoulder, lower back popping twice at the change in angle. He was stiff, his broad shoulders sore. And yet, he held that angle as he stared down the side street he knew would only spell more trouble tonight. He’d already accomplished what he intended for the evening. It was risky to stay out any later. Who knew what sharks were lurking in the waters?

But…

Jason turned forward again as he tugged his glove back on, stretching his fingers inside the rough material. His hands were so cold he hardly noticed the sting against his knuckles. Snow touched the black fabric, held steadfast for a moment, then melted away. He watched a perfect snowflake, fully intact, touch down on his glove in one instant and fade away in the next.

He sighed as he turned back to the ledge, stepped up, and jumped.

It didn’t take him long to spot you wedged between a dumpster and a side door that led into a less than reputable strip club. He perched on the ledge of a nearby building with his elbows planted on his knees.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open and a woman stepped out. Blonde, although the color didn’t look natural, with lips that color of his helmet and strappy heels to match. A pink beaded corset, and a feather boa wrapped around her shoulders. The woman stepped into the alleyway and unceremoniously dropped against the brick wall a few inches from you.

Jason narrowed his eyes as he watched you try to pass the box to the woman. She waved dismissively and instead pulled out a pack of cigarettes from where she held it tucked under her arm. A lighter was snatched from the edge of her corset and quickly replaced when the cigarette between her teeth was lit. She stared through heavy lashes at the cherry red end, took a drag, and began to speak.

The dancer talked for several minutes, taking periodic drags of the cigarette between words. She occasionally tipped her head towards you, gauging your reaction despite the thick shawl that obscured your face. She laughed in response to something you said, then dropped the butt of the cigarette and stomped out the light.

You tried to hand her the box again and this time the blonde woman accepted. She hefted it into her arms and balanced it on one as she rifled through the contents. Jason scowled when she withdrew a soup can and presented it to you with a wide smile and a giddy laugh. She replaced the soup can and used her free hands to pat your veiled cheek affectionately.

Then she was gone, back into the shadowy, smoke-filled club. You stood by yourself outside the door, hands limp at your sides as you stared at the door. You looked so small.

Jason’s heart stopped when you turned on your heel and looked right at him. Your eyes scaled the building slowly, almost as if you were tracing his shadow until you finally settled on him with a weighted stare. A predator’s stare. Jason wasn’t used to feeling like prey.

His skin crawled, and the feeling stuck even when you turned from him and stomped through the growing piles of dirty snow back the way you came. His heart thundered in his chest as he watched you drag your heels through the slush.

Jason followed. He knew he shouldn’t, but curiosity wormed itself deep between his ribs and egged him on. He walked along the ledge above you, no longer feeling like a wolf tailing a lamb. Suspicion brewed–sure, maybe you were just being a kind person, if there even was such a thing… but how often did people spot him like that?

So, he followed, despite the way it made his teeth grind and his skin itch. Jason kept the shadows, leaping from rooftop to rooftop and scaling walls while you skittishly meandered through the streets of Gotham. Your stride shortened when you finally exited Crime Alley. The warm glow of cleaner streets blanketed you in a golden haze.

Jason jolted from his thoughts when you climbed the steps of a brownstone apartment building, your cold hands fumbling at the door knob for just a moment before you slipped inside.

So that was it. You were gone, snatched from his vision as quickly as the snowflakes that melted on his jacket. He knew he should leave, that his hunt was over… so why did he stay rooted in place?

Jason found his answer when a light flicked on in a fifth story window. Warm, golden light slipped from your window invitingly. He wondered… Jason crouched on the balcony he stood on. Yes, he could see inside. It was a sparsely decorated apartment that hardly looked lived in, a simple sofa against one wall and a foldable table with three chairs in the center of the living room.

His skin crawled.

He flinched when you reappeared, your hands carefully unwinding the thick scarf from around your head and shoulders. He was right, you were the person he had seen before. He recognized the downturn of the corners of your mouth and the crinkle in your brow as you toed your boots off.

Enamored, maybe. Yes, enamored was the right way to describe how his eyes greedily followed you shucking your coat. Enamored by the way you dropped it on the floor without a care. Enamored by the way your nails raked your scalp and your lips split in a yawn.

Sullen when you once again disappeared from view.

Jason’s mind screamed at him to move. This wasn’t something he should be watching–this was a private, domestic moment for your eyes, not his. He was no better than the men he put down.

And yet his heart raced when you reappeared. You opened the window that led to your fire escape, heat fogging up the chilly air. The curtains around the window drifted around you in the subtle, crisp breeze. Jason watched you with bated breath as you turned, bent down, and gathered something in your hands.

His brows furrowed in confusion as you held a mug of some steaming liquid in each hand. You took a sip of one, then set the other down on the ledge outside the window.

The window slid shut with a deafening click, and you disappeared. The golden lights of your apartment were snuffed out minutes later.

The steam wafting from the mug eventually faded. Jason remained frozen in place.