#morally gray reader

The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.

Not intentionally or obviously.

They were too polite for that.

But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.

Briefly, if not dismissively.

A female beside Eris Vanserra.

Something ornamental, perhaps.

Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.

You did not correct them.

Eris noticed.

Of course he did.

The corner of his mouth shifted just barely. 

You didn’t look at him.

“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.

“I am not pleased.”

“You are nearly smiling.”

“That would be unbecoming.”

“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”

Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.

Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.

Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.

A warning.

Mor noticed something else entirely.

Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.

Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.

“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”

Eris did not respond.

He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.

You watched the movement.

The restraint it took him not to bite at her.

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”

“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.

His voice was smooth.

It always was in rooms like this.

The meeting began as most meetings did.

With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.

Rhysand spoke well.

You would give him that.

Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.

Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.

And Mor…

Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.

You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.

Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.

The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”

Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.

Only for a moment.

You gently set down your tea.

The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.

But somehow, the room noticed.

Mor’s eyes flicked to you.

You smiled.

Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.

The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.

“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.

Mor lifted her chin.

“Yes.”

“How interesting.”

Cassian leaned back slightly.

Azriel’s shadows went still.

Eris did not move beside you.

He knew better.

Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”

You tilted your head.

“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”

“And?”

“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”

Rhysand’s attention sharpened.

You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.

“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”

Eris exhaled once through his nose.

Almost amused.

You continued.

“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”

Mor’s mouth tightened.

“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”

Cassian straightened.

Rhysand’s face went very still.

There it was.

The shift.

The moment they realized you were not decoration.

You smiled again.

Softer this time.

“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”

Mor’s eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

You looked at her then.

Truly looked.

“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”

The room went still. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed.

Azriel said nothing.

Rhysand did not look away from you.

Good.

At least one of them understood where this was going. 

Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”

“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”

You tilted your head slightly before continuing 

“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.” 

Mor stood slowly.

“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Your smile faded.

Not because you were afraid.

Because some things deserved seriousness.

“No,” you said. “I do not.”

The room stilled.

Even Eris glanced at you then.

You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.

“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”

Mor went utterly still.

“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”

A breath.

Then another.

“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”

Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.

Eris remained expressionless.

But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.

Not to stop you.

Not to guide you.

Just there.

Mor’s voice was colder now.

“And what truth do you think you know?”

You folded your hands again.

“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”

A sad smile played on your lips. 

“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”

For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.

Good.

You had not wanted to hurt her.

Not really.

But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.

“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”

Eris’s gaze moved to you.

You did not look at him.

“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”

Silence pressed against the walls.

Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.

Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.

Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

You picked up your tea again.

It had gone cold.

Mor did not sit.

Not immediately.

Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.

Something older. Something less certain.

Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.

“My mate raises a wonderful point.”

Rhysand looked at him.

Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.

“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”

Your mouth twitched.

Only slightly.

Mor saw it.

Cassian definitely saw it.

Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.

Good.

That meant they were listening.

You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.

“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath.

Azriel looked down.

Rhysand looked at you for a long moment.

Then, finally, he said, “The villages.”

You smiled.

“Excellent.”

Beside you, Eris reached for his wine.

Not to drink.

To hide the fact that he was smiling.

You leaned toward him just slightly.

“Poorly done,” you murmured.

His gaze slid to you.

“What was?”

“Hiding your amusement.”

Then, so quietly only you could hear:

“I wasn’t trying very hard.”

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He chuckled and pulled you tight to him. You could feel the press of his bulge against your lower back. You bit your lip and glanced at him over your shoulder. The look in his eyes that made a heat pool between your legs. 

“Then we take this somewhere more private.” He whispered. 

He let you go, walking away easily. You watched him leave the kitchen as if nothing was wrong and heard his footsteps disappear upwards. You counted in your mind, pretending to dry a dish. A door clicked. You put the dish down and wiped your hands with the towel. You straightened the skirt of your dress and walked casually through the house, stopping at the living room entryway. The kids were watching cartoons. You did a quick head count to ensure they were all there before heading up the stairs. 

Your heart raced like it always did when you reached the bedroom. You opened and slipped through the door, turning the knob so the door shut almost silently. Immediately warm, big hands were on your waist. You yelped and laughed as Henry pulled you backwards. 

“A little eager, baby?” You asked when he spun you around to face him. His gaze alone told you the answer. 

He didn’t speak. He pulled you in, lips pressed to your own. You closed your eyes with a little whine in your throat when he slipped his tongue into your mouth. He held you tight to his body with one arm, while the other went into your perfectly laid curls. His kisses always left you dizzy, his mouth devouring your own when you both were alone. 

You felt the bed bump against your legs before he pulled away and pushed you back. You gasped as you bounced on the bed, falling back on your elbows. You watched him, waiting to see what he would do. If he unbuttoned his shirt- he rolled his sleeves up one at a time. He smirked at the moaned exhale you made. Your thighs spread open on their own. 

“You know what this dress does to me, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose.” 

Maybe you were. 

His knees hit the rug and you throbbed between your legs. Gone was the prim and proper facade of Mr. Whatsit. Pushing your legs open further was Henry Creel. Your Henry. His gaze did not leave yours when his hands pushed up under your skirt and along your thighs. Your breath hitched when his fingers met the bare skin of your hips. 

He growled with furrowed brows. “You naughty little girl.” His finger tips dug into your rear and he pulled you to the edge of the bed. “You are very lucky I’m starving.” 

The skirt of your dress flew up and he pulled you down even further so your ass hung off the edge of the bed. Your left thigh was thrown over his shoulder and you sighed as he kissed your stomach. 

“Henry,” you gasped, your head falling back when he brought his mouth lower. He licked up your slit, groaning with his hot breath against your skin. 

“You’re very wet. How long have you been thinking about this?” The deep rumble of his voice and his fingers tightening on your thighs made your eyes roll back. “Don’t lie to me, love.”

“All day,” you panted, staring at the ceiling. “You left me all alone this morning.”

He wasn’t in bed when you woke and that hurt your feelings. He chuckled deeply. 

“My poor, slutty wife. You didn’t get my cock this morning so you punished me by teasing me?” 

“No.”

The smack of his hand on your cunt made you yelp. 

“Don’t lie.” He hissed and you could see his piercing blue eyes over the fluff of your skirt. It made you clench around nothing. “I will leave you where you lie.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I just wanted your attention.” You bit your lip. You braced yourself. Another slap didn’t come. 

“Oh, sweet girl. I have neglected you, haven’t I?” His finger traced the skin on your thigh. “Don’t be loud or the children will hear you.” 

You felt his mouth on your skin and you covered your own mouth with your hands. The room filled with your muffled moans and the smack of his lips as he sucked and licked your aching clit. You resisted the urge to put your hands in his hair when his tongue dipped lower, pushing into you and lapping out your wetness. 

You were close; your thighs shook and he held you tighter and worked his mouth harder. But he knew your tells. Your back arched and just as you almost reached the edge, he pulled back. You whined, tears rolling down the side of your face and you clenched around nothing, seeking relief that didn’t come. 

He stood, towering over you with his lips and chin glistening in the sunlight from the window. You watched him reach for his belt; slow, deliberate. Your hands fell to your sides when he yanked the belt free from the buckle. 

“You’re going to come on my cock,” he said, voice steady as his gaze. You kept your eyes on his but could see his hands undo his pants and heard the zipper open. “And when we’re done, you won’t clean yourself. You’ll put on your panties like a good girl and finish cooking dinner.” 

He moved you up the bed without touching you, stroking himself. When he was satisfied with your placement you stopped moving and he crawled over you, settling between your legs. He let his hard cock fall against you. His breath was hot against your lips as he leaned in. 

“Do you understand me, dear?” 

“Yes.” 

He smiled, soft and genuine. “When the table is set, you can freshen up. I’ll get the children and make you a plate.” 

“You’re so thoughtful.” You shifted your hips, which readjusted his cock against you. “Will my husband take care of me now?” 

“Of course.” 

He kissed you and reached between you. You moaned into his mouth. You never get enough of how full he makes you feel. He let you adjust, kissing you softly. He propped himself up on his elbow and took your hand into his own. He went slow, dreadfully slow. 

Oh he was teasing you.

Tears welled in your eyes; they always did when he went slow. Even shifting your legs wider didn’t help the ache. It was too much and not enough. His hand tugged down the dress, releasing one of your breasts. He took it in his mouth and you squeezed your legs around him.  

“Henry,” you breathed out then whined. 

He covered your mouth with his own. He kissed as slow as he fucked you. Steady, lovingly. He palmed your freed breast; combined with his deep thrusts you, whimpered. More tears fell down your cheeks; it felt so good it hurt. 

“I know,” he whispered. He peppered kisses where your tears were falling. “I know, baby. It feels good, doesn’t it? You’re doing so well.” 

“Touch me,” your voice cracked and your hands dug into his shirt. “Please.”

He chuckled and he stared at you. His hand left your breast and slipped between you, his thumb finding your clit. Your eyes rolled back and a moan escaped you. 

“Yes,” you gasped. Pleasure finally started building. 

It didn’t take much longer. You bit your lip as you came to keep from crying out. You squeezed your thighs around his hips and arched your back. He didn’t stop touching you- you had to reach down and pull his hand away. He laughed, light and breathy and kept rocking into you. Now that you were taken care of, he let himself loose. The bed creaked and he muttered your name between kisses, over and over like a prayer. His pace quickened. Your hand went into his hair and he groaned. 

“Good boy,” you whispered. “So good.”

He let out a low, guttural moan. His body shuddered and you felt the pulse inside you. He didn’t move off of you. He collapsed and covered you like a warm blanket. You stroked his hair as you both caught your breath. You wanted to lay there for hours, just the two of you. But the sound of children laughing downstairs filtered through the door. You sighed. Henry pushed himself up and off of you with a grunt. You felt empty, squeezing your thighs together as you got off the bed. Henry was already put together, tucking himself away and buckling his belt. You tugged up your dress and shuffled to the chest of drawers to grab a pair of underwear to slip them on. 

“Should I throw these in the laundry later or should I leave them for you to-“ you turned, intending to tease but stopped. 

Henry was scowling, eyes closed. The air felt heavy. Something was wrong. In a breath, he opened his eyes again and gave you a stern look. 

“There’s been a slight change of plans, dear. I’m needed elsewhere. Get the children ready for dinner. I’ll try to return soon.”

”Of course.” 

He did not step over to you and kiss your cheek. Nor did he tell you goodbye. Still scowling, he left the bedroom quickly. He didn’t even bother to shut the bedroom door. You sighed and pushed away the knot in your stomach. You fluffed your hair in the vanity mirror and went down the stairs. You stopped on the last step, scanning as the children went about without a care. A chill went over you. 

One was missing. 

Holly was missing. 

“Mrs. Whatsit?” 

You blinked. One of the boys- Derek, the one Holly didn’t like, stood in front of you. 

“Yes dear?” You put on a smile. 

“I made this for you.” He held out a piece of paper with a grin of his own. 

“Oh, thank you sweetie.” You took it and stilled as you looked at it. Another blink, and you folded it quickly. “I’ll be sure to hang it up later. Run along- I have to make dinner. How do you feel about lasagna?”

”I love lasagna,” he replied.

”Good to know.” You flashed another smile and he ran off. 

Alone in the kitchen, you opened the paper again. The handwriting was Holly’s and it said I’m going with Max. We’re getting out. You crumpled the paper. You turned on the faucet and stuck it under the running water, ripping it to push it down the drain. 

Max had gotten to Holly. Max had gotten to Derek, too. 

Your lip trembled and you looked behind you to make sure none of the kids saw you. You told Max to get out. You told her about the cave and when Henry never mentioned her again, you assumed she was safe. No. You sniffled, tears falling. She was still here and now Henry would get her. Stupid, stubborn girl. With a deep breath, you composed yourself and wiped your eyes. There was nothing to be done about Max. Henry would bring Holly back and he was expecting dinner. You turned off the faucet and went to grab the ingredients from the pantry. 

If Henry was in a good mood tonight, you could ask him what happened before going to bed. You had hope, after all. Silly hope. If Max made it this long, then maybe she could make it a bit longer. You also decided once you stuck the lasagna in the oven to bake, you would talk to Derek. Holly gave that to him- which meant he knew the truth. 

And truth was dangerous in this house. 

But your plan did not come to fruition. When you went to look for Derek, he was missing too. The kids outside on the playground said he marched into the woods. 

“You all should come inside.” You said loudly, staring at the thick brush that led to the woods. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Are the monsters going to get Derek?” You turned to see Debbie looking up at you worried. 

“Mr. Whatsit will make sure Derek gets back safe.” You forced a smile. 

“That sucks.” Thomas muttered. 

“Go inside,” You stared at him pointedly, tone harsher than it had been before. “If the monsters do get Derek, they will be after you too. Go. Now.” 

You pointed to the house and the kids stiffened before running off to the house. You looked back at the woods. You hoped if Henry did catch up to them, they would be wise to comply. If your patience was running thin, you knew Henry already had enough. You headed back to the house, annoyed that your heels were getting dirty from the grass. Once you reached the sidewalk, you cleaned them with a wave of your hand without stopping.

You decided then if you ran into Max again, you would kill her yourself. 

You were suspiciously patient and understanding, especially when he bailed last minute on plans. Sure, you’d meet him with a pout, but it’d disappear as quickly as it’d come and be replaced with a smile that must have been a trick of the light as it seemed... empathetic? Where was the upset? Shouldn’t you be fighting about him “not prioritizing you” enough? It’s what happened the last time he had a romantic partner. 

His partner had felt Jason wasn’t willing to put them over his work, which... He made what time he could for them, but there were lives at stake. He couldn’t be with them every second of every day like they attempted to demand, and they weren’t willing to compromise when the truth of his work remained hidden. 

His chest ached at the thought of losing you, knowing it would hurt significantly more than his last relationship. They were nice, mostly. But you. You meant more to him. You meant... everything. Something felt different lately, off enough that he felt it making home in his bones. 

Maybe he needed to come clean, maybe that was the honesty this relationship required. His heart raced as the thought settled, stomach churning. Would you still want him once you knew? Was he risking his safety, his family’s safety, your safety in vain? 

Jason mulled it over, knowing the other shoe may drop with this decision, but pleading with the universe that just this once it wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d be allowed to have and keep something good. 

You knew your boyfriend was the Red Hood.  

Jason, bless his heart, had certainly been trying to keep it away from you. But the more time you spent around him, the more little details you were able to put together. 

At first, the nights he was unable to spend time together made sense. He told you he worked graveyard shift most nights and his behavior and absences backed that up. 

Until he started canceling at confusing moments with vague excuses. The timing of his walk outs beginning to raise a flag in your mind. 

“Work thing, gotta go.” When his phone buzzed as your heads had just hit the pillows. 

“My brother needs me.” Two minutes into the TV show you watched together weekly. 

“I have a thing to do.” When you were about to be that thing. 

Jason went out of his way to make it up to you, finding alternate times to see and spend time with you, leaving you far more curious than upset. 

The curiosity increased when you noticed the influx of injuries he’d have after a night of cancelled plans. The dots didn’t begin to consciously connect until Jason had walked out on your movie night early, a murmured “work errand, sorry.” Leaving his lips as he parted. 

You were more concerned than anything, he’d been wanting to watch Pride & Prejudice with you for weeks after you’d read the book together; a re-read for him and a first for you, only to leave half an hour in? 

Your thoughts roamed as you snuggled into the hoodie, he’d purchased solely for you to steal, burrowing into the blankets on your couch and settling in for the new plan of a night to yourself. You wondered what errand could be so important to need urgent tending to. Maybe you’d ask Jason later, maybe you’d finally get your curiosities quenched. 

You’d just gotten comfortable, pulling out a project you’d been working on for fun and throwing the news on in the background when a story caught your attention. 

“Red Hood takes mustard gun to the face. Fresh off an Arkham Asylum breakout this evening, Condiment King stood off against Crime Alley’s very own Red Hood. It seems to have been Condiment King’s lucky day as he managed a hit on the rehabilitated crime lord, launching mustard directly at the so called “eyes” of his helmet. That’s bound to leave one hot dog of a bruise if you ask me.” 

You rolled your eyes as you processed the pun, it felt in poor taste given how much worse the situation could have been, especially if Red Hood had been without his helmet. The idea made you frown. You’d found yourself with a soft spot towards the vigilantes of Gotham for years, but along the way Red Hood had become your favorite. 

You admired what he stood for, the protection he offered women and children, the way he was willing to offer it no matter the cost. The other vigilantes seemed more black and white, you respected that Red Hood appeared to often understand the world was gray.  

You zoned back into the TV, focusing again on the reporter’s words. 

“Witnesses reported Nightwing ketching up to the scene shortly after, promptly taking down Condiment King and assuring he won’t be able to a salt anyone again anytime soon.” 

You groaned, turning channels so you wouldn’t have to listen anymore to the attempts at making crime more lighthearted. 

The night passed rather calmly for you, but the same could not be said of the streets. Checking social media and news sites revealed the Arkham breakout was much larger than merely Condiment King. 

And as you realized multiple heavy hitters were loose, you sent out a quiet prayer to whoever was listening that your city and its protectors would remain safe. 

Jason needed to see you.  

Adrenaline left his body wired, hands trembling and breaths labored. The night had been harsh to them all. Rogues left and right hellbent on freedom and destruction. Every Bat had taken far more hits than preferred throughout the night, but they prevailed without serious injury. Somehow luck was on their side with a swift recapture. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t frazzled.  

Going from a peaceful night in; snuggling his sweetheart, to getting two black eyes from fuckin’ Condiment King of all people was bound to leave a man off-kilter. Especially when the ante of it all was only upped from there. A night’s full of adrenaline catching up to him as the morning latened. 

Exhaustion ran bone deep, his knocks on your door muddled as if his blood had turned to molasses. The rush that got him through being patched up and taking a shower drained from his body and left Jason half asleep on your doorstep.  

He leaned against the frame, eyes blinking slowly as he heard the lock click before the door opened. 

“Baby?” There it was, confused voice still dripping gentle honey as your eyes met his. 

He was fading fast, Jason knew he’d be unconscious in minutes, but that was okay. He had proof that you were safe, and that was all he needed. 

You took Jason’s arm, guiding him inside and towards your bed. You’d seen him tired plenty of times, but never quite like this. This was exhaustion. His movements slow like you were trudging through quicksand, every step heavy as though the second you stopped moving, he’d begin to sink. 

It was worrisome. Clearly, his job was burning him out or something worse. You’d noticed the redness under his eyes, the way they were swelling in what would surely become two black eyes. What happened to him last night? 

Oh god. 

As you moved the blankets on your bed to open a space for him, your mind was stuck on an awful thought. What if he’d been caught in the Arkham attacks? 

Pushing Jason into place on your mattress was more than easy, once the opening was created a soft wind could’ve blown him down. He collapsed into the plushness, face immediately buried in your pillow and body going lax. It would’ve made you chuckle if you weren’t so worried. 

You removed his shoes before covering him with the blankets, tucking the sides in to secure him. Sitting beside him on the bed’s edge, you lifted a hand to run through his hair, delicately untangling any small knots and lightly scratching his scalp. 

A shaky breath left your lips, watery eyes locked on where Jason’s chest rose and fell. You could see he’d had a night, but he’d survived that night. He was here. he was safe. You just needed to get your anxiety to catch up with reality. 

You watched him sleep for half an hour before your body regulated, your heartrate lowering and allowing your mind to clear now that the fear was dissipating.  

Your fingers finally left his hair, trailing down to lightly caress over the side of his face that’d emerged from the pillow. Hovering over the swelling under his eye your brain whispered what happened, Jay?  

Did someone hit you? Why? How?  

A nugget of information from the previous night floated to the foreground. There was someone you knew had gotten hit in the eyes last night. 

Red Hood. 

Your hand slowly retreated, lowering to a stilted rest on his shoulder. It. It was absurd, wasn’t it? 

Except.  

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand nearest you, opening the internet and searching ‘Red Hood.’ Your hand left Jason’s body as you frantically searched at length, looking for evidence. The builds were damn near the same, Red Hood seemed only the slightest bulkier, your guess was an armor-padded suit. Articles highlighting injuries he’d received in the recent past aligned with nights he’d rushed away from you. 

And the most damning. A picture someone had managed to get of him without his helmet. 

He still wore a mask, but even in a far and grainy picture you’d recognize the love of your life’s face anywhere. 

Jason Todd was the Red Hood. 

You locked your phone, not wanting to stare at the image anymore and turned your gaze to Jason. You expected fear to roll in, knowledge fresh of some of the brutality he’d committed, but the longer you looked at Jason the more your shock calmed. 

He was a hero. A statement you figured he’d argue, but that’s how you’d felt about Red Hood for ages. Sure, his methods were unorthodox especially when he first debuted in Gotham, but he’d been trying to better the city every step of his way. He stood up for the underdogs, for Park Row and everyone in it that were constantly overlooked.  

You knew firsthand how much it needed that. Park Row, Crime Alley had been your home for a spell of time. The first ten years of your life had been spent struggling there. At your youngest and most vulnerable, you learned that life wasn’t always fair. Life wouldn’t always give people what they deserved, not when the cards were stacked against them. 

Park Row needed help, it needed a protector. It needed someone who would stand up and fight for and in it, that never seemed up Batman’s alley. 

But Red Hood? Red Hood was doing what needed to be done. Jason was doing what needed to be done. 

Heavens, he must be so tired, so unappreciated. Even if his methods seem to have calmed since the start, reports on him still labeled him as more violent than the rest of the Bats, treated him as more of a threat and a borderline villain at times. Like he was a ticking time-bomb. 

A frown twisted your mouth, disappointment setting in that others couldn’t see how wonderful your vigilante was. The shift to determination was easy, you’d just have to show him how appreciated he was. 

Jason woke up in darkness, disorienting him until his eyes adjusted to the surroundings. The weight of the comforter on him as familiar as the plushness of the pillow, your scent wrapped around him more fully than the blankets. 

He turned his head to the walls, pictures and posters of the things you love adorning them. A soft smile graced his lips, he was in your room, he was okay, he was safe. His eyes trailed along to the window, wanting to peek out and gauge the time of day. He was met with confusion as he saw a blanket pinned to the wall over it, blocking out most all the light. 

Jason lingered on the detail only a moment more before he sat up. He was in your room, where were you? He stretched as he stood, making his way out of the dark room and further into your apartment. The soft tones of you singing led him easily to you in the kitchen. 

“Good evening, sleepyhead.” You greeted over your shoulder, hands in the sink as you washed dishes, your tone was playful, but there was a glint in your eye he couldn’t quite place. 

“It’s evening?” His eyes flitted to the clock on the microwave, just after 6 pm. “Wasn’t sure with the makeshift blackout curtain.” He raised a brow. 

You looked away, but Jason came closer, spotting the blush on your cheeks. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were able to rest properly; my curtains didn’t make it dark enough.”  

The words came out sweet and simple. An easy care in them that had Jason’s cheeks reddening too. Your thoughtfulness never failed to make him flustered, knocking him giddy and disbelieving of what he’d done to deserve you.    

“Dinner will be done soon, too.” Jason recognized an out when he saw one, you were giving him the room not to reply directly to being taken care of, he appreciated it. 

He stepped closer, arms wrapping around your waist and leaning his head onto your shoulder.  

“Thank you.” It was weighted with everything he could be grateful for. When you let him in this morning and put him to bed, when you chose to care for him instead of making him feel like shit for leaving you, you cooking for him now and continuing to be kind. 

“Anything for you.” As you settled back into him, leaning your weight on him, Jason had no idea how deep that promise would run. 

It’d been a month since you’d discovered Jason’s secret. A month of showing him extra kindness, understanding, and appreciation. You were content to wait to talk about his vigilantism with him until he was comfortable sharing with you. You were letting your actions speak louder than your words anyhow.  

Making sure to give him praise on his character whenever he was around. 

“You have such a beautiful heart, Jay.” Said with a sincerity that threatened tears in the right moment. 

“Your mind is incredible, you’re so intelligent.” Said with an awe that spoke of true wonder. 

“You’re such a good man, Jason.” A promise, a vow of the truth the statement held for you. 

Making sure to care for him through blankets draped over him in his vulnerable states, enveloping him in the softness the outside world never would.  

Making sure to keep him well fed, showing your love through recipes passed down and long since mastered by your family. 

The final action that spoke of your empathy though was one utilized when Jason wasn’t around. You were helping cover for him. Disappearances made around your friends were easy for you to excuse. When he gave you an apologetic kiss and uttered to the group an “it’s work, I’m sorry,” you’d follow up with “he has a highly demanding job, I’m so impressed by how much of himself he gives.” Your confidence and understanding kept people’s opinions of him high, your appreciation seeping into the roots of their minds the more you spoke tenderly of him; to help people see him as you saw him. 

All in all, it’d been a great month of loving your boyfriend. 

Jason was going to burst. Anxiety filling him to the seams as he came to terms with what he’d need to do. He had to confront your relationship problems. Trying to figure out when all this good would be ripped away was eating at him like termites in the wooden home of his brain. 

All the praise, the home cooked meals, the soft blankets and somehow even softer greetings. The gentleness of your touch, like you thought he deserved to be held as something delicate. It was all too good to be true.  

Something had to be wrong. This was the calm before some sort of storm. Overcompensation for how badly you wished to break up, maybe. Jason couldn’t fathom another explanation for why you’d be treating him like this. Like something precious. 

The cruelty of whatever joke this was had self-doubt eating him alive. Itching beneath his skin and clawing its way out of him. 

“What’s wrong with us?” Jason blurted one night, watching you make a pot pie crust from scratch, you’d been prepping dinner for at least an hour and a half while he simmered and stewed with anxiety. His eyes were locked on your hands, covered in flour and dough as you pressed the crust into your desired shape. 

“I mean we’re a little strange as people, but I wouldn’t say anything otherwise.” Your lighthearted tone, still focused on the diligent work at your hands, did nothing to ease his worries. 

“No. What’s wrong?”  

The plea in his voice had you turning to look at him. His eyes were swimming with desperation; a broken shine to them that made you frown in concern. 

“Jay? What’s this about? I don’t think anything’s wrong, but I don’t believe you’d ask unless you thought there was.” Your hands were rinsed and wiped on a dish towel as you stepped closer to him and there it was again, that empathetic lilt to your being that made him feel so undeserving. 

The anxiety in his skin bubbled, a cauldron overflowing and exceeding containment, spilling over until no more was left inside. Every ounce of fear and worry splashed around him, rolling out in waves. 

“I don’t deserve this.” Rushed words, a harsh admission in light of your softness. 

“What do you mean?” Jason took a step back as you took one closer, he couldn’t let you touch him right now. Not when you’d slip in his mess and get swept away by the current, never to be seen again. You paused before moving back half a step, Jason found himself simultaneously weighed down by guilt and able to breathe easier. 

“I don’t... This is all too nice. You are too nice. All this care and consideration, it’s wasted on me. Why are you being so fucking good to me?” His hand flew into his hair, tugging at the strands as he tried to let the pain ground him enough to suck in a deep breath. 

“Jay, baby. You deserve all the good the world has to offer.” 

“I DON’T! How can that possibly be true? The things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt. You don’t know. That’s how you can be so fucking kind to me, because you don’t know what I’m hiding.” 

You nodded, seemingly undeterred by the panic Jason knew he was getting lost in. 

“Okay. So, tell me? I bet you I can still find kindness to give no matter what secrets may unfold.” 

That gave him pause. If anyone could look past what he’d done, it probably would be you. Hell, his family had forgiven and accepted him, and you hadn’t been through an eighth of the shit he put them through.  

“I’m. I’ve hurt people. I’ve done some ugly things, some I’m not proud of and worse, some that I am. Are you sure you want to know?” He needed to hear you choose this, choose him, his truth. 

“Tell me. Please.” It sounded more reassuring than afraid. 

“I’m the Red Hood.” As the words left Jason’s lips, he looked down to the floor. He couldn’t face the look in your eyes yet, the horror that he might find in them. The disappointment as you realized your boyfriend was a murderer. 

“Thank you for telling me.” That... didn’t sound horrified? It was almost... daresay, proud? 

Jason hesitantly lifted his gaze to your form, watching you turn back around, fingers dancing as they always did when you considered the next step in your cooking, a soothing hum befalling your lips. 

“That’s it?” That couldn’t possibly be the only reaction you had. He was expecting tears and anger and distrust. Even the worst case, being kicked out and never spoken to again, losing you entirely in the wake of this revelation. 

You faced him again and Jason stilled as he saw the peaceful look on your face, posture relaxed and no less welcoming than it’d been before. With the light hitting just right, there was an air of relief as well. It was as though nothing had changed. As though this information... wasn’t... new... 

Oh. 

“You knew.” Not a question, a fact. 

He watched as a guilty smile graced your lips, your legs shuffling where you stood and a breath of nervous laughter left your mouth. 

“Maybe a little.” The admission felt both damning and relieving. 

“I- What? How?” 

“Maybe we sit down for this one? I get the feeling your emotions are awfully overwhelming right now.” You started to walk to the living room, making grabby hands behind you to get him to follow. Jason’s lips upturned at the cute habit, steps aligning with yours as he geared up for this conversation. 

You placed yourself on one end of the couch, giving Jason the option of space if he still needed. He sat further than when he joined you for comfort, but within arm’s reach which was progress from the kitchen. You took a deep breath and began to explain. 

“Okay, so it was about a month ago, when you got injured by the mustard gun. You came over the morning after, exhausted and worried about me, which just had me worrying about you, so I got to more thinking than usual, and it started to connect.” 

“The way you frequently disappear at night and leave our plans, the injuries you end up with and the lack of explanation you tend to have for them. I thought for a minute that you were being abused at work. I suppose I wasn’t exactly wrong.” The laugh that left your lips came with a disbelieving head shake. 

“I started looking deeper into the vigilantes of Gotham, well, just Red Hood. He was the only one I needed to look at that morning. Once I had pictures, it was all too easy to recognize the man I love. I could recognize you anywhere. I could recognize you by touch alone, by smell; I would know you blind, by the way your breaths came, and your feet struck the earth. I would know you in death, at the end of the world.” 

You watched Jason’s eyes light up, some of his anxiety melting away at the familiar quote from a book you knew he favored despite the tears it’d brought you both.  

“You don’t have a problem with that though? My identity? The crimes I commit, the lives I’ve taken, the families I’ve destroyed.” His voice trailed off at the end, quieter as shame clouded his gaze. Beneath it there was a desperation that screamed of a little boy’s fear. A young one’s need to be accepted with open arms and loved unconditionally. 

“Jason, my love. You’re a hero. You have done more to save this city than I’m sure anyone gives you credit for. I don’t have a single problem with what you do nor what you’ve done to look out for our city, our home. You’ve been cleaning up in the ways you felt were needed. How could I fault you for that?” Your eyes locked with his, hands coming up to cup his face and reaffirm how genuine your words were. 

“I love you. I love what you stand for. I appreciate you. I appreciate everything you do, everything you are, and everything you will ever be.” You promised.   

For a moment, Jason sat frozen, looking at you as though his whole world view was changing before his eyes. Given his earlier insecurities, it very well may have been. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew?” A whispered curiosity uttered after moments of silence. 

“I was waiting until you were ready. It wasn’t my secret to force out of you. I figured you’d share eventually, and until then I just wanted to care for you. I wanted someone to show you some damn appreciation, and I was more than content with that being me. That’s why I’ve been doing more for you, because you deserve it with all the hard work you do to clean this city up and keep her safe.” Your thumb stroked over his cheekbone, your touch matching the ease of your words. 

Your head tilted slightly; lips downturned as you continued to speak. “I’m sorry my behavior left you so uneasy, it was never my intent for my compassion to scare you.”  

In the seconds of quiet after, your heart rate picked up, this was going to be it huh? The moment when yet another partner confessed you were “too much.” That your affections were overbearing, your intensity frightening and something they weren’t willing to match. That it’d be better if this ended. 

You’d accept Jason’s will if it were the case. You’d let your heart be sliced open, bleeding out from every cut so long as it would make him happy.  

You moved to pull your hands from his face, feeling as though your permission was already being revoked. He caught them with his own, holding them sweetly. 

“It wasn’t that it scared me. You could never scare me. It was that... It felt far too good to be true. I have a hard time believing that good things can happen to me without being ripped away.” Jason’s admission made your heart ache, longing for him to receive only the best from the world and to know that he deserved it. 

“Jay...” He released hold of you to briefly put one hand up, asking you silently to wait a moment before speaking. When you kept quiet, he returned to his full hold on you. The light grip reassuring and soothing while you anticipated his next words. 

“Sweetheart, you are the best thing that has happened to me in this and any lifetime. I am terrified of losing you, that’s what I’m scared of. I don’t want you to be ripped away like so many things I’ve tried to love before, and I don’t want you to leave. I fear that I would not survive a world where I no longer had you in my life. That’s where my panic came from, that’s why I was afraid to reveal my identity. I didn’t want to lose you.” Vulnerable eyes turned down to look at your combined hands. The feeling of his thumbs soothing over your skin providing as much assurance as his words. 

You waited a handful of extra breaths to see if he had more to say, but it seemed no further words were making themselves known. 

“You are the love of all my lives, Jason Todd. I’ll be here for as long as you let me.”  

“That could be a long time, ya know?” 

“I’m counting on it.” 

Snuggled against Jason’s chest on the couch, dinner long since forgotten, a thought came to mind. 

“So, you’re the Red Hood.”  

“We’ve covered that, yes.” 

You gave him a light nudge with your shoulder. “Hush.”  

A brief chuckle before his lips pressed atop your head. 

“So, you’re Red Hood. I know you work closely with the rest of the Bats, and you wouldn’t work closely with people you didn’t trust, not on this. You only trust a handful of people beyond me, and I know I’m not a vigilante. Since you’re all Gotham based, they must be around here too. The only people in the state that you trust are your family. Ergo, the rest of the Bats are the other Waynes, no?”  

“And they call Batman the “world’s greatest detective.” 

“Holy crap, that means they call Bruce that. Brucie Wayne the greatest detective. Oh my god.” You sat up, turning to face him with excitement. 

“Hang on, I didn’t confirm your theory.” 

“You didn’t deny it either!” Your finger pointed in his face, Jason leaning in to nip at it and making you both laugh. 

“Don’t distract me! I’m totally right!”  

“No comment.” 

You leaned over to reach for your phone on the coffee table, Jason gripping your free arm to keep you from toppling over in your excitement. You smiled appreciatively at him before doing an image search on Gotham’s vigilantes. Looking closely at the pictures with what you knew only solidified your belief that much further. 

“Would you... want to meet them?” 

Your gaze snapped from the phone to look at Jason’s face, a nervous smile graced his lips, and his eye contact wavered as he waited for you to process. 

“You want me to meet the Bats?” A light test of the waters, dipping your toe in. 

“I want you to meet my family.” A hand taking yours, pulling you further in with a promise of security. 

“Same thing.” A grin born of playfulness and safety.  

“I’d love nothing more, Jay.” Left your lips whispered, excitement so encapsulating that it need be forced into something serene lest it overtake your entire being. Jason nodded, like he understood how deeply you were feeling before pulling you into a kiss. The unspoken words the kiss provided promised that he did, in fact, understand.  

And the deeper the kiss found itself, the more it felt like an oath he always would. 

Dex lives across the hall. You run into each other some times. Small polite neighbor talk if it's relevant. You don't know each other names.

The idea is you are the daughter of an Irish gang boss, with your brother being a high ranking member. You've newly run away from the family and are hiding in Hell's Kitchen. Shady apartment building, cash rent, no names.

Until Bullseye comes back from a rough Daredevil fight at the same moment as you. And you know exactly who Bullseye is.

But instead of panicking, you just go, "Oh shit, hold on, I have field medic training. Do you have a kit?"

And he's just like "Huh? Yes. Okay".

And Dex let's you in. You patch him up without asking anything while Dex tries to not panic.

Then you just tell him to wait a moment and he is like "Okay." Because he knows you know. He should kill you, but you're being nice to him.

He wants to Trust.

And you come back really quick with some left overs being like "Look here, eat this. It's got lots of protein and carbs, you'll need it. Just pop it in the microwave for five minutes, it'll be good. That bowl is microwave safe."

And Dex is just like. "okay. Yes." He likes that you're not asking questions because questions means he'd have to kill you

You're just helping him. A good person.

You leave after that.

Then you pretend it's back to normal but Dex is Dex.

But he's sure to keep his distance this time.

Time passes.

Dex wakes up to banging from across the hall. Early morning. Your door is open. He goes inside. Two men are assaulting you - you're pinned with a knife in your hand, clearly mid-fight with one guy while the other watches.

Dex does not think.

You crawl towards him. He grabs you, takes you back to his apartment, you do not fight him. He starts demanding answers.

You tell him everything.

They were looking for your brother. You haven't seen him in years, even before you left. He's turned into a state's witness and your dad thinks you'd know where he'd hide.

He's right but you'd never tell him that.

Dex looks at you very clearly. Right in the eye and Bullseye asks.

"Does he know anything incriminating about you?"

"Yes."

"Would you go to jail?"

"Yes."

"Do you want your father dead for sending his men after you?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Okay."

He takes you to a hotel four hours away. He lets you block the doors with furniture. You cried in the car and are just tired now. He waits until you fall asleep. He leaves a note.

You wake up and panic and bit, but the note helps. He tells you he'll be back and you want to Trust that.

He saved you. He wouldn't bring you all this way to kill you. He's Bullseye. You saw him in his weird little Villain costume. He kills people in public like all the time no problem.

He's going to kill your family. He's going to set you free.

He's going to cause So Much Fucking Chaos in the underbelly of the city. It might vibrate all the way back to Cork.

That makes you kind of giddy because they all deserve it. All of them, especially your brother.

But you kinda deserve it, too.

You never hurt anyone. You've never threatened. You don't want to. You were happy to play the naive one because it meant one less criminal. But you know everything. You couldn't stop it.

Your cousin's ex-wife was a mole in the FBI. You'd be dead before you could find a lawyer.

You could very easily pretend to be dead now, though.

It's something to think about when you aren't panicking.

You hate being alone. You are terrified of someone busting in. You sit and watch bad cable for hours bc it's the only way to stay sane.

You don't sleep and you chug bad motel coffee.

Dex comes back after ten hours.

"If I don't tell you anything, you can't use it against me later."

You get it.

"Are you hurt?"

You patch him up with what's in the bathroom.

He bought clothes and supplies on his way back. He insists you go shower first. He doesn't ask why you didn't shower before.

You once again panic at being alone.

He comes in and you end up in the shower together. You keep to yourselves, backs turned. You only talk when he asks if you are finished - he has to move around you to get out.

You are.

You dress . He brought cheap ready to eat food. You both eat that while watching bad cable. You both comment on it and joke.

You still don't know his name.

He lets you push the second bed against the door. You sleep in the same bed, with you closer to the wall. Your head is on his chest.

"Thank you for saving me."

He doesn't reply.

You sleep.

He watches you all night.

Her room is exact—just like everything else in her life. Walls painted a cold, functional shade of pale gray. A steel-framed bed, the sheets tucked tight at ninety-degree corners. A single bookshelf. Two tablets stacked neatly on her desk, charged overnight. Everything in its place. Nothing out of order.

She sits up slowly, blinking away the remnants of an uneasy dream. One she can’t quite remember, only that it left her jaw clenched and her chest heavy. The kind of dream she would never admit to anyone. Not here. Not even to herself, if she could help it.

Her bare feet touch the cold floor. A shiver climbs up her spine.

The Erudite compound is always too cold. They say it keeps the mind sharp. Logical. Undistracted. (Y/N) isn’t sure if that’s true, but she’s long since stopped questioning it out loud.

She dresses in silence: soft blue blouse, dark slacks, a sleek, dark gray sweater that hugs her arms like armor. Not a single wrinkle. She checks the mirror—not for vanity, but for precision. Her hair is braided and pinned in a style approved by her mother. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes steady.

That’s what people see when they look at her: steady. Composed. Just like Jeanine.

But they don’t see the thoughts constantly turning just behind her eyes.

They don’t see the weight.

The halls of the compound are already alive by the time she steps out of her room.

Not loud—never loud—but full of motion. Glass doors slide open on whispered tracks. Screens flicker on as people pass. A group of analysts cluster around a table in one of the common rooms, debating something about resource allocations for the Factionless districts. Their voices are low, clipped, precise.

(Y/N) doesn’t stop. She walks past them, silent as a shadow. No one greets her.

Not because they don’t know her.

Because they do.

She is Jeanine Matthews’ daughter.

And that means she is watched.

Not spoken to. Not trusted. Watched.

She’s learned to move quietly. To answer questions before they’re asked. To never show hesitation—even when it burns in her throat like acid. The wrong tone, the wrong look, the wrong question could be the beginning of the end. Not because she’d be exiled. No. That would be too kind.

Because her mother would notice.

The dining area is bright with artificial sunlight.

Erudite engineers designed it to mimic natural circadian rhythms, though (Y/N) doubts they’ve ever bothered to test its actual effectiveness. She steps through the glass doorway and immediately sees her mother, seated alone at the long central table.

Jeanine Matthews is already reading, a tablet in one hand, tea in the other. Her posture is perfect. Not a strand of hair out of place. Her white coat is crisp, the Erudite insignia gleaming on the lapel. She looks like a statue carved from ice—flawless, cold, and utterly unyielding.

(Y/N) approaches quietly and takes the seat across from her. Her breakfast is already there—protein-enhanced toast, a single boiled egg, half a grapefruit. Calorically optimized. Precisely portioned. No room for preference.

Jeanine doesn’t look up from her tablet.

“Your aptitude test is today,” she says, her voice as calm and impersonal as a data report.

“I know,” (Y/N) replies, keeping her tone equally flat.

Jeanine finally lifts her gaze, eyes scanning (Y/N)’s face with surgical precision. “You’ve always scored well on assessments. I expect this will be no different.”

There is no warmth in her voice. No pride. Only expectation.

(Y/N) picks up her fork. “Of course.”

A pause. A sip of tea.

Then Jeanine sets the tablet down, folding her hands over it. “Remember what I’ve taught you. Logic is not just the foundation of Erudite—it is the foundation of civilization. Emotion obscures truth. And truth, above all else, is what sustains order.”

“I understand,” (Y/N) murmurs, slicing a neat section of grapefruit.

“Good.” Jeanine’s eyes narrow slightly. “Because deviation from one’s designated faction, particularly when one is well-suited, reflects not just personal failure—but ideological dissonance.”

(Y/N) doesn't flinch, but she feels it. That subtle pressure. The weight beneath the words.

“I have no intention of failing,” she says.

Jeanine leans back. “No one intends to. But some… are born divided.”

And there it is. The warning. The test before the test.

(Y/N) lowers her gaze to her plate. Her hands are steady. Her voice is smooth. “I am not divided.”

Jeanine says nothing. Just studies her for a beat too long, then returns to her tablet like the conversation never happened.

But (Y/N) can still feel the silence between them. Heavy. Chilling.

Like a knife pressed to glass.

The glass walls of the Erudite compound reflect a world made of angles and edges. There is no softness here—no unnecessary texture or color. Everything exists because it is useful. Everything functions because it must.

(Y/N) walks the corridors with practiced efficiency, her bag slung over one shoulder. The materials inside—notes she doesn’t need, schedules she already memorized—are symbolic more than practical. Carrying them gives people a reason not to question her. And in Erudite, appearances are often more important than truth.

Not that anyone would dare question Jeanine Matthews’ daughter. Not out loud.

The halls are populated with scholars, analysts, and researchers already hard at work. Some peer into microscopes, others into screens filled with cascading data. Conversations float through the air like low-level static—dense with terminology, stripped of anything resembling emotion.

Her footsteps make no sound on the polished floor.

As she passes, a few heads turn—but they don’t acknowledge her. They assess. Her existence registers as a variable to be noted, not a person to be spoken to.

She doesn’t mind. Not really. This is how it’s always been.

A group of newer Erudite  slightly older than her gathers outside one of the lower labs, tablets in hand. She recognizes most of them. Nolan is among them—tall, sharp-cheeked, always too quick to smirk at someone else’s expense. He leans against the glass wall, glancing up just in time to see her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t Erudite royalty,” he says, voice pitched low but clear. Just loud enough to make sure others hear.

(Y/N) doesn’t slow down.

“Off to your aptitude test?” Nolan continues. “Or did your mother already rig it for you?”

She pauses—not because the words sting, but because they’re so predictable. She turns her head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

“I suppose we will be finding out soon, won’t we?”

A few of the others exchange looks.

(Y/N) turns away, already moving.

She doesn’t get satisfaction from the exchange. That would imply she cares what he thinks. She doesn’t. She just understands the value of silence—and when to break it.

Outside, the courtyard is bathed in morning light. Artificial, of course—the compound is surrounded by mirrored barriers and holographic sky panels to mimic natural weather cycles. Still, the sunlight feels real enough on her skin. Almost warm.

She pauses near the central garden—an ornamental space filled with symmetrical rows of trimmed hedges and genetically optimized plants. Everything about it is designed for efficiency. Even the flowers bloom on schedule.

A small child, no more than five, stumbles past her, chasing a rolling toy. A woman—likely a researcher—swoops in seconds later to retrieve him, offering a hushed apology before guiding the boy away. The moment is brief. Gentle.

(Y/N) lingers longer than she should, watching them.

Jeanine would call it a waste of time. Unnecessary sentiment. But something about it—something about the soft curve of the boy’s smile, the way the woman’s hand rested on his back—sticks in her mind.

She tucks it away. A mental snapshot. Something to revisit later.

Then she hears it.

A distant thunder. Not weather. Not in Erudite.

The Dauntless train.

She moves toward the edge of the courtyard, where the glass arches give a sweeping view of the city below. Her breath catches—not visibly, of course—but enough that she feels it in her ribs.

The train barrels across its elevated tracks, metal screaming, smoke trailing like a banner behind it. It doesn’t slow. It never does. And from its sides—leaping like sparks from a fire—are the Dauntless.

They jump.

From a moving train. From impossible heights. They roll, land, laugh like gravity is a suggestion.

She watches in stillness, the scene unfolding like something out of a simulation—too chaotic to be real, too vivid to ignore. They move with such wild, unfiltered energy. She can practically hear it echoing through the compound’s reinforced walls.

And then—

She sees him.

Not the first to jump. Not the last. He doesn’t throw himself from the train like the others—he descends from it, brutal and clean, landing hard and rising harder. His coat flares behind him like the wing of a dark bird. His eyes are sharp, cutting across the courtyard, and for a fraction of a second—

He looks up.

Right at her.

Their eyes meet.

The breath she didn’t know she was holding stills. It’s not attraction. Not yet. It’s something stranger. Something older. Like the moment her simulation results flicker on screen—like seeing a new variable in an equation that once made sense.

Unaccounted for. Unbalanced.

He looks away.

She doesn’t.

The walk to the testing chamber is long.

Not in distance—Erudite buildings are designed with ruthless efficiency—but in weight. Each step is measured. She isn’t being watched, not obviously, but the eyes of the faction are always present. Data logs. Surveillance nodes. Performance analytics. Even here.

Especially here.

(Y/N) keeps her posture flawless. Her expression neutral. She has practiced this version of herself for as long as she’s been able to walk—the daughter of Jeanine Matthews must never betray uncertainty.

But inside, her thoughts crackle. Not with fear. With momentum.

The train is still echoing in her mind—the blur of movement, the way the Dauntless flew through the air as if daring the world to break them. And him. The one who didn’t leap so much as descend. Eric. His face has been stamped into her memory before she even made the conscious decision to store it.

She remembers him now. Not from files, exactly, but from fragments. A name that floated through old documents and departmental murmurs. The Erudite prodigy who defected to Dauntless and rose too quickly through the ranks. Ruthless. Efficient. Intellectually gifted but temperamentally flawed.

She never paid much attention to the gossip.

But now she wonders.

What made him leave?

What made her stay?

She arrives at the testing room on schedule—precisely one minute early. Not enough to seem eager. Just enough to be noted.

The door slides open with a soft hiss. The room inside is sterile and dimly lit. White walls, metal exam chair, a terminal glowing pale blue. A woman waits, dressed in regulation Erudite uniform—hair tightly coiled, face drawn and professional.

“(Y/N) Matthews,” the woman says, more a confirmation than a greeting.

(Y/N) nods. “Yes.”

“I’m Tessa. I’ll be administering your simulation.” Her voice is pleasant in a way that’s clearly rehearsed. “Sit down. We’ll begin shortly.”

(Y/N) crosses the room and lowers herself into the chair. The synthetic material is cold against her skin. She places her hands on the armrests, fingers relaxed. She does not fidget. She does not ask questions. She knows better than to break protocol in front of Erudite personnel—especially with her mother’s name attached to hers.

Tessa adjusts the interface at the terminal, then turns to her with a small, clinical smile.

“Just a serum injection. It will induce a controlled hallucination. Your responses will be monitored.”

(Y/N) nods again. She’s read the files. Studied the process. It should feel familiar.

But it doesn’t.

Tessa rolls over a tray. The needle is long, gleaming silver. The vial at its base glows faintly violet—biochemical compounds suspended in memory-enhancing nanofluid.

(Y/N) watches without blinking.

“This may sting,” Tessa says, more out of formality than concern.

(Y/N) doesn’t flinch as the needle pierces her skin.

The moment the liquid enters her bloodstream, the world tilts.

Not violently.

Just… away.

The last thing she sees before her vision dissolves is the soft blue glow of the terminal.

—————

It had been days since your encounter at the acromantula den and your mysterious rescue. Nothing, not even a bump in the night had happened since.

The injury on your head had healed enough to remove the bandage and you were able to diminish the cut with a simple healing charm.

Your footsteps echoed on the cobblestone street and you pulled your bright emerald overcoat tight into yourself as the January wind cut cold down to your bones.

The road into Hogsmead was a short one, but you'd be happy when you reached the Hogshead Saloon's warm interior.

Darkness had long since fallen but even though it was still early in the evening, the streets were unusually sparse of pedestrians.

The after work crowd was your busiest rush on nights that you bartended. You didn't mind though, especially tonight. You needed to get your mind off of what happened the other night or you'd drive yourself mad trying to make sense of it.

The fact of the matter was, it didn't make sense, and you should've been scared, but at the same time a thrill shot through you at the idea that someone scooped you up at your most vulnerable and deposited you back into the safety of your home.

You drug your hand over your face and groaned. What was wrong with you.

The brass bell afixed to the front entry of the Hogshead tinkled when you entered. Your coworker Darius waved hello from behind the bar before going back to pouring pints of ale.

Once your coat and purse were stowed in the break room on a mounting hook, you tied a stained cotton apron around your waist and joined Darius up front.

"Light crowd tonight," Darius remarked.

"Don't jinx it."

"Sorry," Darius threw up his hands jokingly, "where you been lately, anyway?"

"Just needed a few days off."

"You okay?" He asked with concern.

"Fine," you dismissed the topic with a wave of your hand and looked at the two new customers that slid into the open seats in front of you at the bar.

"Double fire whisky." One said in a raspy voice.

"House ale," the second requested.

His voice made you pause, but you shook it off. It had been a long week.

You poured and served the whiskey first. The patron took it and went over to a group at a nearby table. You'd assumed the two Men arrived together but it seemed the second man was alone.

Foam sloshed onto the bar top as you placed the ale in front of the hooded guest. Not unusual for Hogshead goers to dress incognito.

The man reached out for the pint and his hand brushed your fingers, "thank you, Love."

Electricity jolted through your body and you felt like your heart would beat out of your chest.

You excused yourself to the back and gripped the wall trying to catch your breath. It was nothing new to be called a pet name by your male clientele, in fact it was downright common, but "Love" in that voice. Damn if that didn't sound exactly like him.

But that was impossible. He wouldn't be here in the middle of Hogsmead Village on a Thursday night where anyone could spot him.

However...

That voice had been haunting your dreams for near a decade. You'd know it anywhere, anytime.

You mustered up your courage and walked back out but the hooded patron was gone.

"That's for you," Darius called, hoisting an ice bucket over his shoulder. He pointed at the bar top where a shiny gold galleon lay.

You stared at it.

"Cloaked guy left it for you. Maybe I'll get lucky later and get a 500% tip too," Darius joked.

The night wore on and you couldn't stop thinking about the moment your hands touched with the hooded man. You hadn't felt a magical connection like that since, well—

You didn't want to think about it.

Though your time at Hogwarts was bursting with joyful memories, it was also a time when you began to dabble in things that ought not to be dabbled in.

At least not by polite society.

He had introduced you to many things. Many abilities. And when the two of you were working in tandem, it was, well, electric.

The two of you fed each other's powers in a way you'd never known before or since. Everything about Sebastian made you better, more powerful, and visa versa.

The power and passion grew between the two of you and it was addicting. He was addicting. And so was everything he had to offer.

He would've killed for you. He did kill for you. Had Sebastian not ended Solomon, Solomon's curse would've hit you and it would've been your body being carried out of the Scriptorium in a bag, not Solomon's.

Your body worked of its own accord as you lost yourself in memories, until you were sharply brought back to reality when you pumped the tap for ale and nothing but air spewed out.

"Be right back," you called over your shoulder to Darius.

A lone candle burned on the wall as you descended the staircase to the cellar. Water dripped from somewhere overhead, and the sound of mice scurrying over the stone floor made you look around.

"Lumos," you lit you wand and placed it between your teeth while you untethered a fresh keg from the wall.

Feet scurried across the floor, but this time it wasn't mice. It was something big.

"Whose there?" You spun around, shining your wand light into the dark corner of the cellar.

Fear held your stomach in knots as you saw the fringes of a tattered cloak hidden behind crates of inventory.

"Show yourself," you commanded. "I'm not above blasting curses first and asking questions later."

A familiar but somewhat deeper chuckle echoed through the cellar. And a tall, brown haired man emerged from the shadows. The wand light danced over his angular and freckled face, "that's the you I remember."

You froze.

"Need any help with at keg?" Darius' voice called from the top of the cellar stairs making you jump and look over your shoulder, but when you looked back to the crates, no one was there. He was gone.