#m.wip

“I’m in love with you,” he declares with a bright, unbothered smile that makes you want to press the blade you’re holding against his throat into flesh. You could easily sever his carotid with a flick of your wrist, but underneath you, his gaze is unnervingly happy. “Go out with me. I’d treat you better than any man, that’s for sure!”

The room falls silent. Your classmates glance at each other. Your sensei scribbles away on a notepad.

Out of the corner of your eyes, Sakamoto closes his eyes and shakes his head. 

Is this…a survival tactic? A last-ditch attempt at manipulating you through seduction? You had heard Nagumo was an odd one. Disgruntled senpais whispered about his laissez-faire attitude, along with Sakamoto’s cool indifference that rubbed them the wrong way. A show of disrespect. And your own altercation with several seniors on your first day of school often grouped the three of you together in a way you didn’t care for. You weren’t here to make a statement. You weren’t here to make a name for yourself. You were at JCC to graduate without making waves.

All for the one person that truly mattered.

Nagumo was skilled. Everyone in your class already recognized Nagumo and Sakamoto as top candidates for the JAA, if not The Order. Too skilled at assassination to have been easily brought down by a couple of quick manuevers. In fact, he had barely been defending in the first place against your short jabs and strikes; more interested in asking you questions about your favorite color and food, the town you had grown up in, your family. All questions you had answered with a grim faced silence he had sighed at. Just another diversion tactic to get you to lower your guard.

You stare at him. This is the first time the two of you have ever even held a conversation. If it could be called a conversation.  

The smile falls from his face, lips forming a surface frown. “I’m serious about this! You should know, I hate liars.”

You’re highly perturbed. The other day you had overheard him exclaim to Sakamoto that he had barely made the cut to pass the entrance exam when everyone knew that he had passed with flying colors.

gojo sketch 'fore the snooze

His emerald gaze fastens onto you with the quickness of a darting hummingbird, soft and full of a warmth that makes you feel like a sunflower following the afternoon sun. Pealing bells ring in your ears, your stomach; something blooms in your chest.

You don’t recognize the man next to him. A black haired man in a well fitted suit and a top hat. He’s handsome, with an aristocratic countenance to match the way he meets your gaze with an unfaltering stare of his own. He doesn’t bother to hide the weighted gleam in eyes as he measures you. He could be charming, this man, if he decided to be so. If you were any other random, swooning woman. However, you are guilty by association, and already, the beginnings of a suspicion enter the downturn of his lips.

His gaze briefly lifts as he glances at Roland, then back.

“Another friend of yours?”

The question is posed innocently, but already you don’t like the insinuation in the exhale of his lips.

“That’s right,” Roland replies without missing a beat. It’s his voice that draws you away from the man. He smiles, gazing at you, knuckles tucked under his chin, offering nothing else, and there’s only silence in place of what might have been an explanation to your relationship. The bells shake louder and harder. It’s almost illicit in an indescribable way. The man doesn’t like it. 

Exasperation and annoyance play out on his face. It melts into a begrudging resignation.

They’re friends. Good friends. You can tell this, from the ease in which they interact with each other. You think the other man might deny it at first, but there’s care there. A friendship built on a strong foundation of trust, if not loyalty. This man is a chasseur. A paladin from the way he holds himself; straight and alert. Someone from the church.

The grip you have on your briefcase tightens. Your throat sours.

“Olivier,” he introduces, with a nod and handsome, congenial smile, as if he’s decided to make nice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady….”

You’re sure he heard your name earlier.

:))

“Just a nightmare." He finally says after a few minutes. Then he looks at you, eyebrows creased. "Thought you went home, doll."

The endearment slips out automatically, but if it affects you, you show no indication of it. He's never been able to read you anyway. You're a smooth slate of indifference on most days with a poker face that could rival the stoic mess that is Bruce Wayne. It was only after spending time with you—looking at your face— that he could now discern the slightest difference in your moods, the easiest being mild annoyance.

It's your eyes that give you away. You're less guarded around him now, and those eyes that used to be cold and unflinching are warm. 

"Sorry about that. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

 He tosses the gun on the floor. Patrol had been surprisingly tame, courtesy of Bruce and the brat no doubt. A broken rib and some bruising that was going to hurt like a bitch in the morning. It could be worse, but he still tenses as he looks away, almost abashedly. He hates the way you look at him, especially when you look at him like that. It's not the same look he gets from Bruce and occasionally used to get from Dick when he was, well, being a dick. That look was condescending and chafing, and he'd rather get kneecapped than listen to the accompanying speech reeking of self righteousness on being a little too trigger happy with scumbags that deserved it.

The way you look at him is earnest, like you care about him, and that's dangerous because then he starts thinking things he shouldn't about his dead brother's girl, like how you would look splayed out on his bed and other thoughts he's only entertained in his dreams. 

Shit.

"No need to apologize. Should've at least taken the bed," he grumbles dragging his gaze away to burn a hole into the floor.

"It's been a while since I've slept." You confess, sliding down until you're on opposite sides of the couch. He looks up, and you hesitate. "I have nightmares too."

The silence weighs heavy in the room. You look solemn, the darkness partially masking your face, but you soldier on. "Sometimes it's about my childhood or" —your voice hitches just slightly— "the people I've killed..." Your face shutters closed. "It helps. Talking about it. I used to talk about mine with..."

You eyes go empty before you close your eyes.

"It was the Joker." He forces out because he can't stand seeing you sad. The name wrests a physical reaction in him as he tries not to recoil as images of his nightmare rise to the surface. "It's that damn laughter," he says roughly, and now he's breathing heavily, hands clammy. "Right before he bashes my fucking face in with that crowbar—"

"Jason." You lay your hand over his and your touch jolts him out of the memory. "You don't have to force yourself to talk it about it. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here if you want to talk."

!!!!nsfw below!!!!!