#lawyer reader

The polished brass of the elevator doors in the main lobby of Wayne Tower reflected a fragmented, warped version of yourself, Y/N L/N, Esq. You adjusted the lapel of your impeccably tailored charcoal blazer, your expression one of cool, professional composure. By day, you were one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in Gotham, a razor-sharp mind sheathed in silk and Italian wool. And for the last six months, you held the singular, demanding, and often bewildering title of Personal Counsel to Bruce Wayne.

Wayne Tower wasn't just a building; it was a monument. A soaring Art Deco spear of granite and steel that pierced Gotham's perpetually bruised sky. Inside, it was a cathedral of commerce and old money. The lobby floor was a vast expanse of veined marble, so highly polished you could see the ghostly outlines of the vaulted, gold-leafed ceiling in its surface. The air smelled of lemon-scented polish, expensive perfume, and the faint, dry ozone of the climate control system. Security, both visible and unseen, was a seamless, impenetrable web. Men and women in crisp suits with discreet earpieces watched everything, their eyes missing nothing, yet their faces neutral. It was a fortress disguised as a corporate headquarters.

Working directly for Bruce Wayne was an exercise in controlled chaos and profound contradiction. Your office, on a high floor with a breathtaking, dizzying view of the city, was a sanctuary of order—gleaming mahogany, leather-bound legal tomes, and a state-of-the-art computer system. But your professional life revolved around the orbit of a man who was a human hurricane of unpredictability.

There was no typical day. One morning, you would be meticulously dissecting a multi-billion-dollar merger for Wayne Enterprises, your mind navigating complex corporate law with effortless precision. The next, you would be on the phone with the GCPD, politely but firmly explaining why Mr. Wayne would not be pressing charges against a paparazzo he'd accidentally sent into a fountain with a poorly timed car door opening. You drafted NDAs for starlets, managed the legal fallout from his "philanthropic" endeavors that often involved destroyed public property, and once, memorably, had to liaise with the French embassy after he "misplaced" a national treasure he'd won at an auction (it was later found in the ballroom, being used as a punch bowl).

Bruce Wayne himself was a paradox. In your meetings, he was often distracted, playing with a sleek, expensive pen or staring out at the cityscape as if looking for something. He’d offer a charming, slightly vacant smile, agreeing to your carefully laid-out legal strategies with a "Sure, Y/N, whatever you think is best." It was an act, you knew. The frivolous playboy. But sometimes, in a fleeting, unguarded moment, you'd catch a glimpse of something else—a sharp, calculating intelligence in his blue eyes, a stillness that felt more dangerous than any of his public antics. It was a flicker, there and gone, replaced by the familiar, affable mask. He trusted your expertise implicitly, signing documents you placed before him with barely a glance, his trust a heavy weight. He was a frustrating, enigmatic, and oddly generous client, and you were fiercely, professionally loyal to him.

He had no idea. No idea that when the sun bled out over the Gotham skyline and the shadows grew long and thick, the crisp, ordered lawyer in the mahogany office ceased to exist.

As night fell, the silk blouses and tailored suits were exchanged for reinforced, carbon-weave fabric the color of dried blood. The elegant heels were replaced with silent, rubber-soled boots. The professional composure cracked, revealing the cold, focused intensity beneath. You became a specter, a rumor, a sharp-edged shadow they called the Scarlet Jurist. While Batman dealt in fear and brute force, you dealt in a different kind of justice. You hunted the predators the system failed to touch—the corrupt cops, the slick financiers laundering money for the mob, the judges with price tags on their gavels. You didn't kill. You incapacitated, you gathered evidence, and you left them trussed up for the police, their own incriminating files scattered around them like confetti.

You stood now on a gargoyle-led rain-slicked rooftop, the cold night air a slap in the face, a welcome antidote to the sterile, recycled atmosphere of Wayne Tower. Below, the city throbbed with a malevolent life of its own. Somewhere out there, Batman was prowling. And somewhere in his penthouse, your client, Bruce Wayne, was probably hosting another frivolous party.

You pulled the dark, form-obscuring mask over your face, the world narrowing to the sounds of the night. Two lives, perfectly partitioned, one illuminating the corruption in boardrooms, the other hunting it in the alleys. And the greatest irony, one that sometimes made you let out a sharp, hollow laugh in the silence of your safehouse, was that the man who funded the city's brightest symbol of justice was, unknowingly, also funding its darkest, most secret one. He signed your paychecks by day, and by night, you operated in the world his other self had sworn to protect, two sides of a broken coin, forever orbiting the same truth, forever blind to one another.

***

The memory was a cold, sharp shard in your mind. It had been two months ago, on the docks. You'd been tracking a shipment of illegal military-grade hardware being funneled through a shell company owned by the Penguin. The Scarlet Jurist worked best with data, but sometimes data needed to be extracted from a source, and that source was a hulking enforcer named "Crunch" Wallace.

You had him pinned against a shipping container, your custom-built electro-gauntlets humming at his temple, his own data-pad in your other hand. The evidence was all there.

Then, the air changed.

It wasn't a sound so much as a displacement, a sudden vacuum of silence that fell over the usual dockyard cacophony. A shadow, deeper and more substantial than any other, detached itself from the crane above and landed behind you without a whisper. You didn't need to turn. You knew the shape, the oppressive weight of that presence. Batman.

"Step away from him," the voice was a graveled rumble, a sound that promised broken bones and a cell in Blackgate.

You froze, your mind racing, compartmentalizing. Y/N L/N, Attorney at Law, was at home, reviewing briefs. The Scarlet Jurist is a ghost. You didn't move, your body a coiled spring. "His confession and financials are on the pad," you stated, your voice filtered through your mask's modulator into a flat, androgynous drone. "He's all yours."

A flicker of movement to the left, and a blur of red, green, and yellow landed gracefully on a stack of crates. Nightwing. "Play nice now. Nobody has to get hurt," he said, his tone lighter but no less dangerous.

It was a standoff. You were outmatched, and you knew it. Your skills were in forensic accounting, legal loopholes, and precise, non-lethal takedowns. Theirs were in ending wars. Crunch, sensing an opportunity, tried to lunge. You dropped him with a precise jolt from your gauntlet before he could take a full step.

In that split second of distraction, a *thwip* sound and a grappling line shot out, not from Batman, but from the shadows near the water. Red Hood. The line wrapped around your wrist, yanking you off balance. You reacted on instinct, twisting, the monomolecular filament in your vambrace slicing through the cable with a snap.

"New player's got toys," Red Hood commented, his voice laced with a dark amusement.

Batman took a step forward, his cape seeming to drink the faint light. "Who are you?"

"The balance," you replied, and activated the smoke pellets built into your belt. Thick, grey smoke erupted, filling the space. You heard Nightwing's escrima sticks crackle to life, Red Hood chambering a round, but you were already moving, not up, but down—through a grating you'd pre-scouted for a quick exit. You dropped into the foul-smelling darkness of a storm drain, the sounds of the Bats fading above you.

That was the closest call. Since then, your paths had crossed in more ephemeral ways. You'd arrive at a corrupt city official's office to find him already unconscious, a Batarang pinning a note to his chest. Or you'd be siphoning data from a server farm, only to see the signal abruptly cut as Oracle, no doubt, locked the system down from afar. You were two separate systems of justice operating in the same city, and your methods were on a collision course.

You actively avoided them. Their involvement meant complications, questions you couldn't afford to answer. Your entire operation relied on anonymity, on being a specter that the GCPD could dismiss and the underworld could fear. Batman peeled back layers; he wouldn't stop until he knew what was at your core.

Now, perched on your current rooftop, you saw the Bat-Signal cut a stark white line through the clouds. A routine sight. But your own police scanner, a modified piece of tech humming in your ear, told a different story. A story of a hostage situation in the financial district, orchestrated by Black Mask. A story that, according to the encrypted chatter Oracle was no doubt monitoring, involved a specific list of names—including several high-level executives at Wayne Enterprises.

Your stomach tightened. Bruce Wayne wasn't one of them; he was likely secure in the penthouse. But your people, the corporate legers and accountants you worked with daily, were potential targets. It was your world, the day-world, being invaded by the night.

You knew the Bats would be there. It was a major, high-profile event. To intervene was to risk another confrontation, to put your dual identity in jeopardy.

But as the Scarlet Jurist, you had a dossier on Black Mask that the GCPD and Batman didn't. You knew about the secret clause in his shell companies, the one that would trigger a dead-man's switch, releasing sensitive data and endangering every hostage if the main signal was jammed—a standard Bat-tactic.

Cursing under your breath, you stood. The lawyer in you calculated the risk, the liability, the exposure. The vigilante in you saw a legal and moral imperative to act. You couldn't let your day-life colleagues pay the price for your nighttime war, and you couldn't let Batman's heavy-handed approach get them killed.

With a final, steadying breath of the cold Gotham air, you launched your grapnel. It wasn't about crossing paths tonight. It was about preventing a disaster. You shot through the canyons of the city, a crimson shadow moving parallel to the one you knew was already there, two forces of justice on an unavoidable collision course once again.

The wind screamed in your ears, a bitter counterpoint to the silent scream of tension in your muscles. Your grapnel line, a silent, high-tensile filament, pulled you through the skeletal upper floors of Gotham’s financial district. Below, the streets were a tapestry of swirling red and blue lights, but up here, in the realm of gargoyles and glass, it was a different world—a world you shared, unwillingly, with him.

You landed on the cold, granite ledge of the high-rise opposite the Wayne Enterprises subsidiary office, your boots finding purchase without a sound. Through the panoramic, bulletproof glass, the scene was a frozen tableau of terror. Men and women in expensive suits—people you knew, people whose names were on your corporate directory—huddled together. Their faces were pale masks of fear. Standing over them, clad in stark black and white, was Black Mask. Roman Sionis held a sleek, custom-built detonator in one hand and a pistol in the other. His skeletal mask seemed to leer at the city beyond the glass.

Your enhanced auditory feed, piped directly into your inner ear, picked up the frantic, encrypted chatter.

Oracle: “...confirmed. He’s wired the entire 42nd floor. The detonator is linked to a dead-man’s switch. If his heart rate drops to zero or if he releases the pressure plate, it triggers a thermobaric charge. The building’s structural integrity would—”

Batman: “Understood. Nightwing, you’re on ventilation. Red Robin, I need a schematic of the power conduits. We cut the lights, we move in the dark.”

Nightwing: “On it. But B, if he’s got a bio-monitor…”

They were planning a blackout. A standard, effective tactic. But they didn't know what you knew. For weeks, the Scarlet Jurist had been tracing Sionis’s funds. You’d found the purchase orders, the schematics. The dead-man’s switch wasn't just bio-monitored. It was also hardwired to an EM field detector. A sudden, massive power loss from an external source—like a Batman cutting the main grid—would be interpreted as a system failure. It would trigger the explosion just the same.

They were about to kill everyone in that room.

There was no time for subtlety. No time for the careful avoidance that had defined your every nocturnal movement. You rose from your crouch, a splash of crimson against the dark granite. You knew he would see you. His senses were preternatural.

He did.

From the deeper shadows of a neighboring rooftop, the larger shadow shifted. The white lenses of his cowl fixed on you. You saw the subtle tension in his shoulders, the readiness to engage a new, unpredictable variable. You could almost feel the weight of his analysis.

You ignored him. Your focus was on the window. Your right gauntlet whirred softly as a compartment slid open, revealing a high-intensity laser cutter. You pressed it against the cold glass, the beam emitting a fierce, contained whine. You were making a door.

Batman: “Stand down.”

His voice, a low growl over the private channel you’d long-since hacked, was like physical pressure in your ear. You didn’t respond. The laser completed its circuit. You kicked the perfect circle of glass inward, and it fell with a muffled *thump* onto the plush carpet.

The scene inside froze. Sionis spun, his gun aiming at the new opening. The hostages gasped.

“You?” Sionis snarled, his voice distorted by his mask. “The little legal ghost. You’re out of your depth.”

“The switch, Roman,” your modulated voice was flat, devoid of the panic clawing at your throat. “It’s rigged to an EM detector. A blackout triggers it.”

You took a step inside. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and expensive cologne. You saw Janet from accounting, her hand clamped over her mouth. You saw Ben from legal, his face ashen. Your people.

“So what’s your brilliant plan, then?” Sionis sneered, his thumb resting dangerously on the detonator’s button.

“Due process,” you said.

And you moved.

It wasn't the explosive, acrobatic flow of the Bats. It was precise, economical, and brutally efficient. You closed the distance in three swift strides. Sionis fired. You twisted, the round tearing through the fabric of your sleeve but missing the armored weave beneath. Your left hand snapped out, the electro-gauntlet connecting with his gun wrist. There was a crackle of blue energy and a sickening snap. He screamed, the pistol clattering to the floor.

His other hand, the one holding the detonator, began to tighten.

Time seemed to slow. You couldn’t risk a jolt that might cause a muscle spasm. You dropped your weight, pivoting on one foot, and drove your elbow into the nerve cluster at the base of his neck. His whole body went rigid for a split second—just long enough.

A black Batarange whistled past your ear, so close you felt the displacement of air. It struck the detonator with surgical precision, knocking it from Sionis’s spasming grip. It clattered to the floor, the light on its side still a steady, malevolent green.

Before it could hit the ground, a black blur was there. Batman. He caught the device one-handed, his other hand already pulling a stabilizer unit from his belt to lock it down. His presence filled the room, a sudden, absolute authority.

You were already backing away, towards the hole you’d cut in the window. Your work was done. The evidence was gathered, the threat neutralized. The hostages were safe.

Batman’s head turned, the white lenses locking onto you. He took a single, deliberate step in your direction. The air grew cold.

“Who are you?” he growled, the question a physical force.

You stood at the precipice, the Gotham wind whipping at your cape. For a single, heart-stopping moment, your eyes met his. The brilliant, distracted CEO you served by day was nowhere in that gaze. This was something else entirely—something ancient, furious, and relentless. The man who signed your paychecks and the creature before you were irreconcilable.

You said nothing. You simply let yourself fall backward into the void, the night swallowing you whole long before his grapple could find its mark. You vanished, leaving him with nothing but a room full of saved civilians, a captured villain, and a mystery that wore the face of his most trusted lawyer.

***

The scent of wood-fired pizza and roasted vegetables filled the expansive break room on the executive floor of Wayne Tower. Sunlight, a rare and precious commodity in Gotham, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off the polished steel of the espresso machine. Bruce Wayne, in a gesture of post-crisis morale boosting, had ordered a ludicrous amount of food from every high-end restaurant in the city.

You stood by the spread, a paper plate in one hand, a slice of truffle-and-wild-mushroom pizza in the other. The room was abuzz with a nervous, excited energy. The news channels were still replaying footage of the previous night’s hostage crisis at the subsidiary office.

“—and sources confirm that Black Mask is in GCPD custody, thanks to the intervention of Batman and his associates,” the sleek television mounted on the wall reported.

You took a careful bite of your pizza, chewed, and swallowed, arranging your features into a mask of wide-eyed, slightly shaken curiosity. You turned to a small group of your colleagues from the legal and finance departments—Janet from Accounting, who you’d seen huddled on the floor, and Ben from Legal, who still looked pale.

“I still can’t believe it,” you said, your voice a perfect blend of professional concern and civilian awe. “That was your building, wasn’t it? The one on 42nd? Are you both okay?”

Janet, clutching a kale salad as if it were a lifeline, nodded vigorously. “It was terrifying, Y/N. Absolutely terrifying. One minute we’re working late, the next, men with guns are everywhere.”

Ben shuddered. “I thought that was it. I was drafting my last will and testament in my head.”

You shook your head, injecting just the right amount of sympathetic disbelief. “I can’t even imagine.” You took a sip of sparkling water, letting the moment hang before leaning in slightly, lowering your voice as if sharing a secret. “So… is it true? Was Batman really there?”

The question unlocked a floodgate.

“He was!” Janet whispered, her eyes gleaming with a mix of residual fear and thrill. “He came through the window like… like a shadow! But he wasn’t the first one.”

You raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Oh?”

“There was someone else,” Ben chimed in, his voice low. “Some new vigilante. All in dark red. Fast. Took down Sionis’s guards before Batman even got through the window.”

You made a soft, shocked sound. “Really? A new one? God, the city is just… crawling with them, isn’t it?” You gave a delicate, feigned shudder. “It’s a good thing, I suppose. But it must have been so chaotic.”

“It was,” Janet confirmed. “But this… Scarlet Jurist, that’s what the news is calling them… they were the one who told Batman about the bomb. Something about an EM detector. If they hadn’t been there…” She trailed off, the unspoken horror hanging in the air.

You allowed a look of profound relief to wash over your face. “Thank god for that. For all of them.” You paused, then added the perfect, finishing touch of lawyerly pragmatism. “We’ll need to review the company’s security protocols for after-hours work, obviously. I’ll draft a memo for Mr. Wayne.”

It was then that Bruce Wayne himself ambled over, a charming, slightly weary smile on his face. He picked up a slice of plain cheese pizza, looking every bit the benevolent, slightly clueless playboy.

“Glad to see everyone is… in one piece,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the group before landing on you. “Y/N. Heard you were asking about the excitement last night.”

You met his eyes, the picture of your professional, daytime self. The woman who had stood toe-to-toe with that same man in his other form just hours ago was buried deep beneath a layer of silk and composure.

“It’s hard not to, Mr. Wayne,” you said, gesturing with your pizza slice toward the television. “It’s all anyone can talk about. Batman and this… new vigilante. It’s like something out of a comic book. I’m just relieved our people are safe.”

Bruce took a bite of his pizza, his expression unreadable for a fraction of a second before the easy smile returned. “Yeah. Me too.” His blue eyes held yours, and for a heart-stopping moment, you saw a flicker of that same analytical intensity you’d faced in the dark. It was gone so fast you could almost believe you’d imagined it. “Let me know what you come up with for that security memo. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me.”

“Of course, sir,” you said smoothly, turning back to the platter of artisanal sandwiches.

As he moved away, you selected a caprese skewer, the act perfectly normal, utterly mundane. Inside, your heart was a steady, controlled drumbeat. You had stood in the same room as both your identities, performing a flawless duet for the most perceptive audience in the world. You took a bite of the mozzarella, the taste bland on your tongue, and pretended, just for a moment, to be shocked by it all.

***

The first, weak light of dawn was a dirty grey smear against the reinforced concrete walls of your hidden garage. The scent of old motor oil and damp concrete was a familiar, grounding comfort after the metallic tang of adrenaline and fear. The heavy, sound-proofed door hissed shut behind you, sealing you away from the waking city.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire night, you reached up and unclasped the dark crimson helmet, placing it carefully on a workbench littered with schematics and tools. The cool air felt like a blessing on your sweat-dampened skin. You shrugged out of the tactical harness, then began the meticulous process of peeling off the reinforced, carbon-weave suit. It came away stiffly, the left sleeve clinging where blood had dried, binding the fabric to the wound beneath.

You stood in your base layer, the chill raising goosebumps on your arms. In the full-length mirror propped against the wall, you saw the aftermath. A dark, angry purple bruise was already blooming across your ribs from where you’d taken a hit from a rifle butt. But the main event was your right bicep—a clean, deep graze from Sionis’s bullet. It wasn't life-threatening, but it burned with a persistent, fiery ache that throbbed in time with your heartbeat.

You reached for the heavy-duty medical kit, the one stocked with supplies not found in any civilian pharmacy. The can of antiseptic and numbing spray was cold in your hand. You positioned the nozzle over the raw, red furrow on your arm.

You took a sharp, hissing breath and pressed the button.

The spray was a shocking, icy blast, a thousand tiny needles of cold digging into the torn flesh. You winced, your entire body tensing. Your jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding against the sudden, intense sensation—first a burn as the antiseptic did its work, then a spreading, unnatural numbness that deadened the nerves. It was a relief and a violation all at once. The pain receded, replaced by a distant, fuzzy static, as if your arm now belonged to someone else. You watched in the mirror as your reflection, pale and grimacing, endured the necessary ritual.

This was the price. The hidden cost of the duet you danced every day. The crisp, unflappable lawyer who would stride into Wayne Tower in a few hours would have to show no sign of this. No wince when lifting a heavy case file, no stiffness when reaching for a coffee cup. It was a mask as intricate as the one you’d just removed.

Leaning against the workbench, you began the methodical process of cleaning and bandaging the wound, your movements efficient, practiced. As you wrapped the sterile gauze, your mind drifted back to the break room. To the taste of truffle pizza and the sound of your own voice, laced with feigned shock. "Really? Batman was here? Woah!"

A dry, humorless laugh escaped your lips, echoing faintly in the cavernous space. The irony was so thick you could taste it, sharper than any antiseptic. You had looked your enigmatic boss in the eye and performed innocence with the skill of a stage actress, all while the evidence of your shared, secret night was literally etched into your skin.

The bandage secure, you pulled on a soft, grey hoodie and a pair of worn jeans—the uniform of Y/N L/N, civilian. You ran a hand through your hair, trying to erase the helmet-head. The numbness in your arm was a strange, weightless feeling, a void where pain had been.

You walked towards your motorcycle, a powerful, unmarked machine as anonymous as your nocturnal persona. Swinging your leg over the saddle sent a phantom twinge through your bruised ribs, a reminder the numbing spray couldn't reach everywhere. You keyed the ignition, and the engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your bones.

Pulling out of the garage, you merged into the early morning traffic, just another face in the crowd heading to work. The sun was properly rising now, painting the grimy city in a soft, golden light that promised a new day. You guided the motorcycle toward Wayne Tower, the monument to your other life. The numbness in your arm was a secret tucked beneath your sleeve, a silent testament to the night, a ghost of the Scarlet Jurist riding with the lawyer into the dawn.

***

The elevator ride to the penthouse office felt longer than usual, each hum of the machinery a dull throb in your tired skull. The world was slightly too bright, the polished metal doors too sharp. The numbness in your arm had faded, replaced by a deep, persistent ache that even the strongest over-the-counter painkillers couldn't fully quell. You’d forgone your usual full face of makeup, opting only for a touch of concealer under your eyes that did little to hide the shadows of fatigue. It was a calculated risk, but your energy reserves were at absolute zero.

Bruce was already there, standing by the vast window, his back to you as he looked out over his city. The morning sun glinted off the glass and steel canyons. He turned as you entered, and you saw his eyes—those perceptive, impossible-to-read blue eyes—sweep over you in a single, comprehensive assessment.

"Y/N," he said, his voice neutral. "The security memo was thorough. Thank you."

"Of course, sir," you replied, setting your briefcase down by your desk. Your movements were careful, slightly stiffer than your usual fluid grace.

He didn't move from the window. "Are you alright? You look… tired."

The question was simple, polite. The kind any boss might ask a dedicated employee. But this was Bruce Wayne. There was always a subtext, a layer of scrutiny beneath the casual charm. A week ago, you would have mustered a brilliant, polished smile and a breezy, "Never better, Mr. Wayne!" You would have built the perfect wall.

Today, the mortar was wet, the bricks were heavy. You were just too damn tired.

You let out a soft, breathy chuckle, leaning slightly against the edge of your desk. The pressure off your feet was a small relief. "I am just tired, sir," you admitted, the truth a fragile, carefully curated thing. You gestured vaguely with your good arm towards the stack of folders on his desk—the legal fallout from the hostage situation, the liability waivers, the press releases. "You've… been having quite a lot of troubles for me to handle lately."

It was the understatement of the century. He had no idea. The "troubles" in his corporate world were inextricably linked to the war you fought in his city's underworld, and you were the sole soldier on both fronts.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer. You saw it again, that flicker of something—not the playboy, not the boss, but the strategist. The man who noticed things.

"I know it's been a lot," he said, his voice dropping a decibel, losing its practiced casualness and gaining a texture that felt almost… genuine. "I appreciate it. More than you know."

The words were simple, but they landed with a strange weight. For a dizzying second, you wondered if he was talking about the legal work, or something else entirely. The thought was so terrifying, so electrifying, that it burned through some of your fatigue.

You pushed off the desk, straightening your spine, calling upon the last dregs of your professional composure. "It's my job, sir," you said, offering him a small, weary, but genuine smile. "Someone has to keep you out of trouble."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone. "Apparently, it takes a team," he replied, turning back to the window, his attention returning to the cityscape.

You stood there for a moment, the ache in your arm a steady pulse, the fatigue a heavy cloak. He thought he was talking about Batman and the GCPD. He had no idea that the most crucial member of that team was standing right behind him, her makeup half-done and her body screaming from the night's labors, already preparing for the next legal battle he would inevitably bring to her door.

***

The air on the rooftop was a physical relief, cold and sharp as a blade against your overheated skin. You leaned heavily against the rusted metal housing of a ventilation unit, the gritty surface digging into your back. Each breath was a ragged pull into your burning lungs. The wound on your arm, freshly aggravated, screamed under the blood-soaked bandage. You could feel the warm, sticky seep of it against the fabric of your suit.

The night had been a special kind of hell. A coordinated attack by Professor Pyg and Mr. Zsasz, a surreal and horrifying alliance that had turned the industrial district into a charnel house of chaos and surgical precision. It had forced an alliance you never wanted. The Bat-Family, in all its sprawling, noisy entirety, and you.

And Batman. Always Batman.

He was a force of nature, a singularity of focused violence. But even singularities have blind spots.

The first time was in the doll factory. Pyg’s lair. You’d been clearing the upper gantry when you saw it—a tripwire, nearly invisible, strung at ankle-height across Batman’s path. He was focused on a Lobotomized charging him, his senses tuned to the obvious threat. You hadn’t shouted. You’d fired your grapnel, the hook wrapping around his leg and yanking him backward just as his boot would have snagged the wire. The explosion that followed shook the entire building, raining plaster and twisted metal. He’d hit the ground, rolled, and his white-lensed gaze had snapped to you for a fraction of a second before he was back on his feet, a grunt of acknowledgement lost in the din.

The second time was with Zsasz. The wiry psychopath had gotten the drop on him, a monomolecular-tipped stiletto aimed for the gap between his cowl and his shoulder armor. You’d been perched on a fire escape, lining up a shot. Your non-lethal rounds were designed to disorient, not pierce. You’d fired three in rapid succession. The first hit Zsasz’s wrist, knocking the blade off course. The second and third hit his temple and throat, sending him stumbling back, gagging. Batman had spun, his own takedown brutal and efficient. He hadn’t looked at you that time. But you’d felt the weight of his unspoken thanks in the sudden stillness.

The third time… the third time had been too close. A collapsing scaffold, Pyg’s final "masterpiece." A support beam, sheared by an explosion, was swinging down like a titanic pendulum directly toward Batman’s back as he was locked in a struggle with two of the Lobotomized. You didn’t think. You launched yourself from your vantage point, a full-body tackle that slammed into him with enough force to send you both tumbling out of the path of certain crushing death. The beam missed you by inches, the wind of its passage a deafening roar. You’d landed hard on your injured arm, a white-hot spike of agony blinding you for a moment. When your vision cleared, he was already up, his hand extended to you. You’d taken it, and he’d pulled you to your feet, his grip like iron.

"Your arm," he'd growled, his voice a low rasp.

"It's fine," you'd bit out, pulling your hand back.

Now, on the rooftop, away from the sirens and the chaos, the adrenaline was receding, leaving behind the raw, painful truth. You were shaking, from exhaustion, from pain, from the sheer, unnerving proximity to him and his world. You pressed your good hand against the wound, trying to staunch the fresh flow of blood.

The air shifted. You didn't need to turn. You knew the texture of his silence.

"You're bleeding."

His voice was closer than you expected. He was standing a few feet away, a dark monolith against the city's glow. The white lenses were fixed on the dark stain spreading on your sleeve.

"It'll clot," you said, your voice tight. You didn't look at him.

A moment of heavy quiet, broken only by the distant wail of an ambulance.

"Three times," he stated, the words flat, factual.

You finally turned your head, meeting the blank stare of his cowl. "Keep count if you want. It doesn't change anything."

"It changes the calculus." He took a single step forward. The air grew colder. "You fight with precision. Not like them. You're not a brawler. You're a strategist."

"Maybe I just have a vested interest in keeping the city's primary vigilante functional," you retorted, the lawyer in you grasping for deflection. "It's good for business."

"Your business is law." It wasn't a question.

"Among other things."

He was in front of you now, his presence overwhelming. He could reach out and touch you. The thought sent a jolt of pure, undiluted fear through your system. This was the man you served coffee to, whose corporate mergers you blessed with a legal signature.

"Let me see the arm." It wasn't a request.

Every instinct screamed to run, to vanish, to protect the fragile wall between your lives. But you were cornered, exhausted, and bleeding. And he was… immovable.

Slowly, reluctantly, you lowered your good hand from the wound. He reached into a compartment on his belt, producing a compact field medical kit. His movements were swift, practiced. He cut away the blood-soaked section of your suit with a small, sharp blade, his touch surprisingly deft. The cold night air hit the raw graze, and you flinched.

He cleaned the wound with a sterile wipe, the sting making you hiss through your teeth. He applied a coagulant powder that burned like hellfire, then a fresh, self-adhering bandage, wrapping it with an efficiency that spoke of countless such ministrations, both on himself and others.

His gloved fingers were careful, almost gentle, as they secured the bandage. For a moment, they lingered on your forearm, just above the injury. A silent question hung in the air between you, as tangible as the rooftop gravel beneath your feet.

He knew. He didn't know who, but he knew what. He knew you were more than you appeared. And in the stark, silent language of the night, he had just acknowledged a debt.

He finished and stepped back, returning the kit to his belt. "The calculus has changed," he repeated, his voice a low gravelly rumble. Then, in a swirl of black cape, he was gone, leaving you alone on the rooftop with the throbbing in your arm and the terrifying certainty that the careful distance you had maintained had just been irrevocably shattered.

***

The low, insistent throb in your arm was a metronome counting down the seconds of a sleepless night. Every time you’d closed your eyes, you’d seen it: the white lenses of the cowl, the startlingly careful touch of his gloved hands, the final, damning statement. The calculus has changed. He’d taken a sample. He had your blood. Your DNA. It was a forensic trail leading directly from the Scarlet Jurist to… somewhere. He wouldn't stop until he found the other end of it.

A cold knot of dread had settled permanently in your stomach. Sleep was impossible. Instead, you’d spent the dark hours running scenarios, building legal and tactical firewalls in your mind, preparing for the moment his investigation would inevitably collide with your life.

Now, standing in the sterile, sunlit silence of Bruce Wayne’s penthouse office, that dread was a live wire under your skin. The lack of sleep made the world feel thin, hyper-real. The scent of freshly brewed coffee, which you usually found comforting, was now just a sharp, acidic note in the air.

You placed his mug—black, no sugar, precisely how he liked it—on the polished teak of his desk. The ceramic click was unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Your right arm protested the simple motion with a fresh spike of pain, the memory of his field dressing a secret beneath the sleeve of your blazer.

You then began arranging the folders for the day—the acquisition of a tech firm, the quarterly earnings report, a nuisance lawsuit from a spilled drink at a charity gala. A mountain of mundane, corporate concerns. The sheer, staggering normality of it was a form of psychological whiplash.

The door opened and he walked in. Bruce Wayne. Your client. The man whose coffee you just poured, whose legal life you managed, whose public persona was a masterpiece of carefully constructed frivolity.

"Y/N," he said, his voice a little rough, as if he, too, had slept poorly. His eyes, those piercing blue eyes that held a universe of secrets, scanned over you as he moved to his chair. You forced your posture to remain relaxed, your expression one of professional neutrality.

"Mr. Wayne," you replied, your voice thankfully steady. "The Kord Industries merger documents are on top. They need your signature by noon. The press release for the quarterly report is drafted and on the pad."

"Thank you," he murmured, picking up his coffee and taking a long sip, his gaze drifting over the pile of paperwork. He looked… preoccupied. More so than usual. The charming distraction was there, but beneath it was a new intensity, a sharpness you recognized from the rooftop. It was the look of a man working on a complex problem.

He set the mug down and his eyes flicked back to you, lingering for a moment on your face. "You look pale. Are you sure you're alright? That business last night with the… hostage situation… it must have been stressful for everyone."

The casual mention of "last night" sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your system. For a wild, disorienting second, you thought he was talking about the factory, about Pyg and Zsasz, about the blood on the rooftop.

Then your brain caught up. He meant the corporate hostage crisis from days ago. The one you’d discussed over truffle pizza. The one where you’d played the shocked civilian.

You managed a tight, weary smile, the same one you’d given him yesterday. "Just a long night, sir. Paperwork." The lie was ash in your mouth. You gestured to the stack of folders. "It never ends."

His gaze didn't waver. It was analytical, assessing. He was looking for tells—a tremor in your hand, a flicker in your eye, any sign of the injury you were carefully concealing. You felt utterly, terrifyingly transparent.

"I know the feeling," he said, his voice low. He picked up a pen, his attention shifting to the first document. "Let me know if it becomes too much."

The dismissal was clear. You nodded and turned to leave, your heart hammering against your ribs. As you walked toward the door, you could feel his eyes on your back, a physical weight. He was studying you. Not as Bruce Wayne studies his lawyer, but as Batman studies a puzzle.

You stepped out into the cool, quiet hallway, the door clicking shut behind you. Leaning against the wall for a moment, you closed your eyes, breathing deeply. The game had changed. He was on the scent. And you were standing in his office, pouring his coffee, with the very evidence he was searching for pulsing painfully beneath your sleeve. The hunter and his prey, locked in a gilded cage, neither one knowing the other was the very ghost they were chasing.

***

The low, persistent hum of Wayne Tower after hours was a sound you knew intimately. It was the sound of your own exhaustion, of case files finally closed, of the city’s lights stretching out beyond the glass walls. You’d stayed later than intended, wrapping up the final details on the Kord merger, your body aching with a fatigue that went bone-deep. The throb in your arm was a constant, unwelcome companion.

As you gathered your things, the door to Bruce’s personal study opened and he emerged, shrugging on his overcoat. He looked as tired as you felt, the affable playboy mask completely absent, leaving behind a man who seemed carved from granite and shadow.

“Working late, Y/N?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet corridor.

“Just finishing up, Mr. Wayne,” you replied, slinging your bag over your good shoulder. “The Kord documents are finalized.”

He gave a short, approving nod. “I’ll walk down with you.”

A flicker of unease, sharp and immediate, pricked at your nerves. The VIP elevator. A sealed, silent capsule. Just the two of you. It was a scenario you usually managed to avoid. But there was no polite way to refuse.

The doors slid open with a whisper. You stepped inside, the plush, sound-absorbent walls seeming to close in around you. He stood to your right, a tall, silent presence. The doors closed, sealing you in a tomb of polished brass and soft lighting. The only sound was the nearly imperceptible whir of the machinery as it began its descent.

You stared straight ahead at your own reflection in the bronze doors, your face pale and drawn. You could feel the weight of his silence, the sheer, focused intensity of the man beside you. It was the same pressure you felt on the rooftops, the same unnerving sense of being measured and analyzed. Your injured arm gave a particularly sharp throb, as if in warning.

Then it happened.

The lights flickered, died, and snapped back on. The elevator gave a violent, shuddering lurch that sent you stumbling sideways. A jarring, metallic groan echoed through the shaft, and then—nothing. The gentle hum ceased. The elevator was dead, suspended in darkness and silence.

The emergency lights flickered on, casting a weak, orange glow. Your heart was a frantic drum against your ribs. Trapped.

“Are you alright?” Bruce’s voice was calm, impossibly steady. His hand was on your elbow, having steadied you during the lurch. His grip was firm, sure.

“I’m fine,” you breathed, pulling your arm away a little too quickly. The motion tugged at your wound, and you couldn’t suppress a sharp, hissing intake of breath.

His eyes, sharp and focused in the dim light, dropped to your right arm. You’d instinctively cradled it against your body. “Y/N.”

“It’s nothing. I just… wrenched it when the elevator jerked.” The lie was flimsy, pathetic.

He didn’t call you on it. Instead, he moved to the control panel, prying it open with a key he produced from his pocket. He studied the wiring for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Backup generator should have engaged. It didn’t. This is a hard systems failure.”

He pulled out his phone. No signal. The elevator’s shielding was comprehensive. He was about to speak when his eyes caught something in the weak orange light. Something on the sleeve of your crisp, white blouse, just below the cuff of your blazer.

A small, fresh, crimson stain. The wound had seeped through the bandage and the layers of your clothing.

Time seemed to freeze. His gaze locked onto that tiny spot of blood. You saw the moment his mind began to connect the dots, the gears turning with terrifying speed. The injury you’d been favoring. Your pallor. Your exhaustion. The fresh blood. And the wound he himself had cleaned and bandaged on a vigilante less than 24 hours ago.

His head slowly lifted, his eyes meeting yours. The casual, concerned expression of Bruce Wayne was gone. In its place was a look of razor-sharp, unnerving intensity. The mask had slipped, and what was beneath was terrifyingly familiar.

“Y/N,” he said again, his voice low and utterly changed. It was no longer the voice of your boss. It was the voice from the rooftop. The voice of Batman.

The world narrowed to the space between you. The pretense, the careful walls, the entire intricate dance of your double life—it all crumbled in the silent, stalled space of the elevator. He knew.

The word hung in the dead air between you, a verdict. The weak, orange emergency light carved the planes of his face into something stark and ancient, stripping away the last vestiges of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire. All that remained was the predator’s focus. The man who had seen a ghost and was now watching it materialize in his elevator.

Your own breath sounded deafening in the sudden, profound silence. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to deploy a smoke pellet and vanish—but you were in a three-by-three metal box, suspended in a skyscraper, with the most dangerous man on the planet. The Scarlet Jurist had nowhere to go. Y/N L/N, Esq., was cornered.

He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His stillness was more threatening than any advance.

“The precision,” he said, the gravel in his voice a low, grinding truth. “The strategic mind. It was always there. I just… wasn’t looking in my own office.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird against a cage. You could deny it. You could try to laugh it off, make a joke about a paper cut. But the blood on your sleeve was the final, irrefutable piece of evidence. The DNA sample he’d taken on the rooftop now had a name, a face, a person who poured his coffee.

Slowly, deliberately, you straightened your spine. The pain in your arm was a distant thing, secondary to the seismic shift happening in this trapped space. You met his gaze, and for the first time, you didn’t see your client. You saw your rival. Your… colleague.

“The calculus,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady, devoid of its professional filter. It was your voice. “It changes rather dramatically when the variables are in the same equation, doesn’t it?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. The confirmation, from your own lips, settled over him. The mystery of the Scarlet Jurist was solved. The implications were staggering.

“All this time,” he stated, the words laden with a cold, dawning fury. Not at you, you realized, but at the situation. At the breach. At the fact that his most trusted legal counsel had been operating in his city, in his shadows, right under his nose. “The legal advice. The security memos. It was all…”

“Reconnaissance,” you finished for him, a bitter, tired smile touching your lips. “And damage control. Your corporate troubles have a nasty habit of dovetailing with my nocturnal ones.”

The elevator remained motionless, a perfect, silent metaphor for your lives, stalled and exposed. The outside world, with its laws and its layers, no longer existed. There was only this. The truth.

He took a single, slow step forward, his shadow engulfing you in the dim light. The air grew colder.

“We’re going to have a long conversation when we get out of here,” he said, and it was not a suggestion. It was Batman laying down the law.

You held your ground, the lawyer in you rising to the surface, mingling with the vigilante. “We will,” you agreed, your chin lifting. “And it will be a negotiation. Not an interrogation.”

His eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. The elevator, and the world it represented, was no longer broken. It was a negotiating table. And the two most dangerous people in Gotham were trapped inside, forced to finally see each other for who they truly were.

The profound, world-shattering tension shattered not with a word, but with a low, plaintive gurgle.

It was a distinctly undignified, deeply human sound that emanated from your stomach, echoing softly in the dead silence of the stalled elevator. The sound of a body pushed beyond its limits, demanding fuel after a night of violence and a day of high-stakes corporate law.

The raw, predatory intensity in Bruce’s eyes didn’t vanish, but it flickered. Stuttered. For a single, absurd moment, he wasn't Batman staring down the vigilante who had deceived him, nor was he Bruce Wayne confronting his lawyer. He was just a man, hearing another person's stomach growl with acute, undeniable hunger.

Your own cheeks flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the confined space. Of all the ways for this standoff to break, it had to be this. Mortification warred with the sheer, ridiculous irony of it.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your midsection, then back to your face. The line of his jaw, which had been clenched like iron, softened by a fraction of a millimeter.

“You’re hungry,” he stated, the gravel in his voice now laced with a hint of something else—not quite amusement, but a stark, practical acknowledgment of a basic, shared reality.

You let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh of pure chagrin. “I skipped lunch,” you admitted, the confession feeling more intimate than admitting you were the Scarlet Jurist. “The Kord merger was… demanding.”

He was silent for another long moment, the gears in his mind visibly shifting from world-altering revelation to a more immediate, logistical problem. The hunt was temporarily on hold. The predator had to contend with a grumbling stomach.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked, his tone now eerily reminiscent of the Batman who had methodically cleaned and bandaged your arm—clinical, assessing.

You thought back. A protein bar during the night’s chaos. A few bites of a bagel at your desk this morning, between drafting legal briefs and trying not to wince every time you moved your arm. “Sometime yesterday, I think.”

He made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of disapproval. He reached into the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored overcoat and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped bar. It was the same high-calorie, nutrient-dense kind you kept stocked in your own vigilante gear.

He held it out to you.

The gesture was so surreal it bordered on hallucinatory. Bruce Wayne—Batman—was offering you food, here, in this stalled elevator where your secret identities lay in tatters at your feet. You stared at the bar in his gloved hand, then back at his face.

After a beat of stunned hesitation, you reached out and took it. Your fingers brushed against his. “Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet.

You unwrapped the bar and took a small bite. It was bland, dense, and exactly what your body needed. The simple act of chewing, of swallowing, grounded you in a way nothing else could have.

He watched you for a moment, then turned back to the elevator panel, his focus returning to the problem of escape. But the atmosphere had irrevocably changed. The terrifying, absolute clarity of the confrontation had been punctured by a fundamental human need. The world hadn't just ended; it had paused for a snack.

He was still Batman. You were still the Scarlet Jurist. He was still your boss. You were still his lawyer. But now, you were also two tired, hungry people stuck in an elevator, and the most immediate crisis was no longer the revelation of your double life, but the simple, grumbling emptiness of your stomach. The negotiation to come would be infinitely more complex, but for now, there was a temporary, unspoken truce, sealed with a protein bar.

The sudden, smooth hum of the elevator was almost as jarring as its failure. The soft, white lights flickered back on, banishing the ominous orange glow. With a near-silent whisper, the doors slid open, revealing the pristine, empty lobby. The spell was broken, but the world outside was irrevocably changed.

You didn't speak. You simply followed him, your footsteps echoing on the marble in unison with his. The night air in the private underground garage was cold, smelling of concrete and expensive gasoline. He led you to a car that was the very definition of understated wealth—a black, armored sedan, sleek and silent as a shark.

He opened the passenger door for you. A gesture from Bruce Wayne, the gentleman. A command from Batman. You slid inside, the leather seat cool and supple. The door closed with a solid, expensive thunk, sealing you in a cocoon of silence and tension.

He got in the driver's side, the interior lights illuminating the stark, determined planes of his profile. He didn't start the engine immediately. The silence in the car was even heavier than in the elevator, pressurized, filled with the unspoken weight of everything that had just happened.

He finally turned the key. The engine purred to life, a deep, powerful vibration that thrummed through the seats. He didn't pull out. His hands rested on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the concrete wall ahead.

"Your arm," he said, his voice a low rumble in the confined space. "The wound from last night. Did I dress it adequately?"

The question was so clinical, so detached, it was somehow more intimate than any accusation. He wasn't asking Y/N, his lawyer. He was assessing his field medicine on the Scarlet Jurist.

"It's fine," you said, your voice tight. "It held."

He gave a short, sharp nod. "Good."

He put the car in drive and pulled out of the spot, the headlights cutting twin swathes through the darkness of the garage. He drove with the same unnerving focus he did everything else—smooth, precise, completely controlled. The streets of Gotham slid by, a blur of light and shadow.

"You saved my life," he stated, the words flat, factual. "Three times."

"You were keeping count," you murmured, staring out the window at the passing city—your city, his city.

"I always keep count."

The silence returned, thick and heavy. He was taking you somewhere, but you had no idea where. Your apartment? The Batcave? Somewhere to have that "long conversation"? Your mind raced, the lawyer in you already building defenses, assessing liabilities, while the vigilante calculated escape routes and tactical disadvantages.

He finally spoke again, his voice quieter, the gravelly edge softened by something you couldn't name. "We'll get food first."

You turned to look at him, stunned. His eyes were still on the road, his expression unreadable.

"What?"

"You're hungry," he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. And in his world, perhaps it was. A problem identified must be solved. "We will eat. Then we will talk."

He wasn't asking. He was stating the new mission parameters. The world had turned upside down, identities were shattered, and the most powerful man in Gotham was taking you to get dinner because your stomach had grumbled. The sheer, absurd normality of it was somehow the most shocking revelation of the entire night. The negotiation had begun, and the opening bid was a meal.

The car did not glide toward the glittering, overpriced restaurants of the Upper East Side, nor did it descend into the shadowy depths you knew must house the Batcave. Instead, it navigated the gridded streets with a purpose that led to a part of Gotham that was just… normal. A neighborhood of faded brick and flickering neon, where the city’s relentless glamour and gothic horror both seemed to take the night off.

He parallel parked the six-figure sedan with effortless precision in front of a diner you’d passed a hundred times but never entered. The chrome was worn, the neon sign for ‘ELI’S’ buzzed softly, and the windows were steamy from the warmth within. It was the last place on earth you would ever picture Bruce Wayne.

He killed the engine. The silence returned, but it was different now, filled with the distant clatter of plates and the low hum of the city at rest.

“They’re open all night,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “The coffee is strong. The food is edible.”

It was the most pragmatic, un-Bruce-Wayne-like sentence you had ever heard him utter. He got out of the car. After a moment of stunned hesitation, you did the same, the cold air a shock after the car’s warmth.

He held the diner’s door open for you. A small bell jingled. The air inside was a comforting blend of frying grease, fresh coffee, and lemon-scented cleaner. A few lone patrons sat at the counter or in vinyl booths, lost in their own late-night worlds. No one looked up.

He led you to a booth in the back, its red vinyl patched with silver tape. He slid in on one side, and you took the other, placing your bag beside you. The laminate table was clean but scarred with decades of use.

A waitress with a tired smile and a name tag that read ‘Flo’ came over, pad in hand. “The usual, hon?” she asked Bruce, not even glancing at a menu.

He nodded. “And for her.” He gestured to you.

You looked up at Flo, your mind a complete blank. Your entire life had been reduced to legal briefs, tactical plans, and survival. The simple act of choosing food from a menu felt alien, overwhelming.

“I… I’ll have what he’s having,” you finally managed.

Flo scribbled on her pad. “Two specials. Coffee?”

“Please,” you both said in unison. The coincidence hung in the air between you as Flo ambled away.

He reached for the sugar dispenser, his movements economical. He didn’t look like Batman here, under the warm, unflattering fluorescent lights. He didn’t look like Bruce Wayne, either. He looked like a man. A tired, formidable, impossibly complex man who had just discovered his lawyer was also the vigilante who had saved his life.

Flo returned with two heavy ceramic mugs, filled with black coffee so dark it was almost tar. You wrapped your hands around the mug, the heat seeping into your cold fingers. The silence stretched, but it was no longer the threatening silence of the elevator. It was the silence of two people who had run out of road, who had nowhere left to hide, and who were now, for the first time, simply sitting across from one another.

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug.

“Start from the beginning,” Batman said, his voice a low, quiet rumble that was meant only for you.

The heat from the coffee mug was the only real thing in the world. The ceramic was solid, the warmth a steady anchor against the storm of your racing thoughts. You stared into the dark, swirling liquid, gathering the shattered pieces of your story.

“The beginning,” you repeated, the words tasting like ash. You took a slow, deliberate sip. The coffee was bitter and strong, just as he’d promised. It grounded you.

“It wasn’t a choice. Not really.” You kept your eyes on the mug, your voice low, meant only for the man across from you. “My parents… they weren't like yours. They weren't socialites. They were public defenders. Good ones. They believed in the system.”

A hollow, painful laugh escaped you. “A drug lord named Carmine Falconi believed in a different system. They had evidence on one of his lieutenants—a money trail that led right to his doorstep. The system offered them protection. It was… insufficient.”

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze. The white lenses were gone. You saw only his eyes, blue and intense, watching you, absorbing every word.

“They were killed in a home invasion. A tragedy, the papers called it. A random act of violence. I was sixteen. I knew it wasn't random. The system they believed in had failed them. It had paperwork and procedures, but it couldn't stop a bullet.”

Flo arrived with two plates, setting them down with a soft clatter. The "special" was a generous portion of eggs, toast, and hash browns. Comfort food. The smell was overwhelming. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were.

You picked up a fork, pushing the eggs around the plate. “I went into law. Not to be a public defender. To understand the machine that failed them. To learn its gears and levers. I became very, very good at it.” You gestured vaguely in the direction of Wayne Tower. “The best. It gave me access. I saw the other side of it—the loopholes, the corrupt judges, the cops on the take. The people who used the law as a weapon instead of a shield.”

You took a bite of toast. It was buttery, simple. Real.

“The law couldn't touch them. So, I decided to become a different kind of argument. One they couldn't rebut. One they couldn't appeal.” You set your fork down. “The Scarlet Jurist wasn't born from a desire to be a hero. It was born from a closing argument the world never got to hear.”

He hadn't touched his food. He was perfectly still, a statue listening to a confession.

“Wayne Enterprises was a cover. The best cover. The pay was exceptional, the resources unparalleled. And you…” You met his eyes again, a flicker of the old, professional dynamic surfacing. “You were the perfect client. Your… extracurricular chaos provided the perfect camouflage for my own. Who would suspect Bruce Wayne’s personal lawyer was a vigilante? You were the ultimate alibi.”

The silence that followed was different from all the others. It was filled with the clatter of the diner, the sizzle of the grill, the weight of a shared understanding. He knew what it was to be forged in tragedy, to be remade by a single, violent night.

He finally picked up his own fork. “The funding,” he stated, not a question, but a point of fact to be confirmed.

“Off-shore accounts. Shell companies I established using the very skills I honed working for you. The suit, the tech… it’s all self-funded. I never stole a dime from you or Wayne Enterprises.” Your voice was firm on that point. It was a matter of professional pride. A line you would never cross.

He took a bite of eggs, chewed, and swallowed. His gaze was distant, calculating. You could see him re-contextualizing every interaction, every late night, every perfectly argued legal point. He was rebuilding the world with this new, fundamental truth at its center.

“The security memo after the Black Mask incident,” he said. “You weren’t just being thorough. You were patching a vulnerability you’d exploited.”

A faint, grim smile touched your lips. “Yes.”

He nodded slowly, then gestured to your plate with his fork. “Eat. Your food is getting cold.”

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. It was a temporary cease-fire, negotiated over eggs and coffee. You obeyed, the simple act of eating feeling like the first step in a terrifying new reality. The conversation was far from over, but for now, the beginning had been laid bare. The rest—the rules, the boundaries, the terrifying future—could wait until after the plates were cleared.

The world, which had narrowed to the confessional space of the vinyl booth, shattered back into a million pieces. Your phone, which had been face-down on the table, vibrated with a specific, melodic ringtone you never, ever ignored.

Your head snapped down. A cold dread, entirely separate from the one Batman inspired, washed over you. You glanced across the table, an apology already forming in your eyes, and saw him freeze, his fork halfway to his mouth. His intense focus shifted from your shared secret to this new, urgent disruption.

You snatched up the phone, swiping to answer. "Hello?"

There was a soft, wet gurgling sound from the other end, followed by the distinct, clumsy patting of tiny hands on a screen.

You closed your eyes, a wave of pure, unadulterated exhaustion and love crashing over you. The tension drained from your shoulders, replaced by a different, profound weight.

"Hi!" you said, your voice transforming completely. It softened, lifting into a gentle, melodic tone he had never heard before. It was stripped of all its professional sharpness and vigilante grit. It was just… warm. "Did you finally manage to take your auntie's phone? Yeah? Sure you did, you clever girl." You listened for a moment to the baby babble, a real, tired smile touching your lips for the first time all night. "How's mama's baby girl, hm? Are you being good for Auntie Maya?"

You listened, your expression a mixture of deep affection and sheer, bone-tiredness. "Is that so? Well, you tell Auntie Maya that Mama will be home soon, okay? I promise. Yes. I love you too, sweetpea. So, so much. Give the phone back to Auntie now, okay? Bye-bye."

You waited a moment, hearing the muffled sound of your sister's voice in the background before the line went dead. You slowly lowered the phone back to the table, the screen now dark. The silence in the booth was absolute. The air had changed again. The last secret, the most important one, was now hanging in the space between you, more revealing than any story of murdered parents or a vigilante's crusade.

You couldn't look at him. You stared at your cold eggs, your throat tight.

When you finally forced yourself to meet his gaze, the look on his face was one you had never seen before. It wasn't Batman's analytical coldness. It wasn't Bruce Wayne's charming confusion. It was something raw, stunned, and utterly disarmed. The final variable in the equation. The one that changed everything.

He looked at you—the lawyer, the vigilante, the woman who had saved his life three times in a single night—and now, the mother.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, stripped of all its gravel and bravado.

"You have a child."

"I was a surrogate once, had to fund my studies...the parents divorced and woopdido, I had a small chocolate baby on my hands"

The words hung in the air, simple and devastating, reframing everything he had just learned. A surrogate. Studies. A divorce. A child.

The raw, stunned look on his face didn't fade; it deepened, transforming into something more complex—a dawning, profound comprehension. The puzzle of you was finally complete, and the final piece was a small, chocolate-skinned baby girl.

You gave a weak, watery chuckle, the sound bordering on hysterical. "Yeah. 'Whoopsidaisy' doesn't really cover it, does it?" You dragged a hand over your face, the exhaustion now so total it felt like a physical weight. "Top of my class at law school, and my biggest client was a diaper company. I was going to give her up, it was the plan, the whole point... but then they handed her to me. Just for a moment. And she... she grabbed my finger."

You looked down at your own hand, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And that was it. The case was closed. No appeal."

The confession was out, more vulnerable than any admission of being a vigilante. This was the core of it all. The relentless drive, the double life, the sheer, unsustainable exhaustion. It wasn't just for justice for your parents. It was for her. For the tiny, unexpected life that had grabbed your finger and never let go.

He was silent for a long, long time. The diner hummed around you, a world of normal problems continuing on, oblivious to the seismic shift happening in the back booth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured, and carried a gravity you had never heard from him before. It wasn't Batman's growl or Bruce Wayne's casual tone. It was something else entirely.

"The Cave has state-of-the-art medical facilities," he stated, his eyes holding yours. "Far superior to anything at Gotham General. For either of you. If it's ever needed."

The offer was so practical, so immense, and so utterly understanding that it stole the air from your lungs. He wasn't offering sympathy. He was offering resources. He was looking at the whole, impossible picture of your life—the lawyer, the vigilante, the mother—and his first instinct was to fortify its most vulnerable point.

He then gestured to your plate with his chin, his expression shifting back to something more familiar, though the intensity was now tempered with a new, unspoken respect. "Eat your eggs, Y/N. Then I'm driving you home. Your daughter is waiting."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a decree. The negotiation was over. The terms had been set. The world hadn't just changed; it had solidified into something new, something terrifying and powerful. You had an ally. And your daughter had a protector.

***

The air in Wayne Tower felt different on "Bring Your Child to Work Day." The usual hushed, professional atmosphere was punctuated by the high-pitched chatter of children, the squeak of tiny sneakers on marble, and the occasional wail of an overwhelmed toddler. You navigated this chaos with a sense of surreal normalcy, your most important case strapped securely to your chest in a structured carrier.

Chloe was, by all accounts, a ridiculously perfect toddler. Her skin was the color of rich, dark chocolate, and she was gloriously, adorably round, with cheeks so full they squeezed her eyes into happy little crescents. A head of soft, springy curls was tied with a tiny yellow bow that matched the little sundress she wore under her carrier. She gnawed contentedly on a silicone teething ring, her big, brown eyes wide as she took in the soaring ceilings and the other children.

You were in your element, a strange new fusion of your identities. You were Y/N L/N, Esq., Personal Counsel to Bruce Wayne, currently explaining the basics of contract law to a fascinated seven-year-old from the IT department. And you were also Mama, absently bouncing on the balls of your feet to keep Chloe happy, your hand coming up to gently steady her back as you spoke.

You turned to grab a folder from your assistant’s desk and nearly walked directly into Bruce Wayne.

He stood there, frozen, a stack of "Future Wayne Enterprises Employee!" stickers in his hand. His gaze was locked not on you, but on the round, chewing, staring baby strapped to your front.

Chloe, utterly unfazed by the presence of Gotham's most elusive billionaire, stopped gnawing her ring. She stared at this large, quiet man. Her little eyebrows furrowed. Then, she let out a loud, decisive, "Ba!" and reached out a chubby, sticky hand, grabbing a fistful of his immaculate, probably insanely expensive, tie.

Time seemed to stop. Your assistant gasped softly. A few parents nearby froze, watching the scene with a mixture of horror and fascination.

You moved to gently pry her fingers loose. "Chloe, no, sweetheart, that's not for—"

Bruce held up a hand, stopping you. He didn't pull away. He just looked down at the small hand crumpling his silk tie, at the serious, round face studying him with intense baby focus.

Slowly, carefully, as if disarming a bomb, he reached up with his free hand. He didn't try to remove her grip. Instead, he offered her his index finger.

Chloe looked from the ruined tie to the offered finger. With the fickle grace of a tiny monarch, she released the tie and wrapped her whole hand around his finger, her grip surprisingly strong.

A sound escaped Bruce Wayne. It wasn't a laugh. It was something rarer, softer. A faint, almost imperceptible huff of air that seemed to ease the perpetual tension in his shoulders. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

"She's... strong," he murmured, his voice quiet, devoid of any Bruce Wayne performance or Batman gravel.

"She gets that from her mother," you replied, your own voice a little thick.

He didn't let go of her hand. He just stood there, in the middle of the bustling office, allowing a toddler to hold him captive. His gaze lifted from Chloe to meet yours, and in that look, everything was communicated. The shared nights on rooftops, the confession in the diner, the immense, unspoken understanding of what it meant to have a secret life fueled by the need to protect a child.

He gave a small, genuine smile, the first you thought you'd ever truly seen from him. "She's perfect, Y/N."

Then, with the utmost care, he peeled her grip from his finger. He reached into his pocket, not for a business card or a phone, but for one of the silly stickers. It had a cartoon of a hardhat with the Wayne "W" on it. He peeled it off and, with a solemnity usually reserved for signing billion-dollar contracts, pressed it carefully onto the chest of Chloe's carrier, right over her heart.

"There," he said softly. "Now she's official."

He gave you one last, unreadable look—a look that promised continued conversation, a new layer of complexity, and an unshakeable, silent alliance—before turning and melting back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with your daughter, a silly sticker on her chest, and the dizzying certainty that your two worlds had not just collided, but had irrevocably fused.

***

The rain was a cold, needling mist, turning the gargoyle you were perched on into a slick, black obsidian sculpture. Below, the Gotham Docks were a chaos of shouting GCPD, flashing lights, and the looming, silent presence of the Bat-family. The target was a weapons shipment, but it had been a trap, springing a meta-human brawler who was currently giving Robin and Nightwing a run for their money.

You were the overwatch, your rifle loaded with high-impact gel rounds. From your vantage point, you could track the meta’s movements, see the openings the others, in the thick of it, missed.

“Red Robin, he’s favoring his left leg. Strike low, right side,” you murmured into your comm, a private, encrypted channel.

A moment later, Red Robin executed the move, sweeping the meta’s leg and creating an opening for Nightwing. It was clean, efficient.

“Thanks, Jurist,” Red Robin’s voice crackled back, a note of grudging respect there.

From the shadows near a crane, Batman was a still, dark vortex. He wasn’t in the fight. He was directing it, his gaze sweeping the entire battlefield. But you felt his attention on you. It had been constant since the diner. Since the sticker.

The meta-human, a brute calling himself Goliath, roared in frustration, backhanding a shipping container hard enough to dent it. He turned his fury toward where Batman stood, seemingly exposed.

“Batman, incoming high-left!” you said, your voice calm despite the adrenaline.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look. As Goliath lunged, Batman simply took a single, precise step to the right, and the meta-human’s fist smashed into the concrete where he’d been standing a second before. It was a level of trust that made your breath catch.

It was then that Nightwing, landing nimbly on a stack of crates, called out, his voice laced with playful suspicion he’d been harboring for weeks. “So, B, you and the Scarlet Jurist seem awfully coordinated all of a sudden. You finally run a background check that stuck?”

Red Robin chimed in, dodging a piece of shrapnel. “Yeah, last time she was on comms, you were grunting at her to stay out of your way. Now you’re taking tactical advice. Did you two kiss and make up?”

You stayed silent, sighting down your rifle, your cheeks burning hot under your mask. This was the moment. The teasing, the questioning you knew was inevitable.

Batman didn’t even turn his head. His voice was a low, flat growl over the main channel, a tone that brooked no argument, a tone that ended discussions from here to the Watchtower.

“Her intel is flawless. Her judgment is sound,” he stated, the words absolute. “Adjust your tactics accordingly.”

The silence on the comms was deafening. You could practically feel the stunned looks being exchanged between the other vigilantes. That was more than an endorsement; it was a shield. He had just, in his own taciturn way, officially brought you in from the cold. He had vouched for you. Not just as an asset, but as a peer.

A warm, unexpected feeling spread through your chest, momentarily overpowering the cold of the rain. It wasn’t just professional validation. It was… belonging.

You saw Goliath telegraph another wild swing toward an off-balance Robin.

“Robin, duck,” you said, your voice firm.

Robin, without a second of hesitation, dropped. Your finger squeezed the trigger. The gel round hit Goliath square in the temple, not hard enough to cause real damage, but with enough concussive force to stun him. Batman was on him in an instant, applying restraints.

The fight was over.

As the GCPD moved in to take custody, you prepared to melt back into the shadows. But a single, low word came over your private channel.

“Jurist.”

You paused, looking down. He was standing over the subdued meta, looking up at your perch. The rain sheeted off his cowl.

“Good shot,” he said.

Then he was gone, a shadow among shadows. But the words lingered, warming you against the chill. The calculus hadn't just changed. A new equation had been written, and you were a fundamental part of it. You were his lawyer, his unexpected ally, and the mother of the child who had stolen his tie. And on the rain-slicked rooftops of Gotham, you were finally, unquestionably, on the same team.

***

A soft, fond sigh escaped you as you laid the stack of case files on the polished surface of Bruce’s desk. The usual pristine order of the penthouse office was a stark contrast to the chaotic, love-filled morning you’d just endured.

“The Kord merger is finalized, and the press release for the quarterly earnings is drafted and vetted. I’ve highlighted the sections that need your specific sign-off,” you said, your voice professional but laced with a familiar, weary warmth that had become your new normal.

Bruce, who had been studying a financial report, looked up. His sharp, blue eyes didn’t go to the files. They zeroed in on your hands as you gestured. On the back of your right hand, and across the knuckles of your left, were a series of faint, but distinct, reddened semi-circles and tiny, indented marks.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked, his head tilting a fraction of an inch. The question was silent but palpable in the quiet room.

You followed his gaze and let out another, more exasperated sigh, a small, tired smile playing on your lips. You held your hands up, displaying the tiny battle scars.

“She bit me,” you confessed, the words dripping with a mixture of utter exhaustion and deep affection. “Twice before daycare drop-off. Apparently, I’m the yummiest teething ring on the market.”

You shook your head, the memory clear in your mind. “And the worst part is, she grins up the most ridiculous, gummy, triumphant smiles after she does it. Like she’s just conquered Mount Everest and planted her flag right on my metacarpals. It’s impossible to be mad.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, his intense focus now completely on this new piece of intelligence. The fearsome Batman, the brilliant CEO, was visibly processing the concept of being deliberately chomped on by a toothless, grinning toddler. The image clearly did not compute within his usual frameworks of threat assessment and tactical response.

He slowly reached out, not to touch, but to indicate the marks. “Is that… hygienic?”

The question was so clinically, genuinely Batman that you had to stifle a laugh. “I disinfect thoroughly. But it’s a losing battle. Everything goes in the mouth. Ties, apparently, included.”

A ghost of a memory—of a tiny, sticky hand fisted in his silk tie—seemed to flicker behind his eyes. The stern line of his mouth softened almost imperceptibly.

“She’s… teething,” he stated, filing the information away.

“Violently,” you confirmed, dropping your hands. “So, if my legal briefs seem a little more terse than usual, you’ll know I’m drafting them one-handed while fending off a tiny, adorable piranha.”

He gave a short, quiet grunt that you had learned to interpret as amusement. He picked up his pen, his gaze returning to the files, but the atmosphere in the room had shifted. It was no longer just a boss and his employee, or Batman and the Scarlet Jurist. It was two people, bound by impossible secrets and a shared, silent understanding of the absurd, wonderful, and often painful complexities of a life that extended far beyond the walls of Wayne Tower and the rooftops of Gotham.

“Duly noted,” he said, his voice a low rumble. And for the first time, you thought you detected the faintest hint of a smile in it.

***

The first thing you were aware of was not the light, but the silence. The deep, profound quiet of the Wayne Penthouse at dawn, a silence so expensive it felt like its own entity. The second was the weight. A solid, warm, possessive weight across your bare waist, an arm draped over you with an unshakeable certainty.

Then came the memory. Not as a blur, but as a series of crystalline, sharp-edged moments from the past year.

The tense, passionate standoffs in this very bedroom after a night of patrol, arguments over tactics and morality that left you both breathless and furious, the line between professional disagreement and something far more personal obliterated.

The first time he’d kissed you, not as Bruce or Batman, but as a man whose carefully constructed walls had finally crumbled under the weight of shared secrets and a shared, impossible life. It had been against the door of your safehouse, tasting of blood and coffee and desperation.

The night you’d almost died, a jagged piece of rebar sticking out of your side, and the raw, unchecked terror in his voice when he’d said your name, his gloves slick with your blood as he carried you to the Batcave’s medbay.

The way he was with Chloe, the fearsome Dark Knight brought to a standstill by a toddler offering him a half-eaten, drool-covered cracker. The way he’d installed state-of-the-art, child-proof everything in the Cave and the Penthouse he had bought for you to stay in until your marriage was finalized without you even asking.

It had been a year of fire and friction, a constant, high-stakes negotiation between two people who were used to being the most dangerous person in any room, learning to trust, to yield, to love.

You shifted slightly, the satin sheets whispering against your skin. And you felt it. A cool, hard circle of metal on your left ring finger.

Your eyes snapped open.

The early morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sprawling, minimalist bedroom. And there, on your hand, resting against the dark silk of the sheet, was a ring. It wasn't a gaudy, traditional solitaire. It was a band of dark, burnished platinum, sleek and severe, yet intricately woven, like the armor of a suit you knew all too well. Set into it was a single, perfectly cut black diamond that seemed to drink the light, its depths holding a fire that only showed itself from certain angles.

It was utterly, completely you. A piece of the night, forged into a promise.

You stared at it, your breath catching in your throat. The weight of it felt… right. Like the final piece of a complex puzzle slotting into place.

The arm around your waist tightened, pulling you back flush against a solid, warm chest. You felt his lips brush the bare skin of your shoulder, a slow, deliberate caress.

“I had a compelling argument,” his voice rumbled, sleep-rough and laced with a possessiveness that made your heart stutter. It was Bruce’s voice, but the gravity was all Batman’s.

You turned in his arms, the sheet pooling around your waist. He was watching you, his blue eyes clear and intense in the morning light, free of any mask. There was no question in them. Only a quiet, absolute certainty.

You looked from his face to the ring, then back to his face. A slow, genuine smile spread across your lips, one that reached your eyes. The kind of smile only he and Chloe ever saw.

“The most compelling,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. You lifted your hand, watching the dark stone catch the light. “It’s… a very convincing closing argument, Mr. Wayne.”

He captured your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, the cool metal of the ring pressed between your palms.

“The negotiation is over,” he stated, his voice low and final. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “The deal is closed.”

Outside, Gotham was waking up, oblivious. But here, in the quiet heart of the city, the lawyer and the vigilante, the CEO and the Dark Knight, the mother and the father, had finally, after a year of fire, found their verdict. And it was written in platinum and diamond, sealed with a kiss as the sun rose on a new, shared life.

The word, high-pitched and gleeful, sliced through the quiet intimacy of the bedroom like a tiny, joyful lightning bolt.

"Pancaka!"

You froze, your forehead still resting against Bruce’s, your intertwined hands with the new ring between them. A beat of perfect, stunned silence was followed by the unmistakable, determined pattering of tiny feet on the penthouse’s polished downstairs floor, accompanied by the frazzled, loving voice of your sister, Maya. “Chloe, no, sweetie, they’re sleeping! Let’s go look at the fishies!”

Bruce didn’t pull away. A slow, deep, genuine rumble of laughter started in his chest, a sound you felt more than heard, a vibration that was still so rare and precious it made your heart ache. He opened his eyes, and the look in them was a universe away from the Dark Knight or the CEO. It was pure, unadulterated fondness.

“She’s perfected her timing,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over the new ring on your finger.

“She wants pancakes,” you translated with a soft, watery laugh, the sheer, beautiful normality of the moment crashing over you. Your world-saving fiancé, your teething toddler demanding breakfast, your new ring glittering in the dawn light. It was all so absurdly, perfectly domestic.

He gave you one last, swift, hard kiss before releasing you and swinging his legs out of bed with his usual purposeful grace. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants from a nearby chair, his back to you, the muscles moving with a familiar, powerful ease.

“I’ll start the batter,” he said, his voice already shifting into mission-mode. “You secure the primary asset.”

You smiled, pushing yourself up and grabbing your robe. “Copy that.”

You padded out of the bedroom and leaned over the second-floor railing. Below, Chloe was doing a happy, wobbly dance in her footie pajamas, her little face tipped up towards you, a picture of utter triumph. Maya stood behind her, holding a sippy cup and offering you an apologetic shrug.

“Mama! Pancaka!” Chloe squealed again, spotting you, her little arms reaching up.

“I hear you, sweetpea,” you called down, your heart feeling so full it might burst. “Pancakes are inbound.”

You turned to head downstairs and saw Bruce already in the doorway of the massive, open-plan kitchen. He had paused, looking back at you, a carton of eggs in one hand. The morning sun caught the edge of the dark platinum band on his own left hand—a match to yours, you noticed with a fresh jolt of joy. His gaze was soft, taking in the scene: you in your robe, your daughter chanting for pancakes below, the promise of the new day.

The Batcave, the boardrooms, the rooftops—they were all still there. But this, this was the mission that mattered most. He gave you a small, private smile, a silent vow that echoed the one on your finger.

"Really, darling," he drawled, twirling his peacock-feather earring, "I think you're overreacting. Things turned out splendidly, didn’t they? I'm still here, the Stellaron didn’t detonate, and Sunday's little 'dream empire' has a massive PR disaster on their hands. All thanks to your impeccable legal wizardry, might I add."

You slammed your laptop shut with enough force to make him flinch. "Splendidly?! You were HAM-SLICED, Aventurine. HAM. SLICED. And then YEETED INTO A BLACK HOLE! Do you even comprehend how many laws of physics, ethics, and basic sanity you violated in a single day?"

He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But you saved me, didn’t you? My charming legal champion, swooping in with airtight arguments and enough loopholes to make the Family’s lawyers cry."

"Don’t you dare flatter me right now." You jabbed a finger at him, your other hand pointing to the stack of legal briefs on your desk. "Do you know how hard it is to defend you when you keep pulling stunts like that? I had to argue in front of three intergalactic tribunals that Sunday's Dreamscape Order literally brainwashed you into threatening a Stellaron detonation!"

Aventurine leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "And you did it flawlessly. Honestly, I should hire you full-time. Leave that dusty legal research behind and become my personal strategist. Think of the fun we’d have!"

"Fun?" you repeated, incredulous. "FUN?! Watching you gamble your life away every other Tuesday isn’t my idea of fun, Kakavasha."

His grin faltered for the briefest moment at the mention of his real name, but he recovered quickly, standing and striding over to your desk. "You know I can’t resist a good gamble," he said softly, his voice unusually earnest. "It’s who I am. But having you there… knowing you’ve got my back? That’s the only reason I can keep playing the game."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. "That’s… disturbingly sweet," you muttered. "But it doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re reckless, irresponsible, and—"

"Charming?" he offered with a wink.

"Infuriating," you finished, swatting his hand away as he tried to steal one of your pens. "Now sit down and let me finish drafting this counter-lawsuit. If Sunday or the Family tries to come after you again, I want them buried so deep in legal hell they’ll be begging for the black hole treatment."

Aventurine laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that made your chest tighten in a way you refused to examine. "You’re one of a kind, [Name]. I don’t deserve you, but I’m keeping you anyway."

"You don’t have me," you shot back, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. "I’m just here to make sure you don’t get sued—or sliced—again."

"Of course," he said smoothly, settling back into his chair with a self-satisfied smirk. "But I’ll win you over eventually. It’s only a matter of time."

You rolled your eyes and reopened your laptop, trying to focus on your work. But as you typed out another legal argument to shield Aventurine from his latest bout of insanity, you couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

Maybe he wasn’t entirely unbearable.

The ring light hummed softly in her apartment — a quiet halo crowning her as she adjusted her notes.

The camera was already rolling, red dot burning like a heartbeat.

The channel was called “By the Book.”

A little corner of the internet where people came for explanations on obscure legislation, constitutional breakdowns, and the occasional scathing commentary on politicians who had no business holding office.

And tonight’s topic?

A fan favorite.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

The nation’s silver-tongued veteran, reformed assassin of policy nuance, walking headline.

She smoothed a hand over her notepad and lifted her chin.

“Let’s talk about Congressman Barnes,” she began, her tone deceptively even — the kind of calm that always meant trouble.

“He’s charming, polite, even kind — a rare sight in D.C., I’ll give him that. But kindness isn’t legislation. Compassion doesn’t amend bills. And good intentions—” she looked directly into the camera, eyes sharp, “—don’t keep families from losing their homes, or small businesses from collapsing under unfair taxes.”

A pause.

The practiced inhale.

The little smile she knew drove the comment section wild.

“Being kind is not enough. Not when you’ve been in office for almost two years and haven’t passed a single bill.”

She clicked her pen once — a habit born of courtroom nerves and camera rhythm — then leaned forward, voice softer now, like she was letting her viewers in on a secret.

“Congressman Barnes seems to believe heart and history are enough to carry policy. But public office isn’t a therapy session. It’s not about redemption arcs. It’s about results. You don’t get to run on tragedy forever.”

The comments were already flooding in on the live feed:

‘She’s savage tonight.’

‘Not the museum line again 💀💀💀’

‘Bucky Barnes needs a lawyer who’s not afraid to roast him.’

She smiled faintly at that one.

She had no idea that, in a few days, that exact lawyer would be sitting across from him.

Cut to: The Aftermath

When the video went up, the internet lit up like a match in a gas leak.

Clips of her rant trended on Twitter within the hour.

Her monologue was quoted in online editorials, spliced into news segments, even turned into a meme with Bucky’s confused expression from a hearing.

#ByTheBook was everywhere.

And she’d seen it all before — the usual mix of applause, misogyny, fanboy outrage, and the occasional DM that said “marry me or debate me” (sometimes both).

But what she didn’t expect was the email.

It came late. Past midnight.

The subject line: Interview Request — Congressman Barnes.

She read it twice, slowly, her brain refusing to process the words.

Congressman Barnes would be happy to appear on your show for a discussion on transparency, bipartisanship, and his legislative agenda.

He respects your perspective and believes in open dialogue.

She leaned back in her chair, blinking at the screen like it had just grown legs and started dancing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “He actually wants to come on?”

Her assistant, Maya, peeked up from the couch, bleary-eyed and holding a mug of tea.

“Wait — Barnes? The Barnes?”

“Apparently so.”

“You’re going to roast Captain Democracy live?”

“I don’t roast,” she said primly.

“You flambé,” Maya corrected, smirking.

She couldn’t argue that.

For the first time in her channel’s history, she hesitated before hitting reply.

Because despite everything she’d said, there was a small, traitorous part of her that admired him — or maybe pitied him. The man had been frozen, brainwashed, and now somehow landed in Congress.

It wasn’t just a redemption arc. It was a resurrection.

And she was about to be the one holding the match to test if it burned.

So she typed two words.

Short, polite, deadly.

I accept.

The studio wasn’t glamorous — not in the polished, network-news kind of way.

It smelled faintly of coffee and ambition.

Two mics, one camera, and a city skyline beyond the window that glittered like temptation.

She’d spent all morning rehearsing questions. Sharp, fair, factual. Not personal. Never personal.

The goal wasn’t to humiliate him — it was to hold him accountable.

That’s what she told herself anyway.

And then he walked in.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes looked like sin in a suit and sincerity in the same breath.

Dark navy jacket. Rolled-up sleeves. Tie slightly loosened — as if politics bored him and the formality was just a costume he tolerated.

And that metal arm — polished, discreet, glinting faintly under the lights when he offered his hand.

“Counselor.”

His voice was low, almost amused, as if the title itself was a peace offering.

“Congressman,” she replied coolly, ignoring the tiny electric jolt that crawled up her wrist when their hands met.

“You could’ve declined the invitation.”

“And miss my chance at public execution?” His mouth curved. “Didn’t seem fair.”

The crew laughed softly. She didn’t.

But she was close to it.

They sat.

The cameras rolled.

The red light blinked on — the signal that everything from this moment forward was permanent.

Round One: The Crossfire

“Let’s start simple,” she began, poised as marble. “You’ve been in office for two years, yet no successful legislation under your name. Why should voters believe you’re capable of real governance?”

“Because legislation isn’t a solo sport,” he said easily. “You can write the best bill in the world, but if the people you serve don’t trust you enough to vote for it, you’re just writing essays.”

“So your defense is—what? Bureaucratic teamwork?”

“My defense,” he said, leaning in slightly, “is that the law should serve people, not egos. I’d rather fight for something that takes time to pass than push through something just to have my name on it.”

Her lips parted slightly — a flicker of surprise before she masked it.

He wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t evasive.

He was… earnest.

And God, that was so much worse.

“You’ve been called a sentimental politician,” she pressed. “Some say you rely too much on morality and not enough on measurable policy.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, with that maddening calm. “But I’ve seen what happens when people stop believing in right and wrong. I’d rather err on the side of compassion.”

“Compassion doesn’t write laws.”

“Neither does cynicism.”

There it was.

A quiet punch to the ribs.

Her jaw tightened — not out of anger, but something more dangerous. Interest.

Round Two: The Reveal

Halfway through, the conversation shifted — almost against her will.

He spoke about veterans struggling with reintegration programs, about trauma-informed policy, about the need for empathy without excusing inaction.

Every sentence was threaded with the kind of sincerity she’d forgotten existed in politics.

“You talk like someone who’s lived it,” she said softly, momentarily forgetting the cameras.

“I have,” he replied. “I’ve had people look me in the eye and tell me I don’t belong in this country. That I shouldn’t be trusted near power. And maybe they’re right. But I believe the law should be a ladder, not a weapon. So I climb anyway.”

The room went quiet. Even the crew stopped shifting.

It wasn’t a sound bite — it was a confession.

For the first time, she didn’t have a comeback ready.

And she hated how that made her feel.

Because maybe — just maybe — she’d been wrong about him.

Round Three: The Subtext

“You’re good at this,” she said finally, closing her notebook. “The media training, I mean.”

“You think I rehearsed that?” He smiled, tired and boyish all at once. “You can’t rehearse regret, Counselor.”

“I didn’t say regret. I said charm.”

“Guess they overlap sometimes.”

Something shifted then — just slightly.

The air grew heavy, magnetic.

Two people who’d built their careers on argument suddenly realizing they might actually understand each other.

When the cameras stopped, neither moved for a long moment.

“You didn’t go easy on me,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re one of the few who doesn’t.”

And then, softer — so low she almost missed it:

“You asked the right questions.”

She blinked, thrown by the sincerity of it.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” He rose, offering that same glinting hand. “Not everyone can make me sweat on camera.”

Her heart stuttered, traitorous.

“You didn’t seem nervous.”

“That’s the trick.” He grinned. “Never let them see it.”

And then he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of his cologne and the echo of his voice in her head.

Later That Night

The clip would go viral by morning.

Thousands of comments, millions of views, and a split audience — half saying she’d gone soft, half saying she’d finally found an equal.

But right now, alone in her apartment, she replayed one sentence — over and over —

“The law should be a ladder, not a weapon.”

And for the first time, she wondered if kindness and knowledge weren’t opposites after all.

Maybe, in the right hands, they could build something worth climbing.

Three days after the interview aired, her inbox became a war zone.

Half of her viewers accused her of going soft on Barnes.

The other half called it her best episode yet.

Someone even made an edit of the two of them — slow music, stolen glances, the caption reading “Enemies to Lovers: Congressional Edition.”

She tried to laugh. She failed.

Maya had seen it first.

“You’ve got chemistry,” she’d said, scrolling through the comments with a grin. “Half the country ships you two.”

“They ship everything,” she’d muttered. “You could put a broom next to a senator and someone would make a fan cam.”

“Yeah, but not one that gets two million views.”

She rolled her eyes, but deep down — dangerously deep — she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The way he’d listened. The way he’d answered without dodging.

The way he’d said “Never let them see it.”

She told herself it was respect.

Professional curiosity.

An appreciation for good debate.

But when she caught herself watching the clip again — lingering on his hands, his voice, his quiet composure — she realized it wasn’t just that.

Capitol Tension

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s impeachment trial was everywhere.

Corruption, conspiracy, manipulation — the kind of political scandal that makes citizens lose faith and pundits foam at the mouth.

She’d been covering it for weeks on her channel, dissecting evidence, explaining procedure, offering legal insight that cut through the noise.

And every night, Barnes’ name came up.

He’d been one of the loudest voices calling for her removal.

Not out of vengeance — he claimed — but because no one, no one, should hold power without oversight.

And for once, he sounded less like a politician and more like a man who’d seen what happens when power goes unchecked.

She told her audience as much.

“I may not agree with everything Congressman Barnes stands for,” she said in her latest livestream, voice steady despite the tension in her chest, “but on this issue, he’s right.”

A pause.

Even she could hear the disbelief in her own tone.

“The foundation of the law is accountability. Valentina’s office manipulated military contracts, obstructed investigations, and used classified intelligence for personal gain. And Congressman Barnes—whether you like him or not—has been one of the few consistent voices pushing for transparency.”

The chat exploded instantly.

WHAT?

Is she defending him?

Our girl has fallen for the metal arm 😭

She’s gone Barnes-coded.

But she didn’t backtrack.

Didn’t crack a smile.

Didn’t soften her words.

“He’s proven that compassion and competence aren’t mutually exclusive. That integrity isn’t performative. And I won’t discredit that just because it’s politically inconvenient.”

When she ended the stream, her pulse was still racing.

The world would interpret it a hundred different ways.

But she knew the truth:

She wasn’t in love with him.

Not yet.

She was in love with the possibility of him being real.

The Call

It came that night — quiet, unexpected.

Private number. D.C. area code.

“Counselor?”

The voice was unmistakable. Smooth. Amused.

“Congressman,” she breathed, sitting up straighter in bed.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saying what you did.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said quickly. “I did it because it was true.”

“That’s why it meant something,” he replied, gentle but firm. “Not many people in this town care about truth unless it polls well.”

“Well,” she said softly, “I don’t run for office. I just ask the hard questions.”

“And you’re damn good at it.”

A silence bloomed between them — warm, uneasy, alive.

“You know,” he added quietly, “you don’t have to dislike me to hold me accountable.”

“I don’t dislike you.”

“No?” He smiled through the phone; she could hear it.

“I’m just not sure I understand you.”

“Then maybe,” he murmured, “you should keep asking questions.”

The line clicked off before she could respond.

And for the first time since she started her channel, she didn’t feel like a commentator anymore.

She felt like part of the story.

The next morning, a photo of her leaving the Capitol building circulated online — hair windswept, coffee in hand, her expression unreadable.

Beside it, another shot of Bucky stepping out of his office, his tie loosened, his mouth set in that faint half-smile.

The headline read:

“The Critic and the Congressman: Political Foes or Unlikely Allies?”

And for the first time, she didn’t rush to deny it..

The Capitol hearing room smelled faintly of coffee, ambition, and old paper — a combination she’d come to associate with power.

Rows of journalists buzzed at the back, pens poised, eyes hungry.

The committee on Media Ethics and Legislative Oversight had gathered for what the headlines promised would be “a monumental discussion on transparency and accountability in political journalism.”

Which was, in plain English: a circus.

She sat near the front, flanked by senators and analysts who looked at her with that polite, wary curiosity reserved for outsiders with sharp minds and sharper tongues.

Her nameplate read:

[Your Name], Legal Consultant – Media Accountability and Ethics.

And two seats over — as if fate enjoyed irony — sat Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

He looked every bit the part: pressed suit, tie the color of stormwater, hair tied back neatly at the nape of his neck.

But when he caught her eye, he grinned — that infuriating, slow curve that should’ve been illegal in government buildings.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he murmured as the chairman shuffled papers.

“Trust me,” she whispered back, “neither did I.”

“You volunteering to keep me honest?”

“You couldn’t afford my hourly rate.”

“You offering pro bono services then?”

“Only if I get to cross-examine you again.”

“Careful,” he said softly, voice curling like smoke. “I might enjoy it.”

Her pen paused mid-note.

She did not blush. Absolutely not.....

She was a professional.

Probably.

Round One: The Public Stage

When it was her turn to speak, she stood with composure that could slice glass.

“The relationship between lawmakers and the press should not be adversarial by default,” she began, her tone calm, deliberate. “The press exists to question power, not to destroy it — but accountability must never be mistaken for hostility.”

Her gaze flicked toward him — pointedly.

He caught it, smiled faintly.

“And elected officials,” she continued, “must understand that public scrutiny is not persecution. It’s democracy at work. If you cannot withstand a tough question, you have no business drafting laws.”

The chairman nodded thoughtfully.

The cameras whirred.

Bucky, of course, waited until the very end before adding his response.

“I agree with Counselor [Y/N],” he said, his voice smooth but measured. “And I’ll add this — accountability cuts both ways. The press holds us accountable, and the people should hold the press accountable too. But that starts with dialogue, not destruction.”

He turned to her, mid-speech — not as a challenge, but an invitation.

“That’s why I accepted her interview,” he continued, voice dipping slightly, “even knowing she’d probably rip me apart on camera. Because if I can’t explain what I stand for to someone who doesn’t agree with me, then I don’t deserve the seat I hold.”

The room stirred — low murmurs, a few impressed glances.

Even the chairman looked pleased at the civility.

But all she could focus on was the way he said her interview, like it was something personal, something that lingered.

Like it still mattered to him.

Round Two: The Whispered War

When the recess was called, she tried to escape to the hallway, but his voice followed her like a shadow.

“You spoke well,” he said, catching up easily.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Not surprised,” he said. “Impressed.”

“Careful, Congressman. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

“You think I have one left?”

“Not with my viewers.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have I ruined mine with you yet?”

She hated the way her heart stuttered at that — hated that he noticed.

“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t flirt in the middle of a government building.”

“Why? Afraid C-SPAN might catch feelings too?”

She tried not to laugh. Failed miserably.

“You’re impossible.”

“You liked me better when I was impossible.”

“I didn’t like you at all.”

“Sure,” he murmured, leaning close enough for her to smell the faint spice of his cologne. “Keep telling yourself that, Counselor.”

She turned to go, but he called after her, voice softer now — real.

“You asked me, once, why I ran.”

“I remember.”

“It wasn’t for redemption,” he said. “It was because I wanted to prove that the law could forgive — that people could, too.”

She froze, pulse loud in her ears.

He smiled faintly.

“And I think you understand that better than anyone.”

Before she could respond, a staffer called his name and he was gone — back to the marble and microphones, leaving her to swallow the warmth spreading through her chest.

Later That Night

Her followers lit up social media again:

“They made EYE CONTACT for like ten seconds during the recess.”

“Why was that hearing more romantic than half of Netflix?”

“#LawAndOrderBarnes when?”

She shut off her phone, sank back into her couch, and stared at the ceiling.

Because behind the jokes and the chaos, she knew something had shifted.

He wasn’t just a face on a campaign poster anymore.

He was human. Complicated. Haunted. Trying.

And God help her — she wanted to understand him.

___

“Just a debrief,” she’d told Maya via text.

“Sure,” Maya replied, “debrief him right into next week.”

___

They ended up at a quiet place on the edge of Capitol Hill.

No paparazzi. No press. Just warm lighting, clinking glasses, and a bottle of red neither of them tried too hard to pretend wasn’t a date.

“Still think I’m underqualified?” he asked, swirling the wine.

“Still think I’m out to get you?” she countered, sliding her fork through a piece of pasta.

“Not anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you were out to get me…” — his voice dropped an octave — “…you’d already have me by the throat.”

She nearly choked on her drink.

“Christ,” she muttered, laughing despite herself. “You can’t say things like that to me over dinner.”

“Why?” he asked, eyes impossibly blue, locked on hers. “Afraid you’ll like it?”

There it was again — that coil of tension, pulling tighter and tighter.

They talked politics.

They argued case law.

They debated accountability, personal history, and the difference between guilt and growth.

And somewhere between the second glass and the shared dessert, her leg brushed his under the table and didn’t move.

“I’ll get you a ride,” he said as they stepped into the cool night.

“I’m capable of calling my own cab.”

“Yeah,” he said, holding the door open for her, “but I’m capable of being a gentleman.”

The doors shut.

The city lights blurred past the tinted windows.

And the silence between them thickened — syrupy and fragile.

She didn’t look at him at first.

But she felt him shift — slow, calculated — like he was making a decision.

“You’re really hard to read,” he said suddenly, voice lower now.

“Good.”

“But I’ve been trained to spot tells. And right now?”

He leaned closer, breath ghosting her cheek.

“You’re trying not to look at my mouth.”

That was the moment she broke.

Her hand curled in his jacket lapel.

He didn’t waste time — his mouth crushed against hers with the kind of hunger usually reserved for battlefields and heartbreak.

It wasn’t polite.

It wasn’t pretty.

It was hands on thighs, teeth dragging over lips, her skirt riding up as he shifted closer.

Metal fingers pressing into her hip, flesh ones tipping her chin up to kiss her deeper — slower this time, like he wanted to taste every lie they’d told themselves since they met.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

“No,” she breathed, tugging him in again. “God, don’t.”

The cab driver cleared his throat twice.

Neither of them cared.

His tongue slid against hers — coaxing, commanding — as her legs opened slightly, just enough for him to slide his hand higher.

His knuckles brushed lace and she whimpered — soft, strangled, her head tipping back against the seat.

“Not here,” she gasped.

“Then where?” he growled against her throat. “Because if I don’t touch you properly soon, I swear to God—”

“My place,” she said. “Five minutes.”

He gave the driver her address without breaking eye contact.

And as the cab peeled into the night, her lipstick smeared and her heart somewhere near her throat, she thought:

“This isn’t a debrief.

This is a detonation.”

(The Apartment — 12:47 AM)

The door slammed behind them like a gavel.

No preamble.

No slow undressing or whispered sweet nothings.

Just mouths crashing, breaths snarling, hands already there — like they’d been waiting years to lose control.

She shoved his jacket off, biting his lower lip in retaliation for every smug smile he’d given her on the Senate floor.

He groaned, hard and hoarse, and spun them — pressing her against the wall, lifting her effortlessly, metal fingers splayed against her thigh like a promise he meant to keep.

“Still think I’m underqualified?” he rasped into her neck.

“Still think I went easy on you?” she shot back, breathless.

He laughed — a dark, delicious sound — before kissing her again.

Deeper. Slower. Meaner.

Every touch was a rebuttal.

Every gasp a counterpoint.

She tore open his shirt, lips meeting steel, lips following the curve of scarred skin and war-earned silence.

He cupped her jaw, kissed her like she was his last question, and growled:

“You want careful or you want honest?”

“I want everything, Barnes.”

So he gave it to her —

On the couch, half-clothed, tangled.

His hand between her thighs, coaxing confessions with every curl of his fingers.

Her nails down his back, red marks blooming like heated debate.

When he finally buried himself inside her, forehead to hers, hips slow and reverent — it wasn’t punishment. It was a reckoning.

“You ruin me,” he whispered.

“You ruined yourself,” she replied, eyes wild and wet, “when you let me see you.”

And when they finally collapsed — spent, gasping, wrecked —

It wasn’t the end of an argument.

It was the beginning of one neither of them knew how to win.

(The Kitchen — 6:14 AM)

Morning came soft and unassuming.

Sunlight spilled across her kitchen counter like spilled champagne.

And Bucky Barnes stood barefoot in a t-shirt, mug in hand, watching the coffee maker like it owed him reparations.

She padded in, wearing only his shirt and nothing underneath — a dangerous kind of diplomacy.

“You sleep?” he asked quietly, voice scratchy with sleep and satisfaction.

“Some.” She opened the fridge, stared inside like it held answers. “You snore.”

“Do not.”

“You do. Like a bear. A big, grumpy bear with political trauma.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling.

But the air between them had changed — just slightly.

Not colder.

Not awkward.

Just… real.

They stood in silence for a minute. Two.

“So,” she began, voice too casual, “is this the part where we pretend that didn’t happen?”

He looked over his cup.

“Do you want to pretend?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair.” He nodded. “But I’m not gonna regret it. Even if you tear me apart on your next stream.”

She smirked, stepping closer, stealing his mug and sipping from it like she hadn’t just wrecked him hours ago.

“You still owe me a better voting record.”

“You still owe me a second date.”

“That wasn’t a date.”

“Then let’s call it a bipartisan negotiation.”

She laughed. Genuinely.

And just for a moment, politics faded.

There was no hearing. No headline.

When he started seriously experimenting on his patients and dealing with Carmine, he knew he needed a lawyer. A safety net in case his perfectly constructed facade of a psychiatrist faded.

That way he contacted you. In Gotham, you needed to have guts to go against any of the mobs, but you needed to have even more if you were going to publicly defend one.

That's why he chose you among other attorneys. You had defended criminals that others claimed were indefendeble and against all odds you managed to make them get little to no sentence.

He contacted you with a letter. He concerted a date with you in his office in Arkham. You went there at the last hour at night and there he was in his office.

------------------------------

"You know why I called you here miss (Y/N)?" Dr Crane said as you sat on the opposite chair as him

"Let me guess, you want my opinion on globall warming?" He looked at you with an exasperated look "Please don't make us both loose time with your stupid answers" The doctor talked with contempt and tiredness

"Then don't make stupid questions, Dr. If you call a lawyer then your in obvious legal trouble or at least worried about legal consequences" You told him with a defiant smile.

At that moment, Dr Crane was already regretting his decision but you were the best so he had to stick to you if he wanted to stay free on the streets and not in the psychiatric ward as a patient.

He told you about the company he was keeping with Carmine and how he wanted you in case the other man got to confident.

You didn't met his associate right away. At first you worked on assuring that certain criminals would end in Arkham so he could experiment on them. You would call him as expert testimony so his professional reputation could help you on your case.

Meetings in your office became the norm since you had to discuss what he needed to say for you to win the case.

Maybe some nights you would take out your good wine and both of you would keep discussing, with the only difference of the conversation starting to change into either legal matters outside the case or psychological facts he would randomly spit.

He tried very hard to diagnose you and with every thing he tried you would either divert him on purpose or question his own mind in exchange.

He realised you were playing with him so he also became bolder when talking to you. At least in your office.

After some time, he called you to accompany him to teach him how to justify why a subordinate of Falcone had to be hospitalised instead of arrested.

------------------------------

"In my opinion, Mr Zazz is as much a danger to himself as to others and prison is probably not the best environment for his rehabilitation." That was the statement that Dr Jonathan Crane gave to the judge. He had already done it a hundred times with your guidance in prior trials.

After the both of you exited the room mumbling about other matters, Rachel Dawes approached you client.

"You really think a man who butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?" She told to the Dr

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye and answered "Well I would hardly have testified to that otherwise would I mistake work offered by organised crime must have an attraction to the insane" With that final statement he looked at her with superiority.

Rachel didn't give up and responded "Or the corrupt" Crane stoped and directed his gaze towards Rachel's boss "Mr Finch, I think you should check with miss Dawes here just what implications your office has authorised her to make... If any" He gave the final blow while cocking his head slightly to the side.

At the same time, he signaled you to deal with them as you were used to. "Miss Dawes, the implications you just hinted at my client could be considered defamation if they were to be published. If we ever get to that case, god spares us, I would have to make sure that your firm pays every single penny to recover the damages that it might cost." At this point, her boss came next to the both of you.

"Surely we don't have to go so far, miss (Y/L/N)" Rachel's boss tried to control the situation.

You looked at him, knowing full well how much value your word held in this field " I truly hope not, Mr Finch" And with that you went outside, were Jonathan's car was.

He looked at you the moment you came in sight to the moment you put the safety belt.

"Did they receive the message?" He asked now turning away his gaze "Of course, but if they don't , leave them to me, I'll make sure they do" You spoke with confidence in every word you said.

------------------------------

Once several months passed, you and Jonathan spent more time together. He couldn't exactly discuss certain matters with any other people so he talked to you.

After one long night discussing how bold he was getting and how he could get caught; after almost emptying your best bottle of wine, he started talking to you about his experiments.

At first you were quite surprised but your curiosity came first than your "psychopath alert" so you kept asking and he kept talking. At some point you both ended up in your sofa talking.

Your alcohol tolerance was pretty high, your licour cabinet was the prove of it. His glasses long forgotten in the table while Jonathan's speech started to slur and become even more silent.

His face came closer to yours and he looked at you with his crystalline blue eyes and with a quieter voice that he usually had he asked you "Do you want to see my mask?" He actually looked excited to show you.

Your eyes were wide open and you slowly blinked twice, caused at the question "Your what?" You chuckled.

You can't really remember where he got it out from but he pulled out what seemed like a potato sack with a few holes. That day he confessed to you that he was the Scarecrow. He kept telling you his master plan about the fear toxin so now you had to ensure even more that he wasn't caught by the authorities.

After he woke up the next day in the sofa of your office and he started remembering every single thing he told you. He saw you typing in your computer without really acknowledging him so he approached you.

"(Y/L/N), I hope you can be discreet about... Last night" He told you looking you in the eye trying to make a point. Your response was laughing at him "You're talking as if you were my mistress, Dr Crane". He didn't appreciate your jokes

"Don't worry, this won't do me any good, you have my silence" He relaxed a bit, but you weren't done "As long as you... elaborate on the gas plan. I'm quite interested and I think it could be useful for the both of us"

He seemed quite surprised at your interest for his "studies". Then you futher explained that fear could lead to certain testimonies to me more malleable, therefore winning more trials.

Since that time you got drunk together (you were already drunk but that's not important) He started spending more time with you. Like calling you more to mediate in his reunions with Falcone.

And he kept asking you to send more criminals to his asylum. But now instead of going to your office he'd set a date in a expensive restaurant or a fancy cafeteria.

You would talk to him about which lawyers he had to look out for and how Mr Finch and miss Dawes could be a threat if they snoop enough.

At this reunions he would look at you longer than needed. Examining your expression. His fingers lingering with yours when you were passing documents.

If you ever take elevators together he would purposely be close to you, like shoulder to shoulder.

When you finally had the meeting with Carmine, you were basically the intimidating party. Because we all know that his skinny, siren office ass would not intimidate the mob.

------------------------------

"No more favours, someone is sniffing around" Jonathan held the same arrogant look as always

"hey I scratch your back, you scratch mine, doc I'm bringing in the shipments" Carmine said "we are paying you for that"

"Maybe money isn't as interesting to me as favour, I figure your lawyer here can agree with me in that" The mobster looked at you. Everyone in the city knew how ruthless you were in trials and since no one wanted their shit exposed, they offered you favour in exchange of silence.

Dr Crane took of his glasses " I am more than aware that you are not intimidated by me, Mr Falcone, but I know you would do anything for my lawyers silence." You looked at Falcone dead in the eye and you took out a set of documents.

"You may have bought of certain judges but not from all of them, not to talk about your crimes in other cities. Are you sure judges out of Gotham are going to be so easy to buy? How about you think again" The evidence you exposed was irrefutable. There was no doubt that Carmine's influence would not work outside Gotham.

Falcone stated silent. Your word did not only held power in the legal field but also in the social. You were the only lawyer brave enough to defend criminals, but you also didn't have any problems exposing them.

"Who's bothering you?" He finally asked "There's a girl at the DA's office" Falcone nodded "We'll buy her off"

"Not this one" You answered "I've already tried"

"Idealist huh... Well there's an answer to that too" Jonathan still held his gaze high "I don't wanna know."

"Yes you do"

With that both your client and you exited the mobsters headquarters.

------------------------------

After Carmine was arrested, you called Jonathan to discuss what to do with him.

You told Crane that Falcones lawyer would probably recommend mental illness so he could use his gas to actually make it true.

After he did, both of you worked together to ensure that other attorneys would not sniff in your businesses.

He started to go to your office more because he liked you rather than strictly for work. He looked at you more often. Example:

Your conversation had ended hours ago but for some reason Dr Crane stayed in your office. He had been talking to you about his experiments nonstop. And at some point you started asking as well.

Things like 'how does it work?' or and what do you plan to do after the whole city is infected with the gas?'. Questions like that really made him like you a lot more. You were geniuly curious about his experiments, even if it was out of boredom.

Talking about you spending more time together, Jonathan noticed your affinity to drinking and how you would take really big dosis of alcohol during the day.

At first he looked at you with distrust. How does a lawyer work while drunk? Well, somehow you made it work.

But whenever he saw how your eye bags adorned your eyes more than usual, he would start to notice even more your drinking problem.

He tried to analyse your addiction more deeply, explaining to you how it was a sign of you trying to avoid emotional pain or other deeper problems.

At some point he even suggested to use the gas on you so he could really know the root of your problems but all you did was deny.

This left some problems with you two due to your avoidance of the problem and his arrogant nature.

But even though you didn't always get along, he would always come back to you office to either find you passed out on your couch.

If you were dizzy or feeling nauseated he would start talking about any patient he finds interesting. That's how your professional relationship turned into a friendship and one night it went even further.

------------------------------

You both had been drinking again, well, you were drinking. Jonathan had just taken little sips of his glass.

You had just discussed with him new legal reforms that some politics planned to make because of Batman.

You were again in the sofa, with him seated down and you almost completely lying down. You had settled in a comfortable silence. But it was interrupted by the delivery guy you just called 30 min ago.

You started to stand up but due to your dizziness, you grabbed, without noticing, his tie to help you stand straight.

This led to your faces being way to close for what was acceptable. Before you had time to let go of his tie and go answer the door. He kissed you right on the spot.

With one hand he held the back of your head and with the other he held onto your waist. You took your time to respond to this. Your answer delayed due to the alcohol. He though it was a rejection so he stopped kissing you and looked at you in the eye.

Immediately you held his hair from the back of his head and leaned to kiss him even harder.

Jonathan didn't notice when you reclined him against your sofa. But you sure would remember how desperately he was fisting into your waist while you move on top of him, making him spill groans and loud breaths. The food was long forgotten since you were now on the Dr's lap.

You had stated kissing his neck but he noticed how you stopped right before almost completely taking off his shirt. His dreamy blue eyes looked at you almost afraid, confused of why you stopped. (This man is a bottom and nobody can convince me otherwise)

"The delivery guy is waiting" You went to the door and took the food, payed the guy and closed it again. He had sat down again but you quickly straddled him and made him back his head with the back of the couch so you could keep kissing him. His breathy moans only fueling you. His mouth kept opening and you used this chance to insert you tongue in his mouth, pressing him harder onto the couch.

That night both you and the doctor slept in your office.

When he was arrested, you had to defend him again in a trial. The evidence against him was overpowering but you managed to defend that, although by his own fault, he was still mentally ill, therefore you managed to intern him into a psychiatric center.

You blackmailed the doctors there to testify in favour of Jonathan so the judge would reduce the sentence.

In didn't matter after all since the men of Ra's al Ghul broke in the Asylum.

He kept in contact with you. Maybe you would find him sometimes in your office. But one thing had change. His gaze had turned way more unhinged than before, as if his own gas had completely driven him mad.

But Jonathan knew the reason he kept coming into your office or why he kept calling you even if he new your professional ties were cut.

Why he got angry and scared that you didn't answer your calls quickly enough because you were already talking with a new client.

To you, it didn't matter that he no longer needed your services or that he kept yearning for your company outside work, you had already found a more interesting client.

Hey, I hope you liked how I portrayed this. I wanted to connect it to the other headcannons, to make it chronological.

The wedding was nice.  Your childhood friend finally got married to the love of her life, why was he the love of her life?  You couldn’t begin to fathom.  All your close friends opted to get married to their childhood sweethearts, whereas you couldn’t keep a normal relationship even if you had tried.

Your boyfriend in high school.  It didn’t work out, because he wanted to smother you, coddle you, and although at times the attention was nice.  You didn’t like to be smothered.

College, your boyfriend at the time didn’t want you to pursue a career in criminal law.  Immediate red flag.  The men you dated over the years seemed to have some sort of superiority complex.  They were often intimidated when they found out that you were a lawyer, so dating long-term never worked out in your favor.

“You know it's customary for the maid of honor and the best man to hook up after the wedding, right?” Noburu Genki.  He went to high school with the bride and groom, he was apparently the best man of the groom, and you couldn’t wait to get as far as possible from this idiot. 

Even in high school, you didn’t care for him, you were surprised he had any close friends.

Scowling in his direction, you pulled the crystal champagne glass away from your lips before taking a sip.  You had more than your share of champagne for the evening.  It didn’t help that there was an open bar available.

“Aren’t you married, Nobu?” you asked, more out of necessity than curiosity.  You saw the news a few years ago about his engagement, he also married his high school sweetheart.  But from the rumors of their separation came about cheating rumors.  Noburu just couldn’t keep his hands off the ladies.  He was a dog right down to his very core.

“Divorced, actually,” Noburu replied, pulling his black tuxedo jacket over his shoulder.  Nobu had always been a looker.  He was a jock; he got a scholarship to go to college to play basketball.  But it wasn’t like his family wasn’t already well off, his parents did exceptionally well for themselves so in the end, he didn’t have to work very hard for anything.

“Yeah, I can see why,” finishing your drink, you sat it down on a nearby table, patting him on the shoulder before excusing yourself.  “Excuse me, it was nice seeing you.”

After saying your goodbyes and departing from the reception you made your way back to the hotel you’d booked in advance before returning home the following day.  To say the least, you were buzzed, and you were curious enough about the Cuban cigar that was offered as a party favor from the groom.

You didn’t smoke.  Staring at the cigar, in mild disgust from your spot at the luxury hotel bar.  Aside from the crystal champagne glass stamped with Mr. and Mrs. Wang, this was the only other party favor you received.  How are you even supposed to smoke this thing?

Placing the cigar between glossed lips, you held it firmly before retrieving it to roll it between your index and thumb.

“You’re supposed to cut the end of those before smoking it,”

A rather pleasant male voice from beside you snapped you out of your observation of your gift, earning a brief glance from you in return. 

You were still dressed in the navy-blue chiffon gown you wore to the wedding reception; it was embroidered classically in silver along the front.

Resting your cheek against the palm of your hand against the bar top, you gave the stranger your complete attention before looking him over from head to toe.  He stood a little too close for comfort, had you been sober and paying attention you would have asked him to move away, or just move further down the bar.

He was tall, dressed exceptionally well in a dark grey matching suit complete with silver cufflinks.  His eyes, a bright almost florescent colored wisteria gazing intently into your own.  One of his large hands held out a silver cigar cutter in his hand, index and thumbs looped through both of its edges.

“Did I look that confused?” you asked, a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“You don’t look like the type to smoke cigars, but I can assist if you’d like,” the stranger’s free hand ran through his dark-colored hair from what you could decipher was a dark purple and black. 

Sitting up straight on the barstool, you held the cigar out in front of you to examine it once more.

“It was a gift; I just didn’t want it to go to waste.”

A bartender from behind the bar brought a short glass filled with dark liquor over and sat it in front of the man who had begun to make conversation with you before disappearing further down the bar to assist other patrons.

“You smoke?” he asked, picking up his glass to take a drink from it.  “Usually the pretty ones never do,”

Snickering under your breath, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.  He was a smooth talker, and he wasn’t bad looking either.  He was extremely well groomed, and though his hair was a bit eccentric it appeared he had his appearance meticulously cared for.  You were just noticing his eyebrows were the same dull color purple as his hair and they were waxed perfectly.

“It’s a Columbian cigar, I had to at least try it before I throw it in the trash,”

Things were hazy, but not that hazy.  You knew a good-looking man when you saw one, and you knew when one was flirting with you too. 

“Test it out, see if you like it.” He suggested, taking the cigar from your grasp he pulled a nearby ashtray over and clipped off the end of the cigar.  “Go ahead, put the head in your mouth”

You noticed the grin painting his sharp features after he held it toward you, which only got him a pointed glare from you in return. 

Chuckling under his breath, voice like gravel he went on to explain.

“That’s what the tip of the cigar is called, the head,” his grin widening.  “Anatomy of a cigar 101.”

You rolled your eyes at the explanation and placed the cigar between your lips once more, watching as he began to dig inside the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a lighter. 

“I wasn’t being, vulgar,” the handsome stranger remarked, smiling while holding the burning flame of his lighter to the end of your cigar.  “Unless you’re into that,”

Taking a few tentative puffs of the cigar, you pulled it from your lips allowing the thick opaque smoke to seep from the corner of your mouth.  You paused, and then promptly proceeded to stub it out in the shared ashtray between you and Mr. tall dark and handsome.

The heavy taste of tobacco flooded your pallet, and, in all honesty, you wanted to retch.  It wasn’t for you.

You could hear that silky smooth chuckle once again as the man beside you picked up his drink once more to indulge in the dark substance in his cup.

“Not your cup of tea, huh?” he asked, eyes narrowing in faint interest at your expression.

Though you managed to keep a straight face, it was obvious that you were disgusted by the heady taste of the cigar. 

“Not a fan of the taste, I’m afraid.”  Picking up your glass that was nearby, you nearly guzzled down the glass of water you had that was ordered with the intent to sober you up.  “Have at it, if you’d like.”

By now, your nameless friend was finished with his drink, but he still lingered beside you at the bar.  That gave you the inclination that he was more interested than he seemed.

“I’m afraid if the lady doesn’t like the taste, it's against my interests to indulge.”

Attempting to hide the smile creeping up on your face, you decided to take your leave.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, thank you for the cigar anatomy lesson.”  Slipping off the barstool, you realize just how tall this man was in comparison to yourself.  Giving him a lingering gaze, you smiled before you turned to leave.  “Have a nice night,”

Grabbing the small Michael Kors clutch purse off the bar top you began to walk toward the lobby of the hotel until your handsome companion fell in step with you as you sauntered along.

“I could give you another anatomy lesson, if you’re interested” The man added rather nonchalantly, shoving both of his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

Your mouth almost, almost dropped agape at his brazenness and what you felt he was insinuating.  Stopping in front of the elevator you pressed the call button before giving him a sly glance out of the corner of your eye.

“If you’re offering me sex, I’m going to need you to be more specific.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped into the elevator to get a full view of the magnificent specimen in front of you, who had been rendered speechless.  He was staring at you wide-eyed outside of the elevator stiffly as if he had been frozen in time.

He only moved when the doors began to close putting his arm out before stumbling inside the elevator car the doors closing behind him. 

“More specific, huh?” he asked, leaning against the elevator wall beside you.

You could have sworn you saw his eyebrows wiggle in your direction, and it only caused you to laugh out loud before lifting a finger to press the 11th-floor button, where your room was located.

Instead of replying further, he grasped ahold of your hand and moved your finger to push the button for the 20th floor.

Eyeing the button on the elevator, you arched a brow before the elevator began to move again.  He had a suite on the top floor, and now that was interesting enough.  The top floors of these hotels were usually off-limits to those who could only afford them.  The rooms would range from thousands of dollars per night.

The elevator ride up was intense, the handsome stranger hovering over you seemingly committing every single one of your features to memory.  He wore a sly grin the entire time as if he had just won the biggest trophy in a contest. 

When the elevator finally stopped, you followed him out the sound of your stilettos clicking in the distance.  It had been a while since you’d had the company of the opposite sex and no, you didn’t do one-night stands very often.

But this one, he seemed to know what he wanted albeit it was you.  You certainly didn’t mind it was a nice change to get it from someone you were attracted to.  And then once you two were done, you could ride off into the sunset without ever seeing him again.  You didn’t feel like you were lost in this situation.

“After you,”

Your new friend had opened his room door and pushed it open, displaying a seemingly endless suite on the inside.  There was a personal bar visible on the opposite side of the room near the balcony, the whole front room reminded you something of a penthouse.  It was clean and nicely decorated and it had a lot of space.

Sitting your clutch down on one of the glass tables, you leaned down to remove your heels placing them neatly by the door.  You could hear the door shut behind you and the rustling of fabric, the dark-haired stranger removing his suit jacket before draping it over one of his arms.

“Make yourself comfortable,” the words were expressed smoothly as he walked past you to hang his jacket on the backs of one of the chairs.

Pursing your lips in amusement, you stepped further into the living room raising a hand to unlatch the button to your dress located at the base of your nape.  You’d need assistance with the zipper since it was conveniently placed dead center of your back.

The bright-eyed stranger turned around to give you a glance and he was met with you giving him your back and a sultry glance over your shoulder.

“Can you help me with this?” You asked, waiting for him to take action.

He stepped toward you took hold of the zipper and began to pull it down while you turned to face him while shimmying out of your gown.

“Are we making introductions?” He asked hastily.

Stepping out of the fabric that had pooled around your feet, you stepped into his arms resting a hand idly on his abdomen.  You stood before him in a black lace lingerie set that you had bought a good while ago.  It was never worn due to your boyfriend at the time preferring to argue with you all the time rather than touch you.

“You didn’t offer to give me an introduction, you offered an anatomy lesson.” Curling your fingers into the waist of the band of his slacks you tugged him closer.  Even though he was much larger and stronger than you he came willingly craning his neck down toward you.

The next moments were a blur.  All that you could fathom was that you were now splayed out underneath your new acquaintance, now naked and out of breath.

The brief second that he pulled his tongue out of your mouth you inhaled abruptly, whimpering at the bruising grip he presented at your hips.

“D-do you have a condom?” You crooned, as those long dexterous fingers of his curled inside you causing your legs to shake.

Your body was humming with electricity, it felt like he was touching you anywhere and everywhere all at once.

“P-please tell me you have a condom,” regaining your breath, you whimpered at the sudden emptiness of his fingers leaving the wetness between your legs.

His hips bumped against yours momentarily, his swelling girth nudging itself into the warmth of your cunt almost agonizingly slow.

“Ah, come on pretty thing, live a little” his words were hoarse, strained until he had buried himself at the hilt and he was quick to cover your lips with his own once more before he set an almost brutal pace inside of you.

Each time his pelvis met the apex of your thighs with a wet slap you released an involuntary squeak that was swallowed down just as quickly.

You weren’t sure how much time had gone by.  All that you knew was that you were completely focused on the man underneath you who had probably known your body better than you did at this point.  The time spent consisted of the constant melding of your body and his own for what seemed like hours.

Your body was still sensitive to the touch and covered in a thin film of perspiration.  Your thighs burned, muscles ached, and the noises you made while rolling your hips on top of him were akin to a songbird.

Dropping your eyes from his, they ventured further down to where your bodies were connected.  A faint happy trail of platinum blonde hair disappeared underneath the flat of his large palm, the pad of his thumb rubbing languid circles on your puffy swollen clit.

“That’s right,” his voice was soothing, a silky-smooth timbre that caused you to tremble in response.  “Fuck, you feel so good, keep going,”

You were well on the verge of your third orgasm of the night, a scalding tingling settling itself at the base of your spine.  The praising was appreciated, inducing a curling warmth in the depths of your belly causing your insides to constrict around his girth in near desperation.

Before your eyes began to roll to the back of your skill the subtle things about this man began to scream at you, and loudly.  The solitary tattoo at the base of his throat, in comparison with the black ink, etched over the front of his chest.

It screamed Yakuza gang member, but you didn’t care too distracted and desperate for the impending release that was more near than you anticipated.

Moaning pathetically, you threw your head lolled backward eyes pinching shut while you bucked your hips against his vehemently.  The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the room while you chased after the sweet release that was so close, it was practically lodged down your throat.

“I-I’m gonna’ to c-c-um,” he must have been close too, the fingers tucked into the soft fat of your hips tightened almost painfully as he drove his hips up into you to match your motions.

You could feel his abs flexing underneath your fingertips before he sat upright throwing both of his arms around your waist to wrench you tight against him.

He continued to pound into you, the wet friction between your legs plus the tip of his dick thrusting into you triggering that drawn-out orgasm to finally explode within you.

“O-oh, m-my god,” you wailed, obnoxiously loud your body convulsing in his hold.

Your cunt spasmed and constricted against his girth, the warmth of his cum seeping out of your abused hole.

You were spent.  Sluggishly you leaned into his arms, listening to the erratic beating of his heart humming in your ear.  This was… probably the best lay you’ve had ever in your life, maybe you were okay with not using a condom.

You gasped in surprise when he fell back against the sheets of the bed (taking you with him), allowing both of his hands to unravel from around you before falling flat against the mattress. 

It seemed as if he were trying to catch his breath, and regain his demeanor, while you lay limply against his chest in earnest trying to do the same.

“Are you okay?” you asked, humor light in your voice while managing to roll off him successfully, but not before pulling his softening manhood from out of you.

The warmth of his seed spilling on the sheets caused you to wince faintly, desperately wanting a bath to clean yourself up.  But you could barely move.

“Fine,” he replied, lavender hues heavily lidded and now staring up at the ceiling.

Groaning painfully, you pushed yourself up to swing both of your legs off the side of the bed.

“I should get going-”

A thick bicep around your waist, elicited a surprised yelp as he pulled you back into his arms pressing your back firmly against his chest.  You were both a sticky, sweaty mess.

“Stay, I might have to fuck again before I leave in the morning,”

Surprisingly, more so to yourself than anyone else.  You stayed.  You booked a whole-ass hotel room for yourself to sleep in and you stayed and slept with a man who you had no intention of getting to know.  You supposed that’s what made it okay. 

But when dawn came and he was still snoozing away beside you, utterly exhausted.  You made your way for the exit.  Even when you crept out of bed to get dressed to head back to your room, he was still deep in the throws of his slumber.  You didn’t bother him, you left it as it was.  A hook-up, and you checked out of the hotel, to get back home. 

You were running a few minutes late to the court hearing.  Your client was already seated down in front once you passed through the double wooden doors.

“It’s nice of you to join us Counselor L/N,” the judge presiding over the case, announced your arrival so abruptly, that it caused every head in the courtroom to turn to watch you make your way to wear the client was sitting.

Adjusting the black pencil skirt so that it fell back into place over your knees, you smiled faintly nodding in acknowledgment.  You literally walked in 2 minutes after the scheduled start time.

“I apologize for the tardiness your honor; I had some trouble getting into the courtroom.  It seems as if the bailiff was under the assumption that Mr. Baez would not have counsel today.”

Mr. Baez was your client.  Beforehand someone else was representing him, but you picked up his case last minute.  It seemed cut and dry.  Tapping the tip of your heels against the tile of the courtroom, you turned to your client who had attempted to get your attention.

He was speaking quietly, his hands nervously rubbing together.

“I want to drop the charges,” he admitted.

Blinking slowly, your brows pinched together tightly in a knot while tossing a gaze over toward the defendant’s table.  They were whispering to one another as well, the counselor’s eyebrows going up in surprise as he locked eyes with you.

His client, who was obscured by his attorney had disclosed something to him, and apparently, he thought it was very interesting. 

Turning back to Baez, you sighed under your breath before chewing on your bottom lip.

“Are you sure?  Why?  What aren’t you telling me?”

Something was off. 

“Counselors, approach the bench.” Judge Kyo requested the presence of both you and the other attorney, whose name you hadn’t caught as of yet. 

Tearing your gaze away from your client, you smoothed out the wrinkles in the cream button-down shirt you were wearing walking into the aisle to head towards the bench. 

On the way out, you locked eyes with a set of bright purple iris’ that had haunted your dreams for the past two weeks.  The man they belonged to, yep.  It was the same one you met a few weeks ago, an amused smile on his face while he eyed you with keen interest. 

This was bad.  This was really, really bad.  Cursing under your breath, you met with the judge and the other counselor waiting for the judge to start speaking.

“What do you have to say that couldn’t wait until we actually started, Mr. Tanaka?” Kyo was obviously annoyed, he ran a hand over his forehead to wipe at the perspiration and pushed a few grey strands of hair out of his face.

Tanaka smiled smugly before acknowledging the judge and turned his attention to you instead before looking you over in entirety.  Eyes going over every single inch of you before resting on your face.  It seemed very inappropriate.

“Ms. L/N, it’s nice to meet you formally.” He quipped, turning back to the judge.  “I just wanted to inform you, that I have just come across some interesting information for the court that is certainly a conflict of interest for Ms. L/N, representing Mr. Baez.”

Fuck.

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach.  Sighing in annoyance, you glanced down at the floor almost convinced that it may have fallen right out of your ass to land between your feet on the floor.

“And that is?” Kyo pressed, his patience obviously wearing thin.

“I think it would be better discussed in your chambers your honor; we really don’t want anyone else getting wind of this.  It’s a bit personal.”

“Son of a bitch,” you cursed under your breath while walking out of the now-empty courtroom. 

You were mortified, embarrassed, and on the verge of tears as you forced your way through the wooden doors toward the lobby.  You were grateful, it was vaguely empty.  There were patrons here and there, but no one was paying you any mind.

Mr. Baez would be required to find other venues for council.  You couldn’t represent him, because of the accusation that came from the “defendant”. 

Tanaka insisted that you tried to seduce his client, to gain leverage in the case against him versus Mr. Baez.

Ran Haitani.  You didn’t find out his name until you were able to sit down and look over the complaint.  Apparently, he was a thug.  A gang member as you suspected.  You fucked a gang member, before going to defend a client who had a complaint filed against him.

You whimpered under your breath, the all-consuming misery now swallowing you whole.  Hastily pressing the key fob to unlock your black 2022 Lexus RX.

Oh, how you wished the earth would just open up and consume you.  Things really had a way of always screwing you over in the end, this was probably one of the top ten ridiculous events in your life you have ever had to deal with.

Grasping the door handle, you yanked it open turning your head in the direction of a familiar voice behind you.

“Nice, ride.”

There he was, Ran Haitani in all his glory standing a few feet away from you.  You wanted to scream at him, it wouldn’t have hurt to throw a few punches either.

With a hand still on the door handle of your car, your bleary eyes widened in shock while your emotions began to get the better of you.

“You need to get the fuck away from me,” you demanded, pride still wounded from being embarrassed in court.

Ran held both of his hands up in defense, tucking his bottom lip into his mouth.  He looked like he was holding back a very amused grin.

“I’m sorry, I had to do that to you up there.” He let out a chuckle before taking a tentative step forward.  “How was I supposed to know that the best fuck of my life was going to be defending the guy trying to send me to jail,”

Releasing the door handle you pressed yourself against the side of your car, utterly flabbergasted.  Looking around the underground parking lot, you made sure there was no one in earshot to hear this man blab about his sexual encounters so nonchalantly.

“Let me make it up to you, I promise to make it worth your while.”

Was this really happening?  What on God’s green earth did you do as a person to end up in whatever sort of situation this was?  God was testing you; he was testing you, right?

You could lose your license to practice for an accusation like this, this man was out of his fucking mind.

“I could lose my fucking job for this you asshole!” you screeched, your eyes brimming heavily with tears.  “This isn’t a fucking game; you stay away from me Mr. Haitani.”

Ran cooed in amusement, shoving one of his hands in the pocket of his slacks.