Jason Todd stands in front of the bathroom mirror this fine Gotham morning (read - horrible, terrible downpour, fog that can only be described as 'Silent Hill-esque' in nature, and that strange feeling that someone's always somewhere that only Gotham carries), looking back at his reflection.

Well, no.

He's not really looking, is he?

He's.. staring. With that crease between his brows that only you can kiss away, those piercing eyes that seem to glare at everything and anyone that isn't you and a frown plastered across his face, he's staring.

Because Jason Peter Todd has greys. In his hair…

Not the ones after he was resurrected! No, no, those were always there. And to be honest - he'd come round to them. At the time, they felt like a silent, quiet rebellion (one he hadn't chosen, but still).

No, these were the other greys. You know, the greys that come with… age…

Not just greys though. The crow's feet beside his eyes, lines accentuating his face. The way his bones ached a little more after every patrol. How he'd wake up every morning with a new muscle cramp or pain. How he could no longer push himself past his limit without severe consequences (lying face down in bed and groaning as you rub your hands over his aching muscles).

The way he looked like.. him.

It was strange, to be honest. Still is, he thinks, as he stares at his features in the mirror - hand grazing over the stubble before he sighs and slowly begins shaving it down. Of all his children, Jason was the one that looked most like Bruce. Jason. You know, Jason 'not the golden child' Todd. Jason 'shoot first ask questions later' Todd. Jason 'oh I died except not really so now I'm back. But also different from before. Hey what's up?' Todd. That very same Jason, now stared back at himself in the mirror.

And this time, his eyes don't find his own. No, instead they find a softer, kinder set of eyes - looking back at his with a love and adoration he still doesn't feel he deserves. One that he still blames himself for corrupting, for ruining with… well, him. Your arms snake around his shoulders from behind him, chin barely resting on one shoulder as you stand on your tip toes. There's something in your eyes today - something that glimmers and glitters as his thoughts shift away from the depressing thoughts bathroom mirrors often hold, to a more natural calm. As if you know exactly what he's turmoiling himself with.

Things weren't always like this. Once upon a time, Jason was a man filled with a rage so unbridled, so unrestrained and unstoppable, that he'd rarely know such a calm like this. Then again, you had changed that.

You're not quite sure of what goes on in Jason's brain right now (though, who is?), but the softened smile across his face as his eyes shift from that overly critical glare he stares back at himself with to a much gentler, sweeter look he keeps reserved just for you has you practically melting. All without saying a single word.

He turns towards you, raising an eyebrow as he pulls your body against him. He thinks about you for a moment. Properly. The way you never stopped loving him - even in his worst days. How fiercely you fought for him, held him close to you after every horrible night. And now he holds you close before lifting you over his shoulder. Of course you squeal and gasp as he walks the two of you over to your shared bed. Where the young, fiesty Jason would have thrown you down and teased you, the older, gentler Jason lowers you with a sweetness that makes your heart melt. Gently pulling off his shirt and pants - leaving him just in his boxers.

And year - he could rush into this, get straight to fucking you into the mattress until you're raw and sore. You wouldn't complain, but he would. So instead he sits on the edge of the bed, beckoning you closer as he waits for you.

You join him, hands immediately splaying across his collarbone first as your thumbs roll circles into his skin. He sits patiently as you eagerly explore his body, his own hands pulling you into his lap and holding you steady.

You've changed too, he realises. Where once you'd look at him with that lustful gaze, now you look at him with a sweete- No, wait. It's still there. Still that lustful gaze. Except there is a sweetness to it now. Something softer underlines it this time.

Your nails lightly trace over each and every scar, lips pressing a kiss to them as you reclaim him to be yours once more.

For at night, he may belong to the city of Gotham and its people, but now? Here and now? He was yours. And only yours.

Nothing else matters as he leans back onto the bed, his own hands trailing up your body - slowly pushing up the night shirt that held back what he had yearned to see all night, pulling it up and off you. All as you lower yourself down to him - pressing your body against him as lips trail up his body. Starting low at his abdomen, snaking up towards his chest as you pause. He knows what comes next, and a smile graces his face. He watches you slowly lick your lips, tongue flicking across them as if to wet and prepare them for him. He's not much better - biting his lower lip and lowering his gaze as your hands splay across his chest once more. Your arms push your body closer as you do, and he still can't tear his eyes away from your chest. His hands snake up higher, finding the sides of your chest as his thumbs move out over your already hardened nipples.

Just like always, your back immediately arches - body leaning further into his touch as your own hands lift ever so slightly from his chest. He continues to circle his thumbs across your chest, slowly picking pace as you begin to roll your hips over his painfully hard cock - still restrained by the cloth that separates the two of you. Your hips move faster, eager to relieve the growing heat in your lower belly, until his hands snake back down.

Stopping you.

And suddenly you're frowning, sighing as you pout back at him.

Dear Gods is he a susceptible man, when you look at him like that. He should be stronger, able to hold himself back from giving in to anything. Surely he can hold out longer, no? But then your eyes are so pretty and wide, practically begging he take you so sweetly. And your lips push out in that pout that only makes him want to drag you down to him and bite you. And you're so, so soft and gentle - how could he ever deny his sweet girl like that?

Plus, that delighted gasp you make when he finally takes control - flipping you over as his lips press against your ear - is so very worth it all,

"Hello there, pretty girl. Miss me last night?"

"Miss you every night, Jay…"

"Still so good f'me, after all these years…"

Now - just because Jason is older and takes his sweet time loving you, does not mean that he wastes time. Not when he knows you, so well like this. He knows you're practically soaked at just the thought of him making love to you, and you're already so antsy - twitching and shifting around as you whine at him.

So Jason does what every good husband should.

He starts by pulling your panties up and off you - finally letting the cold, cool morning air around you hit your folds as his hands spread your thighs open. Then, he lets himself free - tugging his boxers off as his achingly hard cock springs out, coated in cum. You giggle and he sighs, raising his eyebrows,

"Oh, Jason!"

"What's up, pretty baby?"

"Wet and ready f'me? I'm flattered~"

"…You can't use my own words against me, ya know that, right?"

"Yet here we are?"

"Yet here.. we are.."

Despite his words, he can't stop himself from smiling as your blissfully saccharine giggles bounce around the room, tickling his brain in all the right ways. All as he lines his cock up to your folds once more, tapping it against your clit. He practically revels in how your body writhes and stretches as he slowly sheathes himself into you - pausing only when each and every thick inch of him fills you.

When he pauses, he lowers his forehead to yours. Chapped lips find your own, and traces of stubble tickle against your cheeks. His hands find the small of your back, holding you up to him once more as he begins to very slowly rock in and out of you. Savouring you. He hums into your lips, eyes pressed closed as you hum back. And there's nothing more you'd want in the world, than him like this right now.

Because sure - you could have him pound you over and over again, body twisted and contorted into angles as he works you the way only he could. Your nails could be digging into his back, dragging down as he fucks you into the mattress below - bed creaking aggressively as he entirely ruins you.

But that's not what you want. Not right now, when he feels so tender and loving. Filling you with both his thick, long cock but also a sweet warmth that trickles into each and every part of you. Each thrust is slow and gentle - only picking up pace when you ask him, with that satin soft voice of yours,

"Please, Jay! Faster, baby, faster!"

"Anything for my pretty girl.."

Yet even when he picks up pace, he still keeps himself just slow enough to really relish in each movement you make. The way your walls still remember and welcome him after all these years. Or how you push up further into him when he thrusts in at that one specific angle.

Especially though, he savours your sweetened, cock drunk babbling. Words entirely lost as you lose yourself entirely on him. And there's something else about it too - the way you trust him entirely, to feel comfortable enough to be like this with him. Reminding him that he is your safe space.

Similarly, his own thoughts begin to tear and wisp away - because what is your safe space is also his safe space. He allows his thoughts to loosen, and strands practically float around in clouds of lost thoughts as the only thought remaining is just how perfectly you wrap around him,

"F-fuck, pretty girl, you take me so well, huh? So fuckin' pretty, all f'me, all like this. Always f'me baby, fuck.. Never, ever gettin' tired of this.."

You're long past words, your walls tightening around him as you feel yourself climbing higher and higher with each thrust. He's messier now - less practiced and accurate, and more needy and desperate. One hand sneaks lower as his thumb teases over your clit, rolling circles into you as you only grip on to his forearms even tighter.

He drives you over the edge, hand only leaving your clit when you begin to shake under him. And then it finds your back again, holding you close as he now flips you to be on top of him. As much as he'd love to continue, rounds and rounds of endless sex as the two of you find your releases in one another, he only thrusts up into you long enough to finish his own high. You sigh as he finally cums, thrust stuttering in you as he holds your body flush against his. One hand raises up to your hair, pulling your head into his chest and slowly stroking your hair as you sigh (somewhat wistfully, he might add).

"My love… you have bewitched me… body and soul…"

"Pride and Prejudice, Jay?"

"Mhm."

The two of you remain entangled within one another for a while, actually. Before, Jason might've rushed to clean you up and hold you in his arms - the two of you drifting into dreamland -but now he reaches for his reading glasses (you know - the one's that drive you wild, the one's that practically have you foaming at the mouth, biting your lip as you whine and moa- another time.) and slightly tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice. He flicks through the pages, before landing on Chapter Thirty Four (where the two of you had last left off, last week), and begins to read to you,

"When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr Darcy…"

And so - as Gotham resumes its regular hustle and bustle of every Gotham morning (oh, you know. The horrible, terrible weather, the crowds of people brushing past each other and the absolutely awful traffic), the two of you lie in bliss and in peace.

For Jason Todd has aged gracefully, with his sweet wife.

xoxo, roe~

btw yall need to see what my setup was (watching re5 playthroughs as i write smut LMAO):

You don’t know if Jason Todd constitutes a friend really. 

Well that’s not fair. You see him at least three times a week. He brings you takeout from that Chinese place across town that you really like and sets the table while you ramble about whatever happened at work that day. He gives you book recommendations and annotates copies for you (you’re almost finished with the copy of ‘Emma’ he’s gifted to you). He’ll feed your cat and water your plants the very few times you go out of town.

 Overall you can definitely say that Jason Todd is your friend. It’s just that along with all of that, he also kisses you silly and fucks you into oblivion biweekly. 

It’s a simple arrangement really.

You ask him to come over in the wee hours of the night and he obliges, forcing himself through the fire escape of your tiny one bedroom loft instead of using the front door like a normal human being.

Sometimes he texts you instead, asking for permission to come to your house and give you multiple orgasms, like you’ll ever say no to that.

Either way he ends up at your home, and then in your bed soon after. 

There isn’t a specific dance you two do before falling in bed. Some nights he’ll come over with food for two and a request to watch some old Disney flick. Half way through the film he’ll start moving his hands up your sweatshirt and the next thing you know is that you're on his lap, kissing him hungrily, movie forgotten in the background. Other nights, you practically pounce on him as soon as he enters, guiding his hands to grope your body. He’s more than happy to oblige, eventually picking you up and taking you against the wall of your living room. 

He’ll eat you out for hours, sucking and kissing at your core messily. Completely oblivious to his surroundings, he doesn’t let anything affect his mission, not even you. His strong hands hold your thighs in place, making you feel a pleasant stretch but also stopping you from closing your legs. You whine and cry but he doesn’t care. Later he’ll kiss away your tears and push himself inside of you in one single thrust. You’ll gasp at the overwhelming feeling of both pain and pleasure, while he coos at you in a sweet voice. 

Rough, soft, missionary, cowgirl, foreplay,no foreplay. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the both of you were extremely satisfied by the other and will continue to satisfy each other if you have it your way. 

After all that was the base of your simple arrangement; mutual satisfaction and multiple orgasms. A way to forget a stressful day and feel pleasure instead of pain by satisfying that itch without any strings. Simple and easy. 

However the longer you stare at Jason Todd gently stroking your Honey’s head, the faster those words escape your mind. 

“So,” you ask, “are you here to spend all your time with Honey tonight?”

He looks up, eyes bright with mischief, smirk already in place. “Why? Feeling neglected?”

You scrunch your nose, and he laughs.

Sitting beside him, you smack his arm lightly. “Don’t tease. I’m the one who asked you over. It wasn’t her.”

“I like her,” he says easily. “She doesn’t use me for my body.”

“Oh please. That’s the whole point of this situation,” you scoff. “And Honey loves the treats you bring. You’re getting used by all the girls in this house, Todd.”

He rolls his eyes but carefully places your (but also his) baby into her bed before turning back to you. One second passes. Then he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap, ignoring your squeal.

“Why are you being such a brat?” His hands settle on your hips, pulling you closer. “Jealous?”

“I am not jealous of my cat.”

His lips are on you even before you finish responding, his kisses travel from your chest to your neck. It goes up to right below your jaw, where he bites and nibbles harshly before licking it to soothe the pain. You know it's going to bruise because Jason loves to mark you. Your foundation usage has increased greatly since you’ve let him into your home. You don’t blame him though, cause you're the same way. You love having your way with him and observing your artwork on his chest and neck. It gives you a sick sense of thrill and pleasure, makes you feel like you own him. 

“Good.” He stops his assault on your skin and looks up, his beautiful blue eyes staring deeply at your own. “Because you, lovely girl, have nothing to be jealous of.” 

Your heart can’t help but flutter at his words. This is when the simple arrangement starts to get messy and complicated. When he looks at you like that and says those things and holds your cat to his heart. You get confused and simple doesn’t look so simple anymore.

You push those thoughts aside and kiss him. It’s messy and rough and you bite on his lower lip hard. His hands find their way to your hair and he pulls on it while kissing you with the same enthusiasm. Your hands start to wander and you find yourself playing with the waistband of his sweats. They slip inside and you only have one more layer before you get what you want. One more flimsy cotton layer separating you from what you desire so badly. You start feeling him when—

“MEOW”

You’re startled by the sudden sound coming from your now awake kitten, who seems very upset that your friend-with-benefits has replaced her with you on his lap. You can’t blame her, you suppose, you're just as greedy when it comes to him.

You stepped out of your car with your partner, Andrea, the cold hitting you the second you opened the door. You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself and sighed softly, your breath visible in the chilly air. It would snow soon, you could tell. Gothamites could always tell when the first snow of the year would arrive. They could feel it in the sudden rise in humidity as the snow-carrying clouds approached, hear it in the eerie calmness of the air, and see it in the clouds—darker and gloomier than usual, looming with the promise of snowfall.

“Any idea who it is?” Andrea asked as she closed the car door, tying up her thick, jet black hair into a ponytail, like she always did before entering a crime scene. 

“Maybe it’s a Wayne,” she joked.

She was, of course, talking about the victim. You didn’t know much about the scene yet, but you knew from the call on the radio that it was a high profile case. Someone famous or important.

You raised an eyebrow as the pair of you walked towards the yellow tape, pushing past the small crowd.

“Guess we’re about to find out,” you responded.

You reached for the badge on your belt to show the uniformed officer standing at the yellow tape. “We’re the homicide detectives assigned to this case,” you told her. 

The officer—whose name tag, you noticed, read “Jordan”—nodded, allowing the two of you to pass. 

“Witnesses say they saw her be pushed,” she told you. “It checks out. With where she landed, and where she fell from, just jumping wouldn’t have been strong enough to create that distance. In fact, it’s more likely that she was… Well, thrown.”

Andrea nodded along as you neared the body. You winced slightly at the sight.

See, that’s something you always hated about cop shows. Hardened cops on TV always seemed to have this certain imperviousness to crime scenes, even the most gruesome ones. In reality, it never got easier. Each new homicide weighed just as much on the heart as the last one. The weight would linger, never really getting lighter until the killer was brought to justice, but even then, it hung around just loosely enough to be impossible to forget. In a lot of ways, that weight was what drove you to be a great detective, to give your all to every case, but you often found yourself wondering whether the persistent impression of the crime scene was worth it.

The woman appeared young. Too young to have died so soon. She was dressed in expensive clothing, and the jewellery that adorned her wrist, fingers and neck spoke to her high status.

“Lacey Holland,” Officer Jordan said, putting a name to the victim. “She was 19 years old, an up and coming pop star born and raised right here in Gotham. Her parents are socialites and philanthropists that live up on the West End. We’re attempting to contact them as we speak.”

“Shit,” you murmured to yourself.

Your mind immediately occupied itself with finding details in the crime scene. Things people often missed at first glance. One of her heels was unbuckled, you supposed that could have happened during a struggle. As could the large tear on the back of her dress, but what it revealed was more curious—a dainty tattoo of the initials, T.M.

A partner, maybe? You considered. As you knelt down to observe the body at a different angle, you could hear Andrea gathering more initial information from the responding officers, the two of you falling naturally into your discovered roles in the partnership. You weren’t as good with people as Andrea was. It was good to have her around to run point on things like this.

You reached for the pen in your pocket to carefully lift the bracelet around Lacey’s wrist to examine it more carefully. A charm bracelet. Most people put personally relevant charms on their charm bracelets. You took a mental note of the charms—a gold microphone, a crystal daisy, a silver soccer ball, and a gold book. Most of the bracelet was bare, a testament to the amount of life Lacey should have had left to live.

As you worked, your mind pulled you back to over half a decade ago, to memories of another case, another partner, another time entirely. Against your will, you recalled what had been taught to you by the first and only father figure you’d ever had, and how it had all been cut short so brutally.

No. Not now, you told yourself, shaking off the memories. You needed to focus on the case.

You sighed and stood, dusting off your clothes and catching up with Andrea. “Well, it’s not a Wayne,” you said.

Andrea gave you a small yet heavy smile, the kind she always gave you when you were around crime scenes. “Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Not much,” you answered. “Just that she liked daisies, soccer and reading. I’d have someone look into the people in her life and try and find someone with the initials T.M., though. You?”

Andrea nodded as you responded. “I didn’t find much either. But—...” Her voice drifted off as her eyes focused on something in the near distance behind you. “Your best friend is here again.” One side of her lips quirked up in an amused smirk.

“My best—?” you began to ask, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before you turned around and your face fell. “Fucking hell.”

Red mask. Dressed from head to toe in tactical gear. And an invisible smirk you’d bet money was hiding under that damn helmet. Red Hood.

You grumbled angrily under your breath as you made your way over to where he stood, leaning against your car, just a few feet away from the crowd at the yellow tape. You ducked beneath it, pushing back past the group of people to get to him.

“What are you doing here, Red?” you said, glaring at the Red Hood as you came to a stop before him, crossing your arms impatiently.

He shrugged in a way you wer sure was designed specifically to piss you off. “Heard on my police scanner that you got a homicide on your hands here.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, the sound slightly distorted through the filter on his helmet. “Thought you might need my help.”

You scoffed in response, rolling your eyes. “And why would I need your help?”

“Because I knew the girl,” Red Hood responded. “Well, I knew of her. And I think I have a pretty good guess at who killed her.”

“Let me guess, it was you?” you responded sardonically.

“Detective, please,” he responded with a scoff of his own. “I kill criminals, not 19-year-old wannabe Britney Spearses.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered exasperatedly under your breath as you rubbed your temples. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cuff you and shove you in the back of a squad car right now.”

The Red Hood only laughed in response. “Well, for one, you wouldn’t be able to, but you’re cute for thinking you could.” Your blood boiled, but he went on. “And secondly, if you did that, I wouldn’t be able to tell you who killed little Miss American Idol there.” He nodded towards the crime scene.

You gritted your teeth as you glared up at him, tapping your foot to try and stay calm. As… unpleasant as your feelings towards him were, Red Hood had given you reliable information in the past, and it helped that Commissioner Gordon was all about maintaining a good relationship with the Bats. In fact, he wouldn’t shut up to the GCPD benefactors about how yes, indeed, the Red Hood is one of his top detectives’ confidential informants. Of course, the act of bragging about a CI sort of negated the “confidential” part of that agreement, but you supposed Red Hood was a special case.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t one of your CIs. You had tried on numerous occasions to make that very clear, to no avail. He wasn’t a CI. Just a really annoying vigilante who kept showing up at your crime scenes.

But besides that, your brain once again involuntarily brought you back to your first partner and mentor, and as you closed your eyes to try to calm yourself, his warm, approachable face materialised on the back of your eyelids.

You knew what Healy would’ve said. People can be difficult, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t helpful.

“Fine,” you relented, though your glare didn’t let up. “What information do you have for me?”

You could practically hear the satisfaction rushing through his veins like a cheap high. It made you want to gag, and you never were too good at keeping disgust off your face. You were sure the look on your face was only feeding into Red Hood’s sick amusement.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Well, this is the place,” Jason told you.

Him and you were standing in front of the one place in Gotham that didn’t look like somewhere drugs would be exchanged.

He looked over at you with a proud grin, only to be greeted with that death glare of yours that he both loved and feared.

“I’m arresting you for wasting the time of an officer of the law,” you told him.

“What?” Jason responded with a scoff. “I’m telling you, this is the place Lacey got her drugs!”

“This is an old age home, Red!” you yelled back. “Unless she was buying Viagra from someone’s senile old grandfather, I highly doubt this is where she was getting drugs! In fact, I shouldn’t have been stupid enough to believe you about the drugs at all. Everyone in her life said she was straight as an arrow.”

You groaned softly, and checked your watch, rubbing your temples with frustration as you turned to leave. Jason felt something within him fall out of place as you attempted to leave. 

“Stop!” he called, his gloved hand instinctively reaching to clutch your wrist and keep you from leaving. “Detective.”

You turned your head to look back at him with that same adorable exasperated look on your face you seemed to always have when he was around. Jason couldn’t help but smile under his mask, grateful you couldn’t see it. He always felt this giddy around you. He wasn’t sure why it was, but something about you was addicting. It was why he went out of his way to look out for your name and callsign on his police scanner. Why he scrounged around in the lowest of the low places in Gotham to find something, anything that might help you with one of your cases. Sure, his methods were questionable, but his heart was in the right place.

“Just trust me,” Jason said, his voice falling a few decibels, betraying his sarcastic, cool persona. He was desperate to keep you around, and if you looked closely enough, it was painfully obvious. “Please. If we don’t find anything here, I promise you I’ll let you kick me in the balls.”

You let out a rare, restrained huff of laughter. “What?”

“I’m serious!” he responded. “I just need you to trust me on this one, okay?”

He watched as you raised an eyebrow at him, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Your eyes darted over his figure, no doubt looking for signs of dishonesty, although he let himself revel in the fantasy that you might have been checking him out. Your eyebrow fell as you let out a relenting sigh.

“Fine,” you murmured. “But I expect you to do good on that deal when it turns out that you were wrong about this place.”

Jason restrained himself from letting out a sigh of relief, though his shoulders visibly deflated from tension. “I’m not wrong about this place,” he said, reluctantly letting go of your wrist as he walked towards the entrance.

He didn’t look back at you, but he could practically hear you rolling your eyes at him.

“This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, huh?” Jason said playfully as the two of you walked. “A cop and a vigilante walk into a retirement home…”

He didn’t receive a response, yet Jason was certain he heard the quietest, amused exhale escape your nose.

The receptionist, a middle aged man with hair that grayed at the roots, dressed in purple scrubs, glanced up from his magazine, half expecting one of the usual visitors, Jason guessed. He had to do a double take, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him. After all, Jason didn’t think vigilantes were particularly regular visitors to the retirement home.

You reached for your badge and sighed as you showed it to the receptionist. “GCPD,” you said. “We’re here investigating the murder of a Lacey Holland? Did you ever see her come through here?”

The receptionist, still visibly dumbstruck, stumbled over his words. “Well, I can’t say I recall the name, but I don’t normally work the reception…” he murmured, reaching into a drawer to grab a thick record book. “But you are welcome to look through the records.”

“Oh,” you responded, clearly surprised. Probably about the fact that the receptionist hadn’t asked for a warrant. Still, you shrugged and thanked the man.

Jason followed your gaze as you flipped through the book. Each visitor from the beginning of the year to now had signed in. He smirked in triumph as he noticed Lacey’s name repeating over and over again. Almost every week. 

“Fuck,” you muttered before looking up at Jason, before narrowing your eyes. “This doesn’t prove anything, alright? Maybe she has a family member here.”

“The girl’s family were millionaires, Detective,” Jason said, rolling his eyes and leaning against the reception counter. “I don’t think they’d stick their elderly in a cheap nursing home.” He glanced at the receptionist. “No offense,” Jason told him.

“A friend, then?” you said, unimpressed, turning your attention back to the record book. “Looks like she came every Thursday to meet a Molly Reefer.”

Jason burst out laughing, earning a few stern looks from the attendants and residents around him, and an even sterner look from you.

“Molly Reefer?” he laughed. “Are you serious? Come on, that’s obviously a cover name for someone she buys drugs from. They haven’t even tried to make it less obvious.”

You closed your eyes for a few seconds and took a few deep breaths, presumably to keep yourself from strangling him. Jason’s amused grin grew at the sight.

Eyes still closed, you asked the receptionist, “What’s the room number for Molly Reefer?”

Jason turned to look at the receptionist, who quickly looked through the records on his computer and answered, “806.”

“Alright then, Detective,” Jason said, already turning towards the elevators. “Off we go to prove I was right about this whole thing.”

You glared at him for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and Jason felt his insides stir again for what felt like the hundredth time that day. It wasn’t long before the pair of you stood before room 806. You knocked on the door.

“Ms. Reefer?” you called, and Jason stifled laughter again, earning a swift elbow to the midsection from you. “GCPD! We need to talk to you about Lacey Holland!”

When there was the response, Jason shrugged, feigning cluelessness. “Maybe Molly Reefer had a little fall.”

“I really hate you,” you muttered as you flagged down an attendant to ask for a key.

“Oh, the door shouldn’t be locked,” the attendant responded, swinging the door open for you. “This room has been unoccupied for months.”

“Has it?” Jason said, his voice laced with victorious amusement.

The attendant, also obviously surprised at the presence of the Red Hood next to a GCPD officer at her place of work, nodded. Her eyes betrayed an air of confusion.

“Thank you, miss,” Jason told her as he walked into the unoccupied room with you.

You looked around, taking in the sterility of the room. The sheets were perfectly made, the desk empty and free of any memorabilia or personal items one would expect in an occupied room. It was a complete blank slate.

“Now will you admit I was right?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow as he sat on the bed, bouncing on it listlessly.

You didn’t respond, but Jason watched as you grit your teeth unhappily, a sign of defeat he loved to see more than almost anything else in the world. You carried out a methodical search of the room, and beneath the mattress, you found what you were looking for.

“Well, fuck,” you muttered.

“Language, detective,” Jason responded teasingly, just to get you riled up. He turned his head to look over at you on the opposite side of the bed. “What is it? What did you find?”

You let the mattress down and put on a pair of gloves from your pocket before lifting it again and pulling out the item in question. A little zip-lock baggie filled with white powder. You held it up and sighed in defeat.

Jason grinned wickedly beneath his helmet. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

You grit your teeth again. Your lips hung open for a second before you spoke, as if it was physically painful for you to say the words you said next. “You were right.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Over the next 2 hours or so, the nursing home had become swarming with police. Each worker was interviewed. Well, each worker except for one, a Thomas Melrose, who had apparently clocked into work at the start of his shift, but was suddenly missing.

Red Hood had been particularly smug about the whole thing, using every possible opportunity he got to gloat to you, and it was making you want to tear all your hair out. He was also certain that Thomas Melrose had been Lacey’s killer. You finally had a few moments of peace when he took his leave to ask his contacts if they knew any drug runners with the name.

“Thanks for that, old man,” you murmured to yourself in the silence of the station’s elevator as you rode up to your office. It was silly, but sometimes you liked to pretend that Healy could hear you from wherever he was now.

It had been almost three years since he’d died, but Healy’s advice and wisdom still guided you through the job.

You sighed softly when you got back to your desk at your station and sank into your admittedly quite uncomfortable office chair. Andrea looked over her computer screen at you from her own desk opposite to yours.

She gave you a knowing smile. “Heard the Red Hood gave you a good assist.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

Andrea laughed. “That bad, huh?” she asked.

“No,” you responded stubbornly. “No, I can admit when I’m wrong, you know? It’s just… He’s such an asshole, Andy.” You sighed, rubbing your temples.

“I don’t know,” Andrea replied. “Maybe you’re too tough on him.”

“Whose side are you on?” you said, defensively.

She just rolled her eyes in response. “Anyway,” she said. “I looked into Tom Melrose like you asked me to. He’s a GothamU student. His parents are pretty wealthy bigshots in the business world. He works at the nursing home for a social service credit. The only connection between him and Lacey is that she also went to GothamU before dropping out. But the tattoo is too big of a coincidence to rule out.”

You nodded along, propping up your elbows on your desk and resting your chin on your fist as your mind reeled with the facts of the case.

Andrea sighed before she added. “There’s more. The autopsy came back,” she said. “Lacey was pregnant when she died. And there were injuries that showed signs of abuse.”

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Shit. That changes things.”

Your heart broke for that poor girl. You wished you could say a situation like this was uncommon, but the truth was in a city like Gotham, almost every other 911 call was a domestic disturbance, and most of them were ugly situations. Times when the abuser nearly killed or did kill their victim. Every cop in the city knew the feeling of being assigned to a domestic disturbance and the silence in the squad car as they drove over, both them and their partner silently praying they wouldn’t be calling in a homicide unit that day.

Andrea nodded solemnly. “If we can get one of Melrose’s parents to agree to a DNA test, or get a court order for it, we’ll be able to tell if he was the father or not.”

“So, a frat boy decides to rebel against his rich parents by selling drugs. Definitely not unheard of,” you hypothesised. “He meets a girl at college and gets her into drugs and starts abusing her. She finds out she’s pregnant and gets clean. She tells him about it and threatens to go to the press about it or tell his parents, or something else that would effectively ruin his life or get him cut off by his parents. He panics and kills her. Then he realises the cops are onto him and makes a run for it.”

“Makes sense,” Andrea affirmed. “But where would he run?”

You sighed and leaned back in your chair. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” you murmured. “Where is he now?”

“Have you heard back from your red friend yet?” Andrea asked.

“No,” you answered. “I’m hoping I won’t either.” You rolled your eyes.

“He wouldn’t be of any help, trust me,” you added. “He’s an arrogant dickhead who thinks he’s god’s gift, like he’s saving the world. I mean, buddy, you run around town in a silly costume shooting people. You’re not Batman or Superman, you know. I don’t even know how the other Bats put up with him.”

She smiled and chuckled softly to herself, turning her attention back to her computer screen, no doubt hitting refresh on Melrose’s bank records to see if a new expense had popped up.

You narrowed your eyes at her. “What’s that laugh about?”

Andrea shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered with a cool shrug. “Just that you seem awfully wound up about him.”

“No,” you said with a sarcastic laugh. “Oh no. I know what you’re implying and that’s not it.”

She only laughed again. “No? You seem awfully obsessed with him, though,” Andrea teased.

You scoffed. “Me?” you said. “Obsessed with him? Come on, you and I both know that’s crazy. He’s the one that’s constantly showing up and undermining our crime scenes. No, if anyone is obsessed with anyone, it's him that’s obsessed with me.”

“So defensive…” Andrea murmured playfully.

You glared. “Again, whose side are you even on?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m an adult, babe, I don’t play sides.”

You rolled your eyes right back at her. “I’m going to find out who this asshole is,” you declared.

“Is that so?” Andrea responded sarcastically.

“Jesus, Andy, you could at least pretend to be supportive,” you responded, crossing your arms defensively.

“I don’t like it when you get this obsessive,” she answered frankly. “You get a little cuckoo.”

“I am not obsessive!” you huffed. “And I do not get ‘a little cuckoo’.”

Andrea only shook her head again in response, deciding that this was a battle she’d never win. “I’m emailing you Melrose’s bank records,” she said. “Make yourself useful and help me go through them, will you?”

A few weeks passed. Melrose had been missing for long enough to be considered an official missing person, and after obtaining a court order for his father’s DNA, the GCPD had been able to conclusively state that Thomas Melrose was the most likely father of Lacey Holland’s baby. The press coverage around the murder had been relentless, and despite Melrose already having lost in the court of public opinion, the unsolved case ate away at your mind slowly but surely, like all your unsolved cases did. When it came to unsolved cases, you learned fairly quickly that you’d be better off taking a few days off to get your head back on right, otherwise you failed to give your all on other cases.

Still, staying home was its own special kind of torture. You tended to spend so much time at the station and in the field that home was really just a place to sleep. You never really took enough time to make it your own. It was like living inside an interior design magazine cover. Beautiful, spotless and tidy, but unwelcoming, and soulless. It wasn’t cozy the way Andrea and her wife’s house was cozy, or homey in the way that your parents’ house was homey. 

It didn’t help that the last time you’d stayed at home for so long at a stretch had been right after Healy’s funeral. The death of your mentor had been so emotionally and physically taxing that for a week, you struggled to leave the house, surrounded by the pristine, almost sterile, environment of your house that now only served as a reminder of your immobilised state at the time.

You sighed faintly as you trudged out of your bed one morning to get a start on breakfast, but as you reached your door, you noticed a shadow moving around through the crack between the door and the floor. 

What kind of an idiot breaks into a cop’s house at 7 in the morning? You thought to yourself, instinctively reaching for the place on your hip where your radio would have been before realising you weren’t on duty.

You let out a quiet, undignified curse in frustration and reached for your phone to call 911 for backup before arming yourself with your gun and preparing to confront the intruder. Whoever it was, you knew, was about to be a very sorry boy.

“GCPD!” you yelled, bursting through the door and pointing your gun at the intruder. “Get down, put your hands behind your head!”

“Jesus, Detective,” the intruder said with an all too familiar laugh. “Didn’t realise you were kinky like that.”

Red Hood. Again. You sighed and put down your gun at the sight of his quintessential red helmet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you yelled.

“Well, I had to see you, and I couldn’t find you at the station,” Red Hood responded with a shrug, as if breaking into your house was an obvious next step that anyone would have taken.

“So you broke into my house?!” you rebutted. “Are you actually nuts?”

Red Hood didn’t respond, only watching as you called 911 again and let the dispatcher know your previous breaking and entering call was a false alarm.

“You called the cops on me?” he asked.

“What did you expect me to do, Red?” you shot back. “Again, you broke into my house!”

“This is hardly a house, you know,” he said, looking around, running his fingers over various pristine surfaces and looking up at the art you had hanging from the walls. “Well, I guess it is a house. But it’s definitely not a home. For a while there, I was worried I had the wrong address. Thought this one was staged for an open house or something.”

“Are you just here to insult my interior design choices, or what?” you scoffed, though you had to admit, his snide remark had hit a bit too close to home.

“Of course not,” Red Hood responded, turning to look at you with what you could only assume was the biggest smirk mankind had ever seen. “I also wanted to compliment your PJs.”

You looked down at your faded sleep shirt—an old Star Wars graphic t-shirt—and pajama shorts, before looking back up at Red Hood and angrily throwing a beige couch pillow at him. 

“Get out of my apartment!” you yelled.

He flinched at the pillow attack and relented. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry,” Red Hood said, even though he was laughing as he spoke. “I need your help. I’m serious this time.”

“Take it down to the station, Red, I’m not working today,” you said.

“Come on, you know I don’t trust cops,” he responded.

“News flash, Red,” you retorted sarcastically. “I’m a cop. Yeah, a real, live cop. Believe it or not.”

“Yeah, but you’re different,” he responded, a hint of something that sounded awfully close to sincerity in his voice. 

You exhaled exasperatedly, finally relenting. “What do you need?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“This is insane,” you murmured as you drove to Blüdhaven. “If you already have a cop friend in Blüdhaven to help you with this so-called trafficking case, why do you even need me?”

Jason leaned back in the passenger side carseat, getting comfortable for the long drive to Gotham’s sister city. “I told you,” he said. “Because you arrested three of their goons a year ago. You know more about this case than my other guy.”

You sighed gingerly, but didn’t respond. Jason looked over at you to try and read your expression. Your eyes were fixed straight on the road ahead, and your shoulders, which had been tense since this morning, were slowly relaxing. So slowly, in fact, that he wondered if you were even aware of it. 

Of course, Jason was bending the truth, just a little. He probably would’ve been fine without you. Maybe you could have shot a quick email to Dick at BPD with the arrest records and information from your previous arrests, but Dick was a perfectly capable cop. He would’ve been fine with or without you.

Jason just wanted you around. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to do this with you. Maybe if you saw him do this, take down this trafficking ring—preferably without killing anyone, since you seemed to have a bit of an issue with that, as did Dick and Bruce—maybe you’d see him in a different light. Maybe you’d see him as more than just some annoying vigilante that always followed you around like some sort of pathetic puppy.

God, he really did feel pathetic. But he couldn’t help it.

The need to be around you grew greater with every second he spent around you, his heart never quite satisfied with however much of you he was getting already. He wanted all of you, in a way that he’d never wanted anyone else. He knew now how Dick felt about Kory and it sucked that Jason couldn’t tease him about it anymore. It was a silly feeling, really. The silliest.

Jason just couldn’t get enough of you.

Of course, it helped that he didn’t really know what adult feelings were supposed to feel like. The last time he’d liked a girl was before he died. He was fifteen and hormonal and incredibly stupid. Everything felt like it was so much bigger than it was. He supposed it was possible that a little bit of that fifteen-year-old boy was still inside him and he was just making whatever he felt for you out to be much bigger than it actually was.

Surprisingly, it was you who broke the silence, interrupting him from his thoughts. You cleared your throat somewhat awkwardly.

“I hate driving in silence,” you confessed. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

Jason shook his head. “No,” he answered. “No, of course not.”

You gave him an amusing expression, with your lips slightly quirked upwards, like you were trying to smile but weren’t quite there yet. Despite himself, Jason found it adorable. Baby steps, he told himself. You were getting more comfortable with him. He wouldn’t take that for granted. Jason smiled beneath the helmet as you reached for the centre console to turn on the radio.

It wasn’t long before you were parking in Dick’s building’s parking lot. Jason led you down the familiar path to the elevator, and up to his brother’s apartment.

“Dickie bird!” Jason announced as he burst through the door with a key that Dick had given him for safekeeping.

“Jason?” he called back from somewhere within the apartment. Jason froze at the sound of his name—his real name—being called. Beside him, you raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously.

“Jason, huh?” you murmured with a playful lilt. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Jason.”

“Jesus Christ, Dick, I’m with company!” Jason yelled frustratedly back into the apartment. He’d never been more grateful for the helmet than now, knowing you couldn’t see the bright red flush that had most likely taken over his face.

Dick walked out of the bedroom, and narrowed his eyes at Jason. “Well, maybe if you’d fucking knocked instead of barging into the house, I’d have known that,” he shot back, hitting Jason over the back of the head. “I gave you that key for emergencies, not free reign over my apartment.”

“Ow!” Jason complained. It hadn’t hurt, not really, thanks to the helmet, but it was more about the bruise to his ego than anything. Jason continued to glare at Dick as he introduced you to him. You smiled politely. The same smile you had in all your police and government photos—the one that never quite reached your eyes. Dick shook your hand.

“So this is the famous detective,” he said with that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You know of me?” you asked curiously, raising an eyebrow. “Does Red—or, uh, Jason—talk about me?”

Dick’s grin grew wicked as he glanced at Jason.

God, please no. Jason thought to himself.

“He’s… talked about you before,” Dick said. “Quite a bit, actually.”

Jason resisted the urge to tackle Dick and shove his face into the stupid green carpet in his living room.

“Huh,” you responded, looking over at Jason. “Interesting.”

Jason cleared his throat, desperate to talk about something, anything, else. “Can we please talk about why we’re actually here?”

“You’re no fun, Jaybird,” Dick teased. “Besides, we should get to know each other a bit more before we begin, wouldn’t you say? After all, you never told me you’d be bringing someone along when you told me about the trafficking ring.”

You raised an eyebrow at the nickname. Jason’s face burned even brighter. What was he thinking, bringing you right to the lion’s den? Dick loved embarrassing him. He should’ve known better.

“No!” Jason insisted, bringing Dick over to sit down at the couch, shooting him a glare from behind the helmet that he prayed his brother had somehow telepathically sensed. “We need to get to work. Start explaining the plan, Dicko.”

“Bummer,” you said with a small smile—a real one this time. “I was hoping to learn a little more about how you got that nickname, Jaybird.”

“You should come over when he isn’t around,” Dick said playfully. “Boy, I have the best stories. Like this one time—”

Jason cut Dick off. “She doesn’t need to hear any stories, Dick,” he insisted, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

You rolled your eyes and snickered tacitly before playfully mouthing the words “next time” to Dick.

For a moment, Jason seriously contemplated throwing you over his shoulder and dragging you back to Gotham, but he decided you’d probably tase him. Or bite him. Or kick him in the balls. Or all three.

To his relief, Dick began to actually explain the background of the trafficking ring, talking about how it seemed to have migrated from Gotham to Blüdhaven. Together, the three of you were able to pinpoint the place their headquarters, where they kept all their victims, would most likely be. A warehouse at the docks, down by The Narrows, where one would easily be able to load a bunch of beaten and bloodied girls into a ship bound to Europe or South America in the cover of night, without anyone ever batting an eye.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“So, uh… You and Dick know each other pretty well?” you asked carefully, not wanting to step on any toes, as you and Red Hood—or, as you’d recently learned, Jason—sat on the rooftop of another warehouse near the one the three of you were scoping out. Dick was waiting on the ground, in case he needed to jump into action.

Jason sighed, as if he was expecting this question, but didn’t quite know how to answer it. “You could, uh… Well, you could say we’re like brothers,” he responded. His tone indicated there was more to the story than he was telling you, but you knew better than to push.

Still, the cop in you wouldn’t let up.

“Right.” You nodded. “It’s just that you have a key to his house and everything.”

Jason groaned this time. You let out a soft laugh. “How’d you meet him?” you asked.

He was quiet for a few moments, as if debating how much to tell you. “Through family,” he responded curtly.

“So he knew you as Jason before he knew you as Red Hood?” you questioned curiously.

“He did, yeah,” Jason answered.

You took a quick peak through the binoculars and stiffened up. “Heads up, there’s an armed man walking into the warehouse…” 

You absent-mindedly passed the pair to Jason so he could look too, letting out a light laugh when you realised he was wearing a helmet that covered his entire face, and therefore couldn’t use the binoculars.

“My bad,” you said through soft snickers, reaching for the radio to alert Dick. “One entering the building. He is armed, repeat, he is armed.”

“Copy that,” came Dick’s response through the warm crackle of the handheld device. “I see him.”

“Should we call for backup?” you asked.

“Negative,” Dick answered. “We’ll wait until we see some concrete signs that they’re holding the victims here.”

“Copy that…” you responded, sighing and placing the radio back down.

There were a few more minutes of waiting before you could hear a gruff voice yelling commands in the distance, getting closer. As the man’s voice got louder, you could hear it accompanied by soft, crying whimpers.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath. “I really hope that’s not what I think it is.”

Jason reached for the radio to alert Dick as you chewed your lip nervously. Indeed, soon enough, a line of girls who couldn’t have been older than twenty came into view, their hands bound with zip ties and mouths covered with duct tape, wearing clothes that were dirty and ripped from struggle. They were led by a large, burly man with an automatic. Your eyebrows furrowed together, the looks on the girls’ faces were haunting. The fear for their life, the desperation for a miracle to come save them. You tugged at Jason’s arm before even realising your hand was moving.

“Let’s go,” you said softly.

“We have to wait for backup,” he whispered back. “We’re seriously outgunned and outnumbered.”

“If we wait, those girls could be gone already!” you retorted. You didn’t sound strong, or frustrated, or stubborn in the same way you normally did. You were desperate to save these girls. Jason could hear it in your voice.

“It’s too risky,” he said, reluctantly, like the words hurt him to say as much as they hurt you to hear. “I can’t lose you, alright? We’re gonna stay here, where it’s safe.”

You’d already failed Lacey Holland. You couldn’t fail these girls too. This was why you got into the force. To be the protector that these women needed. If you didn’t do everything you could to save them, then you’d be failing not just them, but yourself.

“Jason,” you said hushedly. “Please.”

The sound of his real name must have softened him, because Jason sighed under his breath, shaking his head and looking out towards the girls being shoved into the warehouse. “We wait until he brings them back out,” he conceded. “If we go into that closed space with guns ablazing, it’s almost certain death.”

You nodded, grateful that Jason had trusted you with this. “Okay.”

A short pause, and then you added, “Thank you.”

Sure enough, before too long, the man returned, accompanied by a few compatriots, although he seemed to be the boss amongst them. He stood at the front of the line, with two other men, followed by the girls, moving in a single file line, hands and mouths still bound. You counted 6 of them, with two more men at their tail end.

“I’ve only got a nine millimetre," you murmured. “It’s a cop gun. Can’t shoot that far.”

“Yeah, I don’t exactly carry around sniper rifles either,” Jason muttered back, grabbing the radio with one hand and your hand with the other. “Come on, let’s go in.”

“Dick, we’re moving in,” Jason told Dick over the radio.

“Copy that,” came Dick’s response. “Backup is 3 minutes out.”

3 minutes.

A lot could happen in 3 minutes.

The pair of you rushed down the stairs to the ground, and Jason led you swiftly, yet soundlessly to duck behind the wall of the warehouse, only a few short metres away from where the girls were being led onto the docks. He peaked out to scope out the fire power the men were carrying.

“All five have automatics,” he murmured. “We might stand a chance, but only if we can even the playing field and take at least two of them out.”

You knelt down to shoot from a lower angle. “Andy and I used this move once during a tactical training session. You shoot together on three, it takes down multiple suspects and only alerts them once. Never actually done it out on the field.”

Jason looked down at you and chuckled breathily. “Will it work?”

“Depends,” you answered, taking aim at one of the men. “How good of a shot are you?” 

Jason shook his head, as if the question was redundant. “Detective, please,” he murmured, his tone that of the familiar cockiness you’d grown to expect, taking aim.

You smiled. “Three,” you began the countdown. “Two… One..”

Two gunshots, so precisely timed that one might have mistaken them for a single gunshot. But the pair of immobilised bodies on the floor would beg to differ. Their ringleader and the two at the front of the line immediately turned at the sound as the girls began to whimper and huddle together in fear, each one still too terrified to seize the opportunity and make a run for it.

You stood back up as quickly as you could, pressing your body against the wall as the burly man sent the other two to investigate. You took a deep breath, and your nostrils filled with the all too familiar scent that thickened the air whenever a gun had recently been fired nearby. The bitter, metallic smell of gunpowder paired with the rush of adrenaline through your veins. 

Jason grabbed the barrel of their gun as the braver of the two, the one in front, turned the corner. Jason pushed it away from the pair of you as the man began firing reflexively, as did his friend. You ducked, instinctively covering your head at the sound of the bullets as Jason managed to wrestle the gun out of the lackey’s hands and aimed it back at them, firing back at them. His quick, clean and precise shots were a stark contrast to the incessant firing of the other two.

“Grab the other one!” Jason instructed as Dick managed to shoot the remaining ringleader in the leg, giving him an opportunity to disarm him as well. 

By now, the sound of bullets had alerted the rest of the goons inside the warehouse to join the ensuing fight, but the sound of sirens in the distance assured you that your own backup was close.

“I don’t know how to shoot an automatic!” you yelled back over the sound of gunshots.

“Then use your handgun!” Jason responded, firing at a group of maybe five that emerged from the warehouse. “Stay down!”

You nodded, your grip on your gun tightening as you shot at the group, who were still yet to pinpoint the location of the gunshots. You took advantage of their cluelessness and fired thrice. Only one of them hit, but you effectively took down one of the men.

“Stay here, I’m going to run around the warehouse and get them from behind,” you told Jason.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Dick engaged in hand to hand struggle with the ringleader. He’d managed to disarm him and kick away his weapon. You didn’t see much, but you’d definitely seen enough to tell he didn’t fight like a cop. A curious observation, but one you didn’t have time for at present.

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears with adrenaline as you made the long run around the back of the warehouse. The sound of sirens in the distance getting closer and closer was interspersed with the sound of gunfire behind you. The smell of gunpowder still lingered in your nose as you took deep breaths, like you were trained to do. In and out through both your nose and your mouth, to stay cool and run faster. 

You were out on the other side of the warehouse within seconds—a new record you might have celebrated if not for the circumstances. You shot the man in front of you in the leg and tackled him from behind when he buckled down, kicking away his weapon and grunting with effort as he struggled beneath you. The impact of the tackle had definitely hurt your knees, an ache you’d feel the next day, but you supposed you could’ve been shot, like the man beneath you, and that would definitely have been worse.

You managed to get handcuffs on his wrist and looked back up to shoot a few more similar shots at the legs of the two men Jason was fighting. A quick glance back at Dick would tell you that the two men had eerily similar styles of fighting, except for the fact that Dick was perhaps a bit more flexible.

What was his last name again? Grayson? It was a peculiarly familiar name. You wondered if you’d met before.

You didn’t have much time at the moment to ponder the question though. You aimed your gun at the chest of the ringleader and Jason raced to help in the fight, waiting for a clean shot that wouldn’t hit either of the other two.

Bingo.

You squeezed the trigger just as the police cars arrived.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You’d left not long after the ordeal at the docks. You’d offered Jason a ride back home, but he’d declined, preferring to find his own way. Well, that, and the fact that he’d been wearing the helmet for nearly 12 hours straight now, and wouldn’t you know it was getting dreadfully stuffy in there.

Back at Dick’s apartment, Jason breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled the helmet off, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling how the sweat had caused his hair to stick to his skin.

“God, that thing is suffocating,” he murmured.

Dick laughed, shaking his head lightly as he walked into his kitchen to fetch two ice cold bottles of water, tossing one to his brother. “You should have Tim install some A/C in there,” he joked.

Jason rolled his eyes affectionately, catching the bottle and twisting the top open. He brought the bottle to his lips and thirstily guzzled sip after sip, almost finishing the entire bottle in one go.

Dick stretched his back out and yawned, coming to sit next to Jason on the couch. “So that’s her, huh?”

Jason shot his brother a sideways glare. “You could’ve been a bit more subtle about the whole thing, you know,” he grumbled unhappily.

Dick only laughed harder this time, placing his bottle on the coffee table before turning to face Jason on the couch. “I had to give you a hard time, come on,” he said playfully. “That’s what big brothers do.”

“You’re evil,” Jason replied. “That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to sit through.”

Dick waved a hand dismissively. “Come on, you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not!” Jason insisted, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Dick.

He only rolled his eyes in response, instead changing the subject. “She’s pretty, you know,” Dick said. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to go for a cop. Seeing as you seem to have plenty of reservations about people in my line of work.”

“She’s one of the good ones,” Jason responded, his expression and his voice softening as he talked about you. He let out a quiet sigh. “You know, despite everything, I actually trust her. She makes me feel lighter, like I’m… normal.”

He watched as Dick’s brows knitted together and his pursed lips parted to say something, but Jason interrupted him.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said. “That I am normal. But I’m not, Dick. Nothing about my life or what happened to me is normal. I’m not even supposed to be alive right now.”

“I know,” Dick conceded with a soft, concerned exhale. “I’m just worried about you, you know? I’m glad you feel a sense of normalcy around this woman, but I don’t want you reliant on someone else for that.”

Jason smiled, one that actually reached his eyes. “Thanks,” he murmured, not quite sure how to express his gratitude. “It’s… It’s nice to know someone cares.”

Dick smiled back, his bright charming smile that Jason knew lit up every room he walked into. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, little bird,” he teased, patting his brother on the back.

Jason rolled his eyes again, chuckled softly to himself as he shook his head and playfully pushed Dick away.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Back in Gotham and out of your rut, you’d found yourself inexplicably drawn down another rabbit hole, and in true you fashion, it had consumed you. You couldn’t sleep at night, your thoughts racing about this new mystery to be solved, and of course, you had to drag your partner into it, like you always did.

It was a habit you’d inherited from Healy. He was the kind of detective to become obsessive over his cases, especially when they were of personal relevance or interest. You’d been around him so much during your formative years as a detective that you’d adopted the quirk yourself, something that Andrea, who had a much healthier work-life balance, was forever cursing.

“Andy, there’s something very fishy going on here,” you said, greeting her at the elevator when the doors opened and welcomed her to your floor. It couldn’t have been past 8 a.m. “With the Red Hood and his cop friend, I mean.”

Andrea groaned and yawned tiredly. “Good morning to you too,” she murmured sarcastically.

You rolled your eyes, not letting her tiredness deter you. You’d been bouncing off the walls with caffeine since three in the morning, and you were just itching to present your findings to someone, much like a child wanting to show off her newly designed dance routine to her mother.

“So this guy, Dick Grayson, I knew the name sounded familiar, right?” you said. “Well, I looked it up, and of course, this guy is Bruce Wayne’s first kid!”

Andrea raised an eyebrow, unimpressed as you scampered after her into the bullpen, watching as she fixed herself a cup of coffee in the kitchenette. “Bruce Wayne has plenty of kids, doesn’t he?” she responded. “He’s like Brad and Angelina. Collecting those damn children like they’re Pokémon or something.”

“Well yes,” you continued. “It wouldn’t be significant, if it wasn’t for the fact that Jason, or well, Red Hood, said that they met through family.”

“Is this going anywhere?” Andrea asked with a tired sigh, grabbing her cup from the coffee maker and going to sit down at her desk, with you once again scrambling after her at her heels.

“Come on, Andy, think about it,” you said. “They met through family, and Dick Grayson’s only living family is Bruce Wayne and his menagerie of adopted children.”

“Maybe Dick knew Red Hood before his parents died,” she responded with a shrug. “Did you consider that?”

You rolled your eyes as you walked around her desk to sit at yours. “Of course I thought of that,” you said. “It’s an entirely plausible possibility, I suppose, if it wasn’t for the fact that Jason told me they were like brothers.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow at you again. “When was the last time you slept, sweetheart?”

“I’m onto something, Andy!” you insisted defensively. “I’m not crazy, will you just listen?”

She sighed, putting two hands up in concession. “Fine,” she said cynically. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you!” you said, taking a sip of the coffee on your desk, brewed almost an hour ago and gone cold already. You’d been at the station longer than you’d have liked to admit, caught up in the need to investigate. “So, Dick Grayson and Jason, a.k.a Red Hood, are like brothers.”

“This is relevant, of course, in the fact that Dick Grayson is the ward of Bruce Wayne, a man known for his habit of adopting children,” you continued. “So, I’m thinking… This Jason is somehow related to Bruce Wayne. Specifically, I think he’s his adopted son.”

“Great theory,” Andrea responded sarcastically. “Except for the fact that I think if Bruce Wayne had a son called Jason, we’d know about it. I think all of Gotham would know about it, actually. The Waynes are practically royalty in this city.”

“Aha!” you said, pointing at her. “And that’s the question, isn’t it? Why hasn’t anyone heard of a Wayne called Jason?”

“Probably because he doesn’t exist?” she guessed, sounding as unimpressed as ever.

“Except…!” you said with a victorious grin tilting your computer screen towards her, the wires connecting your monitor to the rest of its components twisting around its base. On it was an article, titled “Young life taken by the Joker.”

“This article talks about the death of a boy, Jason Todd, almost 15 years ago,” you said. “He was 15 when he died, and there’s a picture of the funeral. Right here, see.”

You zoomed into the picture, at a shadowy figure in attendance. “Doesn’t that look an awful lot like Bruce Wayne?”

Andrea blinked at the photo, and then at you. “You know, I think you should really get some sleep—”

You interrupted her. “How many random children’s funerals do you think Bruce Wayne goes to?” you said. “Come on, Andrea, are you telling me you don’t see where this is all leading?”

“I’m telling you that that photo could be of literally anyone!” she responded. “And besides, even if Jason is Bruce Wayne’s kid, according to your theory, he should be dead, which, clearly, he’s not.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Jason Todd should be dead. Unless Bruce Wayne faked his death and paid the media good money to keep word from getting out about it, for whatever reason.”

“And why would he do that?” Andrea asked with another sigh. “Also, what exactly do you want to do about it? Storm up to Wayne Manor and confront the man?”

“Well, I don’t know why he’d want to do that,” you said. “But I do know what I want to do about it. I’m going to prove my hypothesis.” You smiled proudly.

“I don’t like that expression,” Andrea muttered. “What are you thinking?”

“I need your help, Andy,” you said.

She narrowed her eyes at you. “I don’t like where this is going either.”

“I want to dig up Jason Todd’s grave.”

Andrea took a deep breath, closing her eyes and attempting to steady herself. “Are you nuts?” she asked, clearly restraining herself from an outburst.

“Think about it!” you urged. “We’ll just hit up the cemetery tonight, and then we’ll have concrete proof about this whole conspiracy! You don’t even have to do anything, just be a look out for me.”

“I’ve put up with a lot of your crazy ideas, but this is actually a goddamn crime,” Andrea responded, whisper-screaming at you, looking around the room to make sure no one was listening. “You want to dig up a dead kid’s grave so you can, what? Satisfy the tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorist weirdo inside you? And worse, you want to make me an accessory to that crime? I mean, fucking hell, we could lose our jobs over this!”

“Well then, let’s hope we don’t get caught, yeah?” you said.

Andrea rubbed her temples. “You’ve gone insane,” she said to no one in particular. “You’ve actually lost your marbles. There’s no way in hell a sane person would come up with this plan.”

“You owe me a favor, remember?” you coaxed. “Please, Andy.”

She glared at you in response. “You are way too much like the old man, you know that?”

You only grinned triumphantly in response, knowing you’d worn her down. Besides, it wasn’t like being compared to Healy was an insult—at least, not to you.

And so that’s how you ended up at Gotham City Central Cemetery in the dead of night with a shovel, standing before the tombstone that read Jason Todd’s name.

Andrea stood just a few feet away from you, perched on a slightly higher hill that gave her a better vantage point as a lookout. 

“How much longer are you gonna take?” she whispered impatiently.

Her arms were crossed and her foot tapped nervously as she looked around, making sure no one was nearby.

“I think I just hit the coffin!” you whispered back. “I’ll need your help prying it open!”

“I’m missing Disney night with my toddler for this…” Andrea murmured unhappily.

“Camille and Dana will be fine without you for one night, Andy, Jesus,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Besides, Dana is one and a half. She won’t remember a thing. This is important work we’re doing. We’re uncovering the truth. We’re carrying out justice, Andrea. Don’t you want your daughter to know her mother carries out justice?”

Andrea rolled her eyes right back at you as you shoveled away at the dirt around the coffin. Beads of sweat pooled at your brow and dripped down your face as you worked, your arms burning with effort as you looked back at the large mound of dirt forming behind you. You’d been digging for at least 45 minutes now, and its effects were starting to wear down your body.

“God, my back is killing me,” you muttered.

Andrea glared at you. “You’re graverobbing a child’s grave right now. I think you deserve a bit of a backache.”

“We’re not graverobbing!” you retorted. “It’s not like we’re stealing his body. We’re just… checking to see if it’s there. Now come on, help me pry this thing open.”

She groaned softly as she walked over, carefully climbing down into the pit you’d just dug.

“Alright, grab this shovel, and we push together on three, okay?” you instructed.

Andrea sighed. “Okay.”

“One… two… three…”

The two of you grunted with effort as you used the shovel to pry open the coffin. The lid fell out of place and you bent down to grab it and lift it open fully to reveal…

“It’s empty,” Andrea murmured, her voice dazed and disbelieving.

You smiled with the adrenaline of victory and knowing you were right charging through your veins. “It’s empty.”

You looked over at your partner, her hands covering her mouth in shock. “I think you owe me an apology, Andrea,” you told her.

“You favor this stretch of the garden,” he said lightly, glancing down at you, his voice carrying that familiar warmth that always felt just a touch too intentional to be accidental. “Or perhaps,” he added, slowing his pace just enough that you were forced to match him, “you favor your company.”

You didn’t look at him, your hands loosely folded before you as you continued along the path, savoring the rare quiet between meetings—something that had become increasingly scarce since the consorts had taken residence.

“That would imply I extend invitations lightly,” you replied.

There was a faint tilt to your voice, something measured—but not entirely immune.

He hummed, amused, as though he had already decided what your answer meant regardless of what you said. “And yet here I am,” he returned, softer now, like it was something meant only for you.

You could feel his gaze on you without looking.

It lingered. It always lingered.

Ahead, near the edge of the path, two maids had paused in their work, heads bent close together as they whispered. You barely noticed them at first—until Hal did.

He leaned in.

It happened in a single, fluid motion. One step closer.

A shift of his hand at your waist, and suddenly you were turned slightly into him, his arm firm at your side, drawing you just close enough to make it impossible to mistake the intimacy of it.

“Careful,” you whispered under your breath, your composure faltering for the briefest moment as you realized exactly what he was doing. “You are being watched.”

“Good,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, close enough that you felt it more than heard it. “I’d hate for them to think I’m neglecting my duties.”

You exhaled softly, something between a breath and a quiet laugh, though your pulse had quickened all the same.

“Your duties,” you repeated, glancing up at him now, your voice just barely edged. “Is that what you call this?”

His grin softened, not teasing, not entirely. Something warmer slipped through, something that almost, almost, felt real.

“Among other things.”

Behind him, the maids had fully abandoned their pretense of work, their attention fixed entirely on the two of you now, their whispers turning into barely contained giggles as Hal leaned just a fraction closer.

You felt the heat rise to your face.

Annoying, noticeable, and entirely his fault.

“You are insufferable,” you murmured, though there was no real bite to it.

“And yet,” he said easily, his thumb brushing just slightly against your side where his hand still rested, the smallest movement, “you keep choosing me.”

That, that was harder to deflect.

You held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, your expression composed, but your breath just a touch uneven.

“I choose what is convenient,” you said, quieter now.

His eyes flickered—something sharper, more perceptive.

“Of course you do.”

The breeze shifted again, stirring the roses, the scent growing heavier around you. His hand didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

“And what am I?” he asked, softer now, the teasing gone, replaced with something that felt dangerously close to sincerity. “Convenient?”

You should have answered immediately, but you didn’t. Instead, your gaze dipped, just briefly, to where his hand rested at your waist, to the way it fit there like it belonged.

Then back to his eyes.

“You are effective,” you said at last.

A beat.

His smile returned, but slower this time, more deliberate, like he was choosing it.

“I’ll take that,” he said.

The palace doors came into view, the moment stretching just a second too long before reality began to press back in.

You stepped forward first, the movement subtle but decisive.

Behind you, the maids were still whispering, their laughter soft and knowing.

“Try not to encourage them,” you said lightly as you approached the doors.

Hal fell into step beside you again, unbothered, that easy confidence settling back into place like a well-worn coat.

“Encourage them?” he echoed, glancing back briefly before returning his attention to you. “I think I’m giving them exactly what they want.”

“And what is that?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate.

“A love story,” he said simply.

The doors opened.

And just like that, whatever had passed between you dissolved into something more appropriate, more composed, as you stepped inside.

The consorts’ wing was deliberately removed from the spectacle of court: quiet, controlled, a place where power was discussed rather than displayed. Even so, the moment you entered, the atmosphere shifted, as though the room itself had been waiting.

Bruce Wayne stood at a long table with a map spread before him, one hand braced against the wood, the other resting loosely at his side. His attention lifted immediately, dark and precise, taking in everything; your posture, your expression, the proximity in which Hal had entered with you. Nothing escaped him. The Shadow Regent, ever watchful, ever calculating…and the only one here who had known you before the weight of the Crown had settled on your shoulders.

Near the window, Clark Kent had rolled his sleeves just slightly, posture relaxed but never careless. He straightened the moment he saw you, warmth blooming easily across his features, genuine in a way that contrasted sharply with the restraint of the room. The Solar Emissary: beloved, trusted, and dangerously sincere.

Across the room, Diana Prince sat with a blade resting across her lap, a cloth moving slowly along its edge as she polished it with unhurried precision. She did not look up immediately, but you knew she was aware of you long before your presence was acknowledged. The War-Bound Champion, poised and lethal, her stillness never passive.

All of them shifted when you entered. Subtle, controlled, but unmistakable.

“My Crown,” Clark greeted softly, already stepping toward you.

“Your Majesty,” Bruce followed, quieter, though there was something warmer beneath it, something unspoken, familiar.

Diana’s gaze lifted then, locking onto yours with steady intensity.

You smiled, not wide, not performative, but enough to soften the space between you, enough to remind them that whatever this arrangement was, it was not entirely devoid of warmth. “I trust the afternoon has treated you well.”

Clark closed the distance first.

“Better, now,” he said gently, and before protocol could fully settle back into place, he reached for your hand, not possessively, not boldly, but with a quiet reverence, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

It lingered just a second longer than necessary. Not improper, but also not forgettable.

When he pulled back, his smile was small, almost shy, though his eyes held yours with a quiet steadiness that made it clear the gesture had not been accidental.

Bruce watched the exchange without interruption, though when your gaze shifted to him, something softened in his expression. Not for the room or the others.

For you.

It was subtle, the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth, a quiet acknowledgment that spoke of years before titles and politics, before distance had been required of you both.

You returned it just as subtly. A shared history, compressed into a glance.

Diana rose then, and unlike Clark, she did not close the distance immediately. Instead, she stepped forward with deliberate grace, stopping just short before inclining her head in a formal bow—respectful, precise, and entirely in line with her role.

Your tone smoothing as you addressed them all. “Just so you are aware, Barry Allen will be returning this afternoon, just in time for the dinner hosted in his honor.”

Something in your expression softened then, slipping through before you could fully contain it.

“It has been far too long since he has been home.”

Clark noticed, of course he did. The warmth in his expression dimmed, just slightly, replaced with something quieter.

Diana noticed too, though she said nothing, her attention lingering on you in a different way now.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened, subtle but unmistakable.

You continued, your composure returning as seamlessly as it had slipped. “Ensure you are well-rested. Tonight will require your full attention… and your best behavior.”

Hal, who had drifted lazily against the arm of a chair, only smirked at that. “I would never disappoint you.”

You did not dignify that with a response. Instead, you inclined your head slightly. “I must apologize—I cannot remain. There is a meeting that requires my presence.”

Your gaze shifted back to Diana. “Commander, will you be attending?”

“Of course,” she replied, already stepping back toward the door—but not before her eyes flicked once, pointedly, toward the others, as if to remind them that whatever passed between you had not gone unnoticed.

You turned to leave with her, But when she passed you, that was when she moved closer. Close enough that the air shifted, and your awareness sharpened.

Her hand lifted, brushing along your arm with slow, deliberate intent, her fingers trailing just beneath your sleeve, where skin met fabric. The touch was light, but it was not accidental. Not in the slightest, though the look in her eyes would have you believing otherwise. Your breath caught, quiet, controlled, but there.

Her gaze held yours, steady and knowing, her lips curving just slightly as though she had felt the exact moment your composure faltered.

There was heat in it. Not open or careless, but unmistakable.

And in that brief, suspended moment, your mind betrayed you, already shifting, already calculating. The meeting ahead, the obligations waiting, the endless structure of your day… and where, perhaps, something might be moved. Delayed or redirected.

An alcove or a corridor, a moment stolen between duty and expectation.

You could already imagine it, the press of her presence without an audience, the way her restraint would give way to something far less measured, the quiet inevitability of surrendering control in a space where you were not required to hold it.

Your lips curved, just slightly.

Diana’s gaze flickered with recognition. Understanding.

You stepped back first, barely, but enough. That was all set for later. The focus is on the now. 

And then, your hand was caught.

A light tug, not forceful, but intentional.

You paused, glancing back over your shoulder to see Hal stood there, your hand in his, his expression unreadable for a fraction of a second—less performative now, more focused.

Then the charm slipped back into place, easy and practiced, but not entirely hollow.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked, softer than before.

Your fingers shifted slightly in his grasp, not pulling away just yet.

“There are matters that require my attention,” you replied.

His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles, asmall thing, but deliberate.

“There always are,” he said.

A beat passed between you, and something quieter, less performative sat in the silence that was now created. 

Then, with a faint smile, he lifted your hand and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of it—his gaze never leaving yours.

“Try not to miss me too much before dinner.”

Then he let you go.

You stepped out, the doors closing behind you and Diana with a soft, final sound.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

Then, Hal exhaled, rolling his shoulders as the charm fell from him entirely, like a coat shrugged off after a long performance. What remained was sharper, more calculating, the ease still there but stripped of warmth.

“She’s good,” he said, dropping into a chair and stretching his legs out in front of him, tipping his head back slightly as if replaying the moment.

A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, as if sensing the change in the air. 

Bruce didn’t look up from the map. “She doesn’t need to be.”

Hal let out a quiet, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? No one sits that throne without knowing exactly what they’re doing. Not her. Not with everything stacked around her.”

Another rumble, closer this time.

Bruce’s gaze lifted then, cool and precise. “Your concern should be your own performance.”

Hal’s expression sharpened immediately, the smirk returning—but edged now, less playful and more pointed. “Funny,” he said, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Clark shifted near the window, tension already beginning to build in the room, though he stayed silent—for now.

“At least I’m benefiting my people,” Hal continued, his voice light but his eyes locked onto Bruce’s. “Trade routes are open, negotiations are moving, alliances are holding. I can walk into my territory and point to actual results.”

Another pause, this time heavy and measured.

“When’s the last time your people received anything?” he asked, quieter now, but far more cutting.

Bruce didn’t answer.

He didn’t feel the need to. Hal understood only a fraction of what was truly happening on the board, but believed himself to know everything. He’ll get his coming soon, no need to start a pointless fight now. 

Hal tilted his head slightly, watching him, pressing further. “Or is that the problem? Being the Crown’s childhood friend only gets you so far.”

A flash of lightning lit the room briefly, followed by a sharper crack of thunder. Hal leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms along its sides, entirely at ease despite the tension coiling through the space. “Or maybe your people just don’t need the help,” he added with a shrug. “Bunch of rich pricks and entitled assholes, if I remember correctly. Hard to improve on that, I suppose.”

Clark inhaled slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly. “Hal—”

Bruce cut him off without looking away. “Don’t concern yourself with my people.”

The words were calm. Flat, but colder now.

Hal scoffed, shaking his head. “Right. Because that’s been working so well for you.”

The tension snapped taut between them, something far more dangerous lurking just beneath the surface, years of rivalry, clashing methods, competing ideologies all simmering beneath the shared goal of influencing you.

A sudden burst of noise broke through the room. Voices and laughter, a swell of energy from the courtyard below.

All of them stilled.

Clark moved first, drawn instinctively to the window. The others followed, the argument dissolving just enough under curiosity.

Outside, the courtyard had come alive. A rider cut through the gathered crowd at speed.

Familiar and unmistakable.

Barry Allen.

He barely slowed as he reached the palace steps, swinging down from his horse in one fluid motion, just as you appeared from the opposite side.

And then, everything shifted.

Gone was the careful composure, the measured presence you carried within the palace walls.

You were running.

Hal let out a quiet, incredulous huff under his breath. “Of course she is.”

By the time you reached Barry, he had already stepped forward, catching you effortlessly as you collided into him, lifting you clean off the ground as he spun you both in a wide, unrestrained circle. Your laughter broke free; bright, unguarded, entirely unlike the version of you they were accustomed to seeing.

The courtyard responded in kind, guards smiling, servants pausing, the entire space softening around the moment.

The sky cracked again, thunder rolling overhead, as the rain started in earnest, finally giving way. Sudden and steady. Completely drenching. 

Neither of you seemed to care.

Barry set you down just enough for your feet to brush the ground, his hands still firm at your waist, and you leaned in without hesitation.

The kiss was not restrained or distant; it was relief and something deeper, all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to dismiss.

Inside, Clark exhaled softly, something like disbelief slipping through. “What the hell… how are we supposed to compete with that?”

Hal stared, unblinking, before dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

A beat passed.

Then Hal nudged slightly with his chin. “Look.”

Their attention shifted. There, just off to the side of the courtyard, Diana had stepped out beneath the stone archway, watching the scene unfold. There was something in her expression. Not quite frustration, not quite resignation. A rueful smile, knowing. 

As though any plans she might have had had already been quietly undone, again.

Clark let out a faint breath. “She had plans.”

Hal snorted softly. “We always does. And he always ruins them.”

As if sensing their attention, Diana glanced up toward the window and met their gaze.

Hal lifted a hand, giving her an exaggerated, almost mocking little wave.

Diana didn’t hesitate. She lifted her hand and flipped him off, clean and direct. Then she smirked, a quiet laugh escaping her as she turned away, already moving toward you and Barry.

Clark huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. He then pointedly ignored the look Hal shot him to watch as below, Diana reached you just as the rain began to intensify, stepping in close enough to catch your attention. She said something, sharp and likely practical, and then Barry was laughing, you were laughing, and Diana pulled him into a quick, firm embrace the moment he was close enough.

For a brief second, the three of you stood together—Diana, you, and Barry—clustered close, familiar in a way that spoke of something deeper than politics. Then Diana moved, one hand pressing lightly at Barry’s back, the other gesturing toward the palace as she guided both of you inside, the three of you slipping out of the rain together.

Inside the chamber, the room fell quieter. Heavier.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “This… complicates things.”

Hal let out a slow breath, dropping back into his chair again. “That’s one way to put it.”

Bruce remained at the window a moment longer, watching until you disappeared from view.

Then he turned, composed and already thinking.

“Well,” he said evenly, his tone cutting cleanly through the lingering tension, “we had better figure it out.”

His gaze flicked briefly between them.

“Before dinner.”

—

The corridors felt different once you stepped inside.

Quieter and warmer, removed from the eyes that always seemed to follow you in the open spaces of the palace.

Diana walked beside you and Barry only as far as the inner hall, her presence steady, grounding, though her attention lingered on you a moment longer than necessary.

“Try not to keep her too long,” she said, her tone light, but her gaze fixed on Barry with something more pointed beneath it.

Barry only grinned, rain still clinging to his hair, his clothes damp and clinging in a way that made him look more boyish than anything else. “No promises.”

Diana huffed softly, though there was the faintest hint of a smile as she stepped away, her hand brushing once—brief, deliberate—against your arm before she disappeared down another corridor.

And then, it was just the two of you. You walked into your private chambers, nodding at the staff and guards that stood watching, before dismissing the staff to wait in the hallway and give you and the Royal Courrier some alone time. 

Once the doors shut firmly, it was silent. Barry didn’t move at first, neither did you. For a moment, you simply stood there, the quiet settling between you in a way that felt… full.

“You ran,” he said finally, his voice softer now, stripped of the bright ease he had worn outside.

You exhaled, something small and almost embarrassed slipping through your composure. “You were late.”

He tilted his head, watching you, something fond and knowing in his expression. “I was on time.”

“You were not.”

“I was exactly on time,” he insisted, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice like it was a secret meant only for you. “You just missed me.”

Your lips pressed together, though the faintest smile threatened at the corners. “That would imply I was waiting. Eager to see you.”

His gaze softened, just slightly. “You were.”

The words settled between you. You looked away first.

“You are injured,” you said, shifting the moment, stepping closer to him with purpose now, determined to change the topic. “Stand still.”

Barry blinked once, surprised, but didn’t resist as your hands came up, brushing lightly against his chest as you checked for damage, your touch careful but firm as you moved the damp fabric aside just enough to assess him.

Your brow furrowed slightly in concentration. “You should have sent word,” you murmured. “If something had happened—”

“Are you worried about me?” he interrupted lightly.

You didn’t look up. “I am responsible for you.”

“Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced.

Your fingers paused against him, feeling for anything out of place—wounds, bruising, anything that might have been hidden beneath the ease he wore so effortlessly.

He glanced down at where your hands rested against him, then back at your face, a slow grin spread across his lips.

“You know,” he said, his voice slipping back into something lighter, teasing, “you need only ask, and I would gladly allow you to touch my body, my Crown.”

You froze, just slightly. Then your eyes snapped up to his.

“This is not—” you started, though your composure had already cracked just enough for him to notice.

“Mm, no?” he asked, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the lingering rain still clinging to his skin. “Because from my perspective, you ran across an entire courtyard, threw yourself into my arms, and are now—”

His gaze dipped briefly to your hands. “—very thoroughly checking me over.”

“I am ensuring your safety,” you said, your voice quieter now, less certain than you would have liked.

“And doing a very thorough job of it,” he replied easily.

You should have stepped back, but you didn’t. Instead, your fingers shifted slightly, pressing just lightly against his chest as if to prove your point, though neither of you believed it anymore.

“Barry,” you said softly, a quiet warning threading through his name.

Something in his expression changed then. Just slightly and the teasing softened.

“You missed me,” he said again. Not a question this time.

Your breath caught. The answer sat right there, too close to the surface, too dangerous to give freely.

“I am glad you have returned safely,” you said instead, your voice steady, practiced.

He watched you for a moment, but long enough to know.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Me as well.”

A beat passed. Then, softer, still insistent. “You don’t run like that for anyone else.”

Your gaze flickered, something uncertain slipping through before you could catch it.

“That is not—”

“—true?” he finished gently.

You didn’t answer. And that was answer enough.

The space between you felt different now. Closer and quieter.

His hand lifted, hesitating just slightly before resting lightly over yours where it still lingered against his chest, not trapping it, not pulling you in, just…there. Grounding.

“I’m okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to worry.”

Your fingers curled slightly beneath his hand.

“I always worry,” you admitted, before you could stop yourself.

The words hung there. Honest and unfiltered.

Barry smiled. Not wide, not teasing this time, but something softer, something that felt dangerously close to reverence.

“I know,” he said.

And for a moment, just a moment, you allowed yourself to stay there.

—

The Great Hall did not simply host a dinner. It performed it.

Music lingered softly in the air, strings and piano woven together in something light enough to allow conversation, but present enough to remind every guest that this was not a casual gathering. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across polished floors, servants moving like clockwork precision through the crowd with trays of wine, champagne, and delicate, artful bites.

The room was already alive by the time you entered. Nobles, envoys, representatives of each faction.

All carefully placed and all watching, waiting for a slip from any of you. You are their leaders and every action here is amplified for the rest of the land throughout the gossip that is exchanged tonight.

Conversation faltered, just slightly, as you appeared. Then resumed, but differently.

“My Crown.”

The greeting rippled through the room in waves as heads inclined, bodies subtly shifting to acknowledge your presence without breaking the delicate illusion of ease.

You moved through them with practiced grace, your expression warm but controlled, your attention measured.

And yet, it did not take long for your focus to find him.

Barry Allen stood near the center of the room, already surrounded. Of course he was.

Scholars from the eastern territories pressed in close, speaking rapidly, gesturing as though his very presence might vanish if they did not secure his attention quickly enough. A pair of diplomats lingered just behind them, waiting their turn.

He looked overwhelmed, but amused and trying.

When his eyes found you, everything else faded.

His expression lit instantly, that same unguarded warmth from the courtyard returning like nothing had interrupted it.

You didn’t hesitate, you moved toward him, and just like that, the crowd parted.

“My Crown,” one of the envoys began, clearly intending to intercept, but you had already passed them.

“Master Courier,” you said as you approached, your voice softer now, more personal.

Barry’s grin widened. “That’s new.”

“Tonight is in your honor,” you replied lightly. “You may endure a title or two. For my sake.”

“Oh well if it’s for yours.” He steps closer, his head tilting towards you. “Dangerous,” he murmured, “You start giving me too much attention, people might start talking.”

“They already are.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, the sound low and warm, something that settled easily into your chest.

A servant appeared at your side, offering a glass. You accepted it without looking, your gaze still on him.

Then, lifting it slightly, you turned.

The room quieteted, gradually and intentionally.

“Tonight,” you began, your voice carrying without effort, “we welcome the return of one who has served the Crown faithfully beyond these walls.”

Your gaze returned to Barry, holding his for just a moment longer than necessary.

“There are few who move as swiftly between worlds as he does. Fewer still who return with their loyalty intact.”

A pause, measured.

“We are fortunate to have him returned to us.”

You lifted your glass.

“To the Master Courier.”

A chorus followed.

“To the Master Courier.”

Barry dipped his head slightly, though the softness in his expression remained, unmistakable.

When the moment broke, the room surged back to life, conversation swelling once more, but now, the attention had shifted.

And almost immediately, they descended.

A cluster of scholars approached, eager, insistent, their questions overlapping.

“My Lord Courier, the northern routes—”

“You must tell us how long the journey truly takes—”

“We have prepared documentation if you would—”

Barry glanced at you once, apologetic.

“You’re being stolen,” you said quietly.

“Looks that way.”

“You will return him before dinner,” you added, your tone light, but not entirely a request.

The lead scholar nodded quickly. “Of course, My Crown, only briefly—”

Barry leaned in just slightly as they began to pull him away. “Don’t let them bore you too much without me.”

You smiled, faint but real.

“I make no promises.”

And then, he was gone.

The absence was immediate, the room felt louder, colder.

But you couldn’t allow yourself any time to focus on that. As the Crown you must be ready and aware. 

Of everything.

The conversations shifting, the glances, the subtle recalculations. Every person had their own goals they hope to accomplish tonight and it’s your job to know all the important informations by having the proper systems in place. In fact, that’s why you have…

You exhaled softly, and turned, relaxing when you saw him. Bruce Wayne stood apart from the center of the room, near one of the tall columns that framed the hall. A glass rested untouched in his hand, his posture relaxed, but not disengaged.

Watching, always watching. A habit that freakes out most of your peers when you were younger, but one that always endeared you to him. The boy that liked to hear more than he liked to speak. 

Something that he still does as the man he is today. He had not approached you, had not interrupted, had not competed.

And for some reason, that drew you more than anything else in the room.

You crossed to him. “Lord Regent,” you greeted softly.

His gaze shifted to you, something immediately changing in his expression—not surprise, not quite—but something that settled deeper. “My Crown.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the room carried on around you, but here, it felt capable, as most things do when he’s by your side. Except—

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said.

Direct, no pretense. Bruce is quick, and will escape the conversation if given enough time. You’ve learned that it’s best to strike fast with him.

His jaw tightened, just slightly. “I have not.”

“You have,” you replied calmly. “And you are not particularly subtle about it.”

A pause.

“I thought it best,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now, more private, “to allow you space.”

“Space?” you echoed, your brows drawing together slightly. “To do what?”

“To adjust,” he said. “To them. To this arrangement.”

You studied him, carefully. Trying to see the words that he is not saying. 

“And where,” you asked softly, “does that leave us?”

His gaze flickered, something restrained tightening beneath the surface.

“I know this is not typical,” he said.

You let out a quiet breath, your head tilting slightly. “No,” you said. “It is not.”

A beat. Then—

“And why is that?” you pressed.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Because it changes things,” he said finally.

“It does,” you agreed.

Another step closer, not enough to draw attention. Enough to matter in the eyes of the rest of the public who is used to more salacious positions with you and your lovers. 

“But not everything.”

His gaze dropped briefly, to your hand, to the space between you, before lifting again.

“I had hoped,” you continued, your voice quieter now, something more vulnerable threading through it, “that because I have known you longer… this would be easier.”

That landed.

“But it feels,” you said, holding his gaze now, “as though you do not want me in this. Not in the way the others do.”

The words hung there, unavoidable. Bruce’s composure cracked, just slightly, but enough to give you hope to keep on pressing. 

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” he said, his voice low, controlled—but strained now, something real breaking through.

Your breath stilled.

“It’s not that I don’t desire you.”

The word settled heavier.

His hand shifted, almost unconsciously, before stilling again.

“I have wanted you,” he said quietly, “for longer than I have allowed myself to admit.”

The room faded.

“I simply refused to act on it.”

A pause. Your hand moved before you could think better of it, slipping into his. He goes still.

Not pulling away, and certainly not tightening. Just… still.

“I am not asking you to refuse anymore,” you said softly.

His gaze held yours as something changed fundamentally.

“Nor am I asking you to wait,” you added.

His fingers closed around yours then. Slowly and deliberately. The shift was subtle, but irreversible. 

Across the room, conversation continued. Laughter, music and politics. 

But here, something had just begun. And for the first time, the game had changed.

a/n: this came about because i want all of them raw. that’s it. there’s actually a bunch of ideas: an omegaverse, bridgerton/regency, and accidental soul bond

i have been working on the other stories of the side, but this one spoke to me and demanded to be written so here we go!

i hope you all enjoy! as always, likes and comments are always appreciated! 💗 and here’s a kiss from me to you! 😘