"When had the Demon Lord — whose very name inspired dread, who was disagreeable and volatile, who reveled in mocking sarcasm — learn to use such a gentle tone, bone-deep with tenderness? He bent at the waist, then picked Shen Qiao up in his arms like a princess. Shen Qiao was absolutely appalled. Yan Wushi had a gentle smile on his face. Shen Qiao looked like he'd seen a ghost He'd only just thought this when Yan Wushi reached over and straightened his mussed collar. Shen Qiao jolted, this time not even in astonishment but terror. It was simply unbelievable that he'd gone to sleep and then woken up to Yan Wushi switching personalities entirely.

Steve’s brows furrowed as he picked up on your silent distress, regularly attuned to your every expression and mood. He pulled back and stared deep into your eyes with concern, but you had only felt like you ruined everything.

“Did I do something wrong?” He was quick to blame himself, but it wasn’t said without a hint of worry.

You shook your head rapidly, it wasn’t his fault—it never was. Your body had reacted to hands that once grabbed forcefully in the past, but you knew your boyfriend was never like that, he never took what you already didn’t give willingly.

“No no—let’s keep going.” You swallowed past the lump in your throat, but you suddenly didn’t feel so eager as you let on.

Steve interlocked your hands with his, momentarily pausing your actions to pull him back into a kiss. “Hey—hey, let’s take a break, baby. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” He spoke in a gentle, reassuring tone as though you had all the time in the world.

“I am, I just—” you grew more frustrated with yourself, for opening a door you couldn’t escape from now. “I got weird. It doesn’t matter.”

Unfortunately, Steve wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t make you feel any worse. “But it does. Because you matter to me—and if I did something or if I hurt you then you need to tell me, sweetheart. I don’t want to keep things from each other.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling defeated, but you had to say it for yourself—to prove that you had the courage to take control for once.

“I’m not sure if I wanna keep going.” You confessed quietly, barely spoken above a whisper. Your eyes completely avoided his, terrified that was now going to push you away, blame you for leading him on and taking off.

But all you had witnessed was a wide smile take over Steve’s face, the hate never flashed through his eyes and his arms were kept tight around yours.

“And that’s perfectly fine, baby.” He simply stated, and you looked back up at him with a confused expression, taken aback.

“W-What?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he replied with a shrug. “Just because we kissed doesn’t mean it has to turn into something more, not if that’s anything you don’t want.” Steve said it like it was so normal, like you should’ve known that ages ago.

“But—you’re not mad?” You could only ask shockingly, and an emotion of sad empathy overtook his face, tilting his head at you.

“Why would I be mad that you set a boundary? I’ve asked for your consent every time and I’ll continue to do so, there’s nothing to get mad over.”

It was true, every time Steve had asked for your consent previously you hadn’t been expecting it, though the thought of ever touching him against his wishes made you want to lurch.

“I’m not used to it, I guess.” You sighed, “I haven’t really ever said no before.”

Steve pushed a strand of hair behind your ears, keeping your eyes on him before rough memories could get the chance to flood your mind.

“It’s always okay to say no.” He spoke clearly, needing to communicate the depth of the words. “It’s a full sentence, and anyone that doesn’t want to follow that shouldn’t be given another chance.” His jaw clenched at the idea of another person having ignored you, treating you like an object, and though more violent punishments struck him he kept calm.

You nodded carefully, feeling much better now at his validation, but really because you felt like Steve had given you the power you had been too scared to use before.

“Try it, baby. Go on—say it.” He softly instructed, needing you to physically say it and feel how good it felt.

You took a breath, still not fully comprehending how proud Steve was of you, but you complied.

“No.”

Just like that, the realization of how easy it was—you couldn’t help but release a laughter of disbelief, breaking the tension in the room.

“There you go, good girl.” He rubbed your shoulder affectionately, retucking you back into his chest and pressing a firm kiss onto the top of your head.

“Sweetheart?” Your husband raised a brow in concerned amusement. His eyes took in the way your face was pressed into your pillow. Deep breaths barely leaving you. It wasn’t what he’d expected when he walked inside the bedroom. “What are you doing?”

“Suffocating” you didn’t even look up at him. Wanting nothing more than to scream into the pillow. Or hit your head against it multiple times.

“I can see that” he stepped closer towards the bed. "Why?"

“I’m contemplating” you mumbled, words muffled by the pillow. A grimace forming on your face at the stabbing sensation in your abdomen.

“Contemplating what?” His hand goes to the back of your head, soft movements caressing your head.

“If you’d give me a knife?” You weren’t serious despite your voice sounding like it.

His face twisted into a weird expression. Half amused, half concerned and something he didn't know entirely what it was. “What for?”

“To either stab my uterus or help me rip it out with” you finally lift your head to look at him. “Would you keep me from bleeding out if I did rip it out?”

“I would” He gives you a soft smile. “But I’d prefer it if you didn’t, and if you really want to, let's leave it to the professionals” Jack can’t help but to let out an amused scoff as you whine in disagreement. “Sweetheart, I’d rather you not bleed out in our bedroom, you understand that right? It’s your period I take it, need anything? Heating pad?”

You roll around onto your back to show him the heating pad already there where you’d just been, and sadly it was not helping your current pain.

“Alright” his hands moves to your cheek, tilting his head to look down at you. “Taken any meds?” He can’t help the frown that forms on his face as you shake your head. Jack knew you often tried to power through it. But there was no reason for you to be in pain or prove anything to anyone. Pain is pain no matter what. And if you need something for it then you take it.There’s no reason to be in pain when you can easily stop it.

“Ibuprofen or Naproxen?”

“Naproxen please” Way back when you were sixteen the school nurse had recommended naproxen for your menstrual pain. It worked at the time. Though nowadays it felt like no medication worked. Hence the want to rip your uterus out.

“Okay” So it was bad, he thought. You only took Naproxen when it was worse than usual since it was a stronger tablet.

“Think you can eat something too?” a sigh left him as you shook your head. He was almost certain you hadn’t eaten all day. The pain being so strong that it made you feel like puking most of the time, along with headaches usually made you lose your appetite. That and if a smell set you off in the wrong way it made everything way worse.

“Something to drink then? Maybe hot chocolate?” Suggesting chocolate never went wrong.

“From your fancy pants coffee machine?” You swore that damn coffee maker did not have hot chocolate. You’d tried every setting and nothing worked, despite Jack maybe having shown you how to do it at least ten times since he got it. But it wasn’t your fault the big ass coffee maker that took up the whole end counter space where you’d happily used to bake before had so many buttons and settings. Besides, nothing was labeled as hot chocolate either.

“Yes my fancy pants coffee machine”

“Can I get marshmallows too?” And how could Jack ever say no to you.

Despite the tiredness that clinged to him after his shift. Despite the way he just wanted to curl up beside you as soon as he stepped inside the house. He still found time to care for you before that. You were in pain and in need of love and he would do it in a heartbeat. Even if it meant prolonging his own comfort. Besides, you always did the same for him. Always took the time to help him when his leg felt sore after the prosthetic. Always helped him relax after hard shifts. So the least he could do was return the favor. Like always.

His finger pressed the screen on the coffee maker, watching the milk pour down into the big cup. Then the chocolate. Taking out a spoon from the drawer just below it. Stirring the hot chocolate three times before he set the cup on the counter. Fetching the marshmallows he put in maybe a bit too many of them knowing you’d eat some of them before they melted anyway.

Walking back to the bedroom he placed the cup on your nightstand. Bending down to kiss your forehead before glancing at the black tv screen. “Want to watch something? Maybe distract yourself?” His hand found the tv remote and handed it to you. “Pick something good, I’ll be back with a glass of water and the tablets, okay?” Eyes searching yours to see if it was okay that he left once more, or if you wanted him to stay.

Shooing him off you flicked through the options on the streaming sight. Before settling on a show right when Jack came back.

Swallowing the pill with a grimace, Jack took the glass and went back to the kitchen. Placing it in the dishwasher before you could hear his steps retreat back to the bedroom.

His steps faltered by the doorway. Leaning against the doorframe as he watched you try to get comfy in bed.

He watched you shift, trying every position you could come up with before settling on one that made the cramps lessen just a little bit. “Need anything else?” His gaze fell on your face, tracing its lines and the flutter of your lashes as you blinked. Soft eyes and a soft smile only reserved for you. The hot chocolate on your nightstand was a sign that he’d drop anything to help you. The fluffy white clouds were already melting. His eyes went up to yours once more. God he loved you, pain and all. He’d remarry you again for the first time if he could.

“Just you” he didn’t need to be told twice. Jack never needed to be told twice when it came to holding his wife in his arms. Walking over to his side of the bed he settled by the end. Taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease before he pushed himself up on the bed. Arms wrapping around you. Finally close to the one person he loved the most. He didn’t even focus on the show you put on the tv. His face just buried into you as he let himself relax. Feeling the rest of the tensed up feelings from the night shift leaving him.

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

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

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

“What should’ve?” Jessie asks. 

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

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

“There’s a gala?”

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

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

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

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

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

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

“‘Kay. Peace.”

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

You: hey, anyone know what this means?

[img_5.png]

Sasha: doesn’t look familiar

Toby: did you google?

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

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

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

Unknown Number

You: hi. can you meet tonight? after work

?: What’s up?

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

[August 24th, 2025]

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

[August 25th, 2025]

?: Hey. I’m okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rough day?” 

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

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

“Like…?” he prompts.

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

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

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

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

“Is that derision I hear?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Count on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Here you go. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Thanks, Jessie.”

****

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

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

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

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

“What are you wearing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tuna essence is better than pneumonia.”

“Nag,” you mumble. 

“What was that?”

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

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

“Tell me now,” he says.

“Hood, you’re cold!”

“Talk fast.”

“Dude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He holds a hand out. “Go ‘head.”

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

Hood sighs. “Look—”

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

“I do trust you.”

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

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

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

“You sound like me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah?”

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

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

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

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

“What’re you—”

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

“You have it,” Hood says gently. 

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

So he takes it. You smile. 

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have my coat, man!”

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

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

****

“Where’d you get that jacket?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. You can do your job.

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

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

Maybe not on the daily. Weekly, at most. 

You: can i have my coat back today?

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

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

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

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

You: sooo grateful. are we watching pineapple tonight?

?: Tf is pineapple?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Shit. 

****

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

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

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

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

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

Like you have anyone to bring. “Well…”

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

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

Jessie shrugs. “Okay. See you Monday!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have t—”

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

“I’m your informant?”

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

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

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

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

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

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

“With Roy?”

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

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

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

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

“Mm. Most people wouldn’t agree.”

“Then most people would be wrong.”

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

“You’re in charge of those, ‘kay?”

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

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

“What?” you ask.

“That’s strange, I gotta admit.”

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

“Don’t get excited. Let’s just see.”

You wiggle in your seat. “Vindication!”

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

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

Hood laughs. “Jesus, I hope not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just sometimes?” he asks. 

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

He shrugs. “Fair enough.” 

You start to walk to the exit. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you met a Black Widow?”

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

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

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

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

“Let’s get closer,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes. 

?: Hide.

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

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

Your chest hurts.

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

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

“Fantastic. So where will the exchange happen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I knew you’d cover me,” you say.

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

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

That blessedly makes Hood stop ranting about your safety. 

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” He sighs. “Yeah, it is, but…”

“But what?”

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

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

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

“I helped you last year,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “A good one. Obviously.”

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

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

“I love them!” you say. 

Hood follows your finger. “Yeah?”

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

“Hozier’s cool. I like him.”

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

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

“Their music is fun.”

“I’ll have to try it.”

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

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

“Doubt she meant this stuff.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You helped yourself.”

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

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

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

“Well, I’d hope so.”

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

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

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

“We’re friends?”

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

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

****

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

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

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

“Hey.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dick Grayson will be there?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks.

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

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

You smile. “Like Die Hard.”

“They say that in Die Hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, small and proud. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-what? You mean Peter?”

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

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

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

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

“You too,” Dick says. “Finally.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: oh my god oh my god 

You: hood

You: hood

You: please

?: What’s up? I’m working.

You: TIM DRAKE IS ONTO ME 

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

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

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

? is typing… 

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

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

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

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

You: oh my god even worse!!!!

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

You: THIS COULD BE LIFE OR DEATH

?: Warhead

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

You: maybe i shouldn’t go to the gala

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

You: nvm that’s how ppl die. i’ll go

?: Are you eating the Warhead?

You: yeah

?: Eat another one. 

You do. 

****

You: does this look okay?

You: [img._6] 

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

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

You: i’ll be in a red dress btw

?: Okay. How do you feel?

You: fine. Are u already there? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Then again, neither is Tim. Huh.

You take out your phone.

You: have you found the trash?

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

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

?: Pretty dress.

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

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

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

And then you spill champagne on your dress. 

You sigh. “Great.”

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

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

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

You pull out your phone. 

You: spilled champagne :P

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t hear anything,” Tim says. 

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

Oh God. Peter?

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

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

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

You: security guards suck ASS

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

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

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

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

Ding!

?: Where are you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Traitor,” you snap. He ignores you.

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

“Do you know her?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guess you want an explanation,” he says.

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

Hood smiles a little. You frown.

“What?” you ask, aggravated.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“I am?”

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

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

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

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

Jason shrugs. “‘S okay. Was fun.”

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

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

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

“I remember those eyes,” you say quietly.

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

“Can I make a confession?”

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

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

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

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

“Mmhm?”

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

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

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

“I wish you’d kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Crowbar victim."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason grunts. "Back off."

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

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

“Not if I can help it.”

“But… legally?”

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

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

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

You frown. “But we haven’t.”

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

“I listen,” you say.

Jason immediately softens. “Yeah, you do.”

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

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

“What?”

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