summer loves are supposed to happen⌠you just didn't expect to literally fall into yours
dick grayson. summer au. resort au. fluff.
The hottest day of the summerâat least thatâs what the news had been screaming all morning.
Thank God you were lucky enough to be spending it at an all-inclusive resort. The kind with infinity pools, endless buffets, private beaches, and drinks served until your brain went completely numb. It was perfect. Working all those exhausting graveyard shifts back home was finally paying off.
And just like you had done for the past four days, you were rushing down to catch breakfast with your friends. Late, as ever. God damned your phone for somehow snoozing your alarms without you noticing.
After a frantic five-minute express shower, you threw on the first sundress and sandals you could find, barely making it out the door with dripping hair. You practically threw yourself into the elevator, slamming the lobby button and praying there was still bacon left.
Ding.
The doors slid open, and you sprinted outâonly to slam shoulder-first into a literal brick wall.
âOh shootâIâm so sorry!â you gasped, turning around to apologize.
The breath instantly hitched in your throat.
He was tall. Insanely broad-shouldered and built like a professional athlete. His dark, messy hair framed a face that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover, but it was his eyes that completely threw you offâan electric, piercing blue that made a sharp, breathtaking contrast against his golden, sun-kissed skin.
âNo need toâ he flashed you a smooth, effortless smile, his gaze lingering on yours just a second too long. âJust make sure to look where youâre going next time... wouldn't want you losing one of those flip-flops.â
He chuckled, a low, teasing sound as he cast a quick glance down at your mismatched feet before stepping into the elevator. The doors closed, leaving you standing there in the lobby, staring at the metallic reflection of yourself with your heart hammering against your ribs.
You shook your head violently, trying to clear the image. Get a grip. You weren't the type of girl to obsess over some random, dangerously attractive guy you saw for three seconds in a hotel lobby. You had history back homeâtropes you were trying to forget, exes you were ashamed of, and a heart that was currently under construction. So yeah... screw guys. You were here to relax.
And so the morning went by.
An hour later, you and your friends were stretched out on the lounge chairs near the main pool. The air smelled thick of chlorine, coconut tanning oil, and sea salt. A faint pop hit was buzzing through the outdoor speakers, and the warm ocean breeze was kissing your skin just right.
You were finally relaxing, sinking into the mattress with your eyes closed, when a sudden realization struck you like a splash of ice water.
You opened your eyes, frantically digging through your beach tote. Dammit.
In your morning rush to beat the breakfast timer, you had left your room key and your favorite sunglasses sitting right on the vanity nightstand. And with your friends already halfway through their second margaritas, leaving the room unlocked or going the rest of the day without sun protection wasn't an option.
âIâll be right backâ you groaned, standing up and dusting the sand off your thighs. âForgot something upstairs.â
âDon't get lost again!â one of your friends called out lazily from under her straw hat.
You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, slipping your sandals back on and heading back toward the air-conditioned sanctuary of the hotel tower.
Leaving the room with your tote bag finally organized, you pulled the heavy door shut behind you. You took a deep breath, turning around to head back to the elevatorsâonly to instantly misstep on your own sandals.
Before your knees could hit the carpet, two large, firm hands caught you cleanly by the waist, steadying your weight in a fraction of a second with frighteningly quick, athletic instincts.
âWoahâ a smooth, amused voice cooed right near your ear. âLooks like someone is on a constant rush today.â
Your heart practically did a backflip against your ribs. You quickly pulled back, smoothing down the fabric of your dress with trembling fingers as a furious, burning flush crawled straight up your neck.
âOh God, Iâm so sorry,â you stammered, your eyes darting up to meet those piercing blue ones again. âI swear... I swear itâs been a complete accident both times.â
âDon't worry about it,â he flashed a brilliant, perfect white-toothed smile that could probably end wars. He didn't even step back, standing at a distance that made you acutely aware of how tall he was. He extended a broad, calloused hand toward you. âMy name is Richard... but everyone calls me Dick.â
A small, quiet giggle escaped your lips before you could even stop yourself. You quickly pressed your hand over your mouth, but the amusement in your eyes gave you away entirely.
Dick gasped softly, dropping his hand and pressing it against his chest in mock offense. He tilted his head, a bright, playful glint dancing in his blue eyes.
âIs there a problem with my name?â he asked, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. âDo you find my nickname funny?â
âNo! No, not at allâ you lied smoothly, taking your hand away from your mouth, though your smile remained wide. âItâs a... very strong name. Very classic. Reminds me of a 60âs showâ
âUh-huh, Sureâ Dick hummed, leaning his broad shoulders back against the wall right next to your room door. He crossed his massive arms over his chestâa move you could have sworn was entirely calculated just to flex his biceps against his tight polo shirt. âYou didn't give me yours, by the way. Or are you going to keep running over me anonymously?â
You slipped your hands into the small pockets of your sundress, matching his posture by leaning slightly against the opposite frame.
âItâs a pleasureâ you murmured, giving him your name.
âSee? Was that so hard?â he chuckled, his voice low and warm in the quiet hallway. He looked you up and down, his gaze respectful but unabashedly appreciative. âSo... do you always sprint through hotel halls like youâre escaping a crime scene, or do I just happen to be in your exact landing zone?â
âI usually save my best tackles for giant guys who block the elevator, Richardâ you scoffed softly, raising an eyebrow with a dry, sarcastic smirk. âConsider yourself special.â
Dick let out a genuine, golden laugh that echoed down the quiet floor. He pushed off the wall smoothly, taking a single, slow step closer to you, his posture entirely relaxed, oozing an effortless, magnetic charisma that made it impossible to look away.
âOh, I doâ he murmured, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a gentle, mesmerizing intensity. âIn fact, to make up for almost taking you down twice... how about you let me buy you a drink tonight?â
You crossed your arms, thoroughly enjoying the back-and-forth. âA drink? Dick, weâre at an all-inclusive resort. The drinks are literally free.â
âFair pointâ he grinned, not losing an ounce of his confidence. âThen let me escort you to the exclusive roof party tonight. 10:00 PM. Best view of the ocean, a decent DJ, and I promise to be your official bodyguard so you don't trip over your own feet again. What do you say?â
You pretended to think about it for two agonizing seconds, looking up at the ceiling before meeting his gaze again with a small, knowing smile.
âAlright, Grayson. But if I trip, Iâm dragging you down with me.â
Dickâs grin broadened into something impossibly handsome. âDeal.â
That was exactly how long you had spent overthinking every single detail of your life since your car had magically been fixed. You had spent seven straight graveyard shifts staring at the grease-stained windows of the Batburger, your mind racing back to that dusty garage, and that giant muscular mechanic who had flashed you the exact same soft, nervous smile as your favorite midnight customer.
It was driving you insane. Every time you looked at the empty corner booth, your brain frantically tried to connect the dots. The precision with the mustard. The sudden shyness. The voice cracking. The timing.
Tonight, the bell above the door finally chimed at 3:15 AM.
Your face remained a mask of pure boredom, but your heart gave a sudden thud against your ribs when the massive silhouette of the Red Hood stepped inside. He moved with his usual heavy posture, sliding into his usual booth and yanking the red helmet off. The black domino mask was still there, clinging to his sharp jawline.
You didn't even wait for him to ask. You prepared his two double Batburgers, extra french fries, and walked over to his table, placing the tray down with a heavy thud.
Jason blinked behind his mask, tearing through his first burger with that desperate, animalistic hunger. He looked up at you, shrugging his broad shoulders under his leather jacket.
âNo milkshake today?â he asked, his rough voice dropping an octave.
You didn't answer right away. You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning your weight against the edge of his table, before deciding to slide into the seat right in front of him. You looked straight into his electric green eyes. It was still just a silly theory in your head, and if you were wrong, this was about to get incredibly awkward. But you had to know.
âYou canât fool me anymore, Toddâ you said, your voice low and dangerously calm.
Jason froze dead in his tracks. A fry was halfway to his mouth when his entire frame went completely rigid. He swallowed hard, his sharp jaw clenching as he slowly lowered his hand back to the tray, the tough vigilante persona instantly slipping through his fingers.
âUh... what?â He cleared his throat violently, his voice cracking so loud it practically echoed in the empty restaurant. He quickly dropped his gaze to the table, scrambling for a comeback. âI don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart. My name is... Red. The Hood. I don't go by... whatever you just said.â
He tried to force a chuckle, but it came out completely strained. You had him cornered.
âOh, cut the crapâ you scoffed softly, a small smirk tugging at your lips. You tilted your head, thoroughly enjoying the way a furious, deep red flush was already crawling up his neck. âYouâre the mechanic. You literally took me to your own garage and smiled at me the exact same way. You threw me into a whole week of an existential crisis, so you better admit it.â
Jason opened his mouth, closed it, and waved his large hands in the air between you in that goofy, panicked rush you were starting to recognize. He looked more like a teenager caught stealing candy than Gotham's most feared protector.
âI... I mean, Gotham has a lot of big guysâ he stammered, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush to fix the tension. âAnd grease! Lots of people use grease. Itâs a very industrial city. It's just a coincidence. A total, random... automotive coincidence.â
âJasonâ you murmured, leaning a mere inch closer.
The sound of his actual name leaving your lips made his entire frame deflate. He let out a long defeated sigh, his broad shoulders dropping as he rubbed the back of his neck with a heavy hand. The rigid, defensive armor he always carried seemed to completely melt away, leaving just a tired, incredibly embarrassed guy in a diner booth.
He bit his lower lip, a soft smile finally cutting through his nerves as his masked eyes locked onto yours.
âDamn itâ he muttered to the table, his ears burning a deep shade of pink. âGood job. You're... you're real smart, you know that?â
You couldn't help the soft, genuine chuckle that escaped your throat, the fatigue in your bones completely vanishing. âTook me a week, but yeah. I amâ
Jason stared up at you, his green eyes wide and full of a terrifying amount of shyness. He nervously rolled up a paper wrapper between his large fingers, clearing his throat one last time.
âOkay, fine. You winâ he mumbled, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper. âJust... let me explain everything. My shift at the garage doesn't start until six, so... I think I can stay here a little longer. If... if you want. Let me get you a strawberry milkshake.â
This wasnât your idea. Not even in a million years could it have been your idea. But damn, how lucky you were.
You were new to Gotham, after all. New job, new opportunities, new âbetterâ life... right? Somehow you thought it was a great idea to express your boredom in front of one of your newest friends from workâa girl who had grown up in Gotham's richest suburbs but still managed to have an appetite for rebellion after living in such a beautiful mess of a city.
Rebelling didnât sound bad, not at all. But in Gotham? Barely knowing how to move through the subways, it felt as if something else was pushing you to commit such reckless actions. The same way you felt the crowd pushing you toward your seat now.
Ah, yes. Illegal boxing fights. What a better way to spend a Saturday night. A fifteen-dollar entrance fee, at least it was better than a dinner in this shithole people call a city. You could barely hear your friend's voice when you entered. The place looked like an abandoned warehouse basement with a good amount of rusted bleachers surrounding a makeshift ring. A heavy mix of industrial white and sickly green lights illuminated the center, giving the place a toxic underground vibe.
âBets! Everyone bet for your favorite!â the bookie shouted over the roar of the crowd before your friend pulled out a twenty. She quickly shot you a look.
âYou have to betâ she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. How could it be? You had no idea who was fighting anyway. You took a quick glance at the torn poster by the entrance:
THE REPTILE VS. THE HOOD.
You shrugged and without thinking much, you slid five dollars across the table.
âThe Hoodâ you murmured.
âAh... you have good intuition, I seeâ your friend smugged a second before a heavy bass started rumbling through the concrete walls.
The Reptile made his entrance. He was a human wall, his skin thickened by scars and tribal tattoos. You wouldn't want to be the guy fighting this man. The music stopped and the announcer spoke through a screeching megaphone, presenting your fighter.
âAnd in the red corner... the ghost of Crime Alley! They call him THE HOOD!â
He wasnât like any other man youâd ever seen. His jet-black hair made a harsh contrast with his pale skin, a canvas mapping a lifetime of rough choices, covered in jagged scars that followed the heavy frame of his body. His muscular arms and broad, bruised back moved with an intimidating weight. He wore nothing but crimson red boxing shorts, standing out against the suffocating filth of the venue.
The only other color on him was the sharp, borderline radioactive green of his eyes, which you couldâve sworn you saw glowing when he dedicated a fraction of a second to look at your row. The raw guitar solo accompanying his walk down looked just like him: wrecked, heavy, and moving something violent and deep inside your chest.
And so, the first round started.
Every punch he threw wasn't athletic, it was personal. The other guy was heavier, but the Hood moved with a cruel, rhythmic elegance. You watched the sweat and the first drops of blood drip from his brow under the green lights. He didn't use standard gloves, just thick layers of black gauze and electrical tape wrapped tightly around his knuckles.
The sound of his hands hitting the giantâs jaw was a sickening, dry crack that made the front row flinch. He took a heavy hook to the ribs, coughing out a spray of spit, but he didn't even blink. He just smiled, wiped his mouth with the back of his taped hand, and countered with a lethal three-punch combination that sent the giant crashing against the ropes.
After a few minutes of pure butcher poetry, his opponent was flat on the canvas. The Hood gave one final look at the screaming crowd, a sharp, arrogant smirk cutting through his bleeding lip before disappearing down the dark corridor with his small crew.
Twenty-five dollars. That's what you made with your five-dollar bet.
The second fight was about to begin when your friend thought it was a good idea to go grab a beer, and you saw it as the perfect chance to slip away to the restroom. It was supposed to be simple: your friend went right toward the crowded bar, you went left toward the back exit. The problem was that when you pushed open a heavy unlabelled metal door, you found yourself inside a dim, quiet locker room.
You sighed, instantly ready to turn back around when you saw him sitting over a blue plastic cooler. The boxer. Up close, he looked like someone who had crawled his way back from the dead. What luck you had.
He looked you up and down before frowning. You definitely didn't look like you belonged in a Gotham underground fight. Your clothes practically screamed New York luxury instead of Gotham grime.
âI think youâre lost, sweetheart. Real fights are downtownâ he spoke, his voice low, raspy, and completely exhausted before clicking a silver lighter to light a cigarette. You couldâve nodded and walked out, but god forbid you knew when to keep your mouth shut.
âActually, you just made me win twenty-five bucks... so, thanksâ you tilted your head, your eyes dropping to his hands. You noticed the fresh, dark blood filtering through the white bandage of his knuckles.
He scoffed, letting the thick gray smoke filter through his nose before chuckling softly. âYeah? No problem. Just try to make a bigger bet next time. Five dollars is barely enough to pay for my cab homeâ
It was your turn to scoff. âWhat makes you think Iâm coming back?â you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. At the end of the day, you had seen enough sweaty people fighting and pissing where they shouldn't to understand that maybe this wasn't exactly your vibe.
This time he narrowed his eyes, looking genuinely offended. âWhy wouldn't you?â His smirk returned, slower this time, as he leaned his broad back against the rusted locker behind him. âOr what? Your little designer boots are too delicate to be in a place like this?â He let out a dry laugh, trapping the cigarette between his lips again. Oh, fuck him.
âOkay... twenty dollars next time. But if you lose, youâll owe me fortyâ you smirked down at him.
A smirk that quickly vanished from your face when he stood up. Jesus. He walked right until he was standing a mere inch in front of you, towering over your frame. He was so much bigger than what you had imagined from the bleachers. He smelled like copper, cheap cologne, and cold rain.
He leaned down slightly, his green eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly dark playfulness.
âMake it fifty and I won't owe you anything, because I don't lose. Next Friday at nine. You're sitting in my cornerâ he took one last drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke right above your head, and walked past you into the hallway. He turned his head back one last time just before disappearing into the shadows. âAh, and make sure to dress more... accordinglyâ
He gave you one final, infuriatingly attractive smile before leaving you alone in the cold room.
You stared at the empty doorway, your heart hammering against your ribs. You closed your eyes and let out a long, defeated breath as the realization hit you.
The bastard hadn't just flirted with you. He had just dictated your plans for next week. And the worst part? You knew you were going to show up.
A heavy panting interrupted your dreaming, followed by the feeling of your mattress moving up and down. You opened your eyes, blinking, trying to find Bucky in the dark. He was breathing heavily, sweating and whimpering⌠he was having a nightmare.
It was the first time you've seen him like this in months. Maybe a year.
Barnes was well aware of the nightmares caused by his trauma,and he had let you know what to do the very first night you slept in the same bed. His voice echoed clearly in your mind: âWhen I get a nightmare, I need you to get away from me.â
But how could you let him suffer alone?
You swallowed the lump in your throat before shaking his shoulder softly, trying to snap him out of whatever hell he was living in
Bad idea.
His eyes snapped open. In a fraction of a second, his metal arm locked around your neck and pinned you hard against the wall. For a moment, you couldnât recognize him, the light behind those blue eyes youâve fallen for again and again was enterily gone, there was only the cold instinct of a soldier.
You desperately gasped for air as your eyes filled with tears, your fingers clutching uselessly at the cold vibranium of his hand, trying to pull it away. It was impossible to think the same hand that had touched you in places you didnât know existed was now about to end your life.
With your last drag of air, you choked out his name. Your mind started to blur, your vision dark around the edges as your body began to give up.
And then, he let go.
You crumpled to the floor. Your hand flew to your throat as you gasped for air, each breath burning like acid. You forced your head up. Bucky was frozen, standing over you, his chest heaving as he stared down at his own metal hand in absolute horror.
He took a few steps back, his breathing still ragged, before he turned and walked out of the room. Through the heavy buzzing in your ears, you could hear his footsteps walking down the hall.
Your head was still spinning and trying to swallow felt like eating sand. It took all your strength to get up, steadying yourself against the wall as you stumbled your way to the living room.
Bucky was sitting on the couch, his face buried in his hands. You approached him slowly, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.
âNo⌠get away⌠I hurt you" his voice shook violently and defensive, refusing to look up at you
You shook your head as you sat next to him. You couldnât speak, your throat too damaged to form the words, but your love for him was louder than anything else. Bucky finally broke, hiding his face in his palms as a low, choked sob escaped his chest, mutbling broken apologies into the quiet apartment.
batburger au. clumsy jason. fluff. slow burn.
Part |
Another night, another shift, another stupid attempt of the Red Hood trying way too hard.
Itâs not that he bothered you⌠not really. But attending to the same masked guy almost every night, just to then notice the way he subtly followed you home, and then working the next night interacting with him as if nothing happened? it was getting a little ridiculous.
Once again, the red fiberglass helmet had just disappeared through the door. This time, his order consisted of two double Batburgers, extra french fries, and two sodas. When you raised an eyebrow at the amount of food, he simply muttered that he was âbulking.â Ha. Sure.
You knew it wouldnât be long until your shift ended, which meant the silent race between the vigilante and you to see who would get to your apartment first was about to start. You werenât a hundred percent sure he followed you every single night; you only counted the times you actually spotted a flash of red against the moon. But tonight, with the Gotham sky completely falling down in a torrential rain and your car broken down, you secretly hoped the Hood would actually follow you. At least this time.
With a heavy sigh, you locked up the Batburger place. Your hands slipped deep into the pockets of your jacket as you started the walk toward your building. The air was biting cold, and you could feel your nose slowly freezing.
âOh, fuck me,â you muttered to yourself.
You had just realized that the sketchiest alleyway you had to cross in order to get home had no lights. Again. Stupid burglarsâhow cheap could a lightbulb possibly be?
As soon as you took your first tentative steps into the dark alley, you caught a shadow moving smoothly over the roof. Not entirely sure if it was a junkie trying to scare you or your most loyal client, you decided to try your luck and call him out.
âI know itâs you,â you yelled into the rain, crossing your arms. âI know youâve been following me⌠just come out already.â
You didnât get an answer at first, which instantly made you feel an idiot for screaming at a brick wall. But then, a massive, tall figure approached smoothly from the darkness. It was the Hood.
âIâm not following you. You just happen to be in the same place I go,â he said, his voice rough through the modulator as he stepped closer. He paused, looking at the pouring rain. âTerrible idea to walk in weather like this, by the way.â
You scoffed softly. âWell, my car broke down. So unless Superman comes flying to my rescue, I donât really have any other option but to walk.â
You watched him as he slowly reached up and took his helmet off, leaving only the black domino mask clinging to his skinâthe exact same view you got whenever he stayed to eat inside the diner.
âYou donât need him,â Jason murmured, clearing his throat. âI⌠I actually know a good mechanic.â
You raised an eyebrow. Despite the fact that you were getting used to talking with a literal crimefighter, him offering you automotive advice was entirely new.
âGood-good? Or just good?â you challenged.
He frowned, his broad shoulders tensing up a bit under his leather jacket. âReal good. The best one in the city, actually.â
You hummed, holding back the soft chuckle that threatened to escape at how defensive he got over a mechanic. âOkay. Can you give me the number of this real good mechanic then?â
Suddenly, as if you had just asked him for his own personal phone number, a soft flush crept up his neck and he nodded. âYeah. Okay. Letâs just take you home first.â
And just like a thirteen-year-old excited to be walking next to his crush, his entire posture relaxed as he fell into step right beside you, shielding you from the worst of the wind.
âYou know, something tells me you already knew I lived here,â you teased as you finally reached the entrance of your building.
âM-me? Pff, no,â he scrambled, his voice cracking slightly as he shrugged with a goofy, panicked smile. âI just happen to know Gotham better than anything.â
âOkay, well⌠thank you for not letting this city eat me alive tonight,â you smiled, turning to open the door. âIâll probably see you tomorrow.â
You were halfway inside when his large, heavy hand caught your arm clumsily.
âWait,â he blurted out. âThe number. For the mechanic.â
You turned back, slightly amused. Why the hell was he being so incredibly insistent about this car guy? âUh⌠right.â
The moment you handed him your phone so he could type it in, you noticed the genuine, soft smile on his faceâone that you unconsciously mimicked.
âHeâs real good,â Jason repeated softly, handing the device back to you. âI also wrote down the address.â
You nodded, slipping the phone into your pocket. âOkay⌠yeah. Iâll pay him a visit tomorrow, then.â
Red Hood nodded, giving you one last lingering smile before sliding his helmet back on and disappearing into the Gotham night.
The next day, you actually did go to the mechanic, mostly because making a literal vigilante walk you home every night was starting to feel weirder than cooking his burgers.
When you arrived at the dusty garage, you looked around for a receptionist, but the place was empty except for a massive pair of boots sticking out from under a jacked-up muscle car. Damn it, you realized you had forgotten to ask for the guyâs name.
âUh, hiâŚâ you called out over the sound of clanking metal. âI was wondering if you could help me with my car?â
The moment your voice echoed through the garage, the man underneath the vehicle froze completely.
He slid out from under the chassis on his creeper board and stood up, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. As he approached you, you noted just how massive and muscular he was. He looked way too familiar. And when he looked down at you, flashing a familiar, soft smile, your heart skipped a beat. You could have sworn it was the exact same smile asâ
You were at a party you didnât even want to go to, dragging yourself through it just to check off the boxes of the so-called "college experience." You were leaning against a cold brick wall, trying to catch your breath, when your eyes locked onto him across the crowded room. He looked just as miserable, suffocated by the noise. A haze of smoke blurred his sharp features, but those green eyes had been heavy on you from across the room.
Itâs crazy to think thatâs the exact same guy whoâs currently tearing down the highway, windows completely rolled down, letting the music blast until it rattles your bones.
When you first showed curiosity, it was obvious the pull was mutual. But Jason Todd was never built for the dating scene. He laid his cards on the table from night one: he wasnât going to be your fairytale prince, or the clean-cut guy you take home to your family, or the steady warmth you look for when the world gets dark. Hell, he swore he wasnât the type to buy you flowers.
But you werenât looking for a fairytale anyway.
You wanted someone who felt alive, someone raw enough to handle your secrets, someone you could get messy with in the dark. And the second Jason realized he was exactly the kind of beautiful wreckage you were looking for, he pulled you under.
It wasnât a relationship with titles or promises, but deep in your chest, you knew he was the one. At least, the one you were willing to break your own heart for, from time to time.
The wind rips through your hair as you hum along to the radio, and Jasonâs hand casually finds yours. He doesnât just hold itâhe lifts your knuckles to his lips, printing a soft, lingering kiss against your skin while you keep singing the nonsense lyrics.
He whips around a sharp corner and decides he needs a pack of cigarettes, leaving the engine idling outside a dimly lit convenience store. You stay in the passenger seat, your mind spinning a mile a minute.
Damn, it was going to hurt like hell when the clock ran out on this. But you were finally living the exact life you used to dream about. Jason felt perfect for you right now, so maybe... maybe the crash would be worth it.
The sudden click of the car door breaks your trance, and the sharp scent of the night air cuts through the warmth.
As Jason slides back into the seat, he tosses a bouquet into your lap. Theyâre cheap, colorful convenience-store flowers, wrapped in crinkly plastic. He flashes you a quiet, knowing smile before flicking his lighter, the small flame illuminating his eyes.
You look down at the bright petals in your lap, swallowing the lump in your throat before you start singing again.
The fresh scent of the flowers mixed with the heavy sting of tobacco wasnât the best combination.
You drove home after an exhausting day, craving nothing but the warmth of your apartmentâand, mainly, the warmth of your boyfriend.
The thought of stepping into a hot shower was the only thing keeping you sane, until a faint sound caught your attention right outside your building. A meow. A tiny, trembling meow coming from behind a metal trash can.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking a peek. And then, your heart broke.
It was a small, white kitten, completely soaked by the rain. Without thinking twice, you carefully scooped her up and tucked her safely inside your jacket, right against your chest.
When you finally walked through the door, the rich scent of dinner filled the air. Bucky had already cooked.
âFinally. You took your time,â he teased, looking up with a soft smile that instantly died the moment his eyes landed on the bundle in your arms. His thoughts were completely interrupted by the tiny pink nose peeking out of your coat.
âFound her outside. I couldnât just leave her there,â you explained, smiling down at the little white creature.
âShe needs a bath,â you said, already heading toward the bathroom, but the cold weight of Buckyâs metal hand gently caught your forearm, stopping you in your tracks.
âYouâre not planning on keeping her, right?â he asked, tilting his head, his blue eyes searching yours.
âI donât know,â you shrugged, slipping past him to start filling the bathtub with warm water.
Bucky sighed heavily, trailing after you until he was leaning his broad shoulders against the doorframe. âYou need to think this through, doll. Whoâs going to feed her? What about her vaccines? You canât just pick up a stray. What if she already has an owner?â
You rolled your eyes playfully. Gently massaging the warm water into the kitten's matted fur, you looked up at him. âBucky, I found her freezing in the pouring rain. Sheâs just a baby. Trust me, there is no owner.â
He let out another long sigh, running a hand over his face before walking out of the room.
After the bath, you walked into the kitchen with the kitten securely wrapped in a dry towel.
âI still don't think it's a good idea,â Bucky muttered, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the tiny animal curling up on your lap.
You let out a heavy sigh, looking down at the small ball of fur. Maybe he was right. Maybe a high-risk apartment wasn't the place for a pet. âOkay,â you murmured softly. âIâll take her to a shelter tomorrow morning.â
The next morning, the bright sunlight woke you up.
You reached out across the mattress, but Buckyâs side of the bed was already cold. No Bucky. No kitten. A small frown creased your forehead as you threw the covers off and padded quietly toward the living room.
And that was when you saw it.
Bucky was sprawled out on the couch, his massive frame taking up the cushions. Right in the center of his chest, matching his slow, deep breathing, the white kitten was curled up into a perfect ball. Both of them were fast asleep.
A hopeless smile tugged at your lips. You walked over soundlessly and took a seat right by his head, your fingers instinctively finding their way into his messy hair.
His eyelids fluttered open, blinking up at you with a sleepy, soft gaze.
âReady to take her to the shelter?â you murmured, gently stroking his hair.
Bucky shifted slightly, his human hand coming up to protectively shield the kitten on his chest. âYou know... I was thinking. Maybe Alpine is better off with us anyway.â
You raised a brow, your smile widening. âAlpine? You already named her?â
He gave you one last, quiet chuckle, closing his eyes as he pulled you a little closer to the couch. Maybe an extra mouth to feed was exactly what your home needed.
Everyone in your life warns you about him. They tell you Jason Todd is the kind of guy who leaves wreckage in his wake. But you donât care. You havenât cared since the rainy night he pulled you out of a Gotham alleyway, saving your life and ruining it all at once. When he finally let his guard down and showed you the boy beneath the hood, you fell completely at his feet.
It isn't a perfect romance. You aren't stupid, you notice the way he comes back smelling of copper and gunpowder. You notice how his jaw tics when you dare to disagree with him, or how his massive hands hold your waist just a little too tight, as if heâs terrified youâll evaporate. You know this affair has an expiration date. Jason is a fortress of secrets, and he doesnât know how to communicate without bruising you.
Yet, your devotion is louder than the ticking clock. You love him enough to ignore the blood on his knuckles and the shadow of the Red Hood hanging over your bed.
Today, you spend the late afternoon on the rocky coast of Gotham. It is peaceful. The two of you share a cigarette, smoke curling into the salty air as you talk about nothing at all. But then, the sun dips below the horizon, and Jason says itâs time to go.
Not to his apartment. Not to his safehouse. Home. Back to your reality.
Anger flares hot beneath your skin. When did you let him take so much control over your life? What if you wanted to stay one more night?
The silence is suffocating as you slam the passenger door of his car. As the vehicle tears down the dark road you finally snap. You start protesting, telling him you wanted more time. You want to know him, all of him. But Jason just stares ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He barks back, his deep voice cutting through the noise of the engine. He tells you itâs better if you stay out of his way. He never explains the target on his back, never details the danger of breathing the same air as a Gotham vigilante.
He just wants you safe. And your defiance is driving him insane.
Jason accelerates, desperate to get you back to your safe apartment, away from the rot of his world. Rage and fear consume him. Why canât you understand that your life is better without him in it?
But Gotham always claims its debts.
A sudden, deafening shriek of tires breaks the night. A black SUV cuts the corner ahead, headlights blinding, and then the sharp, unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire shatters the windshield.
"Get down!" Jason roars.
His instincts kick in before his brain can even process the threat. His massive arm instantly slams against your chest, violently throwing your body into the footwell to shield you with his own weight. He tries to correct the wheel, swerving hard to protect your side of the car, but a heavy bullet catches the front tire.
The world tilts violently. Metal groans against asphalt, a sickening crunch echoing through the dark, and thenâŚboom.
The brilliant orange of an explosion lights up the dark night, reflecting perfectly in his green eyes.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Jason blinks through the thick smoke, his mind violently snapping back to consciousness. The fire licks at the shattered windows, but he only feels a numbing dread. He drags himself down, pulling his weight off you.
You are motionless in the footwell. Carmine blood is already blooming against your skin, dripping down your temple.
"Hey," he chokes out, his voice cracking into a desperate plea as he cups your face with trembling hands. "Hey, look at me. Open your eyes. Please."
Nothing. Your chest doesn't move.
With a ragged sob, he pulls your broken body from the burning wreckage, lifting you bridal-style into his arms. He cradles you against his chest, walking away from the flames as the rain begins to fall, washing the soot from your cheeks.
He was right. He was always right. He is a monster, and you died simply for choosing to love him. It is exactly as he always imagined it would end
You and Jason had been dating long enough for the lines between your lives to blur completely. It was normal now staying at each otherâs places, sharing meals, or just driving around the city with no destination.
And, of course, it was entirely normal for you to wear Jasonâs oversized hoodies. He always made sure to tell you exactly how good you looked in them.
But then, you started... well, not stealing, but definitely migrating his clothes back to your apartment. A t-shirt here, a flannel there. And even though Jasonâs pride would never let him admit it, he secretly loved the gesture. Still, he couldn't help but feel it was slightly unfair. You got to take a physical piece of him home, while the only thing he had left of you during the day was the faint, lingering scent of your shampoo on his pillows.
"Why canât I borrow something from your closet?" he asked one afternoon. His face was deadpan, completely serious, as if discussing a high-stakes, life-or-death mission.
You shrugged, chuckling softly as you folded one of his worn-out henleys. "I mean, if you want to wear nice dresses, tiny tops, and vintage band shirts... go right ahead, Jay."
It was a joke, obviously. But Jasonâs brain processed the information in a completely different, dangerous way.
A few days later, you arrived back at your apartment after a long shift. The moment you saw the lights on, you knew he was there. You were hoping to find him in the kitchen, since he absolutely loved cooking for you, but instead, his deep voice called out to you from the bedroom.
The sight waiting for you when you pushed the door open was one for the history books.
There, standing right next to your bed, was Jason Todd. He was wearing the tightest, shortest little black dress you owned. His massive, scarred hands were awkwardly hovering over his front, trying (and failing) to look casual.
"What theâ" the words died in your throat.
"I know, right?" Jason interrupted smoothly, a smug grin spreading across his face. "It looks so much better on me."
To prove his point, he deliberately turned around, flexing his broad back and thick shoulders. The poor seams of the fabric groaned in agony against his muscles.
"Jason! Youâre going to stretch it out!" you shrieked, though your eyes were already scanning his body. The contrast of the delicate black fabric against his rugged, intimidating frame was... surprisingly working.
A smirk crawled onto your face. You stepped closer and sharply pinched his ass.
Jason jumped, a startled gasp leaving his lips. He spun around to face you again, his hands instantly dropping to cover his front as his pale skin flushed all the way up to his ears.
"W-what?" he stammered, completely losing his cool.
You just leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms with a smug grin. Damn it, he had to double down now.
"Yeah? You like it?" Jason muttered, trying to regain his composure. He flexed his arms again, parading your tiny dress as if it were the greatest medal of honor he had ever won on the streets of Gotham.
You walked over, wrapping your arms around his tightly clad waist, looking up at him with pure amusement. "I love it. But if you rip it, Todd, you're buying me a new one. And you're wearing it to the store."
Jason laughed, a deep, rumbling sound against your chest, finally relaxing as he wrapped his heavy arms around you. "Deal. But only if I get to keep this one."
how hilarious it would be if you ever made Bucky a father.
established relationship. congressman bucky. fluff.
You met Bucky the exact moment he transitioned into a rising congressman. By then, you had already been working Capitol Hill for years, you knew every piece of legislation, every political trap, and exactly what the media whispered about him. But now? After months of secret late-night drives and quiet mornings, you knew him far better than any of your coworkers ever could.
It worked beautifully. Same workspace, same exhausting schedules, same meetings.
Tonight, you were at a grand political gala, blending into the background and working the room as usual. You had allies in the Capitol, friends youâd known for years. So, it was no surprise when one of them frantically asked you to hold her toddler while she went to network with some high-profile donors. Naturally, you agreed.
The kid was barely a year old, completely mellow. He didnât cry, he wasnât scared. Honestly, the little guy barely even realized he existed.
But when you slipped back through the crowd and approached Bucky with a baby resting on your hip, his confident politician facade instantly cracked. Surprise washed over sharp features.
"Whose kid is that?" Bucky asked, his blue eyes shifting from his champagne glass to the boy, watching with an intense curiosity.
"Oh, Iâm just taking care of him while his mom finishes a meeting," you smiled, gently rocking the little guy, whose tiny legs were wrapped comfortably around your hip. "Isn't he a cutie?"
Bucky just nodded, standing entirely rigid. The formidable congressman clearly had zero experience with children.
"Do you want to try holding him? Heâs really sweet," you offered playfully.
James quickly shook his head, taking a half-step back. "No, doll. Absolutely not. I wouldn't want to scare him and make this venue even louder than it already is," he sighed, casting a glance over the roaring cocktail party.
You stepped closer, deliberately pushing the baby into his personal space. "Come on, just take him for a second while I run to the restroom... please, Congressman?"
He hesitated, eyeing the kid like a tactical threat, before finally giving in with a defeated nod.
As expected, Bucky Barnes had absolutely no idea how to carry a child. He held the baby at a considerable, defensive distance from his chest with both hands, using only his right hand to grip the body and keeping his left prosthetic arm entirely stiff under his expensive suit, terrified of accidentally applying too much pressure. You burst out laughing at the sheer contrast of his massive, broad shoulders looking completely paralyzed by eight kilos of diapers and cheeks.
"Stop making fun of me," Bucky muttered under his breath, staring down at the child between his arms with utter confusion and a slight pout.
Before leaving him to his fate, you leaned in, your hands guiding his large hand, shifting his grip to show him how to actually cradle the baby safely against his chest.
You made your way through the sea of expensive silk dresses and flowing champagne. Standing in front of the restroom mirror, you quickly adjusted your makeup, the cold marble of the sink a sharp contrast to the sudden warmth settling in your chest. You didn't dare articulate the thought out loud, but your reflection knew it anyway.
When you returned to the main hall, the sight waiting for you in the corner of the lounge made you stop in your tracks.
The cold, calculated politician hadn't completely disappeared, but he had let his guard drop just enough for an audience of one. Bucky had retreated slightly from the heavy crowd, the boy now resting comfortably against his chest. He wasn't making a scene, but his thumb was gently tracing the babyâs tiny knuckles, and he was murmuring something low and private that made the toddler tug clumsily at his silk lapels, completely unaware to the dangerous history of the man holding him.
"So... how did it go?" you asked softly as you approached, extending your arms to take the baby back.
But Bucky took a deliberate step back, his arms tightening just a fraction. He didn't want to let go yet. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips, breaking the rigid lines of his congressman persona.
"Well," Bucky murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, private register meant only for you. "Turns out the little fella loves my arm. And he highly enjoys laughing directly in my face whenever I try to look serious."
The mere thought of the sound of the sea or hiking up a mountain was the only thing keeping you alive during finals week. After all, you had quickly learned that the main attraction in Gotham was the idiots who chose this city for an exchange program.
That included you.
Being a foreigner was hard enough, but being a foreigner in Gotham required a special type of survival instinct. If you really wanted to escape for the summer, you needed money. And to get money, you had to work.
The universe seemed to be on your team (or so you thought) when you found a flyer looking for a cashier at Batburger. Why not? you reasoned. Serving cold fries and taking orders with names such as "Robin Nuggets" while dressed in whatever ridiculous corporate costume they forced you into didnât sound too terrible.
The ease with which you got the job should have been your very first warning.
When the manager handed you your schedule, your blood ran cold. You were assigned the graveyard shift: 11:00 PM to 5:00 AM. The toughest, most dangerous hours in the city.
At least you didnât have to wear the stupid Batman ears.
That was your life for a few weeks. Frequented more by low-lifes than actual customers, you got so used to looking down the barrel of a Glock that the cold metal stopped making you flinch. You watched local shops get robbed through the grease stained windows, and eventually, you learned the patrol schedule of a certain red-helmeted vigilante who visited you far too often.
Tonight was no exception.
The patties for the two Batburger Deluxes he always ordered were already sizzling on the grill when the bell above the door chimed. Your face remained a mask of pure boredom as two teenagers pointed a shaky gun straight at your chest.
âGive me the money,â the tallest one said, his voice dropping an octave in a pathetic attempt to sound older.
âWhat money? I havenât sold a single thing today,â you sighed, leaning your weight against the counter. The fatigue in your bones was heavier than the threat of their gun.
âYou canât fool us! The money. Now!â the chubbier one barked.
You opened your mouth to tell them to get lost, but a deep, rough voice cut through the heavy air from the entrance.
âYou heard her. She said she doesnât have any.â
Your eyes drifted. There he was. Your most loyal, unhinged customer: Red Hood.
He was leaning against the doorframe, posture loose and almost playful. He took two slow steps toward the kids. He didn't even draw a weapon, but his massive silhouette was enough to make the air in the room turn freezing.
The two boys bolted, stumbling over their own feet as they fled into the night. No blood. No bullets. Just the terrifying weight of his presence.
The vigilante turned his helmet toward you. You could practically hear the smug, self satisfied grin hidden beneath the red helmet.
âSo⌠um, two Batburgers Deââ
âDeluxe. Yeah, theyâre already on the grill,â you interrupted, a small smirk tugging at your lips.
He nodded, taking a clumsy step back. âThank you⌠by the way.â
You watched him walk over to a corner booth. Before he slid onto the plastic seat, he yanked the red helmet off. He was attractiveâor so you thought. You had seen his face before, but the black domino mask still clung to his skin, hiding the secrets in his eyes.
When the food was ready, you placed the tray on the counter. He was already there, waiting.
Tucking his heavy tactical gloves into his belt, he began applying condiments with a terrifying, almost surgical precision. Not too much, not too little. Just perfectly aligned lines of mustard. God, the Bat-kids are so weird.
You leaned over the counter, arms crossed. âDo you want a drink?â
You saw his sharp jaw clench. He swallowed hard, his posture instantly stiffening. âUhh⌠a milkshake.â
He seemed⌠shy? The sudden shift in the air was dizzying.
âWhat flavor?â
âChâStrawberry! Yeah.â He cleared his throat violently, shrugging his broad shoulders as if it were the most natural choice for a lethal crimefighter at three in the morning.
But it wasn't. What was obvious was how hard he was trying to claw back the "big, bad vigilante" persona he had just used to scare those kids away.
A strawberry milkshake. At 3:00 AM. You wondered if this man had ever experienced a normal day in his life.
When you returned with the cup, he was already tearing through the second burger. He almost choked when you set the drink down, eating with the desperate, animalistic hunger of someone who forgot to be human. He muttered a quick thanks and slurped the straw like a man dying of thirst in a desert.
That was when it hit you. This was the first time he had actually stayed to eat inside. Usually, he took his greasy bags and disappeared into the shadows.
The heavy silence of the restaurant was broken only by the aggressive sound of his straw hitting the bottom of the cup and the loud crinkling of paper wrapper. Instead of hiding in the kitchen, a sudden wave of bravery hit you.
âSo⌠rough night?â
The moment the words left your mouth, he snapped completely straight, his shoulders locking up. Why did your good ideas always turn into disasters?
He finished his food in silence. You slid the receipt toward him, taking his trash to toss it into the back bin. When you returned, the cash was on the counter along with a ridiculously generous tip.
Jason was leaning heavily on one elbow, waiting. He cleared his throat again, louder than necessary. As your fingers brushed the cash, he finally spoke.
âSo⌠the Hood is, um⌠Red.â
His voice actually cracked at the end. Your brain stalled. Was he⌠trying to flirt with you?
You blinked once. Twice. Looking at him with sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.
A sudden, tight tension climbed up his neck, his jaw hardening as his ears turned a sharp shade of red. He immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.
Damn it. You were actually starting to feel bad for Gotham's most feared protector.
âItâs hard to call a night rough,â he scrambled, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush as he tried to fix the tension. âYou asked if I had a rough night, but I get shot almost every night. Itâs pretty normal for me. I barely flinch, actually... You wanna try shooting me?â
Your eyebrows knitted together in utter disbelief. What the hell was wrong with him?
âNo, I meantâŚdonât shoot people.âHe shook his head furiously, his large hands waving in the air between you.
âYeah. Right. No shooting people. Noted.âA soft, genuine chuckle escaped your throat.
Hearing you laugh made his entire frame relax. The rigid, defensive armor he carried seemed to melt away, leaving just a tired guy in a diner. He picked up his helmet, but before sliding it over his head, those masked eyes locked onto yours.
âAm I your last customer?â
âYou were the only one today, actually,â you said. Then, catching the unspoken weight behind his question, you added, âMy shift ends in thirty minutes.â
He nodded, the red fiberglass clicking into place. He stared at you in dead silence for a good, agonizing twenty seconds before he turned on his heel and walked out.
You couldn't tell if it was creepy or just incredibly endearing, but at least he hadn't offered you a gun again.
Thirty minutes later, you locked up the restaurant. The night air was crisp, and your body was already softening at the thought of your warm mattress.
Yet, as you unlocked your car, you couldnât shake the feeling of being watched. You glanced up.
High above the streetlights, perched on the edge of a brick rooftop, a tall silhouette was cut against the moon. A faint red gleam reflected in the dark. When you blinked and looked again, the roof was empty. Only the wind remained.
You smiled to yourself, turning the key in the ignition. At least you knew you were going to make it home safe.
