warnings: fluff, suggestive, mentions of making out and possessiveness
taglist: @luckycrystal @dixheuresdix @ab20567 @sexychickenmagnet -> let me know if you want to be tagged in the comments
author's note: read this important message
-> 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡
bf!aurèlien is such a tease sometimes.... broski literally enjoys kissing you, though a few kisses may end up you guys just making out with eachother!!!! he also would bite your lower lip gently just for fun, making your cheeks burn just to how super close his body is to yours.
expect lots of pda throughout this relationship. especially in public near fans, but i wouldn't really see aurèlien as clingy though, he's more touchy than attached.
bf!aurèlien speaking of being 'touchy', has a thing for wrapping his arms around your waist and would probably grab your ass just to piss you off, or even plant kisses onto your neck, almost making you giggle
"omg rèlien, let go i'm busy go away" you say, whilst trying to push him away, giggling.
aurèlien doesn't budge and places one of his large hands above your small chin gently. "i think i'm staying here with my y/n."
HE DOES RESPECT BOUNDARIES BUT HE JUST LOVES TOUCHING YOU FOR SOME REASON
in the mornings, bf!aurèlien would literally frown if you have to wake up earlier than usual — work for an example, but he will eventually understand.
bf!aurèlien would wear a bracelet that you made specifically for him, that he would never take off. he would most definitely wear it everywhere, including training. — cute.
bf!aurèlien would be such a sofite for youu. yes a softie
if you force him to do something with you, he may eventually give in, only because he loves you and finds you adorable. bf!aurèlien also loves listening to what you ramble/rant to him, if you're at trouble, he'll be there for you no matter what.
rèlien actually enjoys taking selfies with you, he wants to make memories with what's his.
bf!aurèlien will scold you if you haven't been looking aftering yourself lately, he just wants his girl to be healthy!! it he does find out, he will immediately come home from training, just to look after you.
if you need help braiding your hair, let bf!aurèlien help you with that
bf!aurèlien loves it when you steal and wear his clothes, he seems not to mind that at all. please wear his jersey when you come for his matches, if he finds you in the crowd, he'll just give you a '👍🏽' with a wink 😉😉😉😉 (WTF) to it, he finds you hot in his clothes.
whenever you guys get into an argument, bf!aurèlien would go out to the shops, just to come back with expensive flowers, your favourite snacks, and a note saying “i'm sorry”
this boy loves you very very much, reader and you should know that. ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ
T E X T AU: Lewis being unbearable (ft. you suffering) - LH44
masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
author's note: do i write proper fics? yes. did i abandon it for text aus? also yes. enjoy a collection of texts i made in between writing unethical xoxo (p.s was going to post these after finishing the series and planned to post ch. 8 tonight, but i actually couldn't bare posting angsty toxic stuff today when the tl is already so so sad. hope these texts offer a little bit of lightheartedness on a sad day for TeamLH :( rest in peace roscoe, run free up there w coco beautiful boy❤️🪽).
pairing: lewis hamilton x you (text au)
summary: a collection of texts that prove he’s unbearable, hot, and unfortunately yours. 9 screenshots that sum up your entire relationship arc better than a 100k word slowburn.
warnings: swearing, name-calling (affectionate), biting comments (literally), chaotic flirting, dramatic lewis.
(leather pants menace, roscoe pancake thief , mario kart violence, “shut up whore” energy, lewis being soft then ruined by you immediately, boyfriend chaos <3)
summary ➜ after years of just being friends, you and jamal are finally spending your first valentine’s day as a couple. naturally, nothing goes as planned. dating your best friend 101.
it starts the night before.
like, technically, it’s not valentine’s day yet, but jamal’s been on one all day, walking around like a little kid with a secret, smirking to himself, pursing his lips together like he’s dying to spill but won’t. he’s been weird about his phone, too. tilting it away from you. ignoring messages. biting back a grin every time it lights up.
“who you texting?” you ask, sprawled across his bed, watching him from the pillow.
“don’t worry about it,” he says, tucking his phone under his arm and flopping down beside you. he kisses your cheek—one of those lazy, half-missed kisses that lands more on your jaw than anything—but you’re still side-eyeing him, suspicious.
“you’re acting real sneaky, jamal.”
“am i?” he asks, grinning into your skin.
yes. he is. but whatever. you let it go. you don’t even think about it again until the next morning, when you wake up to the sound of something loud and chaotic crashing in his kitchen. it’s early. too early. the kind of early that makes your brain slow, like it’s loading in real-time, like you need at least 15 minutes to process.
there’s another crash. a curse. a chair scraping.
then, suspiciously: silence.
“… jamal?” your voice is all groggy and muffled, and it takes an embarrassing amount of effort to pry your eyes open. you reach across the bed, patting the empty space where he should be. it’s cold.
more silence. then, like a jump scare, his voice: “don’t come out here!”
what.
you blink at the ceiling, confused as hell, still groggy, trying to decide if you just hallucinated that. but no, the sound of drawers opening—slamming shut—confirms it.
“why?” you call, throat scratchy.
pause. like he wasn’t expecting a follow-up question. then, weakly: “just don’t.”
now, see. if he had just acted normal, maybe you would’ve left it alone. but he’s being weird. so you drag yourself up, rub your eyes, stumble toward the door.
“babe,” he calls, panicked. “i mean it.”
but it’s too late. you’re already there, stepping into the kitchen, and—
oh.
oh, it’s bad.
it looks like a crime scene. a breakfast massacre. there’s flour everywhere, like he was just throwing handfuls of it for fun. a whisk on the floor. a bowl of what looks like pancake batter, except it’s an objectively illegal colour. burnt toast. eggs that never made it to the pan.
jamal is standing in the middle of it all, barefoot, covered in flour, holding a plate with what can only be described as the saddest excuse for a pancake you’ve ever seen. and he looks… guilty. like a dog who just got caught eating the couch cushions.
“what the hell,” you say, staring.
“breakfast in bed,” he mutters, looking down at the plate in his hands, like he’s just now realising how bad it looks.
a pause.
“babe,” you say, trying so hard not to laugh.
“yeah,” he sighs, nodding. “i know.”
he sounds so resigned. so disappointed in himself. it’s actually kind of cute.
“what was the plan here?” you ask, stepping over a suspiciously large flour pile to get closer.
he groans, shoving the plate toward you. “pancakes.”
you take it. and it’s so heavy. like, heavier than a pancake should be. you poke it with your fork, and it barely moves.
“is it… supposed to feel like this?” you ask, laughing.
“don’t make me talk about it.”
he’s surprisingly genuinely embarrassed. ducking his head, rubbing at his jaw. and when you take a bite—because obviously, you have to—he’s watching you so closely. so serious.
and it’s awful. so, so awful.
but when you look up, his face is hopeful, expectant, and—ugh. you can’t ruin this for him.
so you chew, swallow, try your best not to gag. “it’s… wow. so unique.”
his whole face brightens. “yeah?”
“so creative.”
“i knew you’d like it,” he says, smug, taking the plate back. he grabs his own fork, ready to dig in.
“wait—”
too late. he takes a bite. and immediately spits it out.
“… oh, that’s fucking disgusting.”
you can’t even help it. you laugh at him. hunched over, wheezing, tears in your eyes. and he’s looking at the pancake like it personally wronged him.
“i don’t get it,” he says, looking genuinely betrayed. “i followed the recipe and everything.”
“be honest,” you say, wiping at your eyes, still laughing. “did you really?”
he hesitates. then, sheepishly: “no.”
and that sends you right back into a fit of giggles.
—
the rest of the day is just as chaotic.
there are roses. but too many. like, you turn around for one second, and suddenly, the entire apartment looks like a flower shop. then, out of nowhere, he pulls out matching t-shirts that say i love my girlfriend and i love my boyfriend in obnoxious, bold letters. insists you take pictures in them, which he very proudly posts on his close friends—alphonso is not shy to let you both know that he thinks that shit is cringe.
you later end up at some overpriced, aggressively romantic restaurant in the city, where everything is quite literally heart-shaped. you hate that you love it. jamal even gets you one of those giant stuffed bears that takes up half the car, just to be extra.
“where the hell am i gonna put this?” you ask, squished into the passenger seat, trying to push the bear off of you.
“our bed,” he says, like it’s obvious.
he’s joking. he has to be.
except, when you get back to his place, he throws it straight onto the bed and pats its head like a pet.
“what’s his name?” he asks.
you blink. “why does he need a name?”
jamal gives you a look. “he’s part of the family now, babe.”
you stare at him. he stares back. dead serious.
“… barry.”
“barry?” he repeats, making a face. “nah. try again.”
you roll your eyes, climbing onto the bed, throwing yourself against the pillows. “okay, fine. what about… reginald?”
it’s been a dumb, ridiculous, unserious day. and that dumb, ridiculous, unserious day stretches into an equally unserious night, because jamal isn’t done yet. of course he isn’t.
there’s dinner next. not an actual dinner, because you’re both still full from the aggressively heart-shaped meal earlier, but a ‘snack dinner,’ as he calls it. which just means eating a bunch of random shit in bed like kids at a sleepover.
“okay,” he says, serious as hell, setting the bag between you. “don’t look. just pick.”
you squint. “… pick what?”
he just raises a brow. motions to the bag.
you sigh, reaching in, grabbing the first thing your fingers touch. when you pull it out, it’s—oh. it’s one of those valentine’s candy hearts, the kind that taste like chalk.
you make a face. “oh, hell no.”
“no take-back,” he says, snatching the bag away before you can try again.
you sigh dramatically, flipping the little heart over in your hand. it says kiss me in faded pink letters. you show him.
jamal grins. “well,” he says, leaning in, all smug, all close, all warm. “you heard the candy.”
he’s such a loser. but, ugh. he’s cute, too. so you let him kiss you. and then another. and then one more, because why not.
after that, it’s movie time. jamal insists on watching something “romantic for the holiday.”
which, for some reason, means shrek 2.
“this is not a romance movie,” you say, staring at the tv.
“are you kidding?” he says, looking at you like you just disrespected his whole family. “it’s literally a love story.”
“… how?”
“shrek and fiona,” he says, like it’s obvious. “real love. no conditions. no standards. no judgment.” he gestures to the screen, suddenly so deeply invested in this conversation. “you don’t get it. she could’ve stayed a human. she could’ve left him, married some pretty boy, had a normal life. but she didn’t. she wanted her man. ogre and all.”
he leans back, shaking his head. “real love.”
you snort. “are you about to cry?”
“fuck off,” he mutters, shoving popcorn into his mouth.
—
the movie finishes. you think maybe, finally, he’s done being ridiculous for the night. maybe now, you can just curl up, relax, do regular couple things.
but then, he rolls over. stretches. looks at you. “we should make a fort.”
you blink. “what?”
“a fort,” he repeats. “like we used to do as kids. with pillows and blankets and shit.”
“jamal.”
“c’mon,” he says, sitting up. “you can’t tell me that doesn’t sound fun.”
it does. it really does. but you have to act unbothered for the sake of your pride.
“hmm,” you say, pretending to think. “i dunno.”
he narrows his eyes. “you’re lying.”
you are.
so, yeah. now you’re building a fort. or, more accurately, jamal is building a fort while you watch, offering absolutely zero help.
“you’re actually useless,” he says, balancing two pillows against a chair.
you shrug, popping another chocolate in your mouth. he mutters something under his breath.
you raise a brow. “what was that?”
“nothing,” he says, then turns to the fort, hands on his hips, nodding, pleased with himself. “done.”
and honestly? it’s actually good. like, he really put his whole heart into it. it’s got layers. multiple blankets. strategically placed pillows. fairy lights draped across the top.
he crawls in first, patting the space beside him. “c’mon.”
you sigh, all dramatic, but crawl in anyway. and, ugh. okay. it’s actually kind of perfect. warm. cozy. kind of romantic, in a way that doesn’t try too hard.
“happy?” you ask.
he hums, tilting his head against the pillow, looking at you. “yeah.”
and then, finally, you’re just there. under the blankets, wrapped up in each other, warm and full and tired in the best way. jamal’s fingers trace lazy circles into your skin, and you just breathe.
you sigh, content. “this was nice.”
“yeah?” he asks, voice soft.
“yeah,” you admit.
he’s quiet for a second. then: “you’re stuck with me now, you know.”
you smile, half-asleep, pressing your face into his chest. “i know.”
and that’s your first valentine’s day together. stupid. unserious. but somehow, perfect. just right.
summary: the kents are warm, inviting—frustratingly likeable. all except for you, the kent who is somehow more disastrous for damian’s well-being than the rest. you are a case of destructive tendencies and a good-natured smile that irks him. he has to keep an eye on you, even if it means lingering around you, using poor jon as an excuse.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: fluff, grumpy x sunshine, reader stands her ground, reader is jon's cousin & is briefly described to hv superabilities (flying, superstrength)
In less than ten minutes of stepping into the Kent’s residence, Damian already finds himself caught in a mess. Or more specifically, captured in your arms.
He should've known better than to attempt at finding a moment of silence in the grass fields, watching over the cows roaming in search of sweet dew to chomp on. The noise levels within the farmhouse must have exceeded precautionary suggestions for a mere human. It was definitely more than he anticipated, despite Jon's warnings of how.... enthusiastic his family can be.
"You should see my cousin—" Jon snorts. "Now, she's lively."
At least that cousin of his hasn't arrived yet, Damian had wishfully thought, and now—he only feels foolish.
You’re much too close, noses nearly brushing, and you share that same supernatural strength that dominates the Kent family, with your feet floating off the ground. It’s not any of your supernatural abilities that unnerves him. No, it’s him being swept up in your arms like some sort of damsel in the air that has him ready to bury his dignity in the muddied soil.
“You’re Damian!” Much too chipper, much too… much. “Jon mentioned a Wayne coming to visit, but I didn’t expect you to actually show up.”
Shares the same capacity of being over-talkative too, then. He resists a groan, words strained through his gritted teeth. “Put. Me. Down.”
“Ah—right!”
You let go of him abruptly, as per his demand, and his bottom finds the soil once more—right where he was nearly stampeded by cows earlier. Not that he wouldn’t have been able to dodge, but right as he leapt mid-air, a pair of arms caught him and—your blinding smile as he quickly rises to dust himself off helps him make a decisive assumption.
You’re trouble. Packaged in chaos and a terrifying over-eagerness—his gut only screams to keep a distance. Dealing with one Kent was more than enough, he certainly did not need the most enthusiastic Kent to catch him off-guard.
It doesn't help that you're pretty. Objectively, from a completely unbiased standpoint. Bright like the sun, glimmering in the rims of your gaze, and warmth encompassed into your demeanour. Words run dry on his tongue, and he's been staring at you for at least two minutes in complete silence.
"You're the cousin." His voice is gruff when he finally speaks, and he immediately winces. Stating the obvious, is there truly anything else he could conjure to make himself sound more like a fool?
"That I am." Your words run off your tongue in a familiar accent, shared with Jon, but more cheeky—playful. "You're Jon's best friend."
Best friend. It warms him more than it should. Despite the Kent's invitation obviously meaning that he mattered to Jon enough to be invited to his family's personal home, there was still a reassurance Damian could never truly give up on searching for.
A low 'Tt' escapes his lips, gaze averting yours, all up-close and all in his personal space. Seriously, could you be any closer?
"What has he told you about me?" He prods, brows furrowing into its usual, settled line.
"That you're grumpy." You tease. "Most often than not, you have a stern look on your face as if you'd rather be anywhere than the ground you're standing on." Leaning in with a conspiratorial look, you whisper. "He also told me that under your tough act, you're a big softie."
His expression immediately seizes with incredible offense. What nonsense has Jon been spouting to you, ruining his reputation so callously?
"I am not soft."
"Mhm." Your grin never falters, and his brow twitches.
"Jon mentioned you're impulsive." He shoots back. "Overly-enthusiastic. Loud. Refuses to take no for an answer."
"Glad we established our initial impressions." You muse. "I was kidding about Jon's description. I based that off the first two minutes since I caught you in my arms."
Something warm flushes at his neck, and he's... never felt this intense, surging range of emotions enrapturing inside of his chest. You're impossible to decipher, and that smile of yours is a gateway to a pounding headache.
“And for the record, Jon would use the word, optimistic.”
"You're impossible." He grunts.
"Is that Jon's words, or yours?" Winking at him, you don't give him a chance to process your taunts, or to regain enough composure for a come-back, because you're already off on your feet—no, mid-air in flight back towards the farmhouse.
"Not to intrude on your personal time-out!" You yell back towards him as you swing the back-door open, feet brushing the wooden steps once more as you land. "Jon's Pa makes incredible lemonade."
With that, your hair whips with your sudden movement as you round the corner and disappear back inside, leaving him writhing in fury, shame—and dread at the thought of having to return inside with soil covering his trousers.
Jon’s father—just Clark, as he likes to deem himself, does indeed make good lemonade. A begrudging admission from Damian’s lips practically livens up the atmosphere and he winces, surrounded by a bright, sheepish smile from Superdad himself, puffing his chest over still remembering his Ma’s recipe and to his dismay, your own gleaming eyes directed at him for having been proven right again.
That’s another thing Damian easily noticed from the moment you entered the picture. You’re irritably persuasive. Easily fitting yourself by his side, seated at the barstool as you catch up with your relatives. You’re—delightful, and it grates his nerves.
Including him easily on inside-jokes, making sure he wasn’t left out—when he’d much preferred if you did. Hearing all this unheard information about your life, it’s a nuisance to have to block his mind from capturing unrecognisable data and cataloguing it in his mind for later research. He didn’t want to get to know you, and yet, you’re treating him as if you’ve known him for as long as Jon.
”You wouldn’t guess Metropolis’s most common crime.” You grin. “A whopping forty-five percent of the population has stolen hot dogs.”
“Impressive.” He mutters dryly.
“Guess it won’t compare to much to the ones I’ll see when I move to Gotham.” You shrug casually.
Move… to Gotham. The moment the words form clearly in his mind, Damian nearly spits out his drink. The citrusy flavour stings the back of his throat as he chokes out. “You’re moving to Gotham?”
“Yep!” You pop your ‘P’s, and he hates that he notices. “A change of scenery.”
“Gotham’s scenery is horrendous.”
You snort. “You think everything is horrendous.”
“I do not.” He grits. “Stop assuming you know anything about me.”
“I bet—” Leaning in teasingly, you mutter. “—you think my attitude is horrendous.”
He raises a brow, unimpressed. “Take an astute guess.”
“Considering that you’ve been living in a place you say is horrendous for years, maybe that’s not such an insult.” You wink. “There’s gotta be something you like about Gotham.”
His lips part, but he’s at a loss of words. Not such an insult—you’re either horribly optimistic or doing this on purpose to antagonise him. He bets on the latter. “Take my word for it.” He grunts. “You won’t suit Gotham.”
“Hm.” Your head tilts, assessing. “No personal bias involved?”
“Only common sense.” He tuts. “You’re much too—” Everything. “—You’ll stand out. There’s enough distractions in the city without you adding yourself into the mix. Who knows what sort of chaos you’ll attract with your move?”
“You think I’m distracting?” You grin.
“Do you listen to anything I say?” He grits. “Or do you make it a habit to avoid any viable points in a conversation.”
“I’m listening.” You shrug. “Just to the important stuff. What’s being said underneath the words.”
His jaw twitches. “You’re impossible.”
“You used that one already.”
That’s it. Under the sealed promise of an Al Ghul prodigy and the singular Wayne's blood heir, Damian swears your move to Gotham will be anything but steady. That’ll prove to you that his city will never be yours.
How did he end up here, with boxes stacked in his hands? He couldn’t possibly be helping you with your move. No, he’s merely—observing. The smartest choice, as his father always says, is to infiltrate from within.
You’ve picked possibly one of the worst neighbourhoods without your own knowledge. The crime rate’s peaked over eighty percent in this area at least four times within the last quarter of the year, which can be easily checked through a simple Google search. The nearest public transport is a ten minute walk away, and he’s forced to carry your belongings, because you didn’t hire any movers.
When he had demanded for Jon to convince you that you’re making the wrong move within your first twenty-four hours of horrific decision-making in the city, Jon merely said: “She’s got it figured out. It’ll be fine, I know her.”
Evidently, Jon does not know that his cousin is a walking disaster. If Damian hadn’t immediately sought after you—you would have taken the wrong turns, dragged around your belongings through Gotham’s dirt-filled streets, and ended up just as lost as you had been four hours ago when he found you staring blankly at the vandalised street signs, trying to figure out if the number sprayed on stood for a four or seven.
“Thanks for helping me out!” You grin. “I knew you’d warm up to me.”
Warming up? He’s tempted to scoff, because that is not what this is. He was only concerned because it was Jon’s relative. It shouldn’t be his responsibility, but since his best friend lacked the initiative to look after his own cousin—Damian couldn’t stand to sit still and wait for a disaster to happen. He’s merely doing it because he knows Jon would fret and panic if anything happened to you, and he’d have to deal with the fall-out. That’s all.
“Jon asked me to.” The lie slips easily from his mouth. It’s easy, and Jon practically insinuated it by mentioning in an off-handed comment of your arrival.
“Really?” Your eyes widen. “He’s not the type to pester me, though.”
Pester? Is that how you saw his help, as pestering? Damian’s grimace worsens, the end point of his lips tilting downward. “I’m sure he’s had a change of heart, after hearing about your decision to move to one of the most dangerous cities in the world.”
“It can’t be too bad if it’s the only city that’s got a Robin.” You shrug.
He falters, boxes shifting in weight at your sudden comment. He quickly readjusts them, tossing you a glare as if you did it on purpose. Maybe you had, he’s beginning to suspect you’re purposely saying the strangest things to catch his off-guard reaction.
Clicking at his tongue, he answers. “It’s because this city is dangerous, that’s why it needs a Robin.”
You hum, hands digging through your pockets to find your new key—which he also had to accompany you to collect to ensure you weren’t being scammed. The last resort if that happened would be to offer you a place to stay in Wayne Manor, and he hates that he even thought of the proposal in the first place.
He watches as you slot the key through the keyhole with a frown, already predicting that whatever was behind this door would be a security nightmare. His grip on the boxes unintentionally tighten in what—anticipation? This is ridiculous. He is merely doing his duty, somewhere in the mess of ill-fitting banter and allocating his steps with yours. The door hinge creaks as you push through, and it’s—exactly what he expected from Gotham.
Creaky floorboards, thin bars on the windows that are more decorative than purposeful, yellowed heaters, and—his gaze keeps flickering back to the door lock. He’ll have to fix that too.
“So, is this everything you dreamed it to be?” He mutters wryly, turning with the expectation to see your face dampened of its permanent glow.
“Yep.” You nod, completely unfazed. “It’s exactly what I pictured.”
He can’t stop his lips from parting in disbelief, the closest he’ll come to his jaw hanging. There must be a screw loose in your head. You pictured… this? Even when he first arrived in Gotham, the city had soured from his initial impressions.
He almost wanted you to admit that your move was a mistake, to give him a reason to persuade you back to Metropolis. It's still an unregistered fact in his head that you actually moved to Gotham, despite all that he's done to stain the city's reputation, not that it needed much assistance on that. Yet, here you are—unshaken and much more grounded than he expected you to be in a city that wasn’t yours. Looking at your bright eyes, he won’t be surprised if you could truly make Gotham yours.
He shakes his head, settling the boxes on the floor. If you're truly set on your ambition, he has no choice but to oblige. “You’ll need a better door security system.” He says gruffly. “And window bars. Practically everything needs to be revamped.”
“No way.” You gasp. “Are you offering, Damian?”
He heaves a long, dreaded sigh, feeling it in the cavity of his chest. “…It’s what Jon would want.”
Damian finds himself over at your apartment more than he'd like to admit. First, with the upgraded door lock—then, the list begins. When your door hinge broke next from your excess strength, he had arrived with a toolbox from the Cave, and a steady ‘I told you so’ expression as you grin at him sheepishly.
Then again, when you break your sink’s tap. Again, when you lose yourself in Gotham’s streets attempting to find a grocery store that was supposedly down the street.
It’s small, little inconveniences that he shouldn’t concern himself with. If anything, it should irritate him because it’s supposed to be Jon’s duty to accompany you during your new gracing period of getting used to the city—not him, someone who does it begrudgingly with a set frown across his lips to remind himself that he’s not supposed to enjoy being in your company. He isn’t enjoying being around you. He is simply observing.
Observing how you liked scouting for fresh fruits to try out in your home-brought blender because you tend to gravitate towards summer beverages, even when Gotham’s temperatures invites mist into the early mornings. How you liked old cartoon shows because it makes you laugh till your stomach hurts, and the couch has ripped chunks from your unintentional grip tearing out cotton buds onto the floorboards. How your eyes have a slight glimmer when you look at him, as if you’ve brought all the sunlight from Metropolis and stored it in your gaze, softened and glistening in the most dangerous way.
“It’s cheap entertainment.” He grumbles, eyeing an episode you're rewatching of Scooby Doo with genuine disdain.
“Then I’m the target audience.” You grin, eyeing him with that look again. “Plus, I don’t see you looking away.”
”…Tt. You’re imagining things.” He scoffs, forcing his eyes back towards the sink tap. He'd sooner pummel himself through training than admit that he wasn't truly looking at the screen, but at your comical reactions to your favourite scenes. “They are no true detectives.”
“As opposed to you, Wonder Boy?” You tease. “You’re the best of the best, I already know that.”
His cheeks warm, but he finds your flattery… to be not too straining on the ears. “Stop claiming that you know me.”
“Right—and you’re not thinking of how Titus would be a better replacement for Scooby?”
“…”
Damian refuses to admit that you disarm him. That he’s begun to look for your company, more than anything else. Till the point where he frequently makes a stop after this patrol to your small, sketchy apartment, with a sarcastic quip of how he detests the neighbourhood—only to end up being dragged by your hand inside past the fire escape. You’re warmer than the cold wind that whips at his uncovered skin in the night—and you’re nothing like him.
"My family runs warmer than others." You admit, your hands clasped around his.
Mr. Freeze had tested his new technological advancement during a run-in on his patrol, and Damian still hasn't quite lost the chill from his fingers. It's weakness, he thinks—to not bare the cold when he was raised in the mountains where winter was a permanent frost over the landscape.
You didn't see it that way. Of course you didn't. No, you simply took his hand into yours, and started massaging at his fingers. He had tried pulling away, but the warmth that physically bled from your touch rendered him immobile from the relief.
It's as if you're sunshine reincarnate, it irritates him how his body instinctively leans into your warmth. Not because of survival instincts trained within his limbs, but because he wanted to. He liked the feeling of your hands intertwined with his, and that thought confused him more than Mr. Freeze's new projects or even the chill running through his fingers.
He’ll never acknowledge it as anything more than looking out for you, out of consideration for your close bond with Jon. To keep an eye on you, even when he’s practically confirmed that you’ll never be a threat to anything other than your sink tap. Even then, he finds his chest swelling when he receives the notification that you’ve broken something again. A handle, a tap—he can’t find it in himself to reason fast enough before he’s already over at your place with a practiced grimace that doesn’t make it past the doorstep.
It’s dangerous to place a term for it, but he knows something’s changed. What started out as caution, has evolved into something that’s slipped out of his hands—his control. He can’t find it in himself to stop, and there’s something addictive in the contrast you bring to his city. He was right about one thing. You have claimed the city as yours, and… he’s beginning to struggle to see Gotham without you in it.
Damian very quickly realises that your choice in your neighbourhood wasn’t an idiotic, impulsive coincidence. He wishes he didn’t have to find out this way, landing in your arms again.
“Oh—for the love of—” He hisses. “Put. Me. Down.”
High up in the air, you've opted for quick transport by lifting him without permission towards your fire escape.
You’re quick to let him go, letting him tumble back down to the fire escape, but your grin is unreasonably bright. Your feet descend back onto the ledge of the fire escape, and you hop back down, rattling the metal railings. “You know, it’s weird it happened twice—”
“Whose fault is that?” He nearly yells, but the bruising at his side prevents him from raising his voice any louder with his ribs aching. “I never asked for your help. In both occurrences.”
You shrug, tugging your windowsill and pushing it upward. “You didn’t have to. I helped you out cause I wanted to.”
He’s ready to snarl about how he didn’t want your help either, but you had already snuck into your apartment, and out of habit, he follows. It’s only because he’s worried that if he doesn’t, you’ll sneak out and chase after criminals again—when Gotham isn’t your jurisdiction. You’re meant to stay in Gotham for your education, not vigilante work.
He should’ve tried harder to convince you not to move here, because your bleeding heart will only be sucked dry by a city like Gotham. He knows deep down that nothing can change your mind once you’ve set a vision to follow, but he can’t accept just how easily you run into the face of danger. From the moment you snatched him away from the stampede of cows, he already knew you were selfless—the type to look out for others without a second thought.
It frightens him of just how willing you had been in that alleyway earlier, and Damian does not know how to be scared. So, his frustrations vent out as anger. Now, all that’s keeping his conscience intact is keeping an eye on you, making sure you aren’t causing more trouble. That’s the reason he’s here in your bedroom, arms crossed and body tense as you search for a first-aid kit despite his own repeated denials of not needing medical attention.
“I have X-ray vision, and you still wanted to lie?” You muse, unaware of his turmoil. “I know the Bats are stubborn, but you may be the worst one.”
His lips part, wanting to argue and you raise a brow as if him doing so will just prove you right. There’s nothing he hates more than doing that. Clamping his mouth shut, he forces himself to sit at the edge of your bed, stiff and back straight as you open the first aid kit, sitting beside him.
This close, he feels it again. How out of breath he becomes when the distance between you and him decreases, when he’s able to truly memorise your features without having the needed space to process—to think and realise what he’s doing. Gawking, like an idiot schoolboy.
”Your heart rate is rising really quickly.” You mutter in acknowledgment, gaze trained on his chest. “Are you sure you don’t want to get it checked?”
His ears feel hot. Tearing his gaze away from your face, his fists dig into your sheets. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You should get your sight checked.”
You snort, a genuine laugh nearly bubbling out from your lips. “Sometimes, I think you’re the most hilarious person I’ve ever met.”
His brows furrow. “I did not intend on being funny.”
“Exactly.” You hum, taking out soothing patches from your kit. “You're straight as an arrow. You do things with purpose, and you never back out.”
He lets out a controlled exhale when the coolness of the patch meets his bruised skin. “Another assumption of yours?” He grits.
“You tell me.” You answer. Your eyes fleet between the patch you’re holding onto his skin, and his averting gaze. “Why did you follow me, Damian?”
“I was not following you.”
He was. Rather indiscreetly too. It was careless, impulsive—unlike him. He blames it on you, naturally. Being indiscrete, impulsive—these characteristics perfectly describe you, and keeping an hyper-vigilant eye on your antics since that horrendous first meeting has begun to corrupt his mind too.
You raise an unimpressed brow at his answer, and his teeth churn against one another.
“Fine.” He sighs. “I was concerned.”
“For?” You push. “The safety of Gotham?”
He restrains a sigh. Must you miss every point underlaying his words, forcing him to spell his shame out loud? “For you. You may be stronger than the average mortal, but you’re still vulnerable. You have weaknesses and act as if you are invisible. Someone needs to keep an eye out, to watch your back.”
“That someone is you?” You voice out, surprise coating your features.
He swallows dryly, and his favourite lie slips out in preformed habit. “Jon asked me.”
An uncharacteristic scoff, loud and brash, leaves your lips and catches him off-guard.
“Come on, Damian.” For the first time, your voice teeters on the edge of veiled patience, one he is unfamiliar with. You couldn’t possibly be cross with him when that was his role. “I called Jon two weeks ago. He never asked you to do anything for me.”
His lips part, the realisation that he’s been caught processing slower than it should. This means—that you’ve known all along. With every pretence of lingering in your presence, showing up unannounced as if it were a task forced onto him. He can’t come up with a reasoning that makes sense, one that doesn’t make him sound like a lunatic.
“Be honest. You’re here on your own accord.” Your finger lifts, pushing into his chest. “So, why did you show up in that alleyway?”
That is something he can barely answer for himself. His lips purse into a thin line, before he eventually mutters. “I was on patrol.”
Your expression doesn't shift. “And?”
“I’m getting there.” He huffs, features wrinkled with frustration. “I was patrolling the Fashion District. Your neighbourhood wasn’t my assigned location.”
He remembers vividly of the alert from Barbara through the comms, of a civilian attack on a street not too far from yours—and how he didn’t even pause to think and left his patrol borders. Disregarding his duty, his responsibility without thinking twice, all on a mere flash of the possibility that you could be in danger.
Knowing you had super-human abilities, he still went anyway, with his chest thudding with what he refuses to be panic.
“My suspicions were proven right.” He frowns. “You were in the center of the chaos, pinning a thug to a wall without realising his accomplice was holding a gun to the back of your head.”
Your own lips form a matching downturn to his. “You know I could’ve taken it. A normal bullet won't harm me.”
“So?” He scoffs. It comes out harsher than intended. “Was I supposed to just stand there and let you take the shot?”
You blink, not expecting his adverse reaction. He sighs, running a hand through his dark locks.
“I couldn’t stand to see the bullet go off.” He mutters, his bare expression hidden by the shadow of his palm. “Bruises are a common occurrence for me, and if I could turn back time, I would have done the same."
“Why?”
He scoffs. “Would you like to experiment the chances of a bullet piercing your skull—”
“No.” You cut him off, voice growing sharper. “I mean—why did you rush here, Damian?”
His words die off his tongue.
“You mentioned countless times that I’m a nuisance.”
“You are.” He mutters distractedly.
Your frown deepens, not believing his front in the slightest. “If you can’t tolerate me, you wouldn’t have rushed over at the first thought of me potentially being in danger.”
He falls silent. He doesn’t want to think of this, of the way his body seizes with unfamiliar tension just at the thought of you injured. Of how even standing here with this stifling conversation stuffed down his throat—he can only consume the sight of you with a hungry, overwhelming relief at the sight of you unharmed, even with your eyes narrowed and smile no longer intact.
“Why are you here, Damian?”
He falters. The excuse of Jon is no longer an option, and being trapped into a corner of his own making frustrates him—and the conflict writhing in his chest redirects onto you instead.
“Why are you here?” He tosses back, fury stirring in his gut. "Gotham is already a fool's choice, coming from Metropolis, but to choose this district in Crime Alley?"
Idiotically placing yourself in the most crime-ridden neighbourhood, getting yourself caught in a crossfire—he’d sooner collapse from the stress of your impulsivity affecting his conscience than the growing soreness from the bruising near his ribs.
Your brows furrow. “I chose this place because it's located in the most crime-ridden neighbourhood in the city.”
“Exactly, you haven't done your research and you already—” He freezes, processing your admission. “You knew?” He asks incredulously.
You stare at him blankly, as if he hasn’t gotten the entire picture. “Did you seriously think I came all the way here without purpose, even knowing about the crime rates? That I’d sleep perfectly fine—knowing that I have the ability to protect others, and refused to do anything about it?”
“I know you think lowly of me.” You mutter, expression breaking. “—but I’m not just going to stand around like a bystander. My family raised me to be someone who will stand up for those who can’t. To face danger head-on, if it means giving others the chance to go home.”
His breath stops short. He has never seen that expression on your face. One of complete disappointment. He has never hated anything more, and it feels as if invisible hands have begun to crawl up his chest, rising to squeeze at his throat.
“No.” His voice comes out weak, frail. “I do not—think lowly of you. That is not what occurred in my mind.”
“Then, what?” You plead. “What do you think of me, Damian? You keep me company, for seemingly no true reason, and you act as if I forced you to.”
“I—” Damian has never struggled with admitting his thoughts aloud. He believes firmly in speaking his mind. Yet, staring into the vivid picture of hurt pooling in your eyes, he finds his reasonings have all gone blank.
“I had assumed you to be impulsive.” He admits after a moment, his heart thudding in his eardrums. “I kept an eye on you in the case of emergency that you might invoke trouble.”
It wasn’t obvious before, the hope that was lit in your gaze. It only hits him that you had been holding out the smallest flame—a spark of hope for him, when it snuffs out at his response.
“You’ve been…. keeping watch?” You ask, your voice going stale.
He swallows dryly. “…Yes.”
“So... all along while I was considering you as someone who I was lucky enough to have—who I thought was kind enough to look out for me, even if he struggled to show it.” Your expression closes up, and he realises he’s never seen you this way. Guarded—detached. “You’ve been treating me as some—potential casualty?”
His jaw twitches, his response rushing out in desperation. “No. I was mistaken.”
You blink slowly before you meet his gaze. Truly looking at him, without that glimmer he’s gotten used to beholding. It stings him more than he expects. “So was I.” You mutter.
His chest physically deflates, sinking into the ground. He calls out your name weakly, sensing the gravity of his mistake is not one that can be easily undone. He has never felt at such a loss, where every step forward feels as if it’s only sinking him deeper into the scratched floorboards.
“The bruising will need serious ice.” You utter, your expression a careful blank. “It’s best you get back to your Cave.”
The tension in his brow falters, shock flashing through his features. He’s never had a situation where he wasn’t able to defend himself, or prove his point right—winning the situation. In the face of your blatant distance, he realises he’s been a fool. He has lost. Your trust, your favour—all over his own stupidity.
“The apartment has a lease.” You mutter distractedly. “But I’ll figure something out, if you truly want me out of Gotham so badly. In the case that you don’t trust my word that I won’t destroy your city.”
“That is not what I meant.” He grits.
“Weren’t you the one who tried his hardest to dissuade me from moving here?” You reply coolly.
His voice raises uncontrollably. “That’s—it had been the case, but it’s different now.”
“Damian.” Your voice, stern and absolutely stops him in his tracks. Your gaze is piercing, and he feels completely bare under it. “I'm hearing your deflection, but I have come no closer to understanding you. If you won’t explain to me on why it’s different, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
He blinks once, expression drawing together in tight tension. Conflict fights its winning battle, visible in the clenching of his fists, the clamping of his lips together into a thin line.
“It’s not fair of you to toss around your words and decide when they matter and when they don’t.” You breathe out a shaky exhale. “I may be strong, but I feel just as much as a normal person. I’ve been seen as part alien for my whole life, and I thought that you of all people, wouldn’t see me that way. You’re confusing me on where I stand, on what you see when you see me—and it hurts.”
“So—” You swallow, hand unconsciously going to squeeze the fabric right above your heart. “—if you can’t find it in yourself to explain yourself to me, I need you to give me space."
Your back turns to him, hands closing over the clasp of the first-aid kit. "I deserve that, at least.”
He watches as your back faces him fully, slowly out of reach. It hits him again—a brief flash of what he's considered from the moment you turned the key in that abominable lock. A Gotham without you. Without your laughter, your smiles, your warmth that spreads through his numbed skin when he sneaks onto your fire escape after his patrols. You as a willing accomplice to his antics, offering your company without once asking him for a reason as to why he sought you out.
Now that he's had a taste of what it's like to be with you, he can't go back.
“You’re right.” He spits it out before he regrets it. The words echo against the brick walls, and his nails dig into his palms. “I never back away from what I set my mind on. The only problem is that my mind is set on you.”
You whip your head, turning back to meet his gaze. Shock faintly replaces your resigned expression, and he pushes on the moment he has your attention.
“From the mornings I wake to the nights I patrol, you were the one singular thought I couldn't shake.” He admits. “Your presence—consumes me. I found myself gravitating towards you naturally, as if there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be than by your side."
“I don’t see you as alien.” His voice is a low murmur, a plea for you to believe him. “I never have. It was because you made me feel so painfully human, that I became wary. I had never felt so vulnerable to the existence of another, till the point where my day is made depending on whether I managed to be apart of yours."
“It was terrifying to admit that there was no magic, no genetic enhancement, no other reasoning except for the fact that I wanted to see you. All the time.” He confesses. “It was all on me. From the moment I first saw you, I had already known that I would be affected, and... there was nothing I could've done to stop it.”
His admission leaves him more vulnerable than he's ever been in his entire life. Not even when he was under the League's control, had he ever felt this exposed in the hands of another person. He waits, and waits as you process his words in complete, utter silence. It does not suit you to stare at him wordlessly, and he wishes so desperately to hear your voice.
“...From the first moment." Your realisation that widens your eyes briefly—it’s terrifying, daunting, and beautiful. "You mean—when I caught you?”
“You are maddening.” He huffs, half in amusement and half in disbelief. “That was the only part that registered for you?”
“Like I told you.” The smallest of smiles lifts the corners of your lips. “I pay attention to the important details, not just words. You’re telling me that you fell for me the moment I caught you mid-air, Damian.”
What’s the point in refuting your point, when you could already hear his heartbeat? It would have already spelled out the truth in its erratic nature that only existed because of you. “Maybe I did.”
Your smile loosens into something genuine. “I knew you warmed up to me.”
“It’s more than that.” He murmurs, shaking his head. “Warming up implies that it's something that can be controlled on my part. No, you’ve ignited something I can’t destroy, no matter how hard I tried.”
You hum. “And you know what’s your problem, Damian?”
He freezes the moment he hears the word 'problem'. What has he done wrong? He's torn out his heart and splayed it all out in the most excruciating confession, and he was being honest in the only way he knew how. Maybe he had been too direct, too much—or maybe his mistake was too wrongful to forgive. His mind is calculating in overdrive, that he fails to notice how close you've come to him.
“You always say I make too many assumptions about you.” You point out, and your voice brings him back to reality. His breath hitches at the sight of you near, almost in his grasp. “Yet, from what I’m hearing—I was right all along, and it was the other way around. You made all the wrong assumptions about me.”
“You assumed that I was impulsive.” You start, and he winces.
“That I didn’t understand you.” You continue.
Your smile lifts, amusement flickering in your gaze. “And most inaccurately of all, you assumed that this is all on you alone.”
He blinks slowly, and finally, he looks at you. Truly—looks at you. That glimmer he was so afraid he lost, there again in your softened gaze.
“I knew from the moment I saved you from that cow stampede.” You break, laughter slipping through your voice. It’s warm, light—and he could listen to the way it trails along with your grin for eternity. “I don’t do things halfway either, Damian. I choose you, even when you’re being stubborn, and mean, and assuming all the wrong things.”
You… chose him. As undeserving as he was, you've seen him in this broken, desperate state and you still look at him with that softened gaze that drives his mad. The revelation is what finally pushes him forward.
His lips meet yours, clumsily and in a broken, inexperienced mash of misplaced energy. Your laughter spills out of you freely, and he follows after that sound. He wishes to consume it, and have it live in the breadth of his heart so he could carry it wherever he wished. To banish that ache you’ve caused now that he knows what life before and after you feels like—and he’s decided he could never survive the former ever again.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and he instinctively registers your feet lifting off the ground when you kiss him back. It’s so mindlessly adorable, that he doesn't hesitate in tugging you closer into his hold, wrapping his arms around your waist.
He nearly lost the chance to have this—have you, over his own foolish delusions. His pride, his defences—he’s never been more willing to shed it all if it was for you. From the start, he had only been forming excuses to hide it from himself that you had invaded his conscience from the moment he saw you—and there was nothing he could've done to prevent it.
You’re the most maddening Kent he’s ever met, and you’re the only one who can wrap him around your finger so easily, leaving him wanting more and more. To have been swept into your arms mid-air—shamefully and endearingly, might have been the most miraculous thing that’s ever happened to him.
"Don't leave Gotham." He whispers. "Stay here with me."
"How could I leave my favourite damsel?" You tease, nose brushing against his, your eyes shining in earnest.
"Tt." His ears are reddened, but he's not fond of the idea of letting you go anytime soon. Without admitting it, he is quite liking this change—of him holding onto you, instead of vice-versa. Damian supposes he'll still have to personally thank Jon and the stampede of cows on his next visit.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
Raye's new album was absolutely insane, one of my top albums of all time. Also something that strikes me about her is that she really takes her art seriously. Like taking the time to have an intro, outro where she actually lists all the names of her credits, and also at the start/end of some songs she goes "this is a song about" "this is a sad song" etc. She KNOWS this album is gonna take us on a WHOLE JOURNEY and she made sure she made a piece of ART with a lasting legacy and timeless themes. Um this has accidentally become a music review uh 10/10 highly recommend
feel like everyone has already said this but it’s so fucking insane that raye concluded THIS MUSIC MAY CONTAIN HOPE. with a six minute long track listing literally every single person involved in making the album, including!!!! the people in the orchestra. that’s crazy. the dedication. the clear and obvious love for the craft. the respect to fellow creatives and artists. i need to explode and then listen like one bajillion more times
Arkham Knight!Jason Todd x Female Vigilante Reader
: ̗̀➛ Summary: You hate lying to Jason, but with the Arkham Knight out there, you can’t bring yourself to leave the city and watch as Gotham deteriorates. This new foe must be stopped at all costs, and you were never one to back down from a fight
AKA: You are a vigilante and Jason doesn’t know. Jason is the Arkham Knight and you don’t know.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 20.6k
Warnings/Tags: Pre-established relationship, Reader’s backstory is vague but Bruce did not adopt you or anything, your vigilante suit has a mask and hood of some kind but that's all I describe, vigilante name is never specified, for plot reasons the story of the game takes place over multiple days, Arkham Knight Spoilers (but I try and keep all the big ones out of it aside from the obvious), you can read this without extensive knowledge of the games, canon typical violence, AK is kinda mean, bullet wound, I call this the “cautiously optimistic” ending, grammatical errors probably
: ̗̀➛ A/N: HAHAHA YOU PROBABLY THOUGHT I'D VANISH FOR A MONTH BEFORE POSTING A LONG FIC AGAIN. YOU'RE WRONG!!! Also, I know I don't typically write vigilante!reader, but guys TRUST the process. Hope you enjoy the fic :D!
Masterlist
You swallowed nervously as you crouched against a pole for support, eyes gazing over the drones patrolling the streets. “I see at least five near the Diamond District.” You quickly ducked beneath the ledge of the rooftop your on, placing your back firmly against the wall as you watched the red light flash over where you were just looking.
That was close.
“Any sign of him?” Tim asked, and you sneak a look over the ledge.
You shook your head, “He’s not here.” You sighed, frustrated.
Tim seemed to share your frustration, “It’s a shame.”
You scoffed, leaning lazily on the edge of the rooftop as you watch the drones circle the streets below you. “I don’t know what Bruce expects from us. We could be out helping him, but instead he sticks you in lab duty, and me on surveillance duty.” You sat yourself on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling over the side of the building. “I haven’t surveyed anything we haven’t already been seeing. Bombs, drones, more bombs, even more drones. It’s an endless cycle.”
Tim chuckled lowly, as if saying “You’re telling me.” The two of you sat in silence for a long moment before you stood up. “I’m done with this.” You step off the ledge and back to the rooftop. “If there’s an emergency feel free to contact me, but otherwise I’m going to actually try and get some sleep for once.”
Tim hummed, “Wow, sleep? Hardly know her.” He drawled teasingly, knowing neither of you have slept at all for the past day. It’d been a long night. Ever since he showed up, none of you have truly relaxed. “Got more important things to do then survey the city?”
You pursed your lips, “Yeah, sleep.” You fidgeted with your grapnel gun before launching it, “I don’t understand him sometimes. We’re of no use to anyone like this.” The wind whips past your ears as you moved.
He huffed, “Tell Bruce that. He’s insistent that I work on figuring out this cure when we have bigger issues currently out there.”
You frowned, “If you want, when I wake up we can switch shifts?” You offered hesitantly, landing onto the balcony of your apartment. You didn't hear anybody inside, and you took this as your cue to go inside and quickly change out of your suit.
Jason has always worked late nights for as long as you knew him. It was, frankly, a miracle considering you weren’t sure how you’d explain your nightly escapades. It wasn’t a conversation you were ever going to look forward to, so you delayed it for as long as possible.
“I’ll be alright.” Tim sighed, “I’ll probably just nap on the computer or something.”
You sighed, “Tim.”
“Don’t.” He started, dry amusement evident in his tone despite the snappy words. “I will not hear the ‘Sleep is important’ lecture from you when you’re just as bad as I am.”
You chuckled, “Yeah, yeah, touché." You tone became more serious, “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”
He hummed noncommittally, but you know he’s listening. “Of course, have a good night.”
You smiled, “You too.” You took out your comm, putting it in its case before stashing it away with your suit.
Based on Jason’s usual schedule, he’ll be home in a couple hours, which gave you plenty of time to prepare for his arrival.
While you could've just hoped that Jason would never come home early while you were still out, you had decided against that early on. It was too risky, and it was better to just provide and potential explanation why. You had told him that you also worked late nights, and would be out at around the same times he was.
As you go through your post-patrol routine, prepping for bed, you find yourself conflicted. Every night you look at Jason’s side of the bed and wonder if this is the night you tell him. You’ve rehearsed the conversation dozens, if not hundreds of times.
Not once have you taken action to tell him though. A mixture of apprehension and fear of judgment always win, leading to you telling yourself the same lie every night: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”
You never have, and it’s been long enough where you question if you ever will. The longer you wait, the worse it gets, and not just because it’s a big secret. How does it somehow get worse?
You have concluded that Jason does not like Batman. Hell, you would go so far as to say he loathes the vigilante.
While you may not always work with Batman, you do it often enough to the point where it's well known that you have some sort of association with him. It was apart of the (many) excuses you used in order to stall your inevitable confession. You needed to get him “open” to the idea of you working with the hero he detests. Every time you “innocently” inquired why he hates the Bat, Jason would get this far off look, his eyes narrowing in what looked like inner turmoil.
You stopped asking after he snapped at you about it.
In his defense, you had asked the question multiple times in the past (all with no success). You figured that if you kept prying at it, he’d eventually relent. However, you had clearly underestimated how personal his hatred was for Batman. He had left angry that night, fists clenched and whitened at his sides as he threw the door open. You had watched him leave regretfully.
It was a bad night.
That was the night that Scarecrow had first leaked his new Fear Gas to the diner. Millions of people fled the city, and you had felt a sense of dread settle into your chest. You knew, at that moment, that it was going to be a long few nights. That initial night was when you had first heard his name: the “Arkham Knight.”
You only recently started operating in Gotham, so you were accustomed to being unfamiliar with some of the household names in this business. Bruce had (very) reluctantly allowed you to operate in Gotham on your own. He let you do your own thing as long as you agreed to keep him in the loop if anything major happened. This whole Scarecrow and Arkham Knight mess fell into that category, and so the two of you came to an agreement to work with one another for the time being. You had hoped that, with how long Bruce has been doing this, he’d recognize the Arkham Knight. It turned out that not a single one of you had previously heard the name, and if Bruce didn’t know it, that didn’t bode well for the rest of you.
It didn’t take long for you to commit his name to memory. Soon it became the one thing that you focused on. Figuring out who he is. You and Alfred worked on it the most, sifting through files upon files of patients at Arkham who may have a vendetta against Batman (no small number), yet none fit the profile.
“You’re still here?”
You— the trained vigilante you are— jumped as Jason walks into your shared bedroom. He looked worn, just like every night he had left previously. However, he looked considerably more unkempt this time, and he had a stiffness about him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I do live here, you know.” You grinned at him as you made your way into your shared bed.
His mouth parted, and then he frowned. “I just… You know with all the shit that’s going on—” he tilted his head lazily to the window, “—I thought you’d leave.”
You chuckled, more out of surprise than amusement, “You thought I’d leave without telling you?”
He offered a strained smile, silently walking to the bathroom.
You blinked, frowning. Jason was never the most talkative person, and you were content to be the one that carried the conversation between the two in the beginning. As time went on, he opened up more, and more. It felt strange to have him be quiet again, and you did not like it one bit.
“Jay?” You called out his name, standing up from the bed. You knocked gently on the open bathroom door and find him looking at his reflection on the mirror. His eyes snap up on the reflective surface, meeting your own. “You know I wouldn’t leave you, right?” Steadily, you walked up behind him, adjusting your position before leaning your head onto his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. You don’t squeeze tightly, giving him the opportunity to push you off if he doesn’t want you touching him. He relaxed faintly under your touch, and you basked in his warmth. He’s always warm when he returns from his nights out.
The two of you were silent for a moment, and you looked down at his hands, rough and scarred. Gently, you caressed the skin, and he shuddered lightly. “I…” His sounded conflicted, and you turned your gaze to face him. He didn't return the look. “I think you should leave.”
You froze, staring unblinkingly at his face.
“Leave?” You tested the words in your mouth, they felt unfamiliar. You’re used to never leaving this city, even in times of crisis. Back before you started dating Jason, you had no reason not to stay. You were more useful aiding Gotham.
You never had somebody to prioritize over the city, not until Jason.
And if this is what Jason wanted, then you’ll figure out a way to apologize to Bruce later. You haven't even told him you have a boyfriend. “If that makes you feel better we can leave.”
Jason slowly maneuvered his way out of your grasp. “No,” he shook his head, brows downturned, “I have to stay.”
Your lips parted in surprise, “Jason,” you began slowly, “it’s not worth your life to stay in this city.”
He didn't react to that comment, “I can’t risk you being here when it all goes to shit.” His voice is stronger, colder, calculating. It’s not a tone you hear from him often. Sure, he’s gets mad or frustrated, but this?
You shook your head, “Batman will figure—”
“—Batman,” the words were spat with such venom that your eyes widened, taken aback, "won’t be able to stop this. This is beyond him.”
You furrowed your eyebrows, “How can you be so sure?”
He turned his gaze to you, his eyes set and narrowed. His next words were low, quiet, not out of uncertainty, but more akin to a promise to himself: “He won’t be walking away unscathed after this.”
You took a deep breath, “That…” you swallow, unsure how to proceed, “sounds like a threat to him.”
His expression was unreadable, “He should take it as one. This isn’t a battle he will win.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off again. “Leaving is your best option. It’s the safest option.” His eyes softened slightly as he raised a hand to your face, brushing your skin.
You grabbed his hand, “Then let’s leave together. I don’t understand why you feel obligated to stay here.”
He exhaled, shaking his head, “No, no. Don’t you get it? I can’t stay. I have…” He looked into your eyes, trying desperately to get you to understand him. It pained him to look at you, knowing he couldn't ever share his reason why he must stay. “…I have unfinished business here.”
You scoff, “Jason, whatever it is can wait. With all that’s going on with Scarecrow and the Arkha—”
“—You can’t be here for it.” He grounded out, “Please,” he tone turned into a imploring whisper. He shifted his grasp from your hands to your entire forearm. Supporting the weight with his own arms, he met your gaze, “I know— I’m aware I’m giving shitty reasoning, but I cannot do what I have to do if I know you’re in the city and could be in danger. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I heard you got caught in some crossfire.”
You shook your head at him, “Jason— I— How can I know you won’t get caught in the crossfire?”
His gaze turned steely, “I won’t.” He must have sensed your uncertainty, “I will— fuck— I can call you every night. I can give you my location. I will personally find you once I’ve done what I need to do. We can go wherever you want after this. Just please,” he gently raised a hand back up to your face, “please get out while you still can.”
You stared into his eyes, his despair nearly appearing manic. You shifted your focus to his hand cradling your chin, then to him. “I don’t want— I can’t abandon you Jay.”
He vehemently shook his head, “And you won’t. I know you aren’t. I’m asking you to. It’s all I’m asking of you, get yourself out of this mess before it gets worse.”
Your heart settled, and you take a deep breath. Slowly, you remove yourself from his hold, crossing your arms. “You’ll call?”
He nodded emphatically, “Every morning, every night— I’ll— hell— I’ll even answer during work.”
You slowly nodded, “If anything happens—” he opened his mouth to cut you off, but you glared at him, “—do not cut me off again." He swallowed before nodding. “If anything happens. I want you to leave the city at that very moment. I don’t care if your ‘business is unfinished.’ I don’t want you here.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“Jason.” You narrowed your eyes at him, “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
Hesitantly, he nodded, “Yeah,” he sounded breathless, “yeah, that’s… fair.”
You sighed, “You better mean that. Otherwise I’ll come back to the city just to drag you out.”
He looked immensely concerned by your words, “…You won’t do that.” At your unwavering expression he coughed lightly, “Please don’t do that.” He amended his statement.
You smiled humorlessly, “Then don’t give me a reason to.” You turned to walk out of the bathroom. Just as you were about to get past the threshold, you placed your hand on the doorframe, turning to face him again.
“Promise me you’ll be careful, Jay.”
His eyes lifted from the ground to meet your own. Still conflicted, but lighter than they were when he entered.
“I promise.” He vowed.
“Wait, you’ve been staying where?”
You lean back in your seat at the Batcomputer, looking at Tim projected on the monitor. “Well, Bruce is out right now. He hasn’t been home for days.” You shrug, “I do not understand what keeps that man going.” You mutter to yourself, shaking your head. “Anyway, I thought I'd just camp in the cave for the next few nights. It’s not like I could actually leave the city.” You sigh, reclining back in the chair.
“Remind me why you even considered doing that? We’re already stretched thin as it is.” Tim frowns.
You look up to Tim, his frown clearly projected on the screen. “Uh…” You cough, “Reasons.”
He walks off screen. “Ah, yes, reasons, very descriptive.” You can hear him rolling his eyes. “You know, it’s really none of my business—”
“—it really isn’t—”
“but it might feel better if you get it off your chest?” Tim returns, offering a small smile. You can vaguely see him working with some blood samples on the left side of the screen.
You twist in your chair, shifting your position to get a better look at him. You lazily rest one leg over the other. “I…” The problem with Tim’s offer is that you do want to talk about it. There’s not many people who could understand your inner conflict, and Tim would be one of the few.
“Don’t feel pressured. It’s just…” he sighs, “Don’t stress yourself too much. That’s Bruce’s job, we don’t need to do it to ourselves too.”
You chuckle, tapping a finger on the armrest of your chair contemplatively. “If… If I tell you—” you scoot closer to the screen, “you gotta swear not to tell Bruce.” You pause for a moment before continuing, “And you can’t look into it.”
Tim raises an eyebrow, but he eventually nods. “If that makes you feel better, then I suppose I can keep a secret.”
You brace yourself, looking around the cave for any third party listeners. Hesitantly, you clear your throat, “I… Hypothetically… have a boyfriend.”
Tim doesn’t outwardly react other than switching his focus from the samples to you. “How hypothetical are we talking?”
“…Not very hypothetical,” you smile sheepishly.
Tim gives you a sympathetic look, and slowly nods. “How long?”
You grimace, “About a year and a half?” You do a so-so motion.
His mouth parts, “Oh,” he blinks, dumbfounded, “so this has been a while.”
“Yeah…” You trail off.
“And Bruce has no idea?”
“No…” You trail off. “Probably not? I think I’ve done a pretty good job hiding it.”
He nods, “Alright, wow. You know the boyfriend thing? Kinda expected that.” He holds his hands up in surrender at your slightly offended look. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just surprised you haven’t… you know.” He vaguely gestures.
You blink slowly, “No, I don’t. Elaborate, Tim, please.”
He purses his lips, “Uh— Actually forget I said anything.” He pretends to busy himself with the samples. “So, uh, boyfriend huh? Got a name?”
“Most people do, yeah.” You nod, grabbing a pen on the desk and loosely spinning it.
His shoulders sag, and he places the blood samples down. “Oh come on, I already said I won’t tell, and I won’t look into it.”
You stare at him for a moment, assessing him for any lying tells. “You will not say a word or look it up.”
He groans, “Yes, otherwise you’ll kill me or something I don’t know. Honestly, you might have to wait to see if we survive these next few nights in order to do that.” He gives you his full attention, blood sample forgotten.
You snort humorlessly, that's a bit too realistic for you right now. “Alright,” you sigh, “his name is Jason.”
Tim blinks at you, and neither of you say anything for a bit. "Hello?” You hesitantly wave at him. Did the connection go out?
He shakes his head, “No— sorry— yeah, I’m here.” He nods carefully.
You raise an eyebrow, “Something… wrong with that?” You never really heard of Tim having something against the name “Jason,” but you’ve heard stranger things.
“No. I just—” he scratches his neck, “I know somebody by that name… Well—” he frowns, looking off into the distance before shaking his head, “technically I never knew him. I just heard nearly everything about him.”
You raise an eyebrow, a silent inquiry.
He looks down at the table in front of him before looking up again. “He was the— uh— previous Robin.”
You tilt your head, furrowing your eyebrows, “I thought that was Dick?”
He nods, “Dick was the first, but he wasn’t my predecessor.” He crosses his arms, leaning onto the table. “You know that one Robin suit in the cave?”
“Oh,” your eyes flickering over to the Robin suit displayed on instinct. “I… never knew.”
Tim shrugs, “He doesn’t talk about it much. I only know so much cause he kept calling me ‘Jason’ in the beginning.” You wince. You couldn’t help but feel sympathy for everybody involved. Losing Robin, losing a kid like that. It must have been hard on anybody. Then to constantly be compared to him.
“I’m sorry, Tim.” You apologize, voice quiet.
He shakes his head, “I never knew him… Not really anyway. It can't mourn him the same way Bruce, Alfred, or even Dick did. It just wasn’t the same.”
You nod, “Yeah.” You mumble, eyeing the costume.
He exhales, grabbing the blood samples, “Didn’t meant to dampen the mood.” He smiles apologetically at you. “The name just reminded me of him, that’s all.” His begins to work offscreen. “He treat you well?”
You nod, “He… He loves me. I know that,” you fidget with your fingers.
Tim leans back into frame, “But..?”
You exhale, feeling exhausted just remembering the argument. “He… He’s being a fucking idiot.”
Tim snorts, “How so?”
“He’s the one who told me to evacuate the city.” You prop an arm up on the desk, “At first I had actually considered the idea— don’t give me that look.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Tim grumbles.
“I wasn’t actually going to vanish, Tim. Why do you think I’m here and not at my apartment with him?” You rub your temples. “I would’ve figured something out. I just— I thought,” you exhale, frustrated that the words aren’t coming out as intended, “I thought that if he cared about me so much, he’d understand that I care about him just as much.”
“Does he not?” Tim asks, frowning as he sets the blood sample to spin in a centrifuge.
“He was insistent that he stay in the city. Said he has ‘unfinished business.’” You do air quotes, “Apparently, that is more important than his safety.”
“Did you ask him what it was?” Tim asks, mirroring your pose, propping his face onto his hand.
You slowly shake your head. “He… I don’t know.” You groan. “He knew it sounded stupid, and he told me that, but he never actually told me what it was.”
“Hm,” Tim hums disapprovingly. “I know you may not want to hear it, but that sounds—“
“—Suspicious as hell.” You nod, “I know, Tim. I’m not stupid.”
He holds his hands up in a surrender, “I’m just saying. ‘Unfinished business’ could be a way of saying he works for Scarecrow or just maybe he works for—”
“—the Arkham Knight.” You both chorus. You mouth parts as you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest.
Tim nods, “Look at us,” he chuckles, “teamwork at its finest. Finishing each other’s sentences.” He gestures between you both.
You don’t share his joy at coming to the same conclusion, “I don’t— Tim, it’s not fair of me to accuse him of something that drastic just because he won’t leave the city.”
Tim leans forward, hands propped up, “I don’t want to bash your boyfriend, but can you truly come up with another reason why he’d want to stay here with everything that’s going on.”
You remained silent.
“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” Tim tries, voice artificially optimistic. At your distressed sound, he panics slightly, “I can’t imagine you’d have subjected yourself with a relationship with an asshole for that long, so I genuinely don’t think he is a bad guy. He’s likely in a similar situation to many other criminals: forced into an awful situation, and forced to make it work.”
“I could help him though!” You groan.
“Have you told him about…” he gestures around loosely, “all of this?”
You purse your lips, shaking your head, “No…” you sigh. “I know it’s hypocritical, but it’s just—” you huff, laying your head into the crooks of your elbow on the desk. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s my issue to solve. I’ll probably tell him after all of this.” Your voice is muffled from speaking into your own arm. “I… I’ll just make sure to keep tabs on him while he’s here.” You sit up straight. “We got bigger issues to solve than my relationship issues.”
Tim removes the blood sample from the centrifuge, “Any updates on who the Arkham Knight could be?”
You shake your head, “Nope,” you pop the ‘p,’ “Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if this guy materialized out of thin air just to mess with us, or Bruce I guess.”
Tim raises his eyebrows, huffing as if considering the probability of that. “I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point.”
You chuckle humorlessly. “I’ve checked everything. Past Arkham patients, inmates at Blackgate, hell— I’ve begun to widen the search outside of Gotham and Blüdhaven. There’s nothing on this guy. He’s a ghost.”
Tim frowns, “You’re telling me somebody capable of leading the militia has just been hiding out in public then?”
You rest your head on your hand, rubbing your temples. The stress of figuring out who the Arkham Knight is has really been getting to you. “Seems like it." You admit. “I think I’ve just accepted that we’re not going to know who this guy is unless he reveals himself to us.”
Tim sighs, “Then let’s hope that it’s sooner rather than later.”
You can hear your heart beating.
It pounds in your ears as you watch the militia henchman walk over the grate your hiding under. The Arkham Knight had been setting up these bases across the city, and Bruce had tasked you with dismantling as many of them as you could.
Easier said than done.
“Have you heard about the calls the Knight has been taking?” One of the henchman asks his friend.
You crawl as close as you can to them in order to hear them better. “The Knight? Hell, I barely see the guy. Only times I’ve seen ‘im are when the Bat is involved.”
The first henchman huffs, “Well,” he looks around, checking to see if anybody is listening, “rumor has it, that he’s spent the past few nights callin’ someone. He doesn’t go out on jobs ‘til after the call.”
You watch as the second guy lowers his gun, “Eh, it’s probably ‘bout a job. You guys are looking into it too much.”
The first guy shakes his head, “Nah, man. We thought that too. Then one of the lieutenants accidentally walked in during one of these calls.” He huffs, “The Knight calmly ended the call, then absolutely lost it.”
“Did the guy knock? Manners are important.” The second guy asks dryly.
“I dunno,” the first guy shrugs, “but apparently what he heard? The Knight was talking to some woman.”
The second guy snickers, “Oooh,” he mockingly coos, “the Knight got a fuckin’ girlfriend? You sure we’re talkin’ about the same guy?”
The first guy huffs, as if offended. “Whatever, man. I’m just tellin’ you what I heard. Now, don’t go blabbing your mouth to everyone alright? Apparently, the Knight threatened the lieutenant, saying he’d kill the guy if he said anything about the call.”
It’s silent for a moment.
“So why the fuck would you tell me? I don’t wanna die!” The second guy whisper-yells.
“I just said don’t blab. If ya don’t blab then you’re fine.” The first guy waves him off.
“Yeah, but what if somebody is listening?” The second guy continues to whisper, eyes flickering around apprehensively.
Yeah, it’d be crazy if somebody was listening.
“It’s just us, buddy. Batman’s busy trying to get Ivy’s aid or some shit. It’s just us tonight.” The first guy pats his friend’s shoulder.
“Don’t he have those sidekicks of his running around?” The second guy gestures loosely.
“Eh, what’re the chances they’ll show up? The Bat is the only one we really need to worry about.” You quietly exit the grate, crouching behind a concrete wall.
“Yeah, I guess,” the second guy responds, unconvinced. You carefully sneak behind the two of them. “I suppose you’re right. What’re are the chances that one of the Bats will decide that we’re worth— OH SHI—”
You slam their heads together before knocking them both unconscious. You wipe imaginary dust off your hand, grabbing the controller from the pockets of the left guy and smashing it beneath your feet. The second you destroy it, the walls around you come down.
You open your comms, raising your wrist as Alfred's projection appears, “Another base dismantled.”
“Copy that, Madame.” Alfred gives a resolute nod.
“Also, I may have gotten more info on the Knight.” You lightly kick the militia goon, checking if he’s fully unconscious.
“Oh?” Alfred prompts.
You can’t help the grin on your face, “Apparently, the Arkham Knight has a girlfriend.”
Alfred is silent for a moment, “A… girlfriend?” He sounds baffled.
“Yeah, so I was listening to these militia guys talk, and apparently he has a girlfriend.” You sit on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down on the tanks patrolling the streets. “So now we’re dealing with a masked rogue working with Scarecrow, that has a grudge against Batman, that has no prior incidents actually recorded at Arkham, AND has a girlfriend.” You huff. “Gotta admit, the guy is one hell of a multitasker.”
“We can attempt to narrow the search, but I regret to inform you that I find it unlikely that any results with turn up with a real answer.” Alfred informs you, frowning.
“Yeah, I know, I’m just… I guess I was surprised. It’s the first piece of information we’ve caught on the Arkham Knight’s personal life.” You sigh, standing up. Alfred hums in acknowledgement. “Anyway, I’ll be heading to another base. I’ll keep you updated, Alfred.” You nod at him.
“Please remember to be careful.” Alfred nods at you in return.
You smile, “When am I not?” At his exasperated sigh, you chuckle. “I won’t get killed, Alfred. You needn’t worry.”
He sighs, “I always do.” The two of you sit in silence before he hangs up.
You slowly lower your wrist, staring over the city. The neon red lights of the drones shine through the alleys below, searching. Searching for Batman in particular, but willing to take any target that dares to venture into their line of sight. Occasionally, you’ll see a criminal duck into an alley, attempting to get out of the militia’s path. For once, you cannot blame them for trying to run.
It’s been one night since you “left” Gotham.
You had called Jason last night, standing on the balcony of Wayne Tower. Staring down at the city as it’s overrun by more militia and rogues than you’ve seen in a while.
“Hey,” You spoke softly into the phone. The rain attempted to drown out the sound of your voice, but Jason could hear it clear as day.
“Hey,” Jason started, “you got out of the city okay?”
You smile sadly, “I texted you the second I got out.” You had texted him six hours after you had reached the Manor. You made sure to scramble your location so that he couldn’t track you to Bruce’s.
“Yeah, I know.” He hummed “I wanted to hear it from you.”
You chuckled, “I’m alright, Jay. How about you?”
He’s silent for a moment, “I’m managing.”
You sighed, leaning against the railing, “Do you think that you’ll finish up soon?” You asked quietly.
He sighed, “No… Not for a couple of days at least.” You heard the creak of a door open in the background. Jason inhales so sharply that it was actually audible. “Hey, sweetheart,” he started slowly, and you can hear the sound of a chair squeak in the background, “somethin’ just came up. I can call you in a minute, you mind if I deal with this real quick?” Well, that wasn’t a very long call.
“It’s okay, Jay. Go and deal with it. We can always call tomorrow. I know you’re busy.” You smiled ruefully.
“Are you sure?” His voice became rougher, and you could tell somebody is in the room with him.
“It’s okay, Jay.” You chuckled, “The quicker you get this done, the quicker we can see each other again, yeah?”
“Yeah,” his words were a whisper meant for you. “Alright, I’ll call you tomorrow." He paused, and his next words were somehow softer than the last. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”
You bite your tongue to keep from grinning into the phone, “I love you more, Jay.”
He chuckles humorlessly, “Doubt it.”
You roll your eyes, “Alright, alright. I’ll let you think that.” You pushed yourself off the railing, walking into Lucius’ office with a nod of acknowledgement for the man. “Good luck with whatever you’re dealing with.”
“He’s gonna need it.” Jason hung up the call, and you put your phone away.
You had called him for a quick check up in the morning, but he seemed even more busy than last night. You didn’t want to bother him too much, and accepted the quick phone call, not questioning any of the oddities that came with it. You were just glad to hear he was okay.
You pull your phone out, opening Jason’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. The rain patters onto the screen, causing the pixels to warp slightly underneath the liquid. You wipe it, gloves smearing the droplets off the screen.
Is it too late to call him? Is he busy again? What if he’s out working? What if he’s working for them?
You shiver from the cold, raising your knees to your chest to conserve warmth. Your about to lower your thumb to press that button, when you hear the militia begin to speak into your comms. Bruce had given you the frequency they were on, and you had been listening to them all night.
“Got her located in sight, Boss.”
You whip around, narrowing your eyes as you notice a helicopter in the distance approach you. What the hell?
Narrowing your eyes, you stand your ground as the helicopter closes in on you. It turns to open the doors that are now facing you. Half a dozen militia henchmen jump out, landing in front of you. You ready yourself for a fight, fists raised, “Oh, now you decide I’m worth the effort?”
“Take her out!” The medic yells from the back, and you maneuver your way around the other members in order to take him out first. Bruce has mentioned once or twice how annoying they could be, and you didn’t want to find out.
Standing up from the now unconscious body, you use your peripherals to catalog the other members of the group. They’ve got training, but they’re not nearly as good as some of the simulations Bruce has made you fight for practice. You focus on one at a time, incapacitating them one-by-one. Attack when you can, but focus on keeping yourself safe first. By the time you finish. You look back up to the helicopter, gesturing your hands out as if asking “Got anymore than that?” Was it smart to taunt the heavily armed military group occupying your city? Probably not, but to be fair...
You didn’t expect the Arkham Knight to jump out of the helicopter next.
You immediately crouch into a fighting position, narrowing your eyes at him. This is the first time you’ve seen the man up close in person and not just from Bruce’s recordings. “You aren’t who I was expecting.” You keep your tone steady, quips dying as you realize the severity of your circumstances
“I could say the same about you.” He strolls casually to the left, and you begin to circle one another. “I knew that the Bat had gotten a new sidekick.” He pauses, lazily pointing his gun at you, as if you aren’t a threat, “I didn’t expect him to get two new sidekicks.”
Now, you haven’t been doing this for as long as Bruce, but you wouldn’t consider yourself “new” to this anymore. Even if you were “new,” the Knight said that there were two new sidekicks. The newest after you is Tim, and he is certainly not new to this.
“New?” You ask cautiously.
The Arkham Knight laughs, the robotic sound sending an uneasy shiver down your spine. “Still can’t figure it out?” He slowly approaches you, and you reach your hand back to your utility belt, ready to attack. “All of these allies and nothing to show for them, huh?” He continues to laugh, and instead of being scared, the sound begins to grate on your nerves.
“Don’t pretend to know anything about us.” You glare at him.
“Oh, I don’t have to pretend. I know how he thinks. I know how he operates. I’ve known longer than you have, and longer than you ever will.” The Knight stops in front of you, the lights on his mask pulse as you stare at it.
“Is that a threat?” Your words are quiet, stiff.
The Knight shrugs, “Take it how you will. I don’t care. Either way, I won’t hesitate to stop you if you attempt to meddle with my operations any more.” He points his gun beneath your chin, and you swallow nervously. The metal doesn't touch you, though. You don’t break eye contact with him.
“Then why hesitate now?” You grit your teeth.
He chuckles quietly, “Don’t mistake this for hesitation.” He presses the barrel of the gun up against your chin, causing you to jerk back instinctively, “This is your warning, your only warning. I don’t care what your partnership with him is like. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stop interfering with my plans.”
“You’re hurting innocent people—”
“Innocent?!” You wince at the sudden change in volume. “You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?” He lightly nudges the gun against your chin, and you avoid looking into the barrel of it. “Do you wanna know somethin’?”
You don’t respond, and you don’t think he’d care what your response is.
“Well, the Bat? The guy you hold in such high regard?” He waves the gun away from you. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you. He doesn’t hold your life in any higher regard than any of those low-lives running amok in the street.”
“You don’t know that.” You push the gun away with your hand, and the Knight lets you.
“I know that better than anybody.” He spits the words out, waving the gun around. “Perhaps you will learn that someday, but really— it's not my problem.” He holsters his gun, turning around as he walks back beneath the helicopter. “This is beyond you. Stay out of this fight. This is your only warning, and you’re very lucky I’m giving it to you.”
You slowly trail behind him, keeping your distance, but curious what more he has to say. “No, no, wait—” six more militia members drop to the Knight’s sides, “—I don’t understand, how do you know—”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” The Knight cuts you off. “Let’s make this our final meeting. If you’re smart, you’ll stop aiding the Bat,” he pauses for a moment, reaching for his grapnel gun, “but something tells me you won’t listen to me.” He launches himself away, back into the helicopter, before you even get a chance to respond.
“Damn it.” You mutter to yourself, looking up at the helicopter hovering above you. The Knight grabs the edge of the door for support, looking down at you. “Do what you can against her.” He commands before walking out of your sight. You glare up at the helicopter as it begins to depart.
A quick jab comes your way, but (luckily) you raised your elbow to block the blow. Wincing, you huff at the goon; you know you’ll be feeling that tomorrow. You parry the goon’s next jab before sweeping him off his feet, and punching him in the jaw. He grunts as you hit him once more, knocking him unconscious. You look back up to the helicopter fleeing the scene as the remaining henchmen surround you.
That wasn’t what you expected.
“Did he give any tells as to who he may be.” Bruce asks over the comms.
“I… No? I don’t think so. He seemed to believe that he knows you better than Tim and I do.” You look over the rooftop you’re standing on, surveying the militia base below. There’s a drone stationed in there, damn. It looks like you’ll have to dismantle that first before taking on the rest of the henchmen.
Bruce says your name, “Think.” He prompts. “Was there anything he said that you think could clue us into who he is?”
Frustrated, you shake your head, “Bruce, I don’t know who this guy is. I’ve looked. I uploaded the footage of our encounter to the Batcomputer. You can view it if you want, but there’s nothing we didn’t already know. He acts like he knows you better than Tim or I do, then goes on about having a grudge against you.”
Bruce grunts, and you sigh. “I’m sorry, I wish I had more to say, but I don’t know who he could be.” You frown, grabbing your disruptor. “I can keep looking—”
“Don’t.” Bruce interrupts you (apparently everybody feels the need to cut you off).
You straighten your posture, “But you said that you wanted me to try and figure out his identity.”
“It’s too risky right now. If that was his only warning, I don’t want you getting hurt on the field.” You can hear Bruce’s cape in the background of the audio.
You furrow your eyebrows, “That’s never stopped you before.”
He remains silent for a moment.
You sigh, “Fine… Fine, I’ll stop looking into his identity.”
“And the bases.” Bruce adds.
You stand up, turning away from the base below you, “What? Are you serious, Bruce? You want to bench me now?” You scoff, “We finally make progress, and you decide that sending me away from this is the best option?”
“You have a target on your back now.” He responds stoically.
“Oh,” you chuckle humorlessly, “so now I’m an obstacle? A person to babysit on field? I’m an adult, Bruce. You don’t need to baby me. I've had a target on my back since my first day out.” You cross your arms as you turn you back to the base below you.
Bruce is silent for moment before he says your name, “Help Tim if you must, but it’s safer for you if you aren’t out here.”
You inhale slowly, attempting to control your breathing. You let out a long exhale, “Fine.” Fuck you too, Bruce.
You stare blankly ahead for a moment before you hear Bruce switch channels. You take the opportunity to turn around, looking down at the base again.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I suppose.” You mumble to yourself, before switching the comm channel. “Hey, Tim?”
“What’s up?” You can hear his voice off in the distance.
“So, Bruce tried benching me,” you trail off, pulling your disruptor back out.
Tim snorts, “Welcome to the club. I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he wants me working on this cure just so I’m not out on the field.”
You huff, “I can’t imagine why he’s so set on working alone, but I’m going to keep trying to dismantle as many bases as I can.”
“Hm,” Tim hums, “well, if you need help—”
“—then I’ll let you know. I just wanted to make sure somebody knows what I’m doing.” You hold down the button on the disruptor, connecting it to the drone.
Tim snorts, “You’re better than Bruce at least.”
You roll your eyes, “I’d hope so.” You click the button to turn it off for thirty seconds. “Anyway, I’m at a base right now, I gotta go, bye!” You quickly hang up, ignoring Tim’s baffled “Huh?”
You take the opportunity to sneak behind the drone before making quick work of it. Obviously, dismantling such a big weapon wouldn’t go unnoticed, so you quickly throw a Batarang at the one gunman in the corner. You roll before grabbing your Batclaw and disarming him.
You narrow your eyes, a smirk forming on your face as you watch one of the goons run toward the crate of guns. Grinning, you decide to taunt the guy, knowing he won’t listen, “Uh, I wouldn’t touch that—”
The second he touches the crate, he gets electrocuted, crumbling to the ground. You wince in sympathy, that’ll leave a mark. You shoot the Batclaw out again before yanking one of the militia members to you; you use the momentum combined with your punch to instantly knock him to the ground.
“Thought we’d only be worrying about the Bat tonight?” One of the guys yells out.
“Well obviously not. Last I checked she wasn’t the Bat!” The other one grabs a club before attempting to hit you with it.
“Can confirm: I am not the Bat.” You block the club, yanking it from his grasp before whacking it back on him. “Kinda more like a subcategory. Bat-adjacent, if you will.”
“So like a sidekick?” Another goon asks.
“Eh, yes but no?” You respond, using the wall to jump off of and knock him out. “Sidekick feels a little demeaning. Like do you want me to call you guys sidekicks to the Arkham Knight?”
One of the other goons slowly lowers his hands, sharing a look with his buddy, “Well, no—”
“So you see my point!” You offer him finger guns, before grabbing his elbow. You twist it to an unnatural angle before snapping it. He cries out in pain, “Sorry, it ain’t personal.” You sheepishly shrug.
“The hell is she doing here? The Knight told us we wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else!” One of the goons cries out.
“He fuckin’ lied that’s what!” You knee him in the face, ouch.
“So like— since you guys are feeling chatty— Have you heard anything about the Knight’s girlfriend?” You pin one guy to the ground, using your weight to keep him stationary.
“How—” He coughs, “How do you know about that?” His voice is raspy. You smile, putting a finger up to your lips.
“Don’t worry about that. I was just curious cause like— no offense to him— but I did not imagine him to be the romantic type.” You wave a hand casually.
“That’s— That’s what I said!” The goon beneath you cries out.
You nod sagely, noticing a guy sneak up behind you. You move out of the way in the nick of time, and he slams his arms down onto his friend’s body— right where you previously were. The grounded goon cries out in pain, and you frown.
“So you guys got any info on that matter?” You grab a Batarang, throwing it at one of the guys attempting to pick up a gun off the ground.
“Like we’d tell you anything!” He yells back, cradling his hand as if you smacked it (the Batarang didn’t even hit him).
“Okay, fair, I can respect the loyalty…” You raise your hands up in mock-surrender. “But like— does he get all gushy when he talks about her?” You snicker to yourself, you can’t imagine the Arkham Knight being a loving boyfriend.
One of the guys snorts, “He like fully changed into another person. Like I heard from outside the door he was like ‘you get out of the city okay?’ or somethin’—”
“Hey, you never told me that!” One of the other goons whips to face his friend, offended.
The first guy shrugs, “You didn’t seem like you cared.”
“Are you kidding me, dude?” He grumbles under his breath.
“Yeah, yeah, so did his girlfriend leave the city?” You pry, putting your hands on your hips. At this point the fight has been long forgotten.
The two remaining goons shrugged, “I dunno? I think so. I left soon after the other guy walked in on his conversation with her.” The second guy winces, raising a fist to his mouth with a hissing sound.
“Yeah, I could hear his yelling down the hall.” The second guy adds on.
You nod solemnly, “Damn, so have any of you guys asked about her since?”
While getting information about the Arkham Knight be difficult, getting information from his girlfriend?
Now that is a much easier mission.
Based on what they’ve told you, the Knight told his girlfriend to evacuate the city. This means that she’s likely a civilian, a lot easier to interrogate than the Knight himself.
“You kiddin’? Last guy who said anything about it was made an example of.” The first guy cries out, shaking his head. The other guy frantically nods his head.
You frown, “Does he make an example of you guys often?”
“Nah, he’s not abusive. Tough and maybe a bit too vengeful, yeah, but the guy has done a good job training us for this.” He shrugs, “Well, other than the guy who said something nasty about his girl.”
You raise an eyebrow, “What’d he say?”
The two guys shrug in unison, and your hold back your chuckle at how innocent they look. “We don’t know. All we know is that the guy hasn’t been seen since.”
You nod slowly, “Huh, alright… Thanks.”
“Yeah— Wait, you think we gave her too much info?” The first guy turns to face his friend. The second guy slowly looks between his friend and you.
“Probably,” his voice sounds, understandably, worried.
“It’s fine. I’m not really happy with Batman right now. Rest assured that that info won’t reach him.” You pull out your detonator.
The two guys exhale, relieved.
You hold the detonator up, “Still gotta knock you both out though,” you offer a pitiful smile, “sorry?”
“What—”
You press the button, and both of them fly a few feet before laying limp on the ground. You frown, checking their heartbeat: unconscious, but alive.
You raise a hand up to your comm, turning it on. “Tim, you will not believe what these guys just told me, oh my goodness.” You hold your wrist up, looking at Tim on the projection as you locate the signal for the controller for the base’s walls.
“Good news I hope? We’re kinda running low on that.” He mumbles the last part to himself. You grab the controller from the goon beneath you.
“Eh, interesting news, that’s for sure.” You crush the signal, watching as the walls around you fold onto itself.
Tim raises an eyebrow, “Alright, I’m listening.”
“You remember how the Knight has a girlfriend? Well, I was just chatting with some of the militia guys, and—”
“The Arkham Knight has a girlfriend?” Tim slams his arms down onto the desk in surprise.
You pause, frowning, “Did… Did I not tell you that?”
“No! I think I’d remember!”
“Huh,” you pause, contemplative. “Oh! Right, I told Alfred first.”
Tim’s mouth drops open, “You told Alfred before me?”
You purse your lips, “Sorry, Tim, kinda forgot. Alfred has been the one helping me identify the guy.”
“No worries, I’m just surprised— we are talking about the Arkham Knight, right? The ‘Look at me while you die, Batman’ guy?”
“Yep,” you release a dry chuckle.
“He has a girlfriend?” Tim asks again.
“Yep,” you grin.
“Who’d date the guy? Wait, do you think he practices his lines for when he attempts to kill Bruce? You think his girlfriend hypes him up?” Tim chuckles at the idea.
You cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, “Tim.” You lightly scold.
“Okay, sorry, but like— he’s gotta bounce the ideas off somebody.” Tim smirks, shrugging. You ponder the question for a moment.
“You think his girlfriend gets tired of it?” You eventually ask, smirking back at him. “Babe, it’s three in the morning, please stop threatening Batman.”
Tim lets out a long exhale that sounds like a wheeze. “He— He wakes her up like: ‘Babe, wake up, I came up with a new Batman threat.’”
The two of you continue to cackle on call, your volume garnering attention from criminals roaming the street. When they go to investigate, they see you, and immediately turn the other direction which only spurs your laughter even more.
“Okay, okay—” you continue to laugh, “seriously though. I was talking to some of his guys about it. Apparently he like likes her.”
“Oh?” Tim coughs, attempting to catch his breath from the laughter.
“Yeah, and I quote from one of the guys: ‘he fully changed into another person.’ Which leads me to think she isn’t involved in his business.” You theorize.
Tim nods along, “You think you can find her?”
You deflate, “Well, uh, no.” His shoulder sag, and you rush to add another comment. “But,” you hold up your index finger in a “Wait” motion. “But, I do know she left the city.”
Tim frowns at you, “I think that’s the opposite of helpful.”
“Yeah, well. It’s something. We know she’s a civilian, and she is currently not in the city.”
Tim chuckles, tired, “Wow, with that much information, we might as well consider it a case closed.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. His goons talk easily. I didn’t even have to threaten them. I’ll just wait til some of them talk about the girlfriend again.” You smile at Tim.
“Well, that sounds enjoyable. I hope you have fun with that.” Tim responds dryly.
“Don’t act like testing blood samples is any more fun.” You deadpan.
“What?” Tim gasps, “What’re you talking about? This is a blast.” He set the blood sample in his hand back into the centrifuge to spin.
“Mhm,” you hum, “yeah that’s what I thought.”
“Don’t you have goons to be eavesdropping on?” Tim’s lip twitches, betraying his smile.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep you and Alfred updated.” You lower your wrist and dismiss the projection of Tim.
“In that order, or will I be the second to hear about any new info you gathered?” Tim’s voice echoes in your comms.
You chuckle, “Bye-bye, Tim.” You hang up the call, checking the time. It’s nearly four in the morning, and upon seeing the time, you feel the exhaustion deep into your bones. You should call Jason. It’s what you were going to do before the Arkham Knight oh-so kindly interrupted you.
Heyy, sorry, I fell asleep on accident
do you still wanna call or is it too early?
or I guess late
idk depends on perspective
Not even a minute goes by.
Jason: I can call if you’d like
Jason: but if you were asleep, then you should go back to sleep
Jason: we can always call in the morning
Jason: or now
You smile, pursing your lips as you consider your options. On the other hand, you are tired. Calls with Jason can last two minutes (given his mystery job), but also the possibility of spending the next two hours on the phone with your boyfriend is very real.
it’s okay, we can call in the morning
sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep lol
Jason: Don’t worry about it
Jason: I should’ve texted you earlier
Jason: It’s been a long night
Don’t you know it.
I get that, just make sure you rest
Jason: Only if you do
Damn fair enough 💀
Jason: Joking, joking
Jason: Not really
Jason: Seriously get some rest
No need to tell you twice.
Whatever you say 🫡
He pauses for a moment, bubble reappearing and disappearing.
Jason: That felt a bit too easy
Wow okay so you wanna argue about it?? :(
For a beat, there is no bubble or message.
Jason: Good night, I love you
You snort.
That’s what I thought
Good night, I love you too Jay :)
The two of you like each other’s messages, and you put your phone away. Time to trek back to the Manor. You look up to the city above you, Ivy’s plants wrapped around bridges, smoke in the distance puffing up into a smoky gray cloud— probably Firefly’s fault.
Sighing, you grab your grapnel gun and head back to the Manor.
“I know that better than anybody.”
You press the space bar, looping the audio.
“I know that better than anybody.”
Once again.
“I know that better than anybody.”
“Madame, I don’t believe looping your encounter with the Knight will be beneficial for you.” Alfred walks up to the Batcomputer beside you.
“Well, it’s the best we got.” You sigh as Alfred places a mug beside you. You smile at him gratefully. “Thanks.”
He nods, “Forgive me for prying, but I was under the impression that Master Bruce was going to be the only one out in action for the next few days.”
You scoff, “Yeah, well, he is insane if he thinks that tackling on the city with no field back up is smart.”
Alfred hums, “I suppose you make a good point.”
You turn toward Alfred, eyes pleading, “Don’t tell him please. I already told Tim that I’d call him for help if I mess up.”
Alfred remains silent for a moment before slowly nodding, “As long as you aren’t mortally injured, then I suppose I can omit this bit of information from him.”
You smile, exhaling in relief, “Thanks, Alfred.”
He nods, “Thank me by not making me have to resort to that.” He walks off, leaving you alone at the computer once again.
You watch him leave before slowly returning your attention to the screen. You zoom in on the Arkham Knight’s appearance. He looks the same as he has every time Bruce showed his footage of him. Screen-like mask, a military style suit, the “A” in the center of his suit. Upon closer examination, you notice that his suit has similar patterns in some parts that match some of the militia’s, only difference being that his is more vibrantly colored with a red. You hadn’t noticed it when you first met him. All you could focus on was his eyes. Bright and unyielding and betraying no emotion. The only way you were able to discern his thoughts was when he spoke. You click on a different time stamp in the audio.
“Innocent?! You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?”
His body language seemed frantic yet controlled. His wide gestures aren’t out of any lapses into mania, but out of anger. You frown as you watch him hold the gun underneath you chin. At the time, you had been focused on not dying. Now, you notice the slightly tremble in his hands. You aren’t so naive to think that it’s out of fear of killing. A man like the Arkham Knight— a man who has taken lives without remorse— wouldn’t feel scared of killing you. You recognize it for what it is: fury.
Whatever his grudge against Batman is. It’s personal. It feels too personal for Batman not to have met the guy at least once.
Stretching, you stand up from your chair before grabbing your utility belt laid out on the desk. Alfred was right. This isn’t helping. If anything, you just feel crazy listening to the same modulated voice lines over and over and over, analyzing fabric just for a hint on who this guy may be.
You might as well go to the city, make use of yourself.
Journeying from the Manor to the main part of the city isn’t an unfamiliar trip. The trip back is automatic, and you barely even process the fact that you’ve made it back onto the main road. The only reason you do is that the drones patrolling the sky nearly blind you with their unforgiving beams of light waiting to claim their next victim.
The night started out slow, at least relative to the other ones.
You didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself— with Bruce not knowing you’re still patrolling— so you focused on the more minor crimes… for the most part. You didn’t actively go looking for any rogues or militia bases to dismantle, but if you stumbled onto them?
You might as well.
Some of them were evidently made with the intention of taking on the Batmobile (something you did not have access to), so you had to settle for taking on the ones without a dozen turrets scanning for a hint of movement. While not ideal, it still left plenty for you to take down.
By the time you had taken down two bases and two watchtowers, you had eased yourself comfortably into the night’s routine. The watchtowers required a bit more stealth than the bases, but if anything, you were grateful for the change in pace. It kept you on your toes.
You heave a sigh, detonating your third security console of the night. Another watchtower gone. You linger for a moment, grateful for the heating your suit provided. With how cold it is, and with the constant on-and-off rain, you imagine you’d get sick very fast without it. Frowning, you look over the unconscious bodies scattered at your feet.
Despite all your work tonight, not a single base has provided useful information. Frustrating? Absolutely. However, you aren’t too surprised. You kneel down to examine the armor the militia is wearing. “Hm,” you hum to yourself. It's the first time you've actually considered analying their attire. It appears to be standard military wear. Perhaps it has extra padding, but you note that it isn’t bulletproof, which is a bit surprising. You narrow your eyes at the scuffed up pieces of armor.
You suppose that makes sense, Bruce doesn’t use guns. It makes no sense to prepare for bullets when your biggest target doesn’t use them. You are about to reach into their pockets when you still.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You pause, but don’t look around. You don’t want to alert anybody that may be watching that you are aware they’re watching. Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to calm down. Biting your tongue, you slowly proceed with your original intention: looking through the militia’s pockets.
Then you see it. The flicker of a red dot flickers onto your arm before trailing up to your head. You heart spikes as you instantly raise an arm up, diving to the side to avoid the bullet. You scramble to push yourself against the now destroyed control console, smoke still piling up from your earlier explosion. You reach for smoke bombs in your utility belt, before quickly realizing your grasping at air. You mutter a soft curse, attempting to look for any other cover in the environment around you.
The control console was placed on the center of a long bridge walkway. The nearest crates for cover are at least thirty feet away. A distance you can’t cover, lest your sniper attempts to shoot you again. You attempt to raise your head over the top of the console, using the smoke to mask yourself. Upon seeing a figure on a rooftop above you, you feel your heart drop.
Of course, it’s the Arkham Knight. Why wouldn’t it be? You had blatantly disregarded every warning he gave you.
You tap your comms, “Tim— Alfred— Somebody— Arkham Knight is attempting to kill me. He’s sniping me just south of Kingston on Miagani.” You flinch as a bullet hits the console. “I could use some backup, as soon as possible!”
You hear Tim curse in the background, “I’m at least five minutes out. Think you can hold him off for that long?”
You attempt to steel yourself, “I’ll try my best. Please hurry.”
“Not so confident are you now?” The Arkham Knight’s voice echoes between the two buildings you’re between.
You scoff, not deigning to respond to his taunt.
“You can’t hide there forever.” He continues, his casual arrogance leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s like he already considers you dead.
“I’m assuming we can’t talk about this?” You yell out, wondering if he’ll even be able to hear you.
“Oh, we’re long past talking.” For a second, the red light of his rifle vanishes. You narrow his eyes, what is he planning?
Then you hear the faint familiar clatter of a grenade. Your eyes widen as you launch yourself out of the blast radius. However, you weren’t able to escape it completely, and it sends you skidding near the ledge of the walkway. Forced out of your cover, your eyes flicker to the Arkham Knight. He is propping the rifle against his shoulder, and he tilts his head at you.
“I gave you a warning.” He slower lowers the rifle, preparing to shoot it. Your muscles tense, and you run towards a shield an unconscious militia member left on the floor, raising it at the last second as the Knight sends a bullet straight into the shield, a resounding “CLANG!” nearly making you flinch.
“I remember!” You sneer, raising your shield up again as he sends another bullet your way. Reaching for your Batclaw, you hide it behind the shield. Keep him talking, not shooting. “In case it wasn’t obvious, your threat—” you emphasize the last word, “wasn’t appreciated.”
He chuckles, the sound distorted and wrong. “A shame.” He shoots your shield again, and the second the bullet impacts the metal, you shoot the Batclaw out, yanking the rifle out of his hands. You both watch as it falls to the ground, about fifty feet in front of you.
The two of you stare at each other for another moment, before you lunge for the rifle. He quickly follows suit, jumping onto the walkway with you. You reach the rifle first, but that doesn’t deter him. He lunges toward you, and you side-step to your left. He pivots, grabbing a gun out of its holster before shooting it mere feet away from you. The bullet hits your shield again, and you take the opportunity to unload the rifle, throwing it off the walkway— hundreds of feet below.
The second you release the rifle, he tackles you. The two of you tumble, and you let out a surprised yelp. You attempt to secure your spot on top of him, but he presses his weight into your elbow, nearly snapping it. You wince, hissing in pain. You use your other hand to attempt to maneuver yourself out from underneath him.
He shifts his position, using his knee to pin your neck to the ground. You attempt to push him off, but he only puts more force into your neck.
“Think of this as sparing you even more pain down the line.” He begins slowly, raising his gun to your sternum. “If it makes you feel better, it’s really not personal. Not with you.” He lazily gestures, gun in hand, and all you can focus on is the barrel boring into your soul. You're unable to move underneath him, and it is then that you realize the true gravity of the situation.
You attempt to kick him off of you, but your efforts are futile. The Arkham Knight barely moves at your attempts of escape. “Sure feels personal.” You grit out, coughing again as he presses more weight into his knee.
He shakes his head slowly, “My issue is with him, and I thought that maybe you were smart enough to take my warnings.” The gun pointing at your head doesn’t waver. “However, you’ve gone and taken down dozens of my men tonight single-handedly.” His voice is low, telling you that he is fuming behind that mask. Good.
“You almost sound impressed.” You chuckle sardonically, and he matches the sound.
“At your audacity, perhaps. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He shakes his head thinking about it.
“Clearly, you thought wrong.” You retort.
He hums, “A mistake I will not make again.” You watch as his hand tightens its grasp on the gun. His index finger, slowly putting more pressure on the trigger. You watch as his finger remains frozen on the trigger, unmoving.
You don’t bother to hide your stilted exhale. For a moment, you’re glad that he can’t see the fear in your eyes as he shoots you, your mask conceals the terror that would no doubt be reflected upon its removal.
You watch as he slowly raises the gun to point at your head, and you shut your eyes. You don't want to look at your demise. You don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You feel the Knight shift slightly, and you take a deep breath— likely your final breath. You don't count the seconds, but you get the distinct feeling he is drawing this out.
At the deafening sound of the gun, the weight is thrown off of you, and your vision spins as you immediately open your eyes in shock.
You're not dead.
Frantically, you look around, searching for who saved you. You attempt to stand up, but quickly stumble over yourself, your shoulder crying out in pain. You resign yourself to the ground and watch as Tim uses his staff to shove the Knight off the walkway. You make eye contact with the Knight once last time, and you’re surprised to see him watching you until the very end.
You inhale sharply, attempting to catch your breath as you slowly crawl over to the edge looking over it to see—
Nothing.
He got away, again. Even the rifle you threw below has vanished.
Still scanning the streets below for the Knight, you don’t realize that Tim snuck up behind you. You jump as he kneels down, gently hoisting you up. It’s only at that moment, when he looks down at you in horror that you realize what the strange sensation in your shoulder was.
The Arkham Knight shot you.
The observation is apparent to anybody with eyes, but all you can do is stare at the growing red stain spreading over your suit— staining the material. The pain feel distant, and you tell yourself you can walk it off. You barely register Tim calling out for help over comms. He presses his hands onto your shoulder, and you feel light-headed. All you want to do is lay down and close your eyes, perhaps it’ll make the dizziness go away.
You aren’t sure how many minutes go by, but next thing you know, you’re wince as Bruce slowly sits you up. You somehow have enough energy to realize that you will be getting chewed out for this later on for disobeying him. Given your current circumstances, you can't truly bring yourself to care. It’s not long before you are being put into the backseat of the Batmobile. Tim is still sitting next to you, and you feel a bit more clear, and only one thought enters your mind:
You want Jason.
You want to see Jason.
You don’t want to be out fighting the Knight. You don't want to think about him
You want to see your boyfriend.
You don’t have any tears to cry, and you look up at Tim as a dry sob escapes your mouth. You’re so tired. You hear him mutter some empty promises. Promising it’ll be okay, and that you’re almost there.
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I thought that— I just…” You lean your head against the back. “I didn’t know he’d be there tonight.” You slowly open your eyes to look at Bruce. He doesn’t turn to look at you, nor does he meet your gaze in the rear view mirror.
You shift uncomfortably, Tim still putting pressure on your wound. “You shouldn’t have kept going out on patrol without me knowing. Not without backup ready on the field,” he breaks the silence, “but that’s not my priority right now.”
You nod solemnly, part of you wants to argue with him, but you’re in too much pain to fight back on it. Perhaps when you have more energy. “He…” you swallow, “…was going to shoot me in the head.” Your mouth feels dry.
Tim stiffens next to you, and he can’t meet your eyes. “I… I saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”
You shake your head, offering him a pained smile. “You made it. That’s what matters.” He attempts to mirror you smile, but it looks wrong.
You laugh softly, “You know—” you wince as a burning pain pierces your shoulder, sending burning waves of pain up your next, “It wasn’t even worth the bullet. I still don’t have an idea who this guy is.”
Nobody else laughs with you, not that you were expecting them to.
“You will not be investigating the Knight any longer.” Bruce declares.
You huff, feeling your stomach turn, “Mm…” You think you see him narrow his eyes at you in the rear view mirror. The familiar sign of Leslie’s clinic comes into view, and you exhale in relief. Even if every move you make is painful, you feel better knowing that you’re in safe hands.
You will worry about the consequences of this night later.
The fogginess from your eyes slowly dissipates as you blink.
You hear the soft squeaks of the bats above, the electronic hum of the technology in the cave, and yet there’s no sign of anybody in the cave with you. Frowning, you sit up, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through the wound. “Hello?” You call out, and your voice echoes around the empty cave.
Carefully, you maneuver yourself off the bed, making your way over to the Batcomputer. You hold your shoulder as you slowly walk over. Sitting down, you're about to message Tim or Bruce when dread hits you full force.
You got shot, and you haven’t told Jason.
More accurately: You got shot, and you can’t tell Jason.
Eyes falling on your phone, you hesitantly reach for it. You navigate your phone to his contact.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring—
“Was beginning to worry you forgot about me.” Jason’s voice breaks through all the ambience of the cave. Despite the teasing tone, you can hear the relief in it.
You smack your lips, “I could never.” You swallow, feeling emotional just hearing him. “It’s been a rough night.” Your voice is quiet, and you wince at how small you sound. Your goal is to avoid alerting Jason to your injury.
He’s silent for a beat, “Rough, hm?” He hums. “I’m sorry.” He does sound genuinely apologetic.
You stare through the ground with a strained smile; it’s not like he can see. “It’s not your fault.” You settle into the chair at the Batcomputer.
Jason exhales, “I’m sorry nevertheless.” You can almost hear him trying to figure out what words to say, “I’m sorry that we had to do this.” He adds on.
Heaving a sigh, you slowly lean against the back of the seat. You want to say it’s okay, but really it’s anything but. You never wanted to leave the city, and if Jason found out you stayed despite agreeing otherwise?
You fear the look of betrayal more than his ire.
“…How’s your thing going?” Your attempt at changing the topic doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and you hope he won't comment on it.
“Slower than expected,” you hear him set something metallic down. “I… I’m not sure when I’ll be done.”
You hum, nodding slowly. That was the answer you expected, but it wasn’t the answer you wanted. “You’re safe though?”
There’s an unusually long pause. Your shoulders sag at the lack of response, and you bite back the hiss of pain it sends through the bullet wound. The silence speaks more than any words could.
“Yes.” Jason’s voice is unwavering, but you don’t believe him. Your heart aches to not believe him, but you cannot deny the suspicion that arises from hearing how obstinately he refuses to leave the city.
“You’d tell me if something happened, right?” You ask, and you make sure to keep your tone skepticism free.
You hear him inhale, “Of course.” His words are low. The silence that ensues makes you wonder if he is able to differentiate his own truths from lies.
“Alright,” you relent, and you see a notification pop up on the Batcomputer. Tim must have noticed you are awake now. “I have to go, but be safe, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” His attempt at humor doesn’t land as he likely intended, but you muster up a soft chuckle in spite of it. “I love you.” He continues.
Your smile turns more genuine, “I love you too.” When you look at your screen again, the call has already ended. Setting the phone down, you pull up Tim’s messages on the Batcomputer.
He’s already frowning at the screen the moment you accept the video call. “Hello to you too.” You comment dryly.
“Are you okay? Since when did you get up?” He asks, and you notice he’s back at Panessa Studios. Damn, Bruce is still making him do those blood tests?
You frown, “If you didn’t know when I got up, why did you spam the Batcomputer?”
He waves you off, “I noticed that there was some activity on the network there. I’ve been monitoring it since I left.” Oops.
“Oh,” you nod, “yeah that was me.”
“I sure hope so. I’m not anywhere near the Batcave right now.” Tim crosses his arms, but then his glare softens. “How bad is it?”
You experimentally rotate your shoulder in a circular motion, “Could be worse. Not great, but it’ll have to do. Pain meds are helping.”
Tim sighs, and you hate the wounded look he’s giving you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there faster—”
“Tim, it’s not your fault. I went out there knowing what I could encounter— who I could encounter.” You don’t break eye contact with him. “If you weren’t there, I can only imagine how things could’ve gone.” He winces at your words, and you soften. “I am not upset, Tim. I’m just grateful that you showed up when you could.”
Tim purses his lips into a thin line, and you wish you could reassure him in person. “I… Logically I know that, but—”
Static cuts him off, and both you and Tim turn your attention to the other monitors of your respective computers. “Arkham Knight and militia just south of Bristol! Requesting backup!” The chatter in the background makes it hard to identify what’s going on, but you didn’t need to hear anything else.
Your blood boils hearing his name.
Tim, as if sensing your thoughts, eyes you cautiously. “I can handle it. I’m pretty sure Bruce is handling Two-Face right now.”
You shake your head, attempting to seem casual, “No, no, it’s fine. I got it. You’re busy as it is. I’d feel bad if Bruce was working you to the bone and I made you handle this.”
Tim narrows his eyes at you, “Are you sure? Weren’t you just shot?”
You make a show of rotating your shoulder, ignoring the dull ache that accompanies it. “See? All fine.” You grin at him.
He frowns, “Alright,” he begins reluctantly, “but if anything happens.”
“I will contact you and Bruce, how about that?” You are already moving off camera to go grab your suit. “I’m glad we agree, Tim. Thanks for the back up, bye!” You make a move to hang up before Tim can change his mind. You hold your laugh back as Tim’s astonished expression is the last thing you see before the call ends.
Now, is this a smart move to make? Going after the Arkham Knight fresh off a bullet wound? No. Even you are self aware enough to know that this is an incredibly foolish move, but that doesn’t stop the burning fury and questions you have. Perhaps your curiosity will truly get you killed someday. Putting on your mask, you shut off the Batcomputer.
You can almost hear Bruce’s voice echoing in your head: “This isn’t an investigation, this is an attempt to avenge yourself.” Perhaps the voice has a point because this isn’t just professional interest. It’s personal now. The Knight made it personal. The sound of his name grates against your nerves in a way that leaves you out of breath. With how spread out you all have been, you have no doubt that the Arkham Knight took advantage of that. He probably chose this time to act knowing that you’d all be busy.
He probably didn’t account for you impulsively searching for him, but at this point he should’ve with how many times you’ve met.
Upon arriving at the scene, you frown. It’s practically the same setup as when his men are stationed in those towers, and it feels a bit too predictable. You attempt to look for the Knight, but there’s so many goons that you aren’t sure where to look first. You stay up above them as you continue surveying the ground below, searching for any signs of him.
Instead, you find a shipping container hidden around a corner (courtesy of the goon you followed). Upon reaching it, you narrow your eyes down below. His mask is quite distinct. You imagine that even from a distance, you’d always recognize it.
You use your grapnel gun to get slightly closer, making sure to minimize your movement, lest they hear you.
“—ready for Scarecrow by tonight.” One of the militia henchmen informs the Knight, clipboard in hand.
The Arkham Knight slowly nods, “Excellent. Have the trucks move them.” He gestures off.
The guy looks back between the Knight and the shipment container, “..Are— Is that a good idea? What about the Bat or any of his sidekicks—” You frown, leaning closer to try listen better.
“—The Bat won’t be an issue.” The Arkham Knight sounds really sure of that. “As for his sidekicks?” He slowly turns around before turning his attention up to the ceiling above him. Your heart drops into your stomach. “I would’ve hoped they wouldn’t be foolish to come here alone.” He raises something in his hand, and you realize all too late that it’s a detonator.
You don’t even get a warning before the gargoyle you’re perched on explodes, causing you to fumble as you attempt to save your fall. The Knight doesn’t break eye contact with you, but you’re forced to turn away from him. The first few militia guys who approach you aren’t armed, and you sweep them off their feet, dealing with them as fast as you can.
However, they don’t stop.
It’s only when you realized how outnumbered you are (and outgunned) that you attempt to reach into your belt to reach help. The moment you reach for it, a gunshot ricochets next to you, causing you to flinch.
For a moment everybody is frozen. You aren’t sure who to look at, every direction you turn just shows a sea of the black and red uniforms. Swallowing, you are forced to watch as they part the path for the Arkham Knight. When he reaches you (all too casual for your liking), the henchman behind you strikes the back of your knee, causing you to collapse. You turn around to glare at them, ready to stand up, but they shove the barrel of a rifle onto the back of your head.
Damn. You knew this was stupid going into this, and yet you went through with it anyway. You silently berate yourself before raising your eyes to look up at the Arkham Knight who is now looking down on you. You hate how he looks down on you.
“I did that as a precaution. Can never be too sure with you lot.” He points down to you, circling you slowly, mockingly.
You bite your lip so hard you offhandedly realize that the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth. The synthetic voice sounds like nails on chalkboard, and you find yourself wishing he’d shut up.
“I gotta say, I expected Robin though. I figured you’d be outta commission still.” He stops his pacing, his boots mere feet in front of you.
You sneer, “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, don’t be.” He looks up, nodding to the massive militia squad behind you. You don’t turn your head (the pressure of the rifle’s barrel is starting to feel too real), but you can hear the shuffling footsteps dissipate. By the time they leave, there’s less than five of you in the area. You swallow, meeting the Arkham Knight’s “eyes.”
“I didn’t expect him to be such a coward. Letting his injured friend handle the dirty work out here.” He (not so lightly) shoves your wounded shoulder, and you let out a surprised whimper. The Knight resumes his pacing, and you get slightly dizzy watching him move back and forth.
Scoffing, you attempt to quell the thumping beat in your chest as you steel yourself. “Don’t call him a coward. You don’t even know Robin.” You swallow, attempting to push yourself up off the ground. One of the militia members uses a rifle to pin you back down, and— not wanting to be shot— you reluctantly settle yourself onto the floor.
The Knight pauses his pacing, looking down at you on the ground. He looks at the man with his gun pointing his rifle at your chest, and the man slowly lowers the weapon. The Knight strolls over to you, kneeling down to you, yet not low enough to be eye level. You wonder if he gets some twisted enjoyment looking down on you. You hide your trembling arms away from his view.
“Tim Drake…” He begins slowly, a mere whisper just above your ear.
You blink, “What—”
“He isn’t the first you know. He isn’t even the second.” He props his arms onto his knee, leaning closer to you. Instinctively, you lean away from the man, as if your body has a visceral reaction to his presence. “Do you know who was before him?”
You grit your teeth, “Why the hell should I tell you?” He doesn’t react, and you both are caught in a long staring contest. Neither of you back down, and you hate yourself for being the first one to. “Jason.” You eventually mutter.
Slowly, he nods, “And you are aware of what happened to him?”
You bite your tongue, attempting to look away from his mask. You tilt your head slightly. It could be interpreted as “so-so” but it could’ve just been a flinch. The Knight leans closer, “I need words. Silence doesn't tell me anything but that you lack the knowledge, and I find that hard to believe.”
You exhale, “I don't know everything, but...” You slowly look up to him. “I know that he died.”
The Knight freezes at your statement. His hands clench at his sides, and you half-delusionally wonder if he’s going to try and kill you again.
“Lies.” He spits the words out, and for a moment you are taken aback. “The Dark Knight fed you all lies.”
Your mouth parts, “What is your issue with him?” You scoff, glaring at his mask. “Look— He isn’t perfect, and I’m not always partial to the guy myself, but you’re acting like he’s the devil incarnate.”
A mangled sound comes from the Knight, distorted by his modulator. Frustrated, he stands up, resuming his pacing. He mumbles something to himsef before chuckling sardonically, the sound grating on your nerves, “You’re a fool for returning.” He raises a hand to point to you lazily, “You’re a fool for trusting him. I told you once before that in his eyes, your life is equal to the worth of some criminal roaming the streets.”
He walks back over to you, “Don’t you think if he wanted to be here, he would? He would’ve found you by now?” He throws his hands up casually, “I don’t exactly see him, and if he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike from the shadows?” He leans closer to you, “He’s taking a long time.”
You try not to let his words get to you, “He’s looking for me. He’ll find me.” You glare at the Knight, but even you start to doubt your own words.
The Knight stares at you for a long moment, before he softly continues, “I once thought that too.” His words are low, quiet, only meant for you. The softness in his tone isn’t out of empathy, but out of pity, and it sends an wave of anger up to your throat, waiting to be spoken. The softness isn't mocking, and that irritates you more than any genuine statement the Knight could have half-heartedly mustered up. “Save yourself the trouble, and lose that optimism.”
You grit your teeth, angry tears flooding your eyes, followed by the impulsive decision to headbutt the Knight. It seems you caught him off guard, and he stumbles back slightly. His mask has a large crack in the screen, and you take immense satisfaction watching it glitch. The two militia members behind you kick you back down to the ground. Your jaw and nose echo in a resounding ache as one of them uses the butt of their rifle to hit you.
You can feel the familiar tang of blood fill your mouth, whether it was from the strike or biting your tongue to hard, you aren’t sure. What you immediately notice is that your mask is no longer fitted pristinely to your face. Pieces of it rest on the concrete floor below you, and you scowl at them as if they personally offended you.
You don’t attempt to sneak a glance up to the Arkham Knight, not wanting him to see your face. You don't want to look up while he's still your vicinity. It takes a minute, but once his footsteps become more distant, your eyes flicker up. Head still facing down, you peer through your eyelashes to watch as his figure grows smaller and smaller.
One of the militia soldiers hits you at the back of your neck causing your hood to fall limply off your head. Just great. One of them snickers before attempting to rip the remaining pieces of your mask off your face.
You yelp, attempting to fight him off, but three other soldiers restrict your limbs. Perhaps if you had been in better condition, you could figure out a method of escape, but all you can feel is the utter futility of your situation. Despair rises in your chest. The Knight’s footsteps taunt you as you hear them slowly fade into near silence. “Not so tough without ya mask, ain’t ya?” One of the men snickers, and you’re planted into your spot on the ground, knees digging painfully onto the uneven floor. You continue to scowl, forced to watch these men expose you as he rips your mask off.
They all laugh at your expression, and you can hear them mutter taunts to you. You tune them out, and one of them kicks your back, sending you to the ground, elbows first. The blow aggravates the bullet wound, and you bite back a scream of pain. Hunched over, coughing, you ball up your hands into fists as you look up to the Arkham Knight before he exits the area.
For a moment, the two of you make eye contact, and all you can do is attempt to catch your breath as the men above you continue to taunt you. Their words go unheard by you, but their presence is enough to drive you mad.
The Knight is no longer moving, and— similar to you— is rooted in his spot. You break eye contact with him as the soldier kicks you down again, pinning you with his boot.
“To think I unmasked one of the Bats,” his cocky tone inspires nothing but annoyance in you. You attempt to take a breath, but he presses harder, and your head is pushed right-side down onto the concrete. “I think I’ll be keeping this as a souvenir.” From your peripherals, you can see him pick up your broken mask.
“Oh come on, man! It was a group effort. Split it four ways, we each get a piece—” Something causes him to stop talking. The guy sounds like he begins to choke on air. For a moment, you feel utter relief.
Took Bruce long enough.
Your face is still planted into the ground at an awkward angle, and you use the goon’s distraction to your advantage, grabbing his foot and sweeping him from underneath, causing him to fall next to you. Once floored, you give him a quick strike to the head, making sure he’s knocked out before standing up again. You cough again, rubbing your chest, still feeling the imprint of the soldier’s boot.
“Finally,” you groan, twisting your neck, popping it, “I—” you turn to face Bruce, a small relieved smile on your face.
It falls immediately, for you aren’t met with the familiar silhouette of Batman.
Instead, the Arkham Knight is standing mere feet away from you, a few of his own militia groaning and unconscious on the floor beneath him. He has his guns pointed to the one who pinned you down. You flinch back as the Knight’s gaze meets your own, startled by his appearance. Why did he come back? You thought he left
The two of you stare at each other for a moment, both of you waiting, anticipating.
Slowly, his hand lowers, and your own hand snaps towards your utility belt, Batarang in hand within within milliseconds. At your reaction, he pauses. He is still, too still, and it causes you to panic internally. Whenever you saw him, whether it was in person or on a recording, he was constantly moving. Pacing back and forth, scanning the area, gesturing with his arms. For somebody so enigmatic, his body language was surprisingly expressive.
It makes his current stiffness all the more unnerving.
“You… I…” His voice sounds more subdued than you’ve ever heard, nigh distraught. It’s contrary to everything you’ve encountered with him. The Arkham Knight wasn’t quiet. The Arkham Knight wasn’t soft. Not like this at least. His “soft” words were always quiet taunts, never meant to comfort, only to break. This is the person who shot you with no remorse. This is the person who has pledged himself to kill Batman.
Yet he stands before you, bodies beneath him, speaking in soft tones, soft tones that lack that condescension.
What kind of tactic is this?
“If you have something to say, just spit it out.” You haven't lowered your hand. The Batarang glints dangerously in your dominant hand, perfectly within the Knight’s view.
“You…” he begins again, “You aren’t— When—”
You furrow your eyebrows. Add stuttering to the list of odd phenomena with the Arkham Knight that you aren’t entirely sure how to deal with.
“Oh, I get it.” You sneer at him, “You see my face, and you want to catch me off guard by acting like we’re supposed to be cool—”
“You said you left the city.” He cuts you off, and your momentary anger is replaced by pure unadulterated confusion.
You blink dumbly at him, “What?”
He shakes his head slowly, guns dropping to his side, but you don’t let your guard down. “You—” he shakes his head more aggressively, as if trying to shake a thought away. “You said you left the city.” He repeats, turning up to face you.
You furrow your eyebrows, “When did I ever tell you that?” Your palms feel sweaty in your hands, and you grip the Batarang tighter, worried it’ll slip between your fingers.
“I checked your location— I saw—” he sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself, “It said you were out in Central City.”
Your stomach feels queasy the longer he continues to speak. The unease causing you to shift restlessly on your feet. There was only one person who you gave that location to. A horrifying thought enters your mind, but you refuse to consider it, immediately shutting down the idea. “And… You know this how?” You attempt to sound indifferent, but you can hear the shift in tone of your own voice.
He remains frozen for a moment before he says your name; it’s so quiet you wonder if you even heard it correctly.
Your chest shudders, “You know me.” You don’t want it to be true.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t move to deny your statement— your accusation.
You swallow, “Say something.” You attempt to keep the break out of your voice, and the Batarang in your hand involuntarily lowers.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a step closer to you, and as if setting a switch off, you immediately raise the Batarang again. He freezes mid-step, and when you don’t throw the weapon, he resumes his approach. You keep your eyes trained on his mask, watching as the distance between you both dwindles faster than preferred. By the time he stops, he is mere inches from your face, and the tip of your Batarang is pressed weakly against his chest.
You’re breathing heavily at this point, yet you don’t feel physically exhausted. You force yourself to take a deep breath, but your chest shudders at the action. “Who are you?” Your voice is a low whisper, and your question, a plea for him to deny every thought racing through your mind.
Your hands don’t move as he slowly raises his own, reaching toward your face. Your breathing halts as he pauses before gently running a gloved finger against your jaw. Your eyes flicker over his form— unsure where to look— waiting for the attack. Why are you allowing this? The Knight is messing with you— he’s going to use your distress to his advantage.
Yet you are frozen to your spot, and something tells you that he is too. You are both frozen in front of one another.
His hand brushes down to the tattered shoulder of your suit, grazing lightly over the injury that he caused. Despite attempting to hide your wince, the Arkham Knight seems to sense your pain, and pulls his hand back slightly at your first sign of pain. You can’t look at his mask, but you can feel him staring at you. His gaze is piercing, as if waiting for you to start the conversation.
“No.” You deny, shaking your head as you attempt look down— away from his mask— away from him. “No, you're— you’re not…” you trail off, the words dying on your tongue. You attempt to push him back weakly, but he doesn’t move. “…You’re not Jason.” Your eyes glisten with tears as you look up to stare at his mask.
Hesitantly, as if afraid, the Knight raises his hand up, pressing his fingers just below his ear as the mask releases a hissing sound before it lifts up.
Despite having already reached the dreadful conclusion, you sharply inhale upon seeing Jason beneath the mask you have come to loathe.
You let out a sound that almost sounds like a whimper mixed with a sob. Before, you could at least pretend that the Arkham Knight wasn’t a real person. He was just another foe that had to be defeated. Seeing a person underneath all of that. It changes things.
You try and scour him for hints of your boyfriend, of Jason. Instead, you see the mask resting atop his head. You see the armor covering every inch of his skin. The holsters at his sides. The “A” in the center of his chest.
Looking at Jason now, you can’t see your boyfriend. You see the Arkham Knight.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him, as you keep your eyes shut. If you close your eyes long enough you can pretend that he isn’t there.
Then the Knight says your name, and it sounds like Jason. No longer is the distorted voice mocking your every action. Instead, it’s your Jason, calling out for you. Every cell in your body screams to you that the man in front of you is Jason. That he’d never hurt you. Your loving boyfriend adores you more than anybody in the world. He would sooner strike himself down before doing anything to hurt you.
You slowly turn your head to the healing scar at your shoulder. Jason The Arkham Knight follows your gaze to the injury, “I… I never knew that… You know I would never—” he turns his gaze up to you, desperate “you know I would never have done if it I knew. I thought— I never wanted—” he lets out a hurried exhale, saying your name again.
“Please, please look at me.” He begs, raising a hand to your face, but at your glare at him, and he hesitantly lowers it, as if unsure what to do with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” His voice a broken plea for forgiveness. “I’m so, so sorry. I would take it back if I could—”
“You shot me.” You cut him off, voice sounding more stable than you feel. “You were going to shoot me in the head.” You raise a hand to wipe the tears overflowing your eyes.
“No!” He yells out, and you stiffen up. His hurt expression reminds you of Jason so much, that you force yourself to look away again. “No, no. I didn’t want to actually hurt you.”
You narrow your eyes, disbelief evident in your gaze. “You said that I blew my ‘only warning.’” You scoff, but the sounds more pained than mocking, “You placed that gun against my body with your finger on the trigger. You were ready to shoot.”
He scrunches his eyes tight, “I was just trying to scare you— I didn’t actually intend to kill you. I... I didn't even intend to shoot you.” Your eyes slowly lower to his holsters before moving back up to his imploring expression.
“Then why did you shoot me? Why did you go searching for me with a rifle?” Your eyes burn as you point an accusing finger at him.
He looks down, unable to meet your eyes for the first time. “I… My issue was with him. You were dismantling my operations,” he swallows, “I had to send a message to him that I wouldn’t tolerate any interference. I knew he wouldn’t relent.” He shuts his eyes, before opening them, steeling himself for his next words. “However, if I threatened you or Robin?” He sounds pained, “If I showed him that I wasn’t messing around… Then maybe I could finally catch the Bat, catch Bruce. It’s stupid now. I shouldn’t have— I…” He slowly trails off, eyes frantically looking over you.
You stare at him for a moment, and hesitantly he attempts to look up— almost as if waiting for your permission. “You… You know Bruce.” You think out loud, Jason don’t respond. “You’re… You’re that Jason.” The realization dawns on you. You had been so focused on him being your Jason, that you didn't even consider he could be that Jason. He meets your eyes for the first time, slowly nodding.
“I…” It made sense now. Jason’s grudge against Batman, the Knight’s knowledge of how he operates— knowing his weaknesses. Jason didn’t just know Batman. He was Robin. “…never knew.” You clench your fists.
He huffs, and it’s somehow the most “Jason” and the most “Arkham Knight” he has sounded this whole conversation. “Yeah, that… doesn’t surprise me.” His voice trails off, quiet, but with rage bubbling beneath.
Neither of you say anything, and all you do is stare at each other. Slowly you push yourself away from Jason, and he doesn’t move to stop you. He watches as you kneel to grab the pieces of your broken mask. He starts to lower himself as well, intending to help most likely, and you send him a pointed look. He stops, slowly straightening up, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his expression.
Before, you’d have fought tooth and nail just to catch a glimpse of the Arkham Knight, to be able to see his face. You expected fury underneath, a sneering expression built out of personal grudges and vengeance.
Now?
You find yourself wishing he was never unmasked. The despair of seeing Jason’s face is worse than any bullet to the chest could’ve brought you. You grab the last piece of your mask before starting to walk away from Jason.
“You’re leaving?” Jason sounds as if he’s preparing to follow you. His hand twitches as if he wants to reach out to you.
You grit your teeth, “Are you going to stop me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. At his silence, you turn to face him, the weariness in your gaze evident. He looks as if you struck him, mouth open, and for a moment you wonder if you broke him. You don’t say any of that, simply choosing to raise an eyebrow.
“Of course not.” He responds, his voice nearly inaudible. He isn’t moving, but he is leaning forward, as if he wants to be closer to you, yet he doesn’t reach for you. His hands lay limp at his sides.
You stare at him for a moment before turning away from him again. After a beat of silence, you think that this is the end of the interaction, but then he speaks again. “Is this it?” He breaks the silence, and you freeze.
“What?” You ask, and your voice sounds exhausted. Despite that fatigue, your alarm at hearing his words is evident.
Jason shifts awkwardly on his feet, and it makes him look so small despite him being anything but. “Are you going to leave?” He asks, and it sounds so helpless and utterly pitiful. You hate that you’re the one causing him to use that tone. Desolate and expectant. As if he isn’t surprised you’re leaving.
“I’m… I need to think.” You respond, tilting your head away from him. “My judgment is…” you loosely wave your hand around, “When you’re involved, I can’t—” you struggle to find the words, “I have to get out of here to think.” You land on, swallowing.
He doesn’t react initially, but then he hesitantly starts again. “I meant are you… are we..?” He trails off, swallowing down the words. He inhales, and you see his chest shudder slightly as it rises.
“Jason,” you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him. The anger floods out of your body, replaced by anguish. “I need to process this.” You hesitantly sneak a glance to him. “I’ll return, but I can’t do this right now.” You purse your lips, shaking your head.
“And how long will that take?” He asks softly, and he looks so pained, so hurt. Part of you wants to reassure him, to go back to him. That was all you wanted for days. “Do you intend to return, or—” he chuckles humorlessly, “or…” he repeats, trailing off, his already soft tone becoming inaudible. The implication is obvious to both of you.
“Jay,” you plead, “don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, please.” You open your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, calming your racing heart. “You know I don’t want this.” You turn to face him before quickly averting your eyes back to the ground.
“Really?” His words sound disbelieving, and you wince at the tone. “If you don’t want this, then don’t go.” He walks up to you, and hesitantly grabs your palm laid at your side. “Just…” you watch as his lip trembles, nearly imperceptible, “Just don’t leave… Don’t leave me, please.”
You finally look up from the ground to him. His plea is desperate and only meant for you. To think that the same man begged you to leave the city is now pleading for you to stay with him. His words are soft, but the weight of them was never valued in their volume. He is breathing heavily, but you doubt it’s from physical exertion. The brawl had ended what must’ve been ages ago. His eyes follow your every moment, as if trying to predict your response based purely on eye contact.
“Jason,” you start and your voice cracks slightly, “It’s not that easy. I’m not— I don’t want to leave you. That's never what I’d want.” You raise a hand to his head, eying him as you carefully grab the mask off the top of his head. He doesn’t stop you. “I just…” You look down at the mask in your hands, the Arkham Knight’s mask. “I wasn’t… It was unexpected.”
He remains silent, and you see his jaw clench. Your shoulders fall slightly as you shift the mask into your offhand. “Give me a day or two… We can meet at the apartment or wherever you decide. I just need a little bit of time.” You thoughtlessly run your fingers over the mask before offering it back to him. “We need time, whether you think so or not.”
Jason looks down at it before looking back up at you. Slowly, he grabs it, “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.” He repeats his words from earlier.
You exhale, slowly blinking, “I know, Jay.”
“No,” he grounds, frustrated, “you don’t sound like you believe it.” He clutches the mask so tightly you see it tremble. “I never intended for you to get shot. That’s not how we planned it.”
“I believe you, Jay.” You offer him a strained smile. You do believe him. It’s hard not to when he’s looking at you as if your opinion is the only one that matters. You believe that he never intended for you to get shot, that he never wanted you to get shot.
That doesn’t change the fact that it happened though, and this revelation will be no small obstacle to overcome. You can’t imagine he doesn’t feel some sort of betrayal at finding out you’ve been working with Bruce for the past few nights, lying to him. You may have been the one to get physically hurt, but you can imagine— in fact, you can see the emotional toll it’s taking, not just on yourself, but on him. No matter how much he may insist you needn’t leave, you doubt that he doesn’t need time to process this too.
“I believe you.” You reassure him.
No matter how much you love him, belief doesn’t change the past.
The next couple days pass by with an aching slowness, tension taut as if waiting for an inevitable snap. You find yourself awaiting for it to crumble down upon you, but Jason adhered to you. He didn’t contact you, and despite telling him to not message you, you felt a pit at the bottom of your stomach every time you checked your phone only to not see his name. It left an uneasy weight on your chest, and you kept telling yourself that you both needed this. Not a break, per se, but at least some time to understand the consequences of both of your actions.
Your train of thought inevitably led to one question: where did this leave you both?
It wasn’t as easy to answer as what you may suppose.
The part of you so blindly in love with Jason says that this changes nothing. Even when Jason was actively the Arkham Knight, he never treated you— the real you— any differently. If you wanted to be blind once again, perhaps you both could pretend.
Of course, that’s naive, and dangerous in more than one way.
There’s no way you’d be able to ignore that facet of him. You doubt he could hardly ignore you going out masquerading into the night either. Best case scenario, you two would ignore each other out on the field. It’s not even a good case, yet it is better than having to fight with Jason. Even if you try to ignore each other, it would be downright impossible given Gotham's current state. Bruce would catch on immediately, and it’d create a whole other slew of problems.
You’d reached your conclusion on the afternoon leading to the second night. You’d pulled out your phone, and texted Jason for the first time since the night of the reveal. He responded within seconds (you were not counting), and the two of you agreed to meet at the apartment tonight.
You’d gone on dates many a time throughout your relationship with Jason. The first few were filled with that fluttering feeling in your chest, the giddiness of thinking you found the one. You had felt nervous, but excited.
Now, you feel that nervousness tenfold, but with zero of the excitement. No matter how well this could go, you can’t help but wonder how different things could be. Why did you have to be helping Bruce? Why did Jason have to be helping Scarecrow? Why did he have to be the Arkham Knight?
They were fruitless questions, more what-if’s to add to the growing list of regrets you have.
You can’t help but feel that both of you would’ve been happier if you weren’t who you are. Would ignorance be better than the guilt you feel churning in your gut? You whisper a lie to Tim, telling him you have business to attend to tonight— unavoidable. He frowns, but doesn’t question it. You wonder how he’d react to finding out that you are the one dating the Arkham Knight.
You try desperately to bridge the connection between the two: Jason and the Arkham Knight. If you think hard enough, and reflect on the footage of your meeting for the millionth time, perhaps you can find some similarities. Idiosyncrasies that you would’ve never connected between the two.
The longer you mulled over that footage the longer you realized that they were never separate. Jason is just as real as the Arkham Knight is. They aren’t mutually exclusive. Jason may have been real in different ways, but both of them are real. Jason shares his feelings with the Knight, and the Knight shares his feelings with Jason. They’re equal, and somehow they aren’t opposite. If anything they feed into each other.
It was yet another thing to add to your list of regrets. You had initially separated the two in your head, Jason and the Arkham Knight. The Arkham Knight could not love you because he is not Jason. Jason could love you because he is not the Arkham Knight. It wasn’t a fair distinction to make because Jason does love you, and you know that. He loves you even when he wears that mask and he loves you without it. Putting on a mask doesn’t change that.
Perhaps your first mistake was assuming that it did.
By the time you get there, he’s already waiting in your shared apartment. You walk to the living room, and despite everything that's happened, you feel glad to see him. It’s the first time you’ve seen each other since the revelation. He looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on the bullet wound he caused. You can’t tell if he’s attempting to be obvious, or if he really can’t tell he is staring. Either way, you adjust your clothes to cover the bandages around it. He turns his attention away from you, back to the coffee table he was staring into.
Neither of you want to be the first one to speak, and it’s painfully apparent. The silence is suffocating, and neither one of you act to allow the room to breathe. Eventually, you suck it up and break it.
“You’re here.” His head snaps up to yours as if he wasn’t expecting your voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon.”
He pauses before answering, “I never left.” His voice is rough, raw, and strained. You can’t tell if it’s from overuse or underuse.
You frown, “You stayed here?” You're slightly taken aback by the revelation. He stayed even when you had left? “Even when planning…” you gesture your hand loosely around you.
He shakes his head, “No… God, no, I didn’t want you involved in that stuff.” He shakes his head profusely.
“Bit too late for that now.” You reply dryly, barely louder than a whisper.
Jason doesn’t respond to that comment, “Why’d you come early if you weren’t expecting me here?” He sits up straighter, turning back to look at you.
You blink at him before slowly shrugging, you begin to pace the room. “I don’t know… I wanted to see if I’d find anything that would’ve clued me in sooner. Closure, I suppose."”
“Closure?” He repeats, sputtering. “That… You’re making it sound final.”
You sigh, “Jason…”
He furrows his brows, “Is Bruce making you do this?” He asks softly, standing up. He sounds like he understands, as if he’s been in your position before. “We can… We can just leave. You don’t have to listen to him.” He walks over to you, grabbing your hands.
You open your mouth to speak, but your mouth runs dry. He takes this as an opportunity to continue. “We can leave Gotham. Forget Bruce. Forget Scarecrow. Forget everything going on here.”
His words are a whisper into your ear, for a moment you don’t register the panic hidden underneath.
The offer is tempting, so tempting. You feel yourself faltering, wondering if this is the right decision to make. Could you ditch everything here? Could you leave Gotham and— realistically— never look back? You’d never be able to look any of your friends in the eye again. How could you look at Tim, Dick, Barbara, or even Bruce knowing that you ditched them out of fear of facing reality?
“Jason,” you begin slowly, “it’s not that easy.” You squeeze his hand.
“It can be. I can get us out of the city within the hour.” His eyes bore into your own. “Just tell me to, please.” He squeezes your hand back. The gesture isn’t comforting, not to you. It’s not a gesture born out of grounding you, but out of fear. Fear that if he let go, you might never return. “Tell me anything, but I—” he exhales, “I can’t do this silence anymore. Just talk to me.”
You open your mouth, the words are on your lips. The desire to stay with Jason is overwhelming. Your lips part, and you let out a shaky exhale.
“Jason, I can’t ask you to do that.” You look down, focusing on your intertwined hands. The scars on his hands make so much sense now, and hesitantly you raise your hand to gently caress them. Jason watches you the whole time, and he looks conflicted by your gesture.
“You can.” He nods obstinately, “Please ask me to do this.”
“Jason, I don’t think—” you force yourself to look to the ground, away from his distraught expression, “—this is a good idea…”
He doesn’t react immediately, yet you know he heard you. He can’t not hear you, your inches apart.
He says your name, “Did Bruce ask you to do this?” He repeats his question from earlier gravely, and you shake your head.
“No, no,” you sneak a glance up to him, “I haven’t even told him.”
“So why?” He sounds wounded with an aspect of bewilderment thrown in. “We don’t have to break up.”
You swallow, shaking your head, fighting the tears. You tried to avoid that phrase: “break up.” Digging your nails into your palm, you sigh, “Jason, this isn’t going to stop anytime soon. We’re on opposite sides of this—”
“And you’re not willing to work past that?” His eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are filled with utter confusion.
“Jason, I don’t think we can.” You mirror his expression. “I mean— Look where it got me.” Your eyes flicker down to your shoulder.
He sucks in a sharp breath, “That’s— That’s not… I would take it back in a heartbeat if I could. You know it was a mistake. I was caught by surprise. I never meant to actually hurt you, even when I didn’t know it was you. I—”
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but it’s just proving my point.” You shake your head. “We won’t be on the same side of this battle. It’s dangerous for both of us if we’re out there fighting each other.”
“You wouldn’t have to fight me. I wouldn’t allow them to hurt you.” He grounds out, teeth gritting.
“If they hurt Bruce though? If they hurt Tim? Dick? Barbara?” You shake you head, “Jay, I won’t be able to avoid fighting your forces if any of them are in danger.” You squeeze his hand again. “This—” you gesture between you both, “won’t work for as long as we’re on opposing sides. We’re too close to the situation, too each other. It’s going to get one of us hurt or worse.”
Shakily, you raise a hand up to his cheek, gently avoiding the ‘J’ scar. His pupils are dilated, and you can see your teary reflection in them. You blink away the tears, “Perhaps, perhaps when this all dies down… Maybe we can make it work again, but with the current circumstances…” You turn your gaze to the window, looking down over the city, filled with drones patrolling, buildings aflame, and the familiar echo of not-so-distant gunshots. “Jason, we can’t continue this right now, and I think you know this.” His eyes stay trained on your own as you gently lower your hand from his face.
“I… You’re choosing them and not us?” He doesn’t meet your eyes, and he angles himself so you can’t read him.
“Jason— No— How could— I’m not choosing anybody. I’m…” You swallow, “I’m not going to be going out for patrol until this is over.”
His eyes snap up, “You’re… quitting?”
Dubiously, you nod. “At least until this is over. I can’t— I wouldn’t be able to make a decision out on field if I had to pick a side. I’m a liability.” It’s a lie, and you aren’t sure if he caught it. You know what decision you’d make. You know who’d you choose, and you know you’d only exacerbate the situation if you continued to aid Bruce. “I’m sorry, Jason.” You meet his eyes, the tears are silently falling down your face. You rub them away, attempting to pull away for the last time when he grabs you, luring you in.
You fall against his body, and he tilts your head to face him. Neither of you say anything as he leans down and kisses you. It’s slow, lingering, as if both of you are savoring what very well may be your final moments together. Jason raises his hand to wipe away the remainder of your tears as he deepens the kiss. It’s not sensual, but it contains desire. It’s the desire to stay in each other’s presence for just a little more, drawing out what inevitably must end. It’s the desire to spend just one more minute in each other’s presence. Neither of you pull away, and you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around him, leaning closer to him. You can feel Jason's shoulders relax under your touch.
The moment is drawn out, but that doesn’t make it artificial. If anything, it only makes the reality set in. Neither of you are eager to pull apart, and you offhandedly realize you should’ve. Perhaps it would make this easier.
Despite everything, one thing your heart and mind could agree on was that you still want Jason. No matter how much you’re pushing him away with your current actions, you still want him. Even after learning of who he is, you still want him. You don’t ever think you can stop wanting him.
Perhaps that’s why you don’t pull away, not for a long time.
Inevitably, one of you has to pull away for air, and Jason continues to lean closer to you, as if chasing your lips for just one more kiss. You open your eyes, and he is panting heavily as he shifts his gaze from your lips up to your eyes. Neither of you say anything as you look down to his lips. Both of you craving the other, yet unable to do anything about it. You gnaw the inside of your lip as you pull away. None of you say anything. You stare at each, and his gaze is heavy like a promise. A promise to return to each other one day.
For that moment, he was your Jason again, and you feel content in knowing that one day, he may be yours once more.
Both of your eyes linger on one another as you exit the apartment. You’re unhurried, almost as if you’re attempting to burn this memory into the back of Jason’s mind. He supposes that you do an acceptable job burning it into his memory. The kiss you shared is vividly painted in his brain, and he doesn’t think it’ll be leaving his thoughts anytime soon.
He okay with that.
He watches the door as if hoping that by some miracle you might turn around and take back every decision you made. He doesn’t wait long, but there was the tiniest bit of optimism.
He walks back to your shared bedroom. Opening the closet, he reaches for the duffel bag inside. Upon unzipping it, his mask is atop the pile of his armor. He slowly grabs it, the pulsing light emanating from it illuminates the otherwise dark room.
You had said that maybe in the future it could work again. That being on opposite sides is dangerous, and Jason knows that logically, you’re correct.
He’s never been logical when it came to you.
He looks out the window, seeing the city reflected below. You were right. Both of you are too deep into this situation. He knows you can fight— he’s seen you fight, but knowing that you’d be out there on the field with unaccounted variables, variables he can’t control? With the current state Gotham is in? It’s a wonder how Bruce thought it was acceptable to be going out alone against the wolves of Gotham. It’s one thing for Bruce to endanger his own life, it’s another thing to endanger yours.
The thought sends a shiver through him that Scarecrow never could. To think that he could get his hands on you if Jason wasn’t careful. Jason banishes the idea from his mind, for he’d never allow that to happen. He’s already failed you once, and he will not be repeating that mistake.
Perhaps, one day you will reunite. Perhaps one day, he will be able to hold you in his arms once again, untroubled by the headache of Gotham. Perhaps one day, he won’t have to worry about Bruce, the enemies you've made, or any criminals of Gotham itching to get one over his head and take you.
Today isn’t that day. It won’t be tomorrow either. There’s a possibility it may not come for years.
But Jason is patient. He's been patient.
He will wait.
However, he has the power to expedite your return. He holds the mask up before gently placing it onto the bed as he grabs the rest of his armor, slowly putting it on.
He can get out there right now, and make those years apart turn to months. He can make those months turn to weeks. If he tries hard enough, perhaps he can make those weeks into days. If finishing his business with Scarecrow is what it will take to be able to feel your touch upon his skin once more?
Jason adjusts his holsters before grabbing his guns, sliding them into place. He reaches for the mask, placing the familiar weight onto his head. He presses the button against his neck, and it lowers onto his face. He takes in a deep breath.
He will do what it takes.
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Yes I’m aware I said that I would be posting that one Jason fic ft. Damian idea next. No, I will NOT apologize. I had this idea in mind ever since I finished the games. For those of you who’ve been following my updates. THIS is the fic that I’ve been unsure about. I hope I did AK!Jason justice. I adore him so much.
Anyway, I wasn't sure whether to tag this as ooc. The way I see it, Jason may love you, but at the same time he did go and commit all those crimes in the game. He was out for BLOOD in Arkham Knight (at the very least he wanted Bruce specifically dead), and I wanted to make sure that was evident here even if he loves reader. Honestly, I could go into a whole deep dive of why I wrote him the way I did. I have SO many thoughts about him.
ANYWAY, this is already long enough as it is, I hope you enjoyed the fic! :D
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pairing: bf!Jason Todd x reader
synopsis: during a visit to the family manor, you wander off and end up finding a couple of photos of Jason from his childhood, and end up having a mini mental breakdown over them (inspired by this post from @bath1lda!)
cw: none, fluff, established relationship, petnames, gn!reader, sensitive and empathetic reader
wc: 1k
Footsteps echo down one of the many hallways of the Wayne Manor. Jason’s been looking for you for the past five minutes, to no avail. “Baby?” he called out repeatedly, as he peered his head over corners and through door cracks.
How did this happen? He’d left you in the living room for less than a minute to go to the bathroom, and when he returned, you were nowhere to be seen.
So there he was, roaming around the labyrinth that was the manor, calling out a plethora of nicknames along with your name in the hopes of a response.
He eventually reaches the corridor leading to the second-story living room and notices that one of the two doors has been left open by a few inches. He gently pushes it and calls out for you again. His eyes scan the room, and when they finally land on you, he lets out a small sigh of relief. “There you are. How did you manage to get lost so fast?” he steps in, making his way over to you.
Noticing the fact your back is still facing him, and that you’re keeping quiet, his voice softens. “Everything okay?” His hands come up to caress your shoulders.
You instantly melt against him and let out a heavy sigh. “No,” your voice trembles.
His posture straightens almost immediately and he leans in closer to look at the side of your face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Don’t cry—” he starts, but freezes once he looks at what you’re holding.
A framed picture of him when he was younger. He was wearing a tuxedo suit, his hair neatly combed with gel and curled at the front.
His face drops. What a horrible photo.
“What are you doing with this?” one of his hands reaches for the picture, but he doesn’t make an attempt to take it from you. Instead, he simply rests his hand atop yours.
“I don’t know I just—” you sniffle, and let out a chuckle. “I just started walking around and then I thought ‘wow this room looks nice’, and then I noticed the pictures on top of the fireplace and next thing I know, I’m sobbing.” you explain, wiping at your tears with your other hand.
“... why?” he raises an eyebrow before letting his chin rest on top of your head. You loved it when he did that.
You look at the photo more closely as you ponder how to answer his question. “You were so cute. And so young—I mean look at you, you’re practically a baby in this one!” you gesture as you grab a polaroid you’d found nearby and lift it up to his eye level. “I can’t believe you never showed me these.”
“I look terrible in those.” he scoffs before letting go of you, and instead leans his elbow against the top of the fireplace. He stares down at you, his eyebrows now furrowed.
You stare back at him in shock. “How could you say that about him? He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean ‘him’? I’m right here.” he chuckles.
You roll your eyes. “You get what I mean.” you mumble before turning back to the various photos in front of you. You analyze them again.
Those bright eyes and smile, those dimples, those little curls in his bangs. It was all too much for you. The thought that this ambitious and full-of-life boy would eventually go through hell and back made your heart squeeze painfully.
His eyes soften as he glances at the pictures, and then you. He notices the way your shoulders drop, and your eyes water again.
He immediately pulls you into a hug, making sure to set the photo you were holding down first. “Don’t cry over this.”
Your hands find their way around his back and they fist against the fabric of his shirt. You inhale deeply, breathing his comforting scent in.
The two of you stay like that for a little while.
“I’m sorry for everything you went through,” you mutter.
He lets out a laugh, and you almost want to smack him for finding your breakdown funny. “What’re you apologizing for? It’s not your fault.”
“I know!—God I know… It just sucks is all,” you finally pull away and take a deep breath, composing yourself.
His hands trail their way up your face to cradle it, and he rubs soothing circles against your cheek. “It doesn’t matter as much anymore. I’m doing better now… and I have you.” he brings you closer and presses his lips to the tip of your nose.
You look up at him through your wet lashes for a second. After blinking a couple tears away, you speak again. “I’m sorry for being such a crybaby.” you shake your head, as if trying to snap yourself out of it.
“Don’t be.” he kisses your tear-stained eye corner.
“But you hate crybabies.” you respond.
He moves to kiss the corner of your other eye, not wanting it to feel left out. “Yeah, but I don’t hate you.”
You deadpan, almost annoyed at how perfect he was sometimes. Sighing, you rest your cheek against his chest, head facing sideways. Your eyes land on the pictures again.
“I’m going to need you to show me every single baby and childhood photo you have.” you announce in a matter-of-factly way.
You hear him click his tongue above you. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Fine, I’ll just ask Alfred and Bruce. Maybe Dick as a last resort. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
You feel him tense against you. “You wouldn’t.” he gently grabs your hips and tugs you away to look at you, his eyes wide.
“Oh yes I would. I’ll even ask Alfred to make me copies of every picture.”
He runs a hand down his face and groans into it. “Please don’t.”
“You can’t stop this, Jason. Don’t fight it.” a small grin makes its way onto your face.
“I can’t win with you, can I?” he says, and it sounds more like a statement than a question.
You nod with pursed lips. “Not on this, I’m afraid.”
“Fine. But you owe me.”
“How about a kiss, then?”
“Nice try—” his sentence is cut short when you press your lips to his. When you pull back, he stares down at you with dim eyes.
“There. Are we even now?” you ask.
“... No. I’ll need a couple more for good measure.” he leans back in, not waiting for confirmation as his lips meet yours once more.
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Voting ended onJun 2, 2025
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #515) ✅️
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I'm now asking for generous and kind people who care about kids rights in this life.
I wrote everything and talked about everything. I don't know what to write yet. How can I describe to you the condition of my family and children? I brought you this video so that you can feel what I want to tell you!! We are hungry. We haven't eaten since the day before yesterday. I am so exhausted. Please donate a kilo of flour to me.😭😥💔🙏🏻🙏🏻
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Hello, my name is Areej. I was an English teacher before the war, but everything changed after October 7th.
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Please don't leave us alone in such dire times. Your kind contribution either through donating whatever you can or sharing my posts will be highly appreciated and valued.❤🇵🇸🍉
