#murder writes

- ghost, of course, notices right away that something seems off. you keep making faces then catching yourself as well as moving in your chair like you're kind of in pain. he knows when someone is in pain. but you don't mention it so he doesn't either. he also doesn't really know you that well, personally that is.

- when you do eventually speak up and it's not you just saying that you're done and he can leave, his ears perk up as his back straightens in the chair.

- "um," your brows knit together as you look at him, eyes off that computer screen of yours that you're always looking at when he's here. "do you think you could crack my back?" you just come out with it bluntly, might as well just get a quick no then stutter over yourself trying to explain why you're asking him and reassuring him he can just say no.

- "sure." he says it before you can even process that you'd asked him despite thinking about it since the moment he stepped into your office.

- your eyes widen as you look at him for a minute but you quickly scramble out of your chair as he stands from his. he then kind of looks expectantly at you.

- "um, just like bear hug me or something. i think that should work," you say which does nothing to change his ever-present stare.

- "where on your back?" he asks since you don't seem to be getting his message with his eyes.

- "um." you turn around and point out the area in your back and he grunts in the affirmative at you then giving a nod.

- "c'mere." he motions with his hand before opening his arms wide.

- you sort of tentatively step forward as you realize he could probably crush you to death if he wanted but honestly that sounds kind of good and you're walking into his hold, wrapping your arms back around him.

- his arms tighten around you before lifting you up and as soon as your feet are off the ground, your back pops and in more than one place.

- you kind of moan and groan at the feeling without thinking since it's so sudden and it feels so good. you quickly realize and are mortified.

- ghost simply chuckles as he sets you down. "that good, huh?" he asks.

- you don't know him so you were more than convinced that he wasn't capable of humor yet here he was.

- your cheeks are flush from embarrassment but you nod your head at him, lips pressed together tightly. "sorry," you practically squeak out.

- he waves you off, "'s'fine."

- "um, thank you also," you follow up with.

- you swear he might have smiled just a little bit under his mask, you swear! well, at least his eyes soften a little. "no problem," he says simply.

- fast forward a couple months and ghost cracking your back is a normal thing. a few more months and him working out knots as you look over his paperwork is fairly routine.

- that, of course, leads to price who's looking for you, heading to your office and stopping in his tracks when he hears you moaning, groaning, grunting all kinds of noises. but then he hears a deep voice, one that's a little too familiar grunting too and saying things like: "how's tha' feel? feel good?" "just a little more. ah. there you go." "just hold still." "you did so good. there you go. rest for a minute, love."

- what the actual fuck, price thinks. his lieutenant is fucking his admin? jesus.

- he's about to just leave when ghost steps out. and, of course,  he questions his lieutenant on about just what he heard.

- "oh, they just have me crackin' their back. s'all," ghosts answers casually as if his captain didn't just hear what he did.

- but ghost is being completely honest. you're just a noisy little thing. the fact that he gets a half chub from it isn't his captain's or your business just yet.

Matt's an obedient thing despite what people might think. He's loyal and caring, sweet when he needs to be and a bit spicier when you want him to be. Right now, he's where you want him and how you want him.

One of your hands is in his hair, idly playing with it and scratching his scalp as some sort of repayment for his touch. Matt massages over the muscles of your legs, having been working your calves previously but is now on your thighs. Here and there, he presses kisses against your skin, murmurs sweet words of praise, and simply takes in and admires the feel of you, the smell of you. God, he's practically intoxicated. Truly, it's a short step away from sex but this is somehow more intimate, special.

Matt's hands are flat against your skin, slowly moving up from your knee to about halfway inside your boxers before he travels back down the path over and over. He couldn't ask for more or for better, this is it. Just here with you, you laid out in front of him, you under his hands, you at peace. Matt can't get enough of it, it's obvious with the smile on his lips.

Matt loves you plain and simple. If he can do this for you, work your pain away with his hands, do anything, he does it. He always will. Over and over until the end of time. Until he can't. Until he draws his last breath.

Reasonably, he figures that you don't know that, how far he'd go for you. And this little massage might just be the smallest example of it.

"I love you," Matt mutters against your skin before pressing a kiss there to your inner thigh. The small, practically subtle sound of your lips parting into a smile makes Matt's chest tighten like he's been punched in the gut.

You grip his hair a little in acknowledgment, like squeezing someone's hand before returning his words. "I love you, too."

Matt could die here between your legs and hands roaming your thighs. He'd give anything to stay here longer, maybe forever. If he could cure all your ills, soothe all your pains, give you everything you need just from this touch alone, he'd rub your legs for a lifetime.

Matt kisses up your thigh, momentarily stopping his hands, before propping himself up and leaning over you to kiss you properly. It's short and sweet and he kisses you a couple more times. It's pure, sweet love.

You can tell Matt is feeling some type of way. You cup his face and pull him into a proper kiss, not a simple peck but not quite making out either. Once you're satisfied and Matt is a little out of breath, you pull back and kiss over his face. First, you kiss his cheeks then right over his nose and finally on his forehead.

"Seriously. I love you," You repeat, trying to emphasize how you feel, how grateful you are to him.

You can't say that you hate the relationship. Not one bit. And especially not when he loses. Bruce has got more than enough cash and you relish in taking it from him. The guy might be decent and all, though way too cocky for how he drives, but you really need that money. More than anyone would ever figure.

You maintain a laidback attitude, confident that you'll win, and always up to race. You are since you always need cash but it's more than that. It's fun. Exhilirating, really. It instills in you a hope that one day, you won't stop, and you'll drive out of Gotham never to return. But for now, this is what you have and you've always made do. And for Bruce, that makes you perfect. A perfect person to unknowingly help him break into the racing night life.

Hands on the wheel, windows open, engine revving, and a smirk on your face. The flag girl standing between your cars begins to bend at the waist and the second you see her arm lower along with the rest of her body, you slam your foot on the gas. The wind whips at your face as your adrenaline spikes. The roar of the engine, the heat of your body, the lights of the city, it might all be familar but it feels new every time. Each time you step on that pedal, the city is reinvented, and you're a new, faster person. You burn the streets with your tire marks and shake your opponents with the rumbling of your engine. Though Bruce Wayne, billionaire, playboy, philantropist, never quite shakes. It's almost like an actual rivalry.

You two have been racing each other regularly for about two months now. At least once a week or more, less if the GCPD have actually been doing their jobs, you get a text from Bruce challenging you and wagering a car or a few fat stacks. Really, who are you to say no? A few times now, it's been you inviting the billionaire to some race with a lot more opponents than just you. That's how he knows this hasn't been all fruitless. You come across as a nice enough guy despite the illegal activity but he knows what kind of connection you have outside of just racing. It sickens him, really, but it's easy enough to act while in a different car. So, he's maintained the relationship. After all, he's made it this far.

Bruce is more than glad he has too because now he's at some cramped after-race party filled, practically spilling out, with criminals ranging from both high profile to simple street thugs. It may not be a great place for him to be spotted but it is a great place to get dirt, especially on that connection of yours. Despite the two of you racing each other earlier, you having won, the two of you lost each other en route to the party. Since you texted him the address, Bruce hasn't heard or seen from you. That was an hour ago. He finds himself anxious; it's just a bad feeling he has.

Bruce asks around for you, unsuccessful at every turn, until some man serving- more like passing out- drinks points him upstairs. With nowhere else to go, Bruce pushes past party-goers occupying each side of the stairs to look for you. Bruce gets that bad feeling again though now it flares up with a wave of nausea. Maybe it's just all the smoke and sweat mixing in the thick air.

The upstairs is pretty much a long hall with a bunch of closed doors, small groups of people standing around or leaning against a wall with a drink in hand. He doesn't see you. Well, not until a few moments later when you're being walked out of one the rooms by some man with his arm slung over your shoulders, inching toward your neck. Before the man can take you any further, Bruce calls out to you, "Hey! I thought we were celebrating your win together." That signature Bruce Wayne smile accompanying his words.

Your eyes widen for a moment before you can school your expression and wear an easy smile. "Hey, Mr. Wayne!" That gets the attention of the man practically glued to you.

"Mr. Wayne?" The man asks, looking at you rather than the man himself.

You chuckle, fake, Bruce can tell after he's heard the real thing so many times and so often. "Yeah. Bruce Wayne. He's practically my racing partner, right, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce fakes a laugh, too. You can tell after hearing the real thing after all those ridiculous stories you've told him. "I'd say so, yes. And, can I ask who this is?" Bruce offers his hand to the man.

"Daniel Mathias. Call me Danny." The man grips Bruce's hand too tightly, an attempt to initmidate the billionaire. At the same time, he squeezes your shoulder tightly, briefly digging his nails in.

"Nice to meet you, Danny." Bruce pulls his hand out of Danny's grip. "How do you two know each other?" Bruce tilts his head just slightly, glancing your way before looking back at Danny.

As soon as you open your mouth, Danny is speaking for you. You can only stand there feeling the searing heat of his arm around you. You're dying and you think Bruce can tell. It took a few weeks before you'd even let him shake your hand and every time he got too close you'd almost jump back ten feet to get your own space. Now, this mysterious, grimy-looking man you've never mentioned is practically hanging off of you. Intuition says Danny is your connection but you don't look so buddy-buddy.

You're brought out of your semi-dazed state by Danny's piercing laugh ringing in your ears. He squeezes your arm again. "Didn't know your buddy Bruce was so funny." He leans in, expecting something from you. You don't know what.

You manage another fake laugh. "Yeah. Might be the only rich person with an actual sense of humor." That remark is so you, the delievery of it is not.

"Well, I'm gonna let you hang out with your buddy 'cause that was a good win, wasn't it?" Danny smiles at you but all you see is cockroaches crawling out of his mouth, over his teeth, his breath rotten along with his words. "You just remember what we talked about, yeah?" It's a poorly veiled threat followed up by a smack to your ass.

You jolt foward, the touch and the forward motion raising bile up your throat, making your stomach churn, and the world shake beneath your feet. You nod at Danny, a raspy and low, "yeah," leaving your lips. You watch Danny walk past Bruce and disappear down the stairs. You straighten up, wrapping your arms around yourself as you lean back against a wall. After clearing your throat and blinking rapidly for a few seconds, it's almost like you're back to normal. "You were looking for me?" You guess, eyeing Bruce like you do when you've got an offer for him.

Bruce nods, tentalively taking a step forward. "I was," He confirms, examining you. "Are you okay?" You don't know if you've ever heard him sound so sincere, concerned. It makes you sick.

You want to laugh but you spare him. "All good. What'd you need?" Right back to business, to your usual self.

Bruce is almost offended. You only want something from me. He can practically hear you saying it. But he doesn't even try to mention it. Not now. "I just wanted to see you. Celebrate your win. That's all." He shrugs, hands in his pockets, and a small but reassuring smile on his lips.

"Didn't want to end it at handing your money over?" You joke, pushing yourself off the wall. Slowly, you're getting back to yourself; entering your body again, you just haven't quite gotten to the controls.

He chuckles, shaking his head goodnaturedly. "Guess not. Plus you invited me, didn't you?"

"My mistake then, Brucie. Let's go outside. It's disgusting in here." You walk past him, quickly descending the stairs, and beelining for the nearest door. You don't wait up for Bruce, expecting him to follow but not truly caring whether he does.

When Bruce makes it outside, he finds you trying to light up a cigarette while leaning against your car, your baby as you had so lovingly called it time and again. Seeing the flame of your lighter flicker out over and again, Bruce cups his hands out over yours. You finally get the cigarette lit and hum in appreciation as you take a drag.

"Thanks."

"Of course." Bruce takes a step back, making sure to keep his space. He observes you for a moment.

You let him watch you and smoke down your cigarette with a trembling hand. You gaze off in the distance, watching people go in and out of the house that you practically ran out of. Every sound around you the wind, the music, the people talking becomes muffled and distant like you're in another room, like you're underwater. You feel yourself slowly slip out of your body even as you continue to smoke. It's like you're half outside of your body, like your soul got stuck in the middle of escaping your physical form. Your body moves on its own and though you're aware of it, you are not in control.

Bruce calls your name four times before finally reaching out and touching your shoulder. He pulls his hand back when you flinch and look at him bewildered. It's like you're a completely different person; a wild animal caged. Your eyes wide, the hair at the back of your neck standing up, your claws unsheathed and ready to strike if need be.

As soon as Bruce touches you, it's like your soul is rushing to get back in your body and failing. You're still in the void between your body and the space above it. The panic feels slow and fast like someone keeps messing with the flow of time. Despite still being inbetween rather than actually in your body, you try to be normal and respond. Your body doesn't make it easy as you stare at him like some kind of freak instead of doing or saying anything.

Bruce doesn't know what else to do but wait, so, he does. It takes a few minutes but your eyes seem to come back to life, no longer a corpse but a human being. Bruce calls your name and he watches recognition wash over your face once more.

"Yeah. Sorry. What?" You shake your head before making eye contact with him.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Again that concern. It churns your stomach.

"I'm good. Whatever." You wave him off with one hand before lifting your foot to ash your cigarette on the bottom of your shoe.

"How do you know Danny?" Bruce asks outright. He watches as you tense up.

You look just to the right of his head as you speak. "Didn't he tell you?"

"I want to hear it from you," He says simply, nonchalant. His hands are back in his pockets and he's joined you in leaning against your car. He keeps his distance though.

You sigh. "He used to set me up with races. Why? You interested in him or something? Trust me, you don't want anything to do with him." It's more than a warning.

"That's not it, is it?" Bruce presses.

You scoff and snap your head in his direction. "You don't wanna know. Seriously."

"So, it isn't that then? How does he know you?" He repeats, firmer this time.

"Has anyone ever told you no before? No one ever has, huh? What? You gonna offer me money for the information? Buy whatever you want like you have your whole life?" You step closer and closer to him, getting in his face.

Bruce puts his hands up as he says your name. Something in you snapped after seeing Danny, it's as clear as day. "Did he hurt you?" He finally asks, speaking quietly, leaning in so only you'd hear. His whole face and body soften as he looks at you.

You stare back, clenching your jaw as you try to keep a steely expression. Really, you barely know Bruce. You may have raced each other regularly but all you know about him is the same as anyone else in Gotham. So, why does he care? What does he need to know this for? What's his angle?

Bruce says your name once more, eyes peering deep into yours, searching. "If he hurt you-"

You cut him off with a scoff and shake your head as you look down. "Please. Just drop it, alright?" You finally back off and take a few steps away. "Don't worry about it. You're in over your head, yeah?" You look over at him. "You get that?" It's mean, genuinely mean, so unlike you.

Bruce looks back at you quietly.

You don't want to give him the chance to say anything else and walk back to your driver's side door. "Get off my car."

Bruce doesn't fight you, he simply does as you ask. He watches from a few feet away as you start your car and leave. Like before, he doesn't know what to do for you, and he assumes waiting once again might help. With nothing solid from you, he decides to head back into that melting pot of body odor of a house and investigate.

In regards to information, the night is a bust. Bruce isn't worried about that though. He's worried about you. He's still not entirely sure what your role is but it's definitely not as clear cut as he initially thought. He finds himself conflicted. If only he knew the extent of your involvement or what role you play. A part of him wants to believe it's nowhere near as bad as he thought it might be but worry festers in the back of his mind telling him it's even worse than he could imagine. But he won't know until he can get you to talk. That's what he has to keep telling himself at least.

-

You see Bruce again a week later at another race. You're in high spirits after your last win against him and finally being able to forget your last interaction. You act like nothing happened as you greet Bruce with a firm but friendly handshake and a pat on the shoulder.

"Ready to lose again, Brucie?" You beam at him, confidence overflowing which is far from unusual. You look about as bright as the sun in this moment.

He smiles back, dipping his head in your direction. "We'll see." He's acting all cool with his arms crossed over his chest, his back against his car, and his legs crossed in front of him. The perfect picture of cool. It'd be cute if you were focused on that sort of thing.

Bruce has won a few of the races between you before but it's been a long time since. Today is different. He wins. You make a mistake. Instead of turning, your car spins out long enough for Bruce to get an advantage and to keep it. You're devastated when you make it back and meet up with Bruce. You don't show it though, as cool as a cucumber as you climb out of your car and smile at Bruce, though it's noticeably dimmer.

"You beat me. Congrats, buddy." You walk over and pat his back in a friendly manner. Meanwhile, on the inside your body is in flames, your mind screams, hurling insult after insult at yourself, and you can feel your knees start to buckle. It's not the loss, it's what comes after.

Bruce catches your shoulder as you turn and try to walk away. "Hey, no celebrating?"

You shrug his hand off your shoulder before turning back to him. "Not tonight, Brucie. I'm busy. You enjoy yourself though."

Despite your facade, there's a lingering sadness in your words and it makes Bruce pause. Even when you'd lose, you still celebrated with him. You'd insist you go to a bar and you'd drink yourself stupid as Bruce pretended to do the same. He simply figured it was to soften the blow to your ego. And though this denial of his invitation isn't suspicious, it sure gives Bruce a bad feeling. The same feeling he had the night he met Danny. But Bruce leaves you be, says his goodbyes, and watches you leave.

-

Hours later. Your hands tremble even as you grip the steering wheel and your vision blurs with endless tears. No matter how many times you wipe them away, they only fall harder. You can't tell whether you're breathing or sobbing with your music playing so loud that it almost drowns out the sound of your engine. All your thoughts are about spinning out tonight. So stupid. Losing didn't just mean no money, no, it meant more than that. It meant Danny knew and you had to tell him. And if you couldn't pay with cash, you had to pay with something else, yourself.

As your soul starts to float above your body, your foot rests heavier against the gas pedal. Your fingers lift off the steering wheel. You suck in a deep breath and close your eyes. It's like a movie, like you're not really there. You watch as your body sits in the driver seat, as your car flies down the road, as your car crumples upon impact, glass shattering, and your body flying foward out of your seat. It's darkness after that. Wet, cold, distant.

-

It's been raining the entire time Bruce has been on patrol, the wind making his cape billow, and bringing a deep chill to his bones. That chill deepens as he listens to a police report of a car crash involving the exact make and model of your car. The bad feeling returns and Bruce sets off. He gets to the crash site before any police or paramedics do. Your precious baby, your car, is crumpled, the roof of the car caved in, the windshield shattered and lying halfway down your hood, and the passenger door is gone. In the small space between the missing door, the crumpled roof, and the seat, Bruce sees you. Your body is slumped over, motionless, laying between the steering wheel and the windshield.

It's more than a struggle but Bruce gets you out. He carefully pulls your body out of your car through the now gone windshield. The first thing he does is check for a pulse and he can breathe again when he finds one. He's careful with your body, unsure of your injuries and the extent of them. Bruce looks at your face. Blood dripping down, scratches and bruises adorning your features, your eyes closed, and an almost serene expression.

-

When you wake up, you're blinded by the white walls of the room. As you slowly get acclimated to consciousness, you start to hear the beeping of monitors, announcements over the hospital PA system, and idle chatter between nurses and doctors. The room smells clean, sterile. The air is still, not quite stale but recycled maybe. And there's so much space because no one is here for you and yet being alone in this room is suffocating like being crushed in a crowd.

Your body is between searing pain and blissful numbness which is made apparent when you lift one of your hands, stretching out your fingers only for a hot sear to hiss up your arm. Your gaze moves to the blanket covering your legs and when you try to move them, you can't. You throw the blanket to the side, revealing your legs encased in plaster. You try wiggling your toes and are surprised but glad that you can. At least you're not completely helpless.

Despite the pain, you lift your hand to your head, feeling bandages around your face and a wrap around the top of your head. As your fingers run over the wrap, there's a knock before someone walks in. Bruce Wayne. With flowers of all things. He says your name quietly, his eyes lifting from the ground to your form. You look miserable and confused. "I saw the crash on the news," He expains, stepping closer.

The way your head shakes hurts as you chuckle. You groan softly and rub at your forehead. Your voice is dry and raspy, "You brought me flowers?" Your expression perfectly betrays your confusion. Not once in your life has someone brought you flowers. And now, here's Bruce Wayne doing so.

Bruce's lips curve upward and he nods. "I did. Are you okay?" Bruce only thought about it briefly, how strange it might be for him to bring you flowers or even just visit you in the hospital. He couldn't help himself though. Not only did he feel at fault for your crash after the loss that was now a few days ago but he needed information. He found guilt eating at him for his ulterior motive but he also had a job to do, a city to protect.

"Hurts to laugh. That's all." You pretty much wave him off, almost acting like the rest of your body isn't in the state that it is. What could he do about it any way and why would he care? Despite his presence now, you suspect this isn't him just checking in. As good as a guy that he may be- or hell, that he isn't- it just doesn't make sense for him to be here. For you.

You watch as Bruce near-gingerly sets the bouquet down on a small table at the side of your bed. He seems to grow serious, his expression taking on that hard look you've noticed he has while racing. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he looks right at you, almost through you. All that to ask, "What happened?"

You could laugh again but it hurts too much. What happened? You wonder if the billionaire orphan had ever gone through something that you have. Maybe. It's possibe but unlikely. You try not to dwell on it too much with him staring directly at you. It feels like he's a different person. He's more akin to a police offer than the Bruce Wayne that you race. It makes your body hurt worse than it already does. "I crashed." You shrug and regret that as pain goes through you like someone slashing over your collarbones and shoulders with a knife on fire. You groan softly and tilt your head back, your face toward the ceiling and a hand covering your eyes.

"Before the crash," Bruce clarifies, unmoving from his spot or steely expression.

You tilt your head foreward, looking at him once more as you sigh through your nose. "Nothing, man. What's the interrogation for?"

Rather than laying it on thick in general or this early, he settles for something easy. Maybe. "I just want to know. It feels like my fault after our race."

You frown instantly at that, not because you don't blame him- you don't- but because he thought you were that pathetic. Going and crashing your beloved car over losing some race against Bruce Wayne? Never in your years have you heard something so childish, so embarassing. And really? It wasn't him that pushed you off the edge. You shake your head slowly as to not hurt yourself even more. "No. I don't care that you won. I just crashed." You state like it's fact and it almost makes Bruce believe you.

Until that familiar feeling comes back to wretch Bruce's body, the one that tells him to ask you for more, to find out what made you snap, what has been eating at you. If it wasn't Bruce, who was it? What was it? Despite the earnings solely from racing him, you were more often than not strapped for cash. You didn't buy anything flashy, no new car, new clothes, prostitutes. You only ever paid your rent and for whatever your car needed. It was like after each race, someone knew you had the money, and we're happy to take it.

Really? Is Bruce's first thought. Though it may have been the rain or even sweat from himself, he swears he saw tears staining your face on the night he pullled you from your car. That was a couple of days ago now but he knows what he saw. Instead of straight doubt, Bruce figures the earlier angle might get you the least bit talkative again. "You're not mad at me? That I won?"

Against your better judgement, you react freely and laugh, "Pfft!" Like the very idea of you being upset over him was preposterous. It might be. You groan softly and rub at your forehead again. "No, Brucie. Not mad at you." You start to idly pick at a bandage before stopping yourself. "Doesn't really matter if I win or lose."

Despite your words, he does not believe that for one second. Maybe it wasn't the actual loss that bothered you but what came after, what came with it. "But no one likes to lose. Certainly not me, even if you manage to beat me nearly every time we meet." What an interesting choice of words.

"I just want money," You admit. "I don't care about that ego shit."

Bruce's brows raise before knitting together as he looks at you thoughtfully. You're telling the truth he can tell. It explains how fast the cash leaves you. How it never seems to really be yours in the first place. "I've never seen you buy anything with my money." Bruce is practically waiting for you to take the bait.

You shrug. "I'm- what's the word?- frugal. You know what that means, right?"

Bruce cracks a smile, nodding his head. "Yeah, I do actually." He finds your easy ability to be like this, joking or lighthearted, despite the circumstances admirable.

"You're smarter than they say you are." A rare moment of authenticity from you.

That more than intrigues Bruce. He tilts his head, looking at you. "What do they say?"

"You know. You're dumb as rocks 'cause you're a billionaire trust fund baby. You have no skills 'cause the businesses were built before you were born. Whatever trash the Gotham Gossiper comes up with," You explain. "Kinda believed it 'til I met you," You admit, running your fingers over the wrap on the top of your head again. "At the very least you know about cars."

Bruce isn't sure what to make of that. At least it's a compliment in your own way. "Uh, thanks."

"Yeah, sure." You do your best to sit up further, trying to push yourself up with your arms to move so your back is flush with the pillows behind you.

Bruce instinctively reaches out to help you, keep you from hurting yourself further. The look you give him, a mix of bewilderment and terror, keeps him from touching you. He still watches closely though.

"Thanks for the flowers, man. Don't feel obligated to stick around." You look at him expectantly, waiting for him to rush out the door and to never see him again now that you're out of racing commission. You're going to be out of a steady income too. You sigh softly, laying your head back, waiting for the sound of the door opening and closing.

"I'd like to ask something else before I get out of your hair."

You lift your head to look at him, surprised he's choosing to stay after the perfect out you've just given him. "Shoot."

"Before the crash, what happened?" Bruce repeats the question, looking at you with the same intensity as before.

"You already asked that. I told you." Your voice is steady and serious, a warning like icy veins and the sharp edge of a blade.

Bruce isn't entirely sure it's wise to reveal his hand but he doubts he'll get anywhere with you if he doesn't. So, he's outright with it, not that he was ever any good with being subtle. "I know you have a connection." He pauses, doesn't say the whole thing. "I know something happened."

You scoff, cross your arms over your chest. "Connection to what?"

"A sex trafficking ring." It's out in the open now.

"What?!" He's right. You do. You can't let him know that. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I know. I know that you do. It's why I found you." His words sink in. Now, it makes sense. Why else would some rich bitch like Bruce Wayne be interested in you? Just for some races? You were at the bottom of the totem pole when it came to racing and, well, everything. He's smart, you said it yourself, he could've easily found someone with much more power than you.

"You want an in? Bruce Wayne can't find hookers on his own?" Defensive. That's exactly what he expects.

"No." He shakes his head. "That's not why I want to know. I want to stop it."

Your brows furrow and your expression says that he's crazy. It's like you've never heard someone have good intentions before. Maybe you haven't. "What?" You laugh.

"I want to take down the ring," He repeats, serious, poised. "And I know you know something."

"You think I'm apart of a sex trafficking ring and you're not trying to kill me?" It doesn't make sense. He should be trying to strangle you or something, anything but merely questioning you.

"I wouldn't get any information out of you, would I?" He's got a point.

You sigh, dropping your head as your body deflates. "I don't know a lot. I owe them money and they harass me until they get it. That's the only reason I said yes to you."

Mutual useage. Bruce gets information, you get money. A relationship built off distrust. How very you of you and Bruce of Bruce.

"And if you don't have the money?" Bruce leans in.

You turn your head, looking at anything and everything on the opposite side of the room. You start picking at one of the bandages on your face again. "Then I don't have the money."

"Why won't you tell me?"

Your head snaps in his direction. "I barely know you!"

"I would just like to help."

You scoff. "You and everyone else." You shut down and shut him out. The bandage you've been picking at falls onto your lap and reveals a nasty gash. You sigh as you look at the bloody bandage. "Go after that shithead Danny. He knows more than I do and he's an asshole."

Bruce stands up, stepping over to your side. "Thank you. I'll tell a doctor to come take care of that." He points to the un-covered gash.

You don't look at him. A part of you wants to ask what he's going to do but another part of you really doesn't care. It's not as if people haven't tried to take down the ring before. This, you assume, is just another fruitless attempt. "And me?" You ask, staring straight ahead.

Bruce tilts his head. "What about you?"

"You're turning me in, right?" You finally look at him again. "Bruce Wayne doesn't condone that sort of thing, right?"

Bruce is... intrigued to say the least. Again, the matter of your guilt is up in the air. You haven't actually told him a thing. No bragging and only brief deflection. You gave up someone without any force and you seem to have no loyalty to any of them either. Not that any of that makes you innocent but it sure doesn't make you look guilty. His mind goes back to the night of the crash, your dejected look after your loss, your car-something dear and precious to you-crumpled and destroyed, and your tearful and bruised face when he pulled you from your car. He can't-doesn't want to-see it if there's a connection.

"I don't," Bruce states plainly. "But I don't think you're involved."

Your eyes almost explode out of your head. He believes you. This, whatever it is, is a strange feeling. You don't say anything. No, you just stare at him. "What?" You ask again dumbly.

"I don't think you're involved." Bruce repeats himself for you again.

"I can hear you," You huff. "Just- What the hell do you mean? You don't know me."

Bruce looks at you for a moment then shrugs. "I... trust you."

It's like both of you are surprised he said that. It cracks something open in you, making you soft as yolk. Your face falls and your eyes soften. You can feel tears coming but you don't want to cry now, not in front of him. Your chest tightens as well as your throat and it's a miracle you can choke out the word, "Thanks."

Bruce offers a brief, mostly unsure, and awkward smile. He nods your way then tucks his hands into his pockets. He then turns and leaves without another word.

-

A few weeks later. To your surprise you have seen Bruce and a lot more times than you have the past couple of months. He checks on you almost on schedule with each new break in the case that is now unfolding with the sex trafficking ring. Your best day is the one in which you hear about how The Batman beat up Danny before practically throwing him on the steps of the GCPD tied up and missing a shoe.

"Man, I've heard a lot about Batman but he might be my favorite person now," You comment, watching the hospital room TV with Bruce sitting at your bedside.

Bruce smiles to himself, at your words and at your renewed attitude. "Really?" He gives you a look like you're crazy as if he wasn't just enjoying your reaction.

"Anyone who beats the shit out of Danny is my friend," You state plainly. "Fuckin' asshole," You mutter seeing Danny's mugshot on the TV before they discuss his charges. It makes you squirm. More than, actually. Like before, you start picking at one of the bandages on your face.

Bruce watches you closely. The feeling comes back like something bad is going to happen, like he's going to throw up. Then he sees a tear roll down your cheek before you quickly wipe at it and turn your head just enough for him to not see your face. He calls your name to no response. He slowly approaches your bedside and carefully places a hand on your shoulder. "Are you alright?"

You flinch at his touch but you don't push him away or look disgusted as you have a hundred times over. You wipe at your eyes in your best attempt to look less pathetic even with two broken legs sitting in a hospital bed. You reluctantly meet his eyes with your own watery ones. "No," Your voice quivers as well as your lips, pressing them together to not start wailing.

Bruce pulls his hand back, takes a step back, makes sure to give you your space. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head immediately. "No. I just-" You swallow down a cry. "You think..." You bite your lip. "You think you can get an officer down here?"

That's the last thing he expects to hear from you. He nods immediately to hide his surprise. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

A few hours later. Instead of any old officer, Jim Gordon arrives. Bruce trusts him and he expects whatever you want the officer for is important. It only makes sense to bring the highest ranking officer he knows.

You ask Bruce to step out which he does immediately. Quietly, he waits outside for the hour or so that you and Jim talk. When Jim finally walks out, he takes Bruce aside by the arm. "He wanted me to tell you something he said he couldn't tell you face to face. You might want to sit down."

Bruce comes back into the room like he's rushing to get to you. He remembers himself and you, slows his stride and kneels by your bedside, looking up at you.

"He tell you?"

Bruce nods. "I'm sor-"

"You didn't do it to me. Don't apologize." You quickly dismiss and wave him off. "But... Thank you. For whoever you called or whatever you did."

"Well, thanks to you he'll be getting even more time."

"Eddddiieee!" He grumbles, about the hundredth time this week. Oh, poor Eddie.

"What is it this time?" Eddie hisses, already feeling his brain melting out of his ears from all of this new work. Spider-Man. The guy is impossible to get a read on and apparently Eddie's boss is obsessed with any information or pictures of the arachnid he can get. What his boss sees he really doesn't get.

"Look!" He shouts, contributing more to the mind melting. "The thing..." Venom says as if the little black fluff of a creature you're holding is alien entity. Oh, the irony.

You stand across the living room from the two, holding up your cat, kissing her cheek, cooing over the creature that Venom has deemed evil. (Definitely not out of jealousy, no).

"Y/n's cat?" Eddie asks despite already knowing where this is going. He's heard it all week. Every time you show your cat affection, Venom is practically crying over the lack of attention and care toward him.

Venom growls lowly like a disgruntled animal. "That should be me, Eddie. I can be a little black ball."

Eddie laughs at that. His companion might be insufferable sometimes but never ill intentioned. Although he had suggested eating the little cat at first but Eddie made it clear that was not an option and Venom grew to understand your attachment to the little black ball that isn't him. But he's still upset about it.

"I could be a good girl, Eddie. What does that puny thing with creepy eyes have over me?"

Eddie laughs again. "Fur." He answers, looking over at Venom as he emerges from his shoulder.

"Not funny." Venom grumbles, loud enough for you to hear.

You carefully set your cat down onto the couch before turning to the two, looking at them. Eddie averts his gaze back to his laptop but Venom seems to be staring straight at you. It's not unusual behavior for the symbiote, really, but it's always unnerving. Just a little.

"You alright, V?" You ask him, using the same nickname Eddie had first called him.

Eddie and Venom briefly internally argue before the symbiote speaks and voices his feelings. "I am not okay!"

That makes you furrow your brows and step closer, always willing to hear the alien out.

"I should be pet and kissed and called good." Venom states firmly, moving farther from Eddie and toward you. Your amused grin doesn't help and he's almost offended. "This is not funny. I am serious."

Still slightly confused you step closer and look to Eddie who as always when Venom has demands looks clueless. You look back to Venom whose tendrils slowly reach out. You step closer and let him envelop one of your hands in the black goo you're somehow still not used to.

"Like my cat?" You ask, the puzzles pieces slowly clicking together.

"Yes. Like the thing."

You smile at the nickname and step closer. You look to Eddie again who is still clueless and mostly trying to ignore Venom's antics. With your free hand, you slowly lift it to Venom's head and stroke what closely resembles a cheek. It doesn't take long for him to start purring, practically, and both you and Eddie are surprised he can even do that. Then Eddie's surprise turns into secondhand embarrassment and yours into amusement, affection.

"This is good. But it could be better." Venom rumbles, looking at you almost expectantly.

"You want a kiss?" You ask.

"Yes."

Meanwhile, Eddie internally freaks out at the table.

You lift both hands to Venom's head and they slowly get covered by his tendrils as you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek and then another and another just like with your cat. Venom is much more receptive than a cat even your dear cat and if he wasn't already goo, he'd be melting into a puddle.

"Is that better?" You smile softly as you pull away.

"No. More." So demanding. Never satisfied.

“Heyy, Karalline,” he drawls. “Thanks for the save.”

“Thanks for the heart attack,” she shoots back as she sets his brother down. “Dickhead.”

The second he has his feet, Dick’s lurching to crouch by his younger, bigger brother. Jason grunts and bats away his worried hands, sitting up straighter to frown. “No, that’s him,” he grumbles. “Shitwing, cut it out, I’m fine.”

“You just fell off a ten story building,” Dick snaps back, demanding. “Supergirl said you’re concussed!”

“Supergirl is exaggerating,” Jason groans.

“Supergirl is right here,” Kara points out. Jason squints up at her in the dark as Dick fusses, bright and assessing.

“You good, supertanker?” he asks suddenly as she draws closer, anxious despite herself. “I know you’re, like, super, but you took us through a fucking building and redecorated that whole street.”

“I’m fine,” Kara says, and rolls her eyes. “Unlike some people, my brain doesn’t rattle around in my head. If Batman yells at me, I’m telling him it’s because you almost fell to your doom.”

“You did what to what?” Dick cuts in, brows pinching. “Is that what I heard?”

“Plowed right through like six walls,” Jason says, agreeable. Definitely at least a little concussed, Kara notes as he lifts his hands to whap a fist into his other hand in demonstration. “And put the mother’f’all potholes through ninth.”

Dick swivels his head to blink at her, alarmed, but Kara just shrugs.

In the corners of her senses, Kara can hear the ever-present sirens of Gotham starting to kick up. Can even hear the emergency calls being made, by the owners of the bedroom windows she’d exploded tearing in at lightspeed.

She should do something about that, maybe. Pull the two bats out of dodge and go speak to the police. She can see the headlines now: Supergirl Obliterates Thirty Apartment Windows, Twelve Cars and Lower Office Building and Leaves: Alien Terrorism?

“Don’t do that again,” she tells Jason instead, as sternly as she can. It’s literally been less than five minutes since she woke up crying and she can still kind of see his rancid, leaking guts superimposed over his actual perfectly fine self, despite him almost falling to his death. Holy shit.

“What, fall off a roof? I’ll do my best,” he says dryly, and she indulges in kicking lightly at his thigh. “What happened with King Bitch and his lackeys?”

“Supergirl got them.” Dick shoots her another apologetic little smile. “Thanks for the save, again.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” she says earnestly. “I—”

“You’re wearing boxers,” Jason notes absently.

“Dude,” Kara snaps at him. She still flushes despite herself, but mostly she’s just glad her stupid shirt hadn’t shorn straight off on impact with the road. “I was in bed!”

Dick just sighs. “And you’re definitely concussed. I’m calling the car.”

“No,” Jason protests immediately. “No, because Bruce is gonna be a bitch.”

“You fell off a roof.”

“My stupid grapple jammed!”

“The grapples are not for falling off skyscrapers, to be clear,” Barbara says, and Kara startles for a second before realizing it’s coming from Dick’s ear. “But he can’t hear me, because he blew up his helmet again.”

“Oracle says you’re an idiot,” Dick relays cheerfully. Jason punches him hard in the arm.

“You blew up your helmet?” Kara echoes, alarmed, and Dick laughs.

“Hi, Kara,” Barbara greets, dry as desert sand. “Thanks for saving our idiot.”

“It doubles as a toss grenade,” Jason agrees easily, unaware of the second conversation happening. “Good for, like, surprises.”

“Why are you wearing a grenade on your head?” Kara demands, and Jason winces at her volume.

“Ow,” he mutters, and she kicks his leg again for good measure. “Hey!”

“Don’t hey me, Jay, you just fell off a skyscraper at two in the morning and scared the shit out of me!” She frowns at him, hands on her hips. “And you have a bomb for a helmet!”

Jason, petulant and definitely concussed, thunks his head back and groans. “You said to shout if I ever needed a rescue.”

“Well, yeah, but—” Kara huffs, and then comes up short and makes a face instead. “Ugh, whatever. What do you do for concussions?”

“I know you have dealt with concussions before,” Jason complains. “I’ve seen you—”

“I meant what do you bats do!” Kara throws a look to Dick, like, are you seeing this shit, Nightwing, and just finds him watching them both with an amused, pliant expression. She’s too frazzled to parse it, though, so she just says, “Help me out, here.”

“The rest of us usually go to the cave to get it checked out—Agent A can handle it. Hood’s just being a baby,” this he throws at Jason like a verbal shoe before continuing, “because he wants to go sulk in his apartment.”