[M/N] must be having the worst few days of his life. Being let off until next Monday, supposed to be. Had a fight with Jason, held hostage by the Joker and bit on the roof top, and now he came to the conclusion that Jason wants to eat him.
In his terms, or basic cannibal terms was that his partner, not the term mate which sounded worst, wants [M/N] to devour him whole. Offering his blood, bit into his skin to sooth himself and possibly wants to feed him flesh.
Not that [M/N] was entirely innocent in the matter.
He had, on more than one occasion, dreamed about Jason consuming pieces of him. Not devouring him whole—nothing quite that dramatic—but smaller things. A bite from his shoulder. The flesh of his ring finger. Something intimate, something sacrificial, something that might soothe the restless, fractured parts of his husband's soul.
That wasn't the most pressing issue at the moment.
The worst news had come from Bruce Wayne.
[M/N] paced across the living room of his apartment like a caged animal, arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression had twisted into a deep scowl as he turned sharply and walked the length of the room again.
"I am not moving into that house."
Jason sat on the couch, leaning back with his elbows resting on his knees. His helmet was gone, jacket discarded somewhere nearby. He watched [M/N] pace with the long-suffering patience of someone who knew better than to interrupt too soon.
Apparently Dick had mentioned something to Bruce—likely far more enthusiastically than necessary—about the latest victim connected to the ongoing case.
The corpse had been discovered with a grotesquely deliberate arrangement inside his opened abdomen: a bouquet of carefully placed Forget-Me-Nots nestled within the empty space where organs had once been.
And Bruce Wayne, ever the strategist disguised as Gotham's most public philanthropist, had responded with what he clearly believed was the most logical solution.
Jason and [M/N] would move into Wayne Manor.
"For protection," Bruce had probably said. "For safety," he would had added.
[M/N] thought the entire proposal was absurd.
"I don't like it any more than you do," Jason admitted, rubbing the back of his neck before letting out a quiet sigh. His gaze tracked [M/N]'s restless pacing. The man truly did look like a caged predator—tense shoulders, sharp movements, irritation simmering just under the surface.
[M/N] stopped mid-step. "A point?" he repeated, turning sharply. "That I'm weak?"
Jason winced slightly at the tone but didn't retreat.
"That you're out there untrained," he corrected carefully. "Look, you can handle yourself. I've seen that firsthand. But out there?" He gestured vaguely toward the window, toward Gotham itself. "You can't exactly show off whatever cannibal kung-fu you've got going on."
[M/N] shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. Jason raised both hands defensively.
"You'll be safer at the Manor." he finished.
"You're refusing to protect me?" he asked.
Jason exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as the beginnings of a headache crept in. "I can't be around you twenty-four-seven," he said bluntly. "Especially now that you've developed this habit of not telling me everything you're doing."
The bitterness in his voice was impossible to miss.
[M/N] bristled immediately.
Jason noticed—of course he noticed.
Lately, [M/N] had been going out more often. Staying out later than usual. Coming home in clothes that weren't his. He hadn't mentioned the details of the Wilson murder either, not the flowers, not the disturbing symbolism.
Jason had started to see the pattern forming, but he had assumed—hoped—that [M/N] would eventually come to him with it.
"I don't need to notify the press every time I learn something," [M/N] said flatly as he turned toward him again. His frown hadn't softened. "I've been working the case from our side," he continued. "Things Gordon doesn't even know yet."
"You weren't here," [M/N] replied without hesitation. Then his expression darkened.
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
Jason went completely still. He didn't react with anger. Didn't snap back with sarcasm or defensiveness.
Instead, his green eyes fixed on [M/N]'s face with unsettling focus. He studied him. That was the worst part about Jason Todd sometimes, when he stopped reacting and started thinking.
After a long moment, Jason moved.
"Come here," he said. [M/N] hesitated where he stood.
Jason tilted his head slightly, gesturing with one hand. "I ain't gonna hurt ya." The casual tone didn't entirely erase the tension in the room, but it was enough.
[M/N] walked over cautiously.
The moment he stepped within reach, Jason's hands came up and pulled him closer. Jason adjusted his posture on the couch, sitting up straighter as his arms settled around [M/N]'s waist.
He leaned back slightly, looking up at him.
[M/N] still wore that stubborn scowl, glaring down at him like a man refusing to concede a single inch of ground.
Jason just held him there, studying his face in silence.
Many he looks really pretty when he's mad...
"I am going to protect you as much as I can, if you let me." Jason said as he stared up at [M/N], his face didn't soften at all. "But I need you to let me in. I know you can protect yourself and I know you can solve this thing. I know that you're close."
"Possibly." [M/N] mumbled as he watched Jason and let the man snuggle his chin against his midsection.
Jason kept his arms around him, steady and firm, his hands moving in slow circles along the side of [M/N]'s waist. The motion was deliberate, practiced—something meant to soften the tension that had coiled tightly through the room only moments before.
"Still," Jason said quietly, his voice lower now. "I mean it."
His thumb traced small circles against [M/N]'s side, grounding both of them in the contact. Jason knew the edge [M/N] carried when he was angry, the sharp posture, the rigid spine, the way his voice went clipped and formal like he was building walls brick by brick.
Jason hated those walls. "But I need you to start working with me," Jason continued. "Not leaving me in the dark every time something dangerous happens in Gotham, something that could hurt you."
He tilted his head slightly, offering a faint smile that was more coaxing than playful. It was the same expression Jason had learned to use years ago when he needed to talk someone down without making them feel cornered.
Across from him, [M/N] studied his face carefully.
"Then you need to stop snapping at me about my condition." [M/N] replied. His voice had softened slightly, though the words were still precise. He relaxed a little in Jason's hold, his shoulders lowering just enough to show the anger was fading.
[M/N] focused on Jason's expression, carefully ignoring the heavy, traitorous thud of his own heart inside his chest. The way it beat faster every time Jason looked at him like this. Like he mattered.
"I know I am not the person you intend to be with until the end of your natural days," [M/N] continued, his tone steady but distant. "But I would appreciate basic respect while I am here."
Jason's jaw tightened immediately.
[M/N]'s gaze flicked away for a moment, almost thoughtful.
After all, it wouldn't be him.
One day, Jason would likely find someone else. Someone bright and warm and uncomplicated—some blushing bride with a gentle smile and a normal life. Someone Jason could love easily, openly. Someone far more suitable than a man like [M/N]. Someone as far deserving of Jason.
Jason exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Stop talking like you're narrating a Victorian tragedy." His voice carried irritation, but there was something else underneath it too—something heavier, maybe annoyance but [M/N] chose to ignore it.
Still, he forced himself to stay calm.
"And I'm sorry," Jason added after a moment. "For snapping at you about... that." He gestured vaguely, clearly referring to the darker parts of [M/N]'s nature.
"I know you don't control it," Jason continued, his tone quieter now. "It's just... one of your quirks, I guess."
The word was clumsy, but the effort behind it was genuine.
[M/N] exhaled slowly through his nose.
His posture eased further in Jason's arms, the tension draining out little by little. He glanced down at Jason again, studying him with that same analytical look he always had when deciding whether to trust someone's words.
"I accept your apology." M/N said at last.
Jason immediately grinned. The movement of his smile pressed faintly against [M/N]'s midsection where their bodies touched, and Jason felt the subtle shift of [M/N]'s posture as he settled more comfortably into his hold.
"Good." Jason said. His fingers tapped lightly against [M/N]'s hip now, a restless rhythm.
"Now," Jason continued, "tell me all the good stuff you managed to dig up." His grin turned slightly crooked. "And I'll tell you about the charity dinner Bruce is throwing."
Jason kept talking, oblivious to the shift.
"It's in the victim's name," he explained casually. "Big Wayne Foundation event. Fancy suits, rich people pretending they care, the usual."
His fingers drummed again.
"And we've gotta attend," Jason added. "Since you're the mortician on the case and all that boring official stuff."
For a second, [M/N] simply stared at him. The information clearly hadn't reached him yet. His body recoiled slightly in Jason's hold as the realization sank in.
The charity event was meant to raise money for the victims' families—those outside the immediate circle, the ones left to deal with the aftermath when Gotham's violence rippled outward. It was also meant to bring attention to the case itself, to remind people that the murders weren't just another statistic buried under the city's endless crime reports.
That part surprised [M/N] more than anything.
Gotham's elite rarely cared about things that didn't affect them directly. In his experience, most of them possessed a single-track mind focused on profit, influence, and the careful maintenance of their own reputations. Genuine concern for others was not a trait he often associated with them.
The event itself wasn't enormous or ostentatious by Wayne Foundation standards, but it still carried the unmistakable polish of Gotham's wealth. Expensive displays lined the room in carefully curated arrangements. Silver trays carried delicate caviar crackers and small squares of sushi drizzled with a shimmering gold-tinted sauce that caught the light beneath the chandeliers. Crystal flutes of champagne were passed among the guests while servers offered bite-sized caviar cheesecakes and lamb chops sculpted into the shape of tiny sheep—an oddly whimsical presentation that bordered on absurd but somehow still managed to look refined. Very sublime.
[M/N] had arrived on time.
He hadn't exactly been given much choice in the matter. Bruce Wayne had sent Alfred Pennyworth personally to collect both him and Jason earlier that evening, a gesture polite enough on the surface but impossible to refuse.
Jason, however, had slipped away shortly afterward.
Some errand, he had said. Something he needed to handle.
He had sworn—quite dramatically, and on his favorite gun—that he would show up later and rescue [M/N] from the inevitable social ambush that came with spending an evening among the Wayne family.
So now [M/N] stood alone at one of the smaller cocktail tables while laughter drifted around the room. Gotham's wealthiest citizens filled the space in satin gowns and tailored suits, their conversations bright and effortless as though they were attending a gala rather than an event tied to a brutal series of murders.
Many of them didn't appear particularly interested in the actual reason for the gathering.
Charity, after all, could be a useful accessory.
[M/N] picked up a champagne flute from a passing tray and took a slow sip. His gaze moved methodically through the room, cataloging faces out of quiet habit.
He had been greeted politely upon arrival, treated like any other guest thanks to his involvement in the case. So far, he had managed to avoid most of the Wayne family, something he considered a small mercy for the time being.
He had dressed carefully for the evening.
The suit he wore wasn't one he favored personally, but it served its purpose. A pale baby-blue two-piece with a crisp white button-up shirt and a matching tie, tailored well enough to blend seamlessly among Gotham's elite. The color softened his features, giving him a more approachable appearance—someone who belonged among them rather than someone dissecting bodies in a morgue.
To anyone observing from a distance, he might have passed for one of them. A well-bred heir with old money and an easy place in Gotham society.
The voice came from beside him.
Damian Wayne stood there, posture straight and composed in a sharply tailored suit of his own. The boy's dark green dress shirt contrasted with the rest of the formal attire around him, but somehow the color suited him.
Damian's expression was calm, though his eyes carried their usual sharpness as he examined [M/N].
"Alone this evening?" Damian asked, tilting his chin slightly. Music from the Gotham Orchestra drifted across the room, filling the space with a low, elegant hum.
"Your brother," [M/N] began. Damian immediately clicked his tongue in quiet irritation at the phrasing. "—is out doing God knows what." [M/N] finished calmly.
Jason had promised he would meet him here eventually. Until then, he could be anywhere in Gotham—running Red Hood business in Park Row, sitting in some dimly lit bar nursing a drink, or causing trouble somewhere simply because he could.
Damian considered this for a moment.
"That sounds like a Jason decision," he said flatly. His arms folded across his chest as he studied [M/N] again. "Father informed us about the possibility of you moving into the Manor."
[M/N] lowered his gaze briefly to the champagne in his hand, watching the bubbles rise slowly to the surface. "I haven't decided." he replied.
"I don't exactly hold your father in high regard."
Damian didn't react the way most children would have to a comment like that.
But Damian Wayne was not most children.
[M/N] had observed that firsthand years ago when he had briefly been assigned as Damian's chaperone during a visit to the Gotham Zoo. Even then, the boy had carried himself with an intensity that felt far older than his age.
"You would be safe," Damian said simply. His expression tightened slightly, a faint frown forming. "It would not be permanent," he continued. "But having another adult present would improve the household balance."
He spoke with the blunt practicality of someone analyzing a tactical situation rather than discussing family life.
"Grayson spends most of his time in Blüdhaven at his apartment," Damian went on. "Todd divides his attention between you and his... work. Duke is entertaining but often busy, and Cassandra wins at everything."
[M/N] raised an eyebrow faintly.
"And your other brother?" he prompted.
"Do not insult me." he muttered.
[M/N] noticed the subtle shift in the boy's expression then—the slight puff of his cheeks.
Jason had done the same thing when he was younger.
"Drake is useful for entertainment," Damian continued with clear disdain. "Moving his belongings around when he becomes too focused on a case provides an effective method of irritating him. Particularly when he has not slept for several days."
[M/N] let out a quiet chuckle at that.
He understood the appeal.
After all, he employed very similar tactics against the people he hunted.
Driving someone further up the wall mentally could be far more effective than any direct confrontation.
[M/N] supposed he could at least consider the possibility. The idea of moving into Wayne Manor lingered in the back of his mind now, unwanted but persistent. It was a house he had long despised—not because of its architecture or the wealth it represented, but because of what it symbolized.
There had been nights, years ago, when curiosity had driven him to the estate's grounds. Nights when he had slipped past security, he had to admit it was easier back then, moving silently through shadows just to glimpse the world Jason had once belonged to. The warm lights in the windows. The quiet domestic normalcy that had always felt so impossibly distant from the streets of Park Row.
He had never stayed long, making sure Jason was being cared for.
Watching had been enough.
Living there, however, was something else entirely. He couldn't imagine himself beneath that roof.
"How do you know I wouldn't be just as boring as these people?" [M/N] asked after a moment. He gestured vaguely toward the crowd around them.
Clusters of Gotham's wealthiest citizens laughed together in carefully practiced social circles. Their voices rose above the orchestra in polite bursts of amusement, glasses of champagne raised like props in a performance of generosity.
"I might spend my free time knitting," [M/N] continued dryly. "Or solving crossword puzzles."
Damian didn't hesitate. "You don't." he said.
The certainty in his tone made [M/N] glance at him. Damian spoke as if the answer were obvious.
"And even if you did," Damian continued, "conversation with you would still be significantly more stimulating than speaking with my classmates."
[M/N] considered that for a moment.
Damian Wayne was not exactly surrounded by intellectual equals in his age group. From what Jason had told him—and what [M/N] had personally observed—Damian's patience for ordinary children was extremely limited or the poor boy was simply too awkward to the conversation.
And, if he was being honest with himself, [M/N] did enjoy conversation.
In certain circumstances.
He could discuss anatomy for hours if someone allowed it. The human body was an intricate machine, one he understood intimately. He knew the precise angles where bones broke most easily, the delicate pathways where arteries ran closest to the surface.
He could explain exactly how long it took someone to bleed out depending on the wound.
He could talk about toxins from dozens of regions across the world, the chemical properties that made them deadly, the plants and compounds that produced them.
Literature, however, was far safer territory.
[M/N] was selective about what he read, but when he did find a book worth discussing, he could analyze it endlessly. Plot structure, pacing, character work. Authors he admired, authors he despised.
Jason was largely responsible for that.
They had both been bookworms growing up, sharing worn paperbacks whenever they could get their hands on them.
Still, some of those topics were perhaps not appropriate for a ten-year-old boy.
Especially the anatomical discussions.
"Then I will teach you how to play video games." Damian declared suddenly. He lifted his chin with unmistakable pride. The gesture was so reminiscent of a self-satisfied cat that [M/N] had to physically stop himself from reaching out and pinching the boy's cheek. He blamed the instinct on years of observing parents do exactly that with their children.
"I am highly efficient with them," Damian added. His tone carried the quiet arrogance of someone who knew exactly how skilled he was. "After that," Damian continued, "I will introduce you to my pets."
His expression softened just slightly when he said the word. "They may be confused at first," he admitted. "But they will eventually grow to appreciate you."
[M/N] doubted that very much.
Animals, in his experience, rarely liked him.
Perhaps they sensed something wrong in him—the same way certain people did.
The only exception he could remember was Jason's old dog, years ago, before she passed. The animal had tolerated him well enough, though even then [M/N] suspected it had been out of loyalty to Jason rather than genuine affection.
"I don't believe they will enjoy my presence," [M/N] said with a small shrug. He lifted the champagne flute again, noticing the drink had grown slightly warm. "Or my scent."
"They will simply have to learn," he said firmly. The boy folded his arms again. "I trained them myself," Damian continued. "Proper behavior and discipline are essential. I do not spoil them excessively with treats."
There was a hint of pride in his voice now.
"They enjoy playing," he added. "Though Alfred the cat prefers quieter activities. Titus and Ace are far more energetic."
[M/N] listened with mild amusement as Damian listed them off with the seriousness of someone discussing a team roster.
"Bat-Cow attempts to play as well," Damian continued thoughtfully, "but her size makes it... difficult. She stomps too much."
[M/N] blinked. How many animals does this boy have?
"And Jerry," Damian added, almost as an afterthought, "is far more interested in terrorizing the household than participating in games."
[M/N] tilted his head slightly. "Who's Jerry?"
Damian answered without hesitation.
[M/N] heard the approaching footsteps before he saw who they belonged to.
He turned slightly just as Dick Grayson stepped into view, weaving easily through the small crowd. Dick looked exactly like what Gotham elite expected him to look like—polished but effortless. His black suit jacket was fitted but worn casually, the dark blue dress shirt underneath open at the collar without a tie. It gave him that relaxed charm people always seemed to gravitate toward.
Dick smiled the moment he reached them.
"Hey, brother-in-law," he greeted easily. As he spoke, his hands came down to rest on Damian's shoulders from behind, squeezing lightly in a casual show of affection. Damian tolerated the contact for exactly two seconds before his shoulders stiffened.
"You tried some of the food, right?" Dick continued conversationally. "Personally, I wouldn't go near the caviar cheesecake."
[M/N] exhaled softly through his nose.
"Just the champagne," he replied with a quiet sigh. "And good evening to you as well."
Of course it was Dick. Dick tilted his head slightly, reading the tone immediately.
"You're upset with me?" he asked.
Damian stepped out from beneath his brother's hands and turned to watch the exchange with open curiosity.
"Because I told Bruce?" Dick added.
[M/N] considered the question for a moment. Upset wasn't quite the correct word.
"Annoyed." [M/N] corrected calmly. "To say that I am mad at you, makes it seem that I care." He tipped the last of the champagne down his throat and glanced into the now-empty flute, studying the thin watery residue clinging to the crystal.
"I'm annoyed that you announced it to your father before the tabloids could break the story first," he said dryly. "Or whatever version of events you gave him."
His eyes flicked back toward Dick.
"And now he seems rather adamant about me moving into the Manor."
Dick's expression softened.
"You should," he said, though his voice carried a careful edge—as if he were trying not to push too hard. "In a city like Gotham," Dick continued as if [M/N] was some naive little lamb, "it's not exactly a bad idea. You'd be surrounded by family, and it would make tracking the guy—"
Tim Drake's voice drifted in from the side as he stepped into the small circle. He wore a dark suit as well, though his choice of a deep red button-up shirt beneath the jacket stood out just enough to draw attention. Tim lifted a glass to his lips and took a casual sip as the orchestra behind them transitioned smoothly into another piece.
"The bite marks on one of the ribs were inconclusive," Tim added matter-of-factly. "The dental pattern could belong to either a man or a woman."
He had cataloged that evidence personally. The teeth impressions carved into the bone had been unusual—multiple indentations overlapping in ways that made identification difficult. Male and female dental structures shared similarities in that case.
"But I'm sure you already knew that." Tim added, his tone lightly curious as he sipped his drink again.
[M/N]'s response came before he could stop himself.
"And I'm sure you know by now that you shouldn't be snooping through your brother and his husband's bedroom."
His face dropped instantly.
Damian jabbed Tim sharply in the side before [M/N] could even process the silence that followed.
"You and your perversion," Damian hissed, glaring at Tim with open disapproval. "Perhaps you are the reason he does not wish to live with me."
"Live with you?" Tim shot back, glancing down at the small splash of his drink that had spilled onto his shirt during the jab. He frowned at the stain forming across the fabric.
"Us," Damian corrected impatiently. "Whatever. The semantics are irrelevant."
He cast a quick glance toward [M/N] before narrowing his eyes back at Tim.
But Damian was already continuing. "You and your intrusive hands," Damian scolded, folding his arms across his chest. His scowl deepened. "Your voyeuristic tendencies. You peeping Tom."
[M/N] turned his head away from the others, biting his lip but a soft snicker left his lips. Damian is so very amusing
Bruce's voice cut through the moment like a blade. The conversation stopped instantly.
[M/N]'s faint smile vanished just as quickly.
Bruce had appeared behind Damian, one hand settling firmly on the boy's shoulder. Damian tilted his head back to look up at his father, clearly unimpressed by the interruption.
"Do not speak to your brother like that," Bruce said evenly. His expression was stern but controlled. "And stop using words like that," he added. "Where did you even learn that term?"
"Children at school were discussing it," Damian replied with a shrug. "I asked for clarification." He lifted his chin slightly. "Therefore I am free to use it correctly."
Dick rubbed a hand through his hair with a tired sigh.
Bruce looked exactly as he always did at events like this—perfectly composed. His suit was immaculately tailored, paired with a crisp white shirt and a simple black tie. His dark hair was smoothed neatly back with gel, though faint streaks of grey had begun to show at the temples. There was also the subtle weariness in his eyes that came from raising a household full of stubborn vigilantes. His children.
Bruce turned his attention to [M/N] then.
"You look very nice this evening," he said politely. A warm, diplomatic smile followed as he extended his hand in greeting.
"Your suit is quite eye-catching."
[M/N] stared at him. Even as Bruce offered the handshake, [M/N] made no move to take it. After a moment, Bruce quietly lowered his hand again. Of course, Bruce is only being nice to him because of Jason, [M/N] no doubt would bet his paycheck that Bruce would have treated him like whatever he wanted if he had no relationship with Jason.
"I am usually in black," [M/N] said flatly. "Or grey. Occasionally red." His fingers rotated the empty champagne flute absentmindedly. "But since several police officials who regularly see me at work are attending tonight," he continued, "I thought it would be beneficial to appear... approachable."
His eyes flicked briefly across Bruce's family.
"Not exactly aligned with your family's aesthetic." [M/N] added, raising a brow.
Bruce chuckled softly. "Not exactly," he admitted. "But I enjoy the variety of colors my family chooses." His gaze returned to [M/N]'s suit. "For what it's worth," Bruce added gently, "lighter colors suit you."
[M/N] kept his expression perfectly neutral. Inside his head, however, he was already planning to burn the suit the moment he got home. Better yet, make Jason do it.
Bruce's attention drifted across the room again, his gaze searching through the gathering of guests.
"Where is Jason?" he asked after a moment, the curiosity in his tone sounding casual but carrying something beneath it that made M/N narrow his eyes slightly. "I hope he plans on showing up."
The subtle expectation in Bruce's voice was enough to irritate him.
"I am not his keeper." [M/N] replied flatly. He barely finished speaking before an arm slipped around his waist from behind. The sudden contact made his body tense for half a second before relaxing as he recognized the familiar presence.
"He ain't my keeper, Bruce."
Jason's voice carried that easy, rough confidence that always sounded a little out of place in rooms like this. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against [M/N]'s temple, his breath warm against his skin.
"I was busy doing stuff on my end," Jason added casually. "You know."
[M/N] glanced sideways at him then, taking in his appearance.
Jason had made a vague effort to dress appropriately for the event, though in typical Jason fashion he had stopped somewhere between formal and street. Dark jeans replaced dress pants, but the red button-up shirt he wore was crisp and partially tucked beneath a well-cut jacket.
"Jason," Bruce said, clearly pleased to see him. He chose to ignore the vague reference to whatever "work" Jason had been doing beforehand. "You look nice."
[M/N] attempted to step away then, assuming the arm around his waist had only been for appearances. The moment he shifted, Jason tightened his hold just enough to keep him there.
The gesture was clearly deliberate.
Public affection, [M/N] realized. Something to reinforce the narrative in front of Bruce and the guests nearby. The marriage between Bruce Wayne's son and Gotham's resident mortician wasn't exactly public knowledge yet, but it wasn't exactly hidden either.
Still, Jason was playing the part.
"Todd," Damian greeted simply. Jason's free hand reached out and ruffled Damian's hair with quick affection before he released M/N long enough to pull Dick into a brief hug. He did the same with Tim a moment later, though that interaction lasted only a few seconds before Jason leaned in and muttered something quietly to him.
[M/N] couldn't hear what was said.
Tim's expression shifted subtly before he nodded and walked away. Jason turned back toward [M/N] with a lazy grin spreading across his face.
That grin immediately made [M/N] suspicious.
Jason was planning something. He always had that exact expression when he was planning something.
"What did you do?" [M/N] asked. Jason leaned closer again, resting another quick kiss against the top of his husband's head.
"May have done some dirty work," he admitted lightly. "Need Timbo to clean up the camera footage."
[M/N]'s brows furrowed in confusion at the affectionate gesture. It wasn't exactly unusual, but it still caught him off guard every time.
Jason pulled back slightly then, looking [M/N] up and down with an exaggerated inspection.
"I didn't think you owned something this nice."
Before Bruce could open his mouth again—likely preparing another smooth attempt to convince them both to move into Wayne Manor—Jason gently turned [M/N] away and started walking them toward the other side of the room.
Jason's fingers brushed across the fabric of [M/N]'s suit as they walked, absentmindedly smoothing the material across his side.
The color seemed familiar.
The shade of blue caught Jason's green eye in a way he couldn't quite place.
"Just trying to look friendly," [M/N] replied.
He glanced around the room again as they moved through the crowd. Crystal glasses clinked softly against each other while servers moved between guests offering trays of expensive hors d'oeuvres.
Many of the elites had already begun drinking heavily.
Some were eating lavishly without even pretending to care about the charity, a memorial they were supposedly supporting.
"The blue reminds me of better times," [M/N] continued quietly. "And it was on sale."
He had bought the suit in Metropolis years ago. It had been a gift to himself—something to wear beneath his college gown during graduation. The color had stood out there as well, though not nearly as sharply as it did in Gotham.
The suit looked good on him.
The color was the shade of the sky on a clear day.
The same shade as the blue jays that had once nested in the trees near his apartment in Metropolis, their songs filling the mornings with quiet music.
And it was also the color Jason's eyes had once been.
Before the Lazarus Pit had burned that color away forever, turned them into the same color of it's depths.
It had been a strange thought at the time, perhaps even morbid, but [M/N] had wanted that color with him when he walked across the stage at graduation. He had wanted to wear the memory of Jason's eyes with him. The eyes that had once closed forever.
"It looks nice," Jason said. He flicked a tiny piece of lint from [M/N]'s shoulder with casual precision. "Really nice."
"Do you not recognize the color?" [M/N] asked.
It wouldn't surprise him if Jason didn't.
Jason tilted his head thoughtfully. "It's the color of the sky, right?"
[M/N] hummed quietly in response.
Music from the orchestra swelled again across the ballroom, the melody rich and elegant. The tempo shifted smoothly into something softer, more structured.
Around them, couples began drifting toward the dance floor. Some moved with practiced grace, others with stiff formality, but the rhythm pulled them together regardless.
It was old-fashioned. But the music itself was beautiful.
[M/N] found himself listening closely as the melody echoed through the high ceilings.
Jason watched him quietly for a moment. He noticed the faint hum escaping [M/N]'s throat as he followed the music, the subtle way his expression softened when he forgot people were watching.
Jason's fingers slid briefly through the black-and-white strands of his husband's hair before he nudged him lightly.
"Come on," Jason said. His hand closed around [M/N]'s. "I heard couples like dancing."
Before [M/N] could protest, Jason pulled him gently into the slow-moving crowd gathering on the dance floor. Bodies swayed around them in loose circles as the music guided their steps.
"We don't have to dance if you're doing this for show," [M/N] said quietly. His voice was calm, gentle even.
"I don't mind," he added. "It would look good for the papers. For the elites. For the Waynes."
His gaze lifted to Jason.
"You're not obligated to dance with me."
Jason clicked his tongue in response.
He ignored the comment entirely.
Instead, he adjusted their positions naturally—one hand settling firmly against [M/N]'s hip while the other held his hand out between them. Jason paused just long enough to catch the rhythm of the music before stepping forward.
[M/N]'s free hand rested lightly against Jason's shoulder.
Careful steps carried them slowly across the dance floor, their bodies swaying in time with the orchestra as they blended into the graceful motion of the other couples surrounding them.
“You can… come closer if you want to.”
Jason’s voice came low, almost hesitant, as he leaned down slightly toward [M/N]. Around them, the other couples danced in close holds, bodies drawn together in quiet intimacy that seemed almost expected in a waltz like this. Jason’s gaze flicked briefly to the pairs nearby—men leaning toward their dates, murmuring things only the other could hear—before his attention returned to the man in his arms.
“Only if you’re—” He didn’t even finish the sentence.
He ducked his head and stepped closer without hesitation, resting his forehead gently against Jason’s chest as though the permission alone had been all he needed. The movement was natural and immediate, almost instinctive. If Jason said it was alright, then who was [M/N] to argue with his own husband?
Jason felt the shift in weight against him and instinctively adjusted his stance, one hand settling more securely at [M/N]’s hip as they continued moving with the music.
The orchestra carried the melody across the ballroom in smooth waves of sound, violins rising and falling as the couples around them turned slowly in careful circles. Jason guided them through the steps with surprising precision. His movements were steady, deliberate, gentle in a way that didn’t come naturally to him unless he was trying.
He watched his footing carefully.
Jason Todd had survived gunfights, explosions, and rooftop chases across Gotham City, but the last thing he wanted was to step on his husband’s feet in the middle of a charity gala. Against his chest, [M/N] could hear Jason’s heartbeat. It thudded steadily beneath the fabric of the red button-up shirt, blending with the distant music that filled the room.
There was something strangely childish about the moment. Soft, that [M/N] was safe again.
[M/N] had never imagined himself in a place like this. Not in a million years. A ballroom filled with Gotham’s elite, crystal chandeliers glittering overhead, expensive perfume and polished marble everywhere.
Even if the entire event existed for a grim reason. The victim’s charity. Another fundraiser for the families torn apart by Gotham’s monsters.
He had never imagined standing here like this. He had learned how to waltz in Metropolis years ago during some ridiculous university social requirement, but that had been practice, between learning mythology or this.
That was the strangest part of it.
Jason was treating him like a real spouse. Like a husband.
This was for show. An act for the watching eyes of Gotham’s high society and the ever-curious Wayne family. A carefully maintained illusion to make their strange marriage look believable. If their life together were a performance, this would easily be his favorite episode of it.
Jason hadn’t fully realized something until they had begun dancing.
[M/N] was smaller than him.
Not small exactly—[M/N] wasn’t fragile by any means—but he wasn’t Jason’s height. He couldn’t be. Jason had always been broader, taller, built heavier from years of fighting and surviving Gotham’s worst nights.
The difference became obvious with [M/N] tucked against him like this.
Jason’s hand rested against his hip, his thumb brushing slowly over the smooth blue fabric of the suit.
That blue again. It tugged at Jason’s memory in an odd way.
The color caught the ballroom lights beautifully, reflecting faint silver glints as they moved. It made [M/N] stand out among the darker suits and muted dresses of the other guests.
He couldn’t figure out why that particular shade bothered him the way it did, or why it kept dragging at the edges of his thoughts.
But it did something else too.
It made [M/N] look… radiant.
Jason wasn’t about to say that out loud with half of Gotham’s vultures watching them from the sidelines. Still, the thought lingered.
His thumb continued its slow, absent movement against the fabric as he guided them across the dance floor.
“You look comfortable.” Jason said quietly. He kept his tone soft, hoping it sounded gentler than the rough edge his voice sometimes carried. They passed another couple turning in slow circles as the orchestra swelled again.
[M/N] didn’t lift his head.
Instead, Jason felt the subtle shift of movement as the tip of his husband’s nose brushed against the front of his shirt.
The gesture was almost… burrowing.
Like [M/N] was trying to hide against him.
Jason’s heart stuttered in his chest at the unexpected contact. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
He simply kept dancing. Because the truth was obvious in a way that made Jason uncomfortable.
This kind of life—the polished floors, the orchestras, the expensive suits—this was the world [M/N] should have belonged to.
Jason remembered those early galas when Bruce and Dick had first dragged him into Gotham’s elite circles. He had been younger then, still rough around the edges from Crime Alley. He used to hide behind Bruce’s leg or stand near Dick’s side while wealthy strangers stared at him like he was some fascinating curiosity.
Like a circus attraction.
Jason Todd: the street kid that got eat from the golden spoon.
The elites had always loved that story. The life of the rich and powerful. The bold and the corrupt.
The polished monsters hiding behind silk and champagne.
[M/N looked like he had been born for it.
Perfectly composed. Graceful even without trying.
As they moved across the dance floor beneath the golden light of the chandeliers, Jason couldn’t help the quiet realization settling in his mind.
[M/N] looked far too perfect for Gotham’s dirt and violence. Even when he was the one digging his hands into the dead, the dead and the powerful, the dead and the poor.
Like he had been made for a better world than the one Jason lived in.
[M/N] felt it before he fully noticed it.
Jason was staring at him.
There was a particular weight to Jason Todd’s gaze that was difficult to ignore, [M/N] felt that attention now, even through the movement of the dance, and his eyes flickered upward in quiet curiosity.
Jason’s eyes, bright even beneath the ballroom lights, were focused entirely on him. For a moment [M/N] thought Jason was about to say something. The look had that kind of pause to it, the kind that usually came just before a sarcastic remark or a quiet observation Jason rarely bothered to soften. Maybe he'll say something nice, maybe something sassy or spiteful.
[M/N]’s lips curved faintly, almost amused.
Then the scream shattered the moment. It came from outside.
High-pitched and sharp enough to cut clean through the music still echoing from the orchestra.
Every head in the ballroom snapped toward the sound. The tall glass doors leading to the garden had been pushed open at some point during the evening, and now the cool night air drifted inside along with the echo of panicked voices.
The same woman screamed again, her voice trembling and breathless.
His fingers tightened instantly around [M/N]’s hand and he pulled him along as they moved quickly toward the doors. The shift from formal dancing to urgent movement caused a ripple through the nearby crowd as people instinctively stepped aside.
Across the room, Bruce Wayne was already heading in the same direction, his expression carefully controlled in the way Gotham had come to expect from him during moments like this. To the public he looked like nothing more than a concerned host moving toward a disturbance at his charity event.
Behind him, Dick Grayson and Tim Drake followed at a brisk pace. Several Gotham police officers attending the gala in dress uniform also began moving toward the garden, their posture sharpening as they prepared to intervene.
The shout came again from outside.
Jason pushed through the open doors with [M/N] close behind him.
The garden beyond the ballroom was dimly lit by elegant lanterns placed along the stone pathways. Moonlight reflected across trimmed hedges and marble statues, casting long pale shadows across the grass.
Near one of the stone benches, a couple stood frozen in shock.
The woman clutched the arm of the man beside her, her face pale as she pointed shakily toward the bench. It was obvious what had happened. They had likely slipped outside for privacy—something many couples did during long galas like this—and instead had stumbled onto something far worse.
The man sat hunched forward on the stone bench, motionless beneath the pale glow of the moon.
Jason barely had time to react before [M/N] pulled free and moved ahead of him.
But [M/N] was already descending the garden steps. He moved faster than Jason expected, his focus already shifting fully into clinical observation. Jason followed quickly behind, lengthening his stride to catch up.
“Let me see,” [M/N] said calmly as he approached. The frightened couple stepped back immediately, giving him space without protest. Something about his composed tone made it clear he knew what he was doing.
The body belonged to a man in an expensive suit.
Under the cool silver glow of the moonlight, the man’s face had taken on the waxy stillness that [M/N] recognized instantly. Even before touching him, he could tell the truth of it.
Dead. Not unconscious. Dead.
Still, appearances mattered.
[M/N] crouched slightly and reached forward, pressing two fingers against the side of the man’s neck.
He waited a moment before withdrawing his hand.
The woman let out a broken sob and buried her face into her partner’s shoulder. Behind them, Jason exhaled slowly and rubbed the back of his neck, tension already creeping into his posture.
“Could it be related?” Jason asked. His voice carried low, careful enough not to spark further panic.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stone steps as Commissioner Gordon descended into the garden, several officers following close behind him. They began forming a loose barrier, positioning themselves between the body and the growing number of guests crowding the windows inside the ballroom. Even dressed for the party, they were ready to do crowd control.
Curious faces pressed against the glass.
“No,” [M/N] said simply. He was already examining the body more closely. “It’s not the same pattern.”
He spoke with clinical certainty.
“One singular victim,” he continued, gesturing briefly toward the corpse, “and he appears to have all of his parts.”
Jason grimaced slightly at that phrasing.
[M/N] placed his hand lightly against the man’s midsection, pressing gently. The firmness beneath the suit fabric made his brow crease faintly. “The body may have been frozen,” he murmured thoughtfully. “The organs feel unusually rigid.”
He straightened slightly. “I’ll need him transported back to my morg—”
The sentence died in his throat. Something moved, maybe from his touch?
The body shifted forward just slightly as [M/N] removed his hand.
Jason noticed it at the same moment.
Then the top of the man’s head popped off.
The sound was wet and soft, like a lid separating from a jar.
[M/N] instinctively recoiled, quickly scooting backward across the stone path.
For a moment there was silence.
Then the truth of what they were seeing settled in.
Inside the hollow skull there was no brain. Instead, something white and delicate rested there in its place.
A small bouquet arranged carefully inside the empty cranium. White lilies.
They had been trimmed and positioned deliberately, their petals folded together in a shape eerily resembling the brain that should have been there. The scent of them drifted faintly into the cool night air, they were really fresh despite the host they were in.
The arrangement was too precise. Too intentional.
Even as Jason stepped forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him back protectively and positioning himself between [M/N] and the grotesque display, [M/N]’s gaze remained fixed on the lilies.
Jason tugged him farther away from the bench, shielding him from the sight.
He couldn’t stop looking at the flowers.
Lillies, the meaning of purity, innocence, devotion, luck and yearning.
