Synopsis: as a cupid migrated to Mondstadt, you found it that instigating love was your best calling. So what was with this man named Lohen, and why won't he leave you alone?
Tags: gn!reader, no use of y/n, general fluff, slight angst (blink and you miss it), lots of backstory for reader, slow-burn(?), annoyances to lovers, Lohen and reader physically fight at the end, brief mentions of stalking, banter, open ending, slightly rushed?, not proofread, English is not my first language, 6.8k words
Og post
A/N: we're just going to ignore how this took much longer than it should have...
Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, did well in creating you.
The god of love, you surmised, was one that, in recent times seems more closed off, standoffish even compared to the humans that she rules over. She is a woman, who is seemed to have no love left for her people, an irony of all things considered her title and role, yet to compensate for that, she created the cupid race. Born to the Tsaritsa's command in order bring forth humans in romantic and platonic kinship, that was your purpose, your fate, and you couldn't have had it better.
Humans, for their endless entropy of emotions, were quite entertaining to watch when all you have to do is to observe and tie the strings to their soulmates. Their tears, their smiles, their blushes, emotions that you could never experience yourself with such detail compared to your mortal counterparts. And, in a way, you didn't mind. Observing these mortals brought you great joy in and of itself, as did bringing forth soulmates regardless of how far apart they existed.
Though, Snezhnaya was a nation quick to adapt to her majesty's mood, for now the nation of love was just an endless tundra, filled to the brim with scowls and alcohol brewing under their chins. You couldn't blame them. To live in a nation, whose reputation remained tarnished due to its aggressive military, was bound to make one grumpy. Even your mood fouled far often than it should have in these solemn conditions.
So, you took a different approach.
The north had no place for your everlasting boredom, so you ventured, from Snezhnaya to Nod Krai, skipping over the regions till you came to Mondstadt. The nation of wine and freedom. Even the air here was no short of impressive, with the scent of dandelions wafting through the air like the subtlest yet soothing companion. This region... Was all you could ask for in regards to humanity. Here, the knights wore honor as their greatest badge, the church worshipped with fervor regardless of their absentee archon, the men and women mingled with such unique romances, that you yourself could not help but sigh in utter delight at the sight of a couple giving each other flowers, or perhaps having a picnic together at the fresh meadow.
Truly, this is where you belonged.
Day by day, you sat on the windrise tree, munching on either a sunsettia or apple, positioning your (harmless) bow and arrow to an unsuspecting couple, and watching your arrow disappear into the wind to tighten the bond between the two humans. You watched, as their eyes lit up with renewed yearning, and the grip of their hands enveloped in their partner's grew stronger.
This was your whole life really. You slept on most days, when you yearned for a snack you'd simply wander around, careful to avoid the hillichurl camps and just pick up a fruit or two for your indulgence. And, when inspiration struck you'd carefully position your bow and arrow to strengthen the string of love regardless of its nature as romantic or platonic.
Ah but of course, people would catch on about your little whimsical life.
Sometimes, you left your bow on the tree during your wanderings, others you'd be a bit sloppy and fail to conceal your presence as much as you would've liked. It didn't matter, for the people of Mondstadt noticed, and you were happy to oblige to their little whims.
You'd see girlish letters asking you to send it to the object of their admiration, and you did. You'd see couples asking for your blessings and you gave them. You'd see little kids playing house, begging to allow their friendship to continue forevermore, and you'd help fulfill that wish. All anonymously of course. And yet, with each letter, heartfelt wish and whatnot, your heart didn't grow cold at the monotony, but warmer at the prospect of human kinship, sometimes bold and sometimes more reserved, growing even greater by the decade. You have practically lost count of the romances and friendships you've supported up until now, and you couldn't have had it any better.
But did romances only have to occur between humans? Why of course not!
Right now as of the moment, you sat on the branches of another tree, the grip of your legs over the branch taut, and the precision of your bow even greater. You were pointing your arrow to two lovely birds singing along in melodious harmony, and to think to not bind them in friendship was absolutely blasphemous. Obviously, the intensity of the arrow had to be lessened according to the bodies of the birds, but the calculations leading to that point were too vague and the chances of you messing up were far higher than expected. Too much intensity would kill them, might even cook them from the potency, and too little wouldn't do anything.
But mulling over it won't do much now would it? The birds would finish their singing sooner or later. You shot your arrow...
...And it turned into fowl. How great. You really needed to improve upon your arche-
"That was a nice shot there!"
You almost fell off of your branch.
Quickly adjusting your position so as to not fall off startled, your graze drifted upon the snarky and boyish voice below you. You really should've practiced concealing your presence better, but oh well. Instead of, what you would've preferred, a clean grass field, you were met with a young man, eyes dark, dead and crimson and with lovely dark hair. His uniform, you could tell, belonged with the knights of favonius, and he was covered in... Blood. You scrunched up your nose in discomfort.
"Hey now, don't look so displeased, I'm just a knight passing by!"
"A knight with so much blood," you secured your bow on your back. "I'm afraid I can't exactly trust a man with that much gore on his person."
"Just a few hilichurls ravaging the place out of order," he laughed, a bit maniacal, and your discomfort grew by the slightest. "I'm Lohen, vice captain of the fifth company of the knights of favonius," what a mouthful, "and what might your name be?"
Should you even tell him? Staring down at the man, grin undeniably cheshire and his eyes holding a sort of lack of light that you couldn't discern the emotion of, he still seemed earnest, if in a twisted way. His grip on his spear tightened the lightest, and his eyes always found themselves attracted to that bow on your back. Of course. War mongerers will always look for a sign to fight.
"Not a talker, eh?" You didn't answer either, and ended up going back to staring at the dead bird on the branch. You pitied it, it didn't deserve being at the end of your bow.
"Are you perhaps a hunter?"
"... What makes you say that?"
"Your precision at that bird was exquisite," oh? You didn't expect him to be the type for flattery. "And your bow seems to be high quality," he crossed his arms. Your gaze drifted again, and you couldn't help but watch as the blood dripped from his bangs to his nose, before eventually falling on the ground again.
"And yet, you're not dressed like one."
You narrowed your eyes. He was perceptive. You weren't all too familiar with Mondstadt laws, but poaching without a permit was surely enough a grave offense that had to be paid with a fine. Well, you would think, you haven't been interacting with human life directly for a long time now. To be faced with the implications of your own mistakes to not hide your presence better was truly distressing, especially since he knew your face and voice now.
"I'm just a typical wanderer, you don't have to worry about me," you paused, before speaking again. "I'm not here to cause trouble," in a way, the man questioning you looked like he caused greater issues than what of you might have done.
He chuckled, for whatever reason, you didn't exactly know. Instead, he brought his gloved hand to shoulder and waved, before eventually walking off into the distance, towards the city of Mondstadt. Though, with the way he kept glancing at you even after he left the scene, told you enough that he'd try to find you again, if only for the thrill of a good fight. You recognize that look all the way from the humans in Snezhnaya.
"Well, it's been a while since I had to tackle bloodlust instead of its other counterpart," you muttered to yourself, before jumping off that branch of yours, staring at the other tree and the fowl, that still had your arrow stuck through its eyes. Guess you were having meat for sustenance today then.
This Lohen was a real pain.
Day by day, you often spent your time sleeping or fulfilling the wishes of your fellow Mondstatians, yet you never did much after that. Explore? Sure, but due to the egregious amount of hilichurls near Mondstadt you weren't one to risk it. And yet, despite all your laxness, your lack of enthusiasm for anything that wasn't your purpose, you found it that Lohen wasn't one to like to leave someone peacefully minding their own business alone.
You rest near a pond or perhaps in Windrise, and you found that dastard Lohen grinning stupidly, his hand mildly shaking from gripping his polearm so hard, and always covered in crimson. You've grown to learn to ignore him, more often than not, since there wasn't much reason to just attack someone out of nowhere. At least he had the dignity for that of all things, even if most times he's just poking your bow to get a reaction out of you.
"It's a very fine quality bow. Say, care telling me where you had it made?"
"It's a family heirloom."
It wasn't, but its not like he could really do anything about that. You made your own bow and arrow, but he didn't need to know that.
Most times you just run away from him, your feet gliding across the harsh blades of grass as he calls after you with brash and hurried apologies that has no actual weight. All he wanted to do was fight, and you weren't one prone to violence by any means, especially when you knew, even with your limited combat experience, that you could end his life if you tried just the slightest. He wanted your bow to injure, but unfortunately for him you were created for love, and to hurt humans was something you didn't want to explicitly do in all things.
As of the moment, there you were, watching the crystalflies land on your index and watching as its wings flap with such beauty, yet as soon as Lohen came, it flew away, as if knowing that his bloodlust will get them killed. You remained nonchalant nonetheless, despite missing the pretty sight on your finger.
There came your dark haired knight, already covered in blood from Barbatos knows what he did, still with that annoying grin plastered on his face. It was beginning to become a part of your daily routine, and you couldn't have been more distraught at the fact that you were getting used to humans like these. You sat up from the grass, brushing the dirt from your outfit and already turning your back on him.
And he was... Pouting. Gosh, how much attention did he need really?
"Oh come on, not interested in a fight?"
"Not particularly."
Ignore, ignore ignore, that was all that was chanting in your head right now. Why did you even respond to his question? That you yourself didn't even know, people like him are bound to give up if you don't give them the thought of day, but here you were falling into a trap that he himself didn't know he placed.
"What do you even do then? Such great precision on your archery, and yet you're without a permit."
"Just for self defence," you breathed through your nose, "I might just attack you from your incessant questions now." Said through gritted teeth.
"Oh please do!"
"No thank you," your expression turned to one of disgust again. "Won't exactly count as self defence."
"I say it would, if I just strike right now," what was he even saying?! His body shifted, and now he was taking a stance for... Fighting! This man really doesn't know when to quit!
"I said no, Lohen!"
He pouted, and you practically shivered in your cloth. "Ahh what a buzz kill," he rolled his neck, and you could hear the cracks pop one by one, which was disturbing. Gods, he really was just planning on attacking you right then and there. One had to be a real kind of crazy to even do that without warning.
"And besides, it wouldn't exactly be a fair fight anyway. You have a vision and I don't." Why were you even trying to reason with him? You could've just walked away, never to see him again as you reside in a more secluded area. Your love for humans must have been so great to indulge even the irrational of humans, those who have only fight in their heart and brain.
"I'll throw away my vision."
You quirked an eyebrow. So much for just a fight? You wonder if he became a knight just to duel people. "You're a knight and I'm just a passing Traveler. Still wouldn't be fair."
"I'll compensate you!"
With what exactly? You almost said, but instead rolled your eyes. You've had enough conversation with this man and it was getting on your nerves. So, as promptly as you could, you began walking away from the man, ignoring his pouty protests.
He was interesting to observe however, maybe you should do more research on people like him.
You stood in front of Mondstadt gates, and could only sigh as you walked in.
To be completely honest, interactions with humans (aside from... You hate to say it but Lohen) were few and negligible in your long life, so, approaching the city with stone gates left you feeling a tad bit nervous. The guards greeted you kindly, which should be a source of comfort, and you bowed your head in turn, if only to be polite.
The city was quite... Lively. Lively for your taste specifically, with the children running amok and the constant company that was the bustling conversation between the people. You even saw some people releasing love letters into the air, which you cheekily collected and made sure to carefully place in your handbag. No rest for the cupid you supposed, you smiled into your cloak. But, as always, you wouldn't have had it any other way.
Your intention for even coming into the city, was, for one, to observe how Mondstadtians get along in their day to day lives, and to also gather more information about Lohen's environment to find out about what made him such a battle maniac. He was a tad bit of an enigma for you, inhibiting characteristics of a psychopath, yet still holding this humanity in him that signifies that he was more than just a man who liked to wander about and fight things and creatures for no reason. He was annoying, but in a way you wanted to study him. Just that, asking him directly, knowing that he'll be on your tails for as long as you exist afterwards, was not your particular cup of tea.
And this city was too cheerful. Too much for someone like him.
You truly wonder, you really do, what about this freeing environment made him so battle hungry? Even those with the more serious disposition, always carried that air of softness, or had at least some kind of care for their own city to crack a smile every once in a while. Him? He belonged more in Natlan than he did in Mondstadt. What made him so bored of this lovely city? You truly wondered.
Here, it felt as if the word "home" was personified in a way, the cozy warm feeling and the general public adding to that whole vibe of the place. And yet, Lohen feels like such a stark, cold contrast against that home which you've lived in for so many decades. You're not sure how to feel, and yet surprisingly enough you don't feel malice.
For now, you'd just enjoy your day. The children around brought you dandelions to your palms, and you smiled and pat their heads as a thanks for their gesture. With the limited mora you carried, you used it to buy some food from good hunter, and it was far more pleasing than of what you might have expected. You walked from area to area, taking in this glorious city with fresh eyes and a warmer heart, and your little love for humanity sparkled just a tad bit brighter, and it felt like such a great euphoria.
... If it weren't for the fact that you were being watched.
You noticed almost immediately when you checked out the Knights of favonius headquarters and then left to discover more parts of the city, but someone was certainly following you if anything. They were sneaky, that was to be sure, and certainly not to be messed with, but you couldn't sense any bloodlust on their person even with the unnerving presence watching you. You sighed, wishing you had eyes at the back of your head. It would save you the trouble of constantly looking back and seeing that your assailant had all but disappeared.
Couldn't even enjoy an afternoon. You sighed.
You suspect that Lohen might be following you. Why? Well, regardless of how well he did at deception, he couldn't hide his elemental traces regardless of how hard he tried. It didn't help that your senses were far more attuned to Teyvat than that of the normal person, but considering that Lohen hadn't done anything yet, you'd let him slide for once.
For now, you'd just buy a memoir to remember your trip.
"Any flower you'd like?"
Flora, you heard, offered you the array of flowers, and you couldn't help but chew on your fingers for a bit. Even if this was just a personal gift, it didn't make the act of buying something any less difficult. Sighing you asked for the Cecilias, but unfortunately someone had bought them already. The whole stock. Which was... Strange, but you could manage, and instead bought some small lamp grass.
The flowers were pretty at least, and the sun was already setting. You were about to leave the city gate, but unfortunately, were stopped by an all too familiar voice.
"Wait a sec!" It was Lohen.
He ran up to you while you were already on the path with a frightening speed that you hadn't seen him use before, which, to be fair, was expected since you hadn't seen him actually in combat before, and left him in the dust before he could actually catch up. He panted the faintest, and you could see from your vision that his top was the slightest ruffled. His face however, was a whole other story. It was flushed, a tad bit pink, likely from running to you so fast and so hurriedly, and yet he still kept that manic grin on his face that you've grown accustomed to.
"Lohen?"
"Yes, my liege?"
You rolled your eyes at the nickname, and then sighed, exasperated.
"Why are you here, exactly?" Choosing your words carefully. You wouldn't want to catch the unnecessary attention of the guards, who were watching your interaction with far too much interest than of what you might be comfortable with. Somehow, Lohen noticed your discomfort, and moved his body so that he was covering the sight of you from the guards.
That was oddly thoughtful.
"Can't get a chance to see the lovely you?"
"You can but I'm pretty sure that flattery wasn't in the topic of "meeting" me."
"Is it really flattery if it's all true?"
You raised a brow. Now he was acting slightly suspicious. He didn't seem like the type to care about overt complementing, especially since you assumed him to only acknowledge those that matched his fighting prowess. You didn't even clash your bow against his yet.
"Just tell me what you want Lohen."
You crossed your arms, and he pouted again. Seriously, you might just have to start counting the number of times he's being dramatic.
"Trying to get rid of me?"
"If you don't hurry up I might just," your glare didn't exactly match his carefree look, but then again your threat must have worked since he took out the thing that he was hiding behind his back-
And it was Cecilias. Huh.
... But they were covered in blood.
You stared at Lohen, then back at the flowers again, holding the crimson carnage and the distinct scent of iron. Tentatively, you grabbed the flowers, narrowing your eyes when the blood dripped into your palm.
"Why blood?"
"Well, I feel like red suits you."
"It suits you more," you sighed, picking one flower and twirling it between your index and middle. "Considering you're so battle hungry. I'd prefer it if it was white."
"Well, it wouldn't exactly say anything that it would match me now would it? I feel like I had to impart at least some of my charm."
Ugh. He had a point.
But then again... "Where did you get the blood from?"
"Oh do you really need to know?"
"I feel as if I must."
You stared at Lohen, who was consequently staring off into the distance with the most neutral expression you had ever seen, likely to not give away his thoughts. You narrowed your eyes and furrowed your brow, and he still had the audacity to act unbothered. You were seriously considering kicking him.
Forcibly shoving his body, which was frustratingly sturdy and didn't seem to want to budge, you looked behind him. There was nothing out of the ordinary of course, just guards doing their job and the sun setting from the long day that it spent. However, you were not one easily deterred. Squinting your eyes, you saw a few people walking out the city gates in the adventurer's guild uniform, their expressions foul and all, and as they walked passed, you noticed how the biggest one was holding his head covered in bandages, and his lackeys were talking about a concussion of sorts.
You whipped your head back to Lohen, not impressed in the slightest.
"Why would you fight someone so carelessly, Lohen?"
He was... whistling now? Gosh why doesn't he ever stay on topic?!
"Lohen."
"Oh fine, you really wanna know?"
Yes, you really did. And you were mostly sure that your expression conveyed that perfectly fine, much to his likely dismay.
He leaned into you, and for a moment you thought he was about to do something absolutely ridiculous, but instead all he did was whisper into your ear:
"I did it for the thrill. Say, isn't it fun to see these pitiful men limping and scampering all caused by my gift for you?"
"Wha- no, Lohen! Why would I ever want people to be hurt because of me?!"
"Eh, why not? I mean, personally speaking if you fought someone for me I'd be at your neck and call like a pitiful servant," you tried not to think about the implications of that.
"That's for you personally, not me!"
"Well, they are known to be slackers in the adventurer's guild, I was just roughing them up!"
You sighed, pointedly sighed, attempting to not let your absolute irritation with him show. He was at least observant enough to know he had fucked up, but at the same time it seemed like he didn't give a rat's ass about what you thought of it.
"Then take it as a token of... My gratitude!" Now he was just spewing bullshit, but who were you to call him out really? At least he returned to normal. His snarky, cheerful voice returned again, and you couldn't help but find it ridiculous that you were glad he returned to his original personality of all things. Seriously, you were growing soft.
"Gratitude for what?" You raised a brow, and all he did was chuckle.
"Well, as the knights say, for not running off when I quote on quote "behaved like a freak"."
You still behave like one, you almost uttered whilst rolling your eyes, but you had enough of self preservation to know when and when not to respond to precarious situations.
"Well then!" He finally leaned away, and you almost missed his warm breath hitting your face, "any other questions needing answering?"
Well, best to ask something mundane you supposed. "Why flowers?"
He was the one now staring at you, blankly in fact, his cheeks still pink of all things and definitely lost in thought. Then, with his bloody hand, he picked a flower in your hand, carefully making sure the blood wouldn't stain your outfit (which was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture) and placed it on your ear, the red a contrast against your face.
"You could say it's a trade."
You paused. "Trade?"
He grinned back, which he was doing awfully often. "Well, despite all the times I've already met you, I've found to it that, I actually still don't know your name."
You paused again, this time with more emphasis on the disbelief on your face. "So you want my name because you gave me flowers?"
He nodded, and you could only sigh.
"It's (Name)." And you prevent him from seeing the redness on your ears, you quickly went on your own separate ways, carefully carrying the red cecelias in your hands too. Briefly, you heard Lohen testing your name on his tongue, but you promptly ignored him. It was sunset after all, there was no need to bother him much longer than you should have.
Cupid's way of delivering letters were simple.
First, they'd receive the letters of course, folded in a neat envelope, and they'd also read it, which was typical. Then they'd converge into either two routes, either guiding the words of the letter across the wind, making sure they reached their predetermined destination, or perhaps cupid themselves would come to that person in disguise and give them the love letter themselves.
Cupid rarely ever threw away letters, and only did so when it was an unwanted stalker of such. However, you might make an exception for the letter in front of you.
The letter in your hand, stamped with the favonius wax and with imported paper, was slightly crumpled and worn, reminiscent of a certain Mondstadter that you'd meet quite often in your current days. It was unusual, Lohen was never one to sit still and actually write a letter due to his personality, he'd, in fact, much rather just have an assistant take care of his paperwork, maybe overload acting grandmaster jean again, but he would be out in the wild killing the poor animals and hilichurls.
To write a letter to cupid? That was the ultimately bizarre part.
Carefully, you made sure not to tear the paper, and opened it without the wax ruining the letters. Inside, was, of course, the most crooked and hasty handwriting you had ever seen. So, you could at least confirm it was Lohen, but you never knew that he admired someone. Huh. Guess you learn new things every day, even if they slightly make your heart ache for whatever reason, which was something that you yourself didn't know of sorts.
Of course, you had to actually read the letter. Sucking in a breath, you began:
"Dear cupid,
Grandmaster Varka had told me to write this for whatever reason, which was... Annoying. But nothing I couldn't handle. See, there was this certain person I met in Mondstadt, nothing out of the ordinary, people do wander about and frankly it's none of my business. Still, they were sort of odd. Sitting on a tree of all things, and pointing an arrow with the nicest form I had seen, towards an unsuspecting bird. They were good, I could confidently say. But, unfortunate as it was they aren't too keen on seeing eye to eye in any of our prospects of whatever. I try to get along, a person with such talent surely deserves for a clean fight, but it was strange seeing them so adverse to fighting, considering that they're that talented. I couldn't even catch their name until recently! Their name was (Name), it sounded nice in my mouth at the very least, and I only got it when I got them a gift, and even then they seemed more than pleased to run away. Quite frustrating in my place.
Anyway, all I ask of you (which the other knights and Grandmaster are telling me to ask of you), is to help me find out more about them and what they want with me or anything else. They're far too intriguing for me to let them go, so I'm not inclined to do that. Give a sign or whatever, and give it quick.
From,
Lohen."
It was quite a short letter, and yet you didn't know how to feel about it, considering that it was about you of all people. Lohen wasn't one to mull over the details it seemed. He ran over how the two of you met, how he felt that your combat prowess was a gem in talent of sorts, and most of all, how willing he had been to continue talking to you, heck, even to find out your name. He wasn't a romantic, or something, he didn't write about how he felt when you ignored him, or how much desperation claws at him whenever he saw you running off or whatever. Instead, it seemed as if he was just trying to relay his points and quick, considering the tardiness of his writing and how many words he had cut and rewritten over and over again.
You didn't know how to feel.
How could you even tell him that his thoughts (confusing as it was) was being relayed to the object of his interest or whatever? You were cupid, and you had an admirer yourself, and yet, you didn't know how you were supposed to take it. With pride? Joy? Perhaps even indulge his rapid curiosity? You didn't frankly know, and you're not exactly sure you want to know.
For now, you'd carefully fold the letter and place it into your pockets and ponder, as the sun set and the moon's visibility shone again, you decided that you were going to think for a long while.
"Oh come on Mx (Name)!"
"No Lohen."
Ever since that letter, for whatever reason that you didn't know of yourself, you've been more inclined to allow Lohen into your vicinity. Well, Vicinity as in, the two of you walking together without talking or perhaps having a meal together. You still block out the nonsense that somehow escapes his mouth into the human realm, but that was something that you did all the time so you don't think it counts.
Though, no matter how hard you tried in blocking out the noise, he always had a way to ask the same questions over and over again.
"I'm not going to fight you Lohen."
"You're acting like fighting is going to drain the life out of you or something."
Somewhere in the back of your throat, you were about to say yes before calming yourself.
"I'm just simply not interested."
Couldn't he get that in the slightest? Plenty of times you've told him no, how you did not want to cross weapons near the statue of the seven, nor did you want him to surprise attack you with his polearm. He was usually tolerable enough, and that was made this whole ordeal double the annoyance.
You've made sure that your bow was nowhere near your hands lest he mistake that for agreeing to fight, and you were obviously careful enough to make sure your arrows were out of sight too, there was no need for him to get all too excited. You could already imagine the pout plastered on Lohen's face, but unfortunately you weren't going to give him the time of day.
... Hopefully you weren't going to give him the time of day. Nowadays your mentality was horrifically easy to change its mind with just the slightest persuasion, and you decided that you didn't like that at all. Curse that darn Lohen.
"(Name)!"
"Screaming my name is going to get you nowhere Lohen believe me."
Unfortunately, he's also gotten far more obnoxious ever since he's learnt your name, and it seems to be his favorite word to shout into your ear now. (Name) This, (Name) that, your own name was starting to sound like it wasn't supposed to exist with his frequent usage.
You could hear him audibly sigh, in disappoinment or whatever, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes. Him and his overt need for everything to go his way. You yourself couldn't believe that you found that a bit charming.
But then, you heard the distinct sound of metal clanging together to create a rather annoying chime, and when you looked back, there was Lohen, his vision in his hand and he... Tossed it to the floor?!
"Lohen what are you-"
"You're always one to ramble on and on about how you don't want to fight, so I have just decided to make things a while lot easier for you. Come on, I'm practically defenseless without my vision now aren't I?"
He's... Taunting you. No, his tone of voice seemed less mocking and way too level, more like, coaxing you. All this for a fight? He even grabbed his polearm in the midst of your irritation with him!
"Didn't we have a whole conversation on how it would still be unfair even if you threw away your vision?"
"Aw, you think I didn't account for that? Relax! I'll go easy on you."
And would you look at that. "I'll go easy on you"? What a laughable quote, as if you were far lesser than him. Well, technically you did run around in circles trying to convince him that you were weak, but now that you were closer and now that you were actually subtly fond of him, the whole thing stroked your ego in the opposite direction of what you wanted.
Well, if a fight is what he wants then a fight is what he gets.
Quickly grabbing your bow from your back, you allow the friction beneath your feet to drag you away from Lohen so you could gain some kind of distance and shoot your arrows. Of course, the arrows themselves came with their own safety features, you weren't actually going to hurt him, but it's best to give someone the illusion of their desire when said desire is going to actively harm them in the process. Three arrows went, two for each of his eyes and one for his head, but he easily deflected and swatted the arrows away with his polearm.
"Hahah! Bring it on!" That maniacal grin on his face again, you couldn't help but smirk in return of his enthusiasm.
Lohen was fast, he managed to close the distance between the two of you pretty quickly, leading you to quickly go on the defensive. His polearm slashed up, right then left, and you carefully dodged each hit. Luckily, the length of the polearm caused the swings to allow you to gain more distance, so by the time he was done with the first set of his attacks, you had already moved a great distance away from him to use your bow and arrow to shoot him again.
This time you wanted to test his reaction speed, really check the waters with what you could do and how long you could do it before Lohen could get suspicious about your lack of loss of stamina. Three arrows again, the first one aimed for his left hand, which he quickly dodged. The second came for his eyes, where he used his weapon to snap your arrow in half before it could actually pierce him. And the third for his feet...
Which he failed to dodge in the fraction of a second, so while it didn't injure much it still mildly poked him. You'd finally find his blind spot.
"What? Already failing to keep up pretty boy?" You suppose it couldn't hurt to tease him a little.
"Well, if it's you how could I possibly imagine keeping up?"
What a smartass. Still, you found yourself smiling along with him too, somehow finding the act of fighting of all things "fun", but for now you just had to focus.
You'd have to find a way to offset the balance of his footwork in order to pin him down with your arrows, but that would have to come later when his movements with his polearm became more sluggish. For now, you were perfectly fine with distracting him until you gained an opening.
He was clearly limping the slightest, you wondered if you actually pierced a toe of his, but his smiled never swept out of place, in fact his grin was possibly wider than before, and a face far more flushed with the prettiest blush you'd seen. A thrust of his polearm, of which you had to carefully dodge to the side.
"You're good at this! Makes me wonder why you didn't agree to a fight all those times," his tone was the breathy, and yet all you noticed was how he was paying attention to talking instead of fighting for now. You narrowly avoided his polearm, though it cut the bridge of your nose, and another thrust was about to stab you through the heart, and though you knew that Lohen put no killing intent behind that and would likely stop and declare himself winner or whatever, you still made sure to use an arrow of yours to prevent the stab altogether, even if it broke in half.
From this close a distance you could observe his face, the smirk he sported, the blood on his shoes and the feather from your arrow, his messy, unkept hair and wide blood red eyes. It was endearing, seeing him so joyful. Unfortunately for him though, you were excellent at providing distractions during a losing stalemate. His footwork was rigid, one that you couldn't displace, but his spear was fair game in your terms.
Carefully uplifting your foot, a difficult endeavor with the proximity of your bodies, you lodged the polearm between the small gap between the heel and sole of your boot, watching the handle get stuck momentarily. Lohen's eyes widened, his gaze suddenly blank, and you used that distraction to kick him. Hard. Real hard. The metal handle of the weapon, combined with the pointy front of your boot, did well in causing him to cough up spit within how hard his guts were kicked. He was practically sent flying, his back to a tree and his head pushed back. You cringed at the sight, and hopefully you didn't break any of his bones. Well, even if he did break a bone you'd still drag him all the way to Mondstadt church, uncaring of the glances just to get him healed.
For now though, all you had to do was point an arrow to his neck and assume your victory. Well, that and making sure your strength didn't kill him.
Quickly walking over, borderline running, your figure towered over Lohen who was clutching his midsection with his arms, and you couldn't help but contort your brow in worry. It didn't seem like you broke a bone of his, but you wouldn't rely on your judgement entirely. Even still, as Lohen stared up at you, delirious and all from the adrenaline, you couldn't help the spike of pride in your ego as you'd got even the chronic fighter to be stupefied. Crouching down, you carefully pressed the tip of the arrow over his Adam's apple, watching as his breath hitched for a hot second.
For a moment, you recalled your master's teachings in regards to using the bow and arrow.
"Pointing a cupid's arrow at someone is a great hit or miss. Your arrow, when released, either tightens the blossoming relationship and disappears into the wind, or breaks in half due to no mutual feelings between the lover and recipient. If you are in fight, you have to be very careful so as the arrow doesn't fade away."
"Yes ma'am," you remember responding.
The arrow, lodged between the gaps of your fingers, began to fade away, and your eyes could only widen in shock.
Shit.
Lohen seemed to catch drift of the disappearing arrow, and yet instead of the incriminating and confused look that you expected, his mouth instead widened into a grin.
Honestly, you didnât think anything could startle Lucifer.
He was the Avatar of Pride, after all. The very picture of self-control. Unshakable. Regal. Terrifying, to some. That man could face Diavoloâs unplanned chaos, Mammonâs debts, and The Anti-Lucifer League's pranks all before noon without even blinking.
But apparently⊠he wasnât prepared for this.
âLove, can you hand me that quill?â
Silence.
Luciferâwhoâd been reviewing a contract across the roomâfroze. Not visibly, not to most people. But you caught the subtle twitch of his fingers, the way his breath paused just a moment too long.
You glanced up. âWhat?â
His eyes flicked to you. âWhat did you just call me?â
You blinked innocently. âLove. The quill?â
He stared at you. Then, without a word, he walked overâslow, deliberateâand handed you the quill.
But the moment it left his fingers, he leaned closer, just enough that you could feel his breath near your ear.
ââŠSay it again,â he murmured.
You turned your head, confused. âSay what?â
âThat name.â
You smiled, amused. âYou mean love?â
There it was.
The slight, unmistakable pink at the tips of his ears.
Lucifer cleared his throat and straightened instantly, posture snapping back into place like nothing happened. âBe mindful of how you speak. Such terms⊠are informal.â
âHmm.â You tapped the quill against your lip. âSo⊠darling is off the table?â
His eye twitched. âThatâs even worse.â
âHoney?â
âNo.â
âBaby?â
âAbsolutely not.â
You giggled. âAlright, alright. Iâll stick with love, then.â
âI didnât say that was acceptable eitherââ
âBut your ears turned red when I said it,â you teased.
Lucifer gave you a look that could make lesser demons tremble. âThey most certainly did not.â
âThey did.â
ââŠYouâre imagining things.â
âOh, love. Youâre adorable when you get flustered.â
His mouth parted like he had a thousand dignified responses readyâand then shut again, lips pressing together in a thin line.
You grinned and reached up, tugging him down by the collar just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
âThere. Youâve earned it.â
Lucifer narrowed his eyes. âHave I?â
You tilted your head sweetly. âYou did bring me the quill, love.â
This time, the flush crept down his neck.
âYouâre playing a dangerous game,â he warned, though his voice had gone lower. Warmer. Almost amused.
You beamed at him. âSo you like it.â
He said nothing.
But later, when he passed by your seat and rested a gloved hand on your shoulder, he leaned down and whispered by your ear:
ââŠBe careful, darling. I may just get used to it.â
And judging by the smirk he wore the rest of the evening, you were certain he already had.
mondstat â a quaint, yet humble kingdom situated amidst a grand lake that thrives with splendor throughout the day before retreating to tranquility beneath the moonlight, like that of a soothing lullaby playing from a music box.
upon first glance, it appears like nothing more than an ordinary kingdom plucked from the masses. but.. should a straying traveler be drawn in by its radiant beauty as the crown of the north, they will quickly come to learn that this place harbors much more beneath the surface â a bewitching charm unlike no other. from its strong-willed citizens who live by song and wine, to the veiled omnipresence of a spirited god whose aspiration for freedom stretches beyond eternity. mondstat is a treasure trove filled with rich tales and ancient mysteries just waiting to be revealed.
a majority of that can be ascribed to the ever-so benevolent rulers of the kingdom, both past and present. for it is thanks to their wisdom and charity that the kingdom of mondstat continues to stand. while many monarchs prefer to enclose themselves behind the protection of their palace walls, seldom mingling with the people, the palace gates of mondstat remained always opened for the public to enter, allowing all the opportunity to stroll through the courtyards, the throne room, and even the very halls themselves if they so pleased. transparency between a ruler and their people has been the kingdomâs long-held tradition since humanity first learned to express their thoughts through poetry and letters, one that is strictly followed no matter who inherits the crown.
similarly, it is also intended as a way to honor the god of freedomâs wish for his people; to always pursue the winds that lead towards a promised tomorrow, no matter what trials lie ahead. yet in the eyes of lohen, vice captain of the royal guardâs fifth regiment, it takes more than mere transparency or performing good deeds to uphold a godâs wishes.
though strategic in battle tactics and a master in the art of war, lohen is not one who particularly enjoys the knightly glory that comes along with it. quite the opposite, actually. for him, to harbor such skilled yet deathly attributes used to reap bloodshed from formidable foes is the reason why one carries a sword and should thus be tempered with pride. only then, can a man ever wish to become that which is greater than himself. this is how to honor a godâs wish. unfortunately for the vice captain, not many of his fellow knights would agree.
in fact, most question how someone as brazen as him had earned the title of knighthood, much less advocated to the royal family by the grandmaster himself. then again, varka has always taken a liking to having the most peculiar of people at his side. itâs a wonder the royal guard hasnât collapsed onto itself, but perhaps it is for that reason precisely. whatever the case is, that is a mystery only the grandmaster himself can answer.
from the array of tall windows, sunlight filters through their draping curtains into the corridor, casting lohenâs shadow onto marble floors as he walks, footsteps softened by the plush carpet. although heâs walked this route many times before, his eyes still canât help but wander at the emanate opulence surrounding him: pedestals where pristine ceramic vases sat upon holding cecilias and windwheel asters alike, modest paintings of pleasant fields or mountains of solitude, and the chandeliers that hung overhead, shimmering in the sunlight. even just gazing at everything felt like thievery, and yet the royals allow any and all to simply waltz through. how careless, lohen thought.
and his judgment would only be proven further when he caught sight of two children near the center of the corridor. the eldestâlohen presumedâa girl who had lifted half the skirt of her dress was in the process of tying what appeared to be a small drawstring bag onto her leg while the little boy beside her held another in his hands, his fidgeting clearly a sign of anxiousness.
âsis, hurry up! someone could catch us any second!â the boy pleaded, possibly for the umpteenth time since they arrived at the palace.
âiâm trying! stop being such a littleââ
âstealing in broad daylight,â lohenâs voice cut through seamlessly, causing both children to freeze in their movements. dread-filled eyes hesitantly looked up towards the knight that all but towered over them, arms crossed and a piercing gaze that felt as though they were being met with the endpoint of a sword. âeven the most skilled of thieves wouldnât pull a stunt as daring as this.â
no response would come as the two children had been frightened into silence. a common sight for lohen, really, but substitute in a battered down enemy or monster instead. in all honesty, he was more disappointed than angry at the current situation, but not for the reasons one might assume. had another knight patrolling the area stumbled upon both children in the middle of stealing, they mightâve scolded them much like a parent would, going on a spiel about how stealing is wrong and isnât the right thing to do. this was lohen though, and his disappointment came from the fact that the two âthievesâ he caught were nothing more than mere children looking to make a coin or two. he wouldâve had a much better time putting an actual criminal into their place. in fact, he nearly had half a mind to scold the two about the poor job they were doing trying to steal from the palace of all places. they had better chances of stealing from a fruit vendor for archonâs sake.
it was only when the boy spat out an emotional âweâre sorryâ and held out the leather drawstring he had between trembling hands towards lohen did the knightâs expression soften, just the slightest. judging from their clothing that appeared more like various rags poorly sewn together and their small, thin bodies, the motive behind their stealing was obvious.
sighing in resignation, lohen took the bag from the boy with one hand while the other moved to his unkempt hair, giving a light pat. âthereâs no need for you both to resort to stealing. the palace gates remain open for a reason,â he then points to the other end of the corridor from where he came from. âif you head that way, youâll run into a servant whoâs in the middle of cleaning up. all you need to do, is walk up to them and ask if they can take you to the kitchen. theyâll understand what you mean and handle everything from there.â
âyou mean⊠theyâll give us food?â the girl asked, the initial fear in her eyes starting to shift into a more hopeful look.
âof course. and, if youâre really good, they may even prepare you a small basket to take back home to your family.â
âa whole basket?â the boy echoed this time, mirroring his sisterâs surprise, head tilting up towards lohen from beneath his hand. âweâve never had a basket of food before!â
âcome on, let's go! mama and papa will be super happy if we come back home with so much food!â and with the drawstring now forgotten, the girl stood up from where she sat and reached out for her brotherâs hand, excitedly dragging him down the corridor as both their laughters echoed throughout. lohenâs eyes followed them closely, watching the way they almost stumbled over their own two feet amidst their excitement. another day of mundanity in the palace it would seem.
just before the boy disappeared along with his sister, he paused at the door and looked back towards lohen, smiling brightly. âthank you mister knight!â he called out, his cheerful voice causing the subtlest of smiles to tug at the knight's lips until the door finally closed behind him.
silence returned to the corridor once more as lohenâs eyes lingered on the doors for a brief moment before shifting to the drawstring in his hand and the abandoned one on the floor. curious as to what the two children had managed to gather, he took a peek inside each one; golden buttons that may have fallen off a noble's uniform, silver coins, and various gemstones likely picked from ornate plates or decorative pieces. they may have been reckless in their actions, but they certainly had an eye for items that would fetch a good price on the market. lohen almost wants to say he was impressed, but given the fact that both children likely came from the lower-class background, itâs no surprise they found such treasured finds. after all, when you come from nothing, your mind instinctively yearns for luxuriance.
as he continued to dig through the bag, lohen would catch sight of something that appeared far more valuable than the assortment of gems and silver stuffed in. a golden ring, crafted with an exquisite cluster that looked akin to the vines of a tree circling towards a crimson, ruby gemstone as its centerpiece. it undoubtedly belonged to a noble of some kind, but something as high quality as this would not be sitting out and about ready for the taking, much less stolen by two children. perhaps some careless noble was currently searching for it.. in which case, lohen decidedly stores it away within the pocket of his uniform, not thinking much of it.
âah, lohen! there ya are!â the gruff sound of the grandmasterâs voice reaches the young knightâs ears seconds after. âiâve been looking everywhere for you!â
whenever the grandmaster says those words, it always means either one of two things: there is an urgent matter that needs to be taken care of, usually consisting of having to deal with clearing out an area filled with monsters ( a task the grandmaster is aware lohen enjoys most ardently and therefore, assigns often ) or he has a letter that needs to be delivered on his behalf. for mondstatâs sake, let us hope it is not the latterâŠ
instead of the grandmasterâs office, lohen found himself being led out to the palace courtyard. a pleasant setting, really, something even the dignified nobles sauntering about would agree with, but certainly odd to hold an official discussion in. even varka, for all his amicableness, knew when to set aside his colloquial manners to hone in on important matters, especially when they were in regards to affairs of the royal guard. in that case, this could all only mean one thingâ
âgrandmaster, while i am humbled by the fact you trust me so much as to deliver.. letters on your behalf, iâm afraid i cannotââ
âletters? who said anything about delivering letters?â varka questioned, as the two came to stop at the foot of a tree that stood at the center of the courtyard, its vastness providing ample shade from the afternoon sun.
âis that not the reason why you were looking for me?â
a hearty laugh traveled throughout. âno, of course not! i already assigned that task to be taken care of by mika for today.â seems like no one in the guard was safe from being a messenger today after all. âno, the reason i was looking for you today is related to a more important matterâand, no, itâs not about taking care of a camp of hilichurls or potential enemies of the like either.â
lohenâs eyebrow raised. that was certainly a first. if he was not being sent out to handle the supposed âgrueling assignmentsâ delegated throughout the royal guard, what matter could possibly be more important than wiping out an enemy camp? could it be an even tougher enemy? or perhaps a threat so massive it was going to put the entire kingdom at risk unless someone put a stop to it? granted, such an event had already come to pass from their most recent campaign, but wishful thinking never stopped even the most talentless of bards from hoping their ballads to be remembered for years to come.
all these thoughts beginning to circulate in his head must have caused the familiar glint of eagerness for battle to flicker across lohenâs eyes, as the grandmaster cleared his throat shortly after. âthe matter is related to the royal familyâ
a pause. âthe royal family?â
âyes. as you know, since the passing of his majesty, the prince, who was also next in line to inherit the throne, has since withdrawn the ragnvindr family from inheriting any form of a royal title.â thereâs a hint of melancholy within varkaâs tone as he speaks, but lohen does not make mention of it knowing that the matter he speaks of is beyond him.
âout of respect for his wishes, the church and royal guard allowed him to step down. normally, there is a long process one must go through when renouncing the crown, mainly to ensure there is still a ruler at present, but to also allow the church ample time to find a suitable family to take the mantle next. however, with how hastily the decision was made, it meant leaving the throne vacant.â
when it comes to matters regarding the monarchy of mondstat, lohen is admittedly not so knowledgeable on the subject. although that is a shortcoming he does not deem to be unacceptable, at least from his perspective. because when he was not being called upon to deliver letters or train with the other guards, lohen was out and about looking for his next punching bag. it was rare to find him within the palace, or even within the kingdomâs walls for that matter; you would have better chances of finding him in the most dangerous corners of the world. therefore, his knowledge of mondstatâs royal history was meager at best, but he was at least aware of the more significant details. one of which, being the inheritance of the crown.
being a country that prides itself on living by its notions of freedom, mondstatâs monarchy is equally reflected as such. the matter of who becomes the next ruler is a joint decision discussed between the church, the royal guard, and the people. when a family has reigned for a considerable amount of timeâusually a decadeâa meeting is called upon to decide whether or not the family will continue its rule or be contested by any within the three parties involved in the decision making process.
there have been three prominent families to have inherited the throne thus far; the lawrence family, whom history paints to have caused mondstat's darkest era, the gunnhildr family, and the ragnvindr family, now the most recent. up until now, the throne has never once been left vacantânot for a long time at least. since the young lord ragnvindr stepped down, it has been approximately six months that mondstat has been without a ruler and naturally, the kingdom has started to grow apprehensive.
âhas the church still not found someone to take the throne?â lohen nearly scoffs, but the amusement in his eyes speaks otherwise. âis it truly that arduous of a task? there are a handful of respectable families within mondstat who would volunteer themselves without a second thought.â
varka chuckles. lohenâs blunt manner of speaking, despite its callousness at times, was always a welcome change to the otherwise decorous royal guard. he never knew what to expect, even if it sometimes did lead him into more trouble than he would have liked.
âbelieve me, if i had things done my way, mondstat would already have its ruler by now,â varka agrees. âbut the matter of choosing the next ruler is not something as simple as picking from a sea of volunteers. you need more than charity to lead a kingdom.â
âjust like you need more than a fighting spirit to lead the royal guard?â
âha ha! youâre a funny one! fortunately for us, we wonât have to worry about finding a ruler anymore,â he eyes lohen with a smile that holds far more than the eye could see. âthat is what i have brought you here to discuss.â
before lohen could question any further, varka reaches for something within the pocket of his uniform, pulling out an envelope that had the familiar wax seal of the church. he holds it out for lohen, gesturing for him to take it and after a beat of hesitation, the knight does so, carefully opening the envelope and reading the contents within.
the church of favonius, along with the knights of favonius and people of mondstat, have reached an agreement to crown lady [name], presented by the ragnvindr family, as the kingdomâs next queen.
after thorough investigation and private hearings regarding the familyâs history, lady [name] has been deemed fit to lead our kingdom under the guidance and blessing of the anemo archon.
additionally, as per agreement between the grandmaster of the knights and seneschal of the church, lady [name] shall be provided a personal guard to remain at her side for the duration of her reign. both parties have nominated the vice captain of the royal guardâs fifth regiment, lohen, to bear this responsibility. by doing so, this ensures . . .
lohen does not bother to finish reading the rest, shaking his head as he starts to fold the paper back up. âno. noâabsolutely not.â
âhey, hold on now! i havenât even finished explainingââ
âgrandmaster, with all due respect, i believe you and the senaschal were unwise in choosing me to be a royalâs personal guard.â a rare showcase of formality, one that looked almost too unnatural for lohen, that varka blinks in surprise. âi cannot be the queenâs guard. i will not have time to attend to her as often with my responsibilities as vice captain, so i strongly suggest that you and the senaschal select another candidate.â
which was partly true. although the position of vice captain did not include heavy amounts of demanding work when compared to that of an acting grandmaster, for example, there still remained obligations â even if lohen did not enjoy carrying them out as much. alas, varka knew the true intentions that lie hidden behind his sudden mask of formality and humbleness.
âlisten, i understand that this is all coming to you without forewarning, and i apologize for making such a decision without consulting you first,â a sigh came from him then, accompanied by a troubled look. âbut this is something we cannot forgo.â
âthe previous rulers of our kingdom havenât had a personal guard assigned to themânot a single one, and even then, the royal guard has managed to ensure their safety just fine without it,â lohen mentions, unwilling to back down as he crosses his arms over his chest. âwhat makes this case so different?â
âlady [name] is the only remaining member of her familyâs lineage.â varkaâs words are a statement rather than fact, yet they leave lohen with more questions than answers.
âthe only remaining member of her family?â he repeats in disbelief, âthe throne has been vacant for months, why on earth would we jeopardize the security of it any further by electing a sole living family member as the future crown? how have the people of mondstat agreed to this?â
âbecause they do not know, and it must remain that way.â fearing his voice had grown too prominent, varka glances around at the nobles that continue to walk along the courtyard. thankfully, most of them seem too preoccupied with their own conversations to even bother batting an eye at the grandmaster, bringing a minor sense of relief. when varka speaks again, he makes sure to keep his voice low. âthe only ones who are aware of this are the church and knights. there are further details explaining as to why we have taken such a risk, but for now, they are only privy to myself, the senaschal, and the ragnvindr family, so you will have to forgive me for omitting some information. but i trust that now, you at least understand why lady [name] must have a personal guard, yes?â
yet he doesnât want to understand, even when everything is spelled out to him as clearly as ever. because lohen knows that the moment he is to become a personal guard of the next queen, the little bit of freedom that his position as vice captain had already granted would be stripped away. his days of venturing outside the kingdom, fighting monsters and mastering his combat would be replaced with standing beside a monarch, still as a statue collecting dust. and his spear, which had always known the coat of red, would now be relinquished of its duty to eliminate foes.
he was no heroâno chivalric knight that sought to protect others for the sake of honor and duty. he was a weapon; one that followed the beat of his own drum which was the beating heart of his enemies heâd swear to slaughter.
lohen looks at the folded paper in his hand once moreâthe one that had managed to resign his entire fateâand he opens it once more, finishing up where he left off.
. . . by doing so, this ensures not only the protection of lady [name], who remains as the sole living member of her family, but that of the throne as well. the vice captain must guarantee her safety at all times until a suitable match can be found for lady [name]. once a suitor is found and believed to be fit for lady [name]âs hand in marriage, the vice captain may be relieved of his duty as her personal guard.
: ÌÌâ Summary: The chances of befriending a Wayne online are low, but never zero. You honestly thought somebody was trying to catfish you, you don't just believe anybody who tells you that they're Tim Drake online.
When you actually meet him, you realize that somehow you beat that impossibly low statistic and actually befriended Tim Drake. However, there is something strange going on with the Wayne family. You werenât sure what it was.
Until Red Robin saved you.
: ÌÌâ Word Count: 14.5k
Warnings/Tags: Online friends to friends to lovers, texting, LOTS of texting, they're literally online friends idk what you'd expect, Tim does photography as a hobby, reader is a uni student, reader and Tim deserve each other <3, secret identity reveal, very fluffy fic
: ÌÌâ A/N: First Tim Drake fic! Hope you guys enjoy :)! Thank you @r-4-y-v-3-n for this request! This prompt was a lot of fun <3! I hope I delivered :D!
Masterlist
âYes, I'll have the files emailed as soon as possible.â You place your phone onto your desk, pulling up your drive on your laptop. The moment you place your phone down, it buzzes. The vibration echoes loudly on your wooden table.
âThank you,â your boss responds on speaker. âCould you have them sent to IT as well?â He asks, and you hear some rustling on his side of the call.
You nod, forgetting that he can't see you. âOf course.â Buzz. âI am sending them right now.â Buzz. âDid you want it sent to your assistant as well?â Buzz.
âIf you could.â Buzz. âI'd appreciate it.â Buzz.
You grit your teeth, âGreat.â Buzz.
You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.
Buzz.
You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. âAlright, I just sent them.â
âThank you,â your boss says your name. âI'll be in touch.â
You nod, âLet me know if anything else is needed.â Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.
Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me đ
Tim: i KNOW you're home right now
Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho
You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.
hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed
He instantly responds.
Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro đ„
I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro đ„
Tim: are you calling me chronically online?
Tim: how do you think we met???
Tim: it's a two way street đ
yeah but like
Tim: đ€šđ€š
ok fair enough, but I was working đ what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS
Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((
Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time
Tim: and it worked sooooâŠ.
get to the point
Tim: so consider
Tim: dinner
You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.
Tim: at the manor
Oh⊠That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.
again??
Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone đ
won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?
Tim: can you just be there pls
no
Tim: please?
i'm busy
Tim: doing what
i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy đ€š
Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??
You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.
that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address đ
Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine
yeah huh
Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???
no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed
Tim: no I would've
then why'd you ask me if I did?
Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt
I didn't steal anything though??
Tim: that's what a LIAR would say
oh my goodness
you're on your own for dinner
Tim: WAIT PLEASE
Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM
Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING
Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM
damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner đ
Tim: please be there i beg of you đ
mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough
Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that
Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could
lmao what's stopping you?
Tim: my dignity
đ
Tim: u being fr rn?
the mental image is very funny
Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you
THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING
Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME đ
Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT
That makes you pause.
you will? đ€š
Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP
mmm okay
gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid
Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal
You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what âabnormalâ would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.
what does that even mean??
Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier
oh so I'm bait đ
Tim: nononono not like that
Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise
relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally đ«Ą (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)
Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now
Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.
after this I better be, I'll see you later then
Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five
perfect, see you then
Tim: see you
You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly âinviteâ you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the âoffer,â but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.
The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.
What changed?
It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: âif you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.â
Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.
Normal.
What defines normalcy?
Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.
They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.
Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.
You're going to figure it out.
Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.
Instead, you met him on a thread online.
You didn't even know it was him.
It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the usersâ TimTamâ had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.
Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.
Who was this guy?
Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.
You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.
Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.
Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.
Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.
TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.
You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.
TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?
TimTam: account*
You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.
Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.
There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.
TimTam: Like right now?
You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.
I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.
TimTam: Right, right, of course
You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.
TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.
You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.
For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)
You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.
Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.
A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.
You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.
Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.
Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.
Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.
Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.
Then you saw it.
You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.
You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.
Then you saw the notification.
The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.
TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.
Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
Which one do you think looks better?
Sent now
You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.
Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?
Then again⊠He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.
Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.
The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.
It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.
Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.
Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.
Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.
You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.
The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.
The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.
Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.
You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?
Wait that's it?
Now he's borderline unreal.
Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide
Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.
Who even is this guy?
You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN
and you can't choose which photo looks better???
Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.
He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.
That's fair.
Should I even ask how you got these photos?
Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking
Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways
You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.
Are you planning on selling them?
There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.
Tim_Tam: What?
Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.
I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.
Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that
Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.
Are those the only ones you have?
There's a long pause.
Tim_Tam: At the moment.
I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but likeâŠ
These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.
There's another long pause.
Tim_Tam: You think?
100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.
Tim_Tam: Hm
Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.
That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.
If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.
???
Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???
GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD
HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE
Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess
Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?
Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?
I suppose
Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay
My bad đ didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan
Tim_Tam: No no it's fine
Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you
At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.
Tim_Tam: He's finr
Tim_Tam: fine*
He paused.
Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could
You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.
Maybe stick to your day job
Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me đ€š
Nonono
Just like
I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up
There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.
Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him
You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.
Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything
And that translates to his fighting ability??
Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out
Tim_Tam: he's only human
you sure of that? đ€šđ€š
Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot
Well then, I await the day I see the headline
âphotographer takes out Red Robin with a single hitâ
Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline
Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself
Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??
Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??
do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(
Tim_Tam: mhm
I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better
Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked âcoolerâ and âfelt more personalâ
I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far
also
Tim_Tam: ?
You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.
I was just curiousâ feel free to not answerâ but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?
Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.
Tim_Tam: No
Tim_Tam: I can't
Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.
Ah okay
The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mindâ
Bzzt!
Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.
However, curiosity did kill the cat.
You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.
Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong
Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it
Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.
No need to justify yourself, I get it
I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though
TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.
Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit
You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!
Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?
Tim_Tam: So
Tim_Tam: How do I say this
The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.
Shoudl I be concerned??
should*
Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin
like you took more photos of him??
Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him
He did what?
Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public
hypothetically did you agree??
Tim_Tam: kinda??
oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?
Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing đ
you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??
Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts
âŠmy guy this is on you why would you TELL them??
praying for you đ
Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??
I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are
if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you
probably dox you or something idk
Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point
Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though
Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?
It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.
Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes
Or not⊠What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?
What'd he say?
Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool
You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.
He thought it was cool??
Tim_Tam: Yep
and that's it..?
Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember
did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??
Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much
You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said âcoolâ and then left??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.
Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos
Finally, something.
Are you going to try and catch him again?
I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes
Tim_Tam: uhhhh
???
Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]
Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again
You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.
Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???
Tim_Tam: âŠwhy would you ask that??
Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??
You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.
IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???
Tim_Tam: What???
There is a pause for a moment.
Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol
âDidn't even see him lol.â You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.
you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???
Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??
dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo
There was a momentary pause.
Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me
sure we'll go with that
You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.
Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me
Tim_Tam: I'll try again
You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.
You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.
Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.
After a year, youâd think that youâd know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if heâs been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.
Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.
Still doesnât stop the growing desire to know who he is.
Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.
The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.
did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?
Tim_Tam: âseeâ would be an understatement, closer to felt
Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.
oh shit, are you okay??
Tim_Tam: iâm fineeee
Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch
Tim_Tam: or burn
You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.
Is he one of them?
You werenât sure what he looked like. Heâd been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you werenât any more explicit.
youâre here?
The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?
Tim_Tam: wait you're here??
Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?
Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even ifâ at the timeâ you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.
Tim_Tam: are you okay?
Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?
Tim_Tam: are you still here?
You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.
not for much longer, Iâm planning on leaving soon
âIâm free to go, right?â You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.
âYou were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?â They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, âYeah, I feel fine.â You werenât lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.
The paramedic sighed, âAlright, just make sure to rest. Itâs been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, Iâd go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.â They pasued for a moment. âIf anything, Iâd recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.â They shined a light into the boyâs eye, âSketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.â
You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. âThanks,â you nodded slowly, âIâll keep that in mind.â You waited there for an extra beat to see if theyâd respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.
Braving the crowds of cameras it is.
Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.
Then you felt it.
Youâre no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, itâs a universal experience for every Gothamite. Youâd heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.
The sensation of somebody always there.
Somebody always in the shadows.
Somebody watching.
Usually, youâd describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.
However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you werenât a target, youâd never be a target. That fear thatâs instilled by Batman wasnât meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.
This, though, is different.
There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fearâŠ
It doesnât come.
Now, youâve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts arenât perfect, but youâd say theyâre pretty damn good.
So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. Itâs an assertion most people would agree with.
However.
With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.
You huffed, a small smile on your face.
In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While itâs hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.
You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.
Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.
You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.
For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something youâve heard theyâre notorious for).
Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.
You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if heâs embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).
You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.
Tim wonât believe this.
Tim did, in fact, believe you.
Truthfully, he was⊠not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.
Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated đ
Iâm sorry I donât walk around with a professional camera around my neck???
Also what happened to âman that was really scaryâ and âI hope youâre okayâ
Tim_Tam: man that was really scary
Tim_Tam: I hope youâre okay
Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)
damn Iâm sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with
I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot
you know he WAVED at me
thought heâd ignore me
Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??
idk maybe heâs like âeugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loserâ
Tim paused for a moment.
Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??
oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist
Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration
is it though??
Tim_Tam: very much so yes
if you say so
You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, youâd actually sleep well tonight, andâ
The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didnât help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.
You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking toâ
The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if youâre not facing the source.
Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. Thatâs when you saw the messages:
Tim_Tam
Would you want to meet in person?
Sent 3m ago
Tim_Tam
Sorry that was really abrupt
Sent 1m ago
Tim_Tam
Just ignore that lol
Sent now
You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and thatâs including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.
Tim wants to what?
You havenât even called the guy before.
Wait you canât just drop that on me and leave
Tim_Tam: sorry?
Where would you want to meet?
Tim_Tam: Wait youâre saying yes?
Tim_Tam: What if Iâm like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?
You paused.
Are you?
Tim_Tam: No but like
Tim_Tam: how would you know Iâm NOT?
I canât tell if youâre trying to defend yourself
Iâm like 99% sure youâre not a killer though?
Tim_Tam: Okay but like
Tim_Tam: 99% isnât 100%
Tim_Tam: chances are not 0
Tim
Tim_Tam: yeah?
If you want to meet, where would it be?
Tim_Tam: uhh
Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?
Yeah I can probably head there after my classes
Iâll be done around 11
Tim_Tam: Alright cool
Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.
Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?
Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav
Tim_Tam: haha youâre SO funny
I know :)
The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:
Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.
Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.
Okay done with my classes, omw
You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. Itâd probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.
Like⊠Do you need to worry about first impressions?
Is this a first impression?
You're technically meeting him for the first time, but itâs not like heâs a stranger.
It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.
Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet
Tim_Tam: Itâs a little important
uh oh, youâre not actually a killer right?
Tim_Tam: no, no, no
Tim_Tam: Nothing like that
Tim_Tam: but uh
Tim_Tam: My name
Tim_Tam: itâs Tim Drake
You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?
That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayneâs parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now heâs a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but youâve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.
woah thatâs crazy
I didnât wan tot tell you but Iâm actually Bruce Wayne
want to*
Tim_Tam: Iâm not joking I swear
nor am I
Tim_Tam: You donât believe me
I believe you when you say you arenât a killer
idk about the Tim Drake thing though
Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?
Probably
Is this like a new catfishing tactic
There was a long pause.
Tim_Tam: Iâm sorry what??
You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.
oh you know
Tim_Tam: I donât actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??
no
hence why I ask whatâs with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic
Tim_Tam: I really hope itâs NOT a thing? How would it even work??
idk probably something like âHey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?â
Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that
Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, weâre literally meeting in like five minutes
Tim_Tam: I promise Iâm here, just meet me around the gardens
Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?
Absolutely.
Did you do it anyway?
Absolutely.
It wasnât long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you donât die.
Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.
Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didnât it?
Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.
Holy shit.
You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what youâve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.
However, the way he carries himself?
When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children werenât nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.
In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.
On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own itâs a miracle you even crossed paths with him.
However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.
âOhâŠâ You commented eloquently.
He furrowed his eyebrows, âThatâsâ Thatâs it? Just âoh?ââ
You nodded slowly, âI meanâ I⊠You know I had like zero faith in you.â Thatâs a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that youâll tell him that.
âThatâs reassuring. Thank you for that.â Tim replied dryly.
âYou know the whole photographing vigilanteâs thing makes so much sense now.â You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.
He tilted his head, âHow so?â
âOnly rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.â You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.
âOkay, but my main thing isnât even photographing vigilantes. I donât even post those, and you know that.â He raised a finger indignantly. âAnd they arenât even intentional anyway! Iâm just lucky.â
âLuckiest guy Iâve ever met then.â You smirked, âSave some for the rest of us.â
He chuckled, âOf course, itâs my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.â
âAt least you acknowledge it.â You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.
He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim youâve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.
You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, âYou know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.â
He groaned, rolling his eyes. âIf I wanted to catfish you, Iâd have gone about this way different.â He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."
âThatâs reassuring.â You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.
âIt should be.â He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. âDid you really not suspect anything?â
You blink, âAbout you beingâŠâ you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, âNot until you said anything, no. You donât give âTim Drake vibesâ when we text.â You did air quotes.
He let out a surprised laugh, âWhatâ What are âTim Drake vibes?ââ He looked amused at the prospect.
You shrugged, âI donât know. Itâs just, when I text you, I donât think âwow this guy seems like Tim Drake.ââ
He nodded as if that made sense, âIâm going to take that as a good thing?â
You shrugged, âI mean itâs certainly a thing. Your call about whether itâs good or bad.â
He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. âYâknow now that I actually know youâre you, Iâm surprised you actually showed up.â
His eyebrows raised in surprise, âWhy would I not? I asked you?â
âYou had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?â You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but youâre heading back in the direction of Gotham University.
âBeen there.â By his tone alone, you believed him. âAnd trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.â
You raised an eyebrow, âIf you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?â
He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.
âI⊠Those were extenuating circumstances.â He scoffed.
âMhm, real extenuating.â Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.
âAnd I feel like youâre mocking me.â He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.
âItâs okay, I probably wouldnât have been able to escape the thugs too.â You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
âThatâs notââ At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.
The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.
Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayneâs charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasnât inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?
It certainly didnât help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted youâd have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.
You hadâ not subtlyâ asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you âDonât need to worry about thatâ and that âThey should be the last people judging.â Both of his âreassurancesâ did little to truly ease your worries.
Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gothamâs elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading âGet a load of this guy.â
It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circleâs in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?
It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.
Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that heâll like you. You didnât share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.
Cause thatâd be stupid.
It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didnât miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didnât feel the need to bring it up.
By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, andâ like Bruceâ they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying âSee? You lived!â
After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didnât expect to start seeing them regularly.
It felt strange at first, like visiting someoneâs house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.
It was that but tenfold.
Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.
It quickly became routine. At least once a week, youâd come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes itâd be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girlâs night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.
You were happy.
It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.
Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.
You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.
Not ideal.
You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that youâre going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didnât want to make any risks that could lead to failure.
The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.
Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.
You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.
Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didnât see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.
You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and youâd have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.
âYou think we lost em?â One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.
âScream and we put a bullet through you.â Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.
They donât separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.
âWe canât just let her go! Sheâs gonna run out and yell for someone!â One of them whispers to his friend.
âSo what're we gonna do?â He whispers back.
âWe can kill her?â Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.
âNo, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.â A different one responds.
âSo what? We just knock her out?â One of them gestures to you with his gun.
âProbably the best idea. Weâre taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.â The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they wonât kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?
âAlright, I can do it.â One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. Heâs about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.
âWho the hell?!â A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize heâs not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.
Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?
You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.
You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. Heâs attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. âPlease man! Let me go!â
âNot a chance.â Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.
âAre you okay?â He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.
Huh, you didnât expect him to sound like that. You werenât sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.
If anything, youâd say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.
âYeah, Iâm fine.â You nod, âThanks.â You smile at him.
He returns the nod, âYeah, of course.â He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.
Well, this is going great.
âHe didn't hit you too hard, right?â You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.
âOh, that,â he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. âNothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.â He waves off your concern.
You nod, accepting that answer. âWere you the one who was chasing those guys?â You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.
âHm? Oh,â he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, âyeah that was me.â He confirms. âThey mention me?â
âNot by name. They just said they were being chased.â You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.
âAh,â he clicks his tongue, âyeah that was me.â Heâs not really facing you, but you can tell heâs smiling.
You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isnât looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. Itâs one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.
Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. Youâre surprised at first. Itâs heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, itâd have to have some weight for something so small.
âYou want to keep it?â
You jump as Red Robinâs voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. âSorry, didnât mean to scare you.â
âNo worries.â You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. âDonât you guys need these things?â You wave it up.
He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. âBatarangs?â Huh, thatâs what theyâre called. He waves a casual hand at you, âWe have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.â
Your mouth parts, and youâre about to open your mouth when he adds on. âConsider it a souvenir.â He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.
You freeze.
Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.
He chuckles at your appalled expression. âI mean you donâtââ he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.
His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesnât notice. He mouths a quiet âSorryâ before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.
You arenât sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but youâre hit with what may be the most insane conclusion youâve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).
You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. Heâs restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that heâd rather be pacing at the moment.
Thereâs no way your hypothesis is correct.
Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.
Itâd make sense though.
Youâre willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, thatâs normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes youâve ever seen?
Thatâs a little more suspicious.
Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that heâs conversed with Robin in the past?
Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you canât even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.
The reason he couldnât post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.
The reason he could take the photos wasnât because he had insane luck.
You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.
Holy shit.
You donât a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.
He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. âAhhh, I get it now.â Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. âReal important stuff to handle, huh?â
âCan you notââ You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. âI did handle stuff.â He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.â
Nightwing nods, âYuh-huh,â he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. âIâm sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?â Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.
If you didnât know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.
âI am not bothering her! I just savââ
âAh, ah, ah,â Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. âLet her speak for herself.â Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.
Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, âHe wasnât a bother. He saved me from these guys. In factââ you raise the Batarang up, ââhe gave me a souvenir.â You grin at Dick.
He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter âOh my God.â
âAw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?â Dick teases Tim.
Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. âIâm leaving.â He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.
You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. âYou are actually okay though, right?â He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.
You smile at Dick, nodding. âYeah, Iâm alright.â
He nods, âWell, get home safely. Iâll handle these guys.â He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. âYou might wanna stay down, bud.â He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.
You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.
How the hell are you going to tell Tim?
The day of the dinner arrives sooner than youâd like.
You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.
You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. Itâs not even dinner youâre worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that canât be too difficult? Just donât think about it. Itâs not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? Thatâs not really a dinner table topic.
Yeah.
Youâll be fine.
Just act normalâ
Tim: Iâm here
You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.
âThank you again for doing this.â Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.
Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robinâ
You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, âYeah, no problem."
He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. âDonât be nervous. Itâs relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.â
You smile at the thought, âHowâd you convince him to do that?â
Tim smacks his lips, âLetâs just say that my dignity isnât in tact anymore.â
You raise an eyebrow, âI thought you didnât have much of that?â He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, âI mean you practically had to beg me to show up with youââ
âWoah, okay.â His eyebrows shoot up, âFirst off, that wasnât beggingââ
You pull out your phone, ââ âI'd literally get on my knees and beg if I couldââ You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. âSound familiar to you?â
He remains silent for a bit. âIâ Uhâ Well, no. I never heard that before.â
âMhm, sure.â You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin alsoâ
Nope. Do not think about your best friendâs alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.
The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. Itâs not long before you both pull up. âMaster Tim.â Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. âA little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.â Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.
Oh. Bird puns.
Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.
âAw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldnât have come otherwise.â You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesnât react and you wonder if heâs even breathing. âRight, birdie?â You lightly nudge Tim again.
âYeah, uhâ mhm?â You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. âSorry, just uhâ dinner, you know? Got me stressed?â
You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, âRight,â you turn back to Alfred, âThanks again, Alfred.â You grin at him.
âMy pleasure, Miss.â He inclines his head to you, âNow, if youâre ready to greet the others.â He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.
âLook who finally showed his faceâ Oh,â Steph abruptly cuts herself off.
âHello to you too.â You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.
Steph grins at you, âHello!â She greet you before glaring at Tim. âYou know what youâre doing.â
âYep.â Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.
âAnd you know we canât do anything about it.â She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.
You nod solemnly, âI was informed that I was bait.â
Dick chokes on his water, âYou told her that?â
âI did not tell her that.â Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. âShe reached that conclusion on her own.â
âIs that all you told her?â Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.
âYes.â Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying âNot one more word.â He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, âIs Bruce here, yet?â
âYouâre attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.â Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.
Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, âNo⊠He had some last minute business to take care of. Heâll be a little late.â
âPerfect.â Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. âItâs getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. Iâ Uhâ Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?â Tim turns to you.
You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?
âSure?â Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. âIsnât this rude?â You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.
âNot with them. That kind of rude doesnât count.â Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.
You release an amused huff, âFor you. What if they think Iâm rude or something?â
Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. âTheyâll just blame it on me.â He shrugs. âItâs fine. Donât worry about it. Iâll deal with it later.â He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you heâs used to this.
You furrow your eyebrows in concern, âIf you say soâŠâ You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. Youâve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.
Tim appears at your side, âYou okay?â He asks, following your gaze to the paper.
You nod, turning to him, âYeah? Why wouldnât I be?â You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something youâve done a million times before.
He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He mustâve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. âI⊠Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?â He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.
You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. âNo, no, itâs fine.â You shake your head, âItâs not something I havenât done before.â You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.
Timâs frown doesnât change. âYou donât actually have to do this if you donât want to⊠I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if thereâs somethingââ
âTim, thereâs nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?â You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?
He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. âI⊠You just seemââ his eyes look off at something off to the side, ââdistracted, is all.â Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. âYou donât have to say anything. This isnât me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.â He rambles, shaking his head.
You heave a sigh, âItâsâ I donât think you want to know, Tim.â
Perhaps thatâs the wrong thing to say to a detective because Timâ despite his attempts to be sympatheticâ also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you donât, he hesitantly responds: âIfâ and again, this is not me pressuring youâ If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.â
You swallow, looking toward Tim, âThatâs⊠Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.â He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. âAre you sure you want to hear what I want to say?â You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.
He blinks, âIf thatâs what you wish,â he changes his focus from your hand to your face, âthen yes.â He gives you a disarming smile.
Your smile grows, âThis is your last chance, Tim.â
His eyes lighten up, âWell,â he chuckles, âIâm not planning on changing my mind.â
You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.
âDo you remember the other night?â You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for himâ and him alone.
Timâs eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, âWhat?â His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.
âI just⊠I appreciate you helping me out.â You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.
âYeahâŠâ He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. âYeah, that⊠Itâs no issue it all. IâŠâ He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that youâre watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. âYeah...â he trails off, âCould you remind me exactly what I helped you with?â
You chuckle at his attempts to play it offâ and failing. âOh, come on, Tim.â You tilt your head at him, âYou remember. You gave me the souvenir.â
You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.
He doesnât instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasnât the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You arenât even sure if heâs breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.
âWhat?â His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.
Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You donât get a chance to respond because he continues. âI⊠I havenât given you anythingâ I think Iâd remember if I gave you a souvenir.â He laughs, slightly hysterical. âYou might be thinking of somebody else?â
You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesnât stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.
âThatâs,â he swallows, âThatâs uhâ I fell off my skateboard.â He doesnât attempt to move your hands away from his face.
âMhm,â you hum disbelievingly, âin the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?â You tease lightly.
âWell, Iââ he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you donât try to stop him. âI⊠think?â He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.
You frown, amusement evident in your tone. âYou donât know?â
He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. âI⊠You know, maybe you were right that I didnât want to know.â
You let out an startled puff of air, âOh,â you begin slowly, ânow you heed my warnings?â
He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. âOkay, fine, but how did you figure it out?â He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.
âYou share mannerisms with Red Robin.â He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.
His jaw drops. âThereâs no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!â He whisper-yells.
You nod, âWell, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.â You watch as Tim mouths the words âOh my God.â You smile sympathetically at Tim, âYeah, I donât know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesnât put two and two together.â
âSo what youâre saying is that itâs Dickâs fault.â Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands arenât covering his face anymore.
You frown, âYou sent me photos of yourself.â Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. âUhâ I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.â You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.
âOkay,â he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. âI did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.â He grumbles.
You nod, âModeling, apparently.â You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. âI kept the Batarang by the way. Itâs sitting in my room.â His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. âI wasnât gonna tell anybody, if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, âThat wasnât my worry. It never was.â He whispers back.
You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, âThen what is?â
He doesnât immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. âI didnât want you involved in this.â He begins. âI⊠I donât want you getting hurt because you know me.â
You let out a long exhale, âTim,â you start, reaching for his hand, âif I didnât want to be involved, I wouldâve stopped the moment you started âchasing after vigilantesâ for photos.â You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. âI like being around you, Tim. That doesnât change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.â
He swallows, squeezing your hand, âI⊠I like youââ He hastily cuts himself off, ââI like being around you too.â He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. âI⊠Youâre not mad or anything right?â
You furrow your eyebrows, âThat you like me?â
Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, âNo! I meant theââ at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. âYou know what I meant.â He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.
You chuckle, smiling at him, âIâm not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Ohâ Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.â You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. âAnd your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.â
He smacks his lips, âOkay, but I have an excuse. Youââ he lightly points an accusing finger at you, ââ do not.â
You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, âOh, reallyââ
âFather is here. He requests your presenceââ Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobodyâs surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.
âDamian, canât you knock?â Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.
Damianâs eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Timâs. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. âI did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.â
âI donât think thatâs how that works⊠like at all.â Tim stands up, and you follow suit.
Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.
âWe⊠We better get down there. Heâs going to tell everybody.â Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.
âLead the way, Birdie.â You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.
âYouâre lucky I donât have time to address that.â He narrows his eyes at you, but thereâs a smirk on his face.
âAw, I knew you like me.â You grin, nudging your hand against his own.
He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. âYeah,â he swallows, âI do.â He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.
A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of âcivilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out heâs a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.â Weâre going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope.
Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then Iâm FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and itâs definitely an idea I wouldnât mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)!
Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they arenât very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!
Tim Drake Taglist: @sebstancevanss @gaychaosgremlin @koibleufish
DC Taglist: @fruitmanstyles @libbi5001 @sskwul @rin-l @newangelle @sweetpeadc @meep-merp124 @noba-noba @cassiecasluciluce @duskeras @Serenelyserenex @Vetej05 @Starmylife4ever @snoopyluvrrr @melancholiccow @libbi5001 @iwachansupremacy @sydbeeri @unclearblur @whoreforfictionalmen18 @unclearblur @sparkyvibes @gglouise23 @bloomfaery @sparkyvibes @recenzjaara @vanillakirstein @verycitruss
General Taglist: @thefallingvines @Irene32 @average-mitski-fan @r-4-y-v-3-n @code-ghost-cc @wisefuncherryblossom @noble-17 @akanu819 @lyuuu88 @lizbix @panicked-sapphic @Shark01 @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @rainbowstar
Want to be added to one of my taglists? Fill out the form here or leave a comment asking to be added under my DC Masterlist post :)!
: ÌÌâ Summary: The chances of befriending a Wayne online are low, but never zero. You honestly thought somebody was trying to catfish you, you don't just believe anybody who tells you that they're Tim Drake online.
When you actually meet him, you realize that somehow you beat that impossibly low statistic and actually befriended Tim Drake. However, there is something strange going on with the Wayne family. You werenât sure what it was.
Until Red Robin saved you.
: ÌÌâ Word Count: 14.5k
Warnings/Tags: Online friends to friends to lovers, texting, LOTS of texting, they're literally online friends idk what you'd expect, Tim does photography as a hobby, reader is a uni student, reader and Tim deserve each other <3, secret identity reveal, very fluffy fic
: ÌÌâ A/N: First Tim Drake fic! Hope you guys enjoy :)! Thank you @r-4-y-v-3-n for this request! This prompt was a lot of fun <3! I hope I delivered :D!
Masterlist
âYes, I'll have the files emailed as soon as possible.â You place your phone onto your desk, pulling up your drive on your laptop. The moment you place your phone down, it buzzes. The vibration echoes loudly on your wooden table.
âThank you,â your boss responds on speaker. âCould you have them sent to IT as well?â He asks, and you hear some rustling on his side of the call.
You nod, forgetting that he can't see you. âOf course.â Buzz. âI am sending them right now.â Buzz. âDid you want it sent to your assistant as well?â Buzz.
âIf you could.â Buzz. âI'd appreciate it.â Buzz.
You grit your teeth, âGreat.â Buzz.
You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.
Buzz.
You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. âAlright, I just sent them.â
âThank you,â your boss says your name. âI'll be in touch.â
You nod, âLet me know if anything else is needed.â Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.
Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me đ
Tim: i KNOW you're home right now
Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho
You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.
hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed
He instantly responds.
Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro đ„
I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro đ„
Tim: are you calling me chronically online?
Tim: how do you think we met???
Tim: it's a two way street đ
yeah but like
Tim: đ€šđ€š
ok fair enough, but I was working đ what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS
Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((
Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time
Tim: and it worked sooooâŠ.
get to the point
Tim: so consider
Tim: dinner
You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.
Tim: at the manor
Oh⊠That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.
again??
Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone đ
won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?
Tim: can you just be there pls
no
Tim: please?
i'm busy
Tim: doing what
i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy đ€š
Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??
You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.
that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address đ
Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine
yeah huh
Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???
no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed
Tim: no I would've
then why'd you ask me if I did?
Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt
I didn't steal anything though??
Tim: that's what a LIAR would say
oh my goodness
you're on your own for dinner
Tim: WAIT PLEASE
Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM
Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING
Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM
damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner đ
Tim: please be there i beg of you đ
mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough
Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that
Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could
lmao what's stopping you?
Tim: my dignity
đ
Tim: u being fr rn?
the mental image is very funny
Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you
THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING
Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME đ
Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT
That makes you pause.
you will? đ€š
Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP
mmm okay
gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid
Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal
You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what âabnormalâ would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.
what does that even mean??
Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier
oh so I'm bait đ
Tim: nononono not like that
Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise
relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally đ«Ą (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)
Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now
Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.
after this I better be, I'll see you later then
Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five
perfect, see you then
Tim: see you
You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly âinviteâ you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the âoffer,â but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.
The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.
What changed?
It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: âif you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.â
Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.
Normal.
What defines normalcy?
Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.
They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.
Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.
You're going to figure it out.
Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.
Instead, you met him on a thread online.
You didn't even know it was him.
It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the usersâ TimTamâ had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.
Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.
Who was this guy?
Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.
You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.
Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.
Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.
Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.
TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.
You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.
TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?
TimTam: account*
You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.
Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.
There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.
TimTam: Like right now?
You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.
I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.
TimTam: Right, right, of course
You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.
TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.
You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.
For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)
You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.
Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.
A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.
You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.
Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.
Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.
Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.
Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.
Then you saw it.
You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.
You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.
Then you saw the notification.
The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.
TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.
Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
Which one do you think looks better?
Sent now
You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.
Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?
Then again⊠He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.
Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.
The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.
It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.
Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.
Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.
Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.
You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.
The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.
The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.
Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.
You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?
Wait that's it?
Now he's borderline unreal.
Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide
Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.
Who even is this guy?
You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN
and you can't choose which photo looks better???
Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.
He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.
That's fair.
Should I even ask how you got these photos?
Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking
Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways
You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.
Are you planning on selling them?
There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.
Tim_Tam: What?
Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.
I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.
Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that
Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.
Are those the only ones you have?
There's a long pause.
Tim_Tam: At the moment.
I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but likeâŠ
These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.
There's another long pause.
Tim_Tam: You think?
100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.
Tim_Tam: Hm
Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.
That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.
If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.
???
Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???
GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD
HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE
Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess
Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?
Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?
I suppose
Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay
My bad đ didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan
Tim_Tam: No no it's fine
Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you
At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.
Tim_Tam: He's finr
Tim_Tam: fine*
He paused.
Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could
You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.
Maybe stick to your day job
Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me đ€š
Nonono
Just like
I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up
There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.
Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him
You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.
Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything
And that translates to his fighting ability??
Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out
Tim_Tam: he's only human
you sure of that? đ€šđ€š
Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot
Well then, I await the day I see the headline
âphotographer takes out Red Robin with a single hitâ
Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline
Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself
Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??
Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??
do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(
Tim_Tam: mhm
I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better
Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked âcoolerâ and âfelt more personalâ
I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far
also
Tim_Tam: ?
You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.
I was just curiousâ feel free to not answerâ but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?
Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.
Tim_Tam: No
Tim_Tam: I can't
Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.
Ah okay
The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mindâ
Bzzt!
Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.
However, curiosity did kill the cat.
You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.
Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong
Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it
Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.
No need to justify yourself, I get it
I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though
TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.
Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit
You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!
Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?
Tim_Tam: So
Tim_Tam: How do I say this
The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.
Shoudl I be concerned??
should*
Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin
like you took more photos of him??
Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him
He did what?
Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public
hypothetically did you agree??
Tim_Tam: kinda??
oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?
Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing đ
you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??
Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts
âŠmy guy this is on you why would you TELL them??
praying for you đ
Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??
I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are
if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you
probably dox you or something idk
Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point
Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though
Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?
It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.
Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes
Or not⊠What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?
What'd he say?
Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool
You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.
He thought it was cool??
Tim_Tam: Yep
and that's it..?
Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember
did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??
Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much
You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said âcoolâ and then left??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.
Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos
Finally, something.
Are you going to try and catch him again?
I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes
Tim_Tam: uhhhh
???
Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]
Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again
You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.
Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???
Tim_Tam: âŠwhy would you ask that??
Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??
You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.
IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???
Tim_Tam: What???
There is a pause for a moment.
Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol
âDidn't even see him lol.â You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.
you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???
Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??
dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo
There was a momentary pause.
Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me
sure we'll go with that
You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.
Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me
Tim_Tam: I'll try again
You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.
You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.
Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.
After a year, youâd think that youâd know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if heâs been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.
Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.
Still doesnât stop the growing desire to know who he is.
Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.
The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.
did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?
Tim_Tam: âseeâ would be an understatement, closer to felt
Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.
oh shit, are you okay??
Tim_Tam: iâm fineeee
Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch
Tim_Tam: or burn
You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.
Is he one of them?
You werenât sure what he looked like. Heâd been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you werenât any more explicit.
youâre here?
The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?
Tim_Tam: wait you're here??
Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?
Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even ifâ at the timeâ you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.
Tim_Tam: are you okay?
Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?
Tim_Tam: are you still here?
You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.
not for much longer, Iâm planning on leaving soon
âIâm free to go, right?â You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.
âYou were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?â They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, âYeah, I feel fine.â You werenât lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.
The paramedic sighed, âAlright, just make sure to rest. Itâs been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, Iâd go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.â They pasued for a moment. âIf anything, Iâd recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.â They shined a light into the boyâs eye, âSketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.â
You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. âThanks,â you nodded slowly, âIâll keep that in mind.â You waited there for an extra beat to see if theyâd respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.
Braving the crowds of cameras it is.
Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.
Then you felt it.
Youâre no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, itâs a universal experience for every Gothamite. Youâd heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.
The sensation of somebody always there.
Somebody always in the shadows.
Somebody watching.
Usually, youâd describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.
However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you werenât a target, youâd never be a target. That fear thatâs instilled by Batman wasnât meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.
This, though, is different.
There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fearâŠ
It doesnât come.
Now, youâve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts arenât perfect, but youâd say theyâre pretty damn good.
So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. Itâs an assertion most people would agree with.
However.
With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.
You huffed, a small smile on your face.
In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While itâs hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.
You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.
Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.
You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.
For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something youâve heard theyâre notorious for).
Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.
You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if heâs embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).
You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.
Tim wonât believe this.
Tim did, in fact, believe you.
Truthfully, he was⊠not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.
Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated đ
Iâm sorry I donât walk around with a professional camera around my neck???
Also what happened to âman that was really scaryâ and âI hope youâre okayâ
Tim_Tam: man that was really scary
Tim_Tam: I hope youâre okay
Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)
damn Iâm sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with
I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot
you know he WAVED at me
thought heâd ignore me
Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??
idk maybe heâs like âeugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loserâ
Tim paused for a moment.
Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??
oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist
Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration
is it though??
Tim_Tam: very much so yes
if you say so
You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, youâd actually sleep well tonight, andâ
The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didnât help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.
You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking toâ
The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if youâre not facing the source.
Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. Thatâs when you saw the messages:
Tim_Tam
Would you want to meet in person?
Sent 3m ago
Tim_Tam
Sorry that was really abrupt
Sent 1m ago
Tim_Tam
Just ignore that lol
Sent now
You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and thatâs including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.
Tim wants to what?
You havenât even called the guy before.
Wait you canât just drop that on me and leave
Tim_Tam: sorry?
Where would you want to meet?
Tim_Tam: Wait youâre saying yes?
Tim_Tam: What if Iâm like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?
You paused.
Are you?
Tim_Tam: No but like
Tim_Tam: how would you know Iâm NOT?
I canât tell if youâre trying to defend yourself
Iâm like 99% sure youâre not a killer though?
Tim_Tam: Okay but like
Tim_Tam: 99% isnât 100%
Tim_Tam: chances are not 0
Tim
Tim_Tam: yeah?
If you want to meet, where would it be?
Tim_Tam: uhh
Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?
Yeah I can probably head there after my classes
Iâll be done around 11
Tim_Tam: Alright cool
Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.
Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?
Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav
Tim_Tam: haha youâre SO funny
I know :)
The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:
Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.
Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.
Okay done with my classes, omw
You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. Itâd probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.
Like⊠Do you need to worry about first impressions?
Is this a first impression?
You're technically meeting him for the first time, but itâs not like heâs a stranger.
It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.
Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet
Tim_Tam: Itâs a little important
uh oh, youâre not actually a killer right?
Tim_Tam: no, no, no
Tim_Tam: Nothing like that
Tim_Tam: but uh
Tim_Tam: My name
Tim_Tam: itâs Tim Drake
You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?
That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayneâs parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now heâs a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but youâve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.
woah thatâs crazy
I didnât wan tot tell you but Iâm actually Bruce Wayne
want to*
Tim_Tam: Iâm not joking I swear
nor am I
Tim_Tam: You donât believe me
I believe you when you say you arenât a killer
idk about the Tim Drake thing though
Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?
Probably
Is this like a new catfishing tactic
There was a long pause.
Tim_Tam: Iâm sorry what??
You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.
oh you know
Tim_Tam: I donât actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??
no
hence why I ask whatâs with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic
Tim_Tam: I really hope itâs NOT a thing? How would it even work??
idk probably something like âHey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?â
Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that
Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, weâre literally meeting in like five minutes
Tim_Tam: I promise Iâm here, just meet me around the gardens
Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?
Absolutely.
Did you do it anyway?
Absolutely.
It wasnât long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you donât die.
Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.
Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didnât it?
Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.
Holy shit.
You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what youâve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.
However, the way he carries himself?
When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children werenât nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.
In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.
On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own itâs a miracle you even crossed paths with him.
However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.
âOhâŠâ You commented eloquently.
He furrowed his eyebrows, âThatâsâ Thatâs it? Just âoh?ââ
You nodded slowly, âI meanâ I⊠You know I had like zero faith in you.â Thatâs a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that youâll tell him that.
âThatâs reassuring. Thank you for that.â Tim replied dryly.
âYou know the whole photographing vigilanteâs thing makes so much sense now.â You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.
He tilted his head, âHow so?â
âOnly rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.â You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.
âOkay, but my main thing isnât even photographing vigilantes. I donât even post those, and you know that.â He raised a finger indignantly. âAnd they arenât even intentional anyway! Iâm just lucky.â
âLuckiest guy Iâve ever met then.â You smirked, âSave some for the rest of us.â
He chuckled, âOf course, itâs my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.â
âAt least you acknowledge it.â You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.
He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim youâve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.
You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, âYou know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.â
He groaned, rolling his eyes. âIf I wanted to catfish you, Iâd have gone about this way different.â He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."
âThatâs reassuring.â You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.
âIt should be.â He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. âDid you really not suspect anything?â
You blink, âAbout you beingâŠâ you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, âNot until you said anything, no. You donât give âTim Drake vibesâ when we text.â You did air quotes.
He let out a surprised laugh, âWhatâ What are âTim Drake vibes?ââ He looked amused at the prospect.
You shrugged, âI donât know. Itâs just, when I text you, I donât think âwow this guy seems like Tim Drake.ââ
He nodded as if that made sense, âIâm going to take that as a good thing?â
You shrugged, âI mean itâs certainly a thing. Your call about whether itâs good or bad.â
He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. âYâknow now that I actually know youâre you, Iâm surprised you actually showed up.â
His eyebrows raised in surprise, âWhy would I not? I asked you?â
âYou had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?â You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but youâre heading back in the direction of Gotham University.
âBeen there.â By his tone alone, you believed him. âAnd trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.â
You raised an eyebrow, âIf you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?â
He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.
âI⊠Those were extenuating circumstances.â He scoffed.
âMhm, real extenuating.â Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.
âAnd I feel like youâre mocking me.â He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.
âItâs okay, I probably wouldnât have been able to escape the thugs too.â You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
âThatâs notââ At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.
The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.
Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayneâs charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasnât inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?
It certainly didnât help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted youâd have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.
You hadâ not subtlyâ asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you âDonât need to worry about thatâ and that âThey should be the last people judging.â Both of his âreassurancesâ did little to truly ease your worries.
Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gothamâs elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading âGet a load of this guy.â
It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circleâs in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?
It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.
Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that heâll like you. You didnât share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.
Cause thatâd be stupid.
It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didnât miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didnât feel the need to bring it up.
By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, andâ like Bruceâ they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying âSee? You lived!â
After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didnât expect to start seeing them regularly.
It felt strange at first, like visiting someoneâs house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.
It was that but tenfold.
Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.
It quickly became routine. At least once a week, youâd come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes itâd be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girlâs night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.
You were happy.
It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.
Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.
You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.
Not ideal.
You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that youâre going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didnât want to make any risks that could lead to failure.
The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.
Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.
You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.
Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didnât see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.
You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and youâd have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.
âYou think we lost em?â One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.
âScream and we put a bullet through you.â Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.
They donât separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.
âWe canât just let her go! Sheâs gonna run out and yell for someone!â One of them whispers to his friend.
âSo what're we gonna do?â He whispers back.
âWe can kill her?â Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.
âNo, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.â A different one responds.
âSo what? We just knock her out?â One of them gestures to you with his gun.
âProbably the best idea. Weâre taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.â The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they wonât kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?
âAlright, I can do it.â One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. Heâs about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.
âWho the hell?!â A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize heâs not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.
Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?
You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.
You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. Heâs attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. âPlease man! Let me go!â
âNot a chance.â Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.
âAre you okay?â He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.
Huh, you didnât expect him to sound like that. You werenât sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.
If anything, youâd say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.
âYeah, Iâm fine.â You nod, âThanks.â You smile at him.
He returns the nod, âYeah, of course.â He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.
Well, this is going great.
âHe didn't hit you too hard, right?â You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.
âOh, that,â he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. âNothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.â He waves off your concern.
You nod, accepting that answer. âWere you the one who was chasing those guys?â You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.
âHm? Oh,â he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, âyeah that was me.â He confirms. âThey mention me?â
âNot by name. They just said they were being chased.â You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.
âAh,â he clicks his tongue, âyeah that was me.â Heâs not really facing you, but you can tell heâs smiling.
You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isnât looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. Itâs one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.
Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. Youâre surprised at first. Itâs heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, itâd have to have some weight for something so small.
âYou want to keep it?â
You jump as Red Robinâs voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. âSorry, didnât mean to scare you.â
âNo worries.â You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. âDonât you guys need these things?â You wave it up.
He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. âBatarangs?â Huh, thatâs what theyâre called. He waves a casual hand at you, âWe have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.â
Your mouth parts, and youâre about to open your mouth when he adds on. âConsider it a souvenir.â He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.
You freeze.
Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.
He chuckles at your appalled expression. âI mean you donâtââ he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.
His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesnât notice. He mouths a quiet âSorryâ before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.
You arenât sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but youâre hit with what may be the most insane conclusion youâve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).
You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. Heâs restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that heâd rather be pacing at the moment.
Thereâs no way your hypothesis is correct.
Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.
Itâd make sense though.
Youâre willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, thatâs normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes youâve ever seen?
Thatâs a little more suspicious.
Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that heâs conversed with Robin in the past?
Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you canât even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.
The reason he couldnât post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.
The reason he could take the photos wasnât because he had insane luck.
You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.
Holy shit.
You donât a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.
He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. âAhhh, I get it now.â Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. âReal important stuff to handle, huh?â
âCan you notââ You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. âI did handle stuff.â He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.â
Nightwing nods, âYuh-huh,â he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. âIâm sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?â Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.
If you didnât know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.
âI am not bothering her! I just savââ
âAh, ah, ah,â Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. âLet her speak for herself.â Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.
Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, âHe wasnât a bother. He saved me from these guys. In factââ you raise the Batarang up, ââhe gave me a souvenir.â You grin at Dick.
He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter âOh my God.â
âAw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?â Dick teases Tim.
Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. âIâm leaving.â He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.
You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. âYou are actually okay though, right?â He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.
You smile at Dick, nodding. âYeah, Iâm alright.â
He nods, âWell, get home safely. Iâll handle these guys.â He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. âYou might wanna stay down, bud.â He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.
You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.
How the hell are you going to tell Tim?
The day of the dinner arrives sooner than youâd like.
You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.
You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. Itâs not even dinner youâre worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that canât be too difficult? Just donât think about it. Itâs not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? Thatâs not really a dinner table topic.
Yeah.
Youâll be fine.
Just act normalâ
Tim: Iâm here
You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.
âThank you again for doing this.â Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.
Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robinâ
You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, âYeah, no problem."
He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. âDonât be nervous. Itâs relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.â
You smile at the thought, âHowâd you convince him to do that?â
Tim smacks his lips, âLetâs just say that my dignity isnât in tact anymore.â
You raise an eyebrow, âI thought you didnât have much of that?â He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, âI mean you practically had to beg me to show up with youââ
âWoah, okay.â His eyebrows shoot up, âFirst off, that wasnât beggingââ
You pull out your phone, ââ âI'd literally get on my knees and beg if I couldââ You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. âSound familiar to you?â
He remains silent for a bit. âIâ Uhâ Well, no. I never heard that before.â
âMhm, sure.â You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin alsoâ
Nope. Do not think about your best friendâs alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.
The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. Itâs not long before you both pull up. âMaster Tim.â Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. âA little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.â Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.
Oh. Bird puns.
Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.
âAw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldnât have come otherwise.â You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesnât react and you wonder if heâs even breathing. âRight, birdie?â You lightly nudge Tim again.
âYeah, uhâ mhm?â You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. âSorry, just uhâ dinner, you know? Got me stressed?â
You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, âRight,â you turn back to Alfred, âThanks again, Alfred.â You grin at him.
âMy pleasure, Miss.â He inclines his head to you, âNow, if youâre ready to greet the others.â He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.
âLook who finally showed his faceâ Oh,â Steph abruptly cuts herself off.
âHello to you too.â You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.
Steph grins at you, âHello!â She greet you before glaring at Tim. âYou know what youâre doing.â
âYep.â Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.
âAnd you know we canât do anything about it.â She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.
You nod solemnly, âI was informed that I was bait.â
Dick chokes on his water, âYou told her that?â
âI did not tell her that.â Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. âShe reached that conclusion on her own.â
âIs that all you told her?â Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.
âYes.â Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying âNot one more word.â He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, âIs Bruce here, yet?â
âYouâre attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.â Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.
Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, âNo⊠He had some last minute business to take care of. Heâll be a little late.â
âPerfect.â Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. âItâs getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. Iâ Uhâ Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?â Tim turns to you.
You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?
âSure?â Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. âIsnât this rude?â You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.
âNot with them. That kind of rude doesnât count.â Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.
You release an amused huff, âFor you. What if they think Iâm rude or something?â
Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. âTheyâll just blame it on me.â He shrugs. âItâs fine. Donât worry about it. Iâll deal with it later.â He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you heâs used to this.
You furrow your eyebrows in concern, âIf you say soâŠâ You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. Youâve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.
Tim appears at your side, âYou okay?â He asks, following your gaze to the paper.
You nod, turning to him, âYeah? Why wouldnât I be?â You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something youâve done a million times before.
He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He mustâve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. âI⊠Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?â He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.
You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. âNo, no, itâs fine.â You shake your head, âItâs not something I havenât done before.â You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.
Timâs frown doesnât change. âYou donât actually have to do this if you donât want to⊠I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if thereâs somethingââ
âTim, thereâs nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?â You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?
He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. âI⊠You just seemââ his eyes look off at something off to the side, ââdistracted, is all.â Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. âYou donât have to say anything. This isnât me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.â He rambles, shaking his head.
You heave a sigh, âItâsâ I donât think you want to know, Tim.â
Perhaps thatâs the wrong thing to say to a detective because Timâ despite his attempts to be sympatheticâ also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you donât, he hesitantly responds: âIfâ and again, this is not me pressuring youâ If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.â
You swallow, looking toward Tim, âThatâs⊠Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.â He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. âAre you sure you want to hear what I want to say?â You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.
He blinks, âIf thatâs what you wish,â he changes his focus from your hand to your face, âthen yes.â He gives you a disarming smile.
Your smile grows, âThis is your last chance, Tim.â
His eyes lighten up, âWell,â he chuckles, âIâm not planning on changing my mind.â
You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.
âDo you remember the other night?â You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for himâ and him alone.
Timâs eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, âWhat?â His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.
âI just⊠I appreciate you helping me out.â You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.
âYeahâŠâ He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. âYeah, that⊠Itâs no issue it all. IâŠâ He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that youâre watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. âYeah...â he trails off, âCould you remind me exactly what I helped you with?â
You chuckle at his attempts to play it offâ and failing. âOh, come on, Tim.â You tilt your head at him, âYou remember. You gave me the souvenir.â
You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.
He doesnât instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasnât the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You arenât even sure if heâs breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.
âWhat?â His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.
Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You donât get a chance to respond because he continues. âI⊠I havenât given you anythingâ I think Iâd remember if I gave you a souvenir.â He laughs, slightly hysterical. âYou might be thinking of somebody else?â
You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesnât stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.
âThatâs,â he swallows, âThatâs uhâ I fell off my skateboard.â He doesnât attempt to move your hands away from his face.
âMhm,â you hum disbelievingly, âin the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?â You tease lightly.
âWell, Iââ he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you donât try to stop him. âI⊠think?â He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.
You frown, amusement evident in your tone. âYou donât know?â
He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. âI⊠You know, maybe you were right that I didnât want to know.â
You let out an startled puff of air, âOh,â you begin slowly, ânow you heed my warnings?â
He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. âOkay, fine, but how did you figure it out?â He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.
âYou share mannerisms with Red Robin.â He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.
His jaw drops. âThereâs no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!â He whisper-yells.
You nod, âWell, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.â You watch as Tim mouths the words âOh my God.â You smile sympathetically at Tim, âYeah, I donât know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesnât put two and two together.â
âSo what youâre saying is that itâs Dickâs fault.â Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands arenât covering his face anymore.
You frown, âYou sent me photos of yourself.â Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. âUhâ I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.â You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.
âOkay,â he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. âI did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.â He grumbles.
You nod, âModeling, apparently.â You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. âI kept the Batarang by the way. Itâs sitting in my room.â His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. âI wasnât gonna tell anybody, if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, âThat wasnât my worry. It never was.â He whispers back.
You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, âThen what is?â
He doesnât immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. âI didnât want you involved in this.â He begins. âI⊠I donât want you getting hurt because you know me.â
You let out a long exhale, âTim,â you start, reaching for his hand, âif I didnât want to be involved, I wouldâve stopped the moment you started âchasing after vigilantesâ for photos.â You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. âI like being around you, Tim. That doesnât change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.â
He swallows, squeezing your hand, âI⊠I like youââ He hastily cuts himself off, ââI like being around you too.â He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. âI⊠Youâre not mad or anything right?â
You furrow your eyebrows, âThat you like me?â
Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, âNo! I meant theââ at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. âYou know what I meant.â He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.
You chuckle, smiling at him, âIâm not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Ohâ Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.â You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. âAnd your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.â
He smacks his lips, âOkay, but I have an excuse. Youââ he lightly points an accusing finger at you, ââ do not.â
You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, âOh, reallyââ
âFather is here. He requests your presenceââ Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobodyâs surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.
âDamian, canât you knock?â Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.
Damianâs eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Timâs. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. âI did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.â
âI donât think thatâs how that works⊠like at all.â Tim stands up, and you follow suit.
Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.
âWe⊠We better get down there. Heâs going to tell everybody.â Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.
âLead the way, Birdie.â You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.
âYouâre lucky I donât have time to address that.â He narrows his eyes at you, but thereâs a smirk on his face.
âAw, I knew you like me.â You grin, nudging your hand against his own.
He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. âYeah,â he swallows, âI do.â He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.
A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of âcivilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out heâs a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.â Weâre going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope.
Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then Iâm FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and itâs definitely an idea I wouldnât mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)!
Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they arenât very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!
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à§Ś Ś synopsis âź You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw âșâșâșâș torture, branding
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure changeâsubtle, almost politeâbut it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasnât clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasnât asked. Hasnât said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyoneâs moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like heâs sanding down sharp edges. Dickâs doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks secondâbut the timingâs off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasnât joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didnât come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, heâd said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothingâbut sheâs closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if sheâs guarding him.
Thatâs when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didnât need all of them.
Didnât need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone couldâve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself couldâve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, theyâre stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like theyâre afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That shouldâve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gothamâs lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. Youâd tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.Â
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. Youâd mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text insteadâshort, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesnât overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself itâs nothing. That youâre relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always doesâmaking ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Timâs gaze flicks to Jasonâs pocket and away again. The way Damianâs jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like heâs bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes onceâjust onceâand thereâs something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesnât ask. He doesnât press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gutâ
That whatever is wrong didnât start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
âThat was the last of them,â Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around themâcold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten thatâs been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jasonâs boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many âsunnyâ days Gotham pretends to have.
âWe should do another check around the harbor,â Dick says.
Heâs already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesnât look up when he says it. Doesnât grin. Doesnât even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automaticallyâbecause Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, âTim could be wrong.â
Mumbles it. Like heâs afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jasonâs spine.
Tim doesnât argue. Doesnât bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flickingânot to Jasonâbut to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
âDo you want to take the gates with me?â Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. âJason and Dick could go along theââ
âWhat?â Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. âYou two were perched on the gates the entire op. Whatâre you talking about?â
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.Â
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
âIt wouldnât hurt to double-check,â Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still wonât meet Jasonâs eyes.
Jasonâs jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind driftsâunbiddenâto you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way youâd probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.Â
The thought lands soft, intimate, groundingâand then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
ââŠYou guys donât need me for that,â Jason says, firmer now. Thereâs an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. âSeriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person couldââ
Dick finally looks up.
Itâs just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jasonâs learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like sheâs about to say somethingâanythingâthen closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jasonâs jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
âKid, I swear to God, tell me whatââ
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jasonâs shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like sheâs trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
âHow the hell should I know? They didn't tell meââ Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
âDamian!â Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. Heâs already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. âCome on, dude, letâs just go check the security towers andââ
âThatâs going to take another hour,â Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but thereâs steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandraâs hand offânot rough, but finalâand reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. Itâs 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. Heâs been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
âI had plans,â he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. âLet me at leastââ
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movementâDamianâs arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furiousâbefore metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jasonâs boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the waterâs slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jasonâs gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
âCall Bruce.â
The words arenât loud. They donât need to be. They cut anywayâclean, controlled, edged with something thatâs starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jasonâs face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like itâs about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.Â
Guilty.
âWhat, you gonna tattle?â Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. âCâmon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. Iâll buy you a new phone, okay? Justââ
âCall Bruce,â Jason repeats.
This time itâs a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasnât moved. Sheâs watching him like sheâs afraid he might break.
ââŠHeâs busy,â Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesnât hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distanceâbut Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in againâthe stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.Â
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
âB,â Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you againâtoo vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldnât. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop himâbefore anyone even realizes heâs decided something.
Heâs across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gothamâs jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesnât flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesnât pull back. Doesnât protest. That, more than anything, makes Jasonâs teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputerâonce, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumbâthen rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like sheâs bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to goâlike theyâve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
âRobin?â Bruceâs voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. Thereâs an edge to it Jason hasnât heard in yearsâtight, almost nervous, parental. âRobin, whatâs wrong?â
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
âIâm going home, old man,â he hisses, already turning away from Damian. âWhat was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? âCause everyone here apparently likes you enough to tell me the truth.â
âJasonââ
âRed Hood,â Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. âWhat happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?â
âRed Hood, just give meââ
âItâs a lousy gang!â Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. âThey donât even crack the top twenty. Damian couldâve done this shit by himself.â
He doesnât look back, but he knows theyâre following him. He can feel itâthe weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, itâll hit him whyÂ
Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.Â
Tim knew Jason would find out.Â
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
âRed Hoodââ
âMerry Christmas, B,â Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. âPlease donât call.â
âJASONââ
Bruceâs voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. âSheâs in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcaveââ
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowlyâtoo slowlyâhe turns.
He looks at them. At Dickâs pale face. At Timâs clenched jaw. At Damianâs rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like sheâs watching something crack.
They look at him like heâs glass.
Like heâs a bomb theyâre waiting to defuseâor clean up after.
Jason doesnât give them the chance.
âFuck all of you,â he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thoughtâor tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didnât take lightlyâand it didnât take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesnât consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And thenâ
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windowsâyour windowsâare shattered, glass glittering weakly under the cityâs glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesnât form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, youâre hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. Youâll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him heâs being dramatic again.
Because youâre untouchable.
Thatâs the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but youâyouâare clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasnât learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesnât get to put its hands on you.
It canât have you.
Because if youâre hurtâif youâre really hurtâthen everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise heâs made to stay standing for you. Thereâs no version of the world where youâre broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before heâs running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesnât bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesnât feel itânot reallyâuntil heâs inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietlyâbecause now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesnât slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when heâs already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around themâvast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like itâs trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jasonâs face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruceâs mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruceâs back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man wouldâve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effortâcould have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesnât.
Jason knows he wonât.
âWhere is she,â Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruceâs cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. âWhere is she?â
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefullyânot in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
ââŠJason.â
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jasonâs tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isnât rage yet.
This is terror.
âDonât,â Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. âJustâlisten to me.â
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. âNo. You donât get to slow this down. You donât get to prepare me.â
Bruce swallows. ââŠJokerââ he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jasonâs armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, youâre not untouchable.
Youâre not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
Youâre not safe.
Youâre not distant.
Youâre not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
Youâre real.
Youâre fragile.
Youâre reachable.
Jasonâs grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish formingâbroken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like heâs something worth keeping.
And nowâ
Now youâre the blood heâs already wearing.
The blood heâs going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. Thisâthis is what heâs been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
âJason,â Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. âI need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like thisââ
Jasonâs eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
âIf I donât go,â Jason says hoarsely, âshe dies.â
âIf you go,â Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, âyou dieâand you could lose her at the same time.â
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathingâslow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jasonâs jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like itâs the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge heâs already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isnât.
âWhere is she,â Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gothamâs body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesnât notice his siblings closing inâDickâs careful steps, Timâs rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
âSheâs alive,â Bruce says quickly, desperately. âShe wasnât the only oneâat least four other children and three womenââ
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
âDo you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?â
The words arenât shouted. They donât need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruceâs grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jasonâs jacket.
âI know you donât,â Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. âWhich is why I didnât tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safeââ
âAt the risk she dies in the process?â Jason cuts in.
Thenâhe stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruceâs cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
âHow long,â Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruceâa silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruceâs hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
âDonât,â Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. âDonât look at him.â
The words arenât just for Tim. Theyâre for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanieâs voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesnât flinch. Doesnât pull away. He meets Jasonâs gaze head-on.
âHow long,â Jason repeats. âWhere.â
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. âTwo hours,â he says quietly. âWarehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.â
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jasonâs chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course itâs there. Of course Joker chose that placeâlayers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other peopleâs pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gothamâs skyline glows faintly on the monitorsâjagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands thenâwith a clarity so sharp it almost feels mercifulâthat plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because youâyouâarenât alone. Youâre trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didnât rearrange Jasonâs insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Jokerâs sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
Itâs the smallest.Â
Those kids won't be dying before you do.
Jasonâs breath stutters, just once.
âJason,â Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when heâs terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. âDonât make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.â
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jasonâs head goes quiet.
Not peacefulâfocused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like heâs trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jasonâs heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
âIf you even try, Bruce,â Jason says.
He doesnât look at him when he says it. He canât. The name comes out wrong in his mouthâtoo raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly canât stop seeing. He hopesâdistantly, uselesslyâthat he isnât glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isnât anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
âIll fucking shoot myself. Iâll make sure you know itâs your fault,â Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. âIâll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, Iâll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, Iâll wait a month. Iâll do it.â
He swallows.
Because thatâs the only thing thatâs ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fastâtoo fastâgrabbing Jasonâs arm where itâs still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
âWould you be this still?â Jason yells back. âIf that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of herâwould you have left me there for the police to find? Again?â
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brotherâs grip falter, fingers loosening like theyâve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dickâs face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knifeânot because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
âThis,â Jason snaps. âThis is why none of you fucking knew about her.â
He looks at all of them nowâreally looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
âIf you canât even see me beyond a mistake you made,â Jason says, voice hoarse, âthere was no way you wouldnât have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.â
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then heâs gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still movesâsome small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isnât locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jasonâs trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You donât remember the last five hours.
Theyâre goneâhollowed outâlike someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. Youâd laughed about them, about how easy theyâd be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
Youâd bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasnât that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldnât have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldnât have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldnât have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldnât have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.Â
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
âHereâs the other lovebird,â he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. âOhhh⊠how cute you are.â
You remember thinkingâabsurdly, desperatelyâthat Jason would hate that word. That heâd bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesnât take a lock to stop that.
It doesnât take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashesâwhite-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his handsâgentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like itâs something precious, something heâs afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when itâs just the two of you and Gotham canât see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrongâtilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldnât, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jasonâs name like a prayer youâre afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comesâwhen he comesâyou need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didnât mean to wake you⊠shh⊠go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gothamâs blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises heâll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious heâs afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your nameâbroken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he humsâno, singsâa childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as youâre dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut upâpanic sharp and desperateâuntil a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesnât. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruelâtearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
Heâs in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like youâre a puzzle heâs just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until heâs eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
âYou do love your sleep, donât you?â he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadilyâwater, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like theyâre listening.
âThe other birdy,â he continues, grinning wider, âwouldnât even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.â He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. âI suppose Iâll have to find a way to keep you awake.â
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apartâbecause if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everythingâThere will be nothing left for him to save.
You canât see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesnât pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you donât dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Thenâ
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can reactâ
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
âThatâll keep you awake, birdy,â he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel itâthe way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
âNow.â
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like heâs bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few secondsâsteady, patient. Watching.
âWeâre going to make a deal, okay?â
You donât answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
âOkay?â
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chairâout of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
âAnswer.â
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is himâcracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And thenâ
You hear it.
A sound that doesnât belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs againâbut this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like theyâve already learned screaming doesnât help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You donât even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhereâwhite-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediatelyâsharp and overwhelmingâas skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worseâfractured, panicked.
âOkay,â you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in againâcareful, deliberateâand pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
âSee?â he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. âThat wasnât so hard, was it?â
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
âWhat a dumb dumb birdy you are,â he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. âItâs okay. Joker can teach you.â
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
âNow,â he says softly, pleasantly, âsay thank you.â
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
âThankââ Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like itâs being pulled through glass. âThank you.â
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
âGood birdy,â he coos, pleased. âSo much more compliant than your love bird already!â
âNowââ Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like heâs stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. âI was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitlessâjust a fun little bonus, reallyâbutttââ
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You canât turn your head far enough to see what heâs doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Thenâ
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girlâs voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like itâs a private joke the two of you share. âGot lucky with a rich bitch on the road,â he cackles, delighted. âGotham really does keep on givinâ.â
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.Â
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.Â
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obsceneâtoo exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. âThis could go for a couple hundred too!â he sings. âOhhh, how delightful!â
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. âAt least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.â
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
âWell, now that I donât need the money,â he croons, voice lilting, playful, like heâs deciding which joke to tell next, âwhat should I do with you?â
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where heâs touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldnât.
ââŠIâll give you more,â you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. âHowever much you wantâjustââ
âOh, I donât need money.â
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
âI was looking for some fun, love bird,â he hisses. âYou canât give me that?â
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
âJasonâ Jason willââ
He doesnât even flinch at the name.
Maybe thatâs mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup youâd put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as itâs ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
âHow pretty you are,â he murmurs, almost tender. âI do makeup on myself too, you know.â
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneathâwhite, lined, angry. Horrid.
âDo you like mine?â he asks brightly. âDo you think Iâm pretty?â
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera insteadâthe blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop whatâs coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Thenâ
âVery pretty!â
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. âSoâso prettyââ
You feel something inside you tear open.
Sheâs trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Jokerâs head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. âYou think so?â
Thereâs a frantic nod you can hear more than seeâthe quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past youârusted, pitted, darkened in places where itâs already been used tonight.
Then heâs gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
Itâs not just painâitâs shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
Thereâs a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
âWhy donât we match?â Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. âI did one side, now the other!â
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this timeâfeel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The cameraâs red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The cameraâs red light blinks in time with your chest, like itâs learned your rhythm, like itâs decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see himâiron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like heâs talking to a child.
âWell,â he hums thoughtfully. âI canât give you her look, can I?â
Your vision swims. You canât stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes outâjust a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
âWhat should I do with you?â he asks softly. âHm?â
You donât answer. You canât. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek onceâtapâjust enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
âOhââ
His eyes light up.
âOh yes, thatâs wonderful! Ohââ He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. âOh, isnât my brain just splendid?â
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like heâs genuinely amused. âYou bats are all poetry, I sayâpure poetry!â
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until thereâs only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind youâand the camera.
Youâre alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You donât know whoâs watching. You donât know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
âHowââ
âShut up!â someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. âThereâs other men!â
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
Heâs laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughterâclose. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you nextâburning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesnât clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesnât dull. Doesnât cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
Heâs behind you in the next second.
Jokerâs hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurtâjust enough to remind you that restraint is a choice heâs making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
âWould you like to match your birdy?â he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A âđčâ.
Your body reacts before your mind canâyour stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like itâs already shrinking away from whatâs coming.
âWeâre going to make the deal now,â he coos.
In the cameraâs reflection, you can see his eyeâwide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
âYou either get a matching lookâŠâ The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. ââŠor you tell me who you hate.â
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. âWho⊠who I hate?â
âWho put you here?â he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. âIt wasnât me.â
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like itâs already memorizing you.
âWhy do you think I found you?â he continues lightly. âDo you know how sloppy he is?â
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jasonâs helmetâthe same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if heâs thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
âTell me who you hate.â
The words donât just reach youâthey enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Jokerâs makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too brightâglass-bright, feverishânever still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeksâburnt iron, old sweat, copper, rotâand every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isnât yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you canât quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his handsâwarm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like itâs something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jasonâs name and watch Jokerâs smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brandâfeel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Jokerâs eyes as he claims you like an object heâs improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twistsânot courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feralâpleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
âYou know,â you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, âheâs never mentioned you before.â
His breath stutters.
âYou must not have left quite an impression.â
Itâs a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he isâhis name written in blood across the cityâs historyâbut lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
Youâve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribableâancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, âThis is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.â
When you wake again, itâs to the weight of tears landing on your faceâwarm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you donât know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it canât decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. Thereâs the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds youâworn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
âHurts,â you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you arenât lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.Â
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rainâ
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
âAm I in heaven?â you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isnât quite a sob and isnât quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. âYou donât even believe in heaven.â
âWell,â you murmur, tryingâand failingâto pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, âwhat else could you be?â
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and youâre dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that youâre staining him. You hate that you canât stop.
âIâll kill him,â Jason whispers, like a prayer heâs been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. âIâll kill him. I promise.â
âCan I have hot chocolate first?â you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. âI bought that expensive kind⊠from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpetâŠâ
Jasonâs breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. âYeah. Yeah, Iâll buy you hot chocolate. Iâll buy you all of it.â
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. âHey, Jayâbreatheââ
Jason doesnât hear them. Or maybe he does and simply canât afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like heâs drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe thatâs just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
âStop crying,â you murmur weakly. âI canât die with you looking like that.â
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. âGood,â he chokes. âFuck you. Iâll cry even more, soâso stay with me, yeah?â
âNo,â you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. âWanna sleep.â
âYou slept an awful lot,â he snaps, but thereâs no anger in itâonly terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
âWell,â you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like youâre afraid of startling him, âYou show up in my dreams an awful lot.â
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he triesâfailsâto hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think itâs yours againâuntil the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was thisâ
âDid I interrupt family bonding?â you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesnât answer. He canât. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like heâs afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
âIf this is what you think family bonding is, youâll fit right in.â
âDamian, be quiet,â another voice snaps.
âSheâs the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Timâ Damian continues anyway, undeterred. âAnd Father isnât even saying anything, soââ
âWell sheâs the one dying!â Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the sound his name makes in Timâs mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seatâcontrolled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
âSheâs not going to die, Tim.â
âI want hoya bellas on my grave,â you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
âGot it.â
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. âCassandra, sheâs not being serious.â
âIâm sorry,â Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something heâs trying to carve into reality. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.â His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesnât want to know at all.
âIâm gonna sleep now,â you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. âCan one of you give Jason water?â
âHeyââ Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. âHey, noâno, no, no, stay with me, come onââ
But youâre already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like itâs trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that itâs still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jasonâs shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
âDrink.â
Jason doesnât look up. He doesnât let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
âHey, I donât need anyââ
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hourâstreetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like theyâre exhausted too.
Bruceâs voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesnât listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need itâbecause you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because onceâonceâthat was all he ever wanted too.
And thatâs the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesnât know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious heâs afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Timâs voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
âDudeâwhat the fuckââ
âHold his head upâdonât let him fall on her!â Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jasonâs Tâshirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic heâd never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jasonâs head, careful, reverent, like heâs afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jasonâs chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way heâs learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like itâs holding its breath with them.
ââŠDid someone check if the Joker wasâuhâbreathing?â Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadnât stayed for the end. Her job had been triageâgetting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. Sheâd smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didnât need details then but...
Bruce doesnât look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
âJason didnât hit any vital points,â he says quietly, like heâs reciting a report heâs already memorized. âJust⊠ahââ
âCarved his face like a jackâoââlantern,â Damian supplies, entirely too calm. âHeated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruceâs faceâold stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesnât let himself feel yet.
ââŠYeah,â Bruce exhales, short and rough. âThat.â
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, thatâs enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgentâclean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think youâre dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You donât need to moveâyou canât really anywaysâto know itâs him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
Heâs breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. Youâre reduced to thisâlistening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
Heâs standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your headâmanners resurfacing before senseâyour body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
âHey, heyâno,â he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. âRelax. Itâs okay. Youâre safe.â
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
âNice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jasonââ
âHasnât told you much about me,â Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. âThatâs alright. I just need you to sleep right now.â
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
ââŠI canât sleep if your sonâs elbow is in my ribs.â
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinksâsurprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. âAhââ he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesnât work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worseâhis arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like youâre something heâs afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, âItâs alright. Iâm sure he hasnât slept⊠Iâve gotten quite a lot, soâŠâ
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
âItâs the 26th,â he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier nowâcareful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
âI⊠want to apologize to you.â His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. âI knew youâd been taken. And I didnât tell him. Possibly⊠he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.â
âWell,â you murmur, the word barely more than breath, âI donât exactly blame you for that.â
It isnât forgiveness exactlyânothing so grandâbut itâs honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesnât relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like heâs bracing for a blow that never quite comes. Heâs spent his whole life learning how to deâescalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teethâbut you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. Youâre calm. Youâre lucid. Youâre something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
âJason⊠got him,â Bruce says carefully. âBadly. I thinkââ He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like heâs checking for movement. âI think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.â
âYou let him?â you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if youâre piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. âI did,â he admits. âBut Iââ
âThen thatâs enough,â you whisper, interrupting him gently, like youâre afraid the words themselves might hurt. âJason will realize that too.â Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. âI mean⊠he probably wonât. Heâll still try to kill him.â A faint, crooked exhale. âBut you did everything you could yesterday.â
Your gaze driftsânot to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
âThank you,â you add quietly. âFor finding me.â
Thatâs when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because heâs been looking at you, yesâbut now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you canât help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandageâs edgeâraw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.Â
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
âItâs still fresh,â he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. âIâll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.â A pause. His voice lowers. âI canât promise about the texture.â
You donât look away. You donât flinch.
âThatâs okay,â you say.
And Bruce doesnât know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that youâll carry this foreverâbut Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
âHe loves you a lot.â Bruce mumbles.
â...And you too Mr.Wayne.â
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .á ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
Jason Todd x Female Reader, Dick Grayson x Female Reader (Unrequited)
This can be read as a standalone! However, if you want to check out the other parts click here (personally Iâd recommend at least part 1):
Part 1 Alternate Ending (Dick Grayson)
Summary:
There was a point where you liked Dick Grayson as a kid, but you knew he never reciprocated those feelings, so you forced yourself to move on. When Dick finds out years later, he can't help but feel conflicted. Struggling with his own feelings, he wonders if he is too late to figure out his own. Do you still love him, or does he need to win your heart back? In theory, this shouldn't be too difficult.
However, he doesn't realize that there may be competition for your affection.
Word Count: 26.6k
Warnings/Tags: Lots and lots of banter and dialogue, kinda slow, happy ending for Reader and Jason, not for Dick lol, premise sounds kinda angsty but thereâs lots of silly stuff in it, breaking and entering, inaccurate lock picking, just generally expect grammar errors itâs too long to be perfect lol
A/N: I'll make a separate post. This fic reached Tumblr's post length limit lmao. All I will say is that my requests are now open! Check out the rules and send a few :D! Okay enjoy :)))
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Tonight wasn't going as planned, but to be fair, it rarely did.
Jason had noticed that recently, the drug trade throughout the city had spiked. While it had initially appeared in Crime Alley, it didn't take long for it to spread throughout Gotham entirely. He wasn't sure who exactly was responsible for it. After all, the list of potential suspects was a mile long.
He'd been stationed in Coventry, attempting to get scraps of information. After days of dead ends, the city took pity on him and threw him a bone. Apparently, a truck shipment was supposed to be heading through the Upper East Side around midnight. The dealer he questioned told him that it'd be leaving from a warehouse a couple blocks down. He set off without hesitation. They didn't expect him. This could be the best shot for him to catch them off guard.
It wasn't long before he found it. He slipped in unnoticed (nobody ever thinks to look up), kneeling on top of the truck with no issues.
"Don't stop for nothin'." Goon One gestured towards his buddy in a "I'm watching you" motion.
"Hm, what about the Bats?" The other guy, Goon Two, crossed his arms, nose scrunching at the first guy's words. He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out onto his face.
Goon One swat the smoke away, "We should have somebody distracting them up by Newtown or Crime Alley, somewhere in that area. I can't remember. Truthfully, we're just trying to get Red Hood off our ass for a night." Goon One climbed into the truck's driver's seat.
"I'm telling you! It wasn't worth dealing to them kids to get his attention on us." Goon Two threw his hands up, tossing the cigarette onto the ground and stomping out the ashes. He ran his fingers through his hair, visibly distressed. Jason absently noted that both of them were easily identifiable. They had no masks, and one of them had visible tattoos of a dragon curled on the side of his neck. Amateur mistake, but Jason wasn't complaining. It made his job a whole lot easier.
He felt the truck shake as it started up. He carefully crouched towards the front of it, looking down the windshield to see the goons still in there. Their voices are muffled, but they are so loud that Jason can still hear them. Somebody doesn't know how to use their inside voice.
"Relax, man." They started to pull out of the warehouse, and Jason made sure to keep his balance on the truck. "It'll be a clean job tonight."
Goon Two scoffed, "Yeah! I'm sure you'll be saying that when Hood comes crashing down onto our windshield." Jason smirks under his helmet, these guys have no fucking idea.
"Christ, dude, you act like he's out for your hide specifically!" They started pulling onto the main road. Jason latched his hands onto the corners of the vehicle, securing himself to it.
"I'm telling you! He's gonna know it was me who was dealing to those kids by Brentwood!"
"Can he blame us though? Those kids pay up." They turn onto a different street. Jason scanned the area, not as much traffic as the main road. If he's gonna bust them, now is the golden opportunity. He adjusts his jacket, preparing for impact.
Inevitably, they slow down. Just before they come to a stop he decides to act. He uses the boost of momentum to propel himself onto the windshield, shattering it.
"HOLY SHIT!" Goon One presses on the gas, swerving to the side, nearly slamming Jason into a nearby store. Luckily, he moves off the vehicle before they get that chance.
"How'd you know I was gonna go for the windshield?" Jason called out, smirking as he loaded his Glock with rubber bullets.
"Dude, DRIVEâ"
"YOU DON'T THINK I'M TRYING?!" Goon One snapped back, attempting to reverse the truck away from the massive dent in the (now-decimated) store.
Jason strolls casually over to the truck, knowing it won't get very far. The shattered glass beneath his feet clinks under his boots as he slowly approaches the vehicle. He doesn't get too close though becauseâ
"OH FUCK!" Goon Two cried out as the vehicle was propelled upward by an explosion, causing it to land on its side. The entire back half of the truck was bathed in bright incandescent flames, butâ Jason notedâ it hadn't spread to the front yet.
Jason saunters over to the front, noting the lack of a windshield. He tilted his head down the side of the tilted vehicle to see the two goons still inside, coughing. Hastily, they unbuckled themselves and crawled through the shattered glass, garnering sharp cuts with each movement. Eventually, they distanced themselves from the burning vehicle, laying sprawled, face up, and eyes closed on the pavement. Then they open them, only to be greeted with his body towering over their own.
Jason gives them a malicious smirk behind his helmet. "Hey, I don't think you can park here." He gestures his thumb towards the flaming truck.
Goon One's brow turned down, his lips scrunched up in such a disdainful glower that Jason was almost impressed. He spat towards Jason's boot, missing it. "Fuckin' bastard. Thought you was busy in Crime Alley."
"Well, now I'm busy here." Jason took his boot, placing it over the guys ear. "Now, how about we talk? I gotta few questions for you two."
"Hold it right there, Hood." Jason turned, unsurprised by the new voice, towards the dozen of armed men surrounding him.
"I'll take that as a no." Jason pressed down harder onto the guy's head, the goon let out a small whimper at the pressure.
"How about you leave my buddy alone, and we'll make this quick." One of the new guys said, turning his pistol's safety lock off.
Now, Jason isn't stupid. While he knows he could take these guys down, he also knows he's extremely outnumbered. Typically, anybody would say that in this case, the odds are against him.
He knew something like this would likely happen. He can't imagine that transporting such precious cargo would go without safety precautions. He realized early on that whatever caused this spike in the drug trade wouldn't vanish over night; he had to play the long game.
While intercepting the truck was a bonus, the real point of this was to find the base of operations. It was to find where this started and who they reported to. It's why he went out of his way to go get a special smoke bomb from Bruce.
Okay, he didn't actually ask Bruce, but that's besides the point. He had gone into the cave a couple weeks ago, not knowing anybody would be there, let alone you. Jason immediately recognized you, though. There was a point in time where all Dick would do was rave about you. It was honestly a little annoying, but it was all worth it the moment he cut you off in the middle of your introduction. The way your mouth parted in surprise, like a fish out of water. He chuckled at the thought.
Anyway, you being there didn't stop him from completing his objective. He was already there, so he wasn't going to turn around because you were hanging around. If anything, he was glad he ran into you as opposed to literally anybody else. At least your questions he could handle (as nosy as they were).
The smoke bombs he wanted to take were special because they expelled nanoparticles into the air. Anybody exposed would be coated in them, and could thus be tracked when isolated on one of Bruce's satellites. They wore off after a week or two, but they'd get the job done. Jason knew that Bruce had them, and he grabbed it specifically for this mission. With so many people surrounding him, one of them was bound to end up in an important location, one that he could track.
He had taken them back to one of his warehouses weeks ago in the box you provided. While he was there he had also restocked on some of the gadgets he was low on. He already made an effort to show up at the cave, might as well make the most of it.
Jason grabbed the smoke bomb, hidden in one of his pockets. He kept it out of view before he reached to pull the pinâ
Wait, this was one of the normal ones.
Trying not to show his alarm, he subtly pats himself down as the other guy continues to blab about who knows what. He doesn't feel it anywhere on him. Fuck, he could've sworn he grabbed it. He tries to think back to where he left it⊠The box⊠Then he realized.
Shit⊠you were right.
â
"Go left," you tap your finger on the desk of the Batcomputer as you watch the purple and red dotâ Spoiler and Red Robinâ move across Gotham. "Your other left." You correct them as you watch the dots move away from the crime.
For the past couple weeks, you had been practically begging Bruce to let you be useful in some manner. After all, you already spend so much time with them, why not just add you to the team?
Okay, that was a bit of a reach, but you argued that even if you aren't a skilled fighter or trained assassin, you can always help on comms. You had gotten Babs to vouch for you, and finally Bruce relented, saying that you could help only when Babs is on comms with you to help. You thought it was a little counterproductive considering Babs could be out there as Batgirl instead of being forced to babysit you as Oracle, but you knew you needed the training. Perhaps one day you'd get good enough for Bruce to let you work on your own with comms.
"What do you see? There's no cameras I can access nearby." You ask, cycling through all nearby cameras at the crime scene. All of the available ones are out of range. You'd have used the cameras on Steph or Tim, but that's not something Babs has taught you to use yet.
"Looks like a group of four thugs, all around the same height, like 5'11? They are covered head to toe in all black. Each of them has a balaclava on. It looks like they're robbing aâŠ" Tim hesitates, "sandwich⊠store? One of the guys is attempting to break into a car parked on the curb."
"Are they hungry or something?" Steph whispers.
You frown as you look at cameras in the area, noting that a nearby building is burning down. You look back at their colored dots on the map of Gotham. "Not hungry, just panicked. There's a building burning on the seventeenth floor two blocks down from you. Looks like an explosion went off. You guys think you can handle that?"
"We'll be fine, one of us will deal with the building while the other goes after the sandwich guys." Steph proposes. "I'll go after the sandwich guys."
"That's objectively easierâ whatever, guess I'll see you then." Tim hums frustrated, you watch as their dots separate on the screen.
"You're doing pretty good." Babs suddenly speaks, causing you to jolt. You had decided to make a specific channel for your work to be on. It wasn't very practical, but it meant that there was a backup in case the main one ever got leaked.
"Thanks." You huff, this was stressful.
"Might wanna send some backup to Red Robin though, it looks like that fire spread." She notes. You look at one of the cameras near it, andâ yep, wow that spread really fast.
You make sure that Tim can hear you before you speak, you tend to make sure you're muted unless they actively need you. After all, it'd probably be distracting to hear casual conversation in the background while you're fighting.
"Red Robin, do you need backup?"
Tim breathes heavily, "That'd be nice!" You hear the building start to collapse in the back of his audio. "If I can get to the heart of the fire I should be able to extinguish it, but I'll need help getting these kids out. I'm almost there." You nod before searching for the other dots that are nearby him that are tuned into your frequency. You notice that one of them is oddly close to you, that's weird, basically everybody is out tonight.
"I think Black Bat is near you, I'll send her over in a secâ"
"What theâ Oh shitâ What are you doing here?" You hear Tim curse before asking⊠somebody. It's kind of difficult to tell what the other voice says. It seems that Tim stopped the fire, but the background of his audio wasn't any calmer.
Sitting up straighter, you scoot closer to the desk, "Red Robin, do you copy?"
After a long pause, Tim responds, "Backup is here⊠I'll be fine, tell Black Bat it's all good."
Raising an eyebrow, you try to see who it is, "You⊠sure?"
"Yep!" Tim immediately responds, "Yep⊠I gotta mute thoughâ"
You furrow your eyebrows, "What? Who is it?"
"I'll tell you laterâ Yeah, give me a secondâ Actually, you'll probably see him later. Gotta goâ Yes, we're on a different comm frequency give me a moment!" You presume that the random switches in topic are him talking to the "backup."
"Red Robin, waitâ"
"I'll be all fine, bye!" You can't conceal your jaw dropping as Robin mutes himself from the comms. You clench your hands as you attempt to pull footage of Tim's location. With how deep he is in the building, there is nothing that provides a clear view of him or the mysterious assistance. You huff, leaning back in your chair. "I can't believe him."
"I can."
You whip around so fast that you feel your vision blur momentarily before settling on none other thanâ
"Jason Todd?" You furrow your eyebrows and immediately compose yourself, trying to appear unbothered.
Jason raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "We still doing the full name thing?" He sets his helmet next to your keyboard.
"Don't act like you aren't the one who started it." You point an accusing finger to him.
"Hm," Jason grunts, turning his gaze from you to your workspace.
"Don't 'hm' me!" You furrow your eyebrows, following his gaze to your desk. It's less than ideal. The entire space is crawling with scrap notebook paper, filled with little notes you left for yourself. The Batcomputer is even worse. Despite the numerous monitors that make up the device each one has its screen split into at least two other tabs. "Oh, so we're judging now?"
Jason blinks slowly at you, moving to lean against your desk. "I'm not judging."
"Ohhhh my bad, are you 'merely observing?'" You do air quotes. Tim would say that to you all the damn time. Even repeating the wretched phrase makes the heat in your chest rise.
Jason raises a hand, snapping the fingers before pointing at you. "Yes."
You nod, "Great, great. Just so you know, for the recordâŠ" You slowly close out of some tabs on the various side monitors, "I'm usually more organized." You close a few more.
Jason nods slowly at you, "Alright." He sounds vaguely amused.
"Like a lot more." You close a few more tabs.
Jason nods slightly faster, his eyes closing as if he resonates with your statement. "Of course."
"You caught me at a bad time." You close even more tabs.
Jason sucks in air through his teeth sympathetically, wincing. The amusement on his face is now evident. His lips are turned slightly upward the longer you keep talking. "Been there."
"It's organized chaos⊠It looked bad, I know, but I knew where everything was." You close the final tab, silencing your comms, before turning to face him entirely.
Jason crosses his arms, still leaned against your desk, "Yeah," He is openly smirking at you.
"You know your sarcasm isn't really appreciated." You feel your eye twitch as you mirror his pose, crossing your own arms and kicking up one leg to rest on the other in your seat.
"Hm, unfortunate." He deadpans, "Is there a more convenient time to deliver it when you will appreciate it?"
"Actually yes," you roll your eyes, but can't help the smirk on your face. You back straightens as you clear your throat, "Saturdays, 2:34 AM." You randomly pick the first time and date that comes to your mind, something inconvenient.
Jason's eyebrows shift up slightly before settling, "Really? That's the only window?"
You nod contritely, "No later, no earlier."
"Does the second matter?"
You're taken aback for a moment, but don't let that show. You are committed, you can not let this guy win. "As long as it's within the minute."
"Generous." Jason snorts.
"As I'm told." You bow your head in acknowledgment, no bothering to hide your amusement. "Now, care to tell me why you decided to try and give me a heart attack when I'm trying to help your teammates not die?"
"I didn't try to." Jason tilts his head slightly.
"Yet you did anyway." You stand up, pushing your chair back. You got the feeling he got a sort of satisfaction of looking down and teasing you in the chair.
"Unfortunate side effect." Jason shrugs.
"You don't seem that upset." You raise an eyebrow.
"Unfortunate for you." He emphasizes, he is openly smirking now.
"Oh, so you're saying you don't want my help with whatever you need." You pretend to think, watching as his mouth parts in surprise. Feigning innocence, you prepare to sit back down in the chairâ
"Now I didn't say that." Jason holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.
"You implied it." You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, shrugging.
Jason doesn't dignify that with a response, giving you an unamused stare. (Okay but he's got to be amused, he was smirking less than a minute ago!)
You sigh, eventually conceding, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I need something."
"I⊠figured. I can't imagine we'd be having this conversation if you didn't." You respond dryly, leaning against the desk.
Jason's eyes narrow, but you don't fold, merely raising an eyebrow. He sighs, "Remember what happened a couple weeks ago?"
"A couple weeks agoâŠ" You nod, "When we met?" Jason nods, silently.
"Oh," you blink, "Oh." You smirk. He came back for what he dropped in the cave a few weeks ago. Something he wouldn't have dropped if he had just listened to you when you told him to not drive his bike with an open box.
Jason doesn't meet your eyes, "Do you have it?"
"Have what?" You smile innocently, batting your eyelashes.
Jason's eye twitches slightly, his smirk widening in irritation, "You know."
"Mm, I don't? There are lots of things that I have and don't have." You casually trace your fingers on the ridges of his helmet on the desk. Jason glares at your hand, but doesn't move to take his helmet back. The helmet is rougher to the touch than you expect, you can feel every imperfections on it. "Gonna have to specify what you want."
Jason narrows his eyes at you, and you smile at him. "The thing."
You nod, "Oh, the thing." You reply gravely, pointing to him as if you just figured out what he's talking about. "Yes, I know where the thing is."
Jason takes a deep breath, before sighing. "I thought you said you don't accept sarcasm unless it's during your unnecessarily specific time?" He raises an eyebrow, frowning slightly, it almost looks like a pout.
Closing your eyes, you nod, "That I did." You look from his helmet to his eyes, "But I said I don't accept it until that time.
"So you can just dish it whenever?" Jason responds impassively. "That doesn't seem fair."
"What can I say? I receive a lot of it." You shrug, sitting down in the chair, the added weight to the chair causing it to roll away from Jason.
Jason watches as you roll back to the keyboard of the desk, letting out an amused exhale, "I can imagine, working with them?"
"I can't imagine you're innocent." You raise an eyebrow.
Jason smirks, but doesn't respond to that. "I do need the thing though."
You slowly turn the chair to face him, "That is no more specific than the last time you said 'the thing.'" You tap the armrest of your chair.
Jason inhales, and this time you can hear it. "The gadget."
"Which gadget?"
"You know which one."
"The one you dropped when leaving after I told you to close the box?"
Jason is silent for a moment, staring at you as if your expression will tell him its whereabouts. You raise an eyebrow, an easy-going smile painted on your face. "Yes." He grits the words out.
The smile on your face grows, you perk up in your seat. "Ohhh, why didn't you just say that?"
Jason tries to mirror the smile on your face, but it looks stiff. "I did."
You raise a finger up, shaking it. "Nuh-uh, you said 'the thing' and 'the gadget.'"
"You knew what I meant." Jason huffs, looking away from you.
You smirk, "Well, now I do."
Jason sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. You almost feel bad."You have it right?"
"Hm?" You blink, holding back a smile, "Oh, no. I threw it away like a week ago." You wave your hand casually, biting the inside of your lip to keep yourself from smiling.
Jason stares at you, unblinking. "What?"
"Nah, I'm playing." You grin. "Be lucky I didn't though." You stand up, gesturing for him to follow.
"Yeah," he huffs, slowly following behind you, "so lucky."
Grabbing a small box, you hand it over to him. "It's actually sealed." You drop the box abruptly into his arms. It's small, but light. You can feel the gadget roll around the box as you drop it. He catches it with ease.
"Taking a gamble just dropping it like that." Jason examines the tape covering the box. "What if there's a bomb in here?" He shakes it gently, as if trying to hear what is inside.
You huff, "There's not a bomb in there. Didn't look like any bomb I've seen." You shake your head at him. No need to tell him you've never really seen a bomb in person. He eyes you, looking from the box, up to you, and back down to the box.
You stand up straighter, furrowing your eyebrows in contemplation. Jason smirks at your uncertainty, shaking it harder. "Wait!" You frantically shake your head, reaching your hands out to him. Snatching the box back, you hold it out of his reach, "Are you crazy?"
"You just said there's 'not a bomb in there.'" He tilts his head innocently, something that should not be possible for him.
You open your mouth to respond, before closing it. "I'll give it back before you leave."
Jason shrugs, he chuckles silently, "If that makes you feel better."
"It does." You nod, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirks at your stare. You look down at the box, "Did you seriously just come back for this?"
"It was very important." He nods at the box.
"So important that you left it behind before you even left the cave and didn't come back for it forâ" you pretend to check a watch on your wrist, "âtwo weeks?"
Jason doesn't respond, instead he walks by you, pushing past your shoulder, back to the computer. "Weren't you busy making sure they didn't die or something?"
You huff at his avoidance. "I left my comm open, it's fine. They can yell if they need my help." You follow him back to the computer.
"Right," He looks at the home screen of the computer, with no tabs open. You walk up from behind him, confused why he is just staring at the screen. It's not that interesting. Last you checked, it was just a couple of red dots flashing on a screen. Tim had back-up anyway (whoever that may be). It can't be that rivetingâ
Oh⊠right. You closed off all the tabs, essentially going radio silent. Frantically, you push yourself past him, sitting in the chair and opening the comms again. "There you are." Oracle immediately cuts in the second you activate your comm again.
"HeyyyâŠ" You grimace, feeling Jason rest on the back of your chair. You look up at him, and recline your chair back in an attempt to shove him off. He offers you an innocent wide-eyed look before moving to lean against the desk again. "Sorry, something needed my attention."
"More important than Spoiler, Red Robin, and Nightwing?"
Both you and Jason freeze, sharing a look of pure unadulterated horror. Well, Jason looks more amused than alarmed at the prospect, but you are definitely horrified. "Nightwing?" You attempt to sound unaffected.
"Yep. Apparently that's the 'backup.'" Babs responds.
Jason mouths "Oh shit" to himself before leaning closer to you, eying your screen. The grin on his face is positively roguish. You glare at him. "That's⊠uh⊠great! Didn't realize he left BlĂŒdhaven." You attempt to smile, but your strained frown and twitching nose at the idea says otherwise. Jason openly chuckles at your face.
"Yep, he's been around since yesterdayâŠ" She pauses, "Is somebody there with you?" Barbara asks tentatively.
You whip your head around to Jasonâ who is still smirkingâ already opening his mouth. You frantically cover his mouth with your hand, cutting off any words he was going to say. He attempts to lean out of your hold, glaring at you. You mirror his glare, using your free hand to do the "Shush!" motion at him. Slowly you remove your hand from his mouth, using your middle and index finger to point at him in an "I'm watching you" motion. He huffs, looking away, but not attempting to speak again.
"Nobody is here." You speak into the mic, eying "Nobody." Jason nods his head in acknowledgment at your words, eyes dancing with amusement. "Just me." He huffs, shaking his head disapprovingly.
You don't think before locating your favorite pen, throwing it directly at his forehead. To your surprise, it actually hits the target. You have to withhold your bark of laughter seeing his unimpressed face, the ink left a light streak of black ink across his forehead. Smirking, you turn your gaze back to the screen.
"...Okay?" Babs doesn't sound convinced, but doesn't ask anymore questions. "Well, think you can refocus?"
You break your attention from the screen to look at Jason⊠Who is not currently where you last saw him.
Alarmed, your eyes scan the cave, trying to find where Jason could've gone. He was just beside you less than five seconds ago! He couldn't have gone that far. Apparently, he's a lot more stealthy than he looks. You can barely hear Babs' voice as you stand up to look around the cave. Finally, you spot him.
The white streak on his forehead starkly contrasts his otherwise dark hair. It makes him easily identifiable even from a distance. Once he notices he's been spotted, he straightens up against his bikeâ box in hand, when did he even grab itâ before getting onto it. He doesn't break eye contact, smirking the entire time. He gives you a wave, and you can observe something in his hand. You can't tell what it is due to the distance though. Nevertheless, your blood pressure rises as he lightly shakes the box.
Barbara says your name, but you don't pay it any mind. Instead you shake your head at Jason, who chuckles under his breath. Neither of you break eye contact as he puts his helmet on. He starts his bike, tapping the boxâ as if taunting you before revving the bike and zooming off, as if he was never here at all.
Babs says your name again, and you snap your attention back to the screen. "Yeah, sorry. I was distracted, it won't happen again." You inhale as the bike's engine echos grow quieter throughout the cavern.
Babs sighs, "Alright," she sounds less stern, more worried. "Was just trying to say that they put out the fire, all the civilians are safe. Nightwing will likely be returning to the cave with Red Robin and Spoiler." Her words are merely facts, but you can't help but take them as a warning, whether that was her intention or not.
You take a deep breath at her words, your chest nearly shuddering in apprehension. It's been about two months since you've returned to Gotham after leaving for college. Years used to get over your feelings for the first Robin. Two months of not contacting Dick about being back in Gotham. All culminating to the present, your inevitable reunion. You inhale through your teeth, the sound almost like a hiss. You force a smile, despite knowing Babs can't see it.
"Great."
â
Tim glances as Dick as they enter the cave. Dick doesn't look at him, instead narrowing his eyes at the ground. He glances at Steph who seems to sense the tension, but doesn't say anything. She meets his gaze before looking past him towards Dick. Tim follows her gaze, only to already see Dick eying him out of the corner of his eye. Everybody's eyes are awkwardly shifting over one another, the silence only exacerbating the tense atmosphere.
So it's going great.
Dick had quickly realized that Oracle was not who they were talking to, figuring out it was you. He had all but demanded the frequency their comms were on. Tim had reluctantly told him, but (thankfully) you suddenly vanished from the comms. Tim isn't sure what caused the big gap, but when you returned you had just told everyone to "Head back to the cave," not leaving any room for comments.
Anxiously, the three of them enter the cave. Dick looks up to see you in front of the Batcomputer. He draws in a sharp breath at the sight of you. He hasn't seen you for years, and you've been here sitting in the cave. You slowly sip the mug sitting at your desk, gently placing it on the Batman coaster next to your keyboard. Your foot bounces uneasily as you pretend you don't see them in your peripherals.
Dick takes the mask off his face, his eyes trained on you as he approaches. Tim and Steph follow closely behind him. She peeks around Dick's shoulder to see you inconspicuously turning your head to a different monitor. Dick's exhales steadily before he speaks. He says your name.
You pause, your hands frozen on the keys before turning to face him. You note Tim and Steph in the back. Tim looks unsure how to proceed, but Steph doesn't give away her thoughts.
You sigh, you expected this. "Dick." You hesitantly stand, meeting Dick's eyes. The two of you stare at each other for a moment as he hesitantly draws near you. You resist the urge to look away, feeling the shame bubble up. After all, now he knows you're here and that you've been here for at least some time, all without mentioning it to him.
"Iâ" He tackles you with a hug, cutting you off. The force of his action surprises you, almost knocking you off balance and into the desk. You slowly hug him back, "Sorry, I didn'tâ uhâ say anything." You swallow down your nervousness, looking back at Tim and Steph. Both of them are blatantly watching you. You glare at them as Dick constricts you in his embrace.
"It's okay," he pulls back slightly, but doesn't let go of you. His hands rest on your arm, a soft smile on his face. "I get it."
You chuckle awkwardly, "You⊠do?" Your eyes flicker between him and Tim. You have a feeling he's got something to do with this.
Dick sneaks a glance back to Tim, who does not meet his gaze. "Uhâ Well, I meanâ I get that you probably needed time to settle back into Gotham! Stuff must be different now. All that time gone, you know?" Dick frantically explains.
You narrow your eyes to Tim, who avoids your eyes. "Right,"
"Well, we should hang out sometime! Catch up, you know! I mean if you're going to be helping us out we gotta doâ likeâ team bonding activities!"
You blink, "Is that a thing?" You ask Tim and Steph. Steph opens her mouth, but Dick covers her from your view.
"It is now! Come on, it'll be fun!" Dick grins. The rest of you look at each other dubiously. You let Dick pull you along, watching as Tim and Steph attempt to follow you two.
"Shouldn't you guys change first..? Are we uhâ doing this now?" You ask, slowly taking your hand back from Dick. He looks down at your hand before letting it leave his grasp.
"Oh," he pauses, suddenly hesitant, "I just figured we could catch up. With you being back and all." He gestures you up and down, as if still stunned that you are actually here.
You nod, glancing at the time which reads 2:02 AM. "It'sâ" You pause at Dick's hopeful face, "Yeah, sure?" You attempt to smile at him, looking to Tim and Steph for help. "I can't imagine you guys would want to be walking around in full vigilante attire though."
Dick sighs, as if this is a deal-breaker, "FineâŠ" He looks at you hesitantly. "We'll be back before you know it." You watch as Dick slowly moves away from you, grabbing Tim and Steph as he walks away.
Weird. Maybe he is not that mad that you didn't tell him you were back? The conversation didn't really flow like it used to, but you'd chalk that up to having spent years apart. Perhaps he's right, after a couple conversations everything will go back to normal. Watching his retreating figure, you can't help but smile. He mutters something to them both, leaning down to talk to them. They both point at him, responding in turn.
Getting over him wasn't an easy process. Part of the reason you chose to move so far away was to get over him. Sure it wasn't the only reason, but it was one of many. Time apart would give you time to separate yourself from him. You knew he never liked you back even back then, him dating Kori soon after your departure sure communicated that loud and clear.
If anything, it gave you a sense of peace. It almost felt like you two were stuck in an endless dance around each other for years with no resolution. When he started dating Kori, it ended your torment, proving that you were never an option. You could finally move on. Of course, you still thought about him. You still wondered how he was doing. You had heard that there was a new Robin and that the vigilante "Nightwing" had appeared in BlĂŒdhaven.
When you came back, you figured that things would finally be okay. You wouldn't have to worry about messing up your friendship because of liking him. Your worries were gone. That doesn't mean you weren't surprised about some things, though.
Ever since learning about Dick having dated Barbara previously, you've been waiting for one of the two to mention it to you. You aren't surprised that Dick didn't say anything, seeing as he didn't decide to tell you about Kori. You never met Kori, so you weren't shocked that he never spoke to you about her.
But Babs? You were there when they started getting close, and you had befriended her quickly. Hearing that none of them decided to say anything? That hurt. Not in the heartbreaking lovesick way, but as a friend. Not one person told you, and you had to find out from Tim. Someone you hadn't even met until a couple months ago! Sure, you questioned if they were dating when you were kids, but that's much different than actually hearing that they've not only dated but have broken up. It's not like it's any of your business anyway.
"We have returned!" Dick grins, arms spread grandly as he walks back to you.
A small smile appears on your face, "Joy." You deadpan.
"Don't be like that," he chuckles, rubbing your shoulders casually, "Anyway," he slings that arm around your shoulder, "I asked Alfred if he could make some of his cookies for us." He whispers it to you like it's a secret. "It would've just been just for us, but somebody blackmailed me into sharing." Dick throws a half-hearted glare to Tim, who shrugs.
"Shouldn't have barged into my room." Tim gives a small, knowing smile.
You raise an eyebrow, "Why would you do that?"
Dick eyes look through you as if realizing he messed up, "Yeah, why would you do that?" Tim asks smugly, walking over to you. Steph appears to be messaging somebody on her phone, typing at light speed.
"Cause I found out some very important info about a case." Dick offers a strained smile to Tim.
Tim smiles, "Mhm, a 'case.'"
You blink at the two of them, maneuvering yourself out of Dick's hold. The tension is palpable. There's clearly something there, and if there's something you've learned during your time here, it's that you don't push it. No matter how curious you are.
You move in between them, clasping your hands together, smiling, "So⊠Cookies?"
â
"You were not invited." Tim's eye twitches as he watches Damian grab a cookie from the platter laid before the four five of you.
"I do not require an invitation to dine at my own residence, Drake." Damian scoffs, taking a bite into the cookie.
"The cookies weren't for you." Tim narrows his eyes at Damian.
Damian raises a dubious eyebrow, "And they were meant for you?"
Tim exhales, affronted, his eyes flicking to you and Dick. Damian smirks, tilting his head up before looking down haughtily at Tim, "That's what I thought." He takes a bite of his cookie, waving it tauntingly back at Tim.
Dick sighs, but the action is more out of fondness than exasperation. "You know, you could've called me if they ever got out of hand. I know they can be a lot to deal with."
You shrug, grabbing a cookie, Alfred's cookies really are the best. "They eventually sort it out on their ownâŠ" you take a bite. You smile, turning to watch Damian and Tim bicker. Steph seems to be using it as a distraction to sneak more cookies into a separate container to stow away. "It's actually kinda funny."
Dick snorts, "You say that now." He takes a cookie from the tray. "Babs was telling me that you've been helping out on comms too?"
You nod, a proud smile forming on your face, "Yep, took some convincing, but eventually Bruce said I could help as long as she's there to guide me."
He nods, slowly, "NiceâŠ" He stares down at the cookie, "That's⊠uhâ nice." The wavering in his voice doesn't go unnoticed. You aren't sure if you should ask about it, but you don't have to. "Noâ I mean, I'm really happy for youâŠ" He attempts to correct himself.
You inhale through your nose, bracing yourself. "But..?"
He swallows, glancing between Tim, Steph, and Damian, who are engrossed in their own conversation, "But⊠IâŠ" He exhales discreetly, "Why didn't you tell me?"
You blink, "Well, it's a pretty recent development. I would've told you eventuallyâ"
"Would you?" Dick cuts you off, his words are soft, lighter than a whisper despite the heaviness they carry. They're soft in the way his expression conveys his pain: nearly silent, but present.
Cookie forgotten in hand, you place it down onto your plate, turning to Dick. Perhaps he was downplaying how upset he was earlier. "I would have eventually. I just neededâŠ" You inhale, frustrated, and are faced with a new dilemma. Uncertainty churns in your gut, should you tell him you liked him back then?
On one hand, it shouldn't matter anymore. You don't like him like that now. The biggest reason you never told him was to preserve your friendship. There is no risk of losing that now that you no longer hold feelings for him. On the other hand, it's been so long. Like it or not, there's a distance between you two that wasn't previously there. Years apart have widened the gap between you both, something that was once so closely knit. If you tell him now, will that widen it further? Despite the fact that you avoided him, you don't want to lose him as a friend. Will telling him now ruin everything you held so closely to your chest for years?
"It's complicated," you turn your head away, unable to look him in the eyes.
Dick's pained expression steels itself at your words, "IâŠ" he looks down at the plate in front of him, "I understand."
You sneak a small glance at him, "It wasn't personalâŠ" You blatantly lie.
He smiles, the action strained, but still a smile nonetheless. "I know." His words hold something knowing to them. "I can't imagine how different everything must've been after being gone for so long." His smile turns more genuine, but his eyes are gazing far off.
You reluctantly smile at him, "It was definitely something. There's so many of you now." You pick the cookie back up, taking a bite.
Dick snorts softly, "Sometimes I miss when it was just us." His eyes rest upon Tim, holding a cookie out reach from Damian.
You smirk at him, "'Sometimes?' Not all times?" You lean into the back of your chair, this is more familiar. The banter, the teasing quips shared with one another.
Dick mirrors your smirk, it feels more drained than usual, "All times." He jokes.
You nod approvingly, "That's what I thought."
He looks down at your hands, absentmindedly holding the cookie. "You are going to finish that, right?"
You glare playfully at him, holding the cookie out of his view. "Why? You want it or something?"
"No." Dick lies, grinning as he conspicuously eyes it in your hand.
You take a bite of it, not breaking eye contact. "I've already eaten half of it."
Dick shrugs, huffing, "Like that will stop me."
"It's got cooties." You tut, waving the half-eaten cookie up at his face tauntingly.
He glares at you, "It was one time."
"Cooties last foreverâ" you take another bite of the cookie, "It's mine." You grin at him. He narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting to the cookie, then back to you. With no warning, he hand snatches the remaining chunk of your cookie. You can't move fast enough to reclaim it before he devours it.
Your mouth parts slightly in surprise. For a second you're struck wondering if you've ever shared food with him like that. All you can do is blink as he smugly takes a few stray crumbs from your plate. In the past you might've shared snacks, but nothing that the other had already eaten. You were close, but Dick had one time (jokingly, he insisted) told you that you had "cooties." Cooties! Like you were in preschool. For about a month afterwards, you avoided sharing snacks with him under the pretense that they had "cooties." He was amused at first, but your stubbornness eventually got to him.
"I can't believe you." You scoff. Even if you wanted another cookie, you couldn't get one. During your conversation, somehow the table had cleared the entire platter.
"Believe me." His eyes crinkle in amusement, the grin on his face growing even wider.
"I'm starting to remember why I left." You meet his gaze with an unimpressed stare. He gasps so loudly that he catches Tim's attention, who looks curious, yet unsurprised by Dick's antics. Dick doesn't pay him any mind though, merely continuing to give you an exaggeratedly anguished expression.
"After all we've been through? You wound me." He gestures dramatically, and you roll your eyes at him unsympathetically.
"Shouldn't have taken my cookie." You sigh, matching his tone. "It pains me just as muchâ actually⊠more to do this."
"Are you cutting me off over a cookie?" Dick narrows his eyes, playful irritation in his eyes.
You wipe an imaginary tear from your eyes, "I'm sure you understand⊠It must be done." You respond gravely.
"Must you continue with these dramatics?" Damian cuts in, the two of you turning to face him. You offhandedly notice Tim smiling in faint amusement, and Steph seems to be engrossed in your antics as if watching a telenovela play out in front of her.
"We must." Dick nods solemnly. You snicker from beside him.
"Hey, don't judge us. I've seen the way you guys fight over these cookies." You point to your empty plate, leaning against the table.
Steph whistles lowly, "She's got a point." Damian eyes her judgmentally. You gesture your hands grandly around the table, nodding in a silent "I told you so."Â
"Besides, you two were fighting like ten seconds ago." You turn, pointing between Damian and Tim.
Damian's eye twitches, "That's because Drake believes that he has jurisdiction in my residence."
Tim looks away as if avoiding eye contact with Damian will make this better, his eyebrow betrays his irritation. "This isn't aboutâ"
Seeing that this isn't going to lead anywhere good (and that you were proven right). You make a point to loudly interrupt. "I'm going to head home for the night. It's already late as it is." You resist the urge to rub your eyes. The argument pauses as the attention is brought to you once more.
Damian frowns, and Dick looks contemplative, pursing his lips. "You sure?" Tim breaks the momentary silence.
"Positive. I want to sleep on my own bed." You nod, smiling. Now that you've mentioned it, you can feel the exhaustion seep into every cell of your body.
Dick frowns, standing up from beside you. "I can drive you back."
You turn toward him, "It's alright. You guys were out all night. I wouldn't want to force you to go out again. Plus, worse case scenario, I call Cass or Bruce or⊠something." Last you checked, they're still out for the night, and you feel pretty safe knowing that either one would come to your aid if needed.Dick clearly disapproves of the idea, his mouth turned down in a stilted frown, eyebrows furrowed. You heart stings a little by his lack of faith, even if you know it comes from a good place. "I'll be fine."
You and Dick stare at each other for a long moment. For months you've managed to ease your way back into Gotham's atmosphere. You know this city, even if you were absent for a few years. Dick challenging you won't change anything. You may not be Nightwing, but you've lived in this city. You know how to handle yourself relatively well.
Dick sighs, the tension dropping from his shoulders, "Okay, just⊠be safe."
Your pointed stare breaks into something softer, "Always."
â
When you left, you almost worried you jinxed yourself, that by saying you're "always safe," you'd somehow get kidnapped by Bane or something.
Luckily, you were true to your word (not that you ever doubted it). You even texted Dick a quick notice that you'd arrived home, something he appreciated. You didn't give too much thought before liking his message. Soon after, he sent a quick text asking if you wanted to catch up soon without any intrusions.
You snort at the text. The two of you never really cared back then if Babs tagged along when you hung out or something. You can't imagine that'd be something he cares about now, especially since you've heard how close he is with his family. Perhaps it's because it's been so long? It has been a while since you've gotten to catch up with him. You can see why he wouldn't want his entire family witnessing every moment between you two. Tapping the sides of your phone absentmindedly, you type out a response, confirming that you'd like that.
Dick likes the message, and then proceeds to wish you good night. You smile at the text, before sending the same and finally turning away from the screen. Working on comms is fun until it's one in the morning and all you feel is the sensation of your eyes burning due to the strain of blue light.
Getting into bed, you throw the covers over your body. After a long day, you can finally rest. Of course, you sure didn't feel rested when you woke up the next day. It's a wonder how anybody you know functions like a normal being when they're essentially up from sunrise to sunrise.
Slowly, you get ready for the day, and just as you're about to leave, you pause. You're missing something. Sluggish from the early morning, you carefully pat yourself down as you search every pocket of your clothes. Once you realize what's missing, you groan, heading back inside your room. You rifle through your jacket from last night, finding nothing. Standing up from your now messy floor, you narrow your eyes at the scattered articles of clothing as if it'll provide the answer.
Okay, where did you last see it? You were working at the Batcomputer last night⊠You had been taking notes.. Then Jason had come, and you threwâ
You take a deep breath. That asshole took your favorite pen.
â
Cass analyzes your form as you get into position, her arms crossed and stance lax. She's been the one helping you the most with learning self defense. "You're sulking, makes you tense. It's bleeding into your posture." She maneuvers her way behind you, her touch lightly grazing your shoulders, forcing you to relax them.
You raise yourself out of position. "I'm not 'sulking.' That's a bit extreme. I'm just off my game."
Cass raises a dubious eyebrow, looking you up and down.
"Okay, I'm a little upset." You relent.
She blinks at you, unconvinced.
"It's not that bad." You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
"Was it Dick?" She tilts her head at you.
A chuckle escapes past your lips, you smile at her assumption. "Actually, no."
She walks over next to you, expectantly, and your arms lower from their position. You exhale letting your arms relax, "Doesn't change the fact that you're upset." She frowns at you.
You look down to the floor, avoiding eye contact, "It's stupid."
She shakes her head, "If it makes you upset, then it can't be."
A smile grows on your face, "No⊠No, this one is prettyyy stupid."
She mirrors your smile, "Try me."
You look up at her, opening your mouth, but then closing it. "You know⊠How about we get back to training?" You're not going to complain about a stupid pen to any member of the Wayne family. Even if that pen had the smoothest ink you've ever seen, and had the perfect shade, and had the perfect angle, and you carried it with you everywhere you went, and had been given to you by Dick when you had just started being friends, andâ
"You lost something." Cass determines.
You sigh, "I'm really not joking when I say it's stupid."
"Something that had sentimental value." She frowns. "That's not stupid."
"IâŠ" You couldn't really argue with that one, even if the object was a damn ballpoint pen. It's not like you could ever get a replacement! A couple years after you had met Dick, you had attempted to find that pen again, but it was quite literally nowhere to be found. You had even gone so far as to ask him where he got it, and when you searched it up on their website, it didn't exist. Dick had found it amusing, but suddenly that pen became a lot more valuable to you. Not just for sentimentality, but because it was a really good pen, and you'd never be able to buy another.
Cass waits patiently for an answer, and you know she won't judge you. However, currently, you are judging yourself. Imagine being out on the field and the reason you aren't performing to standards is "I lost my favorite pen." Might as well say bye-bye to that comm position you just got cause Bruce will be testing you for brain damage. You inhale, "I lost my favorite pen."
Cass doesn't react, as if that is a perfectly normal response. "Lost?"
You purse your lips before smacking them, "Lost." She stares at you for a long moment, andâ of courseâ you crack under no pressure, "Okay, maybe it was taken."
Cass' lips twitch in amusement, "You know who?"
You think back to Jason, waving what was once an indistinct object, an object which you now know was your pen. "Regrettably." You deadpan.
She smiles, "Then what's stopping you?"
"Can't exactly contact the guy, not like he offered his business number before taking it." You crack your knuckles, sighing as you fiddle with the gauze around the joints.
She looks at the Batcomputer, your gaze tracking her movement and following it. She eyes you from the corner of her eye as if saying "You sure?"
Snapping your fingers, "You⊠make an excellent point." You tap your temple, smirking as the two of you make your way to the Batcomputer. Powering it on, you navigate it until you find Red Hood's tracker.
"You think he would be able to receive a message from me? Wouldn't he need his comm or something?" You frown, crossing a leg over the other as you ponder your next move.
"Most likely. Try sending a message to his phone instead." Cass suggests, and you nod, a smirk growing on your face.
You pull up an emulator embedded with the computer. It already has everybody's numbers saved, so you click his contact and start typing. Simple. Straight to the point. No possibility for your message to be misinterpreted. Professional in every sense of the word. Concise, yet thought provoking. An argument so convincing that Batman himself would have to cede victory to you. A message so moving that he would be riddled with guilt for even thinking to steal your prized possessionâ
Pls give it back :(
Cass' eyes shine with mirth, her lips twitching. The two of you stare at the screen, as if your combined concentration will invoke his response. You tap your finger apprehensively against the cold metal of the desk.
Red Hood: ???
Red Hood: What?
You know what you did.
Red Hood: So accusing
You can almost see him mockingly shake his head. He probably has the damn smirk on his face too.
Red Hood: Do you even know what I did, or are you just trying to get me to confess to a crime I didn't commit?
Come on, I literally gave you your not-bomb bomb back
Red Hood: yeah after pretending not to know what I was talking about for 15 minutes, great service, truly
exactly, so return what you took from me
Red Hood: get it yourself
I don't even know where you live
Red Hood: you're literally tracking my stuff
I'm literally not??
yeah that's why I can hear you muttering to yourself from my comm that you definitely aren't tracking
You gasp, turning to Cass whose face betrays nothing. You scramble to turn off your mic, horror-struck. After fiddling with the input devices connected to the computer, you eventually findâ to your embarrassmentâ that your mic isn't even connected.
Red Hood: bet you just checked didn't you
no
Red Hood: admit you did it and I will consider returning your pen to you
Your heart pounds as you hastily type your confession.
ok ok I did
You pause for a moment, waiting for a response. When nothing appears you send another message
can I have it back now
Red Hood: I said I'd consider
Next time you leave something behind I'm gonna send you a video of me destroying it
Red Hood: wow okay, you aren't getting this pen back
wait I'm sorry please don't go
Hooooood
I'm sorry I would never destroy your stuff, it's very precious to me
pls respond
Jason Todd you asshole I will never forget this
Read 3:54 P.M.
Your eyes narrow at the screen, the status taunting you. Why can't he just cooperate? Your hands hover over the keyboard, debating whether or not to send him a message. You look to Cass in exasperation. "That went as well as I was expecting." You mumble. Groaning, you shut off the computer, not even wanting to see the screen.
She gives a reassuring smile, "At least you know where it is."
"I figured he had it, the worry was that he'd just taunt me with it." Crossing your arms, you stare into your reflection in the now black screen. "Seems I was right."
She pats your back sympathetically, "You'll get it back eventually."
Your hum in acknowledgement, still staring at the darkened screen. "You're right." You narrow your eyes at your reflection, a plan starting to form.
â
The night wasn't quiet, it rarely was. In fact, Jason has learned that Gotham being quiet never bodes well. Silence invites catastrophe. Sure, a lack of silence meant there was work to be done, but it was familiar. He didn't have to wonder if there was some plot affront (there often was, but at least it's more predictable). What wasn't predictable, however, was Nightwing joining him for the night.
"Remind me why you're here again?" Jason doesn't bother turning to face his brother, brushing his hands against his jacket as he holsters his pistols. He kicks the head of a thug attempting to crawl towards the gun at Jason's feet. Don't bring a gun to a fight if the first thing you're going to do is lose it. Fucking moron.
Dick grins, flourishing his escrima sticks, "'Cause drugs are bad?"
Despite himself, Jason's lips twitch under the helmet, not like he'd let Dick know that. "Aside from that."
Dick secures his escrima sticks to his back, "It's been a while since it's been just us."
Jason grunts, checking the time before walking out of the busted warehouse. "So⊠you decided that teaming up with me to take down a drug spot was what? Bonding?"
Dick chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender, "Your words, not mine."
Jason sighs, heading towards his bike.
"Any other warehouses to bust? Drug dealers toâŠ" Dick trails off as mimics a lazy punch doing a silent "Pow!" sound effect.
Jason slowly turns to Dick, who is still following him. "It's nearly six in the morning."
Dick shrugs, "Okay�" He crosses his arms, "That doesn't really change my question."
"I'm heading home." Jason rolls his eyes in exasperation.
"Got itâŠ" Dick doesn't move from his spot.
Jason looks at his brother, revving his bike, "Do you⊠need something?"
Dick shakes his head, slowly heading to his own bike. "NoâŠ"
Jason groans, he's not going to fall for it. This is manipulation. This is a way for Dick way to monopolize his morning. He will notâ
"Breakfast at mine, be there in half an hour or else I'm eating your portion." Jason speeds off, not even bothering to check Dick's reaction. If luck is on his side, he will not be seeing Dick at his apartment in half an hour (he knows luck isn't on his side).
He opens the door, already anticipating his older brother to be in there. Shockingly, he isn't, and Jason slides his leather jacket off, throwing it onto the couch carelessly. His apartment was, thankfully, clean. The only thing out of place was a single ballpoint pen on his living room table. Unwittingly, he smiles at the object, thinking back to your messages over it.
He had taken the pen thoughtlessly. You had thrown it at him, so he thought it fair to take it as punishment. After all, it's a pen. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, nothing could've prepared him for what spiraled.
The text he received from youâ hell, he thought he was being pranked by some idiot who thinks that messing with him is a good idea. However after staring at the message for a minute he realizes. He hadn't stolen anything recently, certainly nothing from anybody who would send a text message with a sad face.
Upon realizing it was you, he had felt something akin to amusement rise in his chest. He texted back, staring down at his phone, finding himself awaiting your response. The amusement in his chest eventually rose to his face, a small smile at your outrage. He found himself even seeking the object upon your request that you return it. Of course, out of principle, now he had to keep the pen. He found himself chuckling as he pocketed his phone, leaving you to spam notifications to get his attention.
Jason stares at the pen for a long moment, before heading over to the kitchen and grabbing a pan. He greases it with butter before grabbing some eggs from the fridge. He looks at the window, shedding the morning light upon his sink. The sight of it almost makes him feel sleepy, the lack of sleep catching up to him after being out all night. The soft sizzling from the eggs frying the sole sound in his apartment. It's almost peaceful, contrary to the eventful night he had.
Then Dick throws his door open. Jason doesn't even bother turning around, knowing it's Dick just by the way he opened the door.
"Didn't come to greet your guest?" Dick takes off his shoes, tossing his own jacket on top of Jason's on the couch.
Jason breaks his focus from the eggs briefly to look at Dick. "Could you at least hang your jacket or somethin'?" He asks, the tiredness present in each word he speaks. Dick glances at his jacket before turning back to Jason, an amused eyebrow raised. He gestures his thumb to Jason's jacket, a silent question. Jason finally turns to face him, "My mess is fine in my apartment. You could at least be a good guest and be considerate." Jason takes the eggs off the pan, moving them to a plate.
Dick makes a point to deliberately stare at Jasonâ who is not even looking at himâ as he hangs his jacket up, "Satisfied?" A mocking smile on his face.
"Thrilled." Jason deadpans, putting bacon on the pan.
Dick chuckles behind him, walking around the apartment, taking note of some swords and knives on display. He walks over to investigate Jason's bookshelves, filled with classics, he smiles at them. It's not often that Jason actually invites anybody to his apartment. Most of the time, they have to break in if they need something from him. His smile widens slightly as he turns to Jason, whose back is turned toward him, cooking silently. Then he turns his attention to the couch and table in front of the TV. He tilts his head as he approaches it, noticing a random pen laying on the otherwise clean apartment.
He freezes, an audible inhale as he stares disbelievingly at the table. "What's this?" The words are deceptively light, Dick grabs the pen, examining every ridge of the object.
Jason pauses for a moment, turning to face Dick. He narrows his eyes slightly at the way Dick holds the object. "What?" Jason chuckles humorlessly, noticing the way Dick's hand clenches around the pen. "The pen?"
Dick swallows, not even looking at him. Jason straightens up, realizing that something is wrong. "Where did you get it?" Dick asks, the question is quiet, yet its gravity is all-present. The words grind out roughly as they are spoken. His hands tremble underneath the small object, as if it's too much to bear upon his fingertips. Jason's mouth parts in surprise, the words not forming as he watches Dick bite his lip.
"Where?" The words scrape his throat as he snaps his head to Jason. However, his eyes are still trained on the ballpoint pen, as if asking the pen itself.
"IâŠ" Jason hesitantly walks to Dick, the pan forgotten. He isn't sure whether to approach Dick. "The cave."
Dick narrows his eyes, scoffing "So you took it." He whispers.
Jason immediately opens his mouth to correct the misunderstanding, eyes narrowing in indignation. "NoâŠ" He scoffs, unable to meet Dick's gaze. "I meanâ" he huffs, frustrated the words aren't coming out the way he wants to. He says your name, and Dick freezes at it. "Sheâ"
"She gave it to you." Dick interrupts him.
Jason, frowning, tilts his head, not making eye contact. "I guess you could say that."
Dick stares at Jason for a moment before walking back to the front door. He snatches his jacket off the hanger, roughly putting it on. He forces his shoes onto his feet, not even bothering to unlace and tie them. Grabbing the doorknob, he twists it, causing it to squeak.
Jason furrows his eyebrows, "You're not⊠staying?" It was unlike Dick to actually ditch any of his siblings.
Dick pauses his body already half past the doorframe. He turns his head to the side, allowing Jason to see his profile. Dick slowly steps back inside, placing the pen on the table near the entrance. "I⊠I don't feel hungry anymore." He doesn't even give Jason the chance to respond, not bothering to even look at him before slamming the door.
Jason blinks slowly at his closed door before turning his attention to the pen that Dick almost lost his shit over. He thinks back to your text. You didn't seem that upset over losing the pen. Sure, you had asked for it back, and had expressed immense interest at its return.
But not a single one of your messages implied you were that distraught. If anything, they seemed almost playful, with a small twinge of genuine desire to have the pen returned. Jason slowly walks over to grab it, attempting to find anything special with it. If he knew it'd cause this many issues, he would've left the damn thing. Sighing, he walks back over to the table it was originally on. Perhaps he should return it. He didn't mean to take a sentimental object from you. He runs his fingers across the pen, before scrunching his nose in disgust. It smells like something is burningâ
His eyes widen. Shit, he forgot about the bacon.
â
"Honestly, just break into his apartment. You said you already know where he keeps whatever you're looking for." Tim shrugs, attempting to keep a straight face. "Just do a little research on the computer before you break in." He waves a hand nonchalantly.
You nod, typing furiously on your phone as if taking notes. "Got it⊠Would you recommend door or window?"
Tim's eyebrows raise, wow, you are taking him seriously? "Window, most people don't lock them."
You frown, eyebrows furrowing, "I don't think this guy is constituted as 'most people.'"
Tim mirrors your frown, sitting up straighter. Who exactly are you going after? "Okay⊠Do you mind if I ask who 'this guy' is?"
You fidget in your chair slightly, kicking one leg up over your other, "UhâŠ" You look around to make sure nobody is listening, "You won't judge?"
Tim snorts, "No, I won't." Actually, before he was just mildly interested. It'd be your first B&E (closer to burglary, but really, same difference, you seemed pretty justified based on what Tim heard). However, it seems that you don't aim low because if you are this nervous about it, it must be serious.
You smack your lips, "It's Jason." Your words are quiet, but they echo throughout the cave. Tim can't hold back the stunned expression he makes, eyes wide and eyebrows so far up they almost disappear behind his hair.
"I know, I know. Trust me, I know it's bad, butâ"
"Wait, wait, wait, since when did you meet him?" Tim suddenly cuts you off, his palms pressed against one another, hands covering his mouth. His eyes are focused on you.
"Iâ" You pause, momentarily thrown off track. "What?"
"You met Jason." Tim states, and you nod slowly. This is not what you pictured from this conversation. You imagined something more along the lines of: "Why would you steal from my brother?"
"Yeah?" You blink, "Was I not supposed to�" You ask hesitantly. You didn't think meeting him was that big of a deal.
Tim shakes his head, looking down. "I was just surprised." He snaps his head up to you, startling you slightly, "Does Dick know?"
You stare blankly at Tim, "Why⊠would he?"
Tim nods slowly, pursing his lips. "Taking that as a no."Â
You nod, amused, "Yeah, no."
He hums in acknowledgement, shaking his head subtly, "Anyway, you said that you wanted to break into Jason's?"
"Yeah, I know he's kinda your brother and all," you hold your hands up in a placating gesture, "but he took something that was mine."
Tim snorts, laughing at your cautious approach, "I'd help you even if he didn't have something of yours. What'd he take anyway?"
You open your mouth, then close it. "The details aren't important, what matters is that he betrayed my trust."
Tim smirks at you, "Alright then, keep your secrets." He pauses slightly before speaking, "How'd he betray your trust?"
Rolling your eyes, you groan, "Don't get me started."
Tim blinks, "That bad?"
"It's just that I was nice to him, then did multiple favors for himâ all without being asked!" You emphasize, your eyes crinkled in barely masked indignation. "I did all of that, and when I ask him to return the one thing he stole, he leaves me on read!"
Tim snorts, "Oh, yeah that's pretty common."
"Yeah, I was messaging on the computer, and like I asked for him to return it, andâ Tim, I swearâ he was taunting me. Oh, and he got satisfaction out of it." You aren't even looking at Tim anymore. Your chair moves slightly under your flailing gestures.
Tim nods seriously, "Sounds about right." He isn't even looking at you, his eyes frozen on the floor in contemplation. "Tonight, he should be out on patrol. I can try and guide you."
You whip your head back towards him, "Really?" You grin.
He nods, amused, his eyes telling you that he's plotting something. "Of course, all you needed to say was 'break into Jason's,'" and I was sold."
You grin, "Great!" You check the time, "Ohâ I have to go, but if you get any info could you send it over?"
He offers you a casual thumbs up, "Yeah, of course. I'll hear from you tonight?"
You nod enthusiastically, "Yep! Thanks, Tim!" You head out of Tim's room, closing the door behind you. Tim waits for a moment, listening for the manor's entrance doors to close before he gets up and makes his way down to the cave. Now, this may be considered an invasion of privacy, but you gave him permission to guide you through this operation.
So naturally, like a true detective, he has to learn all the facts.
Tim scans around the Batcave. Nobody is around right now. The perfect opportunity to learn more. It's convenient that evidence is located on the computer. Tim easily navigates the familiar system, pulling up the emulator. For the future, he would tell you that it's important to delete the trail of messages left behind unless absolutely necessary, but for nowâŠ
Tim scrolls to the top of the chat, it wasn't very long, but it was long enough. You said that Jason had taken something from you, but you hadn't elaborated on what. Tim wasn't that nosy, but he probably should know considering he's dedicating his night to helping you retrieve said item.
"Why are you texting Todd like that?"
Tim heaves a sigh, turning around in the swivel chair to see Damian looking at the monitor. "Hello to you too."
"It doesn't match your style."
"Astute observation. 'Cause it isn't." Tim tries to ignore Damian as he turns back towards the screen, hoping that if he makes it sound boring then he'll be left alone.
Damian's lips twitch slightly in a frown, "Then whose?"
"Apparently the last person who texted Jason." Tim attempts to focus on the texts, but he can see Damian also reading them next to him. "Hey, can you not?"
Damian narrows his eyes at Tim, "They aren't even your messages."
"Exactly, give them some privacy." Tim attempts to shove Damian out of the way, but he merely positions himself on the other side of Tim's chair, undeterred.
"As if you reading their messages is 'privacy.'" Damian raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim.
Tim attempts to swat him, but it's less forceful than the (attempted) shove. The action is more of an afterthought; his eyes are still trained on the messages. However, it's becoming increasingly difficult to read them with somebody pestering him. "I'll have you know I got permission."
"So you do know who sent it." Damian states. He reads a couple of the messages before saying your name, Tim glances at him for a moment, but doesn't confirm or deny his guess. "It is her. My second guess was Steph, but she uses more emojis."
Tim sighs, "Sure,"
Damian glares at him, but quiets down as he reads the messages next to Tim silently, the two of them attempting to decipher their meaning. It's not long before they reach the end, after all, there weren't that many. "She gave him a bomb?" Damian asks, incredulously.
Tim rolls his eyes, wiggling his finger, "Nuh-uh, it says 'not-bomb,' see?" He points his finger to the screen.
Damian scoffs, "I can see that." He leans in to reread some of the messages, "Did she only message him for a pen?"
Tim shrugs, "Must be a nice pen."
Damian points at the last line, "She calls him by his full name too." He notices.
Tim nods, "I mean she's mad at him, I can see it. Plus, you still call me by my last name, you don't get to comment on that."
Damian shakes his head, but Tim swears he rolls his eyes. "She doesn't do that with us though."
Tim thinks back to it, you haven't really gotten mad at anybody in his family (from what he knows). If you have though, he has no recollection of you ever dropping full names onto one of his siblings. Honestly, this would have to be something he'd need to ask Dick about. He has known you much longer. "Hm," Tim frowns, scrolling back to the top of the messages.
Damian smirks, "I'm right, aren't I?"
"I wouldn't go that far, butâ" he turns to Damian, "I suppose it's worth keeping note of."
Damian scoffs, "You just don't want to admit I'm right." He walks away from the computer, leaving Tim alone in the cave.
Tim narrows his eyes at the messages. The tone, the style of messaging, Jason even replied quickly.
There is something else there.
â
Tossing on a dark hoodie, you exhale nervously. "Okay, how about a hoodie?" You ask Tim, throwing the hood over your face. You look over to your phone, still on a call with him.
"Well⊠Definitely matches the breaking and entering aesthetic."
You snort, "So is that a no on the hoodie?"
Tim exhales, "You'll probably be fine." He says dismissively.
You raise an eyebrow, "Probably?"
Tim clicks his tongue, "You're the one who thinks breaking into his apartment is a good idea."
"Yeah, and you're helping me. Don't act like you aren't involved." You point your finger at the phone, despite the fact that you aren't on a video call.
"It's more of a passive involvement." You can hear him roll his eyes.
"Involvement nonetheless." You smile.
"All I'm saying is that if you get murked by Jason 'cause he mistakes you for being some random intruder, it is not on me." Tim says helpfully.
"Thanks for the optimismâ" You're cut off by a loud honk outside your apartment.
"I'm assuming that's you." You grab your phone and hurriedly put your shoes on before running down the stairs of your apartment building.
"Let's hope your assumption is correct." Tim responds ominously.
"You really aren't making me feel better about this." You exhale warm air into your handsâ it's freezing.
Tim laughs as you knock on his window. He slowly rolls it down, "Uber for one B&E?"
You groan, "If I knew you'd make a big deal about this I would've just done it on my own."
Tim unlocks the door as you shove yourself into the passenger seat, teeth chattering. "Sure you could've, but your chances of success exponentially increase when you get help." He looks you up and down, "Do you⊠want the AC?"
You toss him a half-hearted glare, "Obviously. I'm sweating in here." You hold your hands together to conserve warmth. Tim doesn't break eye contact as he turns the AC on. You stare at him in disbelief at his sheer audacity. He smiles back innocently.
"Alright, yeah, sure, whatever, can we just go please?" You groan.
Tim chuckles, "Of course, of course." He starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot.
"So, what's the run down?" You bounce your leg as you debate burrowing yourself into your hoodie. You find yourself respecting the Bats a lot more. You could not imagine fighting crime in weather like this.
"What?" Tim stays focused on the road.
You turn toward Tim unimpressed, "Like, what should I keep on the look out for?"
"Oh," he pauses, a smirk growing on his face, "yeah don't worry about that."
You frown, eyebrows furrowing in concern, "I feel like that response in itself is something to be worried about."
Tim spares you a quick glance, eyes alight with mischief, "Let's just say, I came prepared."
You sink into your seat, "Great, so you're just gonna send me in blind."
Tim shakes his head, "No, I'll be there with youâ well, in the car. You'll be fine. You're stressing a bit too much."
You narrow your eyes towards him, offended, "Oh, I'm sorry that I'm stressed about breaking into your vigilante brother's apartment despite having no prior experience in any crime whatsoever."
Tim purses his lips, "âŠYou'll be fine." He repeats.
"You know that is no more reassuring than the last fifty times you've said it." You cross your arms, staring out the window.
Tim exhales, amused. "Fine, if it makes you feel better, I should have earbuds in the glove compartment we could use for comms."
You open the glove compartment to find a couple old earbud pieces with the Wayne Enterprises logo plastered on the case. "They still work?"
Tim shrugs, "Should."
You sigh, "Alright, then we'll be on comms. You better not ditch me."
Tim rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, "I'm not that mean."
The rest of the ride is silent. Despite Tim's multitude of reassurances, you did notâ in factâ feel better doing this than you did earlier that day. Part of you thought it was just something you'd talk about doing, but would never actually do in practice.
However, Tim seemed very eager to get in on this⊠heist? Whatever it was. You honestly didn't think he'd care, but apparently you and Jason knowing each other was news.
Thinking back to the conversation, you wonder why Tim cared if Dick knew. It's not like Dick has to know everything going on in your life. So what? You met his family, big whoop. That doesn't explain why would Tim care that you had met Jason.
You tap your finger on the window sill of the car.
UnlessâŠ
You think back to Jason's messages. The way that Duke looked at the two of you during your initial meeting. The shock on Tim's face. Suddenly, you sit up, catching Tim's attention, does he think thatâ
"Okay, we're here." Tim parks the car at the curb across the street from Jason's apartment, (you scouted it out with Google Earth earlier this morning). You open your mouth to ask Tim what he really thinks about this whole scenario, but the question dies in your throat. Instead, you nod resolutely, and pop an earbud into your ear, using the hood to cover it.
"You look sketchy as hell." Tim eyes you dubiously, an amusedâ almost concerned smile on his face.
You glare at him, elbowing him, "You approved it. Said it wasâ what was it? 'B&E aesthetic?'" You gesture to your lackluster appearance.
Tim scoffs, "I'm just saying. You just look like somebody who I'd avoid on the street."
Your eye twitches, "Thank you, Tim."
He waves a hand at you, "Yeah, yeah, go head inside." You exit the car, fiddling with the earbud to make sure it stays in your ear. "Ohâ take this too." Tim throws a small kit to you.
Not wanting to drop the item, you fumble with it in the air for a brief second before reading the packaging. A lock picking kit.
Your eyes widen as you read it. You rest your arm on the open car door as you turn the kit around for him to read. "You serious?"
He shrugs, "Steph said you had gotten some experience in."
"She taught me once on a random afternoon."
Tim snaps, "Perfect time to make sure your skills are up to date."
You groan, pocketing it into your hoodie, creating an odd rectangular shape against your stomach. Flatteringâ no, but at least you aren't walking into the apartment practically screaming "Don't mind me, just gonna break into this apartment right here!"
"I'll have your back, don't worry. All you need to worry about is opening that door."
"Thought you said the window was a better option?'
Tim winces, sucking in air, "Ohh, yeah⊠Don't do that." He shakes his head.
You sigh, shutting the car door. Hearing Tim's muffled "Good luck!" You take a deep breath before making your way into the building and up to his apartment. The trek isn't very long, but you are positively sweating by the time you reach his door. Even if you know Jason won't actually do anything to you if he does stumble onto you lock picking his apartment, it's not exactly something you want to happen. You check the hallway, making sure nobody is around, before opening the kit. Sighing, you get to work.
Tim wasn't lying when he said that you got some experience in lock picking. However you also weren't lying when you said it was a single afternoon. You wouldn't even trust yourself to break into your own apartment if needed, let alone Jason's.
"You almost done there?" Tim's voice causes you to jolt, cursing under your breath.
Clenching your teeth, you attempt to pull on the doorknob, another failure. "Nope."
Tim hums, "Well, he should be out on patrol for at least the next few hours. No rush."
You huff, not saying anything. Instead you focus back to the lock. Inserting the pin, you attempt to listen for the soft clicks of the mechanisms.
Click.
You smile, thank goodness you still remember. Now you just need to do that a few more times. Gently, you maneuver the pick until you can feel the pins. You move the pin until you hear the sound again. You exhale shakily, a smile plastered on your face. While you may not live this kind of life, you are certainly feeling the adrenaline of it.
"One more." You whisper to Tim. He doesn't respond, but you don't expect him to.
Your hands are clammy at this point, sliding against the rusted metal of the doorknob. While it does make your life a bit more difficult, it definitely doesn't stop you. The pick attempts to slide out of your grasp, but you hold onto it so tightly that your hands start to shake.
You press your ear close to the doorknob, pushing the pick further in. You can hear the last pin shift with your movements, it's just a matter of getting the right angle. Eventually, you feel your pick latch onto it.
Click.
You don't celebrate too soon, slowly moving your hand up to the doorknob (somewhere along the way you had sat on the floor to focus better). The door creaks open. "Timâ Oh myâ I did it." You stand up in celebration, pick forgotten on the floor.
"Congrats," he slowly claps in the background, and despite the mocking nature of it, you can't help but feel accomplished (even if that accomplishment is successfully breaking into a Jason's apartment). "Don't forget why you're actually there, though."
Snapping out of it, you grin, "Right⊠Right." Hesitantly, you entire his apartment. The first thing you note is that it is not any warmer than the outside world.
The second thing you notice is that it is impeccably clean. You're not saying you thought Jason would have a messy apartment⊠but it's clean. Almost unlived in. Perhaps he was expecting a guest?
Your shoes softly patter as you enter the apartment. It's so clean you almost feel bad for leaving your shoes on. You withhold a snort at the thought, expert robber here, need me to take off my shoes before entering?
It's dark inside, the lights of the city funnel through the window just above the sink. You attempt to look for a light switch, eventually turning on the lamp near the entrance.
Now, if you were Red Hood, where would you hide a pen?
"Have you found it yet?" Tim asks.
"I just got inside." You make your way over to the kitchen. Looking to the counter, it's not as clean as the rest of the apartment. You run your finger over it, looking down at the crumbs at your fingertips. It's brittle, blackened, almost burnt. Hesitantly you raise your finger up to your nose to smell it. Bacon? You slowly walk to the sink, flicking the remaining crumbs off your hand.
Making sure your hands are clean, you walk out of the kitchen into the living room. What immediately catches your attention is a bookshelf filled with classics. You walk over to it, curiously running your finger over the spines of the books. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, the list goes on.
You continue to admire the collection before pausing, finger rested on the spine of The Great Gatsby, your eyebrows furrow in disbelief. Did he seriously..?
Gently, you remove his copy of it off the shelf, opening the book to look at the bookmark used.
Smiling, you chuckle as you remove the small index card.
Red Hood Jason Todd,
If you're reading this then I was right in assuming that you'd return for your bat-gadget thing. I'm not gonna say I told you so, but⊠:). Anyway, I hope you enjoy your sealed package. (Notice how I highlighted "sealed"). Thank me later.
Your chest jumps slightly as you reread the message, signed off with your full name. You had written it just for funny 'Gotcha!' moment, not expecting him to keep it. You flip the paper around, it's a standard index card, nothing special besides a few stupid doodles you did to make it stand out.
It's not creased... Not folded, smudged, or damaged. It's in perfect condition.
A fond smile finds its way onto your face. Silently, with all too much care, you place the index card back to the page, closing the book. You slide it carefully back into place, leaving no trace of your interference.
Your eyes fall to the table in front of the couch, and your smile widens. You lean down to grab the pen, giving it a look once over. Yep, it's definitely the pen Dick gave you. Your grip around it tightens, and you look to the front door.
"Okay, object secured." You whisper.
"Greatâ Oh, shit, get out now." You hear Tim shift in his car seat.
"Tim?" You frown, immediately on alert.
"He is not supposed to be back at his apartment." Tim mutters, and you swiftly make your way to the front door. You open it, and immediately walk into something⊠someone.
You move your gaze from the floor up to the helmet of Red Hood. Damn it, Tim.
"Hey, you outta there yet? I don't have eyes on him anymoreâ" You tap the earbud once, muting Tim, not breaking eye contact with Red Hood.
"Heyyy," You smile casually, leaning against the doorframe, acting like it's your apartment.
Red Hood looks you up and down, sketchy outfit and all. "Hey,"
"I didn't expect to see you here." You attempt to inconspicuously slip the pen into the pocket of your hoodie.
"Could say the same about you." He responds, tilting his head. "Could you⊠move out of the way?"
You blink, looking at his empty apartment, then back to him. "Go ahead⊠It's your apartment." You slowly move out of the way, opening the door for him.
Red Hood steps into his apartment, "Really?" he mutters, his shoulder bumping into you as he walks in. You roll your shoulder, glaring slightly at him. "Didn't know that."
"Your sarcasm is noted." Rolling your eyes, you watch him head into a hallway, presumably to his room. He doesn't say anything else. You can feel your phone vibrating with notifications (probably Tim), and realize that if you're planning to leave, now is the perfect chance.
You're about to walk out when you pause, "You⊠You aren't upset?"
Red Hoodâ Jason walks back out, helmet off, but domino still on. "I'm not surprised."
You frown, "That's⊠not what I asked."
His eyes narrow, "I'm not surprised." He repeats.
You smack your lips, turning to face him, the door still open. "For the record, you stole my pen. "
Jason snorts, "Yeah, and you can have it back. I ain't gonna deal with whatever emotional attachments you and Dick have to it."
You straighten up, moving away from the door to move back into the apartment, "He saw it?"
"If you're planning on staying, at least close the door, please." Jason moves over to the fridge. His calm detachment of the situation leaves you taken aback.
"I'm not planning on staying." You scoff, moving further away from the door, back into his apartment.
Jason turns to face you, and you raise an eyebrow at him. He sighs, walking over to you. You inhale in preparation forâŠ
He shuts the door behind you. You blink at the action. "I was gonna leave, you know."
"Mhm, yeah, I'll believe it when you actually step through the doorframe." Jason moves over to the couch, practically throwing all his weight onto it. You hesitate, unsure how to proceed. It'd just be plain awkward to leave now.
Shifting on your feet, you open your mouth to speak when he cuts you off. "Dick came earlier today." Jason doesn't turn to face.
You slowly move over to lean your arms onto the back of the couch, next to where his head rests. "Sounds exciting."
He exhales, a small smile at his face, then it vanishes as quickly as it came. "Y'know in the past I've always tried to encourage him to leave whenever he decides visiting is appropriate."
You hum in acknowledgement, but don't say anything.
"Then he saw theâ" he gestures lazily at you, "âthe damn pen." He slowly removes the domino from his face.
You watch as he slowly removes the mask, his eyes wincing as he forcefully pulls it off his face. "I could've told you it was a bad idea to take it." You smile.
He huffs, "I wish you did." He tosses the domino onto the table.
You nudge his shoulder softly, "I practically did."
He turns to face you, no mask obscuring your view of his features, "No, you just called me an asshole."
You lean your body onto the back of the couch, glaring at him, "'Cause you were being one. You left me on read, after I kindly returned your stuff."
He groans, "Can we just let it go? I fucked up."
"I dunno, I'm currently in your apartment. Will you let me go?" You tap your finger on the back cushions. "You shut the door on me when I was about to leave."
Jason's posture straightens up meeting you at eye level. "Maybe." He whispers, his voice gruff, but a softness is present within it. "As long as you tell Tim to fuck off." He smirks at you.
You swallow, matching his smirk, attempting to appear unfazed. "How'd you know he was involved?"
Jason leans away from you, and you straighten up. He isn't facing you anymore. "I didn't."
Shit, sorry Tim.
You purse your lips, slowly nodding. "Oh," you whisper dumbly.
Jason chuckles, turning back to you, his eyes almost smiling with amusement despite his otherwise neutral expression. "He was the one who disabled all the security measures I had in place. I figured he was with you."
You exhale slowly, "RightâŠ" You meet his gaze, "Sorry⊠About the whole breaking in thing." You smile sheepishly.
He shrugs dismissively, "Figured it was you anyway."
You raise an eyebrow, "You figured I'd spend my night trying to steal back a pen?"
His lips turn upward, "Well, you're here, aren't ya?"
You offer a small smile, "Hm, guess you're right about that."
You stare off at the table in silence, neither of you speaking for a long minute. "You know, I wasn't joking about telling Tim to fuck off." He tilts his head to look at you, and instinctively you lean closer.
You snort, "You're funny."
"Funnier than Dick?"
You smile, not giving him an answer, "You'll let me go if I text him?"
He nods, not taking his eyes off of you. "If you want."
You raise an eyebrow, "'If I want?'" You repeat unbelievingly. "What's the alternative?" You chuckle, "Likeâ I could stay 'if I want?'" You ask.
Jason tosses you a disinterested look, "Just tell him to leave my shit alone." He replies, not answering the question.
You smile, "Want me to word it like that?"
"Word it however you want. Just get the point across." He shrugs.
You pull out your phoneâ which is still vibrating with texts he's been sending. "You know it isn't his fault." You frown, feeling defensive of Tim. Sure he intentions may have been made out of nosiness rather than genuine goodwill, but he still helped you nonetheless.
"He knew what he was doing, tell him to fuck off." Jason shrugs his leather jacket off, you watch him before turning away.
Leaning on the couch, back facing Jason, you type out a response. "How does: 'Hood says to fuck off' sound?"
"Perfect. Send it." Jason takes his boots off. You are momentarily struck by how⊠relaxed he is. You send the message.
"Alright, message delivered." You smile at Jason, looking at your phone as the read receipt pops up milliseconds after you sent the text. "âŠAnd read."
Jason nods, not bothering to actually look at you as he takes off his gear. "Wonderful."
Your phone vibrates, you frown, raising it up for Jason to see, "Now he's calling me." Jason holds his hand out expectantly, his other hand still working with a strap on his boot. Hesitantly you place your phone in his hand, "You aren't gonna steal this too, right?" You smirk, his hand brushing your own as you place it into his palm.
He raises an eyebrow, not breaking eye contact as he answers the phone, putting it on speaker.
"âyou can't leave me with that. Is he letting you leave?"
Jason huffs, "Christ, I ain't holding her hostage."
"Funny, I don't exactly see her though." Tim responds.
"I'm alright, Tim. You can head home for the night," you look at Jason for a moment, and he raises an eyebrow, "thanks though."
Tim pauses, incredulously. "The hell did you tell her?" The question isn't directed at you.
"Just had a quick chat. I said she can staâ" You cover Jason's mouth (oddly reminiscent of a prior instance). You don't want to fan the flames of Tim's curiosity.
"He's giving me the pen back. I'll fill you in tomorrow."
"Wait, 'chat?' What about?" Tim suddenly switches topics.
"Goodnight, Tim." You smile wryly. Tim says your name, as Jason hangs up the phone, you frown. "You didn't have to hang up on him."
"He wouldn't've shut up if I didn't." Jason offers the phone back to you. You grab it, pocketing it into the pouch of your hoodie. You tilt your head, a silent nod. He isn't exactly wrong, but Tim has been helpful.
"SoâŠ" You attempt to shift topic, moving over towards the bookshelf from earlier. "You like to read?"
Jason leans back casually, "No, I just put them on display."
You frown, the bookmarked book said otherwise. "Rightttt," You drawl out. You pick up the copy of The Great Gatsby, thumbing the pages until you reach the index card. Jason watches you, not saying anything, eying the way you pick up the index card.
"Really?" You wiggle the paper towards him, but even you are a bit careful. After all, if it's in this good condition, you'd like to preserve it.
Jason gives you a small smile, "I needed a bookmark."
"So you used my message?" You raise an eyebrow at the index card.
He shrugs, "It was conveniently located. It's worked pretty well so far. Thanks for that."
You place it back, shelving the book. "Yeah. Let me know if you need another."
Jason nods sagely, "Back-ups would be nice."
You chuckle, "You wish." You slowly move your way around his apartment. You feel his eyes follow you as you move around. "Is it just you here?"
Jason nods, "Yeah," his words quiet, but you hear them clearly.
You walk around the kitchen island, "You like it like that?" You circle around it, heading back over to him. "Just you?"
His eyes flicker up to you, his gaze unreadable. "I manage." He looks down, rubbing his knee.
You look down at him before hesitantly settling down on the opposite side of the couch from him. Well, "opposite" is generous. You refrain from getting close enough to touch him, but he is sprawled out so vastly that you're forced into an awkward position.
You look over to him, "You gonna let me on the couch or what?"
His lips twitch, eyes alight in amusement as he turns to face you. In an attempt to give him some semblance of personal space, you press yourself against the back of the couch, clearing up what little space you had. He kicks his legs up, laying his feet upon your lap, and all you can do is stare at him, aghast.
You scrunch your nose up, glaring at him. "Dude, you stink." You attempt to shove his legs off of you, unsure how to proceed.
He doesn't make it very easy, forcing you to exert some effort in tossing his legs off you. "You're the one who sat down."
"You treat all guests like this?" You glare at him, attempting to distance yourself from him, disgusted.
He holds his hands up in surrender, now fully laying down on the couch. His neck is propped up on the armrest, arms crossed, and legs glued to your lap. "You aren't a guest. You broke into my apartment." He stares at the ceiling, a smile on his face.
You finally shove his feet off of you, "Okay, but you said I could stay. That sounds like a promotion from 'trespasser' to 'guest.'" You sit up on the edge of the cushion, ready to stand at any further attempts of trapping you he has in mind.
"Ah," he raises a single finger up, waving it at you condescendingly, "you said that you could stay, not me."
You meet his smug expression with an unimpressed one. "Alright," you sigh, standing up. He startles slightly, sitting up to watch you head to the door.
"Where're you going?" He asks, and you find yourself almost charmed by his stupefaction.
"Home?" You toss on your hood off your back, ready to brave the freezing weather.
Jason places his elbow onto the back of the couch, eyebrow raised, "It's one in the morning."
You open the door, a blast of cold wind whipping past you. "Glad you know how to read a clock."
"You even have a ride?" Jason asks, looking you up and down.
You chuckle, shutting the door slightly, but not closing it. "You won't believe this, but Red Hood actually told my ride to 'fuck off.'" You do air quotes.
Jason relaxes his head against his propped up hand, "Crazy," he deadpans. "So what, you just gonna walk home?"
You pause, thinking about it. Technically you could. You've walked further in the past. Sure it's Gotham, but perhaps you can convince Jason to lend you a bat or something (ha, get it?). Honestly, thinking back to the drive, it'd probably be like a thirty minute walk you couldâ
"Tell me you aren't actually considering it." Jason sits up straighter, now ready to stand up.
You stand there, frowning, "I mean you proposed it."
"I was joking," he rubs his temples before standing up. "I'll take you home."
"You don't have to do thatâŠ" You open the door wider, ready to leave. Jason, as if sensing your idea, moves past you to shut the door, locking it.
"I know." He looks at you before heading back to the couch. You shift on your feet as he puts his boots back on, when he finishes he grabs his leather jacket. He's about to put it on when he stops, he looks you up and down (again).
"Whatâ Oh myâ" You're cut off by his leather jacket smacking you in the face.
"How can you and Tim plan to break into my apartment and forget to wear proper clothing for the weather?" Jason doesn't even spare you a glance, heading to his room down the hall. He returns seconds later with another leather jacket and two motorcycle helmets, giving you an odd look. "You gonna put it on or freeze?"
Slowly, you place the leather jacket down onto the couch "You don't need to give me your jacket. It's a quick drive anyway."
Jason grabs the jacket and attempts to give it to you again, "It doesn't matter if it's a quick drive, it's cold and we're taking my bike."
You open your mouth, but he raises his eyebrows as if challenging your next words. You don't break eye contact as he slowly puts the leather jacket back into your arms. "Guess you make a good point." You mutter softly. Jason huffs, muttering something under his breath. You aren't sure what he says, but you feel bad for taking so long since Jason patiently waits for you to finish putting the jacket on before opening the door once again. "Thanks, Jason." You look at the ground as you speak, before turning your gaze up to his. His mouth is parted slightly in surprise before settling into something more quiet. His eyes squint slightly, and you furrow your eyebrows at his expression. He's openly smiling now. "What's so funny?"
He blinks, and the moment that felt almost too personal vanished. His countenance settles into something more familiar. He lightly taps your shoulder, "Jacket on hoodie combo. Quite the fashion statement you got there." He uses his arm to push you out of the apartment. Not forceful, but enough to get you moving. "Watch your step."
You stumble out of his apartment, "I'll have you know this outfit had Tim's approval."
Jason barks out a sharp laugh, "That was your first mistake."
You chuckle softly, your warm breath visible in the air. Jason walks past you, heading down to the parking lot as you follow behind him. "Where do you live anyway?" He hops onto his bike. You tell him your address as he checks his phone, plugging in the location. He looks from his phone up to you, "Well?"
You raise an eyebrow, "Well, what?"
"You gonna get on?" He asks, head tilted slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, and your eyes follow the action. He smirks softly as you clear your throat.
"Right, I was justâŠ" You had never been on a motorcycle before. Jason watches as you slowly make your way onto the seat, your arms settled onto your legs. He eyes you out of the corner of his eye. Just as you finally get accustomed to it, he shoves a helmet into your lap. You smile, giving him a quiet "Thanks."
"Dick never give you a ride on his bike?" He shifts his body around slightly, looking down at your hands stiffly placed on your thighs. His arm adjusts slightly, raising to almost grab your own, but he stops. "Quick warning," he eyes your hand before looking up to you, "you're gonna wanna hold on."
You nod, not trusting yourself to respond as he revs the bike. Wincing at the sound, you slowly wrap your arms around his torso, causing him to stiffen up. "Sorry!" You wince, voice competing with the bike. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. Despite stealing your pen, you don't think he is a bad person. You already feel awful making the guy drive you home after you broke into his apartment.
He clears his throat, the sound is low, you barely catch it, "'s fine," he mutters softly, "ready? Just follow my lead." You nod against his back, finding yourself thankful he insisted you wear the jacket. He starts up his bike, and you give his torso a tight squeeze in anticipation as he moves out.
The ride is quiet, but quiet isn't necessarily bad. As the minutes pass, you begin to feel yourself relax. It also helps that as it progresses, so does Jason. You can't see his expression, covered by the helmet, but for some reason you can't help but find yourself wondering. You look down at your hands wrapped around him, then back at him, concentrated on the road ahead. You'd never met Jason before before his time as Red Hood. Unlike Dick, you never witnessed his time as Robin. Would things be different if you did?
You lean slightly into him unthinkingly. If he notices it, he doesn't say anything. You attempt to catch his eye, but he doesn't spare you a glance. You look at his hands, clenched around the handlebars, turning your focus to his mirrors. Coincidentally, he also looks in his mirrors, catching you observing him. You look away. He pulls up to a stop light, "You alright?" He asks, turning his head to face you slightly.
You swallow, nodding. "Yeah, I'm good." He nods in acknowledgment , the light turning green.
It's not long before he pulls up to your apartment. "This it?" He asks, turning towards you.
"Mhm," you hum, turning towards your apartment. "Thanks, Jason Todd." You remove the helmet, the cold air attacking you once more.
He removes his helmet too, revealing the tired, yet mirthful glint in his eyes. "Of course," he says your full name. You can't hold back the smile at it. The first time he said it in the cave it sounded like he was stating facts. Like you were something to be cataloged.
Now? The way he says it⊠It's quiet, personal. It was a small joke that spiraled out of proportion. You can imagine somebody might be offended by such an impersonal gesture. However, neither of you appear upset at how you address one another. In the past the tone was teasing, but it doesn't feel that way anymore.
It's between you two, and only you two. Natural in a way that can't be replicated with anybody else. Even with Dick, somebody you kind of grew up with, saying his name never felt so⊠personal. Sure he'd call you pet names, but you had learned long ago that's just how Dick rolled. Maybe that's why you feel your heart stutter as Jason says just your name, no last name attached. Your eyes snapped to him. It's a step past teasing⊠almost intimate. It's not the "sweethearts" Dick would throw at you relentlessly. It's simply⊠you.
"What?" You snap out of your head, still caught by the whole name thing. Frowning, Jason looks at you expectantly.
"Geez, did you get any sleep before coming to my place? Don't fall asleep here, you're almost home." He rests his helmet onto his lap, still looking at you.
Chuckling, you shake your head, "No, sorry, I'm justâŠ" You pause, "Thanks for the ride." You give the helmet back to him.
"No need to make a big deal out of it." His diverts his gaze from you to the helmet, brushing off imaginary dust.
You smile, "Still, thanks." You aren't sure when to look away from him. Is this goodbye? Should you say bye? No⊠it feels too formal. Goodnight? Is that too casual? Maybe you should justâ
"Need me to walk you up?" He asks, his gaze unreadable.
Your eyes widen dramatically, "No! Uhâ Not that I don't want you too. I mean, it's just right there. I'll be fine. Thank you," you swallow, "thanks⊠though."
Jason's unreadable gaze turns into something almost fond. "Of course," he turns away, as if aware you're over-analyzing his face, shielding himself from any further examination. "Text me when you get home, 'kay?" The eye facing you flickers to your body, but he doesn't turn to face you. His attempt at casual indifference makes you smile internally.
"Mm, two things, one: I am already home," you gesture to the building. "Two: I don't have your number." He blinks at you, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to reason through something. It's kind of funny, you can actually see him think on his face, wondering how you texted him to begin with, before realizing it was on the Batcomputer.
"Well," he holds his hand out, "perhaps we should change that." You feel your heart begin to race, placing your phone onto his hands. He immediately types in his contact info before holding it back towards you. You take it back, looking at the screen.
Jason Todd
You raise an eyebrow at him, "Insistent, huh? Wanna add your middle name too?" You tease. Jason huffs, a small puff of air visible in the cold Gotham atmosphere. He snatches your phone back, typing something on it, and handing it back.
Jason
Face heating up in spite of the cold weather, you chuckle softly. You can't help your heart's increase in tempo. It's so stupid, it's literally just his damn name. Removing his last name doesn't mean anything, but your heart sings at the gesture. "Prettyy sure removing your last name is kinda the opposite of what I asked." You wave your phone at him.
He scoffs, but you can see the smile on his face. "Goodnight," he says your name, and only your name. "Text me once you make it inside your apartment."
You nod, your smile widening at his concern, "Goodnight, Jason."
Slowly, you walk away from him, expecting him to leave as soon as you turn your back. He doesn't. He watches as you make your way inside the building. You offer him a small wave before entering. He nods, putting his helmet back on, and driving off. With a grin on your face that should not be there at 2:14 AM, you make your way to your apartment.
Now, of course, after all of that, you couldn't sleep. You hadn't even taken a shower yet. Instead, you laid on the floor, on your phone. You had texted Jason once you made it inside, a quick message. He had liked it a couple minutes after you sent it, making you wonder if he liked it while driving.
As you sat on the floor, doomscrolling, you couldn't help but feel⊠kinda pathetic. I mean this is basically how you acted with Dick back when you were kids. You refuse to regress to the "idiot in love with (former) Robin" phase. It's not like you even love him. You scoff. Not doing that again. With that thought fueling you, you take your time doing your night routine. You remove your jacketâ wait.
You look down at the leather jacket laid comfortably over your torso being used as a makeshift blanket.
God, he's going to think you did it on purpose after stealing your pen. You groan, carefully taking the jacket and hanging it up at the front of your closet. Guess you'll need to return that.Â
Ignoring your (accidental) theft, by the time you've finished your routine it's just past 2:30, and you nestle yourself into your warm bed, ready to let sleep capture you. Then, just as you make sure your phone is charging, you get a notification. Usually you wouldn't care, but its sharp ring signaled it to be text. Curious, you check your phone to see who is messaging you at this time.
Jason
You want to know something crazy? I think somebody just stole my jacket.
Delivered 2:34 AM
Immediately, you sit up as if your phone shocked you. You rub your eyes as you check the day. Saturday.
You feel your stomach do so many somersaults that it'd make Dick proud.
You had honestly forgotten the throwaway comment you had made all those days ago. 2:34 AM on a Saturday. You had picked such an inconvenient time on purpose. It was meant to discourage him, not enable him.
Apparently, Jason never forgot it.
Unplugging your phone, you pull it close to you, the light illuminating your face as you reach to answer it. Laughing quietly to yourself, your legs kick underneath the sheets as you open the message. Perhaps you are relapsing to your "in love with a (former) Robin" phase. You roll onto your back, phone casting light down your face.
However, the thought isn't as filled with dread as it once was.
â
Dick flips onto a rooftop, allowing his body to crouch as he absorbs the impact of the fall. Robin is sitting on the ledge of the building, and Dick slowly approaches him. "You know, you aren't supposed to be patrolling alone." He looks down at Robin, sitting himself next to him.
"I am not alone. You are present." Damian narrows his eyes up at Dick.
Dick sighs, "That's notâ" he shakes his head, "Just head back for the night. You have school tomorrow. It's late." He places a casual hand on Damian's shoulder. Damian doesn't react to the touch, merely rolling his eyes at his brother's words.
"Did you come here solely to remind me of my curfew?" Damian stands up, crossing his arms indignantly.
"Well, you were just staring at a bank. I'd say sleeping seems more productive." Dick shrugs, smiling up at Damian from his spot on the roof.
"Not if the tip Red Robin provided holds any truth." Damian turns his focus from Dick back to the bank.
"What did I provide?" Red Robin looks down at them from the building on their left. Dick and Damian turn to look up at him as he makes his way down.
"Apparently nothing of use." Damian steps down from the ledge, walking away from Dick and Tim.
Tim opens his mouth before turning to Dick, "I⊠I wasn't joking. I don't remember what I provided."
Dick shrugs, "Kid insisted you had given him a tip that something would happen at the bank."
Tim blinks, "That's not very specific⊠There's a whole lot of banks that get robbedâŠ" He trails off as Damian glares at him. "It doesn't matter." He waves a hand dismissively at him. "Why're you still here anyway?" He turns to Dick.
Dick frowns, "You telling me to leave?"
Tim frantically shakes his head, "No! Just curious, we figured that just⊠After the case, you'd go back to BlĂŒdhaven."
Dick smirks at Tim, "Yuh-huh." He places a hand on his chest gravely. "Don't worry Red," he places his free hand onto Tim's shoulder, "message received." Tim lightly swats his hand off his shoulder, making a small huff in amusement. "Can't I just spend time with my you guys?"
"You know nobody actually believes that's why you're still here, right?" Tim crosses his arms, unimpressed.
Dick raises his eyebrow, "And⊠Why is that?" He looks between Damian and Tim who appear to have cornered him. This is starting to feel like a trap.
Damian says your name, "I have been informed of your past companionship with her."
Dick inhales, slowly turning to Tim. "What'd you tell him?" His tone is exhausted.
Tim flinches, taken aback, "Why do you assume I told him?"
"'Cause I told you everything about it!" Dick narrows his eyes at him.
"Okay," Tim holds his hands up in mock surrender, "doesn't mean I told him though." He mutters.
"Tim." Dick attempts to catch his eye. Damian frowns, a quiet "Codenames" under his breath going unheard.
"I only told him cause he saw theâŠ" he looks at Damian, who returns his look with a stoic stare, "uh⊠Well, it doesn't really matter anyway."
Dick looks between the two of them in disbelief, "Saw the what? And what do you mean it doesn't matter. I don't want her finding out that I know she liked me."
"And she won't!" Tim reassures him, scratching his neck.
"What'd you see though? Don't avoid the question." He looks between the two. Tim obstinately refuses to make eye contact, making him look towards Damian. "Well?"
"Messages." Damian relents after a short staring contest. Dick's blood runs cold.
"Robinâ"
"He was going to find out eventually!" Damian hisses quietly to Tim.
Dick looks at Tim, eyes sharp. "What messages?"
Tim purses his lips, waving a hand at Dick, "Basically nothing. Don't worry about it reallyâ"
"If it isn't something to worry about, then you won't mind telling me." Dick moves over to Tim, desperate for answers.
Tim frowns, narrowing his eyes. He looks at Dick, then to Damian just behind him. Sighing, he swallows. "She was just talking to Jason on the Batcomputer."
Dick's eyebrows shoot up, exhaling with a disbelieving smile on his face. "Oh.. Okay? Why," he exhales unevenly, shaking his head, "why would that be something to hide from me? I meanâ it's not like it's a big deal or anything." He moves away from Tim, heading back to the ledge. "She talks to you guys all the time. Why would Jason be any different?" His hand clenches at his side, willing away the memory of the penâ the pen he had given youâ casually laid out for everyone to see in Jason's apartment. "I'd assume it's normal, likeâ she texts you two all the time, right?" He looks towards Damian and Tim.
Tim pauses for answering, "Uh⊠Yeah." He looks to Damian who slowly nods. "Yeah, all the time."
Dick nods, the smile on his face turning more genuine rather than the panicked distress he was displaying. "Right, of course," he runs a hand through his hair, "nothing to worry about! Maybe she's just interested in getting to know everyone." He snaps his fingers, pointing to Tim and Damian.
Neither of them say anything.
Damian scoffs, "'Interested.'" He scoffs under his breath, only stopping at Tim's elbow jamming into his side.
Dick picks up on it immediately, "What?" The smile disappears, dread flooding back into his chest, "DidâŠ" He looks between them, eyes focused, "Did she say something?"
Tim shakes his head, mouthing a few silent words, "I⊠Look, you just said that it was nothing to worry about."
Dick narrows his eyes, "Is this your way of saying I'll have to figure it out myself?"
Tim winces, "That's not what I meant. I'm just saying thatâŠ" he rubs his temple, "God, what am I saying?" He whispers to himself.
"What he intends to say is that she's been spending a considerable amount of time with Todd recently." Damian steps forward, narrowing his eyes at Tim.
Dick tilts his head slightly, eyes set on Tim, "Care to elaborate?"
"Look, it's probably nothing." Tim holds his hands up as if placating a wild animal.
Damian huffs, "We both know that isn't true." He mumbles under his breath.
"Yeah, well I don't wanna be that blunt." Tim glares down at Damian.
"No, no," Dick crosses his arms, "be blunt. I want to know what you know."
Damian tosses Tim a smug glance before looking up at Dick with the somber expression possible. "He slept with her."
Tim makes a noise of horror, and Dick stares blankly at his younger brother. "That is poor phrasing!" Tim turns towards Dick, their expressions almost exact opposites. Dick doesn't react to his words. "That's not what happened. She just stayed at his place for a little bit. Nothing like that." Tim whips around to glare at Damian, gesturing for him to stop talking.
Dick feels his heart slow down slightly at Tim's reassurance, but his mind still races. "How do you know?" His words are even, betraying nothing.
"What?" Tim frowns, "Well, Jason kinda just told me to 'fuck off' while she was still there."
Dick looks down to the ground, exhaling slowly. "How does that prove that nothing happened?"
Tim opens his mouth and closes it, "I⊠Well, it doesn't," at Dick's distraught face he adds "but they didn't." He nods with a certainty that both appeases and concerns Dick. Scoffing, Dick walks away from the ledge and to the back of the rooftop. His hands tighten around the grappling hook in his hand, shooting it to a nearby building. "Nightwing?" Tim asks hesitantly.
"Go home for the night." Dick responds, shooting the grappling hook and letting it carry him to the rooftops of buildings below. He doesn't bother to hear their response.
â
He didn't think about itâŠ
Okay, correction: He tried not to think about it.
He had only just stopped thinking about the pen, when of course the situation got so much worse. He had naively optimistically hoped that perhaps you just left it somewhere, and Jason just happened to need a pen at the cave.
Apparently Tim and Damian decided to crush that illusion he'd built up. It's fine. He didn't spend days thinking about the implications. He did not spend nights staring at the walls wondering if maybe Damian's words had a hint of truth to them. They didn't! There's no way you've known Jason long enough to even consider going that far.
The following days lagged into weeks of concerned curiosity. You betrayed nothing. Jason betrayed even less. If you two were dating, then both of you did an exceptional job of hiding it, considering who your company is.
Then he saw it. A smile on your face, your hand raised to cover it as you laughed at your phone.
"What's so funny?" Dick continues to stretch as if nothing is out of order.
Your eyes linger on the device for a second longer before looking up to him, "Huh? Oh," you pocket the phone as if caught doing something illegal, "don't worry about it. Just a funny video online."
Dick narrows his eyes, looking down at the phone in your pocket as if it would tell him the secrets of the universe. "Right."
"It's uhâŠ" you clear your throat, "cat video." You shrug, turning back towards the Batcomputer.
Dick pauses, "A⊠cat video."
You nod, "Yeah, mhm. It was really funny." You elaborate.
Dick nods slowly, "Great⊠Can I see it?"
You freeze, and Dick withholds a smirk. He got you. Shaking your head, you frown. "Sorry⊠I closed the app. Forgot to like the video." You smile sheepishly. "If I wanted to find it again I'd have to just hope and scroll."
Dick hums, convenient. "I see, that's a shame."
Nodding mournfully, you locate Cass on the computer, "TrulyâŠ" You sigh.
He narrows his eyes at you as if compelling you to reveal something, but you merely gave him a thumbs-up before getting on comms with Cass. Maybe there wasn't anything to worry about. Cat videos are funny, so maybe he's just overthinking itâ
Then he finally caught you.
It had been after patrol, everybody was exhausted. It was a long night after Crane broke out of Arkham. Most of them went back to the cave. Upon entering, he saw that you were still on the computer checking cameras.
Then Dick saw it. Your phone, left absentmindedly on the far side of the desk, flashing.
On for one second. Dark for a few. Then on again.
The cycle would repeat, and eventually he got curious. You barely seemed to notice that they had all returned, and so he approached the desk. The actual messages weren't able to be read without unlocking the phone, but he didn't need to. His breathing sharpened at what he could read.
Jason
New message
Sent now
Jason
New message
Sent 1m ago
Jason
New message
Sent 2m ago
Dick hesitated to touch the phone, as if touching it would cause the evidence to evaporate into thin air. Slowly he grabbed it, clearing his throat. "Hey, I think somebody is trying to text you."
Your eyes slowly move to him, barely giving him attention. "Huh?" You reply distractedly as you offer most of your attention to the Batcomputer.
Dick waves the phone in his hand, "Jason is trying to contact youâŠ" He looks down at the messages, "Well, he's been trying to contact you. Have you picked up your phone in the last seven hours?" Jason had called you about every couple of hours, each wave increasing the frequency of messages more than the last.
"What?" You frantically snatch your phone from Dick's hold, surprising him as you scroll through the dozens of messages you missed.
After a few seconds, Dick speaks up, "Everything good?"
Your eyes brush over him, "Great! Nothing to worry about."
Dick leans against the desk, "What was he texting you about anyway?" He tries to sound less nosy than he actually is, "Seemed important."
You shake your head, "Nah⊠No, just case stuff."
"Case stuff." Dick repeats slowly.
You nod, "Case⊠Yeah, case stuff." You rub your eyes.
"Must be important. Need help with it?" Dick pushes.
You shake your head, getting distracted as your phone vibrates again, "We solved it already." You type out a response, "Thanks, though." You smile disarmingly at Dick.
"Alright," he rubs your shoulder, causing you to wince as he hits a knot. "Just don't overwork yourself, 'kay? Let me know if it becomes too much." He pats it gently before moving away.
Your smile turns more genuine, "Thanks, Dick."
He stays for a moment, taking a deep breath and pursing his lips before walking off. After that day he had confirmed that something was going on between you and Jason.
Then he had reached a month-long stalemate.
He knew that you and Jason were talking, but both of you were surprisingly good at hiding it. The most Dick got was a couple of comments admitting you two had "talked recently." It led him to the conclusion that you must talk everyday because no matter when somebody asked, both of you had always "talked recently."
A small voice in his head told him it wasn't any of his business what you two were talking about. If you both wanted his help with something, you'd have asked. That didn't stop him from investigating though. For weeks upon weeks, he would overanalyze every comment either of you made. He looked for something that implied that there was something bigger going on.
"Yeah, I was talking with somebody, andâŠ"
While you continued to speak, Dick didn't hear the rest. Talking with somebody. Who? Why not just say their name? From what Dick knows, the two of you essentially share the same friend group. Why would you feel the need to deliberately make it vague when you were talking toâŠ
Unless you were talking to Jason.
"âand I told her that I believed that it was impossible. It wasâŠ"
Dick narrows his eyes at Jason as he talks on about⊠Well, he wasn't listening. He said "her." How many "her's" make a prominent appearance in his life? He said it casually enough for Dick to surmise that maybe he didn't make a deal out of it becauseâŠ
You both were dating.
The realization caused him to tune out the rest of the conversation, responding in half-baked monosyllabic replies. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. Why⊠Why would you not tell him? Did you tell anybody? Is this just how things were between you both now? An ever growing distance that could never be bridged?
Dick's teeth clench as he considered the possibility. Even if that distance persists, did you still think that Dick wouldn't want to know you're dating his brother?
He can't control who you date. He can't do anything about thatâŠ
But you could've told him.
Maybe⊠Maybe he was exaggerating, after all, it is a large jump for Dick to make. Did he have a lot of evidence to back it up? Not really.
Did he believe it anyway? Absolutely.
For weeks, it was just conjecture. Dick already concluded that something was between you both, but he needed something substantial to have it set in stone, before he could truly panic.
Eventually, his patience paid off.
Dinner. Family dinner. Alfred had requested that everybody must show up, and that meant that, despite efforts to not make an appearance, Jason was there.
Oh, and who else was also there? You.
It started off like usual, chaotic, but familiar. Tim had attempted to bring his laptop and hide it in his lap as he ate, but Alfred shut that down quickly. Bruce had asked Duke how school was going, and of course Damian felt it vital for everyone to know that he was excelling in every single one of his classes.
Then Jason appeared. While not common, it wasn't exactly rare. What immediately caught everyone's attention was his seating choice.
Right next to you.
He had pulled the chair out as if nothing was amiss, but Dick had immediately noticed the action. It was not Jason's usual spot. Dick looked over to the spot reserved for Jason, then back to his brother. Jason didn't even notice the glances at the table, instead deciding that you had his full attention.
Dick's fork scratches against the plate as he bites his tongue. Perhaps⊠Perhaps you had something important to discuss. The rest of his family decides to ignore what is occurring before their very eyes.
You giggledâ giggled at something Jason whispers to you. Dick attempts to subtly watch you both, not realizing his mouth is still running through the chewing motion, despite not having any food in it. Jason's arm adjusts slightly. Your body shifts at his movement.
Dick stiffens, freezing in his seat.
Dick can barely see, after all, he is seated across from you both. However, he knows that Jason's hand is resting on your leg. Dick's heart races, he feels his vision swim slightly. He shudders as he takes a deep breath. "When did that become a thing?" He asks, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Everybody at the table turns to him, quieting down at his question. After a moment, Duke breaks the silence, "What?"
Dick doesn't even look at him, not taking his eyes off of you. Jason shifts, taking his hand off of you as if nothing happened. "What're you talking about?"
"You two." Dick sneers, pointing his fork between you and Jason.
The rest of the table is now openly staring at you and Jason. Dick has to give you both credit, neither of you shrink under the scrutiny of nearly every vigilante in Gotham. "When were you planning on telling everybody?" Dick asks, setting his cutlery down with an echoing "Clang!".
You break first, shifting uncomfortably before Jason steps in, "We were going to say something at the end."
Dick raises an eyebrow, "Were you?" He looks between you both. "Hm, awfully convenient."
"What's that supposed to mean?" You narrow your eyes, frowning.
"Nothing." He almost can't bring himself to look at you. Every time he does, a wave of fury and hurt runs over his body. He forces his gaze from his plate to you. "Congratulations."
Jason narrows his eyes, but you give him a look. The two of you share something. God, you two can read each other by a single look now?
"Thanks, Dick." You offer him a small smile, hesitating as you speak the words, but still with genuine gratitude. Somehow, even when being an asshole, you're still treating him like a good person.
Jason, apparently, doesn't agree to the same restraint you were restricting yourself with. He glares at Dick, not saying a word. Neither of them move, locked into a silent staring contest.
"I called it!" Steph cries out in victory.
"I had already told you." Tim rolls his eyes, offering his brothers an unimpressed look.
The conversation sparked around the table as Dick and Jason continued their staring contest. Neither one of them broke the joyful atmosphere that had emerged.
Then Bruce spoke up.
As if sensing that he was about to speak, Jason shifted his glare from Dick to Bruce. Bruce looked at you and Jason, contemplative. Jason glares harder at Bruce as if daring him to say anything.
Neither of them blink. The table watches in anticipation. Then, Bruce offers a small, tired smile. "You look happier." He nods at Jason's glare.
Jason doesn't relent, "I am."
Bruce slices the steak in front of him, continuing to nod. "Then I can't ask for anything more."
With that, the tension at the table dissipates. You reach for Jason's hand, causing him to turn away from Bruce and look down at your hand clasped in his own. His shoulders fall at your touch. Everybody takes this as the green light to start bombarding you both with questions. You are mainly the one to answer them, but every now and then Jason adds a comment or two. You grin as you recount each story, each meeting. Messages you'd leave for him.
Dick can't bring himself to address this in front of everybody and break your smile. He can't bring himself to listen to the stories. He can't even bring himself to be happy for you. All he can think of is a single question, looping in his head. He distantly notes the migraine he feels as he continues to clench his teeth. His fists shake in his lap at your ringing laughter.
Why is it him?
â
"My brother? Are⊠Is this some way to get back at me?" Dick attempts to stomp the hurt that threatens to crawl its way out of his chest.
You turn around from your seat at the Batcomputer, "âŠWhat?" You blink, looking behind you for other people in the room. You furrow your eyebrows, a bit surprised by his furious onslaught.
You think that dinner, despite the shaky start, was a success. Everybody seemed to accept your new relationship with Jason. Well⊠almost everybody.
You could tell that Dick had something to say about it at dinner, how could you not? You were worried about his reaction considering you'd known him the longest out of anybody involved in the Wayne family. You had kept your relationship with Jason on the down low until you had both decided you were ready to say something.
Meaning, you couldn't tell Dick, even if you wanted to (and you wanted to). Your biggest fear was that Dick would take offense to the fact that you were dating his own family. However, that fear didn't stop you from getting into a relationship with Jason, so you knew that confrontation was inevitable.
You expected anger. You could even understand if he felt a little betrayed.
However, nothing prepared you for him to confront you when you least expected it. This was planned. He waited for you to be alone in the cave to confront you, part of you is both grateful and hurt at the action. All of this, the confrontation at dinner⊠It was all planned.
Dick reaches your desk, livid. He doesn't even look at you. "I mean⊠The audacityâ" he sharply barks out a broken laugh.
"âDick, pleaseâ" You stand up, and he glares at you as if the action was a personal offense.
"âto, essentially, break contact with me and then go and date my brother behind my back?!" He snidely laughs, eyes narrowed with sardonic bewilderment. His hands gesture wildly, being thrown all around his head in anger.
Your eyes instantly narrow, "What are you talking about? I didn't break contact with you!" You ignore the unease in your gut at your lie.
His eyes snap to you, pointing a finger to your chest, "Don't lie to me." He grounds out, eyes flashing with betrayal. "You've barely contacted me since you've returned. You didn't want me to know about you and him, yet you two were practically flaunting your relationship. Is this your idea of petty revenge?" You grab his pointed hand, shoving it away from you with a hard glare, but he continues. "I mean, what else could it have been? Did you seriously believe nobody would figure it out? Did you just believe that nobody is in the room with you?" You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, "Oh, right, I guess you just didn't care who sees. Just as long as I couldn't see. Seems you failed that."
You inhale, feeling the flames of indignation rise in your chest, "And you're offended why?" Your voice shakes with false neutrality, betraying your anger at his accusation.
"God, you two might as well have started making out on the dinner table. I imagine it would've had the same effect." Dick continues, scoffing.
You hold your breath, taken aback by his words. "Oh, I'm sorry." You raise your hands up in mock surrender, "All we did was sit next to each other, hold hands, and talk a little. We weren't even talking loudly, Dick." You stand your ground, narrowing your eyes at Dick as he glares at you. "And I can assure you, we weren't 'flaunting our relationship' to get 'revenge' on you." You scrunch your nose up, wondering where he possibly got the notion of "revenge" from.
Dick scoff, looking away before looking back to you. "Yeah, okay." He sneers.
You raise your eyebrows at him, nose twitching, "That's why you're yelling at me right now?" You rub your temples, sneering back at him. "I mean⊠Whyâ Why should us datingâ which was not born out of pettinessâ be reason for you to come down here and yell at me aboutâ whatâ family dinner? Get over yourself."
Dick scoffs, "You're dating my brother." He spits as if you insulted his entire bloodline.
You snap your eyes up to him, "Did I need your permission?" Dick opens his mouth to respond, narrowing his eyes at you, but no words come out. Instead, his hands clench around air before he turns around, running a hand through his hair. You scoff, "You seriously came down here to accuse me of petty revenge because I'm dating your brother?"
Dick whips around, "Yes! Can you blame me? I'm your best friend. I figured you would've told me you're dating somebody in my family!"
You raise your eyebrows, "Oh, really?" He doesn't react to your words, "Then how about how you dated Babs? Back then, she was my best friend right next to you, and you dated her." Dick inhales, suddenly looking like the wind was knocked out of him, his eyes unable to meet your own. "Had to find that one out from Tim."
"It's not the same." His voice is a low rasp.
"It is. You just can't stand the situation being reversed." You scoff, settling back into the chair. Dick looks down at the ground beneath your feet. You look up at him through your eyelashes, elbow rested on the armrest for support. Neither of you make eye contact.
He sighs, leaning against the desk, covering his face with hands. "I'm sorry," he groans, words muffled through his fingers. You stare at him for a long moment before standing up again. Grabbing your jacket hanging off the back of the chair, you don't respond to him. Closing your eyes, you exhale. When you open them, you don't make eye contact, instead attempting to storm past him.
He grabs your forearm, causing you to spin around. Your breath hitches in surprise, and he pulls you closer. You flinch at the unexpected contact. "I⊠Really, I am sorry." He moves closer to you, his gaze flitting across every detail of your face. Freezing, you look him up and down, eyes narrowed.
His eyes land on your lips, and you inhale long and slow. "Dick." You utter his name quietly, but not softly. It's more like a warning. His eyes are locked onto your face, not looking away. Slowly he reaches his hand up, it's cupped, reaching for your face. Shoving him, you refuse to let your breath come out shaky. "What are you doing?"
Dick pauses, his hand still raised halfheartedly. He is looking down at the ground, but slowly his eyes meet yours. His gaze is unreadable, the normal light you've come to associate with him appears snuffed out. His hand moves down robotically, as if he's barely aware of what he's even doing. Hesitant to leave him alone, despite your anger, you slowly lean towards him, "Dick?"
His stare meet yours once more. "IâŠ" You look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. Your eyes, though conflicted and piercing, holds a softness to them, paradoxical. A softness he'd grown used to over the years. A softness he craved when you had left all those years ago. An understanding despite it all. The words were in his throat ready to bubble up to the surface, but your single look silenced that. Your eyes are cautious, looking him up and down in concern, but you don't move to get any closer to him.
For a moment, Dick wonders what compelled him to come down to the cave and confront you. Fleeting anger? Jealousy? What right does he have to be jealous? He looks at the taupe leather jacket clutched in your hand, the phone in your otherâ no doubt filled with messages from Jason, the light in your eyes. The light that he is killing with every second this confrontation drags on for.
He lowers his hand, "IâŠ" love you.
Your eyes narrow at him, ready to bolt at the first sign of escalation.
"I'm sorry." He swallows down any other words he could've said. "For⊠everything."
Your mouth parts in confusion, pensively looking him up and down. The silence stretches between you both, constricting the atmosphere. Dick's heart speeds up, the beat rushing into his ears creating an internal tempo to his stress. After a long moment, you slowly make your way back to him. You approach him steadily, as if sudden movements will spook him.
At your approach his airways seize, your presence suffocating him. Everything. He wonders if you understand what he meant by that. He's sorry for not saying anything back then. An apology for what could've been, but never was. This argument is one of the many symptoms of his long lack of acknowledgement.
You take a deep breath, slowly raising your handâ an imitation of the action he took earlier. It reaches his face, and the warmth of your hand makes Dick melt into your touch. You brush loose strands of his hair out of his face, but you don't say anything. Dick closes his eyes to savor the moment, his body intuitively leaning closer to yours.
He can feel the slow air of your breath brush past his face, you're so close to him. The slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand cups his face into your palms. He can feel the way your thumb slowly caresses his cheekâ a slow back and forth motion. He doesn't dare open his eyes, instead, basking in the warmth of your affection. He doesn't see you, but he doesn't need to. He hears your breathing, slow, calm. He smells the perfume you put on earlier that day lingering onto your skin. He feels your skin brush his own with a gentleness that leaves him compromised all for you.
Then it vanishes. A light stroke against the skin beneath his eyes.
His eyes snap open, searching for the sensation of warmth that you left him wanting more of. Your hand has lowered, eyes not meeting his ownâ steeled down at his chest. When they do meet him, your eyes don't soften like they used to. Your pulse doesn't race at the sight of him anymore. You aren't affected.
"I know," your words are quiet, but there's a finality to them. An understanding. "Your eyes look tired, Dick." You shift, hugging Jason's jacket closer to you. "Get some rest." You whisper, walking past him solemnly.
He turns around to try and catch your eye once more, but you don't. Instead, you resolutely continue to ascend the stairs of the cave before inevitably leaving his view. Dick's eyes remain trained on the place you were last visible, as if his stare will manifest you to come back down. To tell him that it would all be okay. To embrace him with the enthusiasm you once held for him.
You don't.
â
That day, you and Dick reached an understanding. Neither of you explicitly acknowledged what had transpired, but you didn't need to.
You understood that Dick knew about your previous love for him. Dick, despite feeling as you took his heart and dragged it through the mud, understood that your love, that warmth, that adoration now belonged to Jason.
He could never bring himself to tell you that it ran deeper than that. You had assumed that he had been upset because of your distance, about dating his brother without telling himâ which he was, but that wasn't the main reason.
He made a decision. Even if it went against what his body was screaming at him to do, what it was desperately pleading with him to reconsider. He made a decision to not tell how you had unknowingly turned the tables. The part of him so desperate for your attention almost admitted it that very night. For weeks after that dayâ months, he considered just pulling you aside and telling you before his heart burst at the seams.
He didn't. Moreover, he couldn't. After all, while you may not have noticed his longing, somebody else did.
"Jasonâ"
"I don't care what you were. If you dated, if you were just friends, it doesn't matter." Jason glares down at Dick, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. "You can be her friend. I can't stop that, but you will never be more than that to her." He whispers venomously. His words were hushed, but somehow they rang louder in Dick's ears than any time Jason has yelled in the past.
"Jason." Dick repeats his words matching the volume of their discussion, "I wasn't planning on anything."
Jason scoffs, but doesn't look away from him, "Bullshit." He pushes past Dick, walking to grab his knife, sheathing it. "She doesn't realize what's going on in your head when you look at her." He turns to face Dick, "I do."
Dick doesn't meet his eyes, "And what's that?"
Jason crosses his arms, deceptively relaxed, "You pause when her hand touches you, your breathing halts. When her eyes land on you, your posture straightens."
Dick looks up, "That's not lookingâ"
"âThe way your pupils dilate when your eyes look at her." Jason continues slowly, as if uninterrupted. "You look at her like you love her."
Dick narrows his eyes, continuing to look at Jason, but not saying anything.
"I understand that you two were friends long before we knew each other." Jason begins to walk to Dick. "I can't change that. She values your friendship." He pauses right in front of him. "Do not mistake that for anything else. She's made her choice clear."
Dick's fists clench at his sides, a jealous fury rising in his chest, something Jason immediately takes note of. His eyes narrow at Jason's despite knowing that on some level he is right. However, all rationality is thrown out the window at Jason's taunt. He already won, and is still goading him.
"Choice?" He sneers. "She loved me first." His mind wars with his heart at the admission. Whether he should've said it or not, the words were out. Any sensible idea for him to concede to Jason, to admit that he had lost what he now desires is cast aside.
Jason's eyes don't flicker with the anger Dick expects. There's no rage swimming in his eyes or painted onto his face. No narrowed eyes glaring at the slight.
It's indifference.
His callousness spurs Dick fury more than any wrathful response could. Jason's indifference isn't born out of lack of care, but out of awareness. He knows that he doesn't have to be enraged by Dick's jeer. He knows that when the dust settlesâ if it has to settle, you will still come back to him, not Dick.
"Perhaps," Jason begins slowly, "perhaps she loved you first." He walks past Dick, opening the door. "But she loves me now." He opens the door, turning to face Dick one more time. "I'm telling you this now as a courtesy. Stop trying to chase after that past. It's over." Jason waits for a response, but after a moment of silence, he slams the door behind him.
Dick doesn't face the door, staring blankly at the living room of his apartment. He attempts to fight the way his eyes burn. He controls the tremble in his arms, forcing his breathing to remain slowâ controlled. Gnawing at his lip, he barely notices the skin nearly bleeding under the stress he's putting it under. Heart beginning to race, he stiffens, as if anticipating an attack. His eyes burn, and now he feels furious at the unbidden tears that appear in his eyes, obscuring his vision. He doesn't sob, he doesn't let them fall, he won't let them fall.
She loves me now.
The tears don't fall, Jason is right. You don't love him anymore.
â
He thinks he gets over it.
The process is slow. Slower than it could've possibly have been for you. Seeing you with Jason somehow makes it both easier and harder. On one hand, it's a constant reminder. However, the forced reminder almost becomes⊠normal at a certain point. The first few months after are rough. He struggled to even make eye contact with Jason, let alone you. He'd make excuses, excuses you knew were bull, but thankfully never called him out on.
The following months pass by slowly, an agonizing passing of time that he can nearly feel each second of. However, it eventually passes and reaches a year. He thinks of that like it's an achievement, but it feels like anything but. A year of lying to yourself? A year of attempting to move on from a mistake he will never take back and will haunt him for the rest of his life? It's nothing to celebrate.
It becomes easier to think about. He and Jason had reached a stilted truce, but fundamentally something had changed about the way they interacted with each other. Everybody noticed, but nobody was brave enough to ask. He wonders if you asked.
He figures you probably would've, and he imagines that Jason wouldn't tell you the full story. Why would he? After their confrontation all that time ago, Jason had ensured that Dick would never confess to you. He doubts Jason would toss that effort aside. Still, he can't help but wonder if you think about what had happened between them.
Whenever you want to spend time with Jason, Dick abstains from any involvement. Whenever you're spending time with Dick, Jason declines. You're not stupid, you probably question it. Hell, you might've already figured it out, and kindly decided to not comment on it.
Another year passes, better than the first, but still slow. Dick wonders if this will be the rest of his life.
Then he hears soft chatter in the cave, stiffening at the meaning of their words. It all comes back to him. For years, the tide had receded, and now it's coming back, crashing down like a tsunami of devastation. However, none of what he feels matters, because it's not about him. It's not about the issues that should've been solved years ago.
When the day comes, he almost wants to go back to sleep and come up with some excuse for not showing up. There are at least a dozen different ways he could miss this: being injured on patrol, waking up late, being indisposed due to a sickness. Yet, he knows he can't.
He gets through the day with an almost cool detachment. Each action he takes to help enact the plan doesn't feel real. The bustling excitement between each member of the family doesn't reach him. He tries to replicate it, not for them, but for you.
The hours pass until it is time, and all he can do is watch. The first thing he notices is that your eyes light up at Jason.
Your eyes shine, a supernova, with all the brilliance of a dying star. Only you weren't dying. You were anything but. Dick realized the aching truth in his heart, something that settled over his entire body and loomed over himâ as if it would remain for eternity.
The light in your eyes, it's not just from joy. It's from acknowledgement. Knowing that even after all this time, your affections have been returned. This moment is proof of what you've always wanted. Your light is different from the light you had once shown him. It's something he has never seen, after all he never returned anything back then, did he? Not like Jason.
He wonders how foolish he was to ignore it when he was younger. If he could go back in time, he would rewrite his mistake. He can't even bring himself to think of the consequences. An unstable timeline? A different life? Taking you from his brother?
He would be selfish, oh, so very selfish. He would've kissed you while standing on those steps that led down to the subway where he nearly met his demise. He would've held you so, so, so tight that for a moment he could forget this reality existed. Every time you leaned in, every halted breath, he would rewrite it so that he made the right decision.
He would be so selfish to insist that you needn't meet Jason when you would've returned from college. You would never be introduced to him. The two of you lived separate lives for nearly his entire life. You would never know what you could've been.
You smile at Jason, throwing your arms around him.
He can't though. Even if he wants to rewrite his mistakesâ which he so desperately desiresâ he can't. This is his reality. The reality he helped make, whether he loves it or loathes with every cell in his body. The way your eyes smile with Jason. The way your entire body relaxes with Jason. The way your entire body craves Jason's presence.
Dick's nails dig into his palms, refusing to look up at you both.
The same way your eyes used to smile at him. The same way your body used to relax with him. The same way you used to crave his presence.
You don't spare him a glance. Not even bothering to offer what you had once given freely, readily. Something he had taken for granted.
Perhaps you have cursed him. Doomed him to live with the pain you carried for so long. The anguish he feelsâ is it comparable to what you felt? Is this how you felt hearing that he had dated Kori and Barbara?
He doesn't know how you did it for so long. How you endured, giving him the pretense of being a supportive friend. He wants to be that. He wants to support you, support Jason.Â
God, Jason.
Nothing describes his feelings other than conflicting. He wants to be able to take you into his arms like he once did as Robin, like he once did as your closest friend.
But he can't.
He'd be taking away the best person to happen in Jason's life. Despite what his every fiber of his being urges him to doâŠ
Jason deserves somebody like you.
Jason deserves to have somebody who will unconditionally love him. He deserves to have somebody who will tend to his wounds, somebody to talk to, somebody who will look at him and accept him as the person he is today.
A companion, a friend, but also everything but.
Friendship isn't a word that describes the soft whispers you and Jason share when you think nobody is watching.
Friendship doesn't describe how you tightly hold his hand in your own, nor does it describe the way he squeezes your hand in gratitude.
Friendship doesn't describe the soft touches you've shared, or the way Dick has seen his hands roam over your figure. Not scandalous, but grounding. A way to say "I will always be here. I won't leave you." It wouldn't describe the pure adoration in your eyes, something that Jason's reflects. It would simply never describe the way that Jason looks at you.
The answer digs Dick's heart up out of the grave he thought he buried it into, as if to remind him what he already knew. What he has known for years.
Love.
You love Jason.
Jason loves you.
No matter how much Dick regrets not loving you back, or how much he wishes he could go back to fix his mistakes. He can't. Perhaps there are millions, billions, of universes where you fall in love. Perhaps in some of them, it works out.
㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀You nod, your voice a soft but irrefutable "Yes."
His lip trembles, attempting to hide his tears.
㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀Finally, you face him, your own face tear-stricken.
He meets your gaze, his vision blurry, shaky.
㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀Your smile nearly blinds him as you raise your hand.
㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀He looks to see the jewel resting upon your finger.
㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀㠀
㠀㠀㠀㠀Dick mirrors your smile, tears cascading down his face.
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A/N: this is LONG. 26k words. arkham knight jason, loosely (like so loose) alludes to the game Arkham Knight but i basically made my own plot w borrowed lines and elements. could have been longer bc i would have loved to explore the post reveal but its too long for kinktober lmao. NOT PROOFREAD SORRY I'D PROBABLY BE UP ALL NIGHT
C/W: DARK ROMANCE, gunplay, heavy breeding kink, praise, light degrading, exploring emotional trauma, possessive behavior, stalking, mild blood and injury
The ER is a living thing tonight.Â
It breathes through the hiss of oxygen tanks, the sharp beep of monitors, the hurried shuffle of sneakers against linoleum. Every sound is a pulse in its veins, the rattle of gurney wheels, the squeal of latex gloves snapping on, the frantic chatter of residents just trying to keep someone alive long enough to hand them off to someone else. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, alcohol and bleach trying, and failing, to cover the metallic tang of blood that never truly leaves these walls. Gotham rots from the inside out, and sometimes it feels like the hospital is its fever dream: every hour another symptom, another fracture in the body of a city that refuses to heal.
You move through it all with quiet efficiency. Your badge is half-faded from too many disinfectant wipes, your stethoscope a familiar weight against your collarbone. The overhead lights hum, a harsh, cold fluorescence that washes everyone into the same shade of exhaustion. Sweat prickles under your scrubs, but your hands are steady. They have to be. Youâve patched bullet holes in alleyways by flashlight; a chaotic ER doesnât scare you anymore.
Youâre three hours into a twelve-hour shift, though it feels like thirty. You can feel the caffeine buzzing under your tongue, the thin film of fatigue over your eyes. A gunshot victim on one table, an overdose on another. The nurses around you shout vitals, move tubing, press gauze to wounds that shouldnât exist, not on people this young. You donât flinch anymore. You canât afford to.
You adjust the drip on an IV, fingers sure, voice calm. âPressureâs holding,â you tell the attending. âWeâll keep him stable until they clear surgery.â
The doctor nods and moves on, already chasing the next crisis. You donât follow. You take a moment, half a breath, to center yourself before the next wave hits. The rhythm of the ER has its own heartbeat, and youâve learned to sync yours to it.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a familiar face.
A man with the crude remnants of clown paint smeared along his jawline. Purple and green stains cling to the folds of his neck like bruises that never fade. Stitches cross his cheek in uneven lines, the skin still red and swollen where a scalpel kissed too deep. Heâs got that particular smell thatâs part sweat, part old cigarettes, part cheap cologne trying to disguise rot. Jokerâs latest castaway. A low-level goon who tried to fight his way out of custody three nights ago. He shouldnât even be discharged yet.
When you approach with his chart, his eyes track you like prey. Thereâs a kind of hunger there that has nothing to do with food. Youâve seen eyes like his before, wild, calculating, the kind that test boundaries to see whoâll break first. Youâve learned not to blink first.
âNeed to check your wound,â you say, voice even. Detached. Professional. âIf the stitches reopen, you could bleed out.â
He grins, teeth yellowed, lips splitting at the corners. âThen maybe you oughta come a little closer, sweetheart.â His voice drips with mock sweetness, the kind that curdles before it hits the floor.
You keep your mask of professionalism fixed in place. âIâm close enough.â
He doesnât like that answer. His pupils flare, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hand shoots out before you can step back, rough fingers clamping around your wrist. The force makes your pulse spike, pain blooming beneath his grip. His skin is hot, grimy, the nails jagged enough to scratch.
âI said closer,â he hisses, dragging you half an inch nearer. âI could use somethinâ for the pain. Something good. Not that watered-down crap.â
The room narrows to the point of contact. His breath reeks of nicotine and infection. You can feel the flex of his tendons under your skin, the ugly rhythm of his heart pounding through the veins in his wrist.
Your first instinct is to break his. Your second is to breathe. Control is not silence, Dianaâs voice murmurs in the back of your mind. Itâs choice.
You choose not to kill him.
You shift your weight. Subtle. The movement small enough that no one notices, not the doctor shouting orders nearby, not the orderly mopping up blood two beds away. Then you twist. Your fingers slide against his palm, find the nerve cluster between his thumb and forefinger, and press. The sound he makes is half snarl, half yelp. His grip slackens. You wrench your arm free and take a single step back.Â
âTouch me again,â you murmur, voice low but sharp, âand Iâll make sure you never use that hand again.â
He stares at you, chest heaving, confusion and anger warring in his expression. Heâs trying to decide if you mean it. You do. Something in your eyes must tell him that, because he leans back, muttering curses under his breath, glaring as you turn away.
You walk out before your temper catches up with you. Before the part of you trained for darker fights remembers just how easy it would be to make good on your threat.
No one notices the way your sleeve slips up as you push through the ER doors, revealing a glint of gold and red beneath the cuff of your scrubs, the faint shimmer of a bracelet shaped like a stylized âW.â A relic of another life. A promise you once made to gods and heroes before Gotham swallowed you whole. The metal hums faintly against your pulse, like it remembers too.
You exhale, leaning against the cool tile wall outside the trauma bay. Your reflection in the small observation window looks foreign under the fluorescent glare, hair pulled back, shadows under your eyes, a thin line of sweat at your temple. You look like everyone else in this city: overworked, overtired, one bad day away from breaking.
And yet, thereâs something else too. Something sharper. Older. The Amazon steel still in your bones, forged under Dianaâs hand. Youâve buried it under scrubs and ID badges, but it never left you.
A code blue echoes down the hall. You push off the wall and keep moving.
â
When your shift finally ends, itâs past midnight. The city outside has gone quiet in that deceptive Gotham way; calm on the surface, chaos brewing just under the streetlights. You clock out, and wash your hands until the water runs clear. The scent of antiseptic clings to your skin no matter how hard you scrub. Itâs like the hospital wants to keep you, mark you.
You tug your coat tight around you as you step out the side entrance. The air outside is damp, cold enough to sting your cheeks. Gotham in late autumn always smells like rain and gunpowder. You can see your breath in the flickering streetlight. Somewhere far off, a siren wails and fades.
You flex your hand as you walk, rubbing at the ache in your wrist where the goon grabbed you. The bruise is already forming, a deep, violet bloom beneath the skin. It throbs in time with your heartbeat. You tell yourself itâs nothing. Youâve had worse.
Still, you can feel eyes on you, even here in the empty parking lot. That old, familiar instinct whispers that youâre not alone. You scan the shadows between cars, nothing but darkness and the faint buzz of a security light. You force yourself to breathe, to shake it off. Paranoia doesnât belong in your day job. Not if you want to stay sane.
You glance up once at the roofline of the hospital. The gargoyles look like watchers tonight, stone eyes gleaming under drizzle. The kind of sight that would make most people shiver. Youâve fought beside things far stranger.
Your phone buzzes. Nightwing, probably checking in.Â
You cross the street, the soles of your shoes splashing through shallow puddles that mirror the sodium glow of the lamps. The rain has started again, soft and steady. It slicks your hair to your temples, soaks through your coat.Â
Behind you, on the edge of the hospital roof, a figure watches through the scope of a thermal lens. The screen glows with your outline, heat pulsing bright where your wrist still burns from that manâs grip. The camera adjusts focus, tracing every step you take. He exhales through the modulator of a pointed helmet, the sound low, almost reverent.
He knows exactly what that bruise will look like in the morning.
The light on the camera blinks once, twice, then goes still.
And somewhere, beneath Gothamâs endless hum, something darker stirsâa promise made in blood and devotion.
-
The first time you met Jason Todd, he was still Robin. Too small for his own armor, too warm for his own heart. You remember the first impression as vividly as the cut of his laugh: this boy in green and red with a fire in his eyes that no Gotham rain could ever put out.
Youâd just joined the Justice Leagueâs auxiliary ranks under Dianaâs mentorship. They called you Astra: the star that guided through the dark. Youâd earned the name after a mission where you lit a beacon over the Aegean, holding back a swarm of Parademons long enough for Diana to strike. Sheâd told you afterward that your light was born from something rare, not just power, but belief. âYour hope is a blade,â sheâd said. âUse it to cut through despair.â
That blade met its match in Jason Todd.
He had a chip on his shoulder even then despite his warm smiles, sharp enough to draw blood. You had something to prove. It was a dangerous combination.
-
Batman brought his wards to the Themysciran satellite outpost for a League training initiative, something about building âcross-unit synergy.â Youâd expected quiet drills, a chance to show Diana what youâd learned. What you got was chaos in a domino mask.
He couldnât have been older than sixteen. Too young to already move like that, like the ground itself bent to his momentum. He sparred with a fury that was almost beautiful: precise, unrelenting, desperate. You saw the shadow of Bruce in him, the discipline, the obsession, but not the detachment. Jason fought to feel. Every punch was a confession.
You were paired against him for a round of mixed combat drills. He sized you up instantly, eyes flicking from your stance to your shoulder rotation, calculating. Then he grinned, a little too wide, a little too sure of himself.
âTry to keep up, princess.â
Youâd laughed, startled. âTry not to cry when you lose, boy wonder.â
He lunged first, fast enough to blur. You caught his wrist mid-spin, felt the snap of muscle under your grip. He tried to twist out of it, but you used his momentum, pivoting, sending him flat onto the mat. The impact echoed through the room.
When he looked up at you, there wasnât anger. There was delight. âYouâve got good reflexes,â he said, breathless. âAlmost kept up with me.â
âAlmost?â you teased. âYou hit like someone with something to prove.â
He grinned through the sweat and the sting. âMaybe I do.â
You never admitted how much you liked that about him. How much you liked him.
After that, he made sure you were always his partner. It became a game between you, every spar another conversation spoken in strikes and counters. Heâd press, youâd parry; heâd taunt, youâd laugh; heâd fall, youâd help him up. Each time, the distance between you closed by fractions of inches until it wasnât just training anymore. It was tension. Recognition.
-
The next phase of your collaboration came in Gotham. You stayed behind after a mission to help Bruce evaluate a metahuman containment array. Jason was there, half-bored, half-fascinated, perched on a worktable as the Batcomputer flickered through schematics.
Diana and Bruce were upstairs, locked in strategic discussion. You and Jason were alone in the hum of machinery, the low flutter of bats echoing through the cavernous dark.
He leaned over a blueprint of Gothamâs old subway tunnels, tracing a path with a gloved finger. âThis line runs under the Narrows,â he said. âItâs how the Clownâs guys move weapons without triggering the thermal grid.â
You tilted your head, impressed. âYou figured that out yourself?â
He shrugged. âKinda my thing. Patterns, loopholes, people who think theyâre smarter than me.â His smile turned self-deprecating, boyish. âNever lasts long, though.â
You caught the flicker of something fragile beneath the bravado. Loneliness, maybe, or the echo of a kid still trying to be enough for a man who only spoke in mission briefs.
âJason,â you said softly, âyouâre better than you think.â
He looked up. The way his eyes softened in that moment, blue like shattered glass in low light, stayed with you.
He reached for a wrench, pretending to adjust the schematic mount just to have something to do with his hands. âYou sound like her,â he said. âYour mentor. Wonder Woman.â
âShe believes in people,â you replied. âSo do I.â
He laughed once, under his breath. âThatâs gonna get you hurt in this city.â
âMaybe,â you said, smiling faintly. âBut itâs what makes me me.â
Heâd stared at you a long moment then, like trying to memorize your face just in case. You hadnât realized until years later that he was.
After that, the two of you became inseparable in that unspoken, dangerous way where nothingâs ever declared but everythingâs understood. Heâd find you after League briefings, offer to walk you to your quarters even though it was two decks away. Youâd share midnight rations, trade scars like secrets. You still remember the sound of his laugh echoing through the hangar when you told him about the time you accidentally broke Hal Jordanâs flight ring trying to âborrowâ it. Heâd said, âRemind me not to piss you off,â but his tone said he already liked living dangerously.
-
The night before he died, the cave was unusually quiet. Rain whispered against the glass of the upper observatory. You were patching a graze on his cheek from a Joker skirmish that had gone too long, your hands steady but your heart not.
He sat on the examination table, legs swinging slightly, mask discarded. The bruises on his knuckles were purple-black, raw. You dabbed antiseptic onto the wound, and he hissed.
âBig bad Robin afraid of a little burn?â you teased.
âNot afraid.â His voice was soft. âJust distracted.â
You looked up. He was watching you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your hand. âYou missed a spot,â he murmured, leaning forward, voice low, tender in a way that didnât belong in the Batcave.
Your breath caught. âWhere?â
He smiled, the corner of his mouth curving upward. âRight here.âÂ
You felt his breath before you felt the warmth of his skin, the brush of his lips hovering just shy of your cheek.
Then the alert went off. JOKER. WAREHOUSE.Â
And everything after that was blood and silence.
Youâd been too far away. By the time the League signal came through, it was already over. You remember the static in Bruceâs voice when he said we were too late. You remember the way Diana held you back as you screamed. The warehouse burned in the distance, and you swore you could still smell smoke days later.
You mourned him like a limb torn away.
Diana held you when the news came. Bruce didnât speak for days. Nightwing shut down every time you said Jasonâs name. You threw yourself into work with them both, into missions that left you bloodied and breathless, because the pain at least made you feel alive. You counted scars instead of memories. You told yourself it was enough.
You told yourself you were moving on.
But Gotham never lets its ghosts rest.
You didnât know Jason was alive. You didnât know that the Lazarus Pit had dragged him back screaming, bones reknitting, mind fracturing, rage calcifying in his chest until the only thing left of the boy youâd known was hunger.
He remembered your face first. Not Bruce. Not the Joker. You.
Somewhere between the fever and the blood, your name had been the only thing that kept him tethered. Astra. His light in the dark. When he clawed his way back to Gotham, that tether became obsession.
While you stitched up victims in the ER, Jason stalked rooftops, tracing the pattern of your nights. He hacked the hospital cameras. He watched you laugh with colleagues, pull your hair into a bun, flex your shoulder where a faint scar from a Penguin heist still marred your skin. He counted the freckles on your back from still frames. Mapped your pulse from the footage of your throat when you leaned down to help a patient. Memorized every habit, every gesture.
He knew you still favored your right side after a knife wound years ago. He noticed you flinched whenever someone mentioned the word warehouse. He knew the exact rhythm of your evening, when youâd leave, when youâd stop by the coffee cart outside the hospital, the alley shortcut you sometimes took to save five minutes.
He told himself it was protection. Watching over you. Guarding what was his. But deep down, he knew it was more than that.
You had become his relic of purity in a city long gone to hell, proof that something beautiful had once seen him, wanted him, maybe even loved him before the world broke him in half.
He watched you through fractured reflections: security screens, glass rooftops, puddles of rain that mirrored your figure as you passed. In another life, heâd have just walked up and tugged you into his arms. In this one, he couldnât. The boy youâd known was dead, and what replaced him was built for vengeance.
He didnât want to scare you. He just wanted to be near you again.
But Jason Todd never did know how to love without breaking something. And in his mind, the only way to keep you safe in Gotham was to make sure anyone who touched you bled for it.
To him, you were still his, whether you knew it or not.
-
Your apartment sits on the thirteenth floor of a crumbling brick building near Bristol Square. The kind of place that was grand once, a century-old structure with iron fire escapes and windows that rattle in the wind, but now just holds the echoes of better times. The walls are lined with cracks like spiderwebs, and the elevator hums in protest every time it climbs above the sixth floor. Still, itâs home.
Modest, but safe. You made sure of that.
There are WayneTech-grade motion sensors at every point of entry, cloaked under the guise of a âcity security grant.â Reinforced locks on every door, Dickâs handiwork after the last time someone tried breaking in. Youâve got an emergency line to Oracle, a panic button in your bedroom, and three knives hidden in places only you would think to look.
In Gotham, âsafeâ is a relative term. It means you survive. It means you sleep with one eye open and call it peace.
The hallway smells faintly of old paint and someoneâs late-night curry from the apartment two doors down. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing in irregular intervals, a heartbeat with arrhythmia. The city hums outside the cracked window at the end of the hall: sirens, engines, the distant bark of a dog. Gotham never sleeps, it just mutters in its nightmares, restless and alive.
Youâre bone-tired when you reach your door. Every muscle feels heavy, your brain fogged with the sterile hum of hospital lights. You can still hear the faint echo of beeping monitors and shouted vitals in your head, a ghost of the ER following you home. You want a shower, maybe a drink, maybe just silence. The kind of silence that lets you forget the taste of blood in the air.
You fish for your keys, thumb brushing the dented keychain youâve had since your League days, a small metal star, dulled by time. A gift from the boy who made your heart ache.
Youâre halfway to the lock when you notice something on the mat. At first, you think itâs just trash, someoneâs misplaced wallet, maybe, or an envelope slipped from a neighborâs grasp. But then you see the smear. Dark, rust-colored, still wet enough to glisten faintly in the dim hall light.
You crouch down slowly. Itâs not a wallet. Itâs a drivers license. The plastic is warped, the edges melted from heat, like it had been caught in a fire and pulled out just before the flames finished their work. The photo on it is unmistakable.
The Joker goon from earlier tonight. The one who grabbed you.
A chill slides through your chest, slow and deliberate, as if someone poured ice water straight into your veins. This shouldnât be here. He was discharged hours ago. You saw him walk out.
Your pulse quickens. A muscle jumps in your jaw. The sound of your own breathing grows too loud in your ears.
Then you see a piece of paper, left on the ground next to the license. The ink is dark and uneven, pressed into the page with heavy, deliberate strokes that look more like carved wounds than handwriting. You donât need to pick it up to read the message. You can already see it clearly in the low yellow light of the hallway bulb.
This is what happens when people touch whatâs mine.
Your breath catches. The words blur. For a second, everything in you goes still. The air feels thinner, the walls closer. Your throat works around a name you donât dare say aloud.
It canât be him. Jasonâs dead. You saw the casket. You stood beside it, felt the weight of dirt hit wood. But your heart doesnât believe your head.
It beats too fast, too loud, echoing through the narrow corridor like a drum. You swallow hard, scanning the hallway. Every sound becomes suspect, the hum of the light, the drip of a pipe, the soft creak of the radiator from the next apartment over.
You lift your gaze toward the shadowed end of the corridor, expecting, hoping, fearing, to see something. A flicker of movement. The glint of metal. The faint swish of a cape or outline of a domino.
Nothing. Just the empty stretch of hallway, humming faintly beneath the buzzing light. Still, the feeling crawls up your spine, slow and cold, settling between your shoulder blades. The kind of instinct that doesnât lie.Â
Youâre being watched. You press your back against your door, hand slipping inside your coat until your fingers close around the collapsible baton holstered discreetly at your side. You flick your thumb against the trigger, and it hums quietly to life, comforting in its low vibration.
âAlright,â you whisper to the air, voice steadier than you feel. âIf youâre out there, youâve got three seconds to make yourself known.â
The silence stretches. The hallway holds its breath. One second. Two. Three. Nothing.
You exhale slowly, eyes scanning every corner again. Youâve trained yourself not to doubt your own senses, but tonight thereâs something different. The shadows feel heavier, like theyâre listening.
You crouch once more, this time picking up the ID and the note with a piece of tissue from your pocket. Old habit: donât contaminate evidence, even when it feels personal. The paper crinkles softly in your hand as you fold it into an evidence bag you keep in your coat. Youâve learned to be prepared for the strange. Gotham demands it.
Then you notice the faint scrape marks on the doorframe, new, barely visible unless you know what to look for. A small groove near the lock. Someoneâs been here.Â
Someone who knew your locks well enough not to trip the alarm.
Your stomach tightens. You push the door open slowly, baton raised. The apartment greets you in familiar dimness, everything exactly where you left it. Couch, lamp, the small stack of medical textbooks on the coffee table, a mug half-full of cold tea. Nothing moved. Nothing broken.
And yet, the air feels⊠touched. Like someone had been here. Like someone had stood exactly where youâre standing now, breathing in your air, memorizing the space. You feel it in the way the curtains sway ever so slightly, though the windows are shut. You feel it in the faint scent that lingers, not blood, not smoke, something darker. Gunpowder and leather.
Your pulse hammers against your ribs. You turn, catching sight of your reflection in the dark window, the faint gleam of your eyes, the blur of movement behind you that isnât really there. The city beyond is a wash of fog and neon. Gothamâs skyline stares back like a mouth full of teeth.
Your hand trembles as you flex flex your wrist. The bruise from earlier has darkened, purpling against your skin. The memory of that goonâs grip is still vivid, but now it feels⊠different. Not just pain. Something else. Something known.
Your fingertips ghost over the mark. The ache runs deeper than it should, echoing with a phantom pressure. You can almost feel his hand there instead, the weight of Jasonâs palm, the heat of it, the way he used to hold you steady in combat drills, fingers strong but careful.
You shouldnât think of him. Not now. Not like this. But memory doesnât ask permission.
âJasonâŠâ The name leaves your lips like a secret you werenât supposed to say. The silence swallows it whole.
You close your eyes. You tell yourself youâre alone, that itâs just exhaustion, paranoia, ghosts of the past bleeding into the present.
But deep down, you know better. And in your apartment, as the city hums beyond the glass, a chill runs down your spine that no amount of Amazon training can shake.
Somewhere between love and vengeance, something has found you again.
-
Gotham is a creature tonight, breathing through its alleys, pulsing through the neon veins of its streets. The rain slicks every surface into a mirror, warping the cityâs reflection until even the skyline looks like itâs drowning. Red, blue, and amber lights smear together in the downpour, like the cityâs bleeding out in color.
You move through it the way you always do, quiet, practiced, unseen. The soft whir of reinforced boots against metal echoes faintly in the night as you scale another fire escape. The wind tastes like iron and ozone, sharp against your tongue. Every sense is sharpened to a knifeâs edge; every motion rehearsed and restrained.
The armor is utilitarian, charcoal plates fitted over flexible mesh, the material whispering with each movement. The weight of your collapsible staff hums steady at your thigh, magnet-locked in place. The hood shields most of your face, lenses tinting your eyes silver in the reflection of the cityâs pulse below. The suitâs not pretty, but itâs yours. Practical. Efficient. Anonymous.
They call you Echo, a name born out of necessity and loss. A whisper in the comms, a blur in the rain. No face, no past, no weakness.
Except one.
You can feel it clawing at you from the inside, restless beneath your ribs, the note, burned into memory, each word whispering like static. This is what happens when people touch whatâs mine.
Youâd told yourself it was nothing. A sick joke. Some clown-worshipping lunatic trying to get in your head. But your instincts, those sharp, honed, unrelenting instincts, donât lie.Â
Static crackles in your ear, cutting through the storm. âEcho? You there?â
You tap the receiver with a gloved finger. âLoud and clear.â
âStill on the east side?â Nightwingâs voice comes through warm and casual, a rare kind of lightness that doesnât belong in this city. âHeard there was an incident at Gotham Memorial earlier. Jokerâs leftovers giving you trouble?â
You slow your stride, glancing across the rooftops toward the distant glow of the hospital. The rain beads and rolls down your visor like mercury. âSomething like that,â you say finally.
âYou good?â he presses.
âFine.â
Thereâs a pause, a worb of static before his voice returns, threaded with a smirk you can almost hear. âFine, or âI-donât-want-to-talk-about-itâ fine?â
You sigh. âThe second one.â
He chuckles. âYouâre a terrible liar, you know that?â
âOccupational hazard,â you mutter. âKeeps people guessing.â
âOr worried,â he counters.
You canât help the faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. âFocus on your sector, Grayson. Iâll call if I find anything worth your acrobatics.â
âCopy that, partner,â he says, and the line clicks silent, leaving only the soft rush of rain in your ear.
You stand at the edge of the rooftop for a long moment, watching the city below pulse like a living organism. Your breath fogs the inside of your visor as you switch frequencies on your wrist console, listening to the police bands. Static. Then a fragment of something familiar:
ââŠbodies showing up again in the Narrows⊠word is the Arkham Knightâs militiaâs backâŠâ
ââŠsame markingsâsame word every timeâŠâ
ââŠsomeoneâs cleaning house. Jokerâs crew mostly. Nobodyâs talkingâŠâ
You adjust the volume, filtering the noise until the whispers align into something coherent. Â You scroll through the frequencies, piecing together the fragments. Itâs a pattern, you can feel it settling under your skin like static. Patterns were never your thing, but this one, you could pick up on, as though the same hand were orchestrating every strike, every body left behind.
You lean your forearm against the ledge, the cold concrete biting through your glove as you stare down into the veins of the city, mind made up on the lead youâll follow tonight. The rain slicks your suit, beads catching the faint glimmer of distant light before rolling down and disappearing into the dark.
You shift your stance, tapping a command on your wrist display. The visor magnifies the skyline in segments, marking heat signatures, identifying civilians. No anomalies. No signs of militia movement. Just shadows. And yet⊠The hairs on the back of your neck rise. A familiar pressure curls through your chest, instinct, memory, warning. The kind of feeling you learned not to ignore after years beside the Bat.
You reach up, lowering your hood slightly as you scan the rooftops across the street. Nothing moves, but the dark feels aware. You can almost imagine him there, perched in silence, waiting. Watching.
You blink the thought away, exhaling through your nose. âGet it together,â you mutter to yourself, voice muffled inside the mask. âHeâs dead.â
But the rain doesnât agree. It keeps whispering against your armor, soft and relentless, like a heartbeat trying to answer.
Somewhere above, across the square, a rifle scope glints once, catching the faint reflection of your movement before disappearing into shadow.
And though you donât know it yet, the ghost youâre trying to forget is already watching, breathing your name like a prayer, tracing the path of every raindrop that dares to touch you.
-
The city hums beneath him like a live wire. Rain taps against the curve of his helmet, soft but insistent, each drop echoing through the comm array like a heartbeat he canât turn off. The wind is sharp and unkind, slicing through the gaps in his armor and needling cold against the damp of his undersuit. It smells like wet metal, gun oil, and rot: the perfume of home.
Jason crouches on the lip of an abandoned hotel sign, the letters long since burned out, leaving only the faint, ghostly outline of VACANCY flickering in the rain. Below, Gotham stretches and breathes, alive in the way corpses sometimes twitch. Heâs been up here for hours, watching, waiting, not because he doesnât know where youâll be, but because he always knows.
Youâre predictable in that way.
Through the scope, he finds you instantly, moving along the rooftop opposite, a figure of shadows and starlight. The city spills its neon over you, painting your armor in molten hues. You move like muscle and memory, all precision and restraint, like you were born of battle. Grace sharpened into violence.
He adjusts the rifleâs balance against his knee, breath held steady, crosshairs following the lines of your body, not in target, but in reverence. He tracks every curve, every subtle recalibration of your stance, the way your fingers flex briefly around the staff holstered at your thigh. Even from this distance, he can tell when your breathing changes. He can tell when youâre thinking too hard.
The rain halos you, coating your armor in silver sheen. It softens your edges, makes you glow like the myth you used to be. It hurts to look at you sometimes. It hurts worse not to.
âStill too soft,â he murmurs, voice filtered through the modulator, a low mechanical rasp. âStill trying to save a city that doesnât deserve you.â
The sound is swallowed by the wind, but he keeps talking anyway, half to the night, half to the ghost of you thatâs lived in his head since the day he died. He tells himself itâs for discipline, to keep the mind sharp, to stay focused, but the truth is simpler: the silence drives him mad.
He adjusts the focus on the scope, breath ghosting against the inside of his helmet. And then he sees it, your wrist, exposed just enough as you shift your grip, the skin marked dark and defiant. The bruise. The one that started his fucking unraveling.
His stomach tightens. Rage flickers alive, molten and immediate, a flare that burns hotter than the rain can cool. He can see it all in his mindâs eye: the manâs hand on you, the pressure, the threat. The thought of it makes something inside him snarl.
The scope trembles in his grip, just for a second. He remembers the sound the man made when the blade went in. He remembers the moment the life left his eyes. The body hadnât been art, Jason isnât that poetic, but it had been deliberate. Precise. Meant to send a message.
The gun steadies again. His finger curls around the trigger guard, not pulling, just holding. He needs the tension, the grounding. Something to focus on that isnât the ache behind his ribs.
âI told you,â he whispers, and this time the modulator glitches, the voice coming through human, ragged. âNo one touches whatâs mine.â
The words hang there, heavy as rain. Jasonâs always been good at surviving what shouldâve killed him. Heâs less good at surviving what didnât. He exhales, slow, trying to breathe the ghosts out of his chest. But they linger, as they always do. The memories come in fragments, sharp and too clear:
Your laugh in the Batcave, echoing off stone and metal. The scent of antiseptic when youâd patched him up, your hands steady, voice teasing. The faint shimmer of your hair when it caught the glow of the monitors. The scar along your ribs, a thin, silver reminder of the night he saved you from Penguinâs men, both of you bleeding and laughing in the aftermath like idiots.
He remembers the heat of your skin when he pressed his palm there, the way your pulse thrummed against his hand. Heâd sworn to himself it meant something, that it was proof he wasnât just another soldier in Bruceâs crusade. That maybe, for once, heâd been allowed to care for something real.
Then came the warehouse. The crowbar. The explosion. And when he woke again, the world had changed. You were gone from his reach, tucked safely under the wing of the Bat and his golden boy, while Jason became the ghost story parents told their vigilante brats to behave. The failure. The lost one. The cautionary tale.
Heâd spent months after clawing his way back to sanity, if this even counted as sanity, watching you from afar. He told himself it was to keep you safe, to make sure you didnât fall to the same fate he did. But that wasnât the truth. It never had been.
He watched because he couldnât stop. He watched you fall asleep at your desk, head bowed over medical reports, the cityâs light spilling through the blinds. He watched you suit up at dawn, still half-asleep but unrelenting. He watched you laugh once when Nightwing said something stupid through comms, and it had twisted something sharp and ugly in his chest.
Heâd memorized every piece of you in pixels and camera feed static. Every scar. Every freckle. Every mark heâd once traced in a world that no longer existed.
Now, seeing you through a scope again, flesh and blood and breathing, makes something primal crawl to the surface. Itâs not lust, at least not on its own. Itâs closer to devotion. The kind of devotion that borders on ruin.
He shifts his weight, resting the rifle aside. His knees creak under the armor. The city below crackles with thunder, and for a moment, the lightning catches on the curve of his helmet, flashing his reflection in the wet metal beneath him. A faceless god of wrath, born of failure and fire.
He lifts his helmet just enough to breathe the night air unfiltered. It tastes like rain and rust and you.
The rage subsides, leaving in its wake something softer and infinitely worse. Guilt.
Youâd never forgive him for what heâs done. He knows that. The line between vengeance and obsession blurred long ago, and he crossed it without hesitation. But he canât stop, not now, not when the thought of someone elseâs hands on you makes the world go red.
He mutters under his breath, voice barely audible, the words caught between plea and promise. âYou donât get it, princess. You donât know what this place does to people. What it did to me. You still believe in saving it⊠and I canât watch it chew you up too.â
He runs a hand over his jaw, fingertips brushing the raised edges of the scar branded into his flesh. The âJâ burns cold even now, a phantom pain under the skin. Jokerâs mark. The reminder of everything stolen: his youth, his purpose, his mercy.
And somehow, all he wants is to be seen by you again, just once.
He grips the edge of the sign until the metal groans under his gloves. The storm howls around him, wind tearing at the tattered banner still clinging to the side of the building. Heâs used to the noise. Itâs the silence afterward that kills him.
The scope lies abandoned beside him, droplets beading across the lens. He doesnât need it anymore. He can see you perfectly from here. He can almost imagine your expression under the mask: that faint frown of focus, the way your lips purse when youâre listening to something through comms.
He wonders what youâd say if he spoke into your ear now, his voice filtered through static. Would you know him? Would you freeze like you used to when he called you princess in that low, teasing drawl? Or would you tell him to stop haunting you?
He smiles faintly at the thought, soft, sad, cracked around the edges. âYouâd probably punch me first.â
Lightning splits the sky again, and for an instant, you glance upward, scanning the rooftops. Your visor catches the flash, and the reflection burns like a flare in his chest.Â
Jason lowers his head, breathing hard, as if the sight alone costs him something. He remembers the way you used to look at him, not like Bruceâs soldier, not like a weapon, but like a boy who could be more. Youâd been his tether once. His anchor. The only part of his life that hadnât felt like punishment.
And heâd lost you the same night he lost himself.
His voice, when it comes again, is quiet, barely audible over the rain. âIâm still here, you know,â he says, as if the night might carry the words across the gap between you. âStill watching. Still keeping score.â
He reaches down, fingers brushing the rifle, but doesnât pick it up. He doesnât need to. The decisionâs already made.
Soon. Soon heâll stop watching from rooftops and shadows. Soon heâll make you see what this city did to him, and what heâs become because of it.
He pulls the helmet back down, the hiss of the seal locking in place punctuating the thought. The world narrows again to HUD data and rain-streaked glass.
âSoon,â he murmurs, modulated voice echoing against the storm, equal parts promise and threat.
And below, you move across the rooftops, unaware that every heartbeat you take is matched by another, steady, relentless, and aimed directly at you.
-
The city swallows sound in Crime Alley. The rain stops before it reaches this part of Gotham, like even the sky knows better than to touch it. The air is thick and stale, a cocktail of iron, rot, and burnt gunpowder that sticks to your tongue. Every breath tastes like the past.
You land in a crouch behind an abandoned bodega, the impact sending a ripple through the puddle at your feet. The streetlights behind you donât reach this far down; the alleyâs lit only by the dull pulse of a malfunctioning neon sign, flickering between OPEN and O EN, its last letter dead.
Your boots splash through shallow water as you move deeper in. The silence here is wrong, too complete. No rats, no wind. Just the buzz of the dying sign and your own pulse thudding in your ears.
Then the smell hits you. Copper. Burnt cordite. Something sour underneath, like spoiled meat left too long in the heat. Itâs familiar in a way you wish it wasnât. Youâve walked into enough murder scenes to recognize that particular perfume: blood, hot metal, and ego.
Your stomach tightens. You already know what youâre going to find before you see it. The body lies crumpled beside a dumpster, half in shadow. You donât have to turn him over to know who he is. The shape of his jaw, the torn edge of his sleeve, heâs the same man who grabbed your wrist in the ER. The one who laughed when you threatened him.
Not laughing now.
You kneel beside him, your knees pressing into cold, wet concrete. His eyes are open, unseeing, clouded by the milky haze of death. The skin around his mouth is stretched into a grotesque grin, lips cracked, teeth bared in something that mightâve once been terror. The smile looks carved, forced.
And then thereâs his chest. The word MINE gouged into flesh, deep, deliberate, clean. The cuts donât bleed much now, but theyâre fresh enough that the rain hasnât washed the blood away. The letters are so precise they look surgical. Not rage. Not chaos. Control.
You swallow hard, bile rising. The back of your throat burns. This isnât random. This isnât Jokerâs style, no theatrics, no message for the city. This was personal. A warning. A claim.
âDamn it,â you breathe, activating the wrist cam on your gauntlet. The lens hums softly, its light a faint blue shimmer in the dark. âNightwing, I found our missing patient. HeâsâŠâ
A sound cuts through your words. Not loud. Just the faintest whisper of displaced air. Like a bird cutting through fog.
You pivot, staff drawn, instincts flaring. The world narrows to movement and shadow, then impact. A figure drops from the fire escape above, hitting the ground hard enough to crack the concrete. Water splashes outward in a sharp ring around him. For a moment, you see only silhouette: tall, broad-shouldered, framed by the weak halo of the alleyâs light. Then he steps forward, and the shadows fall away.
The armor gleams even through the grime, blue-gray plating streaked with rain, its surface alive with faint pulses of light. His helmet bears a stylized âA,â glowing faintly like the eye of some mechanical god. Every step hums with power, the faint servo whine of tech that doesnât belong to this decade.
The Arkham Knight.
He draws his pistol in one fluid motion. You barely have time to move. The first shot screams past your ear, sparking off brick. The second grazes your shoulder plate, searing heat through armor and skin. You roll, come up low, staff swinging out in a clean arc that catches his wrist. Metal clashes, the sound sharp enough to wake the dead.
He doesnât falter. He twists, using the weight of his armor to pull you forward, the momentum slamming you hard into the nearest wall. The impact sends pain ricocheting through your ribs. Your breath leaves you in a rush, fogging the inside of your mask.
The Knight moves with terrifying precision, fluid yet brutal, like someone who knows exactly where youâll be before you do. His strength is unnatural, almost mechanical. Every blow you block feels like it rattles your bones.
You manage to land a strike, your staff cracking across his helmet. The impact reverberates through your arms, but he barely flinches. The faintest tilt of his head, mocking. Testing you.
âWho sent you?â you snap, circling, trying to keep him in your line of sight. âFalcone? Scarecrow?â
The modulated voice that answers is low and distorted, threaded with dark amusement. âYou really donât recognize me, princess?â
You freeze. The word cuts through you like a blade, slicing past logic and landing somewhere far older, far softer. Princess. The name he used to use in training, in teasing, in that half-smirk way that always made Diana roll her eyes.
It canât be.
He moves before you can think. A twist, a shove, and youâre disarmed, the staff clattering across the pavement, echoing like gunfire in the quiet alley. You reach for your sidearm, but heâs faster. Gloved fingers wrap around your throat, not crushing, but firm, in control. The cold press of armor pins you to the wall. You feel the rain sliding down your neck, your pulse hammering beneath his hand.
âYouâve gotten stronger,â he says, voice lowering, modulator still in place. âBut you still hesitate.â
âTake off the helmet,â you rasp, struggling against the pressure. âNow.â
He tilts his head. Then a faint hiss as the armor plates at his jaw release their seal. The helmet lifts, slowly, deliberately, and then itâs him.
Jason. Older. Rougher. The boy you buried now forged into something harder, sharper. His hair is shorter, darker, broken in the front with a pure white streak. His face is scarred, pale under the faint blue glow of the visor lights. And the mark, the burned, puckered âJâ carved into his jaw like a brand, stares back at you, ugly and holy.
And his eyes⊠theyâre green.Â
You forget how to breathe.
âJasonâŠâ It comes out broken. âYouâreâŠalive?â
He smirks, but itâs hollow. âSurprise.â
You canât move. For a moment, itâs like the whole city goes silent. No rain. No hum of neon. Just his breathing, heavy and human, mixing with yours. He studies you like heâs trying to decide if youâre real. Then his gaze drops, your weapon, your stance, your trembling hands. He notices movement, every twitch of muscle. Just like he always did.
âDonât,â he says quietly, as you start to reach out. âNot unless you mean it.â
You swallow hard. âHow?â The word barely escapes. âBruceâŠhe buried you. We buried you.â
Jason laughs, the sound sharp, bitter, cracking at the edges. âYeah. About that. Joker had other plans. And the pit had other side effects.â His expression softens, just slightly. âGuess Iâm hard to kill.â
You canât find words. The grief you buried, the guilt you learned to live with, it all claws its way back to the surface, raw and pulsing. Youâd mourned him like a limb. Now he stands inches away, alive, angry, and unrecognizable.
âI watched you,â he says suddenly, voice soft but dangerous. âAll these years. You think I didnât see what Gotham did to you? Every scar, every night you came home bleeding because you still think this cursed city can be saved.â
He takes a step closer. Then another. The rain traces rivers down his armor, catching on the ridges of the plating. You can smell oil and something faintly familiar beneath it, leather and gunpowder and him.
You retreat until your back brushes the wall. His shadow swallows yours. He raises one gloved hand and brushes his knuckles against your wrist. His touch is light, almost tender, but it makes your heart slam against your ribs.
âI know them all,â he murmurs. âEvery scar. The one on your ribs from Penguinâs blade. The one on your thigh, from a Narrows explosion a year ago. The way you hold your breath before you swing.â His eyes, fever-bright, lift to yours. âI know you better than you know yourself.â
Your voice shakes. âThatâs not knowing, Jason. Thatâs stalking.â
He smiles faintly, eyes glinting. âSemantics.â
You shove him hard, but he doesnât move. The armor barely shifts. âYou killed that man,â you hiss. âYou left him like that.â
âHe hurt you.â
âHe was a patient.â
âHe grabbed you,â Jason growls, the words guttural. âHe deserved worse.â
âThatâs not your call!â
He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. âYouâre mine⊠so yeah, it is my call.â
The air between you crackles, heavy and hot, a storm caught in a bottle. You can feel the thrum of his pulse through the space between you, the hum of tech in his suit syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
âYou think this is justice?â you ask, voice trembling. âTorturing people until you feel better?â
Jasonâs gaze softens in a way that makes it worse. âNo, princess.â He lifts a hand, brushes his thumb along your cheekbone. Itâs a ghost of a touch, tender in a way that shouldnât still exist inside him. âJustice is what I used to want. Youâre what I came back for.â
The words hit harder than the fight. You flinch, not from fear, but from realization. The boy you knew still flickers behind his eyes, buried under fury and grief, but alive.
He catches your wrist again, this time gently, thumb tracing your pulse. âIâd move hell and high water for you,â he says quietly. âSlit throats, burn cities, anything to keep you safe.â His mouth twists, a half-smile without joy. âYou think Grayson would do that? Bruce? Theyâll always put the city first. I put you.â
âYou donât get to decide what I need.â
He smirks, a dangerous, tired sort of smile. âDonât I? Youâre here, arenât you? Out in the dark, chasing ghosts. You miss it, miss me.â
âI miss who you were.â
âIâm still him,â he says softly. âJust⊠less naĂŻve.â
You shake your head. âNo. Youâre something else.â
âMaybe,â he concedes, stepping closer again. âBut you still look at me the same way.â
You want to tell him heâs wrong, but you canât. You can feel your own betrayal in every shaky breath. The rain runs down his jaw, slipping over the brand on his skin. His hand rises, fingers brushing the base of your throat. The touch is electric.
âGood girl,â he murmurs. âFighting like that.â
Your voice cracks. âDonât, donât talk to me likeâŠâ
âLike what?â His grin sharpens. âLike I used to? Back when you still liked it?â
âLike you own me.â
âMaybe I do.â
You swing at him, anger and grief and longing all tangled together. He catches your fist midair, turns it easily, and pulls you forward. The motion sends you crashing into him, chest to chest. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, firm but not cruel, anchoring you there.
âYou always hesitated,â he whispers. âAnd I forgot how.â
The kiss detonates. You taste rain, gunmetal, and old ghosts. His mouth is rough and desperate, a collision of memory and need. He kisses like he fights: unrelenting, precise, furious with himself. Thereâs apology buried somewhere in the way his lips move against yours, a thousand things heâll never say pressed into every motion. Itâs too much and not enough all at once.
Your back hits the wall, hard enough to rattle the bricks, but you donât push him away. His hands are everywhere, one braced beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip, then lower, gripping your ass, anchoring you to him as if letting go would kill him. The warmth of his touch burns through your suit, through skin, through the years of silence between you.
He tastes like smoke and rain, like something that shouldnât exist anymore, hope, grief, home. You hate yourself for answering, for parting your lips, for meeting him with the same hunger that has haunted your dreams for years. But you do. Because itâs easier than breathing. Easier than saying goodbye a second time.
Your hands find his chest, not to shove him away but to steady yourself. The armor under your palms vibrates faintly, the hum of the tech like a second heartbeat. His own heart pounds beneath it, a rhythm you recognize even now. You remember it from another life, slower, steadier, when heâd fall asleep beside you in the Cave after training, too exhausted to take off his gloves.
When you finally break apart, both of you are trembling. The air between you crackles, charged, fragile. The rain slides down your faces, tracing old scars and new ones, blurring the line between tears and water. Jasonâs forehead rests against yours. âStill think Iâm dead?â he asks, breathless.
âNo, butâŠâ you whisper, voice barely audible, âI wish you were.â
He laughs quietly, the sound broken but sincere. âThatâs my girl.â
Then, as suddenly as he came, he steps back. The helmet slides into place with a hiss, emotion locking behind glass and armor. He looks at you for a long moment, one heartbeat becomes two, then the corner of his mouth lifts into that familiar, infuriating smirk.
âNot here,â he says, voice modulated once again, detached and cold. âCrawl to me when youâre ready.â
âJason!â
But heâs already moving. The grapnel fires with a metallic snap, line hissing through the rain. In an instant, heâs gone, swallowed by the mist rising over the rooftops. Youâre left in the alley, the corpse cooling at your feet, the rain falling again at last. It mingles with the blood, turning the letters on his chest into a crimson blur.
You drag in a breath that tastes like rust. Somewhere above, thunder rolls, low and distant, echoing through the concrete canyons. And for the first time in years, you canât tell whether youâre chasing Jason Todd or running from him.Â
You force your breathing to steady. Youâve survived worse ambushes. You know how to lock trauma into a box, label it, shelve it. But this doesnât fit anywhere. This is Jason for fuckâs sake. Alive, furious, and touching you like you were both still young and not already ghosts.
Your comm crackles. âEcho? You still on channel?â Nightwingâs voice, warm and too human, slices through the fog.
You thumb the transmitter, swallowing the shake in your throat. âYeah. Iâm here.â
âReport went dead for a minute. Everything okay?â
You look down at the body, at the slashed chest and the water pooling black around it. âNot exactly.â
âWhat happened?â
You hesitate. If you tell him the truth youâll have to hear the pity in his voice, the quiet calculation of how to contain the problem. Youâre not ready for that. âFound the victim,â you say finally. âDOA. Not anyone high profileâs work. Markings are⊠deliberate.â
âDeliberate how?â
You stare at the body. âPersonal.â
âCopy. Send location, Iâll get Gordonâs people on cleanup.â
âNegative.â The word comes out sharper than you intend. You lower your voice. âNot yet. Let me finish the sweep first.â
Another silence, heavier this time. Then he sighs. âAlright, Echo. But if youâre in over your head, you call me. No hero moves tonight.â
âUnderstood.â
You cut the line before he can ask anything else. The last thing you want is comfort.
Rain starts again, heavier now, washing over the scene. You pick up your staff, retract it, slide it home at your hip. When you look up, the rooftops are empty, no trace of Jason. Only the ghost of his touch on your skin.
-
You make it back to your apartment without remembering the route. The city moves around you in smears of color, headlights bleeding into the wet pavement, the smell of rain and exhaust wrapping tight around your ribs. Everything feels muffled, like youâre underwater.
You strip the suit piece by piece, the armor falling to the floor like dropped shells. The sound is small, metallic, like bones. By the time you reach the bathroom, youâre shaking. You lean against the sink, water running, steam curling like ghosts up the glass. The bruise on your wrist is darker now, shadowed by a fresh constellation of marks at your throat. His fingers. You press your fingertips there and feel the heat still lingering, like an ember smoldering under skin.Â
You splash cold water over your face, again and again, until your skin stings. You canât get the scent of him off you. When you close your eyes, you see flashes: the cut of his jaw under the alley light, the burn of the brand at his cheek, the way his mouth looked when he said princess. Youâd thought you buried the part of yourself that could ache like this.
You were wrong.
You stumble back into the living room, half-dressed, half-hollow. The city hums beyond the windows, sirens rising and falling like the ocean. You collapse onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling, your heartbeat too loud in the silence.
You should call Bruce. File a report. Thatâs what the oath demands, the one you took when you became Echo. The same oath, in different words, you made at Gotham Memorial: to protect, to save, to preserve life no matter whose. You told yourself that meant all lives, even the broken ones.
But tonight, you didnât save anyone. You found a dead man and the worst part is you understand why. Because when Jasonâs hand touched your wrist, when he said he hurt you, something inside you didnât disagree. It should have. It didnât.
You curl your fingers into your palms until your nails bite skin. You want to feel something sharp and real, something that hurts for the right reasons.
The city outside is alive and sleepless. You can hear the muffled bass of a car passing below, the hum of transformers, the whisper of tires through rain. The world keeps moving. Youâre the one stuck in place.
You try to steady your breathing, to fall back on the discipline thatâs always saved you. Inhale: stabilize. Exhale: release. But all you can feel is the way he looked at you, like the years hadnât happened, like you were still that girl with scraped knuckles and stubborn hope.
And still, a traitorous part of you aches for him. You remember the feel of his mouth, the shock of heat, the metallic taste of rain and blood. You remember how, for one suspended heartbeat, everything you believed in, every oath, every rule, fell away. There was only him. Only the gravity of what youâd lost and what had come back wrong.
Youâd promised to heal, not destroy. Youâd promised to save lives, not crave the man who takes them. And yet the thought of him watching you, knowing every scar, every routine, sparks something in your chest you canât name. Itâs not quite safety, not quite comfort. Itâs recognition. The kind you only find in someone whoâs seen you break.
You stand and wander to the window, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. Gotham stretches out below, all gray haze and amber light. The rain beads on the glass, then rolls down in thin streaks that catch the glow from the streetlamps. From up here, the city almost looks beautiful. Forgivable.
At 3 a.m., your comm beeps once. A sound so ordinary you almost donât move. You wipe condensation from the window and glance down at your wrist display. The encryption signature is familiar: Bat-tech. You expect Nightwing, maybe a follow-up, maybe comfort disguised as protocol.
Instead, itâs one line of text.
DONâT LOOK FOR ME. IâLL FIND YOU.
No signature.
You stare until the words blur, until they stop being letters and become the shape of a heartbeat. Â
Heâs out there. Watching. Again. You look out into the dark skyline, half-expecting to see a flash of movement, a faint gleam of a helmet among the shadows. Nothing. Just the city breathing, endless and indifferent. But you know better. If he says heâll find you, he already has.
You press your hand to the glass, fingers spread. Your pulse beats beneath your skin, visible even in the reflection, like a warning, or a countdown.
You tell yourself you should be terrified. And part of you is. But beneath the fear, beneath the tremor of adrenaline still coiled in your body, something else stirs, slow, molten, and alive. The part of you that still remembers how it felt to matter to him. To be the only light he ever called his.
For years youâve been trying to save Gotham. Trying to save everyone. And somewhere along the way, you forgot what it felt like to be seen. Jason remembers. Jason sees.
And that might be the most dangerous truth of all.
-
By morning, the rain has turned to mist. It creeps through the cracked window and settles on your skin, cool against the heat that hasnât left your throat. You donât remember sleeping.Â
You shower until the water runs cold. Steam curls around you, carrying the scent of antiseptic soap that canât drown the ghost of gun oil. When you scrub harder, your skin protests, raw, pink, human. You stare at your reflection through the fogged glass. The marks at your throat have already begun to bloom yellow around the edges, faint echoes of where heâd touched you. The bruise on your wrist looks older than it should, like itâs been there for years.
Heâs alive. Jasonâs alive, and heâs killing in your name.
You keep replaying his words, the sound of your name in his mouth, the press of his lips against yours. The part of you trained to save lives recoils, screaming that heâs gone too far, that you should stop him before he drags you down with him.
But another part, the one that remembers the boy who smiled through split lips and bloody knuckles, whispers that maybe this is what Gotham does. It takes good people, twists them into something sharp, and calls it survival.
And deep down, you canât shake the fear that maybe he isnât the only one whoâs changed.
You tell yourself to compartmentalize. Thatâs what youâre good at. At the hospital, you can hold a dying manâs hand, smile for his family, then walk into the next room and do it again. On the streets, you can disarm a gunman without flinching. You can take a life if you have to. You can save one, too.
But you canât save Jason. And you canât forgive yourself for not wanting to.
-Â
By nightfall the next day, Gotham feels like a wound trying to close over something still bleeding. The air is thick with storm residue, heavy and metallic, as if the rain earlier had washed up the cityâs sins and left them steaming in the gutters. Every light looks tired. Every window looks like an eye refusing to blink.
Youâd told yourself youâd stay grounded tonight. That youâd work your shift at Gotham Memorial, chart vitals and change bandages, cling to the one place in this city where saving people still means something. But when the alert hit your comm, militia sighting near the Narrows Bridge, you were already pulling on the suit.
Duty. Instinct. Guilt. Theyâre all the same thing when you move fast enough.
The armor feels heavier tonight. The visor hums faintly as it syncs with your pulse, irregular, too quick. You adjust it, focus on the mission, not on the phantom warmth of his touch lingering like smoke along your skin.
Nightwingâs waiting on the roof of a half-collapsed high-rise overlooking the river. The stormlight glances off his armor, turning the blue stripe across his chest into a muted pulse of color in the haze. His hairâs plastered damp against his forehead. He looks tired in that way only people raised by Bruce ever do.
âYouâre early,â he says, tone low but soft.
âSo are you,â you answer, stepping beside him.
He gives a half-shrug. âIntel says the militiaâs setting up something big along the docks. Possible artillery. Could be a smuggling op. Could be a trap.â
âItâs always a trap,â you murmur, scanning the skyline.
He smirks faintly. âAnd we always walk right into it.â
You glance over. âWhat about Bruce?â
His jaw tightens. âFollowing a lead at Dixon Docks. Scarecrowâs toxin flare-up. Heâll join us when he can.â
When he can. Itâs always the same answer. Gotham first. The cityâs veins always take priority over the hearts that beat alongside his. Youâd learned that a long time ago.
âThen itâs just us.â
âJust us,â Dick echoes.
You drop down through the buildingâs steel skeleton, the rusted girders groaning under your boots. The air stinks of oil, rust, and something chemical, sweet and wrong, like paint thinner or fuel. You both move with the silent rhythm of long practice, weapons drawn, breath low.
Then you stop. The soundâŠthere isnât any. No distant traffic, no comms chatter, not even the hum of a power line. The silence feels heavy, deliberate.
âDick,â you whisper.
âI know.â His escrima sticks hum to life, blue arcs slicing the dark. âSomethingâs off.â
You toggle your visor to thermal. At first thereâs nothing. Then a flicker. Heat signatures. Half a dozen, closing fast.
âAmbush!â The explosion hits before the wordâs even out of your mouth. A shockwave tears through the floor. Fire blossoms like breath from the earth. You fly backward, ears ringing, vision fracturing into shards of light. Smoke rolls through the rubble, white phosphorus, hot and choking. The air tastes like acid and ash.
You can barely hear Nightwing shouting through the static. âEcho, fall back!â
âCanât see!â you choke, coughing, staff snapping open on instinct. You fight blind, guided by motion and memory, the whistle of bullets slicing the air. One man drops, then another. But there are too many.
âGo!â Nightwingâs voice cuts through the noise. âIâll cover!â
âNo!â You canât even see him through the haze, just the flicker of his blue signal light cutting through the smoke.Â
He grabs your arm, gloved hand warm through the armor. His mask lenses are fogged, his breathing sharp. You can see the debate in his eyes, stay or go.
âThe civilians,â you rasp, even as your chest burns from the gas. âThe ones nearby could get exposed to the gas. We donât know what this is. Go. Get them out. Iâll be fine.â
He hesitates, muscles tight under his suit. âYou sure?â
âGo!â
The second blast detonates before you can say anything else. A burst of compressed gas and something worse: Scarecrowâs toxin. It curls like fog, golden at the edges, seeping into your filters before your visor can compensate.
The world bends. Shapes twist. The sound of your own breathing distorts, echoing too loud, too close. The air thickens until every inhale feels like drowning. You can hear Nightwing shouting again, but the words donât make sense. Theyâre fragmented, warped, like theyâre underwater.
Then his voice cuts through, clear for one heartbeat, âIâll come back for you!â
The beacon light flashes once, blue through the fog. Then itâs gone.
-
You wake up in the wreckage. Or maybe you never blacked out. The world feels distant, feverish. The phosphorus has burned out, leaving only the chemical reek of toxin and smoke. The groundâs littered with shrapnel and shattered glass that glints like frost.
Your commâs dead. No signal. No sound. Only the faint, mechanical whir of approaching servos. You force yourself to stand, head pounding, throat raw. Your hand trembles as you grip your staff. The motion feels wrong, like gravity itself is lagging a second behind.
Then, you hear his voice. Modulated, mechanical, curling through the toxin haze.
âAlways first for the city,â the Arkham Knight says. âDidnât even check if you were breathing before turning tail.â
You freeze. âJason,â you whisper.
The laugh that follows is static, jagged, electric. âHe ran toward the blast. Always the martyr. Always chasing someone elseâs shadow.â
The toxin distorts the edges of the world, lights flare too bright, colors too sharp. You turn in a slow circle, staff raised, trying to pinpoint him. The sound of his voice ricochets through the comm like a presence inside your skull.Â
âShow yourself!â
âI already have.â A gunshot cracks the air. The bullet whistles past your ear, close enough that you feel the heat of it. You dive, roll, concrete tearing at your palms. Another shot, this time closer. Herding, not hitting.
Heâs playing with you.
âBruce and Dick, theyâll keep telling themselves it was strategy,â Jason says. âCollateral priorities. Just like me. But you and I know the truth.â
The toxin flares stronger. You smell smoke that isnât there, feel phantom heat licking up your arm. You see, for a flicker, Nightwingâs face through the fog, panicked, shouting something you canât hear. Then the image splits, doubles. Melts before your eyes.
You stumble backward, shaking your head, trying to break through the haze. âStop it.â
âOh, Iâm not doing this,â Jason says. âThatâs all your old friend Scarecrow. But maybe you needed the clarity.â
The air behind you shifts. A whisper of motion, fast as a heartbeat. A cable snaps around your waist, locking tight. You twist, try to swing, but a shock baton slams into your side, electricity flooding through your muscles. The world goes white.
You hit the ground hard, the taste of copper and smoke in your mouth. The Arkham Knight stands over you, the glow of his visor cutting through the dark. The stormlight glances off his armor, painting the blue-gray plates in gleaming silver. He moves with calculated calm, the confidence of a man whoâs already won.
âWhereâs Nightwing?â you rasp.
âSaving the city,â he says simply. âJust like always. You told him to go, didnât you?â He crouches beside you. The armor hisses softly with his movement, the mechanical hum steady and intimate. The barrel of his gun touches your cheek, hard and hot from being fired. âGuess that leaves you with me,â he drawls, voice low and sardonic. âSome endings just write themselves.â
You glare up at him, jaw tight. âYou think this proves something?â
âOh, it does,â he says, leaning close enough that the modulator hums against your ear. âIt proves Iâm right. Theyâll always choose Gotham. Just like they chose it over me. Just like they chose it over you.â
He chuckles under his breath, low and bitter, the sound vibrating through the armor between you. The barrel of his gun traces a lazy line along your cheekbone, almost tender, almost cruel. âI wanted you to come,â he admits, voice softening into something that sounds like confession. âI knew you would. You had to see it for yourself, that to them, youâre another soldier. Replaceable. Like I was.â
You twist, shove his arm aside, anger sparking in your veins. He doesnât stop you. He lets you fight, lets you press your palms against his chestplate and push as hard as you can. The armor hums beneath your touch, heat radiating through the slick metal, through him.
âYouâre bleeding,â he murmurs, thumb brushing the cut on your jaw like heâs soothing a child. âMaybe I could have gone about this another way.âÂ
âYou wanted me here,â you snap. âYou set this up.â
He tilts his head. âOf course I did. You needed to see it. Needed to see what Iâve known since I was a kid: that to them, weâre pawns on a board that only ever bleeds red.â
His voice drops, almost tender now, and thatâs what makes it dangerous. âBut not to me,â he whispers. âYouâll never be expendable to me. Iâll protect you from every monster this city makes, even if I have to become one to do it.â
You shove him harder this time, breath ragged. âYouâre insane.â
He almost laughs, quiet and cold. âMaybe. But at least Iâm honest about who I am.â
Outside, the sirens grow louder, distorted by distance and toxin, warped into something alien. Jason glances toward the noise, then back at you.
âEven now,â he says quietly. âTheyâre not coming for you. Theyâre coming for them.â
You close your eyes, the truth cutting sharper than the shrapnel embedded in your side. âYouâll kill yourself chasing this.â
He shakes his head slowly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. âBaby, I already did.â
The cable around your wrists hums with energy, cinching tighter. The current pricks against your skin like heat lightning. âLet me go,â you whisper.
He leans close, the faint exhale of his breath brushing your ear. âNot until you understand.â
âUnderstand what?â
âThat I donât care about the city,â he says, voice breaking, raw and human for a heartbeat. âI donât care about redemption or rules. I care about you.â
You open your mouth to argue, but heâs already reaching for his grapnel. The line hisses as it fires skyward. A moment later, the ground falls away. The city spins beneath you, neon, smoke, and the reflection of fire on wet glass. Wind tears at your hair. You struggle, but heâs stronger, and the harness locks with a mechanical click across your back.
âWhere are you taking me?â
He doesnât answer. The night rushes past, cold and alive. When you finally land, itâs on the rooftop of an abandoned clock tower. The gears inside creak faintly, frozen mid-turn. From here, Gotham stretches endless, glittering and indifferent.
He cuts the restraints at your wrists but doesnât move away. Rain runs down his armor in slow rivulets. His visor glows faintly in the dark.
âThis isnât what I wanted,â you say, voice rough. âYou think dragging me here changes the past?â
Jason takes off the helmet, lets it hang loosely from one hand. The night wind threads through his hair, lifting damp strands from his forehead. Rain clings to the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the faint, puckered scar that the pit didnât erase. His eyes, once a clear, boyish blue, are different now. Green, deep and unnatural, edged with gold like something alchemized. They donât look human anymore. They look reborn, volatile, burning with all the life and fury death left behind.
âI donât need to change the past,â he says. âI just need to make sure it doesnât happen again.â He steps closer, voice low, every word deliberate. âTheyâll always choose the city. Iâll always choose you. No matter what it costs.â
You hold his gaze, heart hammering. You want to tell him heâs wrong. That it isnât love, itâs obsession, itâs grief, itâs everything you both lost coming back as something sharp and unholy. But the words die on your tongue. Because deep down, youâre afraid he might be right.
-
The clock tower creaks around you like an old thing remembering how to breathe. Rain slides down its broken windows, pooling on the stone floor where moonlight glints through in thin silver blades. The great gears inside are frozen mid-turn, rusted teeth locked together, like time itself stopped waiting for anyone to fix it.
Jason moves through the room like he owns it, like heâs always owned the dark. The helmet is gone, left on a crate beside a scatter of magazines and cleaning cloths. His Arkham Knight armor hangs open at the chest, the plates discarded piece by piece until heâs stripped down to black tactical pants and a compression shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks⊠human. Exhausted. Too alive to be a ghost, too scarred to be the boy you remember.
A half-dozen guns sit on the worktable near the wall, each one field-stripped with obsessive precision. Beside them, coffee, still steaming. The smell of it threads through the air, mingling with gun oil, leather, and rain.
He lounges in a chair across from you, one leg stretched out, posture easy in the way that makes you tense. His eyes track you through the low light as you pace the length of the room. âPacing wonât help,â he says finally, voice rougher without the modulator.
âNeither will kidnapping,â you shoot back.
He grins, small and sharp. âCall it protective custody.â
âProtective from what? You?â
âFrom him.â His tone flattens. âFrom Bruce. From everything that turns people like us into ghosts.â
You stop moving, jaw tight. âYou think this is protection?â
âI think itâs the only way I can keep you breathing.â
The words hang between you, soft and dangerous. You exhale slowly, look around the space. The walls are lined with equipment, screens, weapons, old blueprints of Gothamâs infrastructure. The clock hands above you are frozen at 2:17, the same hour he died all those years ago.
You wonder if he did that on purpose. He always had a flare for dramatics. In a twisted way, it warmed your heart.Â
âYou donât have to do this,â you say quietly. âBruce doesnât even know youâre alive. You could come back. We couldââ
He cuts you off with a humorless laugh. âCome back? To what? To him? To playing by rules that got me fucking buried?â He leans forward, elbows on his knees. The low light catches the lines carved into his face, the âJâ scar at his jaw, the half-healed burns along his throat. He looks older, heavier in spirit.
âIâm not going back,â he says. âNot until he answers for what he did.â
You swallow hard. âThis isnât justice. Itâs revenge.â
âYeah,â he says simply. âFinally, something honest.â
The silence that follows isnât empty. It vibrates. You fold your arms. âYou said you didnât want to hurt me.â
âI donât.â
âThen let me go.â
His gaze flicks up to you, steady and unblinking. âIf I let you walk out that door, Bruce will find you in ten minutes. And heâll ask what you saw. What I said. Heâll use you to get to me. Iâm not putting you through that.â
âThis isnât up to you.â
âIt is,â he says quietly, âbecause Iâm the only one who ever put you first.â
The words hit harder than you expect. You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because you remember: rooftops and laughter, the way his voice cracked the first time he called you âAstra,â the stolen training sessions where you both pretended you werenât falling for each other.Â
That was the boy. This man in front of you feels like a reflection warped by firelight.
You look away, fighting the tremor in your hands. âYou donât get to make that claim anymore.â
Jason stands. The motion is unhurried, predatory in the quiet. The floor creaks under his boots as he crosses the short distance between you. When he stops, heâs close enough that you can smell him.
âTell me Iâm wrong,â he says softly. âTell me you donât still feel it.â
Your pulse kicks. âYouâre not him.â
He tilts his head. âArenât I?â
âNo,â you say, but it sounds like youâre trying to convince yourself. âHe was reckless, arrogant, stupidly brave, but he was good. He wasâŠâ
âDead?â he finishes for you.
You flinch. He steps closer.Â
âDonât look at me like Iâm a stranger,â he murmurs. âYou think the pit burned everything out of me, but it didnât. Youâre standing here because I remembered you.â
His hand rises, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. The touch is feather-light, but it feels like a strike. You should pull away, but you donât. Because for one awful second, itâs him again, the boy grinning through split lips, promising to beat you in the next sparring match, stealing your water bottle when you werenât looking.
The moment fractures when you step back. âYou donât get to use our past like a weapon,â you say, voice unsteady.
âIâm not.â He drops his hand. âIâm using it like armor.â
You blink, taken off guard.
âI donât want to hurt anyone but Bruce,â Jason says, quieter now. âNot you, not Dick, not even Tim. I just want Bruce to see what he made. What his rules made.â
You shake your head. âYou think this is building something? Itâs destruction.â
He exhales slowly, looks away, then back. âSometimes you have to burn down the city before anyone notices itâs on fire.â
Something in you cracks. âJasonâŠâ
He meets your eyes then. The smirk fades, replaced by something raw, unguarded. The boy flickers through, just for a heartbeat. You want to reach for him, and you hate yourself for it.
The wind outside shifts, blowing rain through the broken window. It catches the side of your face, cool against skin that feels too hot. You take a step forward without realizing, caught in the gravity of him, and he doesnât move away.
The distance closes. His fingers ghost along your jaw, trace the bruise he left there. You should shove him off, scream, do anything but stand there. But the touch is careful, tender in a way that feels like muscle memory, like something you once trusted finding its way back.
âYou shouldnât be here,â you whisper.
He smiles faintly. âNeither should you.â
And when his hand slides up to tuck your hair behind your ear, the world goes still. The rain fades. The city hum becomes a pulse. For a second, all you can hear is his breathing and the faint, uneven rhythm of your own.
You search his face for something, remorse, maybe. Humanity. The boy who used to bring you coffee during graveyard shifts at the Watchtower infirmary. The boy who once told you you made the world less ugly.
Heâs still there. You can see him. Buried, but not gone. And thatâs what terrifies you most.
You step back before the air breaks, before your body remembers how to betray you again. âWhatever you think this is, it isnât love.â
Jasonâs expression hardens, but his voice stays soft. âMaybe not. But at least itâs real.â He turns away, sits back down at the table, starts reassembling one of the guns with deliberate, mechanical calm. The sound of the pieces locking together is louder than the rain.
You stand there, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, at the way the lamp light cuts across his scarred knuckles, at the easy, fatal grace in every movement.
You realize, with a slow, sinking dread, that youâre not his captive because of chains or weapons. Youâre his captive because part of you still remembers what it felt like to love him.
And part of you still does.
-
The days blur. Not in a feverish way, but in that strange, heavy quiet that comes when the world outside keeps moving and youâre suspended somewhere between waking and remembering.
The clock tower never tells the right time, but the light changes through the broken windows, and youâve learned to measure the hours by the color of the sky. Morning: pale gray bleeding through the grime-streaked glass. Afternoon: the honeyed warmth of sun you canât feel. Night: rain tapping like a heartbeat against metal and glass.
Youâre not chained. Youâre not hurt. Youâre just⊠contained. No comms. No outside contact. No exits that donât trigger his sensors.
Jason brings you food. Always hot, always real, not the ration bars or cold street takeout you expected. The first time, he showed up with Thai curry. The second, with coffee and pastries that smelled like the bakery near your hospital. The third, he didnât say where he got it, just set it on the table and nodded toward the plate.
âYouâre not eating enough,â he said.
Youâd wanted to throw it at him, tell him this wasnât care, it was control, but the truth was, you hadnât eaten since the ambush. Youâd been too shaken. So you sat, and he sat across from you, boots braced on the floor, armor jacket unzipped halfway.
You ate in silence. He didnât push conversation, didnât gloat. He just watched you, expression unreadable, eyes softer than you wanted them to be.
By the third day, you stopped pretending you werenât listening when he talked. Heâd stand near the window, voice low, recounting pieces of the world you couldnât see: Scarecrow sightings near Robinson Park, Batman coordinating counter-ops, Nightwing injured but alive.
âBruce and Dick are still running themselves into the ground,â he said once, turning toward you. âTrying to hold a city that doesnât want saving.â
You sat on the couch, legs drawn up under you, watching the faint outline of rain crawling down the windowpane. âTheyâre doing what they can.â
He leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. âDick and Tim⊠theyâre doing what he taught him. Thatâs not the same thing.â
You didnât argue. Not because you agreed, but because you were tired of fighting ghosts.Â
He told you things you didnât expect, that he hated what the pit had done to him, that he still dreamed sometimes of the Cave, of the hum of the computers and the smell of Alfredâs tea. That doubled down that he didnât want to hurt them, not really.
âItâs him,â Jason said quietly. âJust him. The man who decided the rules mattered more than I did.â
You hesitated. âAnd what happens when Bruce is gone?â
He didnât answer for a long time. Then, softly, and maybe even a little unsure, Jason said, âThen I figure out who I am without hating him for it.â
Youâd wanted to hate him in that moment, for the shaky conviction in his voice, for the way he made even ruin sound righteous. But there was something painfully human in the way he looked down when he spoke, as if he was ashamed of how much he still needed to be believed.
By the fifth night, the silence between you had shifted. It wasnât comfortable, but it wasnât hostile either. A strange kind of understanding had taken root, thin, fragile, but real.
Youâd been sitting by the window again, watching lightning bloom in the distance, when he came in quietly, hair damp from the rain. Heâd ditched most of his armor, down to a dark shirt that clung to his shoulders and the tactical belt slung low around his hips. The smell of gun oil and rain followed him, familiar now in a way you didnât want to admit.
âDinner,â he said simply, setting down a tray.
âYou know,â you said, voice low, âmost kidnappers donât worry about nutrition.â
He huffed out a quiet laugh. âMost kidnappers donât bring you takeout from Little Saigon.â
âWow,â you said, dry. âA gentleman and a war criminal. Whatâs a girl not to like?â
Jason smiled faintly, not rising to the bait. âEat before it gets cold.â
You sat opposite him. The tower was lit only by a single lamp, dim, gold, pooling warmth between you. The city outside flickered in neon reflection across his face.Â
Halfway through the meal, you asked softly, âWhy me, Jason? Why not just disappear?â
He didnât look up. âBecause if I disappear, Bruce wins.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
He set his fork down, leaned back in his chair. The lamplight caught in his eyes, green ringed in gold and crimson, weary but alert. âYou mean why you.â
You nodded.
He exhaled through his nose. âBecause you were the only thing that ever made it feel worth it. The missions. The blood. The bruises. You made all of it mean something.â
âJasonâŠâ
âIâm not saying that to trap you,â he said quickly. âYou donât owe me anything. I just⊠need you to know that this isnât about possession. Itâs about protection.â
You studied him for a long moment. âYou really believe that.â
âI do.â
âAnd you think Iâll thank you for it someday?â
He smiled, a small, tired thing. âI donât need you to thank me. I just need you alive.â
The quiet stretched again. The rain softened to mist against the glass. You looked down at your hands, then up at him, at the line of his jaw, the faint twitch in his fingers where the trigger scars never fully healed.
He noticed your gaze, but didnât move. âYou used to look at me like that,â he said quietly. âBack in the Cave.â
You swallowed. âYou used to give me a reason to.â
Something broke across his face, an expression you couldnât name. Grief. Longing. Regret. He stood slowly, closing the space between you. When he reached you, his hand came up, not to restrain, not to threaten. Just to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. The gesture was painfully gentle. His fingers were warm. You hated that it made you tremble.
âThis isnât you,â you whispered.
His voice dropped, rough. âItâs whatâs left of me.â
Your eyes met. And for a moment, the distance between what heâd become and who he was collapsed. You could almost see the boy beneath the scars, the one who teased you on rooftops and smiled like the world hadnât yet broken him.
Your throat tightened. You turned away before he could see your eyes.
He let his hand fall. âGet some sleep,â he murmured. âYouâre safe here.â
You wanted to tell him safe wasnât the right word. That walls, no matter how soft, still feel like cages. But you didnât. Because the truth was, you didnât feel unsafe. You felt something far worse⊠seen.
When he left, the room felt colder. The clockâs gears groaned softly, straining against rust. You wrapped your arms around yourself, staring out into the fog.
And when you finally whispered his name, it was to no one at all.
-
The sixth night arrives quietly. Gotham hums beyond the rain, a low electric purr that seeps through the cracks in the old clock tower. Inside, the air feels softer, warmer, somehow, as if the tension that had lived in the walls has begun to loosen its grip.
Jasonâs jacket hangs over the back of a chair, his armor stacked neatly on the workbench beside the lamp. His guns are lined in meticulous order, magazines beside them, half-cleaned and gleaming under the dim gold light. Heâs sitting by the window now, one boot braced on the sill, sleeves rolled, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers.
The smoke curls lazily toward the cracked glass. It smells faintly of clove and burnt sugar. You should say something. You choose not to. The sound of rain fills the space where words should be.
When he glances over, his expression softens. âYouâre still awake.â
âI donât sleep much,â you answer.
He hums low, thoughtful. âYou never did.â
You cross the room, slow and measured, drawn more by the quiet than by him. He looks different in this light, less like the Arkham Knight, more like the boy who used to fall asleep in the passenger seat of the Batmobile after patrol, head tilted toward the window, gloves still on.
âDoesnât feel right, does it?â you say softly. âBeing still.â
Jason gives a wry half-smile. âStillness never meant peace in Gotham. It meant something worse was coming.â
You stop a few feet away. âAnd now?â
He exhales smoke through his nose, eyes tracking the city. âNow itâs just quiet.â
You study him. The curve of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The quiet isnât peace for him, itâs punishment. The kind that comes when a man who only knows how to fight finally runs out of things to kill.
âI didnât know you smoked,â you say finally.
He glances back, eyes flicking to yours. âPicked it up in the Middle East. Old habit, hard to break.â
âDoesnât suit you.â
He chuckles. âYeah? You always liked me better when I was trying to be good, huh?â The words hang there, somewhere between teasing and confession. You cross the last few steps until youâre standing beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his arm.
âI liked you when you were trying,â you say softly.
He doesnât answer. Just stares out the window, jaw tightening. You can see the reflection of Gotham in his eyes, the city lights, the flicker of distant lightning, and it makes him look almost luminous, like something sculpted from shadow and fire. Heâs older now, all sharp edges and quiet gravity, the reckless boy you once knew tempered into something harder, more dangerous. The scars only make it worse. They cut across his beauty like signatures, proof that he survived what shouldâve killed him. Even with those unnatural green eyes, bright and burning, touched by something that isnât entirely mortal, heâs still devastatingly handsome. Maybe more so.
You reach out before you can stop yourself. The motion is small. A hand lifted, hesitant, brushing through the damp strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes. Itâs the kind of gesture that once wouldâve earned you a crooked grin and some smart remark about how you were mothering him again.
Now, he just goes still. Your fingertips graze his temple, the roughness of an old scar beneath the hairline, the soft heat of skin you havenât touched in years. You feel his breath hitch, almost imperceptibly.
âDonât,â he says, voice low, unsteady.
You drop your hand, pulse racing. âIâm not trying to fix you.â
âYeah,â he mutters, flicking the cigarette out into the rain, âbut you make me wish I could be fixed.â The silence that follows is almost unbearable. You can feel it vibrating between you, the push and pull of everything unsaid.
âJason,â you whisper. He turns to face you. The glow from the city hits him in fragments, half shadow, half warmth. The hard lines of his face soften. He looks⊠tired. Human. Your hand moves again, slow, deliberate this time, resting on his arm. The muscle beneath your palm tenses, then eases. He doesnât pull away. The warmth of him seeps into you, and you realize how long itâs been since youâve touched anyone without a fight in between.
âYou donât have to keep carrying this alone,â you say quietly.
He laughs under his breath, no humor in it. âI donât get to put it down.â
âThen let someone else hold part of it.â
âWho? Bruce?â His tone sharpens.
You shake your head. âMe.â
He blinks, startled. âYou?â
âYou said you were protecting me. Maybe let me do the same for you.â
For a moment, something flickers across his face, pain, hope, disbelief. Then he looks away, voice rough. âYou donât know what youâre asking for.â
âI do,â you say. âI know you.â
He exhales, shaking his head, and the motion looks like surrender. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides. Then, quietly, he says, âYou shouldnât be this close.â
âThen move.â
He doesnât. You step forward and wrap your arms around him. At first, itâs like hugging stone. Heâs stiff, caught between reflex and restraint, his breath stuttering against your shoulder. Then, slowly, something shifts. His arms come up, hesitant, unsure, and settle around you. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He smells like rain and powder and something faintly metallic, like ozone before a storm. His heartbeat is steady, grounding.Â
You donât know how long you stand there. A minute, maybe two. The city hums beneath you, alive and uncaring, while two people long past saving try to remember what comfort feels like. When he finally pulls back, his hands linger on your shoulders, thumbs brushing small circles against the fabric of your shirt. His voice is quiet, rough at the edges.
âYou shouldnât look at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike you still believe thereâs something worth saving.â
You meet his gaze. âMaybe I just see whatâs left of the boy I loved.â
He flinches, not much, but enough. His hands fall away. The distance returns like a shadow slipping back into place. He takes a step back, jaw clenched, eyes burning.Â
âGo to bed,â he says softly. âPlease.â
You nod, even though your throat is tight. You turn away, forcing your legs to move, feeling his eyes follow you until you disappear into the dim corner of the tower. When you lie down, the sheets still smell faintly of smoke and metal. You can hear him moving around, reassembling a gun, the rhythmic click of parts fitting together, a lullaby of control.
But beneath that sound, under the hum of the rain, thereâs something else: the quiet, fractured breath of a man trying not to break.
And the worst part is, you understand. Because for the first time since he took you, you realize you donât just want to leave.Â
You want to save him.
-
The seventh night feels different. The air in the clock tower is thick, tense, alive with static. The storm outside has passed, but the thunder hasnât left, it just lives quieter now, beneath your skin. The gears creak occasionally, an old clock still pretending it could keep time if it just tried hard enough.
Jasonâs pacing. You can tell somethingâs changed before he says a word. His movements are sharp, contained, every step measured like heâs trying not to explode. His gloves are off, lying in a heap on the table beside a dismantled rifle.
âTheyâre getting closer,â he mutters.
You look up from where youâre sitting near the window, blanket draped loosely around your shoulders. âBruce?â
He nods, jaw clenched. âBruce. Dick. Tim. The whole goddamn cavalry. Took them long enough.â
You try to read him. Heâs angry, yes, but beneath it simmers fear. Not for himself. You know that look too well.
âThen let them come,â you say softly. âTheyâre not coming here to kill you. They just want to bring me, bring you home.â
He laughs, low and bitter. âHome? You think that word means anything to him anymore? I died for him, and all he gave me was a grave.â
âJason.â
âDonât.â He rakes a hand through his hair, the muscles in his shoulders tight. âDonât say my name like itâs some kind of redemption.â
âYouâre acting like thereâs no way out of this,â you snap. âThere is. You could surrender, talk to him.â
âTalk?â He spins, eyes flashing. âYou think thereâs anything left to say? You think heâll listen after everything Iâve done?â
âYes,â you whisper. âBecause I know him. I saw him after we buried you. And because I know you.â That stops him. His head turns, eyes narrowing like the words hit somewhere deep.
âDonât do that,â he says quietly.
âDo what?â
âLook at me like that. Like Iâm still him.â
You rise slowly, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. âBecause you are.â
âIâm not,â he says, stepping back. âThat kidâs dead.â
You take a step forward. âThen who. Are. You?â
âThe man whoâs trying to keep you alive!â His voice cracks, raw and unguarded. âYou think I donât know what Bruce will do when he finds you here? What heâll think Iâve done? Iâll rot in Arkham. I donât give a fuck. But you? Youâll just become another casualty in his war, another scar he can justify away even as life tears you apart.â
âHe wonât hurt me.â
Jason laughs once, broken. âNot on purpose.â
You shake your head, refusing to yield. âYou donât get to decide what happens to me.â
His gaze snaps to yours, wild, desperate. âI already did. Every night since the day I crawled out of that grave.â
Your breath catches. His name barely leaves your lips.Â
And thatâs when he kisses you. Itâs not soft. Itâs not gentle. Itâs collision, pain, anger, love, loss, all tangled together in a single impossible heartbeat. His hand cups the back of your neck, gloved thumb brushing your jaw as if to steady something thatâs already shaking. The taste of rain and smoke fills your senses, and for a moment, it feels like falling.
You shove at his chest, breaking the contact. âYou donât get to do that!â you breathe, eyes wide, heart slamming in your chest.
He looks at you, chest heaving, eyes burning. âYou think I donât know that?â
âYouâre just scared,â you say. âYou know theyâre coming, and youâre terrified of losing control.â
His voice drops, low and rough. âI already lost control. The second I saw you again.â
You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. âYou canât fix what happened by holding on to me.â
He takes a step closer. âIâm not trying to fix it. Iâm trying to keep it. You.â
You open your mouth to argue, but heâs there againâcutting you off mid-breath.
The kiss this time is slower, deeper. Less war, more truth. His hands frame your face with a tenderness that feels almost impossible, careful and reverent, trembling just enough to betray how hard heâs fighting to stay in control. You should pull away. You should scream, fight, something. But you donât. Because beneath the scars and the armor and the ghosts, heâs still Jason. This is the man he became, the one carved out of pain and purpose, the one who bleeds for what he loves even when he shouldnât. The one youâve been trying not to love back.
And you do. God help you, you do.
The kiss deepens slowly, as if both of you realize in the same breath the truths that neither of you are ready to face. His mouth softens against yours; the first rough edge of it fades into something that feels like surrender. One hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow circles there, grounding himself in the proof that youâre real.
You respond before you can think, fingers curling in the fabric at his shoulder, drawing him closer until the space between you disappears. He presses you back against the table in the center of the clock tower, your back pressing against the firm wood. His breath trembles against your cheek, rain catching in the strands of his hair and sliding down to meet your skin. Your legs wrap around his waist, dragging him closer still. The warmth of him bleeds through the chill, through the armor, through every reason youâve rehearsed for why this canât happen.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, less urgency, more need. Itâs unhurried, deliberate, the kind of kiss that memorizes rather than takes. Your tongues slide against one anothers, his hand drifting down to grip your thigh and hold you open against him. His other slips to your neck, holding you in place. His fingers squeeze in the pattern of the bruise he left days ago now, hard enough to refresh the blooms against your skin. Your heart stumbles. You can feel the moment he stops thinking, when instinct replaces restraint, when love and fury blur into the same ache.
Jason's hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you harder against him, the rough fabric of his tented pants scraping against the thin barrier of your clothes. The friction sends a jolt through you, heat blooming low in your belly as his hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate grind. You gasp, the sound muffled against his shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping for purchase. He doesn't stop, his body pressing you back further against the table's edge, the wood biting into your hips as maps and scattered papers crinkle beneath you.
"Jason," you breathe, half-plea, half-warning, but it only spurs him on. His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the fading bruise he left days ago, reawakening the tender skin with a sharp nip that makes you arch into him. The pressure builds, his stiff cock rutting against your core through the layers, each thrust a teasing promise that stokes the fire without quenching it. The table creaks under the weight of your bodies, the rhythmic grind echoing the distant thunder outside, the storm's echo now thrumming between you.
His breath is hot and ragged against your ear, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose more of your throat. "Can't... stop thinking about you," he growls, voice fractured, hips snapping forward with more urgency, the friction coiling tighter in your core. You rock against him instinctively, chasing the spark, the table's edge digging in as leverage, your legs locking around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. You want him inside of you so badly it aches. The layers between you feel like torment, his pants rough against your inner thighs, the heat of him searing through, every rut sending waves of pleasure-pain that build and build.
He grinds harder, deliberate, the bulge in his pants pressing right where you need it, the rhythm relentless now. Your breaths come in syncopated gasps, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked leather and sweat, the faint metallic tang of the tower's gears underscoring each movement. His free hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit through your tactical pants, circling with rough precision that makes your vision blur. "Come for me," he rasps, lips brushing your pulse point, teeth grazing as his hips buck again, the friction hitting a fever pitch. "Let go, princess, I've got you."
The coil snaps. Pleasure crashes over you in a white-hot wave, your body arching off the table, cries muffled against his shoulder as tremors ripple through you. He holds you through it, hips slowing but not stopping, drawing out every shudder until you're boneless, clinging to him in the aftershocks. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breaths harsh, his own restraint fraying but unbroken, the evidence of his arousal still pressed firm against you.Â
His mouth find yours once more and you taste salt. His or yours, you canât tell. The kiss is unhurried, a quiet exploration, his lips trembling against yours as if heâs savoring the moment, committing it to memory. His hand slides to cradle your face, thumb brushing away a tear that might be yours, might be his, the dampness mingling with the sweat and rain on your skin. When he pulls back, both of you are shaking, foreheads resting together, breaths tangled in the narrow space between. The air is thick with the scent of leather, gun oil, and the raw intimacy of your release, the clock towerâs gears creaking faintly in the background, a reminder of timeâs relentless march.
He stays close, his hand lingering on your cheek, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that feels like a confession. âYou let meâŠâ he murmurs, voice rough but soft, cracking with something vulnerable. âYou let me give you that.â His eyes search yours, green and unguarded, the usual sharpness dulled by the weight of what just passed between you. Heâs not the Arkham Knight now, just Jason, raw and open, his heart laid bare in the afterglow.
You reach up, fingers curling into his damp hair, holding him there, keeping the world at bay for one more moment. âI wanted it,â you whisper, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. âI wanted you.â His breath hitches, a small, broken sound, and he presses his forehead harder against yours, like heâs anchoring himself to you.
For a minute, you linger there, bodies pressed close, the tableâs edge still digging into your hips. His hand slides to your waist, thumb stroking the skin just above your hipbone, a gentle rhythm that soothes the intensity of before. The rain outside has slowed to a drizzle, its soft patter blending with the distant hum of Gotham waking. His heartbeat thuds against your chest, a counterpoint to your own, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, the rare softness of a man whoâs spent years running from it.
âTheyâre close,â he murmurs finally, voice low, reluctant, like heâs loath to break the spell. âI can feel it.â
You swallow, the weight of reality creeping back. âThen run,â you whisper, the words tasting bitter.
He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. âNot without you.â
âJasonâŠâ
âI told you,â he says, softer now, his hand cupping your face again, eyes fierce with a love thatâs as jagged as it is deep. âIâll always choose you.â His thumb brushes your lower lip, lingering, and you see the decision in his gaze, not escape, but something final, something heâs ready to face for you.
The first flicker of the Bat-Signalâs reflection glows faintly through the rain-streaked window, a pale warning cutting through the dawn. Timeâs run out. You donât know if the next sunrise will bring rescue or ruin, but as your lips still sting from his kiss, your body still humming from the pleasure he drew out of you, one truth burns clearer than anything: you donât want to be saved from him. You just want him back.
-
The sound comes first, distant at the edge of the cityâs hum. A low, rhythmic thump. Not thunder. Not traffic. Rotor blades.
You hear them before Jason does. Heâs by the table, stripping down a sidearm, movements crisp and mechanical. The light flickers once across his face, casting the green of his eyes into molten gold. Then the noise hits the glass, rattling it in its frame.
He freezes.
You stand slowly, pulse racing. âJasonâŠâ
His head turns toward the window. The faint gleam of spotlights sweeps over the rooftops, cutting through fog and rain. The batsignalâs glow bleeds into the clouds above.Â
âThey found us,â you whisper.
Jason exhales, a sharp sound through his teeth. âOf course they did.â
He moves instantly, reassembling the pistol with practiced speed, holstering it, grabbing his half-fastened chest plate from the table. The calm precision of his movements is worse than panic. Heâs not surprised. Heâs ready.
âJason, stop,â you say. âYou donât have to fight them.â
âNot fighting isnât an option anymore, princess.â
âYouâll die.â
He glances at you, a flicker of something warm and raw cutting through the hardness. âThen Iâll make sure itâs for something that mattered.â
You step in front of him, blocking his path. âIt matters if you live.â
His jaw tightens. âYou still donât get it. Theyâll never let me.â
âBruce willâ,â
âBruce will do what he always does.â His voice breaks on the edge of it. âHeâll try to fix me. And when he realizes he canât, heâll bury me again.â
The sound of the helicopter grows louder, closer. A crackle of comms static echoes faintly through your visor, the ghost of Nightwingâs voice.
âEcho, respond if you can hear this. Weâve got your signal.â
You look toward the window. The rain catches in the beams of light cutting through the fog, glowing like falling glass. Theyâre right outside.
Jason sees the way your eyes shift. âDonât,â he warns.
âIâm not calling them off,â you say. âIâm asking you to let them in.â
His smile is soft and broken all at once. His helmet snaps into place. âThatâs the problem, princess,â he says, voice flattening through the modulator. âThey donât knock.â
A flash of light blinds you. Glass shatters as a grapnel bursts through the pane, embedding deep into the wall. You duck instinctively, shards slicing past your cheek. The next sound is heavier, a figure landing on the balcony with the weight of judgment itself.
Batman. Behind him, another shape follows, leaner, faster, escrima sticks in hand. The blue insignia flashes in the gloom. Nightwing.
The air changes. Thinner now. Electric. Jason doesnât move. He stands halfway between them and you, half-armored, rain slicking the plates of his suit. His hand hovers near his gun, but he doesnât draw, not yet.
âArkham Knight,â Batman says, voice gravel and command. âItâs over.â
The helmet turns, glowing blue visor fixed squarely on him. Jasonâs laugh filters through the modulator, low, metallic, breathless. âThatâs what you said at my funeral.â
Nightwing steps forward cautiously, escrima sticks loose in his grip. âDonât do this,â he says, steady but soft. âWhoever you are⊠you donât have to go down like this.â
The Knight tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate. âWhoever I am?â The voice crackles, distorted but edged with something dangerously familiar. âYou really donât recognize me, do you?â
He steps closer, boots scraping across wet concrete. The rainlight gleams across his armor, turning gunmetal into liquid silver.
Batmanâs jaw tightens. âYouâve been terrorizing my city, hurting my people. This ends now.â
âYour city,â the Knight echoes, quiet but venom-laced. âAlways your city. Always your war. You never change, do you?â
Nightwing frowns. âHow the hell do you knowââ
âI know more than you think.â The Knightâs tone fractures, barely a heartbeat, but then hardens again. âTell me, Batman, how long did it take before you replaced me? A month? A week?â
Batman stills. His fist flexes.
âReplaced who?â Nightwing demands.
The Knight laughs, a sound like static breaking apart. âGuess you really donât know. Thatâs almost funny.â
He steps out of the shadows fully now, rifle raised, not to fire, but to aim directly at Batmanâs chest. âDonât worry, Bruce. You always were a piss poor detective.â The name slices through the distortion like a blade. Both Batman and Nightwing tense.
âHow do youâŠâ Nightwing starts, but the Knight moves first. Fast. Controlled chaos. Smoke grenades clatter across the floor. The room erupts in thick, choking fog. The modulator warps his voice into something hollow and omnipresent.
âYou really have no idea⊠do you?â Then the first shot rings out, ricocheting off the chestplate of Batmanâs armor.
Through the haze, Batmanâs voice remains steady. âStand down, Arkham Knight. You donât want to do this.â
The reply is an instant snarl wrapped in static. âDonât tell me what I want.â
A shimmer of blue light flickers through the smoke, Jasonâs visor sweeping to follow it like a predatorâs eyes, growling as Nightwing drops to your side, escrima sticks drawn.Â
âWe can still help you,â Dick calls out, tone pleading now.Â
The Knight halts. The silence stretches taut. Then, low and metallic, Jasonâs voice creeps out. âHelp?â His bitter laugh cuts through the fog. âYou left me in the dirt, Dick. You both did.â
Nightwing stiffens. Confusion flashes across his face. âWhat?â
Jason fires. The bullet cracks into the wall beside Nightwingâs head, deliberate, measured, a warning. The echo hangs. His silhouette shifts through the smoke, shoulders heaving, breath uneven. He lowers the rifle. His hand lifts toward the helmet latch.
âDonât,â Batman warns, but his voice falters.
The Knight tilts his head, voice almost mocking. âWhatâs the matter, Bruce? You really have no idea⊠do you? Well why donât I spell it out for you.â
The hiss of a seal releasing cuts through the air. The helmet falls to the floor with a hollow clang that echoes across the tower. Rainlight catches his face, that handsome face you kissed barely a day ago, and his eyes burn with something between fury and heartbreak.
Bruceâs breath catches inside the cowl. âJason?â
Jasonâs smirk is a broken thing. âYou really didnât know. Iâm hurt, Bruce.â
âJoker sent me the tape,â Batman says quietly. âI saw him kill you.â
Jasonâs voice breaks as he screams, âDonât you dare lie to me!â His eyes shine wet, furious. âNow fucking tell me. How long before you replaced me? I saw your fucking Robin running around. Tim fucking Drake. Yeah, I dug that up too.â
âThatâs not what happened.â
Jason laughs, a jagged, bitter sound. âYou always told me, Bruce, focus on what I want, and Iâll get it. Well, do you know what I want right now?â His gun snaps up, trembling in his hand. âI want you to look at me!â he roars. âLook at what you left behind!â
The air hums, thick with electricity, rain, and ghosts. You move without thinking. âJason, stop. Please.â
For the first time, his eyes flick toward you. The tremor in his hand deepens. And for a heartbeat, itâs all there, the boy you loved, the man heâs become that you yearn for most of all, and everything broken in between.
âDonât make me do this!â Nightwing shouts, lunging through the smoke at Jason.
Jasonâs roar tears through the air. âYou already did!â
Impact. Armor against armor. The scrape of metal, the crack of fists, a grunt of pain. Batmanâs voice cuts through it, âStand down, Robin!â
âDONâT CALL ME THAT!â Jasonâs snarl rips through the haze. âThatâs not who I am!â
Lightning flashes, illuminating the moment Batman catches Jasonâs arm, wrenching the gun from his grip. Jason fights like a cornered storm, wild and precise, every blow years in the making.
âWhy didnât you save me?â he shouts.
âI didnât know,â Bruce says, low.
âYou knew enough!â
Batman lunges again and they crash to the floor. Jason twists, pinned beneath the weight of him. You can hear both of them breathing hard, the storm outside pounding against the glass.
âJason,â you whisper.
He meets your eyes even as he struggles against Bruceâs gauntlet pressing into his shoulder. He looks back up at Bruce, like holding your gaze burns. âYou canât fix me,â he says hoarsely. âYou never could.â
Batman stills. âJason⊠Iâm sorry. Just let me⊠if you comeâŠâ
The words land like a physical blow. Jasonâs face twists, grief, rage, disbelief all warring inside him. âYou think that changes anything?â he spits. âYou left me to rot, and now you want me to come where? Home?â
âNot home,â Batman says softly. âJust⊠youâre alive.â
Jason laughs, a sharp, shaking sound that sounds more like pain than humor. He fires upward, one clean shot into the ceiling light. The fixture explodes, raining glass and sparks. By the time the glare fades, heâs gone.
The clock tower door hangs open, hinges bent, lock shattered. Batman stands motionless at the threshold, rain dripping from his cowl.
Nightwing swears, hitting his comm. âHeâs gone. North quadrant.â
You barely hear him. The room spins with the echo of Jasonâs voice, the weight of what just broke between all of you. You glance down. Near your boots, a folded scrap of paper, edges singed. His handwriting scrawled across it.
You donât have to look for me. Iâll find you. Just donât give up on me yet.
You press it to your chest.
Nightwingâs voice cuts through the ringing silence. âYou all right?â
You nod faintly. âHe didnât want to hurt me.â
âThat doesnât mean he wonât,â Batman says, voice quiet and grave.
You look past him, the words sinking deep, settling somewhere you donât want them to. Because youâve heard them before: different voice, same conviction. You think of Jason, of how he said those same words about Bruce only a few nights ago. Two men shaped by loss, carved into opposite sides of the same coin. Both trying to protect what they love. Both convinced it means they have to hurt for it.
And standing here, you can finally see it for what it is: how their devotion mirrors each other, just refracted through pain. How Jasonâs vengeance and Bruceâs mercy come from the same wound, one refusing to bleed, the other refusing to close.
You swallow hard, eyes still fixed on the window. âThen Iâll find him,â you whisper. âAnd Iâll make sure he canât.â
Batman turns toward you, cowl shadowing his eyes. âYouâre not going after him. This is my mess. Iâll fix it.â
But you already are. In your mind. In your pulse. In the part of you that never stopped believing thereâs something left worth saving. Because Jason might have lost this fight, but deep down, you know this war between him and the world isnât over.
And neither is the one inside your chest.
-
The ER is a blur of blood and fluorescent lightâlong enough into the shift that hours stop meaning anything. Youâve lost track of how many times youâve reset the monitors, how many sutures youâve tied, how many families youâve met with that hollow, practiced sympathy that never lands quite right. Gotham doesnât heal; it festers. The city bleeds through the cracks of the hospital walls, dragging its chaos in on stretchers.
Itâs been three weeks since the clock tower, since the fight, since the sirens, since Jason disappeared into the rain like smoke. The bruise on your wrist has faded to nothing. The one on your throat, his, hasnât. Visibly itâs gone, but somewhere beneath the skin, you still feel it, a phantom ache that flares when you catch yourself thinking about him.
You havenât seen him. Havenât heard from him. Not a single note, not a single whisper on the comms. But his absence doesnât mean silence. Because Gotham speaks in patterns. And lately, itâs been speaking in his.
Reports have been surfacing, low-level thugs and gang enforcers found strung up from lampposts, bloodied but breathing. Crime bosses dragged unconscious to the steps of GCPD, weapons neatly confiscated and bagged beside them. No bullets to the head, no explosive retribution: just efficient, brutal restraint.
Nightwing was the first to say it aloud, bold enough to say what no one else will. âHeâs changing his playbook.â
Timâs the one who pulled the files together, unsure of what went down, what you all learned as none of you would tell him the truth following the tower. âWhoeverâs doing this⊠theyâre trained like one of us.â
And BruceâŠBruce didnât say anything at all. He didnât have to. Because you all know who it is. You canât prove it. Not yet. But itâs in your bones. You feel it every time another case file hits the table with Jasonâs fingerprints all over it. Whatever happened after the tower, after that kiss, after he made you fall apart against his war table, after the Batâs last words to him⊠it changed him. Or heâs trying to change.
And then there was Scarecrow. The attack two weeks ago: an ambush in the Arkham Asylum. Scarecrowâs toxin nearly killed Bruce, the whole city teetering on the edge of panic again. The official report says an âunidentified third partyâ intervened, neutralized the fear gas dispersal unit, and vanished before backup arrived. But youâve read the unredacted version. Youâve seen the grainy footage: a red helmet, precision shots.
He was there. He saved him.
Itâs what keeps you awake long after your shifts end.
-
You clock out just before dawn, scrubs clinging to your skin, damp with sweat and the faint iron scent of blood that no amount of soap ever fully washes away. The sky through the lobby windows is a bruised violet, the city still half-asleep and half-alive.
The streets outside glisten from the rain. Gotham looks soft in the early light, but you know better. Itâs just pretending. You walk home with your hood pulled low, sneakers squeaking on wet pavement, the ghost of adrenaline still pulsing faintly in your veins.
You tell yourself the distance is good. That you need the quiet, the normalcy, the rhythm of being you again. A nurse. A protector. Someone who swore to save lives, not chase lost souls into the dark.
But the truth cuts through every time your gaze drifts skyward. Because youâre still looking for him. Every rooftop. Every alley. Every shadow that moves just a second too late.
You hate yourself for it. You crave it anyway.
-
By the time you reach your apartment, the rain has thinned to a drizzle. The city hums low and tired, the sound of sirens fading into the distance. You climb the stairs, the soles of your shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum. The hallway light flickers overhead casting long, stuttering shadows down the narrow corridor.
You fish for your keys, exhaustion heavy in your hands, muscles trembling from a double shift. The key slides into the lock with a click. You push the door open, stepping inside out of habit more than awareness.
The air hits you first. Not cold, not hostile, just charged. The scent is faint but distinct: leather, gun oil, and something sharper beneath it.
Your breath catches. Every instinct flares awake. The city outside hums on, oblivious. But in here, time folds. Every memory of the tower, of his voice, of his hands, all of it comes rushing back at once.
You stand perfectly still, eyes scanning the shadows pooling in the corners of your apartment. The lamp by the entryway flickers when you turn it on, spilling gold light across the room. And there, on the table by the window, sits a single object.
A helmet. Red, gleaming faintly in the dawn light.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
You donât hear him move, but you feel it, the shift of air behind you, quiet, controlled. His voice follows, low and steady, softer than you remember.
âMiss me?â
You turn slowly. Heâs standing by the window, where dawn cuts through the blinds in thin, pale lines that stripe across his face and armor. The helmet is gone now, resting on your table like a confession. The rest of him looks heavier somehow, shoulders slouched, dark jacket still damp from the rain, shadows deep under his eyes. The last traces of the Arkham Knight are there, but muted.
Jason Todd, not the ghost.
âYou shouldnât be here,â you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
He half-smiles. âYou gonna say that every time you see me?â
âItâs been weeks.â
âYeah.â He looks down, thumb brushing the scar at his jaw. âI figured you could use a break.â
You exhale sharply, stepping forward. âA break? You disappeared after the tower. After that night. We didnât know if you were alive, Jason.â
âGuess that makes two of us.â The words hang there, dry, but not cruel. Just tired.
You study him. The cut across his lip has healed. The bruises are gone. The armorâs been replaced by something simpler, leather jacket and Kevlar, stripped of insignia, functional but unassuming. His gloves are fingerless now, his hands nicked and scabbed, the kind of marks you get from breaking bones, not killing.
âWhere have you been?â you ask quietly.
He leans against the window frame, rain still streaking down the glass behind him. Gotham is waking outside, horns, engines, the soft ache of another day beginning. âCleaning up,â he says simply.
You frown. âCleaning up?â
Jasonâs eyes flick toward you, tired, but steady. âYouâve seen the reports. The gangs turning themselves in. The weapons caches dropped at GCPD. That was me.â
You shake your head slowly. âThatâs not your style.â
He smirks faintly. âGuess my styleâs evolving.â
âWhy?â you ask, softer now.
He hesitates, gaze shifting to the floor. When he speaks, his voice carries something new, an unfamiliar stillness. âBecause someone has to stop the bleeding. Because Gotham doesnât need another ghost. And becauseâŠâ He trails off.
âBecause what?â
He meets your eyes then, really meets them. âBecause you made me want to try.â
The air between you stills. Your pulse stutters, the words hitting deeper than youâre ready for. You want to tell him not to romanticize this, not to make you his reason, but the sincerity in his voice is unshakeable.
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. âYou were right. About the killing, the lines I crossed. I kept telling myself I was doing it for you. Protecting you, proving something. But all I was doing was making myself the thing I swore Iâd never be.â
You step closer, heart hammering. âAnd now?â
âNow Iâm trying to fix it.â His voice cracks on the last word. You can tell he doesnât believe in redemption, not for himself, but heâs trying anyway. You can see it in the tremor in his hand, the exhaustion stitched into every movement.
âHow long have you been working with Bruce?â you ask.
That earns a short, humorless laugh. âWorking with isnât the phrase Iâd use. He knows Iâm out here. Heâs just pretending he doesnât.â
You blink. âHe really knows? Not like⊠how we all knew but couldnât prove anything?â
Jason nods once, a wry smile forming on his lips as he sees your expression. âHe saw me. Scarecrowâs compound. He didnât say my name, didnât reach for the cowl, didnât try to stop me. Just⊠looked at me.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I realized I didnât hate him anymore.â
Something tightens in your chest. âThatâs⊠progress.â
âDonât get too sentimental,â he says, but his smile is real this time, small, sad, but real. âIâm not doing this for him.â
âNo,â you say, voice steady now. âYouâre doing it for you.â
Jason shakes his head. âIâm doing it for us.â
You freeze. âJasonâŠâ
He steps forward, slow but deliberate, close enough that you can smell the rain still clinging to him, the faint smoke from the city air in his jacket. âYou believed in me when you shouldnât have. You saw something left when I didnât. I canât change what I did, but I can make sure the next time you hear my name, it isnât whispered like a warning.â
Your throat tightens. âYou donât have to prove anything to me.â
He exhales softly. âYeah. I do.â
The city light shifts through the blinds, cutting gold lines across his cheek, his scar, his eyes. For a moment, he looks younger, like the boy you trained beside, the one who laughed too loud and promised the world was still worth saving. You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, the faint stubble there rough beneath your touch. He doesnât flinch this time. He leans into it.
âJason,â you whisper, âwhat are you going to do now?â
He glances at the helmet on your table, then back at you. âWhat I shouldâve done a long time ago.â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âTry.â He says it so quietly it almost breaks you. You want to stop him, to make him rest, to tell him that redemption doesnât have to hurt this much, but you know better. This is the only way he knows how to live: walking the razorâs edge between ruin and salvation.
You drop your hand. âIf youâre going to keep fighting, promise me one thing.â
âWhatâs that?â
âThat youâll let me know youâre alive.â
His lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. âThatâs the problem with ghosts, princess. They only show up when theyâre ready.â
He zips his jacket as he reaches for the helmet, tucking it under his arm like a relic of the war heâs still fighting, and moves toward the door. But before he leaves, he pauses, half-turned, caught between the light and shadow.
âThank you,â he says softly. âFor not giving up on me.â
Your hand shoots out before you can think, fingers closing around his wrist as he turns back toward the door. The leather of his jacket is cool and slick under your touch, grounding you in the moment. âJason, wait,â you say, voice sharp with urgency, cracking with something deeper, years of unspoken longing, of grief and hope tangled together.
He pauses, half-turned, the dawnâs pale light slicing across his face, catching the scar on his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. His green eyes flicker back to you, questioning but guarded, like heâs bracing for rejection. You donât let go. Instead, you tug him back, hard enough to make him pivot, the helmet clattering to the floor as you pull him into you.
Your lips crash into his, desperate and fierce, a collision of need thatâs been simmering since the clock tower, since the nights you mourned him, since the years you thought he was gone forever. His mouth is warm, tasting of rain and something faintly metallic, like the city itself lingers on his tongue. He stiffens for a split second, caught off guard, then melts into it, his hands finding your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. The kiss deepens, hungry, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a frantic dance of pent-up yearning. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging at the roots, drawing a low growl from his throat that vibrates through you, igniting heat low in your belly.
He presses himself closer, his body a solid wall of muscle and heat. Your back hits the wall, the impact jolting a gasp from you, but you donât care, his lips chase yours, relentless, his stubble scraping your chin, your cheeks, a delicious burn that grounds you in this moment. His hands roam, sliding under your scrub top, calluses rough against your skin, tracing the curve of your spine like heâs memorizing you. You arch into him, heart pounding, arousal flooding your senses, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way he groans your name like a prayer.
âFuck, princess,â he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, raw with want. âYou donât know how long Iâve waited.â His hands slide lower, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him, the hard line of his erection pressing through his pants, sending a fresh wave of heat through you. The kiss breaks, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the charged air. âCanât stop thinking about how pretty you were when you came for me.âÂ
You donât let him pull away. Your hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on the zipper of his jacket, tugging it open to reveal the tight black shirt beneath, clinging to every ridge of muscle. âStay,â you whisper, voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. âDonât run again. I⊠I want you.â
His eyes darken, a storm of conflict and desire. He pulls back, and lets you go entirely. You feel panic rising up in you, thinking heâs going to pick the helmet up and leave. Instead, he shifts, walking over to your living room and collapses onto your couch. Once he sits, he pulls a pistol from his pocket and sets it on the coffee table with a deliberate clunk. The metal gleams in the dim light, cold and lethal, a mirror of him: protector, killer, yours. Your breath hitches, too loud in the quiet, the sight sending a shiver of anticipation through you.
âWhat do you want?â you ask, voice unsteady, though you already know the answer.
His gaze rakes over you, slow and deliberate, drinking in the sweat-damp scrubs, the flush creeping up your neck, the way your chest rises with shallow breaths. âYou know what I want,â he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that raises gooseflesh on your arms. âWhat weâve always wanted.â
You swallow, biting your lip as you talk in his massive frame. He leans back against the couch, arms crossing against his chest, tugging the leather tighter across his biceps. âCrawl to me. When youâre ready.â
The command is a spark in dry tinder, electric and commanding, igniting every nerve. You remember the first time he said those words to you, weeks ago. Your heart slams against your ribs, not fear, but power, the choice to surrender to the man whoâs both your salvation and your ruin.Â
You want him, this twisted devotion thatâs been carving itself into your bones since the day you thought he died. Slowly, deliberately, you sink to your knees. The hardwood bites into your palms, cool and unyielding, each inch forward amplifying the heat pooling in your core. The dim light carves shadows across his smug smirk, the scent of rain and gun oil wrapping around you like a drug. Your scrubs whisper against the floor, nipples tightening with every brush of fabric, arousal slicking your thighs, the air thick with want.
Jason watches, eyes hooded, a predatorâs smile curling his lips. âThatâs my good girl,â he murmurs, praise warm and molten, laced with heat. âLook at you, so eager, crawling like youâre made for it.â
The words weave sin into worship, igniting a fire that pulses low. You reach him, kneeling between his spread thighs, looking up through your lashes. His hand cups your chin, thumb tracing your lower lip with possessive care, the calluses rough against your softness. âMissed you,â he rasps, voice thick with something raw. âEvery fucking night.â
He pulls you onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, his erection pressing hard against your core through thin layers, drawing a gasp. His hands roam, peeling off your scrub top with reverent slowness, exposing skin to the cool air. His lips find your neck, hot and deliberate, trailing open-mouthed kisses that leave a trail of fire, teeth grazing just enough to sting. The scruff of his stubble scrapes deliciously, sending shivers radiating outward.
His fingers trace a scar on your ribs, lips following with a soft press. His hands map you like sacred ground, freckles on your shoulder kissed one by one. âCounted these through cams on nights I couldnât sleep after I came back.â A mole below your navel is nipped gently, âSaw you undress and stroked my cock to it, princess. Thinking about how good youâd feel when I finally got my hands on you.â The confessions are dark, obsessive, fanning the flames of his love, twisted by years of watching from shadows.
You arch into him, gasping as his teeth graze your breast, the sharp sting blending with pleasure. âJasonâŠâ His name is a plea, a prayer.
âLet me take care of you.â His smirk returns, fingers slipping beneath your waistband, peeling away scrubs and panties. The air kisses your slick folds, making you clench. He teases your arousal with slow, deliberate circles, fingers slick with your need, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet. âSo wet already. Beg for it, princess. Tell me you need me.â
âPlease,â you breathe, the plea a raw, empowering surrender, your voice trembling with the weight of choice. âNeed you inside me. Never had⊠only want it to ever be you.â
Jasonâs chuckle is low, filthy, a sound that curls through the air like smoke, settling deep in your bones. âThatâs my slut,â he murmurs, âbegging so pretty for me.â His eyes, dark and gleaming with predatory intent, hold yours as he leans back, the dim light catching the angles of his face, scarred jaw, stubble, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
His hand drifts to the coffee table, fingers wrapping around the pistolâs grip with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse stutter. The metal is cold, unyielding, its gleam a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He holds it up, letting the barrel catch the lamplight, a silent reminder of his lethal edge. Your breath catches, arousal and anticipation twisting tighter as he brings it to your skin, the muzzleâs chill kissing the sensitive curve of your inner thigh. The cold bites, a sharp shock against your fevered flesh, sending shivers racing up your spine, your core throbbing with need. He drags it slowly, deliberately, the metal tracing a languid path along the tender skin, teasing closer to the apex of your thighs, where youâre already slick, dripping for him.
âOnly me, huh?â he growls, voice dark velvet, thick with possession as he leans closer, his breath hot against your cheek. The pistol moves higher, grazing the crease where thigh meets hip, the cold edge brushing so close to your folds that you gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. âYouâre telling me no oneâs ever touched you here? No oneâs ever had you like this?â His eyes search yours, sharp and demanding, daring you to lie.
âNo one,â you whisper, voice shaking but certain, your gaze locked on his. âOnly you. Always wanted it to be you.â
His smirk deepens, dangerous and pleased, as the barrel slides upward, tracing the curve of your hip, then higher, over the soft plane of your stomach. The metalâs chill makes your muscles quiver, gooseflesh rising in its wake. âGood girl,â he rasps, voice low and rough, dripping with approval. âYouâre mine, then. First and only.â The pistol pauses at the swell of your breast, the cold muzzle circling your nipple with agonizing slowness, the sensitive peak hardening instantly under the touch. You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it, your body arching toward him, craving more. The contrast of the gunâs icy edge against your burning skin is electric, every nerve alight, your core clenching around nothing.
He watches you, eyes hooded, drinking in every shudder, every hitch of your breath. âYouâd let me fuck you with these hands,â he growls, free hand flexing, the calluses catching the light, hands that have pulled triggers, snapped necks, spilled blood across Gothamâs streets. âHands thatâve taken lives, princess. Hands thatâve killed.â The pistol dips lower again, teasing along your other thigh, the barrel grazing the sensitive skin so close to your dripping center that you tremble, thighs parting wider on instinct. âAnd youâre begging for them, arenât you? Begging for me to be the one to ruin you.â
âYes,â you gasp, the word spilling out, raw and desperate. The gunâs muzzle brushes the edge of your folds, a fleeting, dangerous touch that sends a jolt of pleasure-pain through you, your clit throbbing under the cold kiss. âOnly you, Jason. I swear, no one else. Just you.â
The barrel moves with agonizing slowness, sliding back and forth, your arousal coating the metal, dripping down onto his thighs in a warm, slick trail that makes him growl low in his throat. The contrast of the gunâs icy edge against your burning flesh is overwhelming, each pass amplifying the ache, your hips twitching instinctively to chase the sensation. âBut youâre pure for me, arenât you?â he rasps, voice thick with possession, the pistolâs tip circling your clit now, slick and precise, drawing a choked moan from your lips. âMy good girl, saving herself for the man whoâd burn this city to ash for her.â
âYes,â you whimper, the gunâs chill mingling with the searing heat of his words, your body trembling under the weight of his claim. âYours. Always yours.â Your voice breaks, raw and desperate, as the barrel presses just right, the cold metal nudging your swollen clit with relentless intent, sending jolts of pleasure-pain that make your thighs quake and your breath come in shallow, frantic gasps.
Jason watches, eyes hooded, a predatorâs smirk curling his lips as he studies every shudder, every hitch in your breath. âThatâs it, princess,â he murmurs, voice dark velvet, the pistol moving faster now, slick with your arousal, gliding through your folds with a wet, obscene sound that fills the quiet room. âLook at you, dripping for me, coming apart on my gun.â The barrel presses harder, circling your clit with a precision that makes your vision blur, your core clenching around nothing, the edge of release so close it hurts.
âPlease, Jason,â you gasp, hips bucking against the cold metal, the sensation too much and not enough, your body arching toward him as the pistolâs barrel slides through your slick, teasing your entrance before returning to your clit. âNeed you, only you.â Your words are a litany, a vow, as the pleasure coils tighter, banishing any semblance of embarrassment you have, your body trembling under the dual assault of his lethal touch and his filthy promises.
âOnly me,â he growls, leaning closer, his lips grazing your neck, teeth nipping at the fading bruise he left days ago. âNo one else gets to touch you, see you like this. Iâd kill them, princess.â The pistolâs rhythm is relentless now, slick and cold, your arousal making it glide effortlessly, the pressure building to a crescendo. âGonna make you come on this barrel, mark it with you, so every time I hold it, I remember you falling apart for me.â
The words, the cold metal, the heat of his voice, itâs too much. The coil snaps, pleasure crashing over you in a blinding wave, your body arching off the table, cries spilling from your lips as you come, hard and shuddering, your slick coating the barrel, dripping onto his thighs. The tremors wrack you, your vision spotting white, your core pulsing as he keeps the pistol pressed against your clit, drawing out every last shudder until youâre boneless, gasping, clinging to his shoulders.
He holds you through it, the gun still in his hand, now warm from your heat, a twisted extension of his claim. His forehead drops to yours, breaths harsh and tangled, his free hand cradling your face with a tenderness that contrasts the fire of before. âMine,â he murmurs, voice raw, softer now, the vulnerability seeping through. âAlways fucking mine.â
The pistol dips back into his pocket, its cold gleam lingering like a shadow of his lethal promise, slick with your release, a testament to the ruin heâs wrought. Jasonâs hands find your hips, fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive hunger, pulling you flush against him. His erection presses hard through the rough fabric of his pants, a searing reminder of whatâs to come, the heat of him bleeding through the layers. âGonna make sure you feel it,â he growls, voice thick with need, low and guttural, âevery inch of me, marking you as mine.â
He doesnât rush, though, his eyes stay locked on yours, dark with desire but softened by something reverent, as if heâs memorizing the way you tremble beneath him. With a gentle but firm grip, he lifts you from the couch, your legs unsteady, slick thighs brushing together as he guides you toward the bedroom. Your body hums, oversensitive from the climax, far past embarrassment or fear, every shudder, every drip of your need laid bare for him, and you revel in it, in the way he sees you, raw and unashamed.
The mattress dips under his weight as he lowers you onto it, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he follows, looming over you like a storm about to break. He sets the gun on your bed side table and sheds his clothes with swift, practiced movements, jacket falling, shirt tugged off, pants discarded until his cock springs free, thick, veined, glistening with precum. The sight makes your core clench, anticipation sparking anew despite the aftershocks still trembling through you.
He kneels over you, his broad frame a wall of heat and shadow, eclipsing the dim glow of the lamp. His green eyes burn, raw and ravenous, locked on yours as he aligns himself, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. âTook that so fucking good, princess,â he murmurs, voice rough but laced with awe, his hands sliding up your thighs to spread you wider, thumbs brushing the slick skin with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. âCame so pretty for me, dripping all over my gun like you were made for it.â The praise washes over you, warm and intoxicating, stripping away any lingering shame, leaving only the pulse of want, the pride in being his.
The stretch of his cock is slow, exquisite, a searing burn as your walls yield, fluttering around his girth, each inch imprinting itself into your nerves. Your breath catches, syncing with the creak of the bedframe. He moves with deliberate care, hips rolling forward, filling you completely, the heat of him overwhelming. âThatâs it,â he rasps, leaning down to press his lips to your forehead, a soft contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. âMy good girl, taking me so well, like you were always meant to.â His words, his touch, his presence, they anchor you, tether you to this moment, to him, as the world outside fades to nothing.
He moves, hips rolling with deliberate languor, deep thrusts hitting that sweet spot inside, sending electric sparks skittering through your veins. The wet slide of him fills the space, a slick, intimate rhythm weaving with your soft moans, his low groans vibrating against your skin. âAll I saw in the dark,â he murmurs, voice a rough caress, lips brushing the shell of your ear, âwas you.â
His hand drifts to the table, fingers closing around the pistolâs grip. The metal is cold, unyielding, as he brings it to your skin, the barrel tracing a slow, deliberate line along your collarbone. The chill bites against your fevered flesh, a sharp contrast that makes your breath hitch, nipples tightening under the scrutiny of his gaze.Â
âYou feel that?â he growls, voice low, edged with danger. âThis is me, lethal, but yours.â The barrel dips lower, grazing the swell of your breast, circling a hardened peak, the cold metal drawing a whimper as your core clenches around him, amplifying the heat of his thrusts.
His pace sharpens, thrusts harder, the bedframe protesting. The pistol slides down your sternum, cool and heavy, resting just above your navel, a silent promise of his power.Â
âThey think youâre untouchable, their shining hero,â he rasps, lips against your ear, breath hot, the gunâs muzzle pressing lightly into your skin, not enough to hurt but enough to thrill. âBut here you are, spread for me, letting me fuck you raw with this at your skin, still fucking wet from you coming on it.â The gun drags lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the cold kiss amplifying every thrust, your pulse racing under its lethal caress.
He flips you with swift strength, your knees sinking into the mattress, bound wrists straining against the silk tie. The pistol finds your spine, trailing down the curve of your back, the metalâs chill making you arch, a gasp tearing from your throat. His hands grip your hips, yanking you back onto him, the new angle plunging him deeper, striking nerves that make you sob. Skin slaps skin, a primal echo, your breasts swaying, his balls brushing your clit with every brutal thrust.Â
âGonna fill you up,â he growls, voice thick, primal, as the pistol rests at the base of your spine, its weight a constant reminder of his edge. âMake you carry my kid, mark you inside so deep it sticks.â His hand splays over your abdomen, pressing where his claim might grow, your core clenching, milking him as he slams harder. âFeel that? Gonna put my baby here, princess. No one touches whatâs mine.â
The gun slides to your hip, the barrel grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing closer to where heâs buried inside you. The cold metal brushes your folds, a fleeting, dangerous touch that makes you shudder, arousal spiking sharp and overwhelming as you remember what it felt like to come apart on it.Â
âYouâd let me do anything, wouldnât you?â he murmurs, voice dark velvet, the pistolâs edge nudging your clit again, your body trembling under the dual assault of his cock and the weaponâs lethal promise. âFucking Bruce and Grayson⊠what do you think theyâd do if you showed up round with mine?â The words are a taunt, laced with his shadowed defiance, a man whoâs dancing between savior and destroyer.
Your climax crashes like a storm, his heat flooding you, a scorching rush that drowns your senses. Your cries tangle with his guttural growls, the relentless rhythm unbroken as he spills deep, hot and thick, shaking you to your core. âTake it, princess, mine forever,â he roars, voice breaking, raw and unguarded. The pistol drops to the mattress, forgotten in the heat of release, his hands gripping you tighter as he rides out the waves, murmuring, âAlways fucking mine.â
Your bodies still, the air thick with the afterglow, the room heavy with the scent of sex and rain-soaked leather. He collapses against you, his weight a grounding anchor, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a moment, neither of you moves, caught in the fragile quiet where the world feels small, just the two of you, tangled in sweat and heartbeat. His fingers linger on your hips, tracing lazy circles, as if reluctant to break the connection, his lips brushing your collarbone with a softness that feels like a confession.
After, his touch softens further, fingers deftly untying the silk, freeing your wrists with a tenderness that contrasts the fire of before. He reaches for a warm cloth, wiping you gently, his touch soothing against your oversensitive skin, careful around where the gunâs cold kiss lingered. âSo good for me,â he murmurs, lips grazing your temple, voice soft but laced with that familiar smirk.
You pull him down, guiding him to the bed, his weight settling against you as he rests his head on your chest, ear pressed to the steady thud of your heartbeat. His dark curls tickle your skin, damp from rain and exertion, his breath warm and uneven as he exhales against you. Your fingers trace the lines of his body, finding new scars, jagged, fresh, stories written in flesh. A thin slash across his shoulder, barely healed, pink and raised. âThis one?â you ask softly, brushing it with your fingertips.
He shifts, eyes half-lidded, voice low but honest. âFalconeâs enforcer. Got too close last week. Knifed me before I put him down.â Your lips graze the scar, a gentle kiss, and he shudders, hand tightening on your hip.
Another mark, a puckered burn on his forearm. âAnd this?â Your thumb strokes it, careful not to press too hard.
âScarecrowâs lab,â he says, quieter now, the memory heavy. âTook a hit from a rigged fuse box when I⊠when I stopped him.â His jaw tightens, but he doesnât look away, letting you see the truth in his eyes, the shadow act of saving Bruce, the shift in his war. You kiss the burn, soft and lingering, and he exhales, a tremor running through him.
Your fingers move to a cluster of faint scars on his ribs, older but new to you. âThese?â you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates, then speaks, raw and unguarded. âBlack Maskâs crew. Took out their safehouse last month. One of âem had a chain.â His lips twitch, not quite a smile. âDidnât go down easy.â You lean down, pressing your lips to each mark, tasting the salt of his skin, and he hums, a low, contented sound, his hand sliding up your back to cradle your neck.
You donât ask what this is, what it will become. The future is a question mark, sharp and uncertain, but the weight of his body against yours, the vulnerability in his answers, is enough for now. âI knew,â he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, âthe second I came back, I wasnât letting you go again. Didnât know how, or what itâd look like, but you were always mine.â His words are a confession, heavy with years of yearning, of fighting to be more than the ghost he became.
You thread your fingers through his hair, heart swelling. âI donât need you to be anything but you,â you whisper, voice steady. âJust⊠stay. Thatâs enough.â Youâre grateful for every piece of him, scarred, jagged, alive, back in your arms, no matter how broken.
He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, soft but fierce. âIâm not going anywhere,â he says, and the promise feels like a vow, sealed in the quiet of your shared breath.
-
The first light of dawn creeps through the blinds, painting the room in streaks of gold and gray. You rise together, movements quiet but synchronized, a ritual born of years fighting side by side. He dons the Red Hoodâs armor now, the crimson helmet resting in his hands, no longer a symbol of vengeance but of something new, purpose, maybe, or penance. You slip into your vigilante gear, the familiar weight of kevlar and utility belts grounding you. His eyes linger on you, a mix of pride and possession, as you adjust your gloves.
He steps close, tilting your chin up, and kisses you, slow, deep, tasting of coffee and resolve.Â
âYours, always.â His voice drops, low and rough, as he pulls back, helmet under his arm, eyes blazing with that dark, jagged love. âAnd Iâll burn the world to keep it that way.â
You smile, heart steady, and slip out into the city. Gotham wakes, its pulse a low hum of sirens and smog, but you feel his gaze on you as you leap across rooftops, a shadow in the dawn. Protected. Desired. Claimed in the endless night, where love and ruin intertwine.
áŻâ To move forward without his love? Impossible...
Your heartbeat.
It had always been loud to him, even when you were asleep, sprawled across his chest like a warm, stubborn cat. Even when you were mad at him. Even when he had been halfway across the city.
But nowâŠit was fading.
Thud.
âŠthud.
âŠâŠâŠthud.
Too slow.
Clarkâs stomach droppedâa cold, nauseating freefall that wrapped around him. He almost faltered in mid-air as the thingâthe towering, jagged-mouthed monster ripping through downtownâbellowed and sent another swarm of skittering minions spilling across the street.
Metropolis screamed. Cars flipped. Glass rained.
He was already moving, faster than air could follow. The monster lunged, a claw slicing open the street like wet paper, but Clark didnât even blink. He slammed into the creature with enough force to crater the earth beneath them. Bone snapped. Black blood spurted. The thing howled.
Heat vision carved through it in jagged red lines. He tore limb from limb, ripped through the sinewy hide, crushed the core pulsing in its chest. The creature crumbled, a shriveled husk collapsing to ash, but its minions remained. Dozens. Hundreds.
He split them. Blasted them. Ground them into dust.
When the area was finally cleared, he launched upward, straight toward home. To you.
ExceptâŠ
His home wasnât there.
The building was a smoking skeleton, the entire structure shaved down to rubble, floors caved in, concrete pulverized. Flames licked the edges of what used to be his balcony. The wind carried embers like dying fireflies.
His body went immediately to work, even though his ears were listening to you. But he couldn't focus. He pulled survivors from the rubble, barking for names, descriptions, anything. He lifted a man pinned under a beam, a crying woman from a collapsed stairwell, a teenager coated in ashâŠ
Then a cry. Small. Trembling.
âHelp! Superman!â
Clarkâs head snapped toward the sound.
A little boy. He knew him. A little neighbor who had once given Clark cookies because his mom had made too many. Tears streaked through the dust on his face. He kneeled beside a figure half-buried in debris.
Clarkâs chest caved in.
The boy looked up at him, desperate, sobbing. âSheâshe pushed meâshe saved meâplease help herâpleaseâ!â
It was you.
Head turned slightly, hair tangled with dust and blood. A jagged length of rebar speared straight through your abdomen, pinning you to the twisted ruins of a support beam. Blood soaked your shirt, gathering in dark pools beneath you.
Your trembling, scraped-up hand was wrapped weakly around the boyâs. The boyâs mother was by her son's side, holding him close, but her hand covered both his and yours, squeezing hard, voice breaking.
âShe saved himâshe pulled him out of the wayâoh God, sheâshe didnât even hesitateââ
Clark barely heard her.
All he did was move to you. Your pulse was faint. So faint. He felt it slipping like sand between fingers.
âHey. Sweetheart. Look at me. Iâm here,â he breathed, leaning in, voice barely holding together.
Your eyelids fluttered, sluggish and heavy. You managed to turn your head an inch.
ââŠCla ...SupermanâŠ?â
âIâm here,â he repeated, brushing dust and blood from your cheek with the gentlest hand he had ever had. âIâve got you. Iâve got you, I promise.â
You swallowed, a weak, wet sound. âThe kidâheâs okay? Heâhe didnâtââ
âHeâs safe,â Clark whispered fiercely. âBecause of you. You saved him. You hear me? You saved him.â
You tried to smile. Your heartbeat stumbled again.
Clarkâs eyes snapped to the rebar. He knew what it meant. He knew what removing it would do. He knew there was no way to pull it out withoutâ
He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking.
âStay with me.â His voice broke, cracking in places it never had. âI can fix this, okay? I canâI can find a way. Just give me a little time, justâstay awakeââ
You exhaled shakily, your breath ghosting against his cheek. â... Superman âŠyouâre shaking.â
He was. Violently.
He gathered your hand in both of his, holding it like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
âI love you,â he whispered into your ear, only for you. âI love you, pleaseâŠplease, donât leave me.â
Your eyes glistened, tears gathering, slipping through grime.
âIâI wasnât scared. I knewâŠyouâd come.â
Your heartbeat gave another weak, faltering whimper. Your hand squeezed his, barely there.
âClarkâŠdonâtâŠcryâŠâ
He bowed over you, shoulders shaking as he cupped the back of your head, holding you like you were fragile china.
âI canât lose you,â he whispered into your hair. âI canât. I canât. Please, baby, stayââ
Your pulse stutteredâ
then pausedâ
thenâ
âŠ
The world tilted. Something in him tore open so terrifying he swore he heard the sound.
âHey,â he whispered. âHoneyâhey, look at me. LookâŠâ His voice cracked. âIâm here. Youâre okay. Youâre okay.â
Your eyes were open, but unfocused, glassy, wrong in a way his brain refused to process.
People stood a few feet away. Construction workers, EMTs, bystanders who had gotten too close. Someone cried softly. Someone else whispered his name.
Someone filmed.
A distant voice said something about a pulse.
Another saidâthey couldnâtâno pulseâshe wasâ
He focused back on you and wrapped his hands around the base of the rebar.He ripped it from the ground with a single wrenching pull. Concrete split. The steel shrieked. Dust exploded. Someone gasped. He didnât look at them.
He slid his arms under you. Your body folded against him, limp, heavy in a way you had never been. His breath hitched as your head fell back.
âEasy,â he whispered, voice torn. âIâve got you. Iâve got you. Iâm right here.â
He took off so fast the sound barrier cracked behind him.
He only remembered the way your arm swung lightly with the air currents. The way your hair whipped against his chest, lifeless.
âI know a place,â he muttered against the wind. âI knowâI know who can help. Okay? Okay, weâllâweâll go home. Youâll be fine.â
Kansas blurred below him. The wheat fields, the barns, the gravel roadsâto him they were streaks of color, nothing more. He landed in the Kent driveway with a thud.
âMa!â His voice wasnât Supermanâs. It was a boyâs. âMaâMa!â
The kitchen light flicked on. His mother moved to the window. Her silhouette froze.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
She screamed.
The screen door slammed open so hard it bounced off the house. She ran barefoot across the porch, apron still tied, dish towel still over her shoulder.
âOh my Godâoh my God, ClarkâClark, whatââ She dropped to her knees in the dirt beside you. âBaby, what happened? Whatââ
âHelp her,â he choked. âPleaseâMa, sheâs notâshe wonât wake upâjust helpâplease helpââ
Her hands fluttered over you.
âOh honey,â she whispered, voice cracking. âJonathan!â she sobbed. âJonathan!â
His Pa appeared in the doorway, confusedâuntil he saw you.
His face drained of color. âSweet Jesus,â he breathed, stumbling forward. âClarkâwhatâwhat happened?â
Clark rocked slightly, unable to stop. âI donât knowâI donâtâshe wasâI didnât get there in timeâjustâhelp herâPa, help herââ
He knelt, steady, practiced, the way heâd knelt over dying animals and injured farmhands and old neighbors having heart attacks.
He pressed two fingers to your neck.
Then to your wrist.
Then to the hollow of your throat.
He didnât speak.
Clarkâs breathing hitched, fast, uneven.
âWhy arenât you doing anything?â he demanded. âPaâwhyâwhy arenât youââ
Jonathan looked at Martha.
Martha shook her head, tears spilling freely.
Clarkâs whole body went rigid.
âNo,â he whispered. âDonâtâdonât say it. Donâtâyou canâtâsheâs justâsheâs just hurtâjust tell me what to doâtell me how toââ
His Pa reached out and gripped his shoulders.
âClark.â
âNoââ
âClark.â
âDonâtâPaâdonâtââ
His Pa's voice broke. âSon⊠sheâs gone.â
Absolute silence fell again. Clark blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
His Ma reached for him. âBaby, Iâmââ
He jerked away.
Clark tried to convince himself you were, but you werenât. There was no warmth left in your skin. No breath on his neck. No heartbeat in his ears.
Pa squeezed his shoulders harder, grounding him with force. âClark. Sheâs gone.â
He made a sound no human throat should have been able to produceâa jagged, animalistic rasp torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
His arms tightened around you, crushing you to him as if pressure alone could force life back into you. As if he could warm you. As if he could will your heart to start.
It took both of themâPa pulling, Ma coaxingâto slide you from his hold. His fingers clung to your sleeve until the very end, until even that small scrap of fabric slipped away.
âGood girl,â Martha whispered under her breath, hands trembling as she laid you down. âOhâoh sweetheart, Iâm so sorryâŠâ
He stared at them. His folks. His palms. His fingers. The lines, the scars, the strength that had never failed him in his entire lifeânever once, not with earthquakes or planet-killers or burning buildings. But they had failed you.
He didnât feel his parents dragging him inside. Didnât feel the grass under his boots or the porch steps under his boots. Everything blurred, smeared, disconnected. Their voices sounded far away, as if underwater.
âJonathan, get a towelâheâs covered in bloodââ
âIâll call her folksâGod, Martha, how do I evenââ
âDo it gentle. For heavenâs sake, donât be blunt. Clark, honey, sit. Sit down, okay?â
He had no memory of sitting.
Or standing.
Or lying down.
Time warped, stretched, thinned. One minute he was on the couch, Ma wiping blood from his face. The next he was in the shower, water beating against him, mixing with the dirt and your blood circling the drain. Then, he was in his childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the light changed and changed and changed again.
He didnât sleep.
He didnât blink.
He barely breathed.
Martha tried to feed him. Pa tried to talk to him. Neither worked. He didnât need food. He didnât need sleep. He didnât need anything.
He stayed on his bed for days, the mattress dipping under his weight, the quilt Ma had made years ago pulled up but never moved. His arms lay limp at his sides. His eyes were dry, cracked from lack of blinking.
Sometimes Ma sat beside him, brushing his hair off his forehead like he was ten years old again.
âBaby,â she whispered. âYou have to get up eventually.â
He didnât respond.
Days had no shape. Nights had no meaning. Time dissolved into a gray, endless smear.
When the funeral day came, Clark didnât even change. Ma dressed him like he was a childâbuttoning his shirt, combing his hair, smoothing down the wrinkles. His hands stayed limp at his sides.
âCome on, son,â Pa said quietly. âShe deserves you there.â
He stood only because they guided him. One on each side. A hand on each arm.
At the cemetery, the sky was cruelly bright. The chairs were full. People cried quietly. Some clutched tissues. Some looked at him with confusion, pity.
Your motherâs sobbing was sharp, guttural, frantic. Your father broke down trying to hold her up.
âItâs not real,â your mother cried. âItâs notâthis canât be realâthis isnât happeningââ
When your coffin was carried forward, Pa gripped his arm harder. Ma whispered, âStay with us. Stay standing.â
He watched the wooden box lower slowly, inch by inch.
The machinery whirred.
Lower.
Lower.
He felt the sun on his face. Too hot. Too bright. Too alive. It burned. He wanted to step out of it. Hide from it. Sink somewhere dark and cold.
He wanted to be down there with you.
To fall in beside you and stay there. Let the dirt cover him. Let it weigh him down. Let the earth swallow him whole until nothing was left but silence.
Lying on his back in the soft soil, closing his eyes, letting the sun fade from his skin until he was cold, until he was still, until he felt nothing at all.
Let him in.
Please.
Let him in.
But the world wouldnât bend for him this once. The earth didnât open. The grave stayed closed to him. Only to him.
All he could do was watch as they shoveled the first slice of dirt onto your coffin. The thud was final. Violent. Too loud.
Your mother wailed, then your father finally collapsed to his knees, fists full of grass, begging to wake up from whatever nightmare this was.
The wake was worse.
Blurred like smeared ink, like someone had dragged their thumb through the picture of his life until everything was unrecognizable.
He barely remembered being led through the church hall, faces shifting past him like ghosts. Hands touched his back, his arm, someone murmured, âIâm so sorry, Clark,â but he couldnât hear the words. Couldnât hear anything.
He remembered one moment with painful clarity: your photo on the table. Candles around it. Your smile trapped in stillness.
He couldn't remember heading back to Metropolis. Didnât remember stepping into the ruined lot that you and his apartment used to be. No one was there except a construction company destroying the last parts.
He just stood there, staring as they ripped everything away from him.
He was forced to find a new place.
Small.
One bedroom.
One toothbrush in the bathroom.
One bed.
One plate. One cup. One fork.
One.
That was all he needed.
That was all there was left.
He showed up at the office the next day, tie perfectly knotted, hair combed, expression unreadable. Lois blinked twice.
âClark? Whatâwhat are you doing here?â
He set his bag down. âI have work to do.â
âYou donât have toââ Jimmy started.
âI do."
He sat down and typed. Fast. Mechanical. Efficient in a way that had Perry walking over three times just to check if the computer was malfunctioning.
Then, when he was pulling on his suit as he raced through the sky, the League called.
Bruce was the one who talked to him, voice gravelly, but grief like in his own way, like he understood: âYou donât need to come in for missions yet.â
âIâm coming.â
âClark. Donât push yourself.â
He hung up.
For the League, he completed missions that normally took teams. For the Planet, he turned in three weeks of content in two days.
He stopped laughing.
Stopped smiling.
Stopped talking unless necessary.
Superman became a machine. Clark Kent became a ghost.
And the world kept spinning without you.
Work.
Save.
Write.
Fly.
Work.
Work.
Work.
That's how he was for months. He did everything with no feeling. People would clammer to him after he saved them. He couldn't even smile, because in their tears of relief, he saw your tears of death.
He lost his love for writing. He didnât know what half the articles he wrote about were anymore. Didnât care. His fingers just moved because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant breaking.
This day, no TV murmuring in the background. No kettle warming on the stove. No off-key humming from you as you folded laundry. Just the faint rustle of pages from the stack of untouched mail.
He shifted in his chair, shoulders sagging. He hadnât shaved in days. Weeks? His stubble didnât grow muchâalien perksâbut he looked uncanny. Like a sketch of a man instead of a whole one.
His vision blurred over the screen. He forced a quiet breath in, stopped halfway through it, then pushed his glasses up his nose. Gosh, he was getting another headache.
Then he turned slightly in his chair.
âSweetheart? Could you make me a coffee? The way you do it.â
It slipped out of him naturally. Automatically.
He waited.
He waited.
A few seconds.
He didnât hear you laugh at him for asking nicely. Didnât hear your robe swish as you shuffled into the kitchen. Didnât hear you sigh dramatically like you always did when he pretended he was helpless with appliances.
He frowned lightly, confused, and turned fully in his seat.
âHey,â he called again, softer. âDid you hear me?â
Just the hum of the fridge.
His heart thuddedâheavy, slow, confused. He stood from his chair in a daze, walking toward the kitchen like he was drifting through a dream.
The counter was empty. Only his lone mug sat upside-down in the rack.
There were no footsteps behind him. No warm hand smoothing over his back. No annoyed little mutter of Iâm coming, Clark, God, relax.
His hand hovered over the countertop.
âYouââ His voice cracked faintly. âYou always make it better than I do.â
It hit him so slowly it was almost cruel.
You werenât in the other room.
You werenât running late from the store.
You werenât taking a nap on the couch.
You werenât here.
You werenât anywhere.
You and your stuff was all destoryed
Your voice stayed gone.
Clarkâs breath vanished. Just stolen right out of him.
He whispered your name.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time, like maybe repetition could change reality.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
The scream built inside him before he understood what was happening.
His vision went red at the edges. Heat scorched behind his eyes.
And Clark launched upward so fast the air in the apartment imploded in his wake.
The building shook, and glass shattered as he shot out of his apartment.The city blurred beneath him. Clouds tore open as he ripped through them.
His breath came harsh, ragged, ripped apart by the speed he forced from his own body. He cut through the atmosphere with a fury that left fire trailing behind him.
He didnât slow, not until the moon rushed up at him in a stark wall of grey and silence.
He slammed down into its surface with a crater-making force that sent dust exploding miles into the airless void.
Clark stared at the jagged landscape beneath him, chest heaving even though he didnât need the air. Grief and rage tangled inside him so violently he couldnât separate one from the other.
He clenched his fist. He slammed them into the surface of the moon.
Once.
The ground dented. His rage didn't.
He hit it again. Harder.
A crater split beneath him.
âWhyâ!?â he shouted, voice vibrating through his bonesâthe sound didnât travel, but he felt it shake him from the inside out. âWhy didn't I get there faster!â
Another blow.
âWhy couldn't Iâ?!â
He drove his fist down again, knuckles carving stone.
âWHY DIDNâT I SAVE YOUâ?!â
He hit the ground againâwild, desperate, blindâwith every ounce of strength heâd spent months pretending he didnât feel anymore. A fissure ripped outward beneath him like the moon itself was breaking for him.
Clark sank forward onto his knees. His fingers dug into the grey dust. He bowed his head until it touched the cold surface.
Tears lifted from his cheeks before they could fall, drifting upward in shimmering beads that floated around him like ghosts.
He just let them go.
Let them scatter into the dark.
While he remained. Breathing in ragged, broken pulls. Not moving. Not thinking. Just existing in the wreckage of what heâd done to the moonâs surface.
He didnât know how long he stayed like that. Nothing felt real except the ache swallowing him whole.
Except for a sudden breath of something warm brushed the back of his neck.
A warmth he knew better than sunlight.
His head jerked up.
Just the crater. The floating pebbles. The emptiness. He let out a rough, stuttering breath and bowed his head again. He was imagining things. He had to be imagining things. His fingers dug deeper into the dust.
âClark.â
His entire body went rigid.
The voice wasnât behind him this time. It was everywhere. Soft. Gentle.
He squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough that his eyelashes trembled.
"Pleaseâdonâtâdonât let me hear her if sheâs notââ
âClark,â you whispered again, as if coaxing a frightened animal. âLook at me.â
He didnât want to. He wanted to.
He lifted his head slowly, breath trapped in his chest. The sunlight dimmed and brightened like it was breathing.
And then you were there.
Floating above the crater. Weightless. Soft. Glowing around the edges like you were made of starlight instead of flesh.
Clarkâs mouth fell open.
He made a small soundâhalf gasp, half sobâand his hand shot up like he was scared youâd drift away if he didnât catch you.
âYouâreâyouâreââ He choked on the word. âYouâre here.â
You smiled gently. A sad, warm curve of your mouth that broke him all over again.
âHi."
He pushed off the ground too fast, floating up to meet you, his hands hovering inches from your arms, your face, your waist. Afraid to touch you, afraid youâd disappear.
âIâm so sorry,â he burst out, the words tumbling over each other. âIâm soâGoshâIâm so sorry, sweetheart, I shouldâve been faster, I shouldâve been thereâif I had just gotten there a second earlier, if I hadââ
âClark...â you said softly.
He shook his head, frantic. âI didnât save you. I didnât save the one personâ the only personâwho ever made me feel likeâlike I wasâhuman.â
He reached toward you again, and this time he touched the back of your hand.
It passed through you like water.
He flinched.
You cupped his cheek anywayâyour fingers cool, faint, like moonlight brushing his skin. âIâm not here to make you hurt more.â
âThenâthen stay.â His voice cracked, desperate. âI canâtâI canât lose you againââ
âIâm not staying,â you said gently.
âDonât say that,â he begged. âDonât go, Iâll do anything, Iâllââ
Your thumb traced his cheek in the ghost of a touch. âYou still have a life. A purpose.â
âI donât,â he said fiercely. âNot without you.â
âYou do,â you whispered. âBecause you loved me. And because you still do. Too much to bury it here in the dark.â
He swallowed hard, chest rising unevenly.
âGive it away.â
ââŠwhat?â
âYour love.â You floated closer, your forehead almost touching his. âGive it to the world. All of it. The world needs what you gave me.â
âI donât want to give it away,â he whispered. âIt's... was ours.â
âIt still is,â you said. âIt always will be. But youâre meant to share it now.â
He shook his head helplessly. âI donât feel like myself anymore.â
âThen find yourself again. In what we had.â
He pressed his forehead to yoursâor tried to. It didnât fully connect. Just brushed, the faintest pressure.
âI donât know how,â he whispered.
âIâll show you.â
Clark lifted his head a fraction.
You leaned in and kissed him.
It wasnât a physical thing. More like warm air brushing his mouth. A memory. A dream pressed against his lips.
He chased it desperately, hands moving to cradle your face, though they passed through you again.
He needed it.
Your fingers floated up to touch his chest, right over his heart.
âThis is where I am,â you whispered. âAlways.â
His face twisted, eyes squeezing shut as a sob ripped out of him.
Your edges flickered.
Faded.
Your fingers thinned into threads of light.
âI love you,â you whispered.
His breath stopped.
âI always loved you,â he said back, voice breaking. âAlways.â
You smiled one last time.
Then you dissolvedâgentlyâlike mist unraveling in sunlight.
Clarkâs hands grasped at empty space.
He stayed there, suspended in the quiet, eyes wet, chest heaving, dust drifting around him like falling snow.
Slowlyâhe lifted his gaze to the Earth hanging above him.
Its blues and greens blurred through his tears.
He reached out a hand toward the planet. A small gesture. His promise. His beginning.
Then he pushed upward. Stronger than he had been in a long time.
He rose from the moonâs surface, carrying your last touch inside his chest, turning your words into his heartbeat.
He flew toward the world.
The years unfolded over him like a long, living tapestry. His life bent into a rhythm that felt almost holy. He mended, he steadied, he gave. And he kept giving.
He caught a crumbling bridge once, the steel groaning in his hands, the cars rattling above him. A little girl in the backseat of a blue sedan pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide. He couldnât hear her voice, but he saw the shape of her mouth.
Thank you.
He swallowed hard. âYouâre welcome,â he whispered, even though she couldnât hear him.
Another day, he dropped into a burning hospital, floor after floor collapsing in on themselves. Smoke filled his lungs, heat coating his skin. He tore open a wall and found a nurse shielding a newborn beneath her body. She looked up at him with soot-streaked cheeks, panting.
âPleaseâhelp himââ
âIâve got both of you,â he told her. His voice didnât shake. It hadnât in years.
He stood on the steps of the Hall of Justice once, listening as the next generation of heroes argued, teased, and planned. They were loud and bright and so young. He leaned against a column beside Bruce, who had aged in different ways.
âTheyâll be good,â Bruce muttered.
âThey will,â Clark murmured. âThey already are.â
He watched Lois retire. Watched Jimmy marry. Watched Perry step down, and the new editor shake his hand with adoration mixed with terror. His coworkers teased him gently about never aging, never slowing down.
He always smiled politely.
Then he went home to the quiet, to the place where your memory still warmed the walls like a lamp left on in another room. Your picture on the mantle. Your sweater was folded in a drawer that he never opened, but never moved.
âGoodnight,â heâd say softly every night. âI hope I did right today.â
As the decades spun on, and his hair silvered like soft frost along his temples, the city changed. Justice League rookies approached him with reverence, asking for advice. He gave it freelyâgentle nudges, quiet encouragements, the way he wished someone had guided him when heâd been lost in himself.
That's when he knew.
He was ready.
He watched Kara laugh in the doorway of her farmhouse one last time, her hair long and bright, streaked silver like his, glowing in the Kansas sun. She hugged him fiercely, as if she could hold time still.
âYou could stay longer,â she whispered.
âTrust me,â he promised. âYou have so much life to live.â
Krypto leaned against his leg, whining in that low, almost human way. Clark knelt and stroked the old dogâs muzzle.
âYou take care of her."
Krypto nudged his palm, as if scolding him for even asking.
He visited Ma and Pa beneath the oak tree. The wind rustled in the leaves like someone flipping through pages. He placed his hand on the cool stone.
âI did my part,â he said quietly. âI'll tell you all about it when I see you againâ
He moved on. To your folks next. They had never stopped writing him letters, even after their hands trembled too much to hold pens. They had sent him stories of their days, little joys, memories of you. He had answered every one. Kept them all after they passed.
Your gravesite was always the hardest. He knelt there, fingers brushing the edge of the stone he had carved himself. Weathered now. Smooth from decades of wind.
Silence settled around him like snow.
âI kept you with me,â he continued. âEvery day. Every choice.â
His voice thickened.
âI hope⊠I hope that counts.â
He floated up from the cemetery when he was done, rising slow, like a man already half in another world.
The moon greeted him like an old friend. A familiar, aching pull in his chest guided him to the crater heâd once put into the earth with rage. He sat on the cliff of it. His legs were dangling over the edge. Earth glowed blue in front of him.
He unclipped his cape. Then he let it go, watching it as it drifted into the dark. He didnât need it anymore.
A warm presence stirred beside him.
He didnât look. He just knew
âClark.â
He closed his eyes.
âYou came,â he whispered.
âI told you Iâd be here,â he felt a warmth press against his chest. âWhenever you were ready.â
He turned his head slowly. You looked exactly as that first day you showed yourself to himâalive in a way that hurt and soothed all at once. He laughed under his breath, a sound wet and startled and overwhelmed.
Your hand reached for him. He took it with both of his.
âAre you sure?â you asked gently. âThis is the path you want?â
He thought of the world. Of every life he had touched. Of every dawn he had watched rise alone. Of every moment he had carried the weight of being strong.
And of every night he had whispered your name into the dark.
âYes,â he breathed. âSweetheart⊠Iâm sure.â
You smiled at himâsoft, tender, knowing. The moonlight glowed through you like warm fog.
âClose your eyes.â
He did.
âBreathe.â
He drew one deep breath, letting it shake through him.
âAnd now,â you whispered, your voice falling over him like a blanket pulled to his chin, âLet go.â
He let go.
The world slipped away gently, as if it were laying him down to sleep.
When he opened his eyesâ
He was standing.
On soft grass.
Beside a lake that shimmered like liquid silver under morning light.
The air smelled of pine and warm water.
He looked down at his handsâyoung again. Strong again.
He turned.
You stood there.
Whole.
Warm.
Alive.
His breath broke open in his chest.
âHey,â you whispered.
He walked to you slowly, reverently, like approaching living sunlight.
âHey,â
He folded you into his arms for the first time in a lifetimeâand the universe finally felt right around him.
ââ .⊠dick falls in love all over with his baby girl
request ââ .âŠ
The room is quiet in a way Dick Grayson has never quite known, not silence, not emptiness, but the kind of soft, reverent stillness that comes right after the storm of a miracle. Machines hum low, monitors blink gently, and the smell of antiseptic mixes with the faintest sweetness of warm skin and blankets. But none of it exists to him right now. His world has narrowed to one small bundle the nurse just placed in his arms, as if handing him the entire universe wrapped in a pale pink blanket. He doesnât breathe at first. He canât. His chest rises and holds, suspended in a single heartbeat that stretches forever. He looks down and the earth shifts under him, everything heâs ever been anchored by sliding away.
His daughter is so impossibly small. A tiny face, scrunched in sleep, lashes trembling like the lightest brush of a butterflyâs wing. Her skin is soft, impossibly soft, her cheeks full, her mouth the smallest rosebud heâs ever seen. She makes a little sound, a breathy sigh, and Dick feels something in his ribcage crack open. Itâs not pain. Itâs something overwhelming, blinding, tidal. Love. A kind of love he didnât realize was possible until now.
The nurse says something, congratulations, maybe, or a reminder to support her head, but the words float past him, distant. Heâs already supporting her head, one large hand cupped so gently under it that heâs scared to move even a fraction of a millimeter. His other arm wraps around her body, forming a cradle that feels like it was made for this exact purpose, like every muscle in him learned this position long before he ever knew he wanted to be a father. The moment she settles into him, tiny and warm, his breath finally releases, shaky, disbelieving, reverent. He whispers âHi, sweetheartâŠâ and then stops, his voice catching on the second word. Because it hits him then, sheâs real. Sheâs here. Sheâs his. This little girl, this perfect tiny person with your nose and his mouth and a softness that seems impossible in a world that has hurt him so many times, is his daughter. Dick Graysonâs daughter. The realization shatters him. His throat burns. His eyes blur instantly, tears rising without permission, spilling before he can blink them away. He doesnât even try to hide them.
He laughs through a sob, a sound broken by wonder. âOh my godâ he whispers, pressing his forehead the slightest bit closer to hers. âOh my⊠oh my god.â Youâre still lying against the pillows, exhausted, glowing in that incredible post birth haze, watching him with a smile that trembles as much as his voice. Youâve never seen him like this, never this undone, this soft, this purely overwhelmed with emotion. Heâs always been expressive, affectionate, warm, but this? This is something deeper. Ancient, instinctual, a love that remakes him. He looks up at you once, just once, and the expression on his face nearly takes your breath too, a mix of awe, gratitude, disbelief, and something like falling in love with you all over again. But then his gaze returns to the baby immediately, because he canât look away for more than a second without his heart physically aching. âSheâs soâŠâ He canât even finish. Words fail him, dissolve into another quiet, helpless laugh. A tear hits the blanket near her little hand. Then another. He tries to blink them away, but they keep coming. Heâs not embarrassed. Not even close. He lifts one hand, the one not supporting her head, and very slowly, very carefully, touches her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Her skin is warm. Silky. She shifts slightly in sleep, her mouth opening for the smallest second before closing again. Dickâs breath catches like someone punched him.
âI made herâ he whispers, voice thin and watery. âWe made her⊠sheâs oursâŠâ The awe in his tone is almost childlike. He shakes his head, swallowing a sob. âSheâs⊠sheâs so tiny. Sheâs so perfect. Iâ I didnât know it would feel like this.â His shoulders tremble. He leans down and presses the lightest kiss imaginable to her forehead, soft, careful, like heâs afraid sheâll break from the weight of his lips. A tear falls onto her skin as he does it, gliding down to the corner of her hairline. Dick gasps sharply and wipes it off immediately with his thumb, whispering, âIâm sorryâsorry, sweetheart, Iâm sorryâdaddyâs justâŠâ He stops again, because saying âdaddyâ out loud twists something inside him. Itâs real now. He is a dad. He is her dad. The idea hits harder than any villain ever has. His whole face softens, melts, his tears falling freely now. âIâm your dadâ he says again, quieter. âIâll keep you safe. I promise. I promise youâll always be safe.â He doesnât say it with the haunted weight Bruce used to, the quiet vow forged from trauma and loss. Dick says it with warmth, with certainty, with a love that pours out of him like sunlight, a promise made not from fear, but from devotion. His hand strokes the back of her tiny body in slow, featherlight motions, memorizing her, mapping her. Her breaths are so small they barely move the blanket, but he feels each one. He feels everything. âSheâs⊠sheâs so beautifulâ he murmurs, voice cracking hard. You smile, exhausted and glowing. âShe looks like you,â you whisper. Dick laughs through his tears, the sound crumbling at the edges. âNo⊠no, she looks like an angel.â Then he glances at you again, softer this time. âLike her mommy.â But even as he says it, his gaze is pulled back down to his daughter, like gravity. He canât stop staring. He canât believe he gets to hold her.
His fingers tremble as he brushes one tiny fist, so impossibly small compared to his palm. When she curls her hand around the tip of his finger , uncoordinated, instinctive, Dick completely loses it. A full sob leaves him, sudden and quiet and raw. His knees nearly buckle even though heâs sitting. He bends over her slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes closed tight as he cries and laughs at the same time. âSheâsheâs holding my fingerâ he whispers like itâs the most unbelievable thing in the world. âSheâs holding my finger. Sheâshe trusts me.â The sound he makes next is soft, strangled, pure emotion. He wasnât prepared. Not for this. Not for how absolutely, overwhelmingly he loves her already. Not for how his heart feels like itâs expanding too fast for his chest to contain. He presses another kiss to her forehead, another to her tiny fist, another to her cheek. âI love youâ he whispers, his voice trembling. âI love you so much. I didnât know I could love like this.â He gently rocks her, the motion natural, instinctive, as if heâs been doing this his whole life.
Every time she twitches or sighs, his breath catches like heâs witnessing a miracle. âIâm gonna protect you. Iâm gonna take care of you. Youâll never be alone. I promise.â He pauses, taking another shuddering breath he barely manages to pull in. âYouâre my little girl.â The phrase, spoken aloud for the first time, seems to break him more than anything else. He closes his eyes, a new wave of tears spilling out, and lowers his forehead so it nearly touches hers, not quite, still careful, always careful, just close enough to feel her warmth. The nurse asks if you want to hold the baby again. Dick doesnât even hear her. His world is a pink blanket, a tiny heartbeat, and the smallest, most perfect girl heâs ever seen. When the nurse repeats herself, Dick finally looks up, slowly, reluctantly, as if pulling himself out of a dream. His cheeks are wet. His eyelashes dark with tears. He looks dazed, euphoric, completely gone. You smile gently. âDick⊠you can keep holding her.â Something in him softens even further, the impossible happening all over again. He looks at you with a love that could light every shadow Gotham has ever known. âAre you sure?â
âShe looks perfect where she is.â His breath shakes. He nods. And then he looks down at his daughter again, and his voice comes out as a whisper, raw and tender and overflowing. âHi, baby girl⊠Daddyâs right here. Iâm not going anywhere.â And for the rest of the night, hours and hours that feel like seconds, Dick Grayson holds his newborn daughter like sheâs the first and last miracle heâll ever need, falling in love every time her tiny chest rises against his arm. He never stops crying. He never stops smiling. He never lets her go.
The apartment is warm in that soft, afternoon sun kind of way, light pouring through the blinds in golden stripes, catching dust motes in gentle floating patterns. Itâs quiet except for the occasional car in the distance, the hum of the heater, and the gentle cooing sounds coming from the small blanket spread out on the couch. Dick sits cross-legged in front of her, his knees touching the edge of the cushion, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leans forward like heâs staring at the most precious treasure heâs ever seen in his life. And he is. His daughter lies on her back on a soft pink blanket, her little hands waving aimlessly in the air, her legs kicking so enthusiastically that one foot almost, almost, catches him in the chest, and Dick laughs softly, catching the tiny socked foot between two fingers and giving it the gentlest squeeze. âYou are way too strongâ he tells her with exaggerated seriousness, his eyes sparkling with that warm blue glow they get only when he looks at you or the baby. âYouâre gonna knock me out one of these days.â She kicks again, harder, like sheâs testing him, and Dick lets out a dramatic gasp. âOhâ! You did! That was an attack! Ah! Critical hit!â She squeals in response, not quite a laugh, but something bubbling at the edges, something that tells him sheâs close. He feels it like electricity. He is already smiling so big his cheeks hurt. âOhhh, you think thatâs funny, huh?â he murmurs, lowering his face closer to hers until their noses are barely an inch apart.
âYou are so lucky youâre cuteâ Her arms flail again, one hand smacking lightly against his chin, and Dick freezes in exaggerated shock. âYou hit meâ he whisper-yells. âThe betrayalâ But his smile is impossible to hide, the kind that curls slow and wide, softening every sharp line in his face. He looks younger like this, softer, happier than he has ever been. He leans even closer, brushing a kiss to her cheek. Just a small one. And the sound she makes, a little high-pitched chirp, lights something on fire inside him. âOh my godâ he breathes, voice cracking slightly even though heâs laughing. âYouâre too much.â He kisses her again. Then once more, lower this time, right at the edge of her little jawline where her cheek meets what is unmistakably, adorably, multiple layers of baby neck rolls. âLook at this,â he whispers to you even though youâre just standing at the kitchen counter, watching with your heart basically melting into a puddle. âLook at this tiny marshmallow. Look at these rolls. Howâhow is this allowed?â He gently pokes one of the soft folds, his finger sinking into the plushness, and the baby kicks her feet and lets out another excited squeak.
Dickâs eyes widen. âOh,â he says softly. âYou like that, huh?â He brings his mouth to her cheek again, this time letting his lips linger for just a moment before he pulls back. She reacts instantly, her face scrunches, her little fists clench, and then⊠The laugh happens. That first laugh. That tiny explosion of sound, bubbling and bright and startlingly loud for such a small body. It hits him like a truck. Dick freezes. His eyes go wide. His mouth falls open. âDid youââ The baby laughs again. Bigger this time. Loud. Joyful. A full belly laugh, her whole body curling inward as if the happiness is too much for her little chest to contain. Dickâs hand flies to his heart and he gasps like someone just delivered him the meaning of life. âOh my godâ Heâs laughing immediately, one hand covering half of his face, tears threatening, chest shaking as the joy hits him all at once. âOh my god, baby girl, was thatâdid you justâ?â She laughs again, louder, a high-pitched baby cackle that seems to echo in the tiny apartment like sunlight bursting through clouds. Dick completely breaks. His laughter becomes helpless, breathless, bordering on tears. âNoâno, you canâtââ He bends over her, completely undone, forehead dropped to the blanket beside her tiny arm as he laughs so hard his shoulders shake.
âYou canât do that to me! Iâm not built for this level of cute!â The babyâs arms wave wildly, her mouth open, her laugh rolling out again and again like sheâs showing off. Dick lifts his head and stares at her with the expression of a man witnessing a miracle. âIâm gonna dieâ he says, voice cracking, laughing again. âYouâre actually gonna kill me. Iâm gonna die from cuteness and the coroner is gonna put it on the report.â She kicks her legs so hard her socks nearly fly off, and Dickâs eyes sparkle with something so warm, so pure it makes your throat tighten. He leans down again, slower this time, eyes locked on hers, and whispers, âOkay. If you liked that⊠Iâve got something even better.â And then he lowers his mouth to her belly. He blows the softest raspberry, his lips buzzing gently against her tiny stomach. She screams in delight, a full shriek of joy that cracks into another belly laugh so contagious that you start laughing too even from across the room. She wiggles, kicks, and squeals, her whole body convulsing with uncontrollable happiness. Dick pulls back with a scandalized gasp. âNO. NO WAY. Thatâs illegal. You are way too cute. Iâm filing a complaint.â Then he dives in again, this time making a ridiculous growling noise as he kisses her tummy, raspberries mixing with exaggerated chomping sounds. The baby canât handle it. She is losing her tiny mind, laughing so hard her face turns red, her nose scrunches, her tongue sticks out, her eyes disappear in happy little crescents. Dick breaks again, laughter erupting out of him in a pure, uncontrollable sound that fills the entire room. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes, heâs crying from laughing, but also crying because he loves her so much he doesnât know what to do with it.
âI canâtââ he gasps, breathless. âI actually canât. How is this real? How is she real?â He wiggles one finger at her belly, teasing her with the threat of another raspberry, and she kicks in excitement, anticipating it. Dickâs grin stretches to full brightness. âOh, you know whatâs coming.â He swoops down and kisses right under her chin, where her neck rolls are thickest and softest. âNom nom nomâoh noooo, the rolls! The rolls!â She squeals and bursts into laughter again, louder than before, her tiny hands smacking his hair, her legs flailing with joy. Dick laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the couch, clutching his chest. âIâmâoh godâIâm GONEâ he sputters, wheezing between laughs. âIâm never going to be the same. Iâm ruined. Iâm destroyed. I belong to this baby now.â He rolls back upright, scooping her carefully up into his arms, pressing her against his chest. Sheâs still giggling, small hiccupy laughs that shake her whole body. Dick kisses the top of her head, tears at the corners of his eyes, and whispers into her soft hair, âI love you so much, sweetheart. You have no idea. No idea what you do to me.â He pulls her back enough to look at her, brushing her chubby cheek with his thumb. âThat laughâŠâ he says softly, voice thick with emotion. âDaddyâs addicted. Youâre gonna get anything you want. Anything. Iâm done for.â She grabs his nose between two tiny fingers. Dick freezes. Then bursts out laughing. âShe got me,â he tells you, deliriously happy. âShe got my nose. My baby girl owns me.â
You walk closer, leaning over the couch with a smile that threatens to overflow into tears. Dick looks up at you, flushed, breathless,, and says in the softest, most heart-full voice youâve ever heard from him âIâve never been this happy.â He presses one more kiss into your daughterâs warm cheek, and she rewards him with another tiny giggle, the kind that bubbles up like magic, and Dick swears right there, in the middle of your living room, that he would do anything in the world just to hear that sound again.
divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto
word count: 3.1k
synopsis: Some lines arenât meant to be crossedâuntil they are.
a/n: I feel like I've been spoiling y'all with too much fluff and smut lately. Sooo, here's some angst.
warning: Graphic depictions of death, blood and torture, character death
It had started as a routine patrol. A quiet night, for once. Jason had even allowed himself to relax. Youâd been on the other end of the comm, he had been teasing you on your so-called cooking skills and threatened to order takeout behind your back while you laughed and scoffed. He was telling you he was going to be home soon and how he wanted to crawl into bed beside you and sleep for a week when everything happened.
Arkhamâs roster was sealed. Every major threat was accounted for. There had been no alarms, no alerts, nothing unusual.
He should have known better.Â
The moment he heard itâthat laughâhis heart stopped. High-pitched. Guttural. Gleeful. Echoing faintly through your comm right before it cut to static.
Jasonâs blood turned to ice.
Then he was moving.
Every instinct in his body screamed as he pushed the bike harder, weaving recklessly through traffic, past red lights and blaring horns. The city became a blur. He didnât feel the cold wind biting at his skin or the way his fingers cramped from gripping the throttle too tight. He didnât even notice the burning in his lungs.
He barely saw the road.
He saw you.
He saw your smile. The way you rolled your eyes at him, the way your voice softened when you held him through his nightmares. He saw every moment that made him believeâfor the first time in yearsâthat he could be more than his rage.
And he saw it slipping away.
Jason stormed the building like a force of nature. He didnât pause to plan or think. He kicked down doors, tore through hallways, left a trail of groaning bodies in his wake. He moved on instinctâpure rage and terrorâclimbing blood-smeared stairwells two steps at a time.
He reached the top floor and burst through the final door, gun drawn, breath ragged, pulse roaring in his ears.
The room stank of copper and smoke.
His vision tunneled. Under the harsh flicker of overhead light, a crowbar lay bent and bloodied on the cracked concrete floor, the stains of red glinting under the flickering overhead light. there was no sign of the Joker. Only an old speaker crackling from the corner, looping the same sound over and over again.
Your screams.
Your cries.
Jason barely registered it. The sound stabbed through his ears like splinters of glass, but his mind could only latch onto one thing. Because then he saw you.
You were crumpled in the cornerâyour limbs limp, body slumped at a sickening angle. Blood seeped from the cracks in your lips, staining your skin, your ripped uniform, the floor beneath you. Bruises bloomed across your face and neck in violent shades of purple and black. Your eyes were still open. Staring blankly at the ceiling.
Jasonâs world stopped. He dropped to his knees so fast the impact rattled up through his spine, and sent a jolt through his bones.Â
âNo, no, noââ
His voice cracked, raw and panicked. His shaky fingers brushed your jaw. Before he leaned in, listening for breath, for anything. He pressed trembling lips to yours and began CPR, counting beneath his breath through gritted teeth. One, two, three, breathe. Over and over.
He knew it was useless.
You were too still. Too broken.
But he tried anywayâdesperate, mechanical, refusing to stop until his chest was heaving and his vision swam with hot, helpless tears.
As he stared down at your lifeless face, something shattered inside him.
He remembered every treasured moment.
Your smile, easy and warm. The sparkle in your eyes when you laughed. God, you always laughed so easilyâso pure and genuine. But now, all he could hear were your screams echoing from the speakers.
He remembered the way your handsâsoft and steadyâwould cup his face, kissing the scars that marred his skin. Scars left behind by the very same monster who had done this to you. You never flinched. Never looked away. You had kissed every wound like it didnât disgust you. Like he didnât terrify you.
Those hands now lay limp at your sides. Stiff. Cold. Gone.
Jasonâs head dropped as the truth crashed down around him like a collapsing building.
And then it tore from himâa guttural scream so raw, so violent, it didnât sound human. It echoed off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness of the room.
And then the rage came, white-hot and all-consuming.
It surged through Jason like fire in his veins, burning away everything else. The grief, the helplessness, the painâit all gave way to something feral.
This was the final act. The moment that shattered what little remained of his restraint.
Slowly, he stood. His limbs felt detached from his body, like they were moving on their own. He crossed the room in a few soundless steps and bent down, fingers curling around the crowbar the Joker had left behind like a signature.
He stared at it for a long time.
There was blood matted into the metal, strands of your hair caught in its jagged edges. It was still sticky. Still fresh.
Jasonâs grip tightened until the metal groaned in protest.
Then he vanished.
For three days, no one heard from him.
Not a ping on his comms. Not a trace in his safe houses. No movement in the surveillance grid. He refused to contact anyone.
And then the bodies started appearing.
In the Narrows, in alleyways, in burnt-out tenements. One by one, they turned upâJokerâs people. Goons. Smugglers. Middlemen. Anyone who ever associated with the clown.
Some were dead.
Some were on the brink, maimed and tortured.Â
This was him sending a message.
He was coming after the clown and he wanted the Joker to know.
Back in the cave, the air had turned suffocating.
Bruce stood at the Bat computer, unmoving. He hadnât taken the cowl off in nearly twenty-four hours. His jaw was locked tight, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with something deeper than exhaustion. On the monitor in front of him, the footage played on a loopâJason kneeling beside your body, desperately trying to bring you back. His hands stained red. His voice cracking. His scream of utter despair before everything inside of him seemed to shut down as he grabbed the crowbar.Â
Bruce watched it again. And again. And again.
He blamed himself.
Tim didnât stop moving. He threw himself into work, hunched over keyboards and monitors, fingers flying as he sifted through surveillance feeds, phone pings, facial recognition scansâanything to find his missing brother. Anything to stop what they all knew was coming.
âJasonâs going to kill him,â Tim said hoarsely, not looking up from the screen. It was the first thing heâd said in hours since he saw the video of your death.
No one disagreed.
Dick took it the hardestâat least the most visibly. He let out a yell as he punched one of the caveâs reinforced walls so hard his knuckles split open, blood dripping down his wrist. Alfred rushed toward him, reaching for his arm, but Dick jerked away, breath ragged and eyes blazing with fury.
âThis didnât have to happen,â he snarled, voice shaking with rage and guilt. âShe shouldâve never been alone. Where the hell was everyone?â
He turned away, bracing both hands against the wall now, shoulders hunched. The muscles in his back twitched beneath his suit. He couldnât look at the others. Couldnât stand to see his own grief reflected back.
Youâd been like a sister to him. Not just because of Jason, but in bonds you took the time to form with everyone in the family. In all the ways youâd softened the edges of their lives. Youâd been the reason Jason came back to them. Youâd bridged the gaps they hadnât known how to cross and fill.
You were the light in the darkness. And now that light had been snuffed out.
Damian hadnât said a word since the news.
Heâd watched the footage once, standing stiffly as your final moments played out on screen. As Jason collapsed beside your body. As he reached for the crowbar and stalked out.
When the video ended, Damian turned and walked away without a word.Â
The next morning, Alfred found him in the training room. He hadnât left. Hadnât eaten. The punching bag had long since burst, its innards scattered across the floor. Wooden practice weapons lay broken in jagged halves. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the same clothes heâd worn the day before. Bruises covered his arms, angry and dark, and his knuckles were scraped raw.
His bo staffâhis favouriteâhad snapped down the centre.
Damian among the debris, breathing heavily, muscles tight with exhaustion and something far worseâgrief.
âI should have gone with her,â he said hoarsely, not looking up. The words were quiet, almost choked. âI could have stopped it.â
âThere was no stopping it,â Alfred replied softly, stepping into the room. His voice was heavy with his own sorrow and regret. âNot with that man. You wouldâve been another victim.â
At that, Damian turned his head, just enough to meet Alfredâs gaze.
His eyes were colder than they shouldâve been. Too old for his young face.
âHe should already be dead,â he said icily.
His voice didnât tremble. But his hands did.
They found Jason three nights later.
The building was a condemned warehouse in the Narrowsâone of the Jokerâs old haunts. The air inside was stale with rot and copper, a sickening echo of the place you had died.
The Joker was tied to a chair in the centre of the room, barely clinging to life. His face was a ruinâswollen, bloodied, almost unrecognizable beneath the purple bruises and caked blood. One eye was swollen shut. Teeth were missing. His breathing came in wet, rattling gasps.
Jason stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, blood spattered across his chest and arms. The crowbarâthe same crowbar the Joker had used on youâhung loosely in his grip, stained dark.
âGet the fuck out,â Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous, without turning to face them.
âJason,â Bruce said carefully, stepping forward. âPut it down.â
âShe begged,â Jason murmured, hollow and distant, as though he hadnât heard Bruce at all. âYou know that? I got here too late⊠but not late enough to miss the audio loop. He recorded it. Her screams. The way he laughed while he broke her apart.â
Tim looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight.
Dick flinched as though struck, his hands curling into fists.
Damian didnât speak. He only stood stiffly, his posture rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white.
âThis wonât bring her back,â Bruce tried to reason, doing his best to keep his voice steady.
Jason snarled whirling around, âHow many more of us does this psycho need to kill before you do something?â
His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His helmet masked his face, but they could all imagine what lay beneathâwild bloodshot eyes, tear-tracked cheeks, fury and grief twisting his features.
âHe beat her to death with this,â Jason spat, lifting the crowbar, hands trembling. âSame way he did to me. Donât you remember? because I do. Every. Fucking. Second. She shouldnât have died like that.â At all.
His voice cracked, just onceâbut it was enough.
âHe laughed while she screamed,â Jason whispered, like he couldnât stop himself from reliving it. âI heard it. Over and over again, until it was all I could hear. Iââ
He faltered, swallowing hard. His grip tightened around the crowbar.
âAnd now you want me to just⊠let him live?â Jasonâs voice rose, not loud, but sharpâaccusing. âAfter everything heâs done?â
âNo,â Bruce said finally. His voice was firm, but the weariness beneath it betrayed him. âI donât want that. But we donât cross this line.â
Jason let out a short, bitter laughâhumourless and sharp.
âIronic,â Jason spat, the word laced with venom. âWhen killing this scumbag from the very beginning couldâve saved thousands of lives. But youââ he turned his head just slightly, the crowbar still hanging at his side like an extension of his arm, âyou let it go on. Again and again. Donât talk to me about lines, Bruce. Youâre no better than him for letting this go on for as long as it has.â
Bruce flinched.
Dick stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. âJayâlisten, manâjust look at yourself,â he said, his voice tight with grief. âYou think this is what she wouldâve wanted? For you to throw away whatâs left of yourself? To lose you after we already lost her?â
Jasonâs eyes flicked to him. âDonât you dare,â he said, voice low and cold, shaking with fury. âDonât you fucking dare bring her into this to make me spare his life.â
Dickâs breath caught, but he stood his ground. âShe loved you, Jason. You think sheâd want you to throw everything away like this? You think sheâd want her death to break you?â
âShe was my everything, Dick.â Jasonâs voice cracked again, and this time, he didnât try to hide it. The grief bled through every word, every breath. âThereâs nothing left to break.âÂ
His hand clenched tighter around the crowbar. His shoulders shookânot from rage, not anymoreâbut from the sheer devastation he couldnât contain.
No one dared speak.
Tim stood frozen, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say somethingâanythingâbut couldnât force the words past the lump in his throat. He just stared at Jason, helpless and sickened. There was nothing he could say or do to make this better.
ThenâDamian stepped forward.
His boots echoed quietly in the bloodstained room. His voice, when he spoke, was cold as steel.
âHe deserves to die.â
All eyes turned to him.
âI would kill him myself,â Damian continued, his tone brutally calm. âFor her. For Todd. For all of us.â
He looked at Jason then, gaze unwavering.
âBut not like this.â
The room went still.
âJustice,â Damian said. âNot vengeance. Y/N lived by that as strongly as any of us. She believed in it. She wouldnât want this.â
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Jason looked away, jaw tightening until the muscle ticked.
âShe deserved better,â he muttered. âBetter than me. Better than this.â
âNo,â Damian said, stepping closer, his voice softer nowâearnest, for once, without a trace of sarcasm or pride. âShe chose you. Donât make her death a reason to become the monster she always believed you werenât.â
For the first time, Jasonâs stance faltered. His shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of his own grief had finally settled fully on his back. He swayedânot physically, but emotionally, like a dam cracking under pressure.
âShe believed in you, Todd,â Damian added, quieter now. âEven when you didnât.â
Bruce said nothing. He didnât move, didnât argue, didnât try to justify the code heâd sworn to uphold. Because deep down, Jason was right. This was his fault. Heâd let the Joker liveâagain and againâand this was the cost. You and every life Joker had taken was the cost.
Dickâs throat worked around words that refused to come. He looked like he wanted to speak, to reach out, to do something, but the grief caught in his chest wouldnât let him.
Tim dropped his gaze, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. He focused on breathing, slow and steady, like that could somehow keep the guilt from swallowing him whole.
You had been too good for this world.
Too good for them.
They shouldâve protected you.
But all they had left was the last moment they saw youâthat bright grin you tossed over your shoulder as you hopped on your bike, your voice teasing in their comms, alive and warmÂ
Jason slowly lowered his head. The crowbar slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a dull metallic clang that echoed off the walls like a gavel striking down a verdict. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of everything he had carriedâgrief, guilt, rage. His knuckles were bone-white, his hands trembling violently.
But thenâ
A wet, gurgling noise broke through the silence.
Behind them, the Joker let out a faint, wheezing giggle. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, teeth cracked and smeared red. His face so battered it barely held shape, but somehowâsomehowâhe managed to laugh. Mocking and triumphant.
Jasonâs eyes snapped toward him.
And in that moment, he saw red.
All he heard was your screams. The way you cried his name. The echo of the Jokerâs laughter overlaying it all.
Jason spiralled back into that sound. That laugh.
The sound that had haunted him since he was brought back by the Lazarus pit.
The sound he now heard in place of your voice.
He moved without thought.
In one swift, fluid motion, Jason turned, unholstered his gun, and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the hideout like thunder.
The Jokerâs head snapped back with a jolt, the grotesque grin still carved into his faceâonly now, frozen in death. He slumped forward in the chair, limp as a marionette with cut strings, blood blooming in a single, perfect hole between his eyes.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed as they registered what had been done.
Bruce closed his eyes. Not in agreementânever thatâbut in resignation. Because deep down, he had known. The moment he saw the crowbar in Jasonâs hands, he had known how this would end. There had never really been a chance to stop it, not with the Joker breathing, not with your death on that clownâs hands. And though the code he lived by screamed in protest, Bruce said nothing.Â
Because in the end, justice had failed you.
Dickâs expression twisted with shock, grief, and something dangerously close to understanding. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, as if heâd meant to reach out, to say somethingâto stop Jason before the line was crossed. But the words never made it past his throat.
What could he even say that hadnât already come too late?
Tim flinched, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His breath caught like a punch to the ribs, and he instinctively turned his face away from the body. He didnât want to see it. Couldnât.Â
Damian didnât flinch. He didnât look away. His green eyes burned with emotions but he said nothing more.Â
Jason stood frozen. The smoking barrel of his pistol hung at his side, his arm limp now that the rage had left him. His entire body was rigid, locked in place, his face carved from stoneâhard and cold and unmoving.
âSheâs dead,â he said, the words brittle and jagged, like ice cracking under pressure. âAnd now so is he.â
He stared down at the Jokerâs body, not with triumph. Not even with satisfaction.
Just emptiness.
âThis bastard will never hurt another one of us again.â
Uuuuhh... can I get a fic with Damian high on meds after having a surgery.... with extra drama in the form of him having a secret relationship, and asking for her(reader) while drugged.... uhh with a side of fluff hold the angst .... that's all thank you
âïž” pairing đ đ đ damian wayne x fem!reader
ê° đŠ ê± synopsis đ đ đ damian gets knocked out during a mission and wakes up post-surgery with enough pain meds in his system to dissolve every wall heâs ever built. youâre supposed to be secret, but he exposes your relationship, obliterated by narcotics and his complete inability to hide how deeply heâs attached to you.
WAYNE MEDICAL WING LIGHTS WERE TOO BRIGHT for someone whoâd just stopped being technically unconscious, but damian surfaced like someone annoyed at being dragged from a nap he didnât consent to, an insult so personal his eyelids twitched before they even opened. the brightness pressed through his skull like it was trying to etch itself directly into his brain. sterile white, the kind that had never once existed in a place he trusted. he cracked his eyes open anyway.
bad choice.
the ceiling came into focus in pieces: harsh tiles, vents humming cold air downward, a hairline crack near the corner heâd catalogued months ago during someone elseâs medical emergency. except this time it wasnât someone else lying flat on their back in a bed built for recovery and compliance. it was him. which meant something had already gone terribly wrong.
the sheets were tucked too tightly, pinning him with all the subtlety of a net trap. the IV line tugged whenever he moved his fingers. his throat tasted dry, surgical dryness, not dehydration, and every breath carried that over-sterile antiseptic scent that hospitals diffused like perfume. it stung in a way memory recognized before consciousness did.
he hated it. he hated it viscerally, instinctively, the way you hate an enemy youâve fought before.
a chair creaked. dick. of course. no one else sat that way, half-slouched, half-alert, like a golden retriever trying to look responsible. âhey, baby bat,â dick welcomed softly, which was exactly the wrong volume. âback with us?â
damian squinted at him as if being spoken to was rude. his voice, when it came, sounded like someone had replaced his mouth with cement. âwhy,â he croaked, blinking slowly, âare you here.â
âyou had surgery.â
damian paused like the word needed to be decoded. then his eyebrows knit together, slow, offended, gradually outraged. âi didnât agree to that.â
dick huffed a tired laugh. âyeah, well⊠it was kind of an emergency. and you were unconscious. and also? you literally signed the consent form before the anesthesia.â
damian stared at him, long and unimpressed. âforged.â
âit wasnât forged.â
âi do not sign things.â
âyou sign things all the time.â
damian shut his eyes briefly, like acknowledging that was beneath him. then he opened them again, narrower, sharper, but the effect was ruined by how unfocused the pupils were, drifting like his thoughts kept hitting walls before reaching their destination. the air was too clean. the lights too white. the smell coiled into his chest and pulled memories heâd rather leave buried, metal tools, cold hands, the way the world looked when he was small and helpless and expected to endure instead of resist. nothing specific, just impressions. sensations. hospitals always woke old ghosts.
his jaw tightened. he wasnât supposed to be the one in this bed. he didnât get hurt. not enough to be downed like this. the last patrol replayed in flashes â a blade catching him off-balance, the impact hot, surprising. he remembered the pain, but not falling. not blacking out. that made his stomach twist.
failure. vulnerability. unacceptable.
dick watched him with that older-brother sensitivity that always made damian bristle, like being perceived was an attack. âbefore you say anything,â dick added, âyou did not lose the fight. you didnât mess up. you got blindsided by a meta with a strength boost and you still managed to take him down. you just⊠didnât stay upright afterward.â
damian glared. âi donât recall being horizontal.â
âbecause you passed out.â
another glare. this one personal. dick raised his hands. âdonât look at me like that. i didnât make you lose consciousness.â
damianâs fingers twitched against the sheets. the fabric felt wrong, stiff, overwashed, hospital-issue. the kind meant for patients who stayed still. he hated being still. he shifted slightly, and something tugged sharply at the back of his hand. his gaze snapped downward.
an IV. taped in place. tubing snaked up to a bag overhead, dripping fluid into his bloodstream without permission. his entire expression went cold. âremove it.â
dick inhaled sharply. âdamianââ
âremove it.â
âdonâtâ okay, donâtââ dick took two hurried steps forward as damianâs fingers curled around the line. âdonât you dare pull that out. i mean it. donât.â
âi am not a lab specimen.â
âyouâre not,â dick agreed. âyouâre someone who needs fluids and pain meds because you wereâ whatâs the wordâ oh yeahâ stabbed.â
âit was minor.â
âit was internal.â
damian blinked at him, insulted. âi donât want it.â
âtoo bad.â
there was tension in damianâs shoulders. that hyper-focused alertness from childhood, when beds were places you recovered because you werenât allowed to move, not because someone cared. his muscles remembered even when he didnât think about it. his back never fully pressed to the mattress, his hands never fully relaxed. his breath always came measured, as if steadying itself for violence. the medical wing amplified that tension. the smell. the lights. the machines. everything too reminiscent of control.
heâd been so busy cataloguing exits and shadows and the exact height of the IV stand that he hadnât even noticed how his own body felt untilâ
oh.
there it was.
the meds hit him. that soft, warm fog rolling in, blurring everything he tried to focus on. his thoughts glitched, trying to line up in formation and instead tripping over themselves. âgrayson,â he said, voice suspicious, âdid you put something in my blood?â
dick, whoâd been leaning on the side of the bed like a worried parent pretending not to be one, blinked back. âuhâno, bud. you were asleep during the operation, remember? anesthesia? pain meds?â
damian stared at him like dick had just recited a riddle in an unfamiliar dialect. âi was⊠asleep,â damian repeated. âyou let them do that.â
âyou needed them to do that.â dick corrected.
damianâs eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined by how glazed they looked. âi do not need unconsciousness to survive.â
âyou do when your insides are trying to become your outsides.â dick muttered.
damian ignored him entirely, still watching him with a narrowing-bandwidth intensity. âyou allowed it.â
âyou signed the form.â
âforged,â damian said, again, instantly, with the complete confidence of someone who barely remembered what a pen was. âi would not voluntarily be medically compromised.â
âit wasnât forged,â dick sighed. âyou filled it out. you even wrote your full name at the bottomâvery neatly, might i add.â
damian frowned like he was conspiring against him. he opened his mouth to deny it⊠but then a wave of dizziness rolled through him, like someone had tipped the room on its axis. he went still. his eyes went a little wide. âi feel⊠peculiar.â
âthatâs the painkillers.â
âi dislike them.â
âi can tell.â
damian shifted, which was a mistake, his brain lagged behind the movement by a full second, like his consciousness had to sprint to catch up with his body. âmy head isââ he paused, searching the ceiling as if the correct vocabulary word was written there. ââfloat-adjacent.â
âyouâre high, dami.â
âi am notââ damian began, then stopped mid-denial, staring at the wall with deep betrayal. âi am.â
âyep.â
âi dislike this.â
âweâve got that part,â dick said gently. âbut youâre safe. and youâre okay. and itâs temporary.â
damianâs eyes tracked dickâs face like it was the only stable object in a shifting landscape. his brow furrowed with an almost childlike confusion. âi⊠donât remember agreeing,â he murmured. âor anything. i was⊠focused. then pain.â he paused, blinked. ââŠthen nothing.â
âthatâs normal.â
ââŠwhereâsââ
but the name got lost on damianâs tongue.
not forgotten, more like the conveyor belt of his brain jammed halfway through delivering it. he blinked, confused, mouth still slightly open like the word might tumble out if he waited long enough. dick straightened, alert. âwhereâs who, bud?â
damian stared back at him, unfocused. something flickered behind his eyes, something searching, reaching. but whatever it was refused to surface. his brows knit, annoyed at his own mind for failing him. ââŠi donâtââ he frowned, as if the thought had slipped between his fingers. âi knew it. i know it. i just⊠canât⊠hold it.â
dick softened. âhey. itâs okay. youâre still coming out of anesthesia.â
damian frowned. the door opened before dick could say anything else, tim walking in first, rubbing his eyes, followed by cass. tim raised his coffee cup. âlook whoâs conscious.â
cass tipped her head.
damianâs eyes snapped to themâwell, halfway. they snapped, stalled, then drifted into their direction like his neurons were buffering. âyou are loud,â damian announced.
tim blinked. âwe⊠didnât say anything.â
âyour face is loud.â
tim nodded solemnly. âmakes sense.â
cass stepped closer, tracking damianâs micro-movements with an ease that came from years of knowing how to read bodies better than minds. damian triedâtriedâto push himself up. his arm trembled. his shoulder lifted a fraction. cass reached out with one finger and pressed it lightly to his sternum. damian went down like gravity had increased selectively on his body alone. his eyes went wide. âthat is unfair.â
cass offered a tiny smile. âdoctorâs orders.â
âi do not listen to orders.â
âyou listened to hers.â tim added dryly.
damian glared at him. or tried to. the effect was softened by the fact his eyelids kept drooping like they were too heavy. âshe cheated,â damian muttered.
cass watched the way damianâs eyes refused to work with him and smiled shyly. âyouâre high.â
âi am notââ damian started, then hesitated, as if realizing halfway through the lie that he didnât have the cognitive precision to pull it off. âi am⊠moderately under the influence.â
âthatâs one way to put it.â tim mumbled.
damianâs head tilted back toward dick like his mind was circling back to unfinished business. âi was asking.â
âabout who?â dick asked.
damian stared at him again. long, slow, pondering with the full force of a malfunctioning operating system. he opened his mouth, then closed it. frustration etched across his face. ââŠgone,â he said finally. âi lost it.â
âitâll come back.â
âi hate this,â damian declared. âi hate hospitals. i hate beds. i hate drugs. i hate this room. i hateââ
âoh boy,â tim breathed. âhere we go.â
damian lifted one hand. studied it. flexed his fingersâdelayed, clumsy. he stared like his own hand had betrayed him. âmy reaction speed is compromised. this is humiliating.â
âdonât worry,â tim said cheerfully. âweâre taking mental notes.â
damian shot him a bleary glare. âi will end you.â
âin your current state?â tim asked. âyou couldnât even end a game of tic-tac-toe.â
âi could,â damian insisted, leaning forward as if to intimidate him, except his torso only made it two inches up before cassâs finger sent him right back down again. damian let out a low, affronted noise. âstop that.â he told her.
she shook her head.
damianâs eyes narrowed, then drifted, then narrowed again as if the glare needed to be reinstalled every few seconds. he sighed, long and dramatic. âi should not be in this bed.â
âyou were stabbed,â dick said gently.
âeveryone gets stabbed.â
ânot in the liver.â tim said, absolutely delighted to be here, absolutely delighted that damian wasnât at full power to stop him.
damian blinked. âmy liver?â
âyes.â
he frowned, deeply betrayed. âi use that.â
ânot today you donât.â
damian ignored him, attention wandering again, circling back toward the hole in his memory like a bee drawn repeatedly to the same window. tim rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, grin already sharpening. âso,â he began casually, âspeaking of things you âuse,â want to talk about the stuff you were saying while you were unconscious?â
dickâs head snapped toward him. âtim. no.â
tim ignored him completely. âbecause wow. i didnât know you had a romantic side. likeâit was actually kind of sweet? a little embarrassing? honestly extremely embarrassing.â
damianâs face twisted. âwhat are youââ
âyou kept saying,â tim continued, pitching his voice into a dreamy falsetto, ââmy beloved⊠come back⊠come here⊠where are youâŠââ he clutched his chest dramatically.
âI did not say that,â damian barked, though it came out slightly slurred, tragically soft, devastatingly unthreatening. âdrake is lying.â damian announced to the ceiling, as if the ceiling could issue a rebuttal.
except â- then damian froze, not visibly, internally, like someone had pulled the emergency brake on his thoughts. the hazy warmth in his veins pulsed, rising like heat behind his ears. something in his chest tightened, memory stirring sluggishly but insistently. the drugs softened everything except that. that memory. that wanting.
the warmth in his bloodstream pulsed again, stronger, like a tide he couldnât fight. he blinked slowly, vision blooming and fading at the edges, and in the middle of that blur, something clear rose to the surface. you.
your face. your voice. your hands brushing the hair off his forehead last week. your breath against his neck in the quiet hours. your laugh that he pretended didnât undo him. he inhaled sharply, like the thought of you punched through the haze. tim, seeing the shift, took a step back. he knew this was no longer teasing territory, this was damianâs guard dissolving in real time. dick moved a little closer. âdamian?â
damian blinked again. confusion, longing, frustration, and beneath all of it, a tenderness so raw it seemed to surprise even him. âwhereâsâŠâ his voice wobbled, more breath than sound. â(y/n)?â
timâs eyebrows shot up to his hairline. cassâs head tilted, studying him. damian didnât notice their reactionsâdidnât even register that heâd slipped. the meds made the truth feel natural, inevitable, impossible to contain.
âi want her here.â
dick blinked rapidly. âher?â
âyes, her,â damian muttered like they were stupid for being confused, tone clipped but dreamy, like he was trying to be irritated through marshmallow fog. âshe should be here.â
dick tried gently, âwhoââ
â(y/n).â damian snapped. âthe one iâ the one whoââ he cut himself off, annoyed at how hard the words suddenly were. his tongue felt slow. his brain fuzzed.
everything except the wanting.
âiâd much rather be with her than you guys.â
damian pushed on, voice dipping into something warm and unrestrained and utterly unlike him. âshe doesnât talk so loudly,â he mumbled, glaring at tim for existing. âand she doesnât hover.â a pointed look at dick. âand sheâs gentle.â he added, a little dreamily, glancing at cass.
cassâs eyes softened. dickâs heart did a little somersault. tim opened and closed his mouth like a stunned goldfish. damian continued, because the drugs had him rambling, pouring out affection heâd buried so deep even he forgot it was there. âand she smells nice,â he said, brows furrowing like this was deeply important. âand she holds my hand when iâm hurt. why isnât she here.â
âd,â dick said softly, âwe⊠didnât know she existed.â
âthatâs not my problem.â damian glared at the wall. âshe should be here.â he shifted, trying to sit up, but cass stopped him again. he slumped back instantly, blinking up at her like sheâd just used dark magic. âi need to talk to her,â damian insisted. âsheâs probably worried.â
damianâs face, already soft from the medication, creased in a way none of them had ever seen. not anger, not annoyance, something else. something gentler. unguarded. dangerously unguarded.
he frowned. a slow, heartbreakingly earnest frown. ââŠshe should be here,â he murmured again, more wounded this time, as if the roomâs failure to produce you was a insult.
tim whispered, âweâre in uncharted territory,â like a man narrating a nature documentary about a dangerous, delicate creature.
dick pulled a chair closer. âweâre not keeping her from you,â he said. âno one knew you wanted her here.â
damian scowled. âi always want her here.â
tim choked on a laugh. cass elbowed him. but damian wasnât doneâif anything the words were pouring out faster now, because every thought of you made the meds tug him deeper into that warm, floaty honesty. âshe knows how to touch my hair the right way,â he admitted, cheeks flushing faintly. âyou donât justâ you have to go with the grain, not against theââ he gestured vaguely at his head, missing by several inches. âshe knows. why isnât she here.â
âshe doesnât know youâre awake.â
âyou should have told her,â damian argued, scandalized. âyou should haveâ obviously you should haveââ his breath stuttered, foggy frustration ripping through him. âi want her.â he repeated, smaller.
âokay,â dick said. âokay. weâll get her. just⊠try to relax.â
damian tried to glare, but it melted halfway into a woozy pout. âi wonât relax until sheâs here.â
dick exhaled, long-suffering but soft. âiâll call her. justâstay in the bed. stay horizontal. stay⊠not ripping out your IV.â
damian made a grumpy sound that was supposed to be dignified and was absolutely not.
you arrived like someone who had run every red light between your apartment and the wayne medical wing. you hadnât even finished tying your shoes when the call cameâan unfamiliar number flashing on your screen, a clipped voice saying, âhi, uh, this is dick graysonâdamianâs brotherâplease donât panic, heâs okay, but heâs asking for you and we⊠think you should come.â
you barely remembered hanging up. or grabbing keys. or the elevator door almost closing on your shoulder. ten minutes, maybe eleven, but it felt like one long breath held in your chest. in those ten minutes, everything in your head spun: damian doesnât get hurt. damian doesnât call for anyone. damian doesnât need.
so what couldâve happened for dick to sound like that? what couldâve happened for damian to ask for you?
the security staff let you through without questionâdick mustâve put your name on some list, because no wayne employee is normally that chill about strangers sprinting through sterile hallways with fear in their eyes.
your boots echoed off polished floors. the medical wing always had that cold, expensive, unnecessarily white lookâa place built to fix bodies, not calm nerves. you followed the signs, heart hammering, palms damp.
room 3B.
your hand hovered on the handle for half a secondâhalf a breathâbecause you had no idea what version of damian youâd find on the other side of the door. injured damian? angry damian? scared damian?
you pushed the door open.
damian had not relaxed. if anything, he had stewed, curled miserably in a hospital bed that looked like it was offending his entire lineage by existing. his hair was a mess. his eyes were half-lidded and glassy. a deep, irritable crease sat between his brows.
when you stepped in, the room shifted. dick straightened in his chair, relief flooding him. tim blinked like he couldnât believe you were a real person. cass smiled at you like sheâd expected this all along. but damianâ
damianâs eyes snapped open like someone had turned the sun directly toward him. the transformation was instant. his whole face softened and brightened all at once, surprise flickering into recognition, recognition melting into something warm and wreckingly tender. âbeloved,â he breathed.
and it was so quiet.
then he triedâimmediately, stupidly, disastrouslyâto sit up. ânoâno, no,â dick sputtered, grabbing his shoulder, flattening him instantly.
damian blinked up at him, betrayed for the thirtieth time today.
but then his gaze dragged back to you, heavy, warm, intoxicatedânot just by meds but by relief. âyouâre here. finally.â
your heart dropped somewhere into your stomach. âof course i came,â you started, glancing wearily at everyone in the room but stepping closer. âyou called for me.â
âi needed you,â he said, so matter-of-factly it felt like the room stopped breathing. âi told them. repeatedly. they were slow.â
âheyââ
dick shot tim a glare.
damian reached for you without hesitation, fingers outstretched, messy and uncoordinated but desperate. cass gently caught his wrist to keep him from yanking at his IV. âcome here,â damian insisted, eyes locked on yours. âi hate this place. i hate all of them.â he gestured vaguely at his siblings. âi want you.â
your lungs forgot how to work. âdami,â you murmured, stepping to his bedside, taking his free hand carefullyâcareful because he was loopy, careful because he was fragile, careful because he was looking at you like you were the only real thing in a world made of fog.
he exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief the moment your skin touched his. âyes. that. stay.â
and suddenly youâre the idiot standing in a hospital room surrounded by the waynes. you donât look at any of them. you canât. eye contact feels like a trapdoor.
because this is the exact scenario damian spent months avoiding. the one he insisted would âcomplicate mattersâ or âinvite unnecessary scrutinyâ or âdestroy our operational advantage,â which was his very dramatic way of saying he didnât want his family to know he had feelings like a human being.
and now heâs clinging to your wrist like a toddler afraid youâll evaporate. your voice tries to work but it comes out small. âuh⊠okay. iâm here. not going anywhere.â
dick makes a soft, amazed sound, like heâs watching a wild animal eat out of someoneâs hand for the first time. tim is frozen in place, eyes narrowed like heâs trying to run a facial-recognition scan on the situation. cass just looks deeply entertained. damian doesnât notice any of it. heâs too busy hauling your hand into his chest like he needs the pressure to stay anchored.
he nudges closer to you on the pillowâwell, he attempts to, but heâs so high that the movement is less âsmooth shiftâ and more âgentle toppling.â you catch him before he face-plants, hands awkward around his shoulders, and he⊠softens. actually softens. melts into your touch like heâs never heard of pride in his life. âdonât leave,â he mutters. âtheyâre awful. youâre the only tolerable one.â
his siblings watch this happen with the energy of people witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. your heart does something inconvenient. âiâm not going anywhere,â you say again, softer.
heâs going to regret every single word of this when the pain meds wear off. damian relaxes immediately, head tipping toward you, completely unconcerned that half his family is witnessing this emotional striptease heâll definitely deny later. then his hand paws clumsily at the air until it finds yours again. he drags it to his chest, then up toward his jaw, nudging, nudging, nudging like a disgruntled cat demanding to be held exactly the right way. you blink down at him. âwhat are you doing.â
âyou know what iâm doing,â he mutters, pushing your palm against his cheek like heâs molding clay. âcloser.â
âi am close.â
ânot enough.â a pout forms soft lower lip pushed forward in wounded royalty. âyouâre supposed toâŠâ he gestures with his other hand, fingers fluttering like heâs trying to summon the word. âkiss me.â
your body goes rigid. âdamian. your entire family is three feet away.â
tim chokes on spit. dick makes a strangled noise. cass is already covering her smile with her hand. dick, bless him, claps his hands together. âalright! great time to take a break. weâre gonna⊠uh⊠give you two some space.â
âa lot of space,â tim adds, sprinting for the door like the room is on fire.
cass pauses beside the doorway, gives you a thumbs-up, then closes the door behind them. immediately, muffled bickering erupts.
âyou didnât record that?â
âiâm not filming our brother in the hospital!â
âcoward.â
âguys, shut upââ
âi canât believe he said kiss meââ
âcass stop laughingââ
âOH my godââ
you drag a hand down your face. âthis is mortifying.â
damian doesnât care. damian cares zero percent. damian is busy guiding your hand back to his cheek and pressing into it like itâs a heat source keeping him alive. âtheyâre idiots,â he announces, voice thick with anesthesia and indignation. âloud. insufferable. invasive.â he blinks heavily, lashes brushing your wrist. âiâm glad theyâre gone.â
âtheyâre right outside the door still arguing.â
âtheyâre always arguing,â he says, sleepy venom coating every syllable. âthey argue about toast.â
you try not to smile. âand you donât?â
âi argue with purpose.â he says this with the gravitas of a dying king. âthey argue because theyâre incompetent.â his fingers curl around your wrist and he tries to tug you closer again. âcome here,â he murmurs, cheeks pink from more than medication. âyouâre being difficult.â
âiâm being respectful.â you correct.
he frowns. actually frowns, like youâve just informed him gravity is optional now. âdisgusting.â he sighs like a martyr. âjust kiss me.â
his fingers skate clumsily up your wrist, slipping twice before finally hooking behind your hand, dragging it back to his cheek with the determination of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. his pulse flutters beneath your palm, fluttery in that way that tells you the meds are hitting harder. âi need one,â he murmurs, barely audible. âjustâone.â
âdamianââ
âplease,â he whispers. he looks at you like youâre the single point of focus in a world thatâs tilting. pupils blown, cheeks flushed with medication and emotion he canât register enough to restrain. heâs trying so hard to keep his eyes open, to hold onto you, to stay with you in the haze.
the battle between logic and instinct lasts all of four seconds. maybe less. you lean in, careful, so he can pull back if he wants. he doesnât. he meets you halfway, or at least tries to, except he misjudges the distance and bumps your chin first, blinking like the world betrayed him again. you soften. cup the side of his face, steady him, then you kiss him.
itâs gentle. warm. barely there at first, just the press of your mouth against his, letting him feel it, understand it. his breath catches, a soft inhale against your lips like he canât believe he got what he asked for. then the tension melts out of him all at once. his shoulders sag. his hand slides up to clutch weakly at your shirt. he makes this tiny, involuntary soundâhalf sigh, half reliefâlike the kiss untied some knot inside him he didnât know was choking him. he kisses you back clumsily, lazily, chasing the contact with unfocused devotion. the kind of kiss that says iâm not fully here, but what i feel for you is.
when you finally pull backâbecause heâs still recoveringâhis eyes remain closed for a moment, like reality hasnât quite caught up. they open, glazed and adoring in a way he will absolutely deny to the grave. âthat,â he murmurs, voice dropping like heâs drifting toward sleep. âbetter.â
you smooth his hair back gently. âyeah?â
he nods against your hand, eyelids lowering again. âyou fixed the⊠everything.â his lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesnât have the energy. âkiss me again later.â
you canât help it. you laugh. âweâll see.â
he humsâhums, like heâs some exhausted, medicated cat settling into sun-warm sheets instead of a post-surgery assassin with a reputation to maintain. for a few minutes, everything is strangely easy. soft. he drifts in and out, eyes half-lidded, expression mellow in a way that would terrify gothamâs criminal underground. he asks you three questions in a row (âwhat time is it⊠why does the ceiling breathe⊠can you make the bed stop tilting?â), only for his attention to wander halfway through the third answer.
you stroke his hair and he melts like warm wax, that stiffness he always carries dissolving like youâre seeing a piece of him that only exists under anesthesia and around you. âyou should rest,â you observe.
âi am resting.â he sounds offended youâd suggest otherwise. âiâm the picture ofââ he yawns without warning. ââdiscipline.â
âsure,â you say, hand smoothing down his cheek. âvery disciplined.â
he narrows his eyes, but the effect is ruined by how heavy his eyelids are. âmockery is unbecoming.â he drifts again, fingers twitching once like he wants to pull you even closer but canât muster the energy. ten more seconds pass before he murmurs, barely audible, âdonât be gone long.â
your chest folds in on itself. âi wonât.â
but you still have to go. he needs his siblings updated. you need to breathe something other than recycled medical-wing air. andâletâs be honestâyou need to apologize for walking in and accidentally detonating a family-secret bomb.
you pry his hand gently off your shirt, not easy, because he makes a soft, grumpy noise at the loss, and settle it over his blanket. âiâll be right back,â you whisper.
he scowls, soft and half-asleep. âyou better.â
you slip out. the door clicks shut behind you, and immediately, the hallway noise stops. immediately. like a switch. one second thereâs muffled arguing, sharp whispers, annoyed sighs, something that sounds suspiciously like tim saying âthatâs not fair, cass, you canât hit people in a debateââ
and the next? dead silent.
you step fully into the corridor. three faces turn to you at once, frozen mid-conflict like you just walked in on a crime scene. dick stands with his arms out like he was physically separating people. tim looks defensive, hands half-raised, mouth half-open. cass is calmly holding what looks like timâs hoodie string, like sheâs been yanking him back into line.
they all stare. you blink. ââŠhi,â you say. it comes out small. painfully polite. the kind of greeting you use when youâve just barged into the batfamilyâs private meltdown because your secret boyfriend couldnât keep quiet on morphine.
dick straightens so fast you actually hear the click of his spine. âhi! hey! um. hi. wow. okay. youâyou came out.â
tim elbows him. âof course she came out, she used the doorââ
cass smacks the back of his head without looking.
âow???â
you exhale slowly. âso⊠um. i guess i should sayâsorry? for all of that? heâs⊠not usually like this.â
three pairs of eyes give you the exact same expression:
oh we know.
you swallow, fingers twisting together because suddenly youâre seventeen again and meeting someoneâs parents in a too-small living room where everyone is staring. âright,â you say. âum. so. iâmââ the word lodges in your throat. girlfriend.
technically true. emotionally true. secretly true. publicly, though⊠this was supposed to come out months from now. carefully. intentionally. maybe after damian finished having a internal breakdown about letting anyone know he had feelings at all. definitely not in a fluorescent hallway with him high on enough pain meds to take down a rhinoceros.
you clear your throat. âiâm⊠hisââ
they all lean in a fraction. like wolves scenting vulnerability.
ââgirlfriend.â
silence. not the casual kind. not the âoh okayâ kind. no. this is the thick, suffocating, batfamily kind of silence, where shock ricochets between them. you want to die.
âwow,â dick finally says, voice high and bright and absolutely panicked. âso youâreâuhâwow. okay.â
tim takes a step back from you like youâre a rare cryptid. âwait, wait. damianâour damianâhas a secret girlfriend and he didnât tell anyone?â
âit wasnâtââ you rub your face. âit wasnât my idea to keep it secret.â
every head turns toward the door behind you. the door damian is behind. three simultaneous: âof course it wasnât.â
you sigh. âhe didnât⊠want the attention. or the questions. or theââ you gesture vaguely at the cluster of energy in front of you ââthis.â
dick nods so hard youâre briefly concerned for him. âyeah. okay. right.â
tim crosses his arms. âhe trusts none of us with his personal life. unbelievable.â
cass tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. âhe likes her,â she says simply.
everyone turns to her, startled by the rare verbal input. she shrugs. âi watch him.â
youâre still mortified.âiâm sorry,â you say again, because apologizing feels easier than existing in this moment.
âno, no,â dick insists. âdonât apologize. weâre justâprocessing.â
âpoorly.â tim adds.
âyes, poorly.â
you glance at the door, then back to them. âhe⊠didnât mean to tell you. heâs just⊠really high.
tim snorts. âyeah, we noticed.â
but thenâdick softens. visibly. his whole posture loosens. âweâre⊠glad youâre here. really.â
cass nods once. tim looks like he wants to be annoyed, but deep down, heâs already building a spreadsheet called damianâs girlfriend: things to investigate. you inhale, steadying yourself. this is fine. youâre here. damianâs safe. theyâre⊠intimidating, but also weirdly welcoming in a way. dick takes a half-step toward the door. âheâs probably freaking out that youâre gone.â
you grimace. ââŠyeah. heâs not subtle right now.â
tim snorts. âunderstatement of the century.â
you all slip back into the roomâwell, you walk in, and the batfamily kind of fans in behind you like an unnecessarily dramatic processionâand immediately youâre met with a very specific sound: damian huffing.
heâs upright again, God knows how he managed it with stitches and sedation, blanket bunched around his waist, hair a complete disaster, eyes sharp but unfocused and dark with irritation. he looks like someone whoâs been abandoned in a desert for hours, not eight minutes. the second he sees you, everything in him unclenches. the frown softens. the shoulders drop. the tension behind his eyes dissolves like sugar in tea. âfinally.â
you take a slow breath. âi was gone for like ten minutes.â
âten minutes,â he repeats, scandalized. âi could have died.â
dick, behind you, mouths jesus christ into his hands.
you step closer and damian instantly reaches for you, hands out, grabby, zero dignity, all instinct. he looks like heâs two seconds from climbing out of bed and onto you. âi told you,â he mutters, leaning toward you with the gravity of someone confessing state secrets, âi canât sleep without you.â
your brain stalls. his siblings collectively short-circuit behind you. âyouâve⊠never said that.â
âiâm saying it now.â he tries to sit up even straighter, immediately winces, then stubbornly ignores the pain. âi hate it when you disappear. itâsââ he squints, trying to find the word in the fog of anesthetic swimming through him, ââunacceptable.â
âunacceptable,â tim echoes under his breath, shaking his head like this is the best day of his life.
damian hears it and snapsânot very effectively, because itâs slurred and soft and deeply non-threateningââshut up, drake.â then he turns back to you, expression going gentle again so fast itâs whiplash. âcome here,â he says, voice lower, sleepy, warm. âplease.â
you move without thinking. âbetter,â he mumbles, leaning into your palm. Leaning. âi hate hospitals.â
âi know you do.â
âthey smell like fear and bleach. drake smells like bleach too. itâs suspicious.â
tim throws both hands up. âwhatâwhyâwhat did i even do?!â
damian doesnât answer, mostly because something else catches his attention. his gaze drifts back toward the IV taped to his hand like heâs just spotted an enemy combatant. ââŠitâs still there,â he mutters darkly.
you can practically hear dickâs soul leave his body. âdamianââ
too late.
damianâs fingers curl, determined and clumsy, reaching for the line like heâs about to solve all his problems via self-sabotage ânope,â you say quickly, sliding your hand over his before he can yank. âdonât start with that.â
he blinks at you, startled. âbut itâs in me.â
âyes,â you say calmly, âand itâs supposed to be. if you pull it out, itâs going to hurt, youâll bleed everywhere, and dr. thompson will throw a fit.â
damian glowers at the IV like it personally betrayed him. âi do not consent to its presence.â
âtough,â you say softly. âleave it.â
and something miraculous happens.
he listens.
he actually stops. his fingers relax under yours, he gives one final deeply offended exhale, then slumps back against the pillow, letting you guide his hand away from the tubing entirely. dick stares at the exchange like he just watched a unicorn descend from the ceiling. âyouâve gotta be kidding me.â
tim narrows his eyes. âyeah, no, I want that in writing. he listened? willingly?â
damian doesnât even look at them. his attention is fully back on you, as if heâs forgotten anyone else exists. âyouâre better at giving orders,â he mumbles, voice slurred and honest.
your eyebrows shoot up. âi didnât give an order.â
âyes you did,â he insists, even poutier now. âand i liked it.â
tim chokes. you press a hand over damianâs, trying not to laugh. âokay. well. thank you for listening.â
âi listen to you,â he says, like itâs obvious. âyou make sense.â
and thenâinevitablyâdamianâs gaze drifts, catches something on the wall-mounted TV across from the bed, and brightens in a way that is actually alarming. âtch. finally,â he mutters. âsomething decent.â itâs⊠an anime. some shonen fight scene paused on a commercial break. âthey always have commercials on. americans have no discipline.â
âdo youâwatch that one?â
âi watch everything,â he says, as if this is another well-known fact. âi have criteria.â
âcriteria,â tim echoes. âoh this I gotta hear.â
damian lifts a finger dramatically, like heâs addressing a senate hearing. âstrong character arcs. accurate sword technique. no filler episodes.â he narrows his eyes like the concept personally offended him. âmost of them⊠disgraceful.â
and thenâgod help youâhe turns his head toward you and says, in a tone so earnest it almost knocks you over: âif i recommended shows to you, you would watch them. properly.â
tim inhales sharply. âare you ASKING her to watch anime with you? publicly? in front of witnesses?â
damian blinks once. twice. âyes?â he says, baffled that this is even a question. âwhy wouldnât i? she listens.â
dick puts a hand over his heart. âthis is the most emotion heâs displayed since he was born.â
damian ignores him completely because a new thought has struck him, and he must share it immediately or die.
âand she likes animals,â he says. âthis matters.â
you look around. ââŠdoes it?â
âyes.â he nods, solemn. âpeople who donât like animals are not to be trusted. it is⊠foundational.â
âi meanâtrue,â you mumble, trying not to laugh.
âshe,â he says, pointing at you again, âlets titi sleep on her jacket. on purpose.â
tim freezes. âwait. the demon cat? on their clothes? andâno blood?â
you shrug awkwardly. âsheâs actually very sweetââ
âHA,â damian cuts in, triumphant. âi told you.â then, with no transition at all: âtiti likes her more than she likes you.â
this is addressed to the entire batfamily.
gasps. outrage. betrayal. you pat damianâs arm, trying to settle him down. he looks up at you instantlyâimmediate, instinctive. âdonât go again,â he says, like you abandoned him for years instead of stepping outside to apologize to his siblings.
âiâm right here,â you soothe.
he exhales, satisfied. âgood. if you leave, they talk. they always talk.â his voice drops to a whisper, conspiratorial. âthey gossip.â
âWE DO NOT.â
damian waves a dismissive hand. âyes you do. you gossip like⊠hens.â
âhens??â
âLOUD hens,â damian corrects, settling further into your side. âand idiotic.â
you choke on a laugh as all three brothers erupt in overlapping offended noises. and youâre just sitting there thinkingâ
yeah. he is absolutely, utterly, painfully doomed when he sobers up.
Day 10. Planning a surprise party but they think youâre cheating â Dick Grayson
It was Dick's birthday next week and you were set on giving him the best birthday ever.
Unfortunately that meant sneaking around behind his back, which any other time would've been easy with his typical schedule of work and patrol, but after a nasty run in with Scarecrow last week he'd decided to stay home more.
He didn't say it but you knew it was because of whatever he'd seen. He didn't say what he saw in his toxin induced state either but you knew it was bad.
"Honey, I'm home." You smiled as you heard the door slam shut and the lock clock into place shortly atter.
"Thank goodness for that, I was worried dinner was gonna get cold." You giggled as he swept you up into his arms and spun you around. "Dick!" You shrieked, "Put me down!"
"As you wish."
"Princess Bride? Really?"
He shrugs at your raised eyebrow before swooping in for a kiss. He smiles into it, wrapping his arms around your waist. "How was your day?"
"Good. I finished my report for the Gazette."
"Yeah?" He hummed into your neck as you continued stirring the pot on the stove.
You grinned as he pulled away, ruffling your hair.
"Hey!"
"Sorry babe," he shrugs, "you're just too slow."
"What?" You gasp, feigning offense. "How's this for slow?" You take the dish towel from the counter and throw it towards him. He dodges, of course.
"Wow, you're so fast." He stifles his laugh by taking a bite out of an apple from the fruit bowl.
"Yeah, whatever." You mutter, shooting him a heatless glare as you toss the towel back. "And put that down, you're going to ruin your appetite."
He grins at you, mouth full of apple slices while you roll your eyes.
â
âHave I ever told you how pretty you are?â Dick was laying draped over the couch behind you while you made him catch up on all the episodes of Gilmore Girls that youâd recorded.
âYou may have once or twice.â You smiled, leaning back to press a kiss against his cheek. He flipped over, landing in front of you.
âYou missed.â He pouted.
Your rolled your eyes, leaning in to kiss him again. He smiled against your lips before pulling away with a loud smacking sound.
âThat was a close one.â
âYouâre so dramatic.â
âYou love me.â
âUh huh.â
Your phone began to ring from its place on the coffee table.
âYouâre in love with me.â He teased, faltering slightly as he grabbed your phone.
âI am.â
âWhyâs Jason calling you?â
âOh, I dont know. Let me find out.â
He frowned as you stood up. Normally you took your calls in front of him, but recently youâve been excusing yourself for the duration of the conversations.
He watched as you walked into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind you.
His frown deepened as he stared at the door.
What were you hiding from him?
â
âMaybe we should do blue balloons?â
âEverything is always blue with him, donât you think heâd like a change in color?â
âEverything is blue because itâs his favorite color.â
You zoned out as Stephanie and Jason argued. Alfred set a plate of cookies in front of you.
âWhat do you think, miss?â
âWhat if we did a disco theme? Like for discowing?â
Everyone turned to look at you when you spoke. You shrugged, grinning. âWhat? It would be funny.â
âHeâd actually love that.â
You zoned back out as you thought about the party.
You loved Dick, so much. And you wanted this birthday to be the best one yetâespecially since it was also going to be your three year anniversary.
âIâm gonna call Wally.â You stood up, grabbing your bag but Stephanie stopped you.
âDo that later, first help me pick out streamers.â
âWhat if we got a banner with his face on it and a catch phrase?â
âWhatâs his catchphrase?â
âI donât know.â You rolled your eyes as Stephanie began yelling at JasonâŠagain.
You sighed, sitting back down. Guess you werenât going to escape this.
â
You peeked over your cubicle when the receptionist called you. Youâd already been packing up for lunch when called to insist there was someone here to see you.
Dick.
He met your eyes, sending you a charming smile. You couldnât help but send one back.
You finished tugging your coat on as you walked over to him.
âHi, honey. What are you doing here?â
âWork let me off early, figured Iâd stop by for lunch.â He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.
You let out a giggle as he kissed you. âDick, I work here! Be professional.â
He laughed loudly, guiding you towards the elevator.
âI made a reservation.â
You cringed, turning towards him with a guilty expression. âOh, Dick, Iâm sorry. I already have plans for lunch.â
âOh.â He faltered, âWhere? With who?â
âBat Burger, with Wally?â
He frowned, âYouâre having lunch with my best friend?â
âYeah,â You shifted uncomfortably, taking a step back to look at him, âI havenât seen him in a while. I wanted to catch up.â
Dick nodded several times before turning towards you with a manic grin. âGreat! I love Bat Burger. I can come with!â
You nod, smiling. You werenât going to deny him seeing his best friend. You can always plan the party later.
â
Dick sat next to you at Bat Burger as you flipped through the menuâas if you didnât already know what you were going to get.
He studied your face, his eyes catching on the curve of your lips, watching the corners tug up as you looked to the door.
Wally sped inâalmost a normal civilian speed, he was still working on thatâand greeted you with a grin.
His grin faltered when he caught sight of the man sitting next to you. Dick glared at him.
You remained unaware of this exchange as Wally sent you a questioning look.
You turned to Dick, who quickly shook his head.
What was he doing? Wallyâs his best friend.
He grinned, standing up to hug Wally as he sat across from you.
âSo, whatâs for lunch?â Wally rubbed his hands together, grinning.
â
Safe to say, lunch was an awkward affair.
You wince at the wordâaffair.
That is not what was happening, you keep reminding yourself, trying to assuage the guilt you feel at sneaking around Dickâs back.
Granted, you were just planning a party, but youâre used to telling him everything.
Luckily, you were able to finalize details via the group chat that afternoon.
Unfortunately, as bad as lunch was, dinner was worse.
Jason stopped by unannounced, crawling through your bedroom window.
He had stepped through the doorway leading to your room and immediately froze.
Dick glared at him and then at you before crossing his arms. âWhatâre you doing?â
âJust stopping by.â
âWhy?â
Jason narrowed his eyes, âNone of your business.â
You mentally cursed himâwhy did he have to make everything harder than it needs to be?
âJason,â you spoke through gritted teeth, âwhat are you doing here?â
âJust stopping by. Like I said.â He looked at you reproachfully before speaking. âIâm hungry.â
âEat somewhere else.â
Deciding to anger his older brother further, he continued. âI prefer your girlfriendâs food.â
âJason! Iâll get you a plate. Just sit down and stop annoying Dick.â
Dick glared at him as he sat. Jason sent back a smug look. You rolled your eyes.
You all made it ten minutes before Jason decided to annoy Dick again.
Huffing, Dick loudly excused himself from the table, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him.
Jason stood up with a yawn, âThatâs my cue. Always a pleasure, future Mrs. Grayson.â
He quickly made his way back towards the bedroom, dropping his dishes off in the sink as he went.
Your cheeks heated as you lunged after him, âWhat is your problem?â
He turned around, sending you an indignant look. âBlue balloons? That was my idea. And you acted like it was yours!â
âWhat?! Jason, you are such a child. Just go.â
âAdmit it was my idea.â
âYes, it was your idea. Everyone heard you suggest it.â
âNot Wally. Or Kori. Or Roy! They werenât there.â
âWhat?! Jason! Go, get out. Iâm done with this conversation.â You began pushing him towards the window. âIâll even text the group chat to let them know how grateful I am for your original idea of blue balloons.
He grinned, wrapping his arms around you in a hug. All feigned anger dissipating. âThat is an acceptable course of action. Goodnight.â
He let you go, moving to crawl through the window.
âGoodbye, Jason.â You spoke with an annoyed huff.
He turned, sending you a wink before he took off.
You laughed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you closed the window.
You turned back to the doorway, wanting to clean up after dinner before Dick got out but he was already looking at you.
âDickââ
âSave it.â He glared at you, grabbing a bag from the closet and throwing several pieces of clothing in it.
âWhat? No, Dickââ
âI donât want to hear it. Okay? First my best friend and now my brother? Or was it my brother first?â He scoffed, bumping your shoulder as he passed.
Your eyes began to fill with tears, quickly blinking as you chased after him. âDick, wait!â
He wouldnât listen, just walked out the front door, ignoring all your shouts.
You ran out after him, following him all the way out of the building until he hopped on his bike and drove away.
You stood outside, rain picking up and pelting you. But you stayed there, tears mixing with the raindrops.
â
37 Missed Calls.
10 Voicemails.
78 Messages.
Dick glared at his phone as it rang again. How could you?
Heâd been dating you for almost three yearsâŠis that the problem? Did you get bored? Should he have proposed by now?
He grimaced, shoving one of Alfredâs cookies in his mouth.
Heâd decided to hole up in the attic at the manor until things calmed down.
Nobody would expect him to hide here.
âDick?â
Dang it.
âGo away!â
âNo, Iâm not leaving. We need to talk.â
âI donât want to talk to you.â
âToo bad.â Kori sat down next to him, wrinkling her nose at the cobwebs scattered throughout the space.
This was the one place Alfred didnât clean often, only during spring cleaning or if someone needed something.
He didnât look at her, instead choosing to continue glaring at his feet.
âWhat happened?â
âYou donât know?â He scoffed, âIt seems like everyone else knows.â
âKnows what?â
âSheâs cheating on me.â
Kori stared at him for several moments before sighing. He cursed.
âIâm sorry. Thatâs not fair. I guess this is karma, right?â
She sends him a sideways look, âI donât hold it against you, Dick. And I wouldnât wish this on anyone. But sheâs not cheating on you.â
He frowns, âYes, she is. You shouldâve seen them.â
âDoing what?â
âHugging! He winked at her!â
âAnd that means sheâs cheating?â
âShe was having lunch with Wally, alone.â
âYou never minded her hanging out with Jason or Wally before. Why are you so upset now?â
He scowled, refusing to speak.
âWas it Scarecrow?â She murmurs your name, âShe told me what happened.â
âIt doesnât matter anymore.â
âIt does if youâre reacting like this.â
He scoffs, âFine, it does. I mean, whatâs worse, seeing your worst fear or having it come true a week later?â
Kori sighed, âThe fear toxin showed her cheating on you?â
He shook his head, âNot necessarily, but she was dating Jason. And other things.â
âLike?â
âHer dying.â
Her gaze softened as she settled a hand on his arm. âLook, Dick. You care about herââ
âI loved her.â
âYou still do. So talk to her. If your biggest fear is losing her, then donât.â She sighed, standing up. âI canât make you do anything, and I canât make you believe me, but sheâs not cheating on you. I promise.â
Dick sat there for another several minutes before he moved.
He stood up, blood still pumping furiously, but he should talk to you. Just maybe after heâs calmed down a bit.
â
You tried calling again, no answer.
You sighed, throwing your phone across the room with a huff.
Why did you have to lie to him?
You knew why, you wanted to surprise him. He loved surprises. But you shouldâve known betterâwhich how heâd been behaving after the fear toxin, you never shouldâve done this now.
You shouldâve waited.
Now itâs too late.
You glare at the messy drawers across the room. Heâd left in such a rush that he didnât even bother closing them.
You needed to distract yourself. If he wasnât going to answer, then maybe you should clean up a bit.
You sighed, choosing to start with dinner. After wiping the dishes down and setting them out to dry, you finally head back to your room.
Checking your phone reveals no new messages. You groan, tossing it back in the corner. Thereâs a loud crack as it falls but you pay it no mind.
You begin picking up the clothes that have fallen on the floor before folding them. You walk over to the draw and start shuffling the clothes already in there to make some room.
Your hand knocks into something hard in the corner of his underwear drawer.
You frown, tugging it out of the pile of clothes.
A box.
You freeze, you shouldnât have seen this.
But then another thought hits you, itâs not like it matters anymore.
Another wave of tears start as you clutch the small box in your hands.
Youâre not sure how long you sat there, bawling over an unopened box, but it mustâve been a while.
The sun is beginning to creep over the rooftops, allowing light to stream in through the window.
Your face is dried with tears, mascara staining your cheeks. Youâre sure you look a mess.
Three taps against the door break you out of your mourning.
You stand up quickly and rush to the door. Wiping your cheeks as best you can before pulling the door open.
Your mouth parts slightly in a gasp as your eyes meet familiar blue ones.
Dick.
â
Itâs already morning by the time Dick works up the courage to talk to you.
After talking to Kori, he decided that the best course of action would be to pick up coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the place down the street.
That way, if you werenât cheating, then you might not be as mad that he ran out without listening to you. And maybe he could find a way to salvage this.
And if you were, then at least he tried. And got a breakfast sandwich.
He sighed, raising his hand to your door.
Before he lost the courage, he knocked three times.
He didnât have to wait long before the door swung open. His heart clenches as he scanned your face, smeared black streaks running along your cheeks.
His stomach churned at the thought of you crying about him.
His gaze trailed down, you were wearing his Gotham Knights hoodie, the letters faded.
His eyes caught on your hand, or more specifically, what you were holding.
The box.
He snaps his gaze up to meet yours again as you push the door open.
âCome in.â
He nods harshly, unfamiliar with this situation. Normally heâd let himself in and youâd greet him with a kiss.
Now you stood awkwardly across the kitchen counter from him. He wasnât sure if youâd placed it between you on purpose, but he could feel the distance.
âI brought you your favorite.â
Your bottom lip began to tremble and he clenched the paper bag.
âDonât cry, donât cry. Itâs just a sandwich.â
âItâs not just a sandwich! We broke up and you brought me breakfast!â
âWe broke up?â His blood ran cold. He hadnât thought things were over yetâŠat least not until you talked about this. âWhy would you think that?â
âYou left, Dick? What am I supposed to think?â
He shrugged, avoiding looking at you. He wasnât sure he could take seeing the evidence of how upset you were.
âI donât know.â
Itâs quiet for a moment as you take a few sips of the coffee he brought you.
âIâm not cheating on you.â You start, sniffling softly. âItâs your birthday. I had a party planned. Everyone was helping, Jason especially. Wally too. He was adamant about helping.â
You wouldnât look at him but he was looking at you.
His heart clenched at the sadness in your eyes.
You continued, âI shouldnât have planned anything, after Scarecrowââ You broke off with a sob as he reached for you. âIt was supposed to be our anniversary. Three years. Because of course you had to ask me out on the one day thatâs about you.â
You wiped your nose, sniffling more. âIâm sorry I ruined your birthday.â
He felt like he was going to throw up. âNo, no. You didnât ruin anything. I ruined it, no donât shake your head, itâs my fault. I shouldâve listened to you. I shouldnât have left, honey. Iâm so sorry.â
âIâm sorry.â
He shook his head roughly, âNo, you donât need to be sorry. Did nothing wrong. I shouldâve trusted you. I do trust you. Itâs just the toxin messed with my head and I donât want to lose you. Thatâs the last thing I want, okay?â
He looked into your eyes as you nodded.
âOkay.â You sniffled again as he wiped your tears.
He scanned your face before his eyes dropped down to the box you were still clutching in your hands. He reached for it slowly, unfolding your fingers without looking away from you.
âSee? This is how much I donât want to lose you. I was going to propose today.â You sobbed again, very loudly. He rushed to placate you, âNo, no, I still can! I will, I will.â
âNo, I donât want you to.â
His blood froze as you spoke. He quickly stammered out, âWhat? You donât want me to propose?â
âNo! No! I do! Just not like that. You had a plan. I donât want to ruin it. I already did ruin it!â You gasped between cries, burying your face into his neck.
He tried to bite back his sigh of relief but he was too happy to have you back.
âHey, I wonât ask like this, okay? And I can even ask another day. Itâll be a surprise. Just stop crying, please.â
âOkay.â
âOkay?â
âYeah. Thatâs okay.â
âOkay.â He sighed, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer.
You sniffled again but they became farther apart as you calmed down.
Once your tears had subsided, he moved you back to the bedroom and laid you down.
He laid down beside you, holding you close.
âDick?â
âYeah, sweetheart?â
âDo you still love me?â
âI do. Iâll always love you.â
You smiled sleepily against his chest.
He stroked your back, humming a song heâd learned in the circus.
âDid you open it?â
âHmm?â
âDid you see the ring?â
âNo. I didnât.â
âGood. Then itâs still a surprise.â
âWell, your party is not a surprise.â
âThatâs okay. Actually, maybe we should just cancel the whole thingâŠOr reschedule.â He added at your glare. âIâd much rather spend the day with you.â
âThat sounds nice.â
He grinned as he felt your heartbeat fall into a steady rhythm.
He turned to look at the box that sat on the dresser across the room.
Soon.
His smile softened as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
synopsis: Damian refuses a rematch against Dick due to some mysterious prior arrangements (that are apparently nothing new?!).
wc: 3.4k
warnings: nothing, just fluff and some very mild swearing
content: med student!Damian, emotionally grown Damian, Batkids make an appearance, implications of Reader understanding Arabic, soft Damian, Reader is a very mild disaster but we love 'em
AN: I wrote this like last night at 1 am with zero recollection and after fixing it decided to post it, first time writing Damian I'm kinda nervous đ also I might write a pt2 for this so lmk if you'd like that!!
@revesephemeres
Grunts and pants echo through the cave, the sound of sweeping strikes and parried hits accompanying them like a choir in the background of a symphony.
Damianâs body twists just as Dick dishes out a smooth strike meant to hit him in the ribs. A flicker of pride passes his face, but it quickly dissipates when Dick swipes his leg out to catch Damian off balance.
Unfortunately for the latter, he did not see that particular move coming, thus not having enough time to recover his stance.
With a thud, Damian falls to the ground, a mildly pained huff escaping him when he does so.
Dick is by his side in seconds, frantically checking for injuries they both know he wouldnât have sustained.
âShit, you good there Damian?â He asks, helping Damian up by extending an arm out.
Damian merely lets out a sound of annoyance, rolling his shoulders and his ankle to relieve the immediate stinging tension that has accumulated throughout their sparring session.
âIâm fine Richard, do not worry about me,â despite his clipped tone, his stance is relaxed. With measured steps, he walks to the bench by the sideline of the sparring area, grabbing his water bottle and throwing Dick his own.
Itâs truly a wonder what time and patience can do for someone, Dick briefly muses when he catches the bottle and greedily gulps the cool liquid down.
Had this been Damian from even five years ago, he would have stormed off and thrown a silent fit about losing their fight. He probably would have also insisted on upping his training time with far intenser and longer sessions than appropriate for a teenager.
Now though, at 20 years of age and no longer a vigilante, Damian has significantly mellowed out. He still trains regularly, if only to keep his body and mind sharpâsomething he insists heâll need as a future doctor.
His temper has long since settled, and with each passing day, it becomes evident how much he strives to be better. From patching up his relationship with Tim, down to actually initiating hangouts with the family to keep in contactâDamian truly grew into a magnificent person.
He still retained some of the key personality traits Dick still remembers from when his little brother was younger; like his ambition, discipline and dedication to everything he set his mind to.
Currently, that thing was beating Dick five in continuous sparring matches, which is exactly why Dick is taken aback when Damian declines his offer for a rematch.
âNo thanks,â Damian says with a glance to the clock on the wall, âI have an important arrangement to attend to. I shall take you up on that offer some other time.â With no other explanation as to what that prior arrangement is, Damian grabs his things and heads to the elevatorâpresumably to go take a shower in his roomâleaving Dick alone.
He blinks multiple times, not quite believing that the Damian Al Ghul Wayne just declined a sparring match. He turns around slowly, trying to establish eye contact with everyone else in the cave who just witnessed the interaction.
By sheer luckâor rather by insistence and premeditated violence on Damianâs endâeveryone was home in the manor for the week. Of course, the most productive Batkid activity was hanging out in the cave, if only because the internet was much better down here than anywhere else in the manor.
As such, everyone save for Bruce was lounging around in different corners of the cave, working on something or simply talking amongst themselves.
âDid anyone else just see this or am I going insane from sleep deprivation and shitty takeout?â Dick asks into the round, plopping onto the couch next to Jason with a muffled âomphâ. Jason swats at him without taking his eyes off the book heâs engrossed in, hitting him straight in the eye with a grumbled âSit somewhere else, dickface.â
âBelieve it or not, this has been a pretty consistent occurrence for the past three months,â Duke comments casually, like this is totally normal and not entirely groundbreakingâmaybe a sign of illness or something far darker too.
âWhat? And you havenât thought of seeing what is wrong with him?â Dick questions incredulously.
Duke shoots him a dirty look, rolling his eyes before turning back to whatever movie heâs watching on his laptop instead of working.
âFor the record, I did,â he defends, âhe just looked at me like heâs about to pull a katana on me and I knew itâs none of my business.â
âMore like youâre strategically waiting for an opportunity to find out,â Jason mutters under his breath, proving he wasnât actually all that focused on reading and rather preoccupied with the gossip surrounding Damian.
Dick stretches his limbs, sprawling more comfortably on the couch before propping his chin on his hand. âWell, what does he do during this so-called arrangement?â
âStay in his room,â Cass answers quietly, nudging Duke to tilt his screen so she can watch the movie better.
âLock the door and not answer for like three hours,â Tim adds, startling everyone who had originally thought him to be sleeping.
âHe comes out smiling, like actually smiling with lighter steps and all,â Stephanieâs comment is truly what drives the point home, letting all alarm bells ring in Dickâs head. What on earth was Damian doing up there?
Damian meanwhile sped through his shower routine, with a quiet urgency that he hadnât felt for a whileâat least, not since he left the vigilante scene behind. The moment the clock strikes 6:40 pm, heâs seated at his desk, all his books and notes neatly laid out in front of him with methodical precision.
He opens his laptop, propping it on the stand like he has done for about every night in the past three months.
When 6:44 pm rolls around, heâs impatiently tapping his pen against his notebook, readjusting his glasses and staring at his laptop screen like it owes him money.
At precisely 6:45 pm, his screen lights up by a video call window, accompanied by the soft chime of a tune he specifically set for this very occasion. It takes everything in him to not smile when he accepts the call, even more so when the view from your laptop camera emerges on his screen.
Like so many times before, youâre not actually in the frame, but judging by the sounds coming from the other side of the screen, you must be somewhere just out of frame.
âHey Dami, gimme a secââ you grunt in greeting. Damianâs eyebrows rise in amusement, which instantly morphs into worryâhe would never admit that thoughâwhen he hears a sudden loud crash and a yelp.
Silence.
âAre you alive or has your incompetence finally gotten you killed?â He calls out, immediate relief flooding rough him when he sees you wiggling on the floor of the room.
âMâfine,â when you get up to fix your clothing, Damian takes a moment to check you for any injuries because he knows you tend to lie about your wellbeing. He can see faint marks on the sliver of your waist that is revealed when you lift your arms to tug your sweater in place, so he files that information away to bring you an ointment when he sees you tomorrow.
By the time you pull your chair out and sit at your own desk, various books and papers strewn about the surface, Damian has taken to observing every move you make with utmost attentionâlike he always does.
He can't quite tell what it is about you that has captured his attention oh so fatallyâbelieve him, heâs been trying to figure that one out for monthsâbut recently, heâs come to accept that he doesnât quite mind it. Sure, itâs a little annoying to constantly seek your presence out in every room where he knows you might possibly be, but he can write that off as hypervigilance from the good old days. And okay, maybe itâs weird to be so attuned to someoneâs actions, body language and voice, but it isnât weirder than memorising someoneâs heartbeat like Jon has done to him, so it canât be that bad.
(It is bad, he and Jon are just weird like that.)
âAlright, Iâm alive, well and ready to start being productive!â Your voice is cheery, coupled with a smile so blinding Damian has to actually physically look away to compose himself before he says something stupid. Sure, he mightâve loosened up a bit over the years and grown in terms of emotional intelligence, but he still gets caught up in trying to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. He reckons that telling you your smile is brighter than the luminance of a thousand suns might not be quite the smartest thing to do. He cannot afford to make an utter fool of himself, so instead he adjusts his glassesâthey keep sliding down the bridge of his nose and he cannot stand itâbefore giving you a curt nod and turning to his own work.
Soon enough, the usual rhythm of the night takes over, etched into his bones through familiarity and routine. You go over your lectures that you need to revisit, flipping through books and locking your jaw in concentration as you scribble your notes into a somewhat neater version of what youâd typed on your iPad. The sound of your pen scratching against the paper-like screen protector creates a soothing, rhythmic sound that pairs well with the sound of Damianâs smooth fountain pen gliding across the pages of his notebooks. While he is studying anatomy and diagnostic skills, you are focused on the notes of subjects of your own choosing.
Thatâs how it goes most nights, the both of you immersed in your own worlds while keeping the other company. It had started off as a bit of a fluke actually, back at the start of the second semester when Damian bumped into you in the library of Gotham University. Heâd promptly sent the books in your arms flying to the ground, barely managing to keep you from suffering the same fate. Just as you readied yourself to really lay in on him about using his eyes, when recognition struck you.
âWait, Damian, is that you?â You had asked him bewildered, sparking mild annoyance in him. He was used to people recognising him out in the wild, but that didnât mean it was a welcome thing.
âYes,â he replied curtly, bending to help you pick up your books because he wasnât that much of an asshole. You on the other hand seemed to not care about the books anymore, grabbing his shoulder to catch his attention.
âDude, itâs me!â You gave him your name, excited and nearly bouncing on the balls of your feet. The name did seem familiar, causing him to sift through the array of people he knew until a faint memory resurfaced.
An empty classroom in his senior year, detention after hours for some stupid misunderstanding he couldnât be bothered to remember, and you dancing across the room in the afternoon sun like no one was watching.
Heâd stood by the door, intrigued and a little judgmental about the way you spun in circles around the room. Clearly, you had pushed the chairs and desks to the side, creating a makeshift dance floor for yourself. Your eyes were closed, your feet swaying and moving to some invisible song only you could hear.
It wasnât anything particularly interesting, he recalls thinking, but something about the way you move, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon, had made his hands twitch. Before he could resist the urge, heâd dropped his bag to the ground to retrieve his sketchbook and began sketching you.
It took you about ten minutes to notice him standing there, watching you with unrelenting attention. When you did, you hadnât yelled at him for being a creep or made fun of him for having to clean the classroom with you. Youâd simply stretched your hand out, inviting him to dance with you.
Thatâs how you met, and also how you spent the entire month of your detention time. He would sketch you as you moved on and about, while you chattered away about this or that. On occasion you would be quiet, writing something in your notebooks that he never quite became privy too.
After your detention came to an end, Damian found himself subconsciously looking for you, nodding in your direction when he saw you in the hallways or choosing to sit beside you during those classes that grated against his nerves.
You werenât close exactly, but there was some sort of friendship born through camaraderie between the two of you. You exchanged notes, worked together for partner assignments and gossiped about boring teachers and stuck up students. Occasionally, when you ate your lunch together in the quiet of abandoned classrooms, the atmosphere would take on a somber air. During those times, your conversations would steer into deeper territoryâdreams, fears and hopes of a future yet to be explored exchanged between two kids who, at the end of day, were trying to figure out what to do with their lives. You were the first person heâd told about his dream to become a doctor. When he said it, you had looked at him thoughtfully, smiled that little smile of yours that dripped with sincerity, and told him it fit him well.
Like he was the kind of person who was meant to save people, not hurt them.
Like he was the kind of person who could actually be kind.
He never told you, but that moment had meant the world to him.
After graduation you both regrettably grew apart, the chaos of growing up and entering a new era of your life pulling you in different directions.
Messages became fewer and fewer, until your main form of connecting was the occasional comment or like on each other's social.
That is, until you met in the library and realized you went to the same university.
Things changed after that meeting. You started spending more time togetherâtexting, calling, meeting up, walking together. In the blink of an eye, you went from a distant gold-bathed memory to an essential part of Damianâs life.
He wouldnât have it any other way.
Despite your different majors, you kept insisting on tagging along when he studied, saying something about how he helped you focus on your own workâbut there wasn't much work done by you and him unless he cracked down and willed you both into productivity with silence and sharp glares .
He thinks that maybe you were just looking for ways to spend more time with him.
During this term however, both of your schedules were far too packed to actually meet during the week, so you settled on nightly video calls. The first half tended to usually be the more productive one, while for the later half, you both tended to drift from one topic to the other until your school work was just an after thought.
Like now for example, Damian had long since capped his pen and moved his notes out of the way, propping his cheek on his hand while he listened to you ramble on about some work related drama.
ââand then she called HR to complain! Can you believe that? I mean how is it my fault if she canât read the sign that says to not spray the goddamn perfume!â Damian nods along, not even feeling the upturn of his lips into the ghost of a smile.
he could listen to you talk for hours, he thinks. He never quite gets enough of hearing you talk, analysing every change in cadence and tone. The way your voice raises when youâre mad, the sarcasm when retelling stories about the atrocities committed against youâyour words, not hisâor the light tone you speak in when you share your wins and mundane little things that make your day.
âDamian? Helloooo? Earth to Wayne? Whereâd you go?â
âTt, nowhere, Iâm listening to you.â
âLiar,â you quip, rolling your eyes at him. He knows that if you were in front of him, he wouldnât be able to resist the urge to nudge your shoulder in mock-warning. Itâs those little things between the both of you that make his heart beat a little fasterâthe physical touches that you give to him freely but keep wrapped behind caution when it comes to others. Heâs no fool; heâs seen the way you lean into him while avoiding the same with others.
He canât help the swell of pride within him at being someone you considered safe enough to be casually affectionate withâsomething he craved no matter how much he pretended otherwise.
âWell in any case,â you announce, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a sigh of relaxation when the sound of joints popping resounds through the room. âI was gonna get some early work done in our usual coffee shop, care to join me?â Heâs already nodding before you finish the sentence, mentally rearranging the rest of his night and his morning so he can spend some time with you. If he gets fewer hours of sleep and might skip breakfast, thatâs no oneâs business, okay?
âI can drive you,â he offers, letting out a sound of annoyance when his glasses slide down his nose for the nth time. The sound of you snorting catches his attention, muffled behind your hand as you stare unabashedly through the screen. âYouâre so cute when youâre annoyed about your glasses, yâknow that?â Heat crawls up the back of his neck, and suddenly heâs so very glad about this being a video call and not an actual meet up. Without a sliver of doubt, you wouldâve teased him for the reddening of his ear tips and probably accentuated your point by fixing his glasses for himâa gesture that always manages to make his throat dry up instantly.
He doesnât dignify you with a response, only a glare with no heat behind it before letting the mellow atmosphere of your little nightly call lull him into a quieter mood. Multiple times, he nods off at the sound of your voice, until he finally relents and hangs up after you insist.
You're glaring at him, mouth turned into a frown he desperately wants to turn into a smile when you chastise him for not going to sleep when he's tired.
âYou'll see me in the morning okay? You need to sleep silly.â
He has nothing retort against that argument because he knows his rigid daily schedule is specifically engineered to tire him out by the time it's 10 pm.
With a yawn he finally relents, muttering his goodbyes and graces you with a small smile in return for the triumphant grin on your face.
âGoodnight, I'll see you tomorrow,â he murmurs in Arabic, voice soft and thick with sleep.
âSleep well, I'll see you tomorrow,â you reply in kind, doing you both the favour of finally hanging up. Despite himself, he smiles at your words and the warm feeling that spreads from his chest to his face.
By the time Damian goes about his nightly bedtime routine, it's nearly 11 and truly, he can barely keep himself upright with the exhaustion of the day settling into his every muscle. He's all warm and comfortable in bed when he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, just to check if there are any pressing matters he might need to attend to or keep in mind before he officially turns in for the night.
There are a few messages from Timâpersuambly funny or stupid videos he sent him that he swears he'll watch in the morningâ, a few texts from Richard for his plans for the next week and some general notifications that aren't all too important.
Important however are the messages that appear in that very moment, sent by you as if you were timing it to the exact moment he's about to sleep.
Dahabi đ: just wishing you an extra good night!!
Dahabi đ: I'll wait in front of my building at 7:30 for you :D
Dahabi đ: love u, sleep well <3
(Dahabi - My Gold, precious, etc.)
His chest tightens with that feeling he hasn't been able to name for a while, but he doesn't quite mind itâand he certainly doesn't spend time trying to figure it out. Instead he types back a quick reply, shuts his phone off and drifts off to sleep, thoughts plagued by your presence and the anticipation for seeing you first thing in the morning.
Call Me King â Part I/II
Someone mentioned wanting more non-civilian reader fics, and I said say less. Iâve been dying to explore the idea of a Kryptonian reader, someone who doesnât crave the power or responsibility that Superman embraces, but still carries the same potential. What does it mean to have all that strength and not want to be a hero?
As always, feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are welcome and appreciated!
c.kent/kryptonian!reader
It had been an accident.
A full-blown, not-thinking-in-the-moment accident. A âIâm on my period and about to ruin anyone who ruins my dayâ kind of accident.
Really, it was the Kaijuâs fault.Â
It shouldnât have risen up from the Pacific and nearly crushed the Seattle port. It shouldnât have ruined your morning coffee and the relaxing walk to the office. And it definitely shouldnât have made you late for a meeting you didnât even want to attend.
But there it was. Caught on at least half a dozen angles from phones, helicopters, and traffic cams.
âYou think sheâs Kryptonian?â one of your coworkers asked, squinting at the looping footage on the conference room TV.
The chyron across the bottom of the screen blared:
BREAKING: Vigilante Superman? The One Who Calls Herself King.
âI mean, the whole laser-eye thing kind of gives it away. Thatâs, what, three of them now?â another chimed in without looking up from his notes. âAt least she isnât calling herself Super something. Gotta respect the branding.â
âCalling herself King though? Isnât that a little much?â
The screen replayed the figure in that black leather bodysuit, heeled boots digging into the spined hide of the beast sheâd dropped. Cameras caught eyes still glowing faintly from the heat vision that had done most of the work.Â
You could almost feel yourself dying of secondhand embarrassment.
That bodysuit was never being worn again. Ever.
Maybe paired when that cute jacket you wanted to wear with itâ
You dragged a hand down your face, shutting those thoughts off.
No one asked for this. No one asked to wake up one morning with the sun buzzing in their veins and bones that could break concrete. Not after being sick for so long, not after finally understanding why. No one asked to be lumped into the same category as Superman, Supergirl, or whichever cape had the better PR team this week.
Youâd done what anyone else wouldâve doneâokay, maybe not with the eye beamsâbut still. The dock workers wouldâve been crushed without anyone stepping in. But in your mind, that wasnât heroism. That was survival. That was âI didnât want to watch people get pulped before I even finished my latte.â
And then, because the universe apparently hated you and killing your home planet wasnât enough, the TV anchors had latched on to the worst possible soundbite.
âI am no savior,â that familiar voice only to you crackled through the speakers, âbut you can call me King.â
A name you hadnât thought about, hadnât workshopped, hadnât even wanted. They had asked, and youâd panicked. Out of all the things you could have said, that slipped out.
How utterly embarrassing.
It had always been a joke in high school. Back when you were the perpetually sick girl who somehow still managed to claw her way to valedictorian. The girl who sometimes mysteriously perked up after removing the strange green-stoned ring that had been with her since forever.
Friends had called you âKingâ half-mocking, half-affectionateâfor being student body president, for surviving every hospital trip, for pushing through. Back then, it had been harmless fun.Â
Now it was plastered across national news.
So, so screwed.
Your hand trailed absently to the small gold huggie hoops that never left your ears. The only thing between you and discovery. To everyone else they were a dainty accessory, understated and unremarkable. In reality? Kryptonian tech.
Activated, they bent light and shifted the subtle contours of your face. Enough to blur details, to make the woman on-screen not quite the woman sitting in the conference room. Enough to keep you safe. Enough to keep the lines between your life and whatever the hell this was from completely collapsing.
You silently thanked every last god in sightâand the parents you barely rememberedâfor the foresight to leave you these tools. Without them, you wouldnât be fielding side-eye from coworkers wondering if this mysterious âKingâ might be Kryptonian. Youâd be outed. Exposed. Hunted.
Instead, you could sit there with your hand pressed against your temple, feigning a headache while the room buzzed about Seattleâs newest âsuper.â
Never again. You were never taking that ring off again. The one that dulled your power, muted the sunlight, kept you small and ordinary.Â
Youâd really thought you could stay invisible. That being careful meant being safe. That maybe, just maybe, you could have a normal job, a normal apartment, a normal life. But a giant sea-monster on your way to work had ended that fantasy in twelve minutes flat.
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
âWho calls themselves King? Is she Lex Luthor?â Lois grumbled, aggressively chewing on her pen. Her desk was a disaster of sticky notes and printouts, all of them clipped or taped to the article sheâd been building for a week. âNo symbol, no alliances, no public appearance, no way of contacting her. She just shows up, wrecks the giant sea monster, and disappears.â
âShe is no Superman, thatâs for sure,â Jimmy muttered from his desk. He flicked through footage on his monitor, images of black leather, dented metal and glowing eyes behind black tints. âI thought west coast news was kidding when they called her a vigilante Superman. But it checks out. In the last several weeks situations have been sighted in at least four different states. Saving a woman from an assault in Portland, torching a drug shipment in San Diego, stopping a train derailment in Oregon, breaking into ship storage containers up in Vancouver.â
âVigilante,â she echoed, scribbling the word onto her notes. âNot hero.â
âShe doesnât even seem to want the attention,â Jimmy added, leaning back.Â
Lois glanced at the looping footage again, eyes narrowing. âNo âSâ⊠but sheâs Kryptonian. Has to be. Nothing else moves like that.â
From his spot, Clark Kent looked up from his screen at the sound of the name. He kept his face neutral, but his jaw ticked once. The faintest glint of concern flickered behind his glasses as the clip played again.
The news footage slowed: a flash of red lit the frame before the craneâs container slipped free, hurtling toward the pavement. And then she was there. Hands gripping the iron doors and tearing them away as if they were cardboard.
Clarkâs breath caught, just slightly. She was without a doubt Kryptonian. He didnât need data or science to confirm itâit was a hum in his blood, a resonance in his bones. A familiar thrum, like recognizing a chord youâve always known how to play.
And yet⊠different.
A feeling stirred in him, not just concern, though he wished that was all it was. Concern, he could box up. Concern was professional. This wasnât that. Fascination, maybe. Curiosity. A pull.
Superman had no business being fascinated with a woman who seemed hellbent on doing everything her way. Not with the aftermath heâd already reviewed: cracked docks, twisted steel, half a dozen injury reports, and the lingering scorch marks only heat vision could leave. Not with the recklessness on display.
But he couldnât help it.
There was another one of them.
Someone else had survived the fall of Krypton besides him and Kara
But before the thought could bury itself any deeper, an office door slammed open.
âAlright, listen up!â Perry Whiteâs voice was across the bullpen. A dozen heads snapped up from screens and papers. Clark figured it was going to be something about this âKingâ and getting photos, interviews, anything the Planet could publish before anyone else.
But he was pleasantly surprised.
âWeâve got a new face today. Freelancer outta some tech company, donât ask me which, it was three acronyms too long and I donât give a damn. Sheâs here to help straighten out our IT mess, so if youâve been cussing at your monitors, blame yourselves, then thank her.â
Chairs scraped, murmurs rose, and then a woman stepped forward. A polite smile. Definitely professional. Just another contractor in sensible shoes and a blazer that was trying too hard not to wrinkle, but had to have been tailored with the way it fit. She gave a small wave, eyes darting around the bullpen. For a fraction of a second, he felt his stomach pitched.
His body reacted before his mind did, like a string pulled taut somewhere deep in his chest. Something in the air around her hit him, familiar in a way he couldnât explainâheat in the blood, pressure in the lungs.Â
Gosh, she was pretty.
The thought made his face flush as it settled in and quickly looked away.
He barely heard the rest of what Perry was saying. Something about front-page headlines, something about âKingâ and how the world wanted answers. The bullpen hummed around him, keys clacking, phones ringing, printers grinding, but all of it dulled under the sound of his pulse.
The cursor blinked on a blank document. He told himself to focus. Heâd been here before. Met plenty of people, plenty of strangers with strong presences, but this was⊠different. It was like the air around her carried a hum only he could hear.
He tried not to look up again. Really, he did.
It wasnât until a hand landed on his shoulder that Clark jumped, startled enough to jostle his glasses. Jimmy snickered.
âEasy, big guy,â Jimmy said, leaning on the back of his chair. âYou think sheâs single?â
Of course that would be Jimmyâs first question.
Clark coughed, adjusting his tie like it would somehow settle the red creeping up his neck. âIâI donât know. Maybe you should, uh⊠ask her.â
Lois didnât even look up from her notes. âProbably isnât if you ask her,â she muttered, dry as ever. âAlthough if sheâs got any sense, sheâll pretend she didnât hear you.â
Jimmy grinned. âYou saying I donât have a shot?â
âIâm saying youâve got better odds with Perryâs stapler,â Lois replied, flipping a page.
Clark smiled faintly, grateful for the distraction, though his thoughts refused to obey him. He glanced toward the glass hallway just in time to see her following Perry to some corner office.
That strange, low hum in his chest hadnât faded. If anything, it was stronger now.
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
Two pens. Youâd broken two pens by the time noon hit.
Ink stains dotted your fingers, the third pen cap already showing stress marks from how tightly you were gripping it. This was what you got for leaving the ring back in Seattle. At leastâthatâs where you thought it was. It couldâve rolled under your bed or fallen behind the dresser; you werenât sure.
Youâd half-considered flying back after work to check, but that came with its own list of problems. Namely, explaining to your roommate how you managed to get from Metropolis to Seattle in under an hour without an airport, ticket, or rational excuse.
It wasnât worth the risk.
âŠProbably.
But then again, maybe it was worth it, because the longer you stayed in this city, the more unbearable it became. The newsroom TVs were all tuned to the same feed. Metropolisâs golden boy mid-battle, cape snapping behind him as he wrestled something that looked distinctly not of this world.
Superman. Of course.
How the hell did you forget this was his territory when you accepted the placement?
You hadnât really had a choice. The assignment had come down from corporate, six weeks helping the Planet overhaul their IT system. You told yourself it was perfect. No one would look twice at the girl buried in cables and system diagnostics.
Except, apparently, your own blood.
Ever since youâd landed here, it hadnât shut up. The humming beneath your skin, deep in your bones, a thrumming urge that spiked every time the man in red and blue appeared on the screen.
Fight.
Fight.
Fight.
The instinct wasnât fear, it was recognition. That same alien thrum that made your stomach twist and your knuckles crack when the sun hit your desk just right.
You pressed your palms flat against the keyboard, forcing yourself to breathe. You werenât going to join in. You werenât going to get dragged into another cityâs problems. Let Superman handle his own monsters. Youâd done enough damage for one lifetime.
And if the pulse of sunlight beneath your skin didnât agree⊠well, it would just have to shut up.
What you werenât prepared for was the parade of people who kept stopping by your desk. It wasnât hard to tell who was genuinely welcoming you versus who was fishing for gossip or attention. Some flirted; others gave polite hellos before drifting off. You managed to smile through most of it, until they stopped by.
âHi, welcome to the Planet,â the woman said, tone bright but quick, as though she had a dozen deadlines breathing down her neck. âIâm Lois Lane, and this is Clark Kent. Iâm hoping Jimmy hasnât made his way over yet and given you a bad impression of our side of the office.â
You blinked, startled enough that your first instinct was to look anywhere but her face, mostly because standing next to her was the very large, very quiet man who suddenly made your lungs forget how to function.
Clark Kent.
He looked⊠nervous, fidgety almost, shifting his weight like he wasnât sure if he was taking up too much space. Youâd barely processed the sound of his voice when he started to speak.
âWelcome to the Planet, Missââ
âYou have concrete dust on your collar, Mr. Kent,â you murmured before you could stop yourself. Your eyes had flicked up from his neck and caught on the faint gray smear along his crisp shirt collar. Dust that had no business being there unless heâd been close to the fight downtown.
For half a heartbeat, his expression faltered. A muscle in his jaw ticked, then softened as his mouth opened like he might explain.
You swallowed, your gaze caught on his face now, on the eyes hidden behind the lenses. Blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that could shatter you if it ever met full sunlight.
The last time youâd seen eyes like that had been beforeâbefore everything. Before Seattle. Before the name. Before Earth.
You recovered as quickly as you could, introducing yourself with a polite, neutral smile and the same line youâd already given half the office that morning. âIf you have any problems, let me know. Please have everything saved and backed up by six p.m. tonight. Thereâll be a full system reboot that might wipe local files for maintenance recovery.â
Then you turned back to your screen like nothing had happened, pretending your pulse wasnât thundering in your ears. You couldnât understand why you were reacting like this.
Six weeks. You could survive six weeks of being normal.
You repeated that to yourself like a mantra. Six weeks of quiet. Six weeks of pretending you were just another face in the office. There were no train hijackings to ruin your weekend getaway, no friends getting tangled in cartel busts, no monsters crawling from the sea demanding your attention. Just work, and overhearing gossip, and the rhythmic hum of servers spinning beneath your fingertips.
You almost believed it.
The first two weeks went smoothly, mundane, even. The kind of life you used to daydream about. The kind of life where âsuperpowersâ only meant saving a document before it crashed.
Expect the second morning.
Youâd just settled into your chair, mid-programming of last night's reboot, when a soft knock sounded against your office door.
âCome in,â you called, expecting someone with another login issue or a printer jam.
Instead, the door eased open to reveal him.
He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders framed by a slightly rumpled suit jacket, tie a little crooked, glasses catching the light just enough to obscure his eyes. There was something disarmingly gentle about him. Like the world demanded too much noise, and he refused to add to it.
And yet, every nerve in your body sparked to life.
The hum beneath your skin flared like a struck chord. You could feel the energy shift in the air, that subtle gravity between two similar frequencies. It was unnerving.Â
He made you nervous, and that alone was infuriating.
âGood morning, Mr. Kent,â you said, tilting your head, keeping your tone as even as possible. âHow can I help you?â
He hesitated, caught between steps, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck in that boyish, self-conscious way that screamed Midwestern politeness. âIâuhâwanted to make sure you got a proper welcome,â he said quickly, his voice gentle but unsure. âI didnât know what you liked, so Iâuhâasked the coffee shop for their seasonal special.â
He crossed the room with careful steps, placing the cup on your desk like it was fragile crystal. Steam curled up from the lid, carrying cinnamon and espresso, faintly sweet and spiced. âWelcome to the planetâ written on it.
âAlso,â he added after a pause, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, shy smile, âplease, just Clark.â
You blinked at the cup, then up at him. âThank you⊠Clark.â
The name felt strange on your tongue. Too familiar. Too human.
He smiled again, almost bashful, and for a moment, something in your chest gave. You didnât know if it was recognition or fear, but it felt ancient, instinctive, like the atmosphere just changed. You wondered if he felt it too, that faint tightening in the air, that almost imperceptible pulse between you.
He lingered for a second longer, fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag before saying, âI hope the teamâs treating you alright. The Planet can be⊠a bit of a circus.â
âEveryoneâs been kind,â you said, hands folded in your lap to keep from fidgeting. You could feel the faint tremor under your skinâthe pulse of light in your veins that always came when you were too close to⊠one of them. Or the sun. It made you miss home. âItâs⊠quieter than I expected.â
He chuckled softly, gaze dropping to the edge of your desk. âGive it a few hours. It never stays quiet around here.â
There was something about the way he said it, like he knew too well the truth of that statement.
You nodded, the silence stretching just enough to make you shift in your chair. âWell, I appreciate the coffee. Really.â
He smiled again, and it was devastating in its simplicity. Genuine. âAnytime.â
And then, before you could breathe properly, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left staring after him.Â
Oh my god. You were being so stupid. Like a dog in fucking heat. One attractive man, and suddenly your heart decided to practice gymnastics. You were curling a strand of hair around your fingers like it was a lifeline, catching yourself doing it, and wanting to slam your head against the desk.
You were ovulating. That had to be it. Some awful mix of alien hormones and the side effect of spending too long under Metropolis sunlight. Because there was no other logical reason your body was reacting this way. To a coworker, no less.
No, scratch that. Not just a coworker. Someone you hardly knew.
Which made it infinitely worse.
You could feel it even when he was gone: that faint hum in your blood that came alive twice now, the pull like magnetism between two halves of the same charge. Youâd told yourself it was coincidence, nothing more. Instincts whispered otherwise, and that made it dangerous.
So you did the only rational thing you could think of.
You excused yourself in the most polite, calm way you could. Walked to the stairwell, up to the rooftop, and thenâ
Jumped.
The cold wind tore past your face, stealing your breath in a way that shouldâve scared you. If you were human, maybe it would have. Maybe your heart wouldâve climbed up your throat and your stomach wouldâve dropped straight through the soles of your feet. Maybe youâd have screamed.
But you werenât.
Instead, the air rushed around you like an old friend. It welcomed you, curved against your skin, caught you. Your stomach still flipped, but not from fearâjust that strange, weightless thrill that lived in your bones.
You angled your body, let gravity have you for one heartbeat longer, then pushed against the pull, shooting upward like a bullet through the clouds.
The burn of the atmosphere stung pleasantly against your skin, wind tangling your hair as you climbed higher and higher. Metropolis became small below you, and for a brief moment, it felt quiet again. You hovered there in the clouds, pulling in lungfuls of air, trying to bury the knot in your chest under the thin peace of the atmosphere.
You had to stay away from him.
Clark Kent was dangerous for a human.
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
If this was what obsession felt like, then sue him now.
Clark couldnât help himself. The pull in his blood wouldnât stop every time he got close to you. It wasnât visible. It wasnât even logical. But it was there. Something beneath the surface, like gravity, drawing him toward you with quiet, stubborn insistence.
Heâd tried to ignore it. For weeks, he told himself it was just curiosity. Just the polite interest of a colleague. But the way his stomach knotted when you brushed past him, the way he caught himself smiling at the sound of your laugh from across the bullpen, none of that was âpolite.â
And it was getting worse.
He wondered if your hands were as soft as they looked when you typed, the faint click of your nails on the keyboard oddly soothing to his superhuman hearing. He wondered if you realized how often you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused, or how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were deep in thought.
He almost smacked his head against the desk just to stop the thought. God, Clark, pull yourself together.
This was ridiculous. He shouldnât be thinking about any of that, about you. But it was like something inside him had switched on, and no matter how he tried to bury it, it hummed right back.
Three weeks. Three weeks of slow, torturous spiral that hadnât gone unnoticed by Lois or Jimmy.
Lois had stopped pretending not to notice the way his voice tripped when you were nearby. Jimmy had started teasing him outright, nudging him every time you passed by.
And every darn time, Clark couldnât help but look up. Even when he didnât mean to. Even when he was supposed to be writing. His eyes just followed you automatically. His hearing had even started doing it, tuning itself unconsciously to the sound of your voice, the rhythm of your footsteps and heartbeat, the soft exhale you made when something frustrated you.
âDo you have anything to save? Iâm going to reboot your computer.â
That voice pulled him straight out of his thoughts.
He blinked and looked up right into your eyes. You were standing, one hand on the edge of his desk, brow slightly raised, waiting for an answer. And god, his heart skipped. He was grateful for once that his hearing wasnât external right now; if you could hear the rhythm of it, heâd die of embarrassment on the spot.
âIâuh, no,â he stammered, adjusting his glasses in a useless attempt to look composed. âI havenât been able to work since the error popped up.â
You nodded, and without a second thought, leaned forward to reach the back of his monitors, fingers finding the cords like youâd done it a thousand times.
Clark froze.
Your arm brushed against his shoulder, light but enough to short-circuit every coherent thought in his head. You smelled⊠warm. Not like perfume, but sunlight. Clean and faintly sweetâlike heat and ozone after a summer storm with a hint of vanilla. It wasnât overpowering, but it was distinct, the kind of scent that pressed itself into his memory.
Almost like the sky.
He swallowed, pulse thudding in his throat. Focus. You were just doing your job. It wasnât personal. You were not the problemâhe was.
Why canât I just sit still? he thought miserably. Sheâs going to think Iâm a lunatic.
You straightened a moment later, brushing an invisible wrinkle from your sleeve. âThere. That should do it. Give it a few minutes before logging back in.â
âRight. Uhâthank you,â he managed, his voice a little too soft. He was trying to shake it off, trying to breathe normally again when Jimmyâs voice spoke up.
âHey, you guys see this? King made another appearance last night, in the city no less,â Jimmy said, spinning his monitor so Lois could see. âKnocked out some burglar trying to break into an apartment over on Fifth. Local cops found the guy unconscious in the yard. Sheâs got a hell of a right hook.â
Clarkâs head snapped up, but not fast enough to miss the way you froze.
It was subtle, barely a pause, a flicker of stillness, but his eyes caught it instantly. You turned your head just enough to glance toward Jimmyâs screen, something tightening in your expression.
âAny pictures?â you asked, voice careful.
Jimmy shook his head. âNah, nothing new. Just a police statement, but the description matches hers.âÂ
You arched a brow. âSo youâre making an assumption without proper proof?â
âCâmon, thatâs half the fun of journalismâeducated guessing.â
âYouâre confusing journalism with gossip, Olsen.â Lois snorted without looking up from her notes.
âI prefer the term investigative curiosity,â he shot back. Then his gaze slid back to you, a hint of curiosity. âYou sound kinda invested though. Why? You a fan of hers or something?â
You gave a little shrug. âIâm from Seattle,â you said evenly. âHard not to be interested in the woman kicking up dirt back home. Canât imagine why sheâd be here when Metropolis already has its own.â
Lois hummed, pen scratching across paper. âMaybe sheâs tired of the rain.â
âOr maybe sheâs got a grudge against Superman. Thatâd sell.â Jimmy chuckled.Â
Your lips quirked, but there was no real humor behind it. âYeah,â you murmured, eyes flicking away. âMaybe. Itâd be a fight of the century." Then, you disappeared toward your office before anyone could press further.
There was a long moment where his brain just⊠stalled. Then, as if by reflex, it started cataloguing.
Seattle. West Coast. Rain. Coffee. Heâd read once that people from there didnât mind gray skies; that they even liked the sound of it against glass. He wondered if you did. He wondered what you looked like when you werenât in office lighting. Whether the sun caught in your hair differently, whether your laugh sounded the same outside this building.
Stop.
He dragged a hand down his face. He was a grown man, not a teenager. But ever since youâd arrived, it was like something in him had short-circuited. The air in the newsroom felt different when you were around. He didnât want to say it, but it felt like home.
Heâd tried to rationalize it as curiosity, professional interest, anything but what it was. It didnât help. Every instinct in his body wanted to turn toward you, listen for you, know you. And that wasnât normal. Not for him. Not for Superman.
âEarth to Clark,â Lois said sharply.
He blinked, realizing sheâd been talking to him for a solid ten seconds while he stared blankly at his monitor.
âSorry,â he said quickly. âWhatâwhat were you saying?â
She set down her pen with a sigh. âI said, if youâre going to keep mooning over the new girl like a golden retriever who lost his tennis ball, do us all a favor and ask her out already.â
Clarkâs head snapped up, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. âLois, Iâm notâ I donâtââ
She arched a brow. âYou donât what, Kent? Notice her? Because youâve been typing the same password for fifteen minutes and staring into space like she personally stole your soul.â
Jimmy snorted from his desk. âShe kinda did, dude.â
âJimmy,â Lois warned, but her grin didn't fade. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing. âSeriously, Smallville. Youâve been weird ever since she showed up. You blush every time she talks to you. Just ask her to coffee. Youâre unbearable when youâre lovesick.â
Clark sputtered. âIâm notâLois, Iâm fine. Sheâs just⊠interesting.â
âRight,â she said dryly. âAnd I only read Cat Fancy for the articles.â
âYou want me to set it up for you, CK? Iâm great with intros.â Jimmy added, leaning over.
Clark groaned, pressing his palms to his face. âPlease donât.â
âAsk her out,â Lois muttered without looking up. âBefore I do it for you.â
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
There was no logical explanation for this. None.
How the hell had you let Lois Lane talk you into going out?
You didnât even remember saying yes. One minute sheâd leaned against your doorway, chatting casually about how everyone from IT deserved to âsee the sun once in a while,â and the next you were agreeing to dinner. And drinks. With the Planetâs resident power duo.
This entire week had been weird anyway.
Ever since that break-in, nothing had felt quite right. You hadnât even meant to intervene. The guy had tried to force his way into Mrs. Donahueâs apartment, and something in you had snapped. Sheâd made you cookies, for crying out loud. Sheâd asked about your day. You werenât about to let some lowlife undo that.
He should be grateful all he walked away with was a broken jaw.
Still, it had set a pattern in motion you didnât like. The normal youâd built for yourself was cracking. And worse, a certain individual had decided to make it part of his daily routine to visit.
At first, it had been every few daysâjust a wave, a smile, a polite âmorning.â But then Clark had started showing up with coffee. Always the same order, always a note written on the lid in his neat, looping handwriting. Little things that made your stomach do that annoying flutter it hadnât done since high school.
Donât forget lunch today.
Good luck with the system update.
Try to take five minutes to breathe.
Sweet. Stupidly sweet. The kind of gestures that could break through walls you hadnât realized youâd built.
By Thursday morning, youâd stopped pretending not to notice the rhythm of his footsteps. You could pick out his heartbeat from across the whole building. Impossibly strong, and painfully human in its sincerity.
So when he knocked on your door that Friday morning, you didnât even bother to look up.
âGood morning, Clark,â you said, your pen still moving across the page of notes in your lap.
There was a pauseâjust one beatâand you heard it, that telltale stutter of his heart before it found its rhythm again.
You nearly snorted, biting back the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. God, he really was hopeless.
âMorning,â he said, a hint of a laugh in his tone. You could picture it perfectlyâthe small smile, the way his shoulders relaxed when he laughed, the way his voice warmed just slightly when he said your name.
Clark Kent was, without question, the biggest dork youâd ever met.
And avoiding him? That had failed miserably.
Youâd tried being distant. Tried keeping your interactions professional. Tried to remind yourself that every moment you spent with him made you vulnerable. But there was something about himâsomething so simple and unthreatening and goodâthat slipped under every defense youâd ever built.
It was almost enough to make you forget what you were.
Almost.
You glanced up finally, catching him mid-fidget with the lid of your coffee cup, that sheepish grin threatening to undo you entirely.
âThanks for the coffee,â you said, softer than you meant to.
âAnytime,â he replied, and the way he said itâlike he actually meant any timeâmade your heart skip before you forced it back into rhythm. He hesitated, eyes darting from the floor to your face. âDo youâuhâlike flowers?â
You blinked, caught off guard. âI donât know many girls who donât. Why? You gonna ask a girl out?â
The way he started to stutter, tripping over half-formed words as his ears turned pink, made you giggle. Actual, out-loud giggling, the kind of sound you didnât even recognize coming out of yourself anymore.
You covered your mouth, laughing softly. âIâm teasing, Clark. Yes, I like flowers. Iâm not that picky about them. My mom taught me flower language in high school, so itâs kind of hard not to.â
That earned you a small, shy smile from him, his shoulders relaxing as if youâd just handed him permission to breathe again. âFlower language?â he asked, clearly intrigued.
âYeah,â you said, leaning back in your chair, letting the memory settle like something warm and bittersweet. âShe used to say every bloom had a voice. Some meant love, some meant sorrow, and others meant forgiveness. She thought it was important to understand the ways people tried to speak without words.â
His gaze softened, and something in his expression shifted like he understood that sentiment more deeply than he wanted to admit.
For some reason, you nearly told him the rest.
The words sat right there on the edge of your tongue. The story of the couple whoâd adopted you, the home youâd stumbled into by accident. How youâd been the youngest of four, loved beyond measure by a woman whoâd once believed she couldnât have any more children.
How your mom had called you her blessing from God, even when youâd arrived out of nowhereâbarefoot, bruised, speaking in a language no one recognized, looking up at her with wide, terrified eyes under a sky that felt too small for what you were.
You wanted to tell him all of that.
And you almost did.
But then the rational part of your brain caught upâthe part that remembered who you were and what youâd buried to stay hiddenâand you swallowed the words before they escaped.
âI guess I just got used to flowers meaning something,â you said instead, smiling faintly. âEven if itâs small.â
Clarkâs answering smile was soft, a little hesitant but impossibly genuine. âThat sounds like a good thing to get used to.â
You shrugged lightly, trying to keep it casual. âMaybe.â
For a heartbeat, the air between you felt different, almost fragile. His heartbeat thrummed steady and sure beneath it, the sound of it brushing faintly against your senses.
You looked down at the coffee he'd placed before the moment could stretch too far. âSo what about you? You like flowers, Clark?â
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. âI, uh, donât know much about them. My mom grows a whole garden back home, though. Peonies, lilacs⊠sunflowers.â
âOf course she grows sunflowers,â you said under your breath, smiling despite yourself. Midwest things.
âWhat was that?â
âNothing,â you said quickly, hiding your grin behind the coffee cup.
He tilted his head, pretending not to notice. âWell⊠maybe you could teach me that flower language sometime.â
You almost laughed againâalmost. But something about the way he said it made your pulse stumble instead.
Maybe it was the way his voice softened, or how his gaze lingered for just a second too long, or maybe it was that underlying hum between you that you could no longer pretend didnât exist. Was this what catching feelings was like?Â
âMaybe,â you said, and it came out quieter than you meant.Â
It had all caught up to youâcatching feelings. For Clark Kent. You really liked him, and you knew if you started dating him, you might just be doomed. Eventually, heâd have to find out the truth. That he wasnât with some normal woman from Seattle. That he was with something⊠outerworldly.
Or maybe you could keep it a secret forever. Keep the kryptonite ring close. Hide the strength, the heat behind your eyes. Pretend.
But something in your gut told you it would come out. Especially if Clark kept being this. Gentle. Kind. Unflinchingly sincere. You couldnât lie to that.
By the time you got home that evening, you let out a long sigh and stared at your reflection in the mirror.
You lookedânormal. Human. Mostly. You brushed your hair down, fixed your lipstick, and reminded yourself that this was just a drink. Loisâs words. âNo nightclub,â sheâd promised.
You could handle a bar.
You wanted to believe that.
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
The building was cozy.Â
Low lights, warm tones, the kind of place that smelled like old wood and lemon wedges. You spotted Clark almost immediately near the far booth, awkwardly checking his phone and looking painfully out of place among the chatter. He stood when he saw you, a small, nervous smile tugging at his mouth.
âYou look nice,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck. âI meanâuh, you always look nice, butââ
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you slid into the booth across from him. âRelax, Clark. Itâs just drinks.â
He smiled sheepishly and sat back down, still fidgeting with his glass of water. âRight. Just drinks.â
A buzz from both your phones interrupted the awkward silence. You glanced down, and your eyebrows pulled together as you read the message from Lois:
âCanât make it! Deadline from hell. You two have fun without me!â
What the hell?
âThatâs⊠weird,â you muttered, looking up. âShe was the one who planned this.â
Clark let out a soft, resigned sigh, leaning back in the booth with a groan. âOf course she did.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
He rubbed the back of his neck again, clearly embarrassed. âLois. Sheâs been⊠trying to get me to ask you out for a week. I think she finally just gave up and forced it.â
You stared at him, âwaitâso this was a setup?â
âApparently,â he admitted, his ears already turning pink. âAnd Iâm really sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I didnât know until right now.â
You studied him for a long moment. He looked genuinely mortified. You could practically see the guilt written in his posture, shoulders drawn tight, lips pressed together like he was holding back another apology.
You exhaled slowly and leaned back in your seat. âWell,â you said finally, âitâs not the worst trap Iâve been caught in.â
He blinked, and then the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. âThatâs⊠good? I think?â
âRelax, Clark. Itâs fine. Weâre already here, might as well make the most of it.â
He nodded, that shy, devastating smile returning. âYeah. Youâre right.â
The server came by with drinks, and for a moment, everything felt strangely easy. Simple. You traded small talk. Music, family, Metropolis weather. Clark relaxed a little more with every passing minute, shoulders unwinding, laughs sneaking out between sentences.
And somewhere between a refill and a shared basket of fries, you caught him looking at you againâreally looking. His eyes soft, like he was trying to memorize you in the dim light.
He hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, voice quieter now. âI should probably admit something before Lois does.â
You arched a brow. âOh?â
He smiled, nervous again but honest. âShe wasnât wrong. I⊠did want to ask you out. I just didnât know how.â
You froze, blinking once. âYouâwhat?â
It didnât surprise you considering how his heartbeat got around you. But the forwardness was something you didnât expect from him.
His cheeks turned pink again, but his gaze didnât waver. âYouâre easy to talk to. Kind. Smart. It feels like I've known you a lifetime, even though we've never met before. You make people feel calm, even when theyâre having a terrible day. I guess I just didnât want to mess that up by being⊠me.â
The sincerity in his voice hit something deep in your chest.
âClarkâŠâ you started, but the words wouldnât quite come.Â
He smiled faintly, glancing down at his drink. âAnyway. Thatâs⊠what I wanted to say. Lois just gave me the push I didnât have.â
You sat there for a long, quiet second, heart tripping over itself. He wasnât supposed to make this harder. He wasnât supposed to make you want this.
Fuck.
And yet, sitting there with him, hearing that confession, feeling that low hum in your bones growing stronger, you couldnât help it.
You smiled. âWell,â you said softly, âIâm glad she did.â
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
He felt⊠giggly.
That was the only word for it. It bubbled in his chest like heâd swallowed sunshine, something light and ridiculous and completely beyond his control.
Clark Kent â Superman â giggling like a fool internally because you smiled at him.
He couldnât remember the last time someone had made him feel that simple, that unguarded. Maybe it was Smallville. Maybe it was before the world learned his name. But sitting across from you, all the noise faded, the constant hum of the city, the heartbeat of every person in the building. There was just you.
In the end, heâd have to thank Lois. Even if sheâd tricked him into it, even if heâd fallen straight into the trap, he couldnât really be mad. He just couldnât believe he hadnât seen it coming.
He ran a thumb along the condensation on his glass, heart racing in that infuriating way that reminded him he wasnât as composed as he liked to think. âThen,â he started, then stopped, then tried again, âmay I ask you outââ
A beat.
He grimaced, immediately flustered. âTo dinner, obviously. Notânot right now, I just meantââ
You laughed. That soft, real laugh that had started to undo him from day one. It spilled into the air between you like the first breath after a storm, and he swore he could feel the warmth of it in his bones.
âClark,â you said, smiling, head tilting just slightly. âYouâre asking me on a date while weâre already on one.â
That earned a quiet laugh from him, one that sounded almost like a sigh of relief. âI guess I am, huh?â
âYou are,â you teased gently, nudging his foot beneath the table with yours. âYou are cute and funny and I donât know the last time Iâve been this attracted to someone.â
That caught him off guard completely. His face flushed, eyes wide and helpless in the most endearing way. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then gave up entirely and ducked his head, chuckling nervously.
âThank you,â he finally managed, voice a little rough. âI⊠I donât really know what to say to that.â
âYou donât have to,â you said softly. âJust accept my attempt at flirting.â
By the time you two were ready to leave, it was late. He felt like his chest had been rewired. Every nerve was alight, each one tuned to you.
The walk from the bar should have been easy. Simple, even. But nothing about this night was simple.
The city was soft around the edges, lit by amber streetlights and the faint hum of neon. A low wind moved through the streets, stirring the scent of rain that hadnât yet fallen. You walked beside him, arms crossed loosely, head tilted just slightly toward the sky like you were measuring its feeling. He wanted to ask what you were thinking. He didnât. He was too afraid youâd hear everything he wasnât saying.
âYou donât have to do this, you know,â you said as you rounded the corner.
He smiled, glancing at you. âI know,â he said simply. âBut I want to.â
Heâd meant it. He always did. But somehow the truth of it felt heavier tonight, as if the words carried something larger behind them.
For a few blocks, the silence between you was comfortable. You talked about the Planet, about Jimmyâs bad photography habits, about Loisâs habit of bulldozing everyone into dinner plans and then conveniently disappearing. You laughedâlightly, easilyâand it hit him somewhere low in his stomach every time.
When you finally reached your street, he looked up at the sign and stopped walking. âFifth Street?â he asked.
âYeah,â you said, already stepping toward the next building.
Something in him tightened. âThis is where that burglary was, isnât it?â
You hesitated, barely long enough for anyone else to notice. But Clark noticed everything. Every pause. Every breath. Every tiny truth you let slip out.
You shrugged, âIt was handled. No need to worry.â
He followed you to the building entrance, frowning softly. âI justâ that guyâs still in custody, but sometimes people have friends. Iâd feel better knowing youâre careful.â
You stopped, hand on the railing, turning to look at him fully. The streetlight above you cast a halo across your hair, soft and golden. You smiled, and it hit him like sunlight through glass. Maybe he didnât need the sun anymore if you were going to orbit around him.
âThatâs sweet,â you said. âBut you donât need to worry. I can take care of myself.â
Clarkâs throat went dry. You said it with such certainty. Not pride, but truth. A quiet assurance that he couldnât explain. And the strangest part was, he believed you. More than that, he felt it.
Still, the thought of you alone on this street stirred something deeper. Instinct, maybe. That need to protectâthe one he could never quite turn off.
âI know you can,â he said quietly. âDoesnât mean I stop caring.â
Your smile softened, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. You stepped closerâjust enough that he could see the faint reflection of the streetlights in your eyes.
âClark Kent,â you said, voice purely amused, âyou are dangerously charming.â
He laughed under his breath, because he didnât know what else to do. And then you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
It was innocent. Gentle. The barest press of warmth against his skin.
But the moment it happened, something changed.
It wasnât just the contact, it was the feeling that followed, like the air around him had charged, the static of a thousand thunderstorms threading through his blood. It hit him fast and deep, an electric hum racing from where your lips had touched him straight through to his chest.
For half a second, he thought heâd imagined it. Until he realized his heart wasnât beating normally. It was resonating. Matching something unseen, something that pulsed faintly between you.
He froze. His mind scrambled to make sense of itâscience, biology, anything. But there was no explanation, no precedent, no reason that your touch should make the sun itself feel closer.
âClark?â you asked softly, brows knitting. âYou okay?â
He looked at you. Really looked. The worry in your expression, the gentle steadiness in your voice. And underneath it, that same hum heâd been feeling for weeks, now amplified tenfold.
He didnât think. Couldnât.
The words slipped out. âCan Iâcan I kiss you?â
Your lips parted, surprise flickering across your face. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The world seemed to pull tighter around the two of you, the soft city sounds fading until there was only breath and the echo of two heartbeats trying to find the same rhythm.
And god help him, heâd never felt more human in his life.
~ ⊠~ ⊠~
Something choked in your throat at the requestâCan I kiss you?âlike your brain short-circuited trying to decide if it was real. The word and the want got caught somewhere in your chest.
But your body moved before your mind could catch up.
Your hands lifted, settling on either side of his face, his skin warm beneath your palms, stubble rough under your fingertips, and god, the look in his eyes. Soft and wide and searching, like he was scared youâd vanish if he blinked too fast.
You surged forward, crashing your mouth against his. His glasses pressed clumsy into your skin. Almost inconvenient, but it didnât matter.Â
Clark's hands flew to your hips, holding himself in the curve of you as if to anchor the moment. You felt him gasp, just barely, before he kissed you back like it was the only thing in the world he knew how to do. Lips moving in a dance with yours.
Your tongue gently brushed against his bottom lip, a soft, tentative invitation. He parted his lips, allowing you to slide in, meeting yours in a dance of exploration and desire. The world around you faded away, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, the taste of him, and the heat of his body pressed close.
You deepened the kiss, your hands moving from his face to tangle in his hair. His hands roamed your back, tracing the curves of your body, sending shivers down your spine. The kiss became more urgent, more passionate, as if you were both trying to lose yourselves in each other.
The taste of him was intoxicating, faintly like the drink heâd sipped earlier, but underneath that, something warm and him. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against your chest, pulsing in rhythm with your own, like your bodies had reached some silent agreement.
You broke the kiss slowly, reluctantly, just far enough to look into his face. His eyes met yours, dark and wide, pupils blown. His lips were red, kiss-bruised, slightly parted like he hadnât yet remembered how to breathe.
And god, he looked undone. Like someone whoâd just survived a storm and wasnât entirely sure he wanted to come out of it.
You smiled, slow and a little breathless. âSo,â you whispered, your lips brushing lightly against his, ânot a bad first unexpected date.â
He huffed a soft laugh, the sound shaky with disbelief. âUnexpected,â he echoed, voice rough. âThatâs one word for it.â
Neither of you said anything for a long time. The air felt easy, like youâd both agreed without words not to ruin it by speaking too soon.
Then he cleared his throat, his smile turning shy again, the familiar Clark Kent nervousness creeping back in. âSo⊠would I be pushing my luck if I asked whether thereâs going to be a second date?â
You blinked, caught off guard by how earnest he sounded. He wasnât joking. He genuinely wanted to know.
For a moment, you just looked at him, your heart still thrumming from the kiss, from the way he said date like it actually meant everything. Then a small grin tugged at your lips.
âYouâve made a good first impression, Kent,â you said, tilting your head playfully. âI think I could be persuaded.â
His smile bloomed, something disbelieving, the kind that reached his eyes and made your stomach flip all over again. âPersuaded, huh?â
âMm-hmm,â you murmured, stepping back toward the door. âWeâll see if you keep it up.â
He laughed under his breath, hands sliding back into his coat pockets. âChallenge accepted.â
You lingered there for a second longer than you should have, just looking at him, memorizing the curve of his smile, the soft edge of light around him. Then you finally slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind you.
On the other side, you pressed your back against the wood and let out a long breath, your lips still tingling, your pulse still unsteady.
Outside, you heard him exhale tooâan almost-whispered, good nightâbefore the sound of his footsteps faded into the hum of the city.
And for the first time in a long time, you couldnât decide which scared you more: the fact that you wanted to see him againâŠ
or the fear that, when you did, he might start to recognize the same impossible light burning inside you.
I've found joy in Batfamily stuff. Maybe a longer series in progess.
platonic! d.grayson & j.todd/reader feat. b. wayne/wife!reader
Life had a strange sense of humor.
Thatâs all you could chalk it up to.
One day, you were working a standard nine-to-five in Gotham, living in a shared apartment with a roommate who could quote every true crime podcast on Earth. The next, you were somehow catching the attention of the Bruce Wayne, Gothamâs crown jewel of mystery, philanthropy, and social gossip columns.
And somehow⊠somehow⊠heâd looked back.
Youâd thought it was just a fluke at first. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe youâd said something he hadnât expected at that social event. Youâd spent weeks waiting for the punchline, waiting for him to realize you werenât the type of woman who fit neatly into the Wayne orbit. Yet, a year and half later, legally speaking, the stepmother of an eleven-year-old and a ring worth millions
The first time you met Dick Grayson had been completely by accident. Before Wayne took over your surname.
It was your second night ever in Wayne Manor, long before you knew anything about the other life Bruce led. Heâd been pulled away for one of those âurgent callsâ Alfred seemed to appear for like clockwork, and youâd found yourself wandering the endless, echoing hallways barefoot in your dinner dress. The place was beautiful, but it felt like walking through a museum that hadnât heard laughter in decades.
Youâd just turned the corner into the kitchen when a voice startled you.
âWow. He must really like you if he brought you back a second time.â
You nearly jumped. There, standing beside the counter with a cookie halfway to his mouth, was a boy no older than nine or ten. Wide blue eyes, tousled hair, a spark of mischief behind the guarded politeness. You recognized him instantly. The Flying Graysons. Everyone had read about the tragedy. Bruce had mentioned something, once, about fostering a kid.
You blinked. âDonât worry. You arenât the only one surprised by it.â
He grinned at that, like he hadnât expected you to joke. Like no past women had a sense of humor. You werenât sure why you said it, nerves, probably. You were still half-convinced Bruce was going to realize you didnât belong in this world and end things before breakfast.
âI mean, you make him laugh,â the boy said around a mouthful of cookie, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. âI donât think anyone else has done that in a while. Cookie?â
He held out the packet. Chewy Chips Ahoy, not crunchy, which you immediately respected.
You took one, trying not to smile. âYouâve got class, kid.â
âIâm Dick.â
You told him your name, and that was it. The beginning of something you didnât realize would matter so much.
He started showing up more after that. Little visits when Bruce wasnât around. Sometimes heâd sit at the kitchen island while you worked, making quiet conversation about school or Alfredâs cooking. Other times heâd linger at the doorway just to ask if you were coming back to the manor anytime soon. He wasnât shy, not exactly, but there was a loneliness there you recognized, something quiet and aching that didnât need to be said out loud.
Then, one night, about four months later, you woke to the faint tap-tap of your bedroom window.
You shouldâve been terrifiedâ it was Gotham, after all âbut instinct made you go toward it. And thatâs when you saw him. Dick. Half in, half out of the window, bleeding, a mask pushed halfway up his forehead.
âYouâre⊠the closest,â he muttered, breathless. âMy comms are down.â
You didnât even think. You just moved. Towels. Rubbing alcohol. Bandages. Whatever you had.
He flinched a few times, tried to brush you off with that same stubborn grin, but youâd already decided: no eleven-year-old was patching himself up in your living room.
âHold still,â you told him, pressing a gauze pad against his side. âAnd no arguing. I donât care if youâre the mayor of Gotham orââ
âRobin,â he mumbled.
You froze mid-sentence, staring at him. âExcuse me?â
He gave a sheepish shrug, chewing on his lip. âYou know, Robin. Like, Batman andââ
You cut him off with an inhale, pressing your fingers to your temple. âOh my god.â
âDonât freak out.â
âDonât freakâ? You climbed through my window in costume! Bleeding might I add!â
An hour later, Alfred finally picked up, calm as if it were any other Tuesday. âGood evening, Missââ
âAlfred,â you said through gritted teeth, âby any chance, are you missing a Robin?â
There was a pause. âAh. I see Master Richard found his way to you, then.â
Meanwhile, Dick was sitting on the couch beside you, half-bandaged, munching on a chocolate chip cookie your roommate had baked earlier that day.
And that had led to a very serious conversation with a certain boyfriend, who showed up ten minutes later in full Batman regalia.
You still remembered the way you blinked at him, bloodied gauze in hand, while Dick, completely unbothered, waved a hand in greeting. It had been the kind of moment that shouldâve terrified you, learning your boyfriend was Gothamâs nocturnal myth. But instead, youâd gone quiet for a long minute, taking it all in before finally saying, deadpan:
âWell, that explains why you keep disappearing every time the city catches fire.â
Bruce had actually smiledâsmiledâbefore muttering something about you taking it better than he thought. What you didnât know until years later was that night was the moment he decided he was going to marry you. Youâd stayed calm, helped patch up his ward, then had the nerve to tease him about his âmood lighting and voice filter.â
From that point on, Dick became your little buddy. Anything that happenedâbig or smallâhe wanted to tell you. If he got frustrated with Bruce, he found you. If something good happened, you were the first person he wanted to show.
It wasnât mothering. Youâd never tried to fill that space, and maybe thatâs why he came to you so easily. You didnât treat him like a child. You treated him like someone learning how to be a person in an impossible world.
When he stayed up too late on school nights, you didnât scold himâyouâd just ask him if his algebra homework was going to do itself. When he messed up, you let him face the fallout, even if it stung. But when things got too heavy, you were there with a shoulder to lean on, or a blanket, or quiet company on the couch while the rest of the manor slept.
There was one night, long after patrol, when Dick had been so tired he barely made it to the couch before collapsing beside you. His eyes were half-closed, the mask still faintly imprinted around them. You didnât say anything, just let your fingers card through his hair while the news murmured softly in the background.
âYou know,â he mumbled after a while, voice slurred with sleep, âyouâre kinda like my mom already. On paper, anyway.â
You hummed thoughtfully. âIâm fully aware. I did, in fact, sign that agreement when I married Bruce.â
He gave a little laughâbarely thereâand whispered, âI like that you are.â Then he yawned, curled closer, and was out cold before you could even form a reply.
You sat there for a long time, wide-eyed, one hand still resting in his hair. Thatâs how Bruce found you when he came in a few minutes later, cape still dusted with soot, the worldâs greatest detective standing completely still in the doorway as if afraid to break the moment.
âHe said Iâm his mom,â you whispered, still dazed.
Bruceâs expression softened in a way few people ever saw. He crouched beside the couch, his gloved hand brushing a strand of hair from Dickâs forehead before looking back at you.
âHeâs not wrong,â he murmured.
And that was that. You hadnât set out to be a mother, but somehow, without trying, youâd become one anyway.
So when Jason came into the picture⊠well, it only made sense that heâd find his way to you, too. At least in Bruceâs mind. You, however, hadnât been quite as prepared to be adopting a second child, especially one who seemed to think authority was more of a loose suggestion than an actual rule.
Heâd barely been at the manor for a week when it happened:
âDid you seriously try to get the wheels off the car?â You asked.
Jason was standing beside the Batmobile, grease smudged on his cheek, small hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. The look on his face was pure defiance.
âYeah. What about it?â
You stared at him for a long moment before the laugh slipped out. âThatâs⊠fucking brilliant.â
Somewhere behind you, Bruce let out the quietest sigh of his life. You turned toward him, grinning.
âBet you never thought someone would actually try,â you said, biting your bottom lip.
And that was the moment Jason Todd decided you were alright.
If Dick had been your buddy, the bright spark who wanted to talk, to share, to make you proudâJason was your shadow. He watched first, trying to figure out if you were someone worth trusting. But you didnât push. You didnât lecture. You let him come to you in his own time.
And slowly, he did.
You noticed it in the little things: how he started hovering in the doorway when you cooked, pretending to be uninterested but asking about dinner anyway; how heâd drop small comments meant to make you laugh, glancing at you after to see if heâd managed it. He liked when you laughed. Especially when Bruce didnât.
Maybe thatâs what drew him to you most, you didnât make him feel like a project to fix. When Bruceâs rules got too much or Alfredâs concern too gentle, Jason found a strange kind of peace just being near you. You never tried to soften him. You just saw him. The rough edges, the smart mouth, the spark of rebellion, and you didnât want to change him.
Sometimes, youâd catch him grinning when you scolded Bruce for being up too late or weapons training.
Other times, youâd find him sitting at the counter while you read through reports, swinging his legs, pretending he wasnât waiting for your attention.
There was a quiet, growing loyalty in the way Jason looked at you, one you didnât notice until it was already there. You had no idea how it had gotten there.Â
And when he finally called you âMaâ one nightâoffhand, tired, more instinct than thought, you didnât even correct him.
You just raised a brow at him, and told Bruce about it two hours later when you didnât understand why first Dick saw you as a mother figure and now Jason did.Â
It had just become a fact of your lifeâwithout meaning to, without planning itâyouâd become theirs. And in turn, they had become your sons. The first of your children.
Even years later, after everything that had happened. After the fights, the heartbreak, the lossesâthey still were. Even when Bruce seemed to collect new children every other year, that bond never really faded.
Dick still called every Tuesday, even if he couldnât make it to the manor. Jason still texted at odd hours, his messages jumping from photos of stray dogs to screenshots of crime reports with captions like âtell Bruce to stop stealing my leads.â Sometimes heâd skip debriefs entirely, walking straight past the Batcave and into the kitchen just to raid the fridge and tell you about âthe funniest partâ of the mission, usually something that wouldâve made Bruce grit his teeth.
But no matter how old they got, or how many of them there were, some things never changed. Without fail, they all still had a habit of getting clingy.
Which brought you to tonight.
âAre you two serious right now?â you sighed, stepping into the bedroom only to find Dick and Jason sprawled across the mattress like they owned it, each claiming a side of the bed youâd been planning to curl up in for a quiet movie night.
Jason didnât even look up from his phone. âYou said movie night. You didnât specify alone.â
âThatâs because I assumed you both had patrol,â you shot back, giving him a look. âOr at least better things to do. Like, I donât know, keeping your little brother from starting an international incident?â
Dick grinned at you from where he was half-buried under the blanket. âDamianâs fine. Heâs with Bruce. And technically, weâre keeping an eye on you.â
You raised an unimpressed brow. âOh, are you now?â
Jason shrugged. âSomeoneâs gotta make sure youâre not watching another one of those sappy romance flicks, Ma. Bad for morale.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât hide the laugh that escaped. âYou know whatâs bad for morale? Two grown vigilantes hogging my pillows.â
âCorrection,â Dick said with mock seriousness. âYour pillows are now our pillows.â
âAnd your popcorn.â Jason snorted, hands held out for the bowl that currently sat in yours.
You gave up with a sigh, climbing onto the bed between them, nudging their legs until they made room. âProblems children,â you muttered, grabbing the remote.
Jason leaned back against the headboard, smirking. âYeah, but you love us.â
You didnât look at him, but your smile said it all. âUnfortunately.â
And as the opening credits rolled, Jason tilted the bowl in your direction, and Dick rested his head against your shoulder, grown men, heroes, still your boys at the end of the day.
Because no matter how many nights Gotham demanded from them, somehow, they always found their way back home.Â
2087
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
areudirty
