ˢᵘⁿⁱ

“It’s been a while.”

Your voice doesn’t try to carry. It settles instead—low and warm and almost contemplative—as you lean your head into the crook of your elbow where it rests on top of your knees, cheek brushing the sleeve of your jacket. You look at him the way people look at old photographs: searching for what’s changed, and what stubbornly hasn’t.

It’s 10:00 p.m. in Gotham City.

The city is just waking up.

Streetlights flicker and hum overhead, halos of jaundiced gold bleeding into slick pavement still damp from an earlier drizzle. Neon signs sputter alive one by one, staining the low clouds in pink and electric blue. Somewhere down the block, a train shrieks along elevated tracks, metal grinding against metal in a sound that feels almost animal. The air tastes like rain that never fully commits, like exhaust and old brick and the metallic promise of something about to happen.

This is the hour Gotham stretches its spine.

And with the way your scent drifts toward him—subtle but unmistakable, clean soap threaded with the faint spice of worn leather and the warmer, quieter note that is simply you—Damian feels something in himself stretch awake too.

He notices it immediately. Resents it.

“Has it?” Damian murmurs.

His voice is lower than it used to be, the edges smoothed by years he refuses to acknowledge, but there’s still that blade beneath it—sharp, precise, honed by discipline and expectation.

“I feel like I just registered the peace of your absence.”

The words are measured, but they land between you with a softness that betrays the effort it took to make them sound indifferent.

You let out a quiet chuckle, breath fogging faintly in the cooling air, and tilt your head so the streetlight catches your face at an angle that makes you look almost untouchable.

“You? At peace?” you say, amused in a way that feels too fond to be entirely safe. “God, that’s a boring sight.”

The corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it.

It’s brief. Barely there. But you see it.

You always did.

For a moment, the years fold in on themselves.

You remember being fifteen—too loud, too hopeful, too certain that if you just held on tightly enough the world would rearrange itself in your favor. You remember standing exactly this close to him, the air between you charged with everything you didn’t yet have language for, and tugging at his gloved hand like it was something owed to you. Like if you pulled hard enough, Damian would choose you over patrol, over training, over the expectations that clung to him like armor beneath his armor.

You remember the way your fingers curled around his, stubborn and trembling and brave.

You remember waiting for him to tug back.

Damian remembers feeling his age.

He remembers the humiliating awareness of it—the way your grip burned through leather, the way it made his pulse misstep, the way he felt suddenly untrained in something far more dangerous than combat. He remembers wanting, briefly and fiercely, to hold on.

He remembers pulling away first.

He told himself it was discipline. Focus. Strength.

It had not felt like strength.

Now, standing in the dim spill of Gotham’s restless light, Damian keeps his hands at his sides, fingers flexing once as if testing whether they still remember the shape of yours.

A car passes slowly at the end of the street. Headlights sweep over both of you, illuminating the sharper lines of his face, the steadier set of your shoulders, before sliding on and leaving you in shadow again.

“You, uh…” Your gaze drops, almost shy in a way that doesn’t suit you, and your fingers begin worrying the fabric of your gloves—thumb rubbing over the seam again and again as though you can smooth out whatever tension has crept into your voice. “You seeing anyone?”

It’s casual in structure.

It is not casual in weight.

The question hangs between you, fragile and electric.

Damian feels it land somewhere just beneath his ribs.

His jaw shifts slightly, the movement controlled, almost imperceptible. His eyes flick over your shoulder out of habit—rooftops, fire escapes, windows, blind corners. Exit routes. Vantage points. Threat assessment. The city is predictable in its violence.

You are not.

“Yes,” Damian lies.

The answer leaves him too fast to be shaped, too controlled to be careless. It lands between you like something set down deliberately—flat side first, no room for interpretation.

He studies you the way he was taught to study opponents: shoulders first, then hands, then eyes. He watches for the tightening of your fingers around the seam of your glove, for the fraction of a second where your breath might hitch, for the microscopic shift in posture that would betray relief—or disappointment.

“And you?” he asks.

Quieter now.

Not gentler.

Not colder.

But closer, the syllables carrying less distance than the space between your bodies.

The wind shifts down the alley, rolling between brick walls and catching in your hair, lifting it just enough that the warmth of you reaches him unfiltered. Soap and fabric and something undeniably alive. It hits Damian harder than it should. He has to regulate his breathing on instinct alone—slow inhale, controlled exhale—because his body reacts before his discipline can intercept it.

You are standing close enough that he can feel the ambient heat of you through leather and cotton and air.

One step.

That is all it would take.

Damian does not take it.

Instead, he remains still beneath the flickering streetlight, every line of him composed and restrained, acutely aware that the “peace” he claimed to have found in your absence was never peace at all.

It was quiet.

There is a difference.

And quiet is fragile.

Damian wants you to lie.

The realization comes sharp and unwelcome.

He wants you to say yes—to say you’re seeing someone, that they’re kind, that they make you laugh, that they walk you home at night—because that would give him something clean to hold. An excuse. A reason to nod once, wish you well, and retreat with dignity intact. He wants the kind of closure that requires no vulnerability, no admission that he has carried you like an unresolved equation for years.

Damian wants permission to let go.

He wants an ending that isn’t his fault.

“No,” you say softly.

The word is careful this time. Fragile around the edges.

“No, no… not—not since you.”

For a second, the city drops out from under him.

The train in the distance fades. The hum of traffic dulls. Even the wind seems to hesitate, caught between buildings as if it, too, is waiting to see what he does next.

Gods save him.

Damian feels the impact of that confession like a physical strike—clean, precise, straight to the center of his chest. It doesn’t bruise. It splits.

His throat tightens before he can command it not to.

He could end this right now. He could tell you that you shouldn’t have waited. That it was foolish. That he never asked you to. He could remind you of the distance, the danger, the inevitability of his life. He could be cold. 

Damian is very good at cold. After experiencing his whole life he thinks it would be impossible not to be.

Instead—

“…Have you been well?” he asks.

The question is almost formal, as though you are acquaintances meeting by chance rather than two people standing in the wreckage of something unfinished. He reaches for it because it is safe. Because it moves the conversation forward without forcing him to stand inside that no you just handed him.

Damian cannot afford to linger on it.

“As well as you’ve been,” you reply.

There’s no accusation in your tone.

That makes it worse.

Because you see him.

You always have.

You see the fatigue tucked behind his composure, the way his shoulders carry more than they should, the faint shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of discipline erases. You see that his “yes” was not peace. It was postponement.

And he knows you saw right through that yes.

The space between you shifts again—not physically, but in weight. In gravity. The air feels denser now, threaded tight with everything neither of you is saying.

Damian’s gaze lowers briefly, not in submission but in calculation, as if he’s searching for a strategy that doesn’t exist. When he looks back at you, there’s something there he cannot fully mask.

“Want some?”

Your voice drops to something conspiratorial and warm, barely louder than the distant rush of traffic below. You nudge the carton of orange “chicken” toward him where it rests between you on the narrow metal slats of the fire escape, the cardboard already softening from steam and mist. The scent rises with the night air—sweet citrus glaze, soy, fried batter still clinging stubbornly to crispness despite the damp.

Below you, Gotham City murmurs and flickers, unaware of the far more precarious balancing act happening three stories up.

Damian’s gaze drops to the box, then to your face.

He pauses at the gesture—not because he doubts you, but because he understands what it is. An offering. Casual on the surface. Intimate underneath.

“I’m vegeta—”

“I haven't forgotten,” you cut in gently, almost offended at the implication. “It’s vegan chicken.”

Haven't forgotten? Damian didn't even think you knew back then.

You say it softly, like you’re telling him a secret rather than correcting him. “Tastes good.”

You lift the chopsticks toward him, the lacquered wood steady between your fingers, a single piece caught carefully between them. The glaze glistens under the weak spill of a nearby window’s light. Your hand doesn’t shake.

Back then, he wouldn’t have thought twice.

At fifteen, he might have rolled his eyes, muttered something sharp, and taken the entire piece from you out of spite. Or refused outright, defensive and rigid in ways he mistook for strength.

Now—

Now he thinks once about how close your fingers are to his mouth.

Thinks twice about the way you’re watching him, not teasing, not challenging—just waiting.

Thinks a third time about how easily this could tip into something neither of you can pretend not to notice.

And then, despite himself, he makes the profoundly unstrategic decision to lean down.

He bends just enough, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath before he even bites, and closes his teeth over half the piece. The glaze is sweet and sharp and still faintly hot against his tongue. For a fleeting, absurd second, he feels like some tragic fairytale prince accepting a poisoned apple.

Snow White with worse impulse control.

You don’t pull the chopsticks away.

Instead, you take the other half into your own mouth, lips brushing dangerously close to where his had just been. The shared heat of it lingers in the space between you longer than it should.

The metal railing beneath you creaks softly as you shift your weight.

“You… you have plans tonight?” you whisper.

Your voice has changed again—softer, thinner, like you’re testing the air for cracks.

Damian straightens slowly, swallowing with more effort than necessary. He nods once, controlled, composed, as if his pulse isn’t doing something inconvenient beneath his ribs.

“I’m very busy.”

It’s automatic. A shield lifted without conscious thought.

Damian looks down as he says it, as though the answer might be written somewhere safer than your face. His boots are soaked through from earlier rain, dark leather gleaming faintly under the city’s glow. Water beads along the edges, clinging stubbornly. That’s when Damian notices it—the thin strip of receipt paper still plastered to the sole from the Chinese place downstairs, ink smudged but legible if anyone bothered to look.

Evidence.

Of time spent.

Of intention.

Damian’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

With a swift, almost irritated motion, he scuffs his foot against the metal grate and kicks the receipt loose. It flutters briefly in the wind before disappearing into the alley below, swallowed by shadow and damp concrete.

As if it was never there.

As if he hadn’t gone inside with you.

As if Damian hadn’t waited while you debated between sesame tofu and orange “chicken.”

As if he isn’t standing here now, three stories above the city, sharing food from the same chopsticks and pretending he is not exactly where he chose to be.

The lie of “busy” hangs between you, thin and fragile.

Because if he were truly busy—he would not still be here.

The wind lifts your hair again, restless and deliberate, curling it around your face in slow, fluid spirals like you belong to water instead of brick and rusted metal. It frames you unfairly—softening edges that were never sharp to begin with, catching in your lashes, brushing your mouth. You don’t even notice it.

He does.

Damian’s own inky black strands fall forward into his line of sight, dragged loose by the same current. They curtain his eyes, a narrow veil he does not bother to fix. It grants him brief reprieves—fractions of seconds where he can look at you through shadow instead of directly at the quiet devastation of your expression.

“That’s not a no,” you whisper, almost fondly, before taking another bite of the vegan chicken.

It tastes awful.

The glaze is too sweet, the texture too spongy, the citrus cloying in a way that makes you want water. You chew anyway. Swallow anyway. Because you know he noticed you remembered. Because once upon a time, remembering mattered more than taste.

You used to do this all the time.

Small sacrifices. Adjustments. Learning which teas he preferred, which words would draw him out instead of shut him down, how to sit close enough that he’d speak but not so close that he’d retreat. You’d rearrange your afternoons to match his patrol schedule, pretend you just happened to be free when he emerged onto the fire escape restless and sharp-edged from training.

You didn’t mind.

You wanted to be part of his busy.

You wanted to be the thing he penciled in.

Back then, the two of you would sit exactly like this—knees nearly brushing, the city yawning beneath you—while he confessed things he wouldn’t admit to anyone else. The wrongs he believed he’d committed. The doubts he pretended not to have. He would speak low and intense and furious at himself, and you would listen like it was sacred, like your understanding could tilt the moral axis of the world back into place.

And somehow, sometimes, it did.

“You're impossible,” Damian exhales now, the words slipping out on a sigh that carries more weariness than insult.

He shifts away from you on the narrow platform, scooting a few inches down the fire escape as though distance is a practical solution. The metal groans faintly under the redistribution of weight. It is not far enough to break the warmth between you.

It is far enough to be noticed.

The way you look at him after he moves—

Not wounded. Not angry.

Just quietly aware.

It hits him harder than if you had called him out.

Regret blooms low and unwelcome in his chest, heavy as wet wool. He tells himself it is better this way. Safer. That proximity is a liability he cannot afford.

Damian does not believe it, but he still tells himself it.

Silence settles over you both, but it is not empty. It hums. The skyline stretches wide in front of you—jagged rooftops and blinking red aircraft lights, windows glowing like scattered constellations across the dark spine of Gotham City. Somewhere, a siren wails and fades. Somewhere else, laughter spills from an open window before being swallowed by distance.

“What’s she like?” you ask at last.

Your voice is softer now, stripped of its earlier teasing.

“Or he.”

The correction is gentle. Open.

Damian stills.

For a moment, he keeps his gaze fixed outward, on the city that is easier to interpret than you are. The wind presses fabric against his frame, outlines the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then, slowly, he looks down instead—to his boots, still damp, still darkened by rain. The leather creases at the ankle where he’s worn it thin from use.

He studies them as though they hold the answer.

As though the shape of his solitude might be written there in mud and scuffed polish.

“Still into emos?” you ask lightly.

The word floats between you, teasing and careless on the surface, but there’s memory tucked inside it—late nights, black hoodies, music too loud through cheap speakers, you pretending not to notice how closely he listened to every lyric.

Damian snorts before he can stop himself.

It’s quick and unguarded, a sharp exhale that shakes his shoulders and breaks the careful stillness he’d been holding. The sound is rare enough that it startles you into a smile before you can contain it. His amusement lingers faintly on his face, softening the hard lines, undoing years of discipline in a way that feels almost unfair.

For a moment, he looks younger.

Not smaller.

Just less armored.

“I’m not picky,” he replies after a beat, the smile still ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “Not like you.”

The accusation is light, but his eyes slide to you with quiet intent, watching how you take it.

“That’s not true,” you hum, nudging the carton with your knee. “I’m not picky.”

The wind shifts again, catching your sleeve and pressing fabric against your wrist. He notices the absence of rings there. Notices the way your hands rest open on your lap instead of intertwined with someone else’s.

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” he reminds you, tone deceptively mild. “I do believe that was your type when we were smaller.”

There’s history in the phrasing. When we were smaller. As if the two of you grew up in tandem, like twin trees bending toward the same light.

You tilt your head, considering him in a way that makes his pulse misstep again.

“And yet,” you reply quietly, “I liked you even when you didn’t fit the first requirement.”

The words are gentle.

They land heavy.

For a split second, something unsteady flashes through his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or the memory of being shorter than you for exactly six months and hating every second of it. Of you pretending not to notice, never once teasing him for it even when Grayson and Todd would.

Damian reaches for the carton before he can say something reckless.

With deliberate audacity, Damian plucks the last piece of vegan chicken from the container and pops it into his mouth without offering you the chance to object.

It’s a calculated theft.

A distraction.

He chews slowly, as if savoring a victory he did not earn.

“Real mature,” you hum, watching him with narrowed eyes that hold far more affection than irritation.

Damian swallows.

The glaze is too sweet. The texture still questionable. He supposes it matches the situation.

He doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, he wipes his thumb clean against a napkin and finally looks at you fully—no curtain of hair, no skyline to hide behind, no boots to study for answers.

“You always did accuse me of that,” he says quietly.

Immaturity.

Distance.

Running.

The night presses closer around you both, the fire escape swaying faintly with the rhythm of wind and breath. Below, the city continues its restless hum, unaware that something far more precarious balances above it.

He should move away again.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he remains where he is—close enough that your knees nearly touch, close enough that the shared warmth between you feels intentional now rather than accidental.

“You were picky,” he says after a moment, the words falling softer now, almost fragile. “You just made exceptions.”

His eyes dip briefly, tracing the curve of your lips, the ghost of a smile that used to haunt his thoughts. Then they snap back, sharp and undeniable, catching yours again. “And you were always very bad at hiding them.”

You stare into the eyes you’ve tried for years not to memorize, the ones that have shadowed your quietest dreams and your loneliest nights. “I didn’t invite you here so I could talk down on your lover,” you murmur, voice low and steady, though your pulse betrays you with its uneven rhythm.

“Then what did you pull me here for?” Damian’s voice is softer than usual, almost tentative, but the words still carry a weight. He leans his head against the chill metal bars of the fire escape, hair falling loose around his sharp cheekbones. “You trying to be a homewrecker?”

He says it like it’s a joke—like he’s testing a line he’s never meant to say seriously—but the corners of his mouth twitch in a way that tells you he’s not entirely joking.

“No.”

Your own voice is quiet, firm, edged with exasperation and warmth at once. Finally, you reach out, the movement slow and deliberate, compelled by something deeper than reason. His hair—dark, impossible, falling in rebellious waves across his face like he’s some prince carved out of shadow—catches your fingers.

You move closer, fingers brushing along the inky strands, tugging a small section back to pin it neatly with the hair clip that’s been holding your baby hairs in check all evening. The motion is intimate and unhurried. You murmur softly under your breath, so he can hear it, so only he can: “I just know I could be better.”

Damian tilts his head toward you, just enough that the faint line of his neck is exposed to your touch. His jaw tenses imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment, almost a challenge.

“Do you?” he asks. The question is small, almost tender, but it carries the weight of years, of all the things unsaid, of every space between you that was never closed.

Your hand slides slowly from the roots of his hair down the warm curve of his neck, fingertips landing where neck meets shoulder, tracing a line that speaks louder than your words. “I can be better,” you breathe, deliberate and honest, letting the tension between the two of you thrum in the quiet air.

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pull back. He lets you stay. And in that acceptance, in the slight tilt of his shoulder beneath your fingers, there’s something unspoken yet absolute.

“You are the best,” he whispers, voice low, quiet, trembling only slightly. 

Not a statement. Not a confession. Not a question.

But it's better.

⸝⸝ ₊ ⊹ damian wayne-al ghul tag list tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @foivetimesacharm, @tasia13, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @strawbrysapphic, @theonlyshowgirl, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @kekeanna266, @nayy-a, @marwwfairy, @redhooduwu, @xolollipop, @jaydennicole, @revesephemeres,

reblogs and replies always appreciated, lmk what u think .ᐟ

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“…Well?” Your grin tilts into something knowingly sweet, all coy challenge and quiet hope. You watch the way his eyes betray him—how they brighten despite himself, how his fingers pause mid-air against the wrapper like they’ve been caught in the act. It’s a small thing, that hesitation, but you see it. You always do.

Red Hood exhales through his nose, a rough little huff meant to pass for indifference. His helmet is half on, and he and you both know you won't tilt your head down to look at the face below it. 

It wasn't ever anything you needed to do.

Your smile only widens, cheeks aching with the effort of holding it back. “Admit it,” you sing softly, sing-song enough to be annoying, gentle enough to be affectionate.

He chews in stubborn silence, jaw working like he’s negotiating terms with his pride. Then, finally—reluctantly—he swallows.

“…It’s,” he starts, pauses, scowls at the burger like it’s betrayed him. “Better than the Bat Burger,” he mutters, the words dragged out like a confession extracted under duress.

Before you can react, he takes another bite, quick and deliberate, eyes suddenly very focused on anything but you. It’s meant to hide the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.

It doesn’t work.

You light up anyway—bright and unguarded and devastatingly pleased—and Red Hood, for all his practiced resistance, eats faster just to avoid looking at you like that.

“I told you,” you say, already moving, fingers curling around his glass to top it off beneath the soft hiss of the soda machine. Ice clinks gently as the cola rises. “That place is all grease.”

“Hey—well,” Red Hood counters around a mouthful, words muffled but indignant, “your burger doesn’t come with a mini Nightwing figure, does it?”

You snort, setting the glass down beside his plate with a soft thud. “Yeah, and our Coca-Cola doesn’t come with diabetes.”

He shoots you a look over the rim of the glass, something halfway between offense and amusement, before taking another long sip.

It’s late—late enough that the street outside has gone quiet, Gotham settling into that uneasy hush it only ever pretends is sleep. And somehow, impossibly, your diner is still open. The neon sign hums softly in the window, tired but persistent, like it knows better than to give up just because the hour suggests it should.

You only bought the place a few months ago. The few old staff stayed. The old regulars too. You never touched the menu names—just the recipes themselves, quietly fixing what had always been almost good. Making it better. Making it worth something. Worth staying open for.

Three months was all it took to sand down the sharp edges of the place. The tacky ’80s diner aesthetic softened into something warmer, more classic—vinyl booths polished instead of cracked, chrome wiped clean, lights dimmed just enough to feel intentional. People noticed. Families started coming. 

Kids, especially. Which was notable, considering this stretch of Gotham used to belong to grouchy old men who treated your parking lot like their personal smoking lounge. 

You’d heard the whispers, eventually. The way kids talked about the place. Cheap food. Good food. Safe food. And if kids were plotting something on this side of Gotham—really plotting—Red Hood would’ve heard about it long before you did.

You still remember the night you met him.

The crash of shouting. The sound of something metal hitting pavement. You’d stormed out back gripping a frying pan like a weapon, heart in your throat, only to find Red Hood in the middle of it—hauling three wheezing old men toward your trash cans with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning up a mess he didn’t make.

He’d looked at you then, startled, a little wild, like he hadn’t expected backup.

That had been the beginning.

Not quite a partnership.

Definitely not trouble.

Something messier. Something quieter. Something that looked a lot like friendship, even if neither of you ever said that outloud.

If you need to throw out a thug, he made sure you knew who to call.

If he needed somewhere to get actual food and a safe place to rest that asked no questions, he knew where to go.

“Do you think it needs anything?” you ask, already drifting toward the small, dog-eared journal tucked beneath the counter. You flip it open on instinct, pen poised, brows knitting as you scan notes written in different inks, different moods. “Maybe the meat needs more spice,” you murmur. “Or the bread—maybe more salt?”

Red Hood hums thoughtfully, dragging his thumb across his mouth to wipe away a smear of sauce before he answers. “I think it’s perfect,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, softer but no less certain, “Really.”

You still. Just for a moment. Pen hovering mid-air. Considering. Then you sigh—long and put-upon—and Jason has to clamp down hard on the laugh that nearly bursts out of him when you speak again.

“You’d eat slop if I served it to you,” you say flatly. “I don’t even know why I ask.”

He grins, unrepentant. “You’d make good slop.”

You huff, shaking your head as you reach down to adjust your apron, the fabric worn thin and soft with age. It’s part of the uniform—old, faded, clearly meant for someone else entirely. You’ve always assumed the woman it was bought for is long gone now, her shifts and habits stitched into the seams like a quiet ghost.

Still, it fits you well enough.

And Jason watches you tug it straight with an expression that suggests he means every word he said.

“Those guys still bothering you?” he asks after a moment, gaze flicking past you to the clock mounted high on the far wall. Midnight clicks into place with a dull, final little sound. You should be home by now. Instead, you’re here—hovering, unsettled in a way that doesn’t quite match your usual calm.

Your hair has come loose in places, soft strands escaping whatever effort you made to tame it earlier. Your makeup is still neat, but your hands give you away—picking at your nails, worrying at the edges of yourself. Every so often, your eyes dart toward the door like you half-expect the worst of Gotham to stroll in wearing a grin.

His voice pulls you back.

You huff softly, reaching for the rag and giving the counter a swipe that doesn’t really need it. Then another. Anything to keep your hands busy. “Am I not allowed to ask for company?” you say, tone light, almost teasing—carefully casual in the way people are when they’re hoping not to be questioned further.

Jason watches the motion of your hands, the repetitive back-and-forth, before answering. “Didn’t think I’d be the one you’d call for that,” he says. There’s a beat, and then he adds it—quieter, rough around the edges, like he’s bracing for rejection. “Not… that I’m complaining.”

“Better not be.” You chuckle softly.

Red Hood takes another bite of his food, waiting for you to get the courage to answer.

“…Do you think you could walk me home?” you ask after a moment, the words coming a little softer than you mean them to. “Some—some thug came into the parking lot and started cursing and stuff. He was drunk, but, uh—”

“Yeah. I got you.” Red Hood cuts in easily, like the answer was never in doubt. He reaches for the little sauce container, adds more with reckless confidence, and takes another bite. “Is that why you’re bribing me with food?”

You smile, tilting your head as a loose strand of hair slips free and brushes your cheek. “Yeah. Fattening you up so if we get chased, I can run away faster.”

Red Hood snorts around a mouthful. “I could be four hundred pounds and still run faster than you.”

“Well, if I die, you’d probably lose a hundred,” you shoot back, faux-serious. “Who else would let you eat for free?”

Alfred, Jason thinks automatically—but he keeps that to himself. Instead, he swallows, takes a long sip of soda, and says, “Well, we won’t have to worry about that. As long as I’m here, you don’t need to worry about Gotham.” He pauses, glancing down at the burger with sudden scrutiny. “Just worry about the fact that this bread’s a little salty.”

You freeze.

Then you slam your fist into your open palm, eyes lighting up like you’ve struck gold. “I knew it, you liar!”

Red Hood laughs, full and unguarded, and for a moment the night outside the diner feels a little less dangerous.

It’s a few moments later when you hum thoughtfully, gathering his empty plate and glass before he can protest. “Would you like dessert?”

Red Hood huffs, leaning back in the booth. “You really are trying to fatten me up.”

You lift a brow over your shoulder as you push through the door to the back, flicking on the lights and setting the dishes into the sink. Water runs, warm and familiar. “Is that a no?”

“No—ah—” Red Hood pauses, glancing at the clock on the wall. Twenty past one. Too late by any reasonable standard. He raises his voice so it carries. “We should probably get going, no? It’s Saturday tomorrow, and you open early, right?”

“Red,” you call back easily, “do you want vanilla ice cream or chocolate?”

There it is. Complete disregard. Utter dismissal.

It does something to him he doesn't want to admit.

“Cookies and cream,” he answers anyway, resigned, a little breathless. “I know you have some.”

“For me,” you say as you step back out front, drying your hands on your apron.

“For two?” he asks hopefully, batting his lashes with exaggerated flair under the helmet even if you can't see it, clearly joking—until he isn’t. He stops halfway through the bit, like he’s caught himself lowering his guard into a joke without meaning to.

You don’t comment. Even though your stomach flips. Even though you notice. Instead, you keep your tone soft and familiar. “Always,” you murmur. “Even though your portion alone should be for three.”

He laughs, relieved, grateful. Still a bit stiff from the newness of it.

You shake your head fondly, the soft scrape of the scoop against the frozen ice cream loud in the quiet diner, the chill spilling out like a ghost of winter into the dim, yellow glow of the overhead lights. The smell of sugar and cocoa drifts up, a small warmth against the damp bite of Gotham outside.

A bowl of ice cream is made for the both of you, simple, but enough. You hesitate, fingers hovering over the spoons, a hint of nervousness creeping into your chest—would he scoff if you shared one bowl? The thought of having to wash an extra dish wins out, and you set the spoons on either side of one bowl.

Red Hood watches, silent and still, his presence folding the rest of the diner away. All that exists is him, leaning just enough over the counter, eyes catching the lamplight in a way that makes every detail sharper: the worn edges of his gloves, the oil smudges on his jacket, the way his jaw tenses like it’s holding back half the city’s weight.

He waits, quiet, letting you take your seat first. Then he finally reaches for a spoon, the motion deliberate, slow, a ritual that keeps the moment suspended.

You take a small bite, letting the cold sweet coat your tongue before speaking. “I gotta ask…how do you get around? That motorcycle…really yours?”

Jason pauses mid-chew, eyes narrowing like he’s calculating how much to reveal. “Yeah…? What? You don’t like my girl?”

“Nah,” you answer lightly, letting the corners of your lips lift in a small smile, “just thought you were a broke ass like me. God, she doesn’t deserve to be ridden in Gotham.”

He smirks, leaning closer just enough for the overhead light to catch the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Hey. I’m a very high-class man,” he says, letting the words hang, watching the way your gaze runs over the dirt and oil-streaked leather, the fraying edges of his gloves, the faint scar on the sliver of skin that is his wrist. Mhm. Very high class. “And she loves it over here.”

You sigh, another bite of ice cream melting slowly in your mouth. The fluorescent lights flicker slightly overhead, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor and bouncing off the chrome edges of the counter. “She’d be the first. You should get locks. Some kid might try to snatch off the tires.”

Jason’s hand freezes mid-spoon, eyes flicking to yours. For a second, disbelief and something sharper—shock, maybe, or a hint of incredulity—crosses his form, quickly masked by that careful, practiced smirk. “…They still do that here?”

“Mhm…” You lift your spoon, letting a bit of cookie crumble fall into the bowl with a soft plop. “…Caught a kid last week trying to get the wheels off my car.” Your voice softens, fondness creeping into it without meaning to.

Jason is quiet for a beat, and you can almost feel the weight of the pause in the space between you. “…What…what did you do?”

You look up at him, eyes a little surprised, but then soften into a small smile, warm and patient. “Come on, Red. It’s me,” you murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I gave him ice cream and some money from the tip jar. Told him if he started taking out the trash for me every day, I’d give him five bucks each time.”

A low noise escapes Jason, something between disbelief and amusement, and you can’t tell if it’s admiration or something else. “I think…you’re overpaying him. The trash can is like twenty feet away from the back of the building.”

“He bought a new jacket last week,” you say, soft, savoring the memory like a small victory. “A new jacket and a set of pencils for school. He did his homework in the employees’ changing room. I think I’m paying him just fine.”

Jason leans back slightly, chair legs scraping faintly against the diner’s linoleum floor, his spoon hovering mid-air. “If I ever caught a kid flicking my tires, I’d just teach them how to do it faster and give him a lollipop if they finished in under two minutes. If your not quick enough the bats come bite your toes you know? Tell the bedtime store to every little thief I find."

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard you almost see the reflection in the laminated counter, before scooping another bite of ice cream. “This is why you’re single.”

Red Hood freezes, the spoon halfway to his mouth, his posture stiffening like he’s just been called out in front of the entire city. “What does that—where did that—how did you get to that conclusion?”

It’s times like these you remember just how much he’s able to calm you down, how he’s able to soak the tiredness of the day off your skin like a sponge.

How much you crave him for it.

You stare at him blankly, deliberately slow, watching the fluorescent light catch the edges of the helmet and throw shadows over his sharp angles. “Did you hear anything you just said?”

He exhales, a small puff of frustration escaping, voice low and clipped. “Whatever…I’m married to work. People there think my stories are funny.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head, the soft diner light reflecting in your eyes, batting your lashes in that way you know makes him shift uncomfortably, “And pray tell, Red…what work do you exactly do?”

Jason hesitates, hand still frozen over the ice cream spoon. “…Gotham Child Services?”

You nod solemnly, taking the last bite, the cool sweetness lingering on your tongue. “That explains the guns.”

Red Hood sighs, the sound muffled and rough through the helmet as he tucks it back down over his chin. “Never win with you, do I? Fine. Drug lord. Nice one though. I got lollipops.”

You hum, the quiet warmth of the diner lights catching your hair as you coo, “Hmm…let’s see how much you tip me for my service and I’ll think about letting your ego win the ride home.” You rise, swiftly walking to the kitchen to let the bowl soak in the sink.

“Ride home? Thought we were walking,” Jason chuckles, the sound low, careful, as he watches you move back toward him. He stays still, gloved hands resting on his knees, tracking the sway of your hips, the way your fingers brush the countertop.

He’s quiet as you slip past him to grab your coat from the wall, the soft rustle of fabric punctuating the silence between you. The faint click of the buttons makes his chest tighten, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his helmet tilts just slightly, betraying how intently he’s watching.

You tug your coat over your shoulders, the fur brushing your neck and falling across your arms.

You walk back to him, never leaving him for too long.

When your hands press to each pocket of his jacket, your fingers pressing into the leather over his chest. He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, more instinct than intention. Red Hood freezes for just a moment, the weight of your touch lingering longer than it should. “What pocket has the lollipops?” you hum softly, watching his helmet tilt with the subtlest of hesitations. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel them on you anyway, the tension pulling tight across the space between you.

“…Took five from home and gave five out. You’re a few hours late…” Red Hood mumbles, voice raspy as always, but now just slightly warmer, more human under the helmet.

“…So you have more at home?” You tilt your head, letting a strand of hair fall over your shoulder as your fingers press lightly into the leather of his chest again.

“Uh…” His gloved hand moves, brushing yours for just a moment, the frayed edge of leather tickling your wrist. The contact is electric, and he doesn’t pull away, just holds it, letting the tension thrum in the small space between you.

“Red.” You mumble, voice soft, low, something more intimate than teasing.

“Yeah?” He rasps back, shifting slightly as if the small movement might let him breathe without panic.

“You suck at flirting.”

“…Cute girl wants a lollipop from me.” His voice cracks slightly, awkward under the helmet, and the way he says it makes the space feel smaller, warmer, more charged.

You chuckle softly, the sound small but deliberate, filling the quiet air around you. “Red. I don’t want a lollipop.”

“Nah?” He mumbles gently, and you catch the faint tilt of his head, the shift of weight in his shoulders. “But they are the expensive kind Ma’am, I didn’t cheap out.”

“Oh?” You hum, letting your gaze soften, your fingers brushing just over the patch of exposed neck under his helmet. “So you do like sweets.”

Jason grins, faint and almost imperceptible, hoping you can sense it even under the mask. “Hey, you are what you eat.”

Your hand slides up from his chest to that sliver of exposed skin on his neck, the warmth so close you can feel it through the thin fabric. Your fingers trace carefully, teasingly, across the soft curve there.

He shifts slightly, leaning toward your touch even as his mind protests.

“Bet you’d taste sweet, then.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He whispers back, voice low, soft, close enough that you can feel it in your chest.

His hand twitches, almost involuntarily, brushing against your wrist.

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