let’s jam

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

❦

Carefully, featherlight; the first few weeks after Jason’s first official date with you seemed to him like a pleasant dream he’d have while napping in sunlight. He took you dancing at the finest clubs in town, treated you to dinners at trendy restaurants, took time out of his work day to bring you coffee — every gentlemanly thing necessary to woo a woman, Jason took time to do. He was getting used to you, getting used to the new quirks in his life that come naturally with new love. He let these quirks linger, happy to find them slotting effortlessly into his life. The scent of your hair, the gracefulness of your walk, the way you held your head with a whip-smart, friendly smile. Like you were always one step ahead of him but happy to wait for him to catch up. 

God, Jason hadn’t even given himself permission to touch you, not just yet. Not until he knew you wanted it just as much as he did. Picnics to the park ended in innocent kisses, drive-in movie nights no more promiscuous than the brush of his lips against your cheek. Some dates, he’d spend an inordinate, impolite amount of time staring at the exposure of your clavicle. Sometimes the slip of your cardigan revealed an enticing sliver of your shoulder, and he’d focus on little else outside of your skin, wondering what you’d feel like under his own.

He was going to go fucking crazy before tonights’s date was over.

Everything was meant to be simple, a meal (à la Alfred)  in the park, the two of you enjoying each other’s company as the summer heat falters in its final steps. Jason brings a strawberry up to your lips, you feed him a spoonful of the chocolate cake that Alfred made. He’d bought a bottle of wine for you to share.

On that hill overlooking Gotham City, through the haze of summer and lust, Jason thought you were incredibly beautiful, hair flowing against the sunset, peaceful smile on your face as you laid your head on his lap. Conversation between you two flowed comfortably, lulled into a soft rhythm as he ran his fingers through your hair.

“So why’d you go to law school if you didn’t want to practice?” you asked before wrapping your lips around another strawberry, appreciating the sweetness of the fruit as you looked up at Jason.

He swallows hard, and you can see his Adam’s apple move as he attempts to maintain eye contact with you. When he doesn’t answer, you continue, deciding to finally broach the subject.

“Easier to get people to do things when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun?” Your friendly derision takes him by surprise.

“How’d you know about that?” Jason’s hand tightens a little in your hair, other hand coming down to your face so he could thumb away the drop of red juice threatening to leak from your bottom lip. 

“Walked in on Alfred cleaning your guns one too many times,” you laugh. “Plus, don’t patronize me by assuming you could’ve hidden your underworld life from me.”

“Fair enough,” he responds, sinking back against the trunk of his favorite tree in Gotham’s Central Park. A live oak tree, right across from an ornate fountain, where he carved your initials next to his a few weeks ago, the both of you giggling after a night of dancing at one of your favorite dinky jazz clubs.

“I’d prefer to serve my own brand of justice,” Jason states matter-of-factly. 

He couldn’t really remember much of the period after he was rescued from captivity under the Joker. Blurry memories of lights too bright, voices too soft, too scared of him — fearful that he’d blow at any time. He felt that he was being tossed from one person to another, not a single soul willing to prod him in case he detonated.

Nothing felt right again until he wrapped his hands around a gun — and for the first time, years after the “Joker Affair” (as dubbed by the Gotham tabloids), his hands no longer shook. Dick had placed that little Italian number in his grip, and the moment he pressed the Beretta’s trigger, Jason instantly felt a sharp relief, like every pore in his skin was forced open, his lungs welcoming the rush of assured liveliness at the control he finally felt. Those countless hours spent training, dropping goons like flies — it was a chaos that replaced the night terrors and self-destruction.. It was control. He was in control.

Jason is drawn out of his thoughts by your touch, a light graze of your finger against the scars on his cheek. So much was love swimming in your gaze. 

He couldn’t name what that expression was, at least not until later.

“Could this possibly have something to do with it?” You speak softly, but directly, as you stroke his scars. Instead of answering, Jason brings your hand down to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on your palm and smiling sadly. You can feel the gun sometimes, right in the holster under his wool coat. 

“Sometimes I’m almost ashamed at the cliché I’ve become,” Jason ruminates, the calm of your presence allowing him to press ahead, speak without fear that he sounded weak; to speak his own truth without the stain of embarrassment.

“That’s just a French word that basically amounts to a universal human truth. So don’t be so ashamed of it.”

Jason liked that about you — your willingness to overcome discomfort because, above all, your nature was toward unbridled curiosity and clarity of intent. You never treated him like he was breakable glass. You treated him like he was capable of overcoming whatever the fuck it was that kept him awake through the night all these years. Like he wasn’t helpless, slave to his own psyche.

You shift up on your elbows, content smile on your face as you bask in the golds of the sunset. Jason pulls out a cigarette from his pocket.” 

“I said ‘almost’ ashamed, doll.” You can’t help but linger on his mouth, the cigarette between his lips as he lit the end —  it was borderline sinful, the flex of his hands, veiny under the brief glow of the flame. He notices the goosebumps along the back of your neck. “Let’s head back.”

You had brought to him a sense of peace he hadn’t known he so desperately craved. Those stolen moments when he’d sneak a glance at you while you went over sonnets with Damien, so patient with the precocious monster, who was only ever really calm around you. He’d race to the dinner table whenever Alfred announced it was meal time, eager to claim his seat next to yours, hoping that maybe, if he timed it correctly, his hand would brush against yours over the bread basket. It took him weeks of nervous handwringing before he even broached the subject with his brothers, the not-so-subtle excuses to come around Wayne Manor on days when you were tutoring eventually called out by the younger two.

“Dude, just fuckin’ ask her already,” Damien had exclaimed over breakfast with exasperation, all teenage impatience and irritation.

“Yeah, this is like the land where time stands still,” Tim agrees, “Dad commits to relationships in less time…”

❦

And thank his lucky stars he finally gathered his rosebuds and took his brothers’ advice; now he’s here, with you in his apartment for the first time, sitting on his lap with his lips pressing into your neck, just below the ear. Every so often he utters a sweet nothing, right up close because he needs to see you shiver, right up close so you could feel the warmth of him.

“You been reading anything interesting?” he asks, relaxed with you in his lap. You had a warm palm on his chest, over his heart, letting it half-lull you into a doze. Only the stroke of his fingers through your hair kept your eyes from shutting; you weren’t yet ready to relinquish this specific pleasure.

With an uncharacteristic shyness, you slowly get up to retrieve the Frank O’Hara book of poetry that Jason had pulled off of your shelf the night of your first date. It had made a home there in your work bag for the past few weeks, frequently pulled out during your lunch or before bed. You had scoured every inch of that book, landing on the one piece of poetry that, upon the first stanza, reeled you in with such totalizing emotion that you were sure you’d found what you were looking for. What Jason left for you to find.

“I have been doing a little reading…”

Jason’s face lights up, and you think you’d do anything to keep that expression on his face, for as long as you can.

“You think you can guess my favorite?”

“Of course, I can.”

“Confidence, I love that.” 

“You’re not so hard to read, money honey.”

Jason places a firm kiss on your lips.

“Read it to me, doll,” he instructs, one hand coming up to loosen his tie.Your thumb stops on the most worn page, having perused this poem several times since your first date.

“Having a Coke with You…” You stutter through the title, a distraction latched onto you that you were all too willing to give into. Jason’s heart skips a beat and it's then he decides that whatever the case, whatever the circumstance, he was completely fucked when it came to you.

“...partly because of my love for you —” Jason smiles into your cheek, in complete adoration with the way you read to him, your chest rising and falling from the most innocent of touches.

“I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world…” It’s almost too much for you to handle, the adoration with which Jason held onto you.

Cheeks blush a crimson with the effort it took to focus on the words of the poem, embarrassed with your stammering.

Jason pulls just slightly, so he could speak right to you, lips brushing yours. He holds still, and his request nearly silent as his voice cracks.

“Can I kiss you?”

Something inside you breaks, a gasp of emotion escaping against your will at seeing this part of Jason. You’d forgotten all about the poem now, not answering him as you lean in — acting in your permission. Jason captures your lips between his own, giving you a bruising kiss that feels more like marking than; his usual kisses always taken with confidence, with a protective grip that doesn't need permission to make you feel good.

You break the kiss too early, just to allow yourself to breathe in more of him. To allow him the titillating feel of your lips, luxuriant and delicate against the scars on his cheeks. 

“You’re a real romantic, huh, money honey?” You edge closer to him, impossibly closer. Close enough you pushed right up against the growing bulge in his pants. 

“Keep — fuck — keep going.” Another hot whisper ghosts right over the shell of your ear, just quiet enough to elicit a quake down your spine, your senses craned toward him as his broad hands splay across your stomach, having undone the silk of your shirt.

Jason almost groans at how adorable confusion looked on your face, swollen lips slightly pouty as he dodges your kiss.

“I meant keep reading, sweetheart.”

Instead of snarking back, you wipe that shit-eating grin off of his face with a roll of your hips.

You didn’t know if it was the newness of a big love — a love that you intuitively knew would be inseparable from your own soul — or just plain chemistry that drove your desire for him. And the longer he kneaded at your skin, the lower his fingers sank under the silk of your panties, the less coherent your thoughts and recitations.

 Maybe it was both.

“Jason —” you whimper his name, words blurring on the page as you struggled to focus on the task he’d assigned. He smelled of earth, of the summer lilacs you sat and picnicked under — it invades your focus when a nip at your collarbone forces a gasp of surprise from you.

“Keep reading,” Jason breathes into the base of your neck, shifting his heavy weight on you, trapping you against the leather of the chair. “C’mon, honey, read it to me.” 

“...thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time…”

“I never understood any of this bullshit ‘til I met you,” he murmurs into you as he deepens another kiss, on the precipice of something electric. 

You needed to have him, to make him know that this was going to be the real thing, this chemistry urging you on. 

As he trails his lips down the side of your throat, hands planted on your knees in a disciplined grip — just enough to make you arch in pleasure toward him, unable to make your knees meet even if you tried. 

“Do as I say, and I’ll make you feel good,” Jason coaxes, rubbing you through your panties; he’s meticulous, methodical, building up intensity in time with your breaths, pulsing body, bare tits practically begging to be caressed, worshipped — loved. A wet spot dampened the silk, and Jason decides it’s time to get rid of the layers between you..

“...what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them

when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank…”

“I knew you’d pick the right one,” he mutters, no lack of self-assurance in his gaze as he pushes a finger into you, prepared to open you up — make you feel good for him. “Been dyin’ to do this,” he croons, the softness of his eyes begging you to take pleasure from his every touch, every push of his thumb up against your clit, prodding smooth, firm circles. He almost fucking whimpers with desire as the obscene sounds of your arousal hit him straight under his gut.

You drop the book, just as the dam breaks. 

His fingers work you until you cum, steady pressure massaging every last bit of your orgasm out of you. 

Jason decides that the first time he has you, it was going to be in a bed, where he could lavish you properly, exactly like he wanted to, exactly like you deserved.

It’s all a blurry flash of clothes strewn across Jason’s bedroom floor, then him laying you down so delicately, with such attentiveness as he lowered his head between your thighs. Tentatively, he eases his fingers back into you, methodical, observant. Every moan of pleasure encourages him to move forward, giving you what he’d been wanting to give you since he’d first laid eyes on you. His tongue swipes against your clit in a building, simultaneous rhythmic pressure applied by his fingers, fucking you open for him. 

“Jason,” you whine, so fucking beautiful as you’re arching you back in a relentless attempt to prolong your high. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.” Your quiet, delicate confession sent all of his blood down to his cock, and he couldn’t help but thrust his hips a little, the friction of the sheets against him only making him more desperate for you — aching to make you his. One of your hands slides up, twisting and yanking at your nipples; the other grasps at Jason’s hair, trying to adjust the pressure right where you needed it — “Please, oh my god,” —

And suddenly, Jason feels you tense up with much more pressure than before, your arousal glistening all over his hand — he doesn’t dare separate his tongue from your clit as you constrict around his fingers, bucking your hips to chase after your orgasm, its directionless, ephemeral pleasure bathing your skin.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Jason murmurs, shiny lips against your sensitive pussy, fingers coming to a still as your aftershocks drag breathless whimpers from you. Jason, in lustful reverence, kisses you with such tenderness. You know that he’s yours.

“Been wanting to do this, so bad, baby,” he groans through long, sloppy kisses, trailed down your décolletage as his hips grind down on you, increasingly desperate the longer, harder your fingers caress a delicious pressure into his back, his shoulders, his arms — he loved that you were grabby with him, holding on, pulling him so much closer to you. Like nothing but the heat, his skin on your skin, could anchor you to pleasure.

“Take me, Jason.” It was your turn, whispering your sweet request into his ear. His turn to shiver.

You both look down, where his cock laid thick, heavy on your pubic bone. Jason gives a tentative, almost shy thrust, head leaking a white drop of arousal, near your belly button. 

Jason lets himself soak in it. The feeling of being exactly where he needed to be, satisfying a craving so carnal, so evident in your eyes as he stares back at you.

“Is this okay?” he lines himself up against your cunt, gorgeous and begging to be taken care of. 

No words spring to mind, all you can do is nod vehemently. Too far gone to care about appearing demure, coy — like a lady should.

“Want you,” you plead silently, nudge him forward with the heel of your foot, gasping at the gradual, delicious tension in your stomach as he eases himself in. His eyes never stray from your face as he took the most painstaking care not to hurt you, despite every cry of his muscles to breach the resistance, fuck you so that you had no choice but allow the pleasure to swallow you whole.

“If you wanna stop, just say the word, okay?” He exhales his request with a shakiness that nearly betrays his self-control: He was every bit intent on being the gentleman, protective even though you don’t remember the last time you had felt so safe. His head finds a resting place buried in your neck as he drags his cock in and out of you, taking care to grind into you. Your nose scrunches up when he does that, pussy contracting around him — every vein of his cock making its existence clear your sensitivities. Honey-mouthed murmurs of your name were just as drawn out as the intimacy with which Jason Todd fucked you for the first time, all tender and slow because he can’t take the thought of you not feeling good, of not being the one to make you feel good. 

“Harder,” you breathe into him. Your hands are everywhere: in his hair, nails burrowing into his muscles, the ache a welcome addition to the thrill of hearing you encourage him. He obeys your command, silently grateful for permission to sate his own urgent compulsion to absolutely ruin you. 

“Jay — Jason, keep going, just like that baby, like that — ” Your mewls become so shaky. With one sharp inhale, on a thrust Jason knew would have you coming apart, wrapped around him so pretty, you cum.

And it’s the scrunch of your nose, back arched into him and writhing as your pretty lips fall open — this becomes his favorite image of you when he strokes his own cock alone in his bed.  Every meeting of his hips and yours, full of intention and the desperation of new love — Jason’s grunts are propelled into groans of pleasure the longer he’s able to draw out your orgasm. He holds out as long as he can, but the fluttering, the wetness of your pussy clenched around him —

“I’m gonna — fuck—” he pulls out quickly, spilling himself over your body without releasing his breath, so caught up in how beautiful you looked beneath him. Your stomach, struggling to keep his cum from dripping on to the silk sheets, nipples begging to be played with as you try to regain your senses. It was maddening, how good you looked. 

Sloppily, submerged in the afterglow of good, intimate sex, Jason kisses you, taking no care as he decides on two things. One, he was going to absolutely ravage you until you were too spent to think, for the rest of the night and into the morning. Two, he was completely, wholly enamored with you, and whatever natural laws existed in the cosmos, his love for you will stand up to par with those universal truths.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

❦

“So it’s not a date?” Tim stares at Jason with disbelief from his spot on the reading chair, looking back and forth between his two brothers.

Jason decides not to dignify him with an answer.

Dick’s snort is what saps Jason’s patience.

“It is not a date,” Jason snaps at his brothers. Dick and Tim had been sitting in Jason’s living room for the past thirty minutes and had watched their brother change his tie three different times.

“You’re wearing cologne, dude,” Tim accuses.

Dick snorts again, almost choking on the cigarette he had between his lips.

“Mind your business,” Jason grits out, less confident this time. “Any updates?”

“Nothing unusual, I’ve beefed up her security detail — she’s surveilled 24/7, around the clock,” Tim informs. It was now nightly routine, Dick and Tim lounging in Jason’s apartment as Tim appraised them of the details of your safety.

“I’ll take the shift tonight, call off whoever’s on tonight,” Jason instructs. Tim nods.

“Are you going to tell her about this?” Dick pipes up, lounges across the sofa, cigarette half gone..

“What is there to tell her?” Jason ties and undoes his tie again, the length not sitting right with him, and he barely even notices the bite that comes out with his response to his older brother.

Tim just stares at him and scoffs with a fraternal derision.

“If you’re hoping to get back into her good graces, you should probably inform her that her life has been threatened,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “It’s a breach of trust and privacy.”

“Plus,” Dick adds, “It’s kinda your fault that the Joker — ” he utters nickname with disgust, “even put that display up in the first place. What kind of a fuckin’ name is that, honestly…”

“Unhelpful.” Jason just glares at his brothers before glancing into the mirror for a final onceover. He grits his teeth as he pushes a stray white hair out of his eyes, refusing to meet any of their eyes. 

“I’m late,” he checks to ensure that he has his keys, his precious lighter, gun, and decides that he is not yet ready to address the massive calamity that would strike if he didn’t find Fleck soon. Just for one night. Tonight would be all about you, and everything else can be entrusted to his brothers. He turns to Tim and Dick, giving instructions with a note of finality before slamming his apartment door.

“And not a word of this. To anyone. Not until we have him.”

Tim and Dick exchange looks of concern as their brother leaves to make his way to you.

❦

Jason had arrived twenty minutes earlier than your agreed time, making sure to request that Dorothy sit you both at your usual booth in the back — just private enough that any random gossipy Gothamite wouldn’t be able to poke into his business. He hadn’t been able to sleep for days since they had discovered that sick display of you in that abandoned factory — frazzled, crazy with a worry that bordered on paranoia, he was having trouble keeping it together. Despite the sleepless hours, the frantic search for Fleck, the weight of the Wayne family name and enterprise, despite every fiber of his being screaming for rest, nothing had spurred him on like the thought of you waiting for him at the end of this week. 

Usually the mundanity of a Friday night spent with you at a greasy diner, the fact that he’d been there a hundred times before, with you across from him trying to sneak one of his french fries; usually these thoughts calmed him. But today, Jason’s heart and soul leapt with nerves, occupied with little else outside of the possibility of having you in his life again, how to keep you in his life. Tonight’s completely-and-totally-platonic dinner with you, an innocent meal between two friends at a greasy diner, yielded Jason no degree of control over the situation.

By the time you walk in, decidedly later than usual, you offer a brief apology that skates completely over Jason’s head, which goes empty except for the knowledge, the reality of how close you were. Stilted, awkward “hellos” and “how are yous” are exchanged, tentative. Much too shy all over again. Meanwhile, Dorothy’s expression is one of amused relief as she pours ice water into two of those red plastic Coca Cola tumblers, always slightly greasy to the touch because the industrial dishwasher at whatever forsaken diner still used them couldn’t possibly make enough money to make the repairs. 

As you both order, Jason takes the time to commit you to memory, this newer, more mature version of you. You wear your hair shorter now. You seemed more confident, with an air of elegance even in the most casual of clothing choice. Your shoulders perked a little higher, and your face adorned a peaceful quirk of the lips; an intimate signal that you know more than you let on. That maybe you knew a secret that he’d be a fool not to possess, to every his every available effort. Even better than his dreams of you, still.

You, however, still had eyes. Jason looked tired — not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a hug and a good, nine hour sleep. Etched in the grey under his eyes was an exhaustion only known to those who overexerted every inch of their psyche yearning for something so out of reach, for so long. A perpetual deluge of frustration that slowly took the liveliness from his condition, that’s how Jason appeared to you as he ate his greasy American diner food across the sticky vinyl of the table. He’d fidget with that lighter you gave him as he spoke. Awkward, stilted conversations that old friends who hadn’t seen each other in an unreasonably long time had to suffer through in order to reestablish, refamiliarize themselves with new quirks that form in the other; all a result of time spent apart. 

He felt as if he were being tripped, stifled with every question he asked, already knowing the answer before the words came out of your mouth. 

“So, you graduate next May?”

You nod, picking up a french fry, just for something to do.

“What comes after?” 

“Don’t know yet,” your shoulders rise and fall nonchalantly, not offering anything else.

At this, Jason fights his reflexive furtiveness. He knew you had an internship lined up, with Lexcorp or some adjacent firm, at least if Tim’s handle on intelligence was reliable.

Just for something to do with his hands, he pulls out a cigarette. You stare at his hands when his thumb flicks on his Zippo; the lighter you had given him.

“What about you?” You ask as Dorothy refills your coffee mug, the steam clouding your face. She observes the both of you curiously, eyes flitting back and forth with a hand on her hip. 

“What about me, doll?” he asks, cigarette between his lips. He felt that distinct awareness in his spine that one gets when they’re being observed.

“I mean, what have you been up to in the past year??” You bring the coffee up to your mouth, no longer scalding your tongue. Jason’s heart melts a little watching you, how you still wrap your hands around every source of warmth in sight. 

“Ah, nothing exciting. Work —” He takes a bite of his food, chews like he’s trying to make time to think about a decent answer, “ — see my family, more work.”

Missing you.

Dorothy snorts, in spite of herself, and that’s when you and Jason are finally drawn out of your quiet, awkward little bubble and into the chaos of a diner during dinner rush,

  “Whoops — ” she giggles, no remorse in her expression as the both of you stare at her, “Excuse me.” 

“Real subtle, Dorothy,” you shake your head as she putters away, smiling to yourself. Partly because you found Dorothy’s eavesdropping endearing, against your better judgment. Mostly because you made Jason laugh. 

“Been getting my ass handed to me in the boxing ring,” Jason grins fondly, tapping his cigarette onto the ash tray between the two of you.

“Oh yeah? By whom?” 

“Guess.” He looks you straight in the eye, squinting in challenge. 

“Damian.”

“Damn” he whistles, “Still quick.”

“Kid’s got a bit of a sadistic side to him when he fights,” you shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean, I’m sadistic?”

You shrug again, chewing on the last french fry thoughtfully. 

“He is your protégé. You gotta be sadistic to beat sadistic,” you give him a knowing look.

 That look again, like the two of you were party to the most secret of secrets and no one else could possibly fathom the gravity of the situation.

But this time, there’s a twinge of regret, more poignant than usual — that regret that someone who knew him so well, who knew his family so well had slipped from his grasp. Or rather, he had let you slip his grasp, lost himself in the process.

You talk like that for a bit, sitting in the comfortability between two people who had known each other so long that their interiorities were intertwined, understood how to cut through the bullshit and just talk. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.

At a natural lull of silence, Jason lights up another cigarette as you finish off the last bite of chocolate cake that he insisted you share with him.

“Where do you think we went wrong?”

Your question stuns him, his eyes shooting straight to yours over the flame of his lighter. Without looking away, he takes a drag of his cigarette, space between his eyes wrinkled in contemplation.

“As far as I know, and I don’t know much anymore —” he takes another drag before he continues, as if searching for the accurate words to articulate the bittersweet torment lodged within him, “I used to think of my life as bisected — like there was me before Fleck. And me after Fleck.” He has no clue if he’s making any sense to you, but he needs to get the words out. “But really — it’s always been before you, and after you.”

Maybe it’s the sadism in him, but he can’t help but smirk when you’re finally at a loss for words. He finishes his thought before calling for the check. 

“And maybe I’m crazy but I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting the existence of an after.”

❦

No Gotham social season was truly complete without Wayne Enterprises’ Annual Fundraiser, an elaborate gala dedicated to the narcissism of the rich, who bathed in Dom Pérignon and adoration of social climbers who fawned over wealth, fame, good looks. You rubbed shoulders, with increasing friction, with a subsection of these kinds of dullards escaping the responsibilities of intellect by purchasing their way into greatness. The socialites within your law school cohort, based on their not-so-quiet whispers in the library, would kill to get their hands on an invitation. You really only agreed to go because Dr. Crane was insistent. “It’ll be necessary to network.” A slender grasp at reason in order to persuade you to accompany him.

It was quite the tasteful event. A live jazz band crooned couples on the dancefloor, the clinking of champagne glasses and chitterchatter amongst Gotham’s social elites patting themselves on the back for donating a spec of their wealth to charities they wouldn’t be able to name tomorrow morning.

You’d been to one with Jason during the course of your relationship, after begging him to let you experience one of these sordid affairs. Now, you’d rather be anywhere else. Anywhere free of the judgmental glances from people whose dresses and tuxedos cost more than a month of your rent.

From the other side of the ballroom, Jason nearly chokes on his cigarette when he sets his sight on you making your way down the grand staircase. Gorgeous and graceful as you’re guided down the grand staircase of Gotham City Hall by a man that Jason didn’t even notice for a second. You’re in one of those dresses he’s seen you in when you’re performing at Scarlet’s, emerald green this time. Always vivid, always beautiful to him, though he could’ve done without the inappropriate ogling aimed at your low cut neckline.

But the moment he comprehends that you were here, in public, in front of him with another man on your arm, he nearly loses his mind. He remembers this fucker, Jonathan Crane.

“Uh, Jason? Woohoo, Jaybird?” Dick waves a hand in front of Jason’s face, which was fixated on you and Dr. Crane with a scowl. Tim and Damian looked on at their elders, amused but busy stuffing their faces with fancy hors d'oeuvres that Alfred had special ordered for the event. 

“Jason Peter Todd!” 

“What?” Jason almost screams, attracting a small smattering of attention around the brothers, rounding on Dick as as if about to lose his temper. Tim has to step in to remind everyone where the fuck they were, and the decorum expected of the situation.

“Nothing to see here folks,” Damian waves curious onlookers along, a few bits of puff pastry spittling out as an expression of rudeness accompanies his command, “Move it.” 

“Relax, man.” All three of his brothers had seen the same thing: you, walking into a Wayne Gala with another man on your arm. “Cool it,” Dick commands Jason, who blows a streak of white hair out of his face before huffing, willing his breathing to slow down.

“I’m fine,” he snarls, snatching his arms out of Dick’s restraining grip. Never once did his eyes detach from where your hand was cradled in the crook of Crane’s arm. 

Jason watches Crane whisper into your ear, too close for your comfort — you cringe when Crane’s words hit your skin, but paste on an unconvincing smile and you take his outstretched hand anyway. That’s what he does for the next hour, hidden behind a post in the back of the gigantic reception hall, eyes trained on you and Crane, who paraded you around the room: a hot young thing, like a fancy new watch, or a shiny car meant for people to gawk at. Jason’s brothers keep a watchful eye on him, noting the flares of his nostrils, his hands curling into fists; they waited for a sign that Jason would lose his cool. 

“Relax, bro, take an éclair,” Damian shoves a pastry up to Jason, all stern and expectant.

“Tell me to relax one more time and I’m actually going to lose my shit on you three,” Jason mutters, biting into his éclair and chewing with an aggression befitting a petulant toddler.  

“I took you out in under twenty minutes last night, don’t try me,” Damian smiles, unafraid, all the arrogance of a Wayne apparent in his features.

“No fighting,” Tim hisses at the both of them.

Jason bides his time and waits for his moment, pulling at the neck of his dress shirt, unable to take in enough air to keep his head clear. He watches you excuse yourself from a conversation after you withstood a few moments of boredom. When he sees you beeline for the buffet table, he decides that’s his chance to talk to you alone, without complicating things for you in front of your peers.

“Fancy seeing you here, sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear from behind. You let out a little squeak of surprise, dropping the strawberry you were holding onto the tablecloth. It’s sick, how jealousy crowded out all of his thoughts and he didn’t even feel bad for raising the goosebumps on your bare shoulders. 

You turn around, and when your eyes light up in recognition, Jason notices a small panic in them.

“Jason,” you say quickly, “I didn’t think you’d be here.” He feels his nerves push against his lungs, the tension in jaw about to snap from the frustration.

“It’s a Wayne event,” he shoots back, a glower marring his handsome features. “Bruce Wayne is my father.”

“You don’t usually come to these things,” you spit back, “and do not take a tone with me.”

“What are you doing here with him, huh?” Jason knows that the hostility in his voice isn’t doing him any favors, but he couldn’t help himself.

You sigh, placing another chocolate-covered strawberry on your plate, too tired to play whatever game was afoot.

“If you must know, “ you rebuke, “Dr. Crane insists that I be networking.” You busy yourself with your snack, hungry after a day that had gotten away from you. You miss the way Jason’s eyes tighten around the corners, his clenching and unclenching of his fist. But that doesn’t mean you can’t feel the agitation ricocheting off of him, tension seeping into your space even though you weren’t touching.

“Right…” He trails off. 

It was happening much too often, these intense silences that both you and Jason longed to fill. He lets himself fixate on your lips for a few seconds, periodically wrapped around a strawberry as you watch the couples waltz around the floor, a longing on you that he desperately wanted to alleviate.

“Dance with me?” He grumbles after you’d finished off the last of the fruit, red staining your lips. Jason takes a deep breath and holds his hands out to you, silently praying that you don’t reject him. He’s trying.

“Seriously?” Your expression blossoms into one of astonished delight, one that he can almost feel as you reach to take his hand.

“Why not?” he shrugs, attempting a coolness that doesn’t quite make it through past his nervousness. He leads you to the middle of the dance floor, a hand on the small of your back as a soothing jazz tune starts and the singer croons out lyrics about romance and lovers.

Chapter 5.  ᴡɪʟʟ ɪ sᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ?

“They’ve abandoned it? Why?” Jason snaps sharply from behind his desk, leaning back in his office chair. One hand was tapping the armrest in agitation, the other forgetting to flick the ash of his cigarette into the ceramic receptacle right next to the files on Fleck that Tim had carted in. Dick was stretched on the leather couch near Jason’s desk, Tim sitting on the ground and cleaning his pistol. Greyscale images of men in gas masks entering and exiting the now abandoned factory with giant cargo boxes had been organized and clipped onto a massive chalkboard across one wall of the room. 

Jason’s rage was nowhere near alleviation.

Jason had seen red when he saw it for himself. The photos of you, tacked up on the walls of the abandoned factory. Here and there, hanging from the ceiling by a fishing line around the neck were sick and twisted little dolls; long hair and button eyes, mouth distorted as if a blade had dragged against the skin. 

“My guess is that it’s because someone decided to go rogue and moved in without backup,” Tim mutters, unable to conceal his exasperation. 

“Alright smart guy, where the fuck was my backup then?” Jason snarls at Tim, the end of his cigarette getting dangerously close to his flesh. 

“Don’t take it out on him,” Dick comes to Tim’s defense. “You need to relax before you do anything else without thinking.” Dick’s tendency to play the diplomat was distinctly irritating tonight.

“Don’t patronize me,” Jason barks back.  But he couldn’t deny reality.

He was getting antsier and antsier by the minute, though he had a hard time admitting it aloud. That ravenous need within him, demanding that he seek pain, humiliation, and atonement; it was getting harder to manage his rage. His nightmares were getting harder to handle. His decision-making was erratic. He could feel that in every debrief he had with his brothers. 

“Everyone needs to take a deep breath and calm down,” Dick commands calmly. “Timothy, Jason did not go rogue, he did what he had to do in the moment. Plus, he only took out one of their foot soldiers.” He turns to Jason, “Jason, Timothy did his job as instructed. The more pressing concern at the moment is for YN’s safety.” 

“We have someone watching her right now, but I’ll set up formal shifts from now on,” Tim mumbles, reassembling his pistol and moving on to clean a few knives laid out on the coffee table. 

“I’m taking over the watch. She’s my responsibility,” Jason commands, ragged and full of guilt.

“Right,” Dick knows better than to argue. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep looking. Do you think a KOS order is necessary?” 

“Absolutely not. I want him alive.” Jason is resolute. “I want him alive, and in front of me.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question it. 

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

“Go ask if she’ll be staying for dinner,” you hear Alfred command one of the boys in the kitchen. You were packing up after an extra tutoring session for Damien before his exams started. Today was logarithmic functions, and wholly unenjoyable for the both of you as you slogged through equation after equation. You were determined to drag Damien out of his exams with nothing less than stellar grades, which would give Mr. Wayne all the more reason to write you a recommendation letter. As you close the flap on your bag, the clearing of a throat calls your attention to the entryway toward the kitchen. 

Jason comes into the dining room, white dress shirt still perfectly starched by Alfred, cuffs rolled up to the elbow, hair a little messy with a streak of white astray, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Out of stress or out of habit — you can’t help but think it was cute. Especially when he pulls that handsome, lopsided smile, shifting the scar on his face up a little more. 

“Alfred wants to know if you’d like to stay for dinner,” he inquires, voice honey smooth to your ears. “It’s his Sunday bolognese,” he tacks on at the end, eyebrows raising in hopes that he could entice you to stay. You've had Alfred’s Sunday bolognese a few times now, and you think it’d take a Herculean self-control to resist the basil rich wafts of the homemade sauce that Alfred cans himself at the peak of tomato season. 

“I’d love to,” you return Jason’s smile, “thank you for having me.” You had settled into a comfortable routine for you at this point. You were handling your own classes, a few extra sessions of tutoring a week in preparation for his exams, and an internship with a V10 firm lined up for the summer. Sundays were your favorite days for tutoring. You could take your time to thoroughly work through each lesson with Damien. Plus, the spring air beckoned you and Damien toward the terrace, where you both usually camped out on Sunday evenings while you had him explain the themes of Shakespeare or do extra practice problems from his math textbooks. Every so often, Alfred would place a tray of cookies and tea on the table. About two weeks into your Sunday routine, Jason had started joining the both of you on the terrace, camped out on the hammock by the pool with a book of his own. Sometimes it’d be a book that you had recommended. Sometimes he’d snooze, his features set alight by the orange glow of the sunset. Other times, he’d sit and listen to you and Damien, eyes staring off into space, a chuckle here and there when he heard a particularly funny quip from the two of you. At some point, Alfred would invite you to stay for dinner, you’d accept, then Jason would drive you home.

Dinner tonight was just as delicious as usual. Stomachs full of pasta and bolognese, the carb overload rendered the Wayne boys much less rowdy than usual. A quiet flow of conversation rippled through the dining room, carried by pleasant clinks of silverware and a few snide remarks — all in brotherly fashion.

“So, Miss YN,” Mr. Wayne takes a sip of his wine and turns toward you from the head of the table, “What are your plans after you graduate?” His tone is polite, conversational; but you could never quite shake the feeling that you were directly under a microscope when Mr. Wayne spoke with you. You were seated directly to his right, like usual. (And Jason was on your other side, like usual.)

“Well, I have another year left, then I hope to find a clerkship. I’m also interning at LexCorp this summer.”

“Lexcorp, huh? Congratulations,” Mr. Wayne says warmly. Though one blink and you would’ve missed the nearly undetectable quirk of his eyebrow; a habit that you noticed in Jason, too, whenever his brain went into caution mode. “That’s very prestigious. I imagine they’ll extend an offer of employment at the end of your internship, if your work is of the same quality as your tutoring.” He’s charming, Mr. Wayne. In the same way that members of Northeastern old money charm the eyes off of the prying public. He’s schooled his children well, each of them equipped with the language of the elite, smooth talkers each in their own individual way.

“That’s very kind, Mr. Wayne.” You raise your water glass to your lips, too full to want the sip but not knowing what to do with your hands, what to say next. “Thank you.”

“I’m old friends with Mr. Luthor,” Mr. Wayne continues, placing his knife and fork on his plate according to his cotillion training, “Don’t hesitate to call if you have any trouble. I’d be happy to have a reason to bother him.” 

“Congratulations,” Jason murmurs next to you, a small gracing his face. You could’ve sworn at the time that he almost looked shy.

“Thank you.” You’re sincere.

“Jason here has a law degree himself, but he categorically refuses to practice no matter how much I nag him about it.” You gulp your water hastily before looking over to Jason.

“Really? Why don’t you practice?” You were intrigued. He just gives an easygoing shrug, one arm hanging on the back of your chair and the other deftly removing the cloth napkin from his lap and placing it on top of his plate, arranged identically to Mr. Wayne’s. 

“Just not something that I’m particularly interested in doing, I guess.” His tone is nonchalant, but just like his father, the quirk in his eyebrow — nearly unnoticeable — gave you pause. You’d tuck away that little bit of information to pick at later. Across the table, Dick snorts and clicks his tongue in playful teasing.

“Oh, boy,” Timothy utters under his breath.

“Gotham Law School J.D. and this is what he decides to do with his life,” Mr. Wayne tuts, and you don’t think you appreciate the disapproval coloring his words.

“What exactly is it that you do, Jason?” You turn toward the man next to you, taking the moment to rake your eyes up his handsome profile. Mr. Wayne cuts in.

“He’s in the executive suite for Wayne Industries. And he’s doing a damn fine job.” And despite Mr. Wayne’s unreadable disposition, you could see that he meant what he said, the tiniest glimmer of pride slipping through the tough-guy stoicism. The scar on Jason’s cheek shifts up, pulled along by his rueful smile.

“Could be taking over for me in a few years, Jay,” Mr. Wayne suggests, and it’s clear that this wasn’t the first time that he’d expressed that thought to Jason.

The conversation melts into a lull. At some point, you start helping Alfred clear the table, the boys providing assistance as Mr. Wayne retreats into his study. Alfred had tasked you and Jason with washing and drying the dishes.

“None of the kids in my cohort do their own dishes,” you mention passively, passing the dish towel over the ceramic plate a few times until you were satisfied with your work. Half of your attention was captured by the rivulets of veins coasting his forearm as he rinsed the soap bubbles from a wine glass.

“Youth these days, huh?” His voice carries over the sound of the faucet hitting crystal, but the sarcasm is ever present. You ignore the joke, instead musing aloud;

“I think it’s because their butlers don’t make them do it.” Jason laughs, and you feel your stomach roll in delight. His laugh was musical, bright. And you wanted to keep hearing it. “Thank God you have Alfred, otherwise you’d be completely hopeless,” you tease, reaching to grab the wine glass from Jason.

“I’m an adult man, doll, I don’t do so bad for myself.” He squeezes some more dish soap into his sponge, adding, “And I don’t have my own butler.” 

“Oh, really? Alfred taught you how to fend for yourself, money honey?” You know that was inappropriate, but you couldn’t complain as Jason continued to chuckle along with you, an easy air around the two of you as you make mindless conversation. 

“Cute,” he responds, turning to look at you right on, facial scar perked up in that specific way that made you swoon. “I’m decent in the kitchen. And never will I proclaim to be a better cook than Alfred, but I can make a mean bagel sandwich.” His cheeks color, like he knew he was babbling, failing to keep the nervousness out of his chuckle. He’s cute. Really cute.

“You make your own bagels?” You peer into the sink as you ask your question, hoping to see more dishes than there actually were, wrapping your hand around the stem of the last glass. You don’t know why you’re asking such mundane questions. You just know that you’re enjoying the repetitive motions, the swipe of linen over warm ceramic.

“Nah, I get ‘em from the diner around the corner from Wayne Tower,” Jason answers, wiping up the water around the sink. “Maybe I can make one for you some time?” He looks at you, shyly, eyes bright. 

There it was. You had been afraid of this. Having imagined the scenario in your head for several weeks now, you knew what you had to say when the moment came. The first time you imagined it, you were the one to ask, boldly declaring that you wanted to see him outside of those measly moments on Sundays, just the two of you. But as the weeks grew, the more you hesitated, the less Jason seemed like a good idea to you. 

“...I —” you stop to clear your throat, “I’m flattered, but I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jason.” 

“Oh,” his face drops, almost imperceptibly, “Uh — it’s okay. Okay. No worries. That was brazen of me anyway.” But you could see the disappointment in his smile, friendly, trying to play the moment off as if it were a mere bug on his windshield. He was handsome, and a gentleman with enough wit to keep you engaged. But you didn’t think it was worth the professional relationship you wanted to maintain with the Wayne family. Too proud to involve yourself with a Wayne heir. You knew what you had to say.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you rushed to explain, stuttering over your words. “It’s just —”

“No, don’t.” He interrupts you. Your resolve quivers a bit in your spine, nervous that an uneasiness would be the default between you and Jason. “It’s okay, forget I asked.” You don’t like the finality in his tone. 

“Jay, listen —”  you let the nickname slip by accident. “Jason,” you correct yourself, clearing your throat. Your hands come up to cup his cheek. And for the first time since you’d seen him, you ran the soft pad of your thumb across the scar. He seems to like that, and he almost nuzzles further into the warmth of the palm. The five o’clock shadow you found so sexy scratchy under your touch. His voice is an adorable, awkward whisper;

“I hope I didn’t make it awkward.” Somehow, his own hands found purchase on your waist. “Forget I said anything, huh?” A nervous chuckle escapes, even though you see the grit in his eyes, vying to hold on to his already slender grasp on his dignity. You, on the other hand, wanted to melt. You have to fight to contain your giddiness. 

“No, we are not going to forget.” You are stern in your words. Both of you, still as time and clutching at each other. His thumb rubs soothing circles into your skin. You didn’t want him to stop, so you smooth your own thumb over the confusion in his brow. “Just ask me again when I’m not working for your family.”

“Why the wait, doll?” It’s cute, his slight pout.

He didn’t seem to get it.

“It’s just unprofessional, is all,” you try to make yourself clearer. “Conflicts of interest and all that.”

“Right…” Jason’s face is no less perplexed than before. “Is it just because you work for us?” 

“...Yes?” You’re struggling to find the words to articulate your discomfort, struggling through the lull of incoherence in your brain. You feel his hot breath closer to you. So you make a joke, to clear through the mugginess. “Imagine how it’d look. The playboy son of a billionaire out on a date with his brother’s tutor?” You’re joking, but you feel some of the truth lurking in that little jab.  You hope he understands what you’re saying, even though he seems to be having trouble preventing his hood gaze from repeatedly coming back to your lips. 

“You keepin’ tabs on me?” he grins.

“Nope.” You’re rolling your eyes, stating matter-of-factly, “But I do read the newspaper every morning.”

“Right,” Jason says, grabbing one of your hands and leading you out of the kitchen, “C’mon, I’ll drive you home and you can tell me if you’ve read anything interesting.”

You had fallen into a routine. One where the anticipation of seeing Jason every week drags you over those last few days of the work week when time seems to slow down, just to spite you. In the warmth of the car, Jason’s veiny hands confidently curled around the steering wheel. You’d put on music when you were too tired to speak, and Jason would hmm quietly to the tune. You always made sure to look over at him, catching the serene focus from his side profile. It warmed you, even if he was tone deaf. Every so often, one of you would mention how much you loved a certain song, or you’d giggle as his voice cracked trying to hit a particular note. 

Tonight, though, everything felt so… charged. 

As Jason steers the car straight into Gotham City proper, he breaks through the silence. 

“So, tell me, doll,” he murmurs smoothly, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand coming to grab yours over the console, “you think I’m a playboy?” You let your fingers interlace. You’re silent for a beat, opting for a joke instead of taking his obvious bait.

“I don’t know,” you respond nonchalantly, “But Gotham Gazette page six does though.” He seems quite displeased, brows furrowed. Now it’s his turn to prolong the silence for a few beats. The trees pass by, blurring into grey. 

The photos don’t lie and you’re ashamed to admit that it bothers you. Leggy blonde actress, singer, or socialite; one after another with Jason’s hand on her waist, ushering her into Michelin-starred restaurants or into the privacy of a sleek sports car. The flash of the paparazzi’s camera reflected off of his usual dark wayfarers, now part of his regular uniform when he was in public. Sometimes Dick would be with them, looking just as annoyed with the paparazzi as Jason did. You wonder how hard it was to juggle that many women, one after ano—

“You know none of it’s true, right?” He gives your hand a squeeze before letting go to grip the steering wheel.

“It’s none of my business,” you say, though you so desperately wanted him to keep talking. He pulls up in front of your building, parks the car and turns to look directly at you.

“I’m not —” he runs a hand through the white streak in his hair. “I’m not in love with any one of them — not that I’m in love with you, but I-I mean, fuck, okay —” He’s blushing as he takes a deep breath. This was the first time you’d seen Jason Todd anything other than his usual stoic, charming self; and it made your heart sputter along with him. “Let me start again.”

“I’m listening,” You squeeze his hand in both of yours, having a hard time keeping the amusement out of your face. His other palm comes up to cup your cheek, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip. 

“Look, I want you,” Jason says, with contrition, with sincerity in his eyes. “No one else.” 

This time, you like the finality in his voice.

❦

As the easy June breeze weaves its way through your apartment, you let the jazz from your record player calm your first-date jitters. Assignments completed, apartment cleaned, you had made sure to minimize any possible stress surrounding your Saturday dinner with Jason. He was meant to be picking you up any minute now, and you were touching up the last bit of color on your lip in front of the mirror in your bedroom. Aside from the nervousness for your date, everything felt… right. By the end of May that year, your tutoring sessions for Damien had ended. The younger Wayne boy was shipped off to various summer camps that cost more than your tuition, and you were well into your internship at LexCorp. And the excitement of your first date, of finally getting to satiate your curiosity — you were charmed by Jason. 

You’re stepping into your shoes as Jason knocks on the door, and you open it to reveal your date clutching a modest bouquet of red roses and a box, one you recognized as a pastry box from your favorite bakery. He’s clad in a white oxford, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbow. Casual slacks. Raven hair begging you to run your fingers through it, but instead messily held back by a pair of sunglasses. 

Jason’s glittering eyes, wide in awe of you, take in your dress, one that revealed your collarbones, your shoulder. He gives you the most handsome smile as he murmurs,

“Hiya, doll.” He proffers his gifts while nodding toward the box, “Alfred said these were your favorite.”

“Hi,” you give a shy smile. Taking the box and opening the door, you’re almost hesitant to let him into your tiny apartment, your sanctuary so accustomed to its usual serenity, undisturbed by any outsiders. “These are beautiful,” you bring the bouquet up to your nose. “Give me a second to find a vase for this and I’ll be right out, okay? Make yourself at home.”

As you’re fussing around in your tiny kitchen, you hear Jason’s slow footsteps on the hardwood floor, the squeak a little louder when he hits the problem floorboard.

“You’ve got quite the collection here, doll,” he calls from the living room, and you imagine that he’s standing in front of your bookshelves, each individual shelf heaped with various tchotchkes and used books. A few photos are framed and scattered on top of the bowed shelves where there was room. The image of such a large, imposing figure in the cramped corner of your apartment amused you. “Starting to think you might be more well-read than me.” “I mean, you do have several years on me, so I doubt it,” you answer, rearranging the roses so they didn’t look so haphazard in the mason jar.

“I’m not that old,” he snorts.

“Old, but age appropriate,” you jokingly retorted before making a request, “Everything on the shelf closest to the wingback has been read. Tell me your favorite.” 

You walk into the room, plant yourself down on the armchair and watch Jason. He’s silent as he contemplates, save for a hum here and there as he has to crouch down to pull a few copies from the bottom row. It’s adorable, the amount of consideration he was giving your simple question, mouth set into a straight line of concentration. Every so often he pulls out a book, looks at it, shakes his head as if disappointed, and then slides it in the correct place. Finally, when he turns, two volumes in his hands, he seems to brighten at your proximity. Kneeling at your feet as you sit on the chair, he hands over his choices. Your heart jumps into your throat when you look at the covers. 

“You’re kidding,” you laugh, all elation and sparkling in your chest, “The Little Prince was my favorite as a kid.” Jason’s eyes become impossibly bright.

“Alfred would read it to me when I couldn’t sleep as a kid,” he says softly, mirroring your smile. Your fingers twitch, wanting to interlace with Jason’s hand. You imagined him as a younger child, maybe eight or nine years old, running to find Alfred somewhere in the labyrinthine Manor. “I’d be snoring by page ten or so,” he explains.

You intertwine your fingers with his. 

“What about the second pick?”

You glance down, clearing your throat along with the happy haze in your mind. Frayed around the corners, your ratty copy of a Frank O’Hara poetry collection.

“I didn’t peg you as a poetry guy.” You thumb through the book as you talk; Jason’s attention so completely trained on you, you feel the heat underneath your skin. “Poetry has always been hard for me. I haven’t read this one since high school.” 

“Give it a read through, see if you can’t find my favorite,” Jason just shrugs, a little shy, a little reticent. You place a kiss on his cheek, where the scar was pulled taut by his crooked smile. 

“You’re staring,” you murmur (hypocritically), cheeks hurting from your attempts to cease grinning like an idiot. He moves a little closer, minty breath detectable from how close he is. You think he might kiss you, but Jason just smirks and asks,

“Hungry?”

“Ravenous.”

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

Jason is stirred from his memories by a waitress refilling his water glass. He waited in the audience of Scarlet’s late night set as cigarette girls and cocktail waitresses traversed through the smoke. Ever since he first saw you on stage in late November, he hadn’t been able to forget the image of you, bathed in a hazy white spotlight. Sometimes he dreamt about it, if he was lucky. He’d been back to Scarlet’s to see you at least twice, always hidden at his usual table. He always left without saying anything, just grateful for the hour of reprieve, to be graced with your presence for a fleeting moment.

Tonight, Dick sits across from Jason, the younger of the two reluctantly allowing his nosy brother to tag along before they were meant to meet with Tim. Jason lights a cigarette.

Truthfully, Jason had never been so nervous or paranoid in his life. On top of the extra effort and resources he had to marshal to surveil Fleck, work, and his other responsibilities, he’d been emotionally drained, high on the hope of having you in his life again. And now, all he could think about was how he was going to keep you safe, under his guard, until he could assure that you would never be in harm’s way. 

“So your date tomorrow?” Dick asks his younger brother over his glass of water, too much mirth in his face for Jason’s liking.

“You gossip like an old maid,” Jason rolls his eyes, blowing smoke toward the direction of the breeze.

“Well, we have a pool going.”

“Fucking Christ,” Jason grumbles, praying to god that he wasn’t visibly blushing. “Don’t make me take up drinking again. I don’t wanna know.” Dick’s Cheshire cat grin grows impossibly amused. “And it’s not a date.”

“Right, you’re ‘just friends.’” 

“If that’s what she wants, that’s what she gets. How much money do you have going on what?” Jason blurts out the question at the end, not particularly proud of himself for giving into such inane curiosity. Speculation about his own love life no less.

“You crack like an egg,” the bastard snickers, leaning back in his seat in relaxation. But Jason shushes him with a hiss as you take center stage.

Jason rakes his eyes up and down your figure, taking in every familiar curve, every familiar line. His skin is set alight, and he knows that you can’t see him with the stage lights glaring at you but he just knows that you’re singing to him. Just for him. And he lets out a breath that leaves him floating, basking in your light.

Chapter 2: an untenable truce

⋆｡°✩ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ✩°｡⋆ ･｡

　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　    ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶   ✦　　

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ .🪐˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

One foot in front of the other, you chant to yourself. You’ll be there soon. The light is just in the distance, there has to be shelter over the next hill. You keep forcing yourself forward, but it was as if your arms and legs were stuck in a thick sludge. Time felt like a dense, gelatinous ooze and the more you tried to pump your legs, the farther the light seemed to drift. You don’t know where you are, but you know that the darkness around you is expansive, only more so the longer you try to run toward the light. Keep running. No matter how long you ran, you never got tired, the threat of darkness seemingly fueling your determination to keep moving.

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ aboard the Bebop, somewhere in the Solar System˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

Two brothers sat idly on a scratchy sofa, face aglow by the television’s blue light. The obnoxious clang of  a cowbell ricochets off of the titanium spaceship, intermittently punctuated by static; no guarantee of service when you’re near the asteroid belt.

“Stop chewing on the cable, Haley,” whistles the shorter, leaner brother, snapping his fingers to call attention to a three-legged, pitiable creature. He lounges back in an insufficiently sized loveseat, eyes scanning the screen with a lit cigarette hanging in the balance, right between his lips. Occasionally, he sneaks a glance over the coffee table to see his brother, larger and bulkier and reclined in what was usually his own sofa of choice. Streaks of hair, tussled vivid white under the harsh fluorescents framed a rugged face, mouth set in a firm line as he focused on the screen, sulking about their predicament chained up in his lab.

Judy, the buxom blonde of Big Shot (For the Bounty Hunters) stood clad in plaid, lewd squeals grating against the eardrums. The grey dog whines and hides its snout under its remaining front paw, canine distress now joining the cacophony. On the TV, Judy is unceremoniously pushed aside by her gratuitously violent costar, voluptuous curves rippling in the wind, barely contained by minimal clothing. Punch starts rattling off active bounties, mug shots scrolling through the screen as he shoots off his pistol, aimless.

“All 300,000 bounty hunters in the star system and not a single one o’ ya coffee-boilers has caught our mighty fine dame of the ‘our…”

When the mugshot wrap ends on a glowering face framed by ginger hair, the younger brother starts muttering under his breath.

“Coulda had her.” 

Irritation floods the man on the loveseat, and he takes a slow inhale. He slams his thumb on the remote control’s power off button, and the Bebop living room is plunged into darkness, lit only by the flaming end of a cigarette. 

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ .🪐˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

Waves of pounding pressure in your skull. That was the first thing you were aware of when you came to, mouth desert dry and muscles aching with a frozen soreness. Goosebumps rupturing on your skin alerted you to the frigidness shaking your bones. Fighting against your eyelids, crusted shut by the most unrestful sleep, the blur in front of your eyes slowly focuses under the glow of a lamp somewhere in the corner of the room. A weight on your ankle is the second, coherent thing you noticed; a cuff chained to the steel bed frame, igniting a spark of fear. Somber tension reverberated throughout the halls, eeriness bounding off of the metal walls.

Sitting up way too fast, a dizzy rush unsettling your head, you whip your eyes down, making sure that all of your appendages were intact, that you were clothed in the garments you put on this morning — Was it even this morning? How long have I been out? Your spine skitters under your skin, and you taste the bitterness of unfamiliarity. 

Or was it bile? Where the fuck am I?

Panic creeps up alongside every thump of your heart, fighting to overtake reason even though you do everything in your power to focus — assessing your surroundings, reflexively locating an escape route, something to break the shackle. Your gun! You look around the room, seeing your keys and jacket laid out neatly on the solid steel table in the middle of the room. The most important three items, though, were missing. No gun, no rolls of film in sight, no wallet. Bile makes its way up your esophagus as hyperventilation threatens to overwhelm you. You look at the cold metal table, bright medical lights blaring down on it from above. A few tools were lined on a tray next to your belongings: you spy a scalpel and surgical tongs. Fuck. The bile is clawing its way out now. You couldn’t reach any weapons. 

Stupidly, you yank at the chain a few times with all your might. Skin straining against the thick metal of your shackles, your rigorous yanking only leaves you groaning, an anklet of bruises that were sure to cause you hell when you got out of here. If you got out of here. Maybe if you could pull on the chain with your arms? Was the bed frame attached with nails or was it welded? Fuck. You felt the tears sting your skin as they escaped, a desperate sob along with them.

Water, you needed water. You couldn’t scream yet. Your eyes dart around the room, up the walls, tracing the ceilings. There was only one entrance, and maybe a vent behind that industrial shelf? You could crawl through it, probably… There was no way out, though, if you couldn’t get that fucking shackle off of your ankle.

There was a nightstand next to you, with a reading lamp, a cup of water, and some painkillers. Outside your room, you could hear the sniffling of a dog, its snout making whiny little sounds as the sound of blunt nails scratching metal mixes with the general discomfort of the entire situation.

You’d have to face it.

So you scream, every last bit of energy you have left in you put into a brokenly vicious, bloodcurdling scream.

☄. *. ⋆

“This is your fault, Richard,” Jason growls at his older brother, “I am not the one who deviated from the plan and brought some stranger along. A stranger who has a gun and enough contraband to send us to Pluto.” The steam from Jason’s ears was palpable, almost reminding Dick of their father when he was seething but trying to keep a lid on his temper. He keeps his hands busy, cleaning both Dick’s and his guns with practiced precision and muttering under his breath, “Fucking PLUTO, Richard.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Dick attempts to assuage his brother, “I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to do? Leave her there? We don’t even know what Ivy threw at her, she could have died, Jason.” Hands on his hips, giving his brother the “I know best by virtue of seniority” look and waiting for an answer, cigarette in one hand while the other gestured his own frustration.

“You drop goons like maggots on the daily and this is the one person you want to save?” Jason makes no effort to hide his scorn as he glides the microfiber cloth over the barrel of the gun he was cleaning. Your gun.

Quite honestly, Dick doesn’t really know yet why he threw you over his shoulder and back into the safety of the Bebop. Dick and Jason had been a team for years, never letting eyes pry into their partnership, carefully evading ISSP and the Syndicate alike. He had no idea who you were, but he didn’t want to admit to recklessness. 

“First of all, she’s not a maggot. Don’t be rude. She helped me escape, technically. Second, she’s got a fuckton to answer for when she wakes up.” Maybe turning the conversation toward the more interesting matter at hand would distract Jason from being mad at him, Dick reasons. “I don’t know about you, but aren’t you even the least bit interested in what’s on those rolls of film?”

“Nope,” Jason makes sure his voice sounds sufficiently clipped. “Not interested in being executed by ISSP firing squad. None of those pigs can aim, it’d take too many shots to kill me and I’d rather it be done in one go.”

“What’s done is done,” Dick says, allowing a note of contrition through his words. “But better we have her than ISSP, no? And how does she know dad?” Both brothers had combed through your belongings, and found your medical emergency contact card that stated, neatly in print: ‘In Case of Emergency, contact Bruce Wayne at ISSP.’

 Jason’s scowl deepens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he focuses on wiping the fingerprints from each gun and knife laid out on the coffee table in front of him, his back aching from the lumpy old loveseat. 

“Fuck if I know,” he says stonily, a white streak of hair falling over his eyes as he concentrated on running a cloth over the trigger. “All I do know is that I’m calling ‘not it’ on calling Dad about this.”

“Huh?” Dick’s stony face morphs into one of slight bemusement.

“You know we have to call him. And it ain’t gonna be me, Richard.”

Dick snorts, coming to sit down next to Jason and reassembling his own gun with practiced dexterity. 

“Do we know what she got dosed with? Is it contagious?” Dick’s mind flashes back to the moment Ivy blew a handful of dust into your face, the fluidity with which your body collapsed — your head would’ve split open if he hadn’t lunged to ensure your skull would hit his hand instead of the pavement. It wasn’t an active decision so much as a reflex. He hadn’t inhaled enough of that powder to feel anything other than a slight headache and dizziness, but he’d recovered in less than a few hours. You, on the other hand, had slept through the night and through breakfast. Dick had made sure to check in on you every so often, just to make sure you hadn’t died on them.

 “I took a look at the shit Ivy threw at her – it’s a neuromuscular blocker; paralyzes the victim for a few hours depending on dosage. But this one didn’t seem to be particularly high in concentration,” he pauses and looks pointedly at Dick, “So you can monitor her condition. She’ll need lots of fluids and food when she gets up,” he looks down at his watch, “Which should be soon.” 

Only a few seconds later did a blood curdling scream rip its way through the Bebop.

“LET. ME. OUT!” Dick’s eye twitches as your screeches repeat, gradually increasing in volume by the demand. Jason figures that his capacity for tolerating his brother’s antics knows no bounds. “ONCE I’M FREE I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS.” Your threat echoes down the hall, reverberating off of the metal walls of the spaceship. Your sonic assault continues for several minutes.

“Make sure you ask her where she got this little number,” Jason adds calmly, holding up your gun and looking at it with the tiniest hint of admiration. 

“What do you mean? I have to question her?” Dick seems to doubt himself for a moment, your wails disturbing the mundane peace of the Bebop’s living room, a profound intimidation keeping him from seeing the pretty girl in Jason’s lab.

“I’m not the one who brought her here,” Jason runs a hand through the white streak in his hair, “and honestly what I did hear during yesterday’s bust doesn’t make her sound like a walk in the park.” 

“Fair,” Dick doesn’t refute his brother. He turns the conversation toward more pressing matters. “She has to stop eventually, right?” he reasons while wiping down one of his switchblades before clipping it back into his left-hand pocket. It’s not like you could keep screaming forever, you’d lose your voice eventually. Haley hides her snout under a large paw and whines, ears cowered as your screams continue.

“I HAVE ENOUGH C4 IN MY SHIP TO FUCK UP THE NICE HANGOUT YOU GOT HERE!” Another ear splitting screech follows.

“Just—,” Jason closes his eyes, breathing through his nose and pointing angrily toward his quarters, where they had you resting on a bed in his lab. “Just go deal with it, I have enough of a headache as is.” Jason grits through his teeth, huffing through his ruffled feathers and silently cursing his luck as he stands up and disappears into his bedroom, leaving Dick to rummage through the fridge for something suitable to give someone who’d just been turbo-dosed by an anesthetic nerve agent. Haley continues to whine, desperate for an end to your distress.

Dick mindlessly wonders if Jason could possibly recreate it in his lab on the second floor of the Bebop; it’d come in handy. Then they wouldn’t have to expend so much energy chasing after violent goons with bounties on their heads and arsenals that only the worst kinds of people possessed.

☄. *. ⋆

You crouch into a defensive position on your bed the second you hear the hydraulics of the steel door slide open, the hoarse scream dying in your throat. 

“Quiet, please!” a man’s voice breeches the entrance before his form, deep, and friendly,  “You’re scaring Haley.” The handsome guy who had intruded on your bust strolled into the room, his boots colliding with the steel floor and doing nothing to calm your nerves. You scoped him, trying to take note of everything, anything you could use to your advantage. You had to escape. 

“What the fuck am I doing here? Uncuff me.” Your voice was vicious under its hoarse strain. As threatening as you could muster in your weakened state.

In his hands was a tray lined with a sandwich, an apple, and a glass of water. No metal utensils for you to grab and use. 

The man was muscular, much larger than you, but you think you could last long enough in a fight with him to escape; especially if you could get your hands on that scalpel. You’d just have to dodge him, dodge every attack until he tired himself out. You clocked the knife in the pocket of his pants, holster under his jacket. 

“Can’t do that just yet, sweetheart,” he flashes you an apologetic smile, placing the tray on your night stand. You look at the food and drink apprehensively, eyes flitting back and forth across the room. “It’s not poisoned,” the guy says gently, lifting the glass and waterfalling a sip into his own mouth. 

You look up at him, watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows, readying yourself to smash his nose in if he comes any closer.

“Let. Me. Go.” You demand again, slower. Hoping to God you sounded menacing enough that he’d think at least twice before touching you.

You keep conducting your desperate, pointless search, head swiping back and forth as you look around as you try to find yourself a weapon - maybe if you broke the ceramic lamp in a really specific way? The glass of water? 

“I wouldn’t,” the man says again, amused. You whip your gaze toward him again.

“Why am I here? What happened to me?” Oh god, you were going to hurl. A few breaths in. A few breaths out. Breathe, you reminded yourself. An anxious weight pulls under your chest.

“You’re safe. You’re on the Bebop. We took you here after you got dosed with a paralyzing agent by Poison Ivy.” 

You knew better than to trust a good-looking man who assured your safety. 

“Why didn’t you take me to a hospital? Are you perverts? Oh my god, I’m gonna be murdered by perverts,” you wail, near hysterics.

“What? No! You just got dosed with a strong anesthetic — you’ll recover,” he explains. “Probably will be groggy and sore.” He sounded patient, confident in his ability to handle himself. He didn’t seem threatened by you at all as he recounted the events of the past 36 hours to you.  “It was hardly acceptable to bring you into a hospital, I figured you wouldn’t want people to find out about your contraband.” He flashes a winning smile at you, seemingly proud of himself for thinking that far ahead. 

You just stare. Stone still. 

Fuck, were they going to rat you out? Slit your throat and take the rolls of film for themselves? It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried.

You let yourself slowly pick up the glass of water, eyes never leaving him as you sip, desperate to quench the dry burn in your throat. The man stood there the whole time, just looking at you with such patience that it made you want to start screaming again. After a beat, you ask:

“If you’re not a pervert, then why am I chained up here?” You could tell he was ISSP, or maybe former ISSP, by the way he fired a gun, the way he shifted his weight before pulling the trigger. You remember telling yourself to take note of that as the both of you tried to escape from the basement of C’est La Vie. Maybe you could persuade him to call Bruce to vouch for you.

“I mean, we couldn’t exactly let you loose once we treated you, could we? You had some interesting items in your possession that I’m sure you’d rather stay out of the wrong hands.” 

You could tell he wanted more information, so you kept your mouth shut, trying to think of ways to keep his mind off of the illegal trove caught under your possession.

“What did you say your name was, again?” you start, sipping slowly at your water and calculating your chances of getting out of here alive.  

“I’m hurt you don’t remember, baby,” he runs a hand through his hair, kind of scratching the back of his scalp, a sad excuse for a smolder shot your way.

You sort of sniff, lip curling in menace instead of a response.

“Anyway, my name is Dick,” he continues. “Yours?”

“You took my wallet, you know who I am. Now let me fucking go.”

You have a hard time containing your rage when his grin just grows.

“I’ll let you go once you’ve answered a few questions,” Dick offers.

“Fine, what?” You practically snarl at him, secretly glad for more time to search for a weapon. Keep him talking. 

“Well, first, why does such a pretty girl carry around her death warrant? Second, I lost a pretty penny because you stuck your nose in my business. Third—” He’s cut off as another pair of boots approach your direction. Your head whips toward the door when you hear its telltale hydraulic breath of air. A burlier, taller man with a streak of bright white hair against black, stalks into the room, your gun in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. He couldn’t have been much older than the present company, grey mutt excluded.

“Third,” the man finishes for Dick, “how do you know our father?” He tosses what you recognize to be your emergency contact card you thought you’d hidden deep in your wallet. “Hi, I’m Jason,” the stranger waves to you, coming to tower over Dick.

“You’re Bruce's sons?” Your eyes flit between the two brothers, the way you’re giggling is a little off-putting to them given your state. Your ankle cuff clangs as your body wracks in fitful laughter. “I’d have gone with ‘Richard,’ by the way,” you shoot at Dick, wiping a mirthful tear from the corner of your eye.

“What's so funny?” Dick’s eyebrows furrow, lip pouting though you don’t think he meant to.

“Answer the damn question, girlie,” Jason commands, a little more threatening than his brother, though you don’t think he really means it.

“Thought you’d be quicker on your feet is all, considering you’re the spawn of Bruce Wayne.” You have a hard time getting the words out amidst your giggle fest. Both men look at you like they couldn’t quite process what was happening. 

“Look, I’m not the one chained to a bed with no hope of escaping. Now, how do you know Bruce?" Jason demands again. 

“He’s my handler,” you shrug, struggling to regulate your breath. Slowly, drawing out the action as much as possible, you sip from the glass Dick had sent next to you.

“What do you mean ‘handler’?” The agitation tightens around Jason’s eyes, and you decide it’s best to take him seriously. You heave a sigh, figuring that the only way you could possibly get out of this situation is to reveal more about yourself. Just enough to get out of the situation, but no more. Your situation was tenuous, and it was impossible to ignore the adrenaline pumping through you with each beat of the heart; steady thunder within a body sore and in need of recuperation. 

“Look, I’d rather not get into it. Quite frankly I’m not allowed to. Just call him yourself, tell him my name — he’ll vouch,” you offer. At least you’d hope he’ll vouch; this was a unique situation. “You can let me get back to my business and you can get back to yours.”

“What makes you think that we’d trust someone associated with ISSP?” Jason questions again. 

“He’s ISSP,” you nod toward Dick, whose eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I can tell by the way you shoot a gun — all technique, no raw intuition.”

Dick’s eyes narrow; at once struck by the acuity of your attentiveness and simultaneously displeased at the critique.

“What do you mean, ‘no raw intuition’?” he asks, sour note reverberating off of the metal walls of the room.

“You’re just…” you eye him up and down, this time taking a moment to process his 

“Oh, come on, spit it out,” Dick crosses his arms.

“...stiff.”

You just leave it at that, snooty and shrugging as if you hadn’t wounded Dick’s pride. 

Jason grunts in frustration.

“Fucking Christ, focus, Richard.” 

“Yeah Richard,” you mock Dick, figuring you’d better get on the good side of the larger one; he’d be harder to fight off. Jason’s demeanor loosens just a tad, seemingly amused  as he looks between the two of you with a raised eyebrow. You think that despite being adoptive brothers, they looked strikingly alike standing next to each other.

Truth be told, you had a feeling that Dick’s devil-may-care affability was a carefully constructed façade, the way the hairs on the back of your neck raised when you first met him on that sidewalk with the three-legged mutt. It was a gut feeling confirmed when the two of you laid eyes on each other under C’est La Vie. And ever since, your nerves had been alight with a sense of foreboding — not end-all-be-all foreboding, but a feeling that you were hurling toward something inevitable. And no matter how much you tried to quash it down, it kept fighting its way to the surface. 

“Call Wayne, I won’t say anything else until you do.” Your tone is resolute.

“Alright,” Dick agrees smoothly, “We’ll call him right now.” He turns toward Jason and nods a silent command at him, and Jason, sticking his tongue out at his brother in annoyance, walks over to the two giant computer screens taking up the space of one wall. You hear a few clicks of a keyboard, before a female AI stilted voice calls out:

“Calling: Bruce Wayne, Chief Director, Inter-Solar System Police.”

Silence, save for the dial tone and Haley panting. All eyes were glued to one of the gigantic screens, waiting for an answer that you prayed would get you out of this situation. No weapon in sight, no way out.

“Dick, Jason — what’s going on?”

Bruce Wayne is a formidable figure, imposing in size, but ever so polite. You hated his guts. 

No one has uttered a peep.

“What’s going on?” He repeats his question with the authority befitting his rank, eyebrows arched just the slightest bit when his eyes land on you.

“Yeah, nice to see you too, Bruce,” Jason mumbles to his adoptive father, stone cold. 

“Bruce, hi — sorry we haven’t called in a minute,” Dick starts off… pausing to figure out how he wants his words to come out.

“Well, lads,” you sneer, looking between the brothers, “which one of you geniuses wants to explain to Daddy what happened?” You try to keep yourself calm, stop the panic just as it tries to force its way to your tongue.

Jason raises his palms, shrugging like his job was done and he was off the clock. He makes his way to the exit, a childish smile on his face as he taunts his elder brother. “You can deal with this one, Richard.” 

“I am going to ask you one more time,” the man on the screen says patiently over the metal of Jason’s boots clanking on the floor. Too cool and ready to strike, he says with finality, “I am not going to ask you a third time. What’s going on?”

Would he admit he knows me? Or would he deny association? You felt your cheeks flush with an anxious anticipation.

“You tell me, Bruce,” Dick crosses his arms in a defensive stance, “She has an ID that lists you as an emergency contact. Says she’s your handler and that you’ll vouch for her.”

Bruce just glowers in thought, eyebrows furrowing expressively — a habit that clearly transcend genetic inheritance. You wait, nerves pounding in your skull, the suspense of meeting your end dangling right in front of your nose. Too much time passes before he speaks. 

“Dick,” Bruce sighs, tone much more genuine and somber, “She’s doing work for ISSP.”

Dick freezes, and even in the dim glow of the fluorescence, you see the stiffness that contours his silhouette.

“What work?” Dick barks, causing you to jump.

“That’s classified, son.” 

“What fucking work, Bruce?” He moves closer to the screen, gripping the computer in both of his hands, a stoic panic radiating from his shadow, plunging you even deeper into the hopelessness of your situation. You keep your mouth shut, watching the scene play out.

“Classified. I’m not even supposed to acknowledge her existence.” You couldn’t believe your eyes, but the Big Scary Pig might actually be speaking earnestly in the three years that you’ve known him. “But it’s not what you’re thinking,” Bruce adds, as if it was a secret between the two of them.

Dick just stands there, stone still. You were facing his back, but you didn’t need to see his face to feel the tension in the air.

Finally, he just scoffs at his father, shaking his head as if trying to clear unwanted thoughts flooding into his brain. You knew what that felt like.

“Fine. She says you can vouch for her — can you?” Dick turns back to you, giving you a sardonic, hard look before turning back to his father, the harshness in his features still apparent as he returns Bruce’s severe glower.

“She’s my responsibility, yes. You can trust her,” Bruce confirms in a measured tone, clearly not wanting to upset his son. Despite the viciousness of your hatred toward Bruce, your heart was going to jump out of your throat from relief. 

“See? Now let me go, lunkhead,” you pipe up loudly. Your ankle was bruised underneath the metal of the cuff: a result of your attempts at escaping.

Dick just lifts one pointer finger, and you falter. “Not quite yet,” he says.

“But — “ you start protesting, only for him to cut you off.

“What about the rolls of film she’s carrying on her?” Dick asks bluntly, letting annoyance seep into his tone as he stares down his father. You freeze.

“She is authorized by ISSP for possession of the film. You need to let her go. Do not interfere with her mission. I cannot say anything else.”

Dick shakes his head, annoyance having grown into a simmering anger.

“If she’s ISSP, why is she out bounty hunting?”

Bruce gives another sigh of frustration, like he was dealing with a petulant child.

“She is not an agent. She is under a classified contract. Stop asking any more questions, Dick.” 

“They don’t pay me,” you add, a falsely serene stroke of venom lacing your words. “A girl’s gotta survive somehow,” you shrug when Dick swings around to look at you in disbelief.

“Her mission is not on record. I need your discretion, son.”

Being called “son” only seemed to enrage him.

“Gotta give me something in return, old man,” Dick attempts to bargain.

“Her interactions with Jason will be off record. Jason will have immunity,” Bruce offers, his figure looming on the screen, intimidating to nearly everyone he encounters. Nearly. “That’s all I will give you.”

“Fine.” Dick moves a finger to hover over the keyboard.

“Oh, and, son?” Bruce calls his son to a pause with a dead serious demeanor.

“Hm?” Dick looks like he’s about ready to clobber his father all the way to Pluto, about to hit the disconnect button.

“If for some reason this conversation ever comes to public light, I will deny it ever happened.” The line goes dead before his finger could smash the “end call” button, plunging the room into a dimmer tension than before.

“Yeah, whatever. See ya, old man.”

☄. *. ⋆

“Oh, thank god.”

An almost sensuous sigh of relief escapes you breathlessly the second Dick unlocks the cuff around your ankle. You massage the ache, bruises already getting nasty and puce on your skin. Dick plants himself at the end of your bed, twirling the cuffs in his hands, deep contemplation seeming to have taken over his attention.

“Keys.” Your hand is out, palm up in petulant demand. The handsome man sitting at the end of your bed, makes no move to go and fulfill your command. Instead, he just looks at you, takes you in under the scrutiny of his deep blues. That foreign exhilaration in your nerves light aflame again, and you don’t know what to make of it.

“Keys and the rest of my shit. Now.” You are getting impatient. Desperate to get the fuck away from here and back to your own business. Maybe check yourself into a motel and get a hot shower. You could splurge. A treat for having endured this fucking episode from hell.

“Well, you see,” Dick laughs, more nervousness pouring into his cheeks the more he grasped the gravity of the situation at hand. “You can stay here until you’ve recuperated…”

“Where are my keys, Dick?”

“It got kinda damaged… when we were chasing Poison Ivy…” He’s ready to flinch in defensiveness, afraid you’d deal him the same hand you dealt the goon back at C’est La Vie.

“No, my baby!” you wail, attempting to get up from the bed. No can do; you collapse back down on the bed, struggling to sit as your vision blurs and a dizziness takes over.

“Woah, take it easy.” You feel a pair of hands ease you back to rest in a comfortable position. Warm, large hands. “You can’t be going anywhere in this state, anyway. It’s gonna take a minute to fix your baby given the damage. Time and a hell of a lot of Woolongs.”

You wanted to cry. God, you were going to cry. Cry and humiliate yourself even further in front of these two.

“How much money?” Do. Not. Fucking. Cry. You command yourself internally, silent prayer that things wouldn’t get worse.

“You don’t have enough. We checked through your bank statements.” 

You just let out a wail, face drooping into your palms. 

Dick sits there, awkwardly bringing the plate with the sandwich and apple closer to you, placing it gingerly on the bed in front of you.

“Finish your food.” His request is so soft, as if he was fearful of your next reaction. “I’ll be back with your stuff and I’ll show you around. Come on, Haley Time for a walk.” 

You don’t let a tear fall, but you do follow Dick’s instructions, vision only focusing when you see him exit the room, his trusted dog hobbling after him.

☄. *. ⋆

After he returns your possessions — inspected by you, with everything intact — and shows you to the guest quarters of the Bebop, Dick slumps onto his familiar lumpy couch, an exhale of exhaustion sinking into his bones as he flicks open his lighter. He squares his shoulders and gets ready to explain the situation to Jason, who was perched over a portable microscope and labeling samples from the shit Ivy had used to incapacitate you. Dozens of slides neatly lined the coffee table. Too organized. Meaning Dick was in for a conversation with an agitated former drug lord. Fucking fantastic.

“We need to let her stay for a bit, to rest up,” Dick starts with the least offensive topic first.

“Obviously.” Jason’s voice is clipped, like he was biting his tongue, not wanting to tear  Dick a new asshole until he heard the whole story. “What else?

“She’s working on something for Bruce.” Dick takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales before he continues. “Off the books.” 

“Are you fucking me? She’s ISSP?”

“Keep a lid on it, she won’t report you. You have immunity.” Another drag before he whistles for Haley. “And she’s not an agent. Contracted hire.”

“For what?” “Old man wouldn’t say. Classified. But he vouches for her. Says we can trust her,” Dick muses over this influx of new information, brain processing with heightened clarity with every hit of nicotine hitting his lungs. Jason grumbles, the same bemused expression gracing his rugged features as he scrutinizes his brother.

“What else? Spit it out, Dick.”

“We need to convince her to stay,” Dick’s request pushes through the plume of secondhand smoke. Haley’s wagging her tail next to the couch, ready to appease each and every direction Dick threw at her to the best of her ability. “Grab me a Pippu, girl, go on!” 

Jason carefully sets down the slide he was labeling, then turns off his microscope light before he addresses his brother with measured impatience.

“And why the fuck would we want ISSP anywhere near us? I thought we had an agreement.” 

Dick just shrugs, unable to find more complex words to articulate his compulsions.

“She knows something our father doesn’t want us to know.” Dick just shrugs, unable to find more complex words to articulate his compulsions. “Plus, she needs a place to stay before she can pay for the repairs on her cute little ship, if we’re gonna be practical about it.”

Jason considers the whole damned situation, cursing Dick under his breath. Always disturbing their blissful Bebop peace. Nearly three years since they’d teamed up. Not a day goes by where Jason wasn’t grateful for his partnership with Dick, but fuck if they hadn’t gotten into some rotten situations because his older brother couldn’t resist a pretty face.

“You said you wanted to fix up a ship, learn how to reconstruct the newer models. Fix up hers. It’s rumored to be quite faaast.” Dick dangles that last part mockingly in front of Jason, knowing that his younger brother couldn’t avoid a fast number like the one you owned.With resignation, the white streaks in his hair follow his exasperatingly slow shakes of his head, annoyed with himself because he knew that Dick’s decision would be immovable.

“I’m trusting you on this. She better not try anything when she’s here or I’m dropping you both off on Pluto.”

Dick feigns sarcastic horror at the threat, silently relieved. Not a day went by where Dick didn’t thank his lucky stars for his brother. Haley comes back with a can of soda between her rather menacing teeth, placing it next to Dick’s leg on the couch; cool condensation of the metal almost seeping through his pants and onto skin. He gives his dog an appreciative scratch behind the ears, and she settles her head on her front paw, readying herself for a snooze.

Meanwhile, under the steaming beat of water against your skull, you rub your skin harshly. Red and raw all over, tears indistinguishable from the scald of the shower, you let yourself drown in self-pity, just for the duration of the shower. You think about your situation, chained to ISSP as a disposable assassin, doing their dirty work for them, leaving their hands scott free. And for fucking what? The question is one you’ve struggled to answer since Bruce had pulled you out from one prison and into another. Bruce had what you wanted. The only purpose you could latch onto, held as a bargaining chip by the fucking cops. So long as you completed this mission, he’d give you what you’re looking for.  You think about stupid things you’ve read in books, like transience, the ephemeral. Dreams — you had a fixation. The in-betweenness of your life, everything and everyone simply a pathway to the next stop, but what you’re looking for is never there. 

It’s the same feeling you’d felt since you were defrosted, taken in by Deathstroke. The despair that could wrench right at the heart because of avoided inevitabilities. Seeing two lovers who were destined never to touch — that was how you described this particular sadness. 

By the time you’d emerged from the steam, cheeks plump and red, reality started seeping back in, demanding that you move, continue on with the necessary motions. Immediately, a distraction lays down in front of you, like a black cat begging you to halt in your path, give it a little scratch on the chin.

“GRAYSON!” You use your revived strength to inject as bloodcurdling a scream as you could into the night. “RICHARD DICKLESS GRAYSON. REPORT TO MY QUARTERS!!!”

“You know there’s an intercom system in every room, babe.” You hear his voice over through the speakers in the sealing. “I’ll be there in a second.”

You’d have to admonish him for the pet names.

He calls your name, and it’s the first time you really register his voice. It sends a shiver to your nerves, right to the edge of your fingertips.

“I need a towel.”

“You can have one if you let me sneak a peek at the goods, pretty girl.”

“I’m not in the mood, Grayson,” you warn him. All you wanted to do was sleep for a few days. Reset your body. He doesn’t wither under your stare, despite your expectations.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he just offers a crooked smirk.

“You’re a pervert. I knew it.” 

Dick just chuckles, all boyish charm as fetches your towel. He swears he catches the quickest flash of red ink on the smooth skin of your back before you slam the door in his face.

༄˖°.☕️.ೃ࿔📚*:･ᝰ.📓🗒ˎˊ˗

two years earlier

An unwelcome rapping of knuckles on your apartment door wrenches you from a fitful sleep. As if the storm and thunder outside weren’t enough, frantic calls of your name, a few variations of “please, baby, I know you can hear me,” and the fear of disturbing your neighbors roused you from your bed, forcing you to face someone and something you’d been avoiding for weeks on end. 

You weren’t ready for it. For the immediate ache of it to crush you into nothing. You knew what heartbreak was. You’d seen it in your mother’s eyes when she looked at your father. You had read it in many a novel; pretty girls all graceful and dainty in their torment, swallowed restraint and soft tears when the male protagonist betrays them. Fuck, you’d even thought that you had felt heartbreak before this. But this — this quiet agony of knowing what you wanted and not being good enough to have it, this feeling — you don’t think it could be seen. Or heard. There was no way of knowing it would be like this. You think that real heartbreak festers from an existing rot in you. So you grip the cold metal of the door handle, knuckles pronounced with the exertion of your grip: you have no choice but to face it.

Yoongi stands there, all disheveled and bleary. The black circles under his eyes pronounced tug at your heartstrings, both desire and rancor igniting within. His face softens when he lands his sight on you, jaw previously clenched in tension now dissolved into a dejection that you wanted so badly to wipe from him. You wanted to reach out, cup your palm against the warmth of his face, pull him into bed with you just like you had done in the nights before. But you stand there, nearly as torn as Yoongi. Not daring to move. 

He seems to be swallowing every word that sprang to his mind. And so you pick up the slack for him.

“I have nothing to say to you.” You’re careful to make sure your statement is patient, measured. The magnitude of rage befitting the situation hadn’t taken its time meandering out of your sleepiness and sorrow. Not quite yet.

“You haven’t — my calls, my texts… please, let me explain.” His plea is practically choked, and you have troubling placing a finger on why that bothers you so much. Why should he be the one begging? What was he begging for? 

He’d gotten what he wanted. 

“I figured that your girlfriend wouldn’t want you to be speaking with me,” you snap. 

“I—” he starts and stops, stuttering through his plea, “I’m so sorry, baby. Please, you have to know—“

“You have no right to call me that,” you interrupt him, the malevolence pouring itself into your disposition. 

“I know I fucked up, and I know I don’t deserve to be here, but please, let me explain,” he resumes begging.

“You have one minute.”

Yoongi sighs and murmurs your name like it's his own term of endearment, only meant for him to use, only meant for you to hear. You keep your eyes focused on his earring, glinting in the foyer lamp’s warm glow.

“One minute.” 

“Look, I’m sorry, YN. I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s clutching at the doorframe, stepping in a little too close to you. You keep staring at that fucking earring as it catches the light.

“What for? For lying to me? Or for making me the other woman?” You scoff, hardly able to stand for the absurdity of the situation. “I’m not interested in giving you whatever absolution you need to feel better about what you did.” 

“I’m sorry for hurting you.” But the sincerity in his voice ignites the fury. You feel the floodgates creak open, so slowly that only a single tear traces its way down your face. 

Just let him say whatever he wants to say, and then shut the door. Shut it out.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Yoongi repeats after you, confused. You tighten your grip on the doorknob, ready to slam it and go back to bed. Burrow yourself in your hurt until you could emerge anew.

“You shouldn’t be here. You should be with your girl, Yoongi. It’s late and this is inappropriate.” You try to sneer at him, so much sadness in your heart that you’re sure that it was written all over your face. Eyes never tearing away from the earring, you start to close your apartment door.

But Yoongi, goddamn him, he wouldn’t let you close the door, hand coming out to block you.

“Please, YN, I don’t want her,” he says, this time with so much conviction that your breath becomes shallow, just like his. Then he says something absolutely unforgivable.

“I want you.”

Your stare contorts into horror. 

For a moment, you admitted to yourself that you loved him. You loved him with every aching thought in your mind; every exhausted bone in your body ready to break. And for just that one moment, it didn’t even matter to you that he didn’t love you back.

“You know that’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me?” Your whisper comes out broken, and you let yourself focus on his lips, trembling as you avoid looking him in the eyes.

“It’s you,” he swears so solemnly that you almost give in and believe him. “It’s always been you,” he swears again and again and again. 

You knew what you had to do — rip off the bandage, let your wound breathe fresh air before it could heal properly. He’ll heal from this, too. 

“And what do you expect me to do about that?” you sigh, as much anger as you could muster, threatening to drain your resolve early in the game. “You want to be with me?” You mock him. You want to be cruel. Just as cruel as he treated you.

“Please, baby, just listen —”

“No, I’m done listening to you!” You’re desperate for him to leave, unable to keep your chest from stuttering with unreleased sobs. You force yourself to focus on the practicality of the situation — something that you could control.

“I didn’t know what I wanted and I fucked up, okay? Baby, I — I fucked up — so badly.” He’s panicking now.

You couldn’t take the pleading anymore, the earnestness of him completely blindsiding you. All you were thinking about was getting out of this situation as soon as possible.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you issue your command with resolve, “We will be coworkers. No one needs to know we dated. You will never speak to me again outside of work. And we will not acknowledge that this,” you eye him up and down with disgust, conjured from your last shred of dignity, “ever happened.”

Then you shut the door in his face, careful not to sob until you were deep under your covers. Your cat Shooky parked himself atop your pillow, purring and licking his asshole as you wept. 

༄˖°.☕️.ೃ࿔📚*:･ᝰ.📓🗒ˎˊ˗

present day

✎

“Alright, settle down, please,” you attempt to gently persuade your junior English class to 

stop chattering. The period after lunch was always the worst, the kids hyped up on unhealthy food provided by the cafeteria or skipping lunch entirely. You had pointed to a cabinet when you were giving Jungkook a rundown of the classroom space;

“Most of the teachers here carry extra snacks and food in their classrooms. There’s sandwiches that are free for the taking in that refrigerator.” Jungkook makes sure to note this information down in his notepad, of course.

“The period after lunch needs to be calming for everyone, so I try to make it as quiet as possible for them,” you had explained to your new TA over lunch at the 24/7 diner across the street from campus.

“It’s time for silent reading. I’ve asked everyone to have a book with you every day for the rest of the semester. It’s time to pull those out.” You smile, waiting for the shuffle and scuffle of canvas backpacks and metal zippers to subside before continuing, “But before we start, this is Mr. Jungkook — he will be with us as my teaching assistant for the rest of the semester. Please welcome him into our classroom with the manners and respect we agreed upon at the beginning of the semester when you all signed your syllabus.”

“Capische?” you look at them sharply, not daring to question your fortune for giving you a group of remedial students who weren’t going to fight you every step of the way toward graduation. Seemingly.

You hear the chorus of grumbles, the “Miss LN, you’re so lame,” the “Capsiches” — music to your ears. Jungkook echoes you with a loud, enthusiastic “Capische” of his own, evidently still amused even though he’d seen you do this four times by now.

“Silent reading time for the next half hour. If you don’t have a book with you, you may take one from the library. Make sure to sign it out with Mr. Jungkook, he’s going to be in charge of monitoring the library for the semester.” Jungkook salutes you, military-style and turns to introduce himself for the fifth time that day, this time to a different class of remedial students. 

Funny kid, that one, you think to yourself.

You take this time to relax at your desk, regrouping with a cup of afternoon ginger tea. You spend the next twenty minutes running your eyes over the words of your book, the quiet hum of classical music not doing its job today. You absorb none of the words on the page. You stare at the paper cup that Jungkook brought you that morning, untouched in a corner on your desk. 

You sputter into a fit when the thunderous sound of a poorly-trained high school band rudely disturbs your tranquil classroom.

Jungkook and your students whip their heads toward you, eyes wide at the sudden intrusion. Another day, another disturbance — you resign to the chaos of your daily bickering with a soft sigh. 

“Keep an eye on them,” you instruct while nodding at Jungkook, and then you turn to give your students a stern command, “Behave, please.” 

WIth a huff, you draw your cardigan around you as if it were armor and storm out of the classroom, loafers squeaking on the linoleum and disappearing into the hallway. If he listened very carefully, Jungkook could hear you whispering colorful death threats to a “Min Yoongi” under your breath.

“They’re gonna get married, one day,” one of your students breaks the pause after you disappear from the room, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mark my words,” she takes her pen and points at each of the girls sitting at her table, punctuating every word with a jab. Her tablemate calmly placed a bookmark in her novel and folded her hands politely, even though her tone was anything but.

“Please, have you ever seen them interact?” she scoffs at Gossip Girl #1, “They get along like Vice Principal Kim and age-appropriate neckties.” Jungkook diligently scribbles down that little tidbit before he resumes his duties.

“Quiet down, ” he commands tersely, “Back to your reading, please.” Gossip Girl #2 raises her eyebrows at him, decides against open defiance, and cracks open her novel again. Jungkook sits up a bit straighter, trying to look authoritative in the same way that you did, even if he was scared shitless of teenage girls. 

You’re gone for about five minutes before the clanging band stops, prompted by your fists hammering on Yoongi’s door and replaced by a shouting match that reverberates through the brick walls. Your voice, and another masculine one sparred with each other, flicking bitter jabs in a practiced dance. Though the words were muffled and unintelligible, Jungkook could make out the restraint in your voice. The sheer force it takes for you to keep yourself from calling Yoongi a nastier name shook the cement foundation of the building. He can’t help but cringe in sympathy for the person on the receiving end of your ire, anyway. 

Gossip Girl #1 starts up again, having gauged that the new TA was too interested in the social dynamics of the moment to really care that she was talking during silent reading time.

“See? My mom and dad talk like that and they still love each other,” she says to her friend haughtily, flipping a page in her book.

“You parents are divorced,” Gossip Girl #3 interjects with her own input.

“Quiet down, I wanna hear what they're saying,” Gossip Girl #2 commands. Jungkook is thankful for her. 

At this point, the band “music” resumes, adding to the cacophony of someone pounding their fist on wood — a door, Jungkook reckons. 

“MIN YOONGI YOU ARE GOING TO REGRET THE DAY YOU WERE EVER BORN.” Your threat is followed by a few stoops, the telltale steak of your loafers on the linoleum getting louder as you approach your classroom from across the hall. 

Everyone in the room, including your new teaching assistant hurriedly settles back into corrected postures, heads bowed down in feigned focus, as if they’d been reading this entire time and not listening to you pound your fist against Yoongi’s locked classroom door.

Jungkook sees Gossip Girl #1 hand Gossip Girl #2 a $50 bill.

Working here was going to be fun. 

✎

As you and Jungkook pack up your belongings promptly at 4:00 pm, you’re thinking of how to word your complaint to your boss. According to the rules of engagement, Jin never said you couldn’t lodge a grievance about Yoongi, right? Maybe you could make a case for moving your classroom to a nicer building akin to the quality reserved for the STEM departments. The rest of the day had been irritatingly slow, soundtracked by the pounding of Yoongi’s band students rehearsing straight across the hall. Rehearsing for the circus, as far as you were concerned. You were going to demand Seokjin figure out a way to find the music department a proper building with the necessary equipment. Preferably in a building all the way on the other end of campus.

Several raps of the knuckle on your door startles you out of your train of thought. To your irritation, Yoongi is standing under the doorframe, clad in an outfit that did little to instill your confidence in his grasp on professionalism. Black dress shirt untucked, too many buttons left undone, wrinkly sleeves rolled up… frumpy. Infuriatingly frumpy.

“Come to beat my last nerve to death?” You don’t bother to keep looking at the intruder as you shove the last of your grading into your work bag.

“Based on your reaction it seems that I accomplished that task hours ago. You have the constitution of a delicate flower.” 

“Not taking the bait.”

“A dandelion weed.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

“Nerves of a dandelion puff.” 

“Why are you here?” you spit, attending to the last few chairs you’re stacking up to make room for the custodial staff’s nightly sweep. 

“As luck would have it, for you at least —” He freezes when you finally look over to him, and it’s nearly murderous, the glare you shoot his way. Though the two of you barely notice, Jungkook was sitting at his desk watching the tête à tête unfold in your near-empty classroom, his head oscillating back and forth as if a tennis match were playing out right in front of him.

“Kidding — ” Yoongi clears his throat and tries again. “As I was saying. I have come to extend an olive branch.”

That’s what gets your attention. You eye him up and down, lip curled in a near snarl of morbid curiosity. No murder in your expression this time, but your disposition is still hostile. He keeps yammering when you decide to keep silent for a beat, his tongue poking out to lick his lips. He’s… nervous.

Your eyes travel over Yoongi’s figure in front of you. Aside from the unkempt state of his clothes, you notice that earring dangling, a few rings on his hands, hands weathered by years passing over piano keys and calloused by guitar strings. In one hand, his fingers clutched at a brown paper bag with an insignia you recognized — a pastry bag from your favorite bakery near your apartment. 

“Why?” Your question is slow, suspicious. 

Before he answers, Yoongi extends the pastry bag to you when he catches you staring at it — his peace offering.

“Because we should stop going at each other’s throats before we burn the school down,” he says bluntly. When you silently respond only with the raise of your eyebrow, he continues to speak, excessively fast and quick to tug at the tension in your skull. “It’s a cinnamon bun,” he waves the pastry bag out for you to take, sheepishness coloring his cheeks.

He’s remembered, still remembers and your heart wants to claw itself out of your chest so you could crawl inside it and disappear. You also remembered.

You remember the time it took. The sheer force of will it took for you to walk away from Yoongi the first time, and you’d been doing it ever since. You remember how many nights you had dragged yourself through the muck of crying over a man you couldn’t (shouldn’t) have. You were weak. A helplessness that festered like an unattended wound, never seemingly healing on its own until one day, you woke up and didn’t feel anything at all. At first, you weren’t sure which was worse — the hurt or the numbness. Looking at the cinnamon bun within Yoongi’s grasp, you decide that today, that it’s the hurt.

So you swallow it, the hurt: and you make sure that your voice is clear in its resounding determination. You can’t make yourself look into his eyes, afraid that the brightness of them would sabotage your resolve; so you stare at

“No.”

“No? What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I said ‘no’. What are you, deaf now?” You turn the conversation toward a more familiar path, one away from whatever sordid reconciliation Yoongi had in mind.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a temper?” he breathes out coolly, his frustration bare as stone, earring still catching the fluorescence despite his stiffness.

“Many a shrink. Now are you done? I have a bus to catch.” You strap your work bag over your shoulder, nodding at Jungkook as you head for the door.

“If you’re going to be stubborn, then at least be stubborn and productive. How about we meet this weekend and go over plans for the Autumn Festival?” He places the cinnamon bun pastry bag on your desk, attempting a smile that ends up coming out as a grimace. 

You had been dreading this. After Seokjin had ordered the two of you to head the Autumn Festival, to get along with each other as coworkers, you had done your best to push it to the back of your mind until it was absolutely necessary to address the matter. On some level you knew that this asinine assignment would test your determination to keep Yoongi out and as far away from you as possible. But despite this, your job meant more to you than some workplace rivalry, and you weren’t particularly interested in jeopardizing your career.

“Fine. But we’ll meet Monday after school, faculty lounge. My weekend is booked,” you answer, no emotion in your response.

Yoongi nods at you, then at the cinnamon bun on your desk, apprehensive but pleased.

“Eat it before it gets cold,” he says awkwardly before he leaves, only acknowledging Jungkook with a curt bow of his head before he disappears into the hallway.

“Jungkook, you want a cinnamon bun?” you offer to your intern, loud enough that you hoped Yoongi could still hear you.

“Is there an ancient generational feud between your two families?” Jungkook, picks at the pastry bag as he asks you. You fall in sync with each other’s steps as the both of you make your way out of the building: you to the bus stop, him toward his car in the parking lot. 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just — ” Jungkook hesitates, shoving a mouthful of pastry into his gullet. You let him chew, giving him a chance to rethink encroaching on your privacy. Then he decides to come out with it. “You really seem to dislike Yoongi.” You arch an eyebrow, unwilling to involve a coworker in your personal life. 

“It’s really none of your business,” you warn him in a clipped tone.

“Right, sorry.” You look over at him and he looks genuinely scared. So you soften. “You have crumbs on your face,” you offer, your edge dulled by his obvious discomfort as he swipes at his face apologetically. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you, that was a perfectly reasonable question,” you apologize to the poor kid. “I’d just rather not talk about it.” 

Jungkook looks at you sheepishly, the two of you falling into step. 

“Still, I’m sorry if I hit a sensitive spot,” he offers with sincerity, genuinely worried that he’d hurt you in some way. “As an apology, how about I buy you the first drink on Teachers’ Night on Thursday?”

Teachers’ Nights were the first Thursday of every month at a dive bar downtown — first drink free for teachers, half-priced cocktails the rest of the night. Most of the faculty and staff went, but you had yet to set foot in the bar in the past five years you’d worked at Bangtan High.

“Thanks but no thanks kid,” you shrug, “Seriously though, don’t feel bad or like you need to repay me.”

“Can I give you a ride anywhere, then?” God, this kid was too earnest for his own good. Or maybe he’s just a professional kiss-ass.

“No, don’t worry about it,” you nod at him as you part ways, “I’ll see you on Monday, have a good weekend!”

You spend your train ride home, a commute that you usually loved, thinking about something you’d rather avoid. What were you supposed to say? ‘No, there’s no ancestral feud, he’s just a cheater and I’m a fool’?

It was hard enough, having to face him in school every day. A daily spat, misfortune, or mishap waiting for you because of Yoongi. This little rivalry between you two — pranks, icy insults, harmless nagging — was easier than looking at him and letting him see that you still thought about him. You didn’t want anyone else knowing what had happened between the two of you, didn’t need the extra attention or gossip as you tried to build a meaningful career.

Anyway, it made you feel disappointed in yourself when you thought about it, like you were too weak to move on.

You had him for about a year. You had Yoongi for about a year before things went to absolute shit. It didn’t matter to you that you were just someone to warm his bed, his fuck buddy when he needed to ease the loneliness of the night. At first, it was so easy, sliding under the sheets with him after a 1:00 am drunk text. You had known what this was: he didn’t want anything “serious,” insisted that being “friends with benefits” was all he could handle in the aftermath of his breakup. And you were fine with that. Fine with being his midnight girl. The secrecy, the in-betweenness of your relationship with Yoongi, so indefinite — you were fine with all of that.

It wasn’t until you had received a phone call from his girlfriend that disabused you of the delusions that were swimming around in your head. Silly little fantasies of belonging to each other vanished as she revealed to you the extent of Yoongi’s betrayal; how they had reconciled their relationship even though he had been crawling into your bed for the last three fucking months. Humiliation had washed over you, scalding your sense of self-worth.

You turn up the music in your headphones, gazing out of the train window as you drown out your thoughts. The beginning of an orange sunset warms your face, and you will yourself to think about something other than heartbreak.

✎

Monday morning’s dismissal bell could not have come fast enough. “Don’t forget your umbrellas! Extra ponchos are in the cabinet above the reading corner and double up if your neighbor doesn’t have cover. Stay dry!”

Mondays turned you straight into Garfield the cat — nothing but sluggish misfortune filtered through a caffeine haze. You hoped the rain would let up before you finished your meeting. By the time you’re finished taking your sweet time cleaning up your classroom for the day, you’d been stewing in your dread for a good while. 

When you walk into the faculty lounge, a familiar tea bag hangs over the lip of the second cup, the steam wafting up the (normally) comforting aroma of your favorite herbal tea. Min Yoongi is planted on his rear end in his usual seat, hunched over the conference table and tapping away on his phone, his own mug of coffee right next to the tea, along with his notepad and pen. 

The second you clear your throat, Yoongi immediately snaps his head up in mild astonishment, as if you’d snapped him out of a daydream. His eyes positively beam when his eyes land on your face, slightly grateful that your usual scowl — a special reserved especially for Yoongi — was nowhere to be found. You try your hardest not to notice how softly Yoongi says your name.

“Hi — I, uh —” he chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck with a meek expression, “This is for you,” he gestures toward the mug of tea. His expression matches his restlessness, smile never quite reaching that bright gummy grin of mischief, of shared secrets that you can’t seem to disassociate with Yoongi.

The “thanks” you give him is stunted, mimicking his awkward demeanor.

“You wanna sit down?” Yoongi nods at the seat next to him when you’ve stood there staring for a beat too long. Nose upturned, you opt for the office chair directly across from him.

“You can pass me my tea,” you sniff, uncomfortable with the amount of effort it takes to keep your mouth from uttering a snide remark, criticisms standing at the ready right on the tip of your tongue. The sound of ceramic on wood grates on your nerves, time seemingly dilates and draws out the scraping before you take the warmth of the mug into your hands. 

“It’s the tea you always drink,” Yoongi mutters, like he’s expecting something — and you latch onto it, lacing your next quip with as much sarcasm as you can, deadpan and mocking.

“Your powers of observation are absolutely astounding.” Yoongi rolls his eyes and releases a sigh, evidently addled by frustration.

“Jesus Christ—”

“No, I’m serious.” you cut him off, “Your skills would put the CIA to shame.” You take delight in the snort and disingenuous smile that appears on his face.

“Are you done?”

“Not nearly.”

Yoongi sighs again, this time letting your name escape his lips, his impatience brushing against the goosebumps on the back of your neck.

“Let’s just get this over with before we kill each other,” he snaps at you as he pulls out a file from his work bag. Huffing your assent, you take a sip of the herbal tea Yoongi prepared for you, letting the steam flush out the impending pressure in your head. The second the scorching liquid hits your tongue, you taste the sweetness — it was just the right amount of honey. 

“I’ve pulled the necessary files about vendors, activities, and scheduling for the past several Autumn Festivals, let’s start there,” Yoongi says, ringed fingers flipping through a few documents.

“Wow,” you draw out the mock awe in your tone for way too long. “A level of forethought unheard of within these concrete walls.”

“You are such a pain in my ass,” Yoongi returns your sour smile.

“Normally, I’d return the sentiment, but Jin is priority on my shit list now.” 

“Why Jin?”

“Duh — he’s the one who gave us this god forsaken assignment.”

Yoongi is amused at the irritation you reserve for Jin, the way you say your boss’ name laced with a nonverbal threat.

“You know,” he muses while suggestively  thumbing through the file in front of you, “Jin is super scared of spiders…”

Eyebrows raised at this new information, you flip through the documents until you find the page you’re searching for.

“Apparently last year we had a herpetologist from the zoo bring in some cool snakes for the festival,” you start, mirroring the musing expression on Yoongi’s face.

“Yeah, I remember that,” Yoongi smiles, and this time it’s one of fondness. “The kids really liked holding the rock python.”

“Well,” you continue, brain whirring with mischief, “I don’t see a reason why we couldn’t get an arachnologist for this year, instead…”

Yoongi chuckles, gums showing, cheeks pushing up his eyes so you can see the lines that you used to be so fond of. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed as he nods, clearly pleased with this plan in the works.

“Spiders are probably more apt for the seasonal celebration anyway. We can assign him as the faculty responsible for manning that booth, if we wanted,” he suggests. 

“Look at you, Yoongs,” you chuckle at the two of you, concocting a plan worthy of Doofenschmirtz himself. “I knew a good idea had to be rollin’ around up there in that noggin.” 

His eyes flash toward you for a second, having heard your nickname for him for the first time in years. You tap on your tea mug, the nails pleasantly clinking against the cooling ceramic.

“Are you done?” His tone is clipped.

“For now.” Your grin rivals that of the Cheshire cat.