Summary: You're just a regular Gotham citizen, with a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, and a masked vigilante fuck buddy. You both swear this is a no strings attached situation. It's safest that way. But let's be real, things never stay that way.
Warnings: afab!reader, not super graphic smut, violence, medical stuff, jason is traumatized, post arkham knight, stripper!reader, gotham is gotham
“Dangerous to leave the window unlocked.”
You didn’t need to look up to know whose voice it was.
A year ago, you would have been terrified, scared shitless by the rough, static-covered words. You would have jumped up from your tattered couch and looked for your pepper spray or maybe a knife, and would probably have settled for whatever was in reach and hurled it at the intruder before trying to run.
Now, though, you knew better.
“Why’s that?” You asked boredly, the glow of the tv reflecting in your eyes. Some late night talk show was on, the sort that important people like Bruce Wayne would randomly make appearances on and talk about nothing important before plugging their latest book or show or charity event.
Heavy footsteps, the sound of boots against the creaky wooden floorboards. You felt the shift in the back of the couch as he gripped it on either side of your head, gloved fingers sinking into the upholstery.
“Anyone could break in.”
“Oh yeah? Like who?”
A reply came in the form of an annoyed grunt and the edge of your lips twitched in a smile. He was so easy to annoy.
“Come on.”
You leaned your head back to look up at him, a familiar helmet coming into view.
“Hey, Red.”
A pause.
“…hey.”
Twisting, you turned to face him, drawing your knees up onto the couch to kneel before him. Angry white eyes glared down at you and you wondered what you looked like to him. Small, maybe. Non threatening. Probably nothing compared to the crazies he dealt with out there in Gotham. As your gaze roamed over his torso, you saw that his body armor seemed chipped in a few places, bullet-sized dents decorating his chest.
“Rough night?”
For a long moment, he stared down at you, unblinking. You wondered what he was thinking.
“You could say that.”
You pushed yourself up, drawing closer, tracing one of the marks with a finger. He just stood there, silent as always, watching you. Unmoving. Impossible to read.
“Kill anybody?”
He froze for a moment, entire body stiffening at the question.
“Don’t worry about that.” He muttered, voice garbled by the modulator in his helmet.
He didn’t miss the way your lower lip pouted slightly, nor the way you looked up at him with those big doe eyes. A gloved hand found your chin, holding you firmly, and he felt the way you softened in his grip.
Stupid.
So trusting.
His hands were big and warm, even through the leather of his gloves. You felt a pressure drawing you upwards and you climbed to your feet, toes sinking into the too-soft cushion. From this height, you could look him in the eyes, those glowing, glossy screens staring back at you.
You had never seen his face. Even after a full year of clandestine visits, he remained shrouded, hidden from the world. You didn’t know his name, or what he really looked like. You could only guess based on his frame. You were so used to it that you didn’t even wonder what he looked like beneath the hood anymore, accepting that you would probably never find out.
His hands found your waist and he lifted you easily, the sensation making you giddy for a moment before your feet touched the floor. He was a big man, and he was strong, his shoulders and chest broad, his arms thick whenever you grabbed onto them. Even through the leather and the armor and whatever else he wore, you could feel that the Red Hood was solid, a massive wall of muscle who could just as easily carry you as he could kill you.
“Come on.” He said for the second time in your short time together, his voice low and gruff.
Stop fucking around.
You knew what he was there for. Why Gotham’s deadliest vigilante climbed up your fire escape on a semi-regular basis.
“What, in a hurry?” You half-joked.
You thought you heard a quiet snort, imagined him rolling his eyes.
His hands were still on your waist as you pressed closer, leaning towards him. “Those mean streets treating you bad tonight, Red?”
“You down for this, or what?” He half-snapped, glaring down at you as he took a step forward.
His hips pressed against you and you stifled a gasp.
He knew the answer. You knew he knew. But for some reason, Red Hood always asked, as if it were important to him to hear it. One time, he had caught you asleep on the couch, and in an exhausted rage, you had thrown the tv remote at him and told him to get the fuck out of your apartment and he had. You had waited for him to come back. You had waited for violence. But nothing ever came, and you had spent the following week perplexed.
Gotham’s most dangerous vigilante listened.
He rolled his hips into yours, demanding an answer, and you nodded quickly. That was all it took.
There was only one part of the Red Hood that you ever got to see, and you knew that nobody would ever believe you if you told them.
-0-
Jason didn’t know why he kept coming around.
He knew, but he didn’t know.
Bruce would chastise him for getting close to a civilian. Jason didn’t consider this close. You didn’t even know each other’s real names. If Barbara or Dick were to bring it up, he would tell them to fuck off, because they didn’t know what they were talking about and you didn’t mean anything to him. You were expendable, replaceable. Just like he was.
If any of them had ever noticed his repeat visits to the same shitty apartment in the East End, they never mentioned it, and that was fine by him. Because you were his dirty secret and nobody else’s.
He never put you in any danger. Well, not any more than anybody else in Gotham. He never used the door, instead always hauling himself in through the window. You had told him once that at least that way, you didn’t have to explain anything to your nosey old neighbors. He just figured it was easier to scale the outside of the building than have to wait to be buzzed in.
You really didn’t seem to mind. At least, not anymore.
How long has it been? A year? A year of moonlit visits, some quick, some long, always over before the sun rose. Sometimes, he stayed for a little while, laying next to you in the flimsy bed he was always shocked hadn’t broken yet. He would lay on his back, stiff as a board, staring at the dark ceiling and listening to your steady breathing and thinking about how stupid and naive you were to fall asleep next to him. Most nights, he went right back out the window, feeling slightly better than before. Sometimes, he felt like an asshole about it, like he was using you and should just fuck off and leave you alone…but once in a while, you’d say something that made him think you were in the same boat, and he didn’t feel quite so bad about bumping uglies with some random civilian.
No, not a random civilian.
You.
It was ridiculous, he knew. If Dick ever found out, he’d never live it down. He’d have to block his number again, for real this time, to avoid the dozens of texts he’d receive. Jason was a vigilante, a killer, a crime lord, a monster, and he had a secret friend with benefits he just couldn’t stay away from.
No, he thought as he crouched on the rooftop. Not a friend. Just benefits.
Friend would imply that you knew each other, that you talked, that he let you in. You didn't know anything about him. Not his face, not his name, not where he came from or what he had done to end up the way he was. You weren’t a friend. You were the girl he’d met at a club and had struck up this weird relationship with on a particularly frustrating night twelve months ago. You were the one whose window he crawled through when he was pent up and angry. You were his relief. He had never done it before, the whole hook up thing, not really, not like this, but fuck if you didn’t have him coming back for more again and again and again.
Somehow.
And even when he went a while without bothering you, he still made sure to pop by and lurk around your rooftop. He’d expanded his territory to include your building months ago, and even when he was feeling more well adjusted than usual and didn’t need the release you always brought, he was there. Watching. Guarding. Shooting if he had to.
Because for some fucking reason, Jason just couldn’t quit his worst habit.
You.
“Been a while,” you said.
He froze, halfway through the window.
The lights in the apartment were dim, the news playing quietly on the tv. There was always something on the tv, he had noticed early on. It was never totally quiet at your place.
He spotted you leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him with a bowl of cereal in your hands, raising a spoonful to your mouth and calmly crunching on a mouthful.
He didn’t rush in like he usually did, instead holding still, as if he had been caught red handed.
“What? Something the matter?”
“You were waiting.” He observed.
You shrugged.
“How did you know I’d come?”
“A feeling. It’s one of those nights.”
He had to agree.
“You gonna come in, or you just gonna stand there and let me freeze to death?”
Freeze? Yeah, the Gotham air was pretty chilly, he guessed. His boots hit the floor and he pulled the window shut behind him, locking it and giving you a pointed look.
“Wouldn’t be so cold if you wore clothes.” He said.
“I can wear what I want in my apartment,” you scoffed.
He looked at you for a long moment, eyes roaming over your bare legs, the soft cotton sleep shorts, the visible skin below the hem of your cropped t shirt. You were so smooth. So inviting. Was that what he liked so much?
“How’s your night?” You asked casually.
He stared.
Such a mundane question.
“…quiet.” He admitted.
“Really? Huh.”
“What?”
“Seems like you usually come here on the bad nights.” You said through another mouthful. “I don’t mind. I get it. Just not used to hearing that it’s going okay, I guess.”
You were right. He usually came running to you when everything was going ass up and the city was giving him a headache. Tonight, though…tonight had been fine, so far. Tonight, he just…wanted to see you.
Truth be told, it was pissing him off a little.
“So.” You set the bowl down suddenly and straightened up. “You ready, or what?”
When he didn’t answer, you brushed your hands off on your shorts and stepped towards him. “My night has been shitty so far, and I, for one, could go for some—“
“What happened?” He interrupted.
“—what?”
“Are you okay?”
Your hands were on his pants, belt halfway unbuckled as you looked up at him. “Why do you care?”
Annoyance flared behind his eyes and he resisted the urge to snap at you.
“I don’t,” he grumbled, gaze never leaving yours.
Your brows knitted together in irritation, your tone sharper as you tugged at him. “Then get your dick out and fuck me.”
He barked a laugh, allowing you to push him back against the wall. He liked you a little annoyed, he realized as he watched you sink to your knees. He liked the way you grabbed and shoved, as if you could move him, as if this weren’t him allowing it.
And then he felt your lips around him, your sweet, warm, perfect lips, and he leaned his head back against the wall with a low groan.
You kept him coming back for more, and he knew he couldn’t give you up even if he tried.
-0-
The first time you met him had been at work. Yours, not his. Technically.
The club was known for hosting seedy, shady meetings between Gotham gang leaders and thugs, a neutral zone nestled amidst everyone’s ever-shifting territories. At first, the shiny red mask really hadn’t stood to you, looking like just another Gotham weirdo sitting in a corner booth. You hadn’t even bothered to pay attention to who he was with, twisting away without a second glance from your vantage point on the stage.
But then, your boss had pulled you aside and shoved a tray into your hands, nodding towards the booth.
“Uh, get a bottle girl to do it,” you had said, annoyed.
“He requested you,” your boss had said.
And you had fixed your glare on Red Hood, much to his amusement, and marched your way over to him and his goons, champagne in hand. You had an attitude, barely concealing a sneer as you sat next to him.
Your tune had changed at the sight of a fat stack of cash, and the rest was history.
Well, not really.
He kept you there with him, an arm over the back of your seat, and you wondered if you were there as insurance. A hostage, trapped, in case your boss tried anything. You’d seen plenty of deals go ass up, ducked away from the sound of bullets plenty of times.
That was Gotham for you. Nowhere was safe, not even the strip clubs.
Red Hood didn’t even drink the champagne, never removing his mask. He just sat there and listened to the other men, a gun on the table in front of him that he thankfully never had to pick up. He barely even acknowledged you.
It was the easiest grand you’d ever made.
You had no way of knowing how awkward he felt, how much he had no idea how to interact with you. He had called you over because he liked you, and he was trying to intimidate the mob bosses he met with that night, when he was already frustrated and biting back the urge to just shoot someone in the head. He thought maybe your presence would help, and it did… But fuck, he had no idea how Bruce or Dick did it.
He wasn’t good with people.
He wasn’t good with girls.
At least with you, he could throw some money around and come to a professional agreement. That made it easier.
He just hoped you couldn’t feel how tense he was.
You could, of course, but you’d dealt with way worse. An awkward gang leader who barely touched you and paid you to do nothing but sit there? Easy peasy.
That night, as you stumbled out of a taxi, a little drunk off very expensive champagne, you hadn’t noticed the thugs on the street corner.
But that was okay.
Red Hood had.
He’d followed you home, determined to see you safely reach your apartment, and when a group of men leered and reached for you, he shot them, quickly and easily, without hesitation. He expected you to scream, to cry and run from him, but you didn’t. You seemed unshaken. You seemed grateful.
That was the only time he ever entered the apartment through the front door, his hand in yours, following as you dragged him up the stairs.
You never saw him at the club again, and you noticed that the street outside your building grew quieter and quieter as time went on. Your neighbors attributed the lowering crime rate to the GCPD, or maybe the mayor, but you had a hunch that it was someone else.
You never thanked him for it because you didn’t think he would take it well, but you appreciated it nonetheless. Being able to walk semi-safely at any hour? If your landlord knew, he’d quadruple your rent and advertise the building as the safest place in the city.
The other girls at work had asked you about him a few times, not because they knew he was sneaking in through your window every other week, but because they had seen the way he had paid you to do seemingly nothing but sit there. Was the Red Hood rich? From arms dealing, or drugs, or mercenary work? Did you know him? Did you see him outside the club? Why would he pay you so much to do nothing? He was a vigilante, a gang boss, a violent merc with a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later. He didn’t fit the description of your typical nice guy.
And yet, you thought that maybe he was. Somehow. Part of him. Maybe.
He never showed up at the club again, and he never paid you again. You sometimes wondered if maybe you had squandered any hope of getting any more money when you drunkenly dragged him up the stairs and tried to kiss his mask. You had actually left lipstick marks all over it, and he had kind of hated wiping them away. You had given the goods away for free, and there would never be any hope of seeing more cash again.
That was okay, though, because you liked his visits.
You learned early on that you really, really liked his visits. And just like he couldn’t quit you, you couldn’t quit him.
-0-
You didn’t ask many questions, and neither did he. You were both pretty grateful for that.
There was plenty to be curious about, sure, at least on your end, but everything was easily explained away by the fact that he was a violent vigilante who roamed the streets of Gotham by night. Where was he from? A secret. What was his name? No reason you’d need to know that. Favorite movie, color, flavor of ice cream? All proprietary. You accepted that you’d probably never find anything out a long time ago.
On Jason’s end, though? There was so much to wonder about, and so many ways to learn.
One night, around three am, he found himself watching as you ate post-fuck popcorn, a ridiculous habit you had recently picked up, and his eyes were drawn to your hair. Was that your natural color? There was no grow out at your roots, and he hadn’t seen the box of dye in your bathroom cabinet move a single time since this whole thing started, so he surmised that, yes, it probably was. And he could do that, because he could see you, unlike the way that you couldn’t see him.
As you stood and walked to the kitchen, he lounged, boots kicked up on the coffee table. He was at ease there, in your shitty little apartment, where he knew every nook and cranny because he scanned them every time he came over. It wasn’t as safe as a safe house, but it was better than it could be.
The sudden sound of breaking glass and the following “shit!” had him jumping up, looking for you in alarm. A hand was raised to your lips as you tip toed around something, moving to the sink and turning the faucet on.
“Fuck,” you hissed as you held your hand under the water.
“What?” Red Hood asked, suddenly standing behind you.
You glanced up at him, then nodded towards the floor. “Didn’t realize the cup was cracked.”
He looked past you and saw shattered glass, a few shards glistening red.
“Great,” you mumbled. “Can you run and grab the kit in the bathroom? I need to clean this.”
He was no stranger to injuries. He retrieved the first aid kid quickly, noting that it was less an actual kit and more a messy box full of things. Christ. Dick would have a fit if he saw how unorganized it was.
When he returned to you, you were sitting at your table, gesturing for the box. The way you rummaged around with your good hand worried him, and he half expected you to stab yourself with a hypodermic needle or something. When you pulled out a little sealed suture kit and some disinfectant, all he could do was stare.
“Hey, uh, can you sit with me?” You asked, glancing up at him as you wiped the wound. “I’m always kind of a baby about this.”
“…what?” He asked, sitting across from you anyways.
“There’s a reason I dropped out,” you commented.
“Of…?”
“School,” you grunted, opening the pack. “Kinda discovered halfway through that I get a little too woozy. That, and I don’t think I’m a good enough person to uphold the Hippocratic oath for like, total shitbags. Y’know?”
He did know, probably. At least, it was a sentiment he could relate to.
“Was gonna be a nurse, like my mom,” you said, pulling out the needle. “Ah, shit. This is gonna be…hmm…”
He watched as you started struggling, trying to figure out how best to hold the thread and needle with only one good hand.
“Just as annoying as doing your own acrylics,” you grumbled.
“Here.”
He took the needle from you, pulling your arm to lay on the table. He didn’t offer you a countdown or a warning, and you hissed loudly at the sensation of being stitched up with no anesthetic.
“Relax,” he said.
“Fat chance.”
He huffed a small laugh, focusing on his work. He wanted it to come out nice, as smooth as possible. Pretty stitches for a pretty girl.
“Hey, you’re pretty good,” you observed.
“I’ve had practice.”
You glanced up at his mask. “A lot of practice?”
“You could say that.”
“Well…” you hissed, wincing. “…I appreciate it. Probably gonna be outta work for a minute now.”
“Need help with bills?” He asked without looking up.
“Nah, I’ll be fine.”
You both fell into a somewhat easy silence, broken only by your hisses and whines. He worked fast, tying the suture off and clipping the ends before bandaging your hand gently, determined to keep it from scarring as much as he possibly could. With himself, he was sloppy, not caring anymore about another gash here or there, but with you? With you, he wanted to be precise, and not just to impress you.
Although he wanted to impress you a little bit, too.
“A man of many talents,” you said as he swept the glass off the floor. “The infamous Red Hood, master surgeon and housekeeper.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbled, emptying the dustpan in the trash. “Don’t get used to it.”
-0-
Red Hood was a strange guy. Everybody in Gotham was strange, but him even moreso. You could tell just from his body language alone that he was dangerous and he was angry, his shoulders always squared, his entire body seeming to bristle. His hackles were almost always raised like a dog’s, his grip harsh and bruising. He was never one for subtlety or niceties. He was probably a nightmare of a man, whoever he was.
But god, the sex was good.
He was ruthless and unyielding, releasing his rage and frustration whenever he visited. You didn’t mind. In fact, you thought it was hot, the way this big hunk of a vigilante would come stomping in and get a little handsy, although you didn’t know how much he could really feel through the leather gloves.
Truth be told, he couldn’t feel that much. Between the gloves, the callouses, and the scar tissue, delicate textures weren’t that easy…but that was okay. He could still grab, and squeeze, and appreciate the way your soft, supple skin yielded in his grip. The only soft thing in his life, he thought.
“You’re always so tense,” you commented one night, hands on his shoulders as he sat on your couch.
You hadn’t made it to the bedroom, and he hadn’t relaxed very much afterwards, either.
He grunted in reply.
“Vigilante work is stressful, I guess.”
When he was silent, you continued.
“I heard you rescued some kids the other night.”
“Where’d you hear that?” he asked.
“...From one of their moms. At work.”
“So?” his voice was rough and defensive, his tone shifting quickly.
“You’re a good guy, Red. That’s all.”
No.
He wasn’t.
He hated it when people tried to say that, because it was usually Dick or Barbara lying to get on his good side, trying to convince him of things that weren’t real. As if they knew him anymore. As if they knew what it was like in his head.
Fake flattery always put him in a foul mood, and he didn’t need your coworkers knowing that you knew him. Didn’t know him. Spent time with him. Whatever.
He scoffed and you felt him tense up even more.
“You talk about me?” he hissed accusingly.
“What?”
He stood, turning to face you, suddenly towering over you even from the other side of the couch. “You’ve been telling everyone that you’re fucking the Red Hood, is that it? What’s that getting you? Bragging rights?”
You snorted angrily. You’d seen him mad plenty of times. Pretty much whenever he was around, actually. But you’d never seen him angry at you. If he was trying to scare you, it wasn’t working. Truth be told, it was just pissing you off, hot, pent up fury twisting its way up through you.
“First of all,” you said, voice raised, walking around the side of the couch to stand before him, “you never said I couldn’t. In fact, you never say anything.”
He rolled his eyes and you could see the motion of his head as he did so.
It irritated you that that’s all you could see.
“Second of all,” your hands were on your hips now. “Who the fuck are you to think you’re worth bragging about? Huh?”
He glared down at you.
You looked absolutely ridiculous, standing there in just a sports bra and boxers, jabbing a finger against his chest as if it would do anything. Your teeth were bared, and he noticed the way your nose scrunched as your lip pulled up in a snarl.
His hand flexed at his side.
He was angry. He was always angry. He was used to the feeling of white-hot rage burning behind his eyes, used to seeing red, used to lashing out and destroying everything and everyone around him. But he wasn’t used to seeing any of that from you, and as you stood your ground even as he loomed, braver than half the thugs in Gotham, he realized he admired you for it.
Get mad, he wanted to say. Get so fucking mad that you yell and scream and tell me you fucking hate me so I can finally be done with this.
“And another thing!” you shouted up at him, voice growing a little hoarse.
He hadn’t even realized he had zoned out.
“I haven’t told anyone about this!” you said. “Because nobody would believe me even if I did! Because my life is so fucking sad that the closest thing I have to a friend is the fucking asshole who climbs in and out my window whenever he feels like busting a nut!”
He let out a sharp, mean laugh, the sound garbled and strangled by his voice modulators. “I’m not your friend, sweetheart.”
You stared at him for a moment, jaw tense as you gritted your teeth.
“You’re right,” you growled. “Because friends wouldn’t leave their boots on and track god knows what all over my apartment. Friends wouldn’t be such dicks all the time. Friends wouldn’t break my coffee table.”
“Jesus Christ, it was one fucking time!” he yelled.
“And what about the chair?”
“Let it fucking go! It’s just ugly fucking furniture, who gives a shit?”
“Ugly?” You were seething, falling for the bait, temper rising with every word.
“You heard me,” he bit out. “Get somebody to replace it for you. Bet you’ve got plenty of guys on speed dial.”
You gritted your teeth. “You…”
Do it. He thought. Call me a monster. Kick me out.
When you reached for his jacket, he thought you were going to hit him. Part of him wanted it. Maybe it was the part of him that hated himself, wanting to feel justified. Part of him looked forward to it, not in a masochistic way, but in a way that would ramp up the fight further and further.
But then, for a brief moment, pain seared through his chest, crazed, manic laughter echoing in his ears, and he faltered.
When you seized a fistful of leather and yanked him towards you, he allowed it, going willingly, even enjoying it a tiny bit when he realized that there were no fists, no slaps, no knives. It was just you, this little, defenseless civilian, thinking you could shove him around.
It was kind of cute.
“You are the most annoying, frustrating man I have ever met.” you growled.
“And you’re the crazy bitch who keeps letting me fuck her,” he retorted.
“Then why don’t you make yourself useful?” you snapped. “Since all you’re good for around here is getting me off.”
For the briefest second, he wanted to rip his mask off and pull your hips down onto his face. He wanted to show you exactly how useful he could be.
Instead, he tossed you onto the couch for the second time that night, noticing the way your cheeks flushed at the manhandling. The yelp you let out was adorable.
He always loved all of your little sounds.
“What happened to all that big talk, princess?” he taunted. “Suddenly got nothin’ to say?”
Without thinking, he yanked a glove off, tossing it behind him as he leaned over you. The skin of his palm was rough when it brushed against you and your breath hitched as he yanked your shorts down, large fingers rubbing and teasing while a moan rose in your throat.
“Did yelling at me seriously get you wet?” he sneered.
“Sh-shut up,” you hissed.
“That’s a new low, sweetheart.”
His tone was shifting, voice growing thick with something that was replacing the anger. Lust, maybe. It was strong enough that he was willing to forego the gloves in favor of fucking you with his hands, watching you squirm and huff and glare at him through bleary eyes that he just couldn’t look away from.
“Shut up!” You whined, back arching.
His fingers were stiff with scar tissue, but that didn’t matter. They felt good all the same. Hell, maybe the scarring made them better. As you felt him add another, some tiny, rational part of your brain registered how special it was–the first time you had seen or felt his hands for real, the first time he had done anything more than grab and squeeze with his gloves. The thought made you even wetter.
“What’s this?” he asked, voice low. “You like this?”
“D-Don’t be mean,” you panted, hips moving against his hand.
Because he was, he was being mean. You could hear the smugness in his voice as he taunted you, even when his breath occasionally hitched at the sight of you all splayed out in front of him, thighs parted so willingly. Fuck.
He couldn’t stay mad at you even if he tried.
And he had tried.
He had tried to make himself like you less. He had tried to hate you. But nothing ever stuck, because there was nothing to hate. No reason to rage. No reason to thrash and snarl like a caged animal.
And it felt foreign to him.
And it scared him.
But as he looked at you, writhing beneath him, he knew he couldn’t hate you. He could never hate you.
“Red,” you moaned.
Jason. He wanted to say. Call me Jason.
And that thought was dangerous. It was so dangerous.
“Tell me how you want it, baby.”
“I don’t care! Just–fuck, please,” you pleaded, head foggy.
“So polite,” he teased, leaning back to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.
You glared at him through your desperation. He was driving you crazy, making you feel insane. Your emotions were already running high from the yelling, and now feeling his fingers for the first time, after a whole year of hooking up, you were a mess.
There was so little to look at on that smooth mask, with those blank eyes. You settled for watching him pull his cock out instead.
Red Hood was big, all of him, big and thick and heavy. He was solid. And as he practically folded you in half on your ratty, secondhand sofa, he was hard, too. Achingly hard.
You heard him let out a huff as his cock rubbed through your folds once, twice, then three times, his hips rocking forward and back with a barely-disguised strength that reminded you how powerful he was. All muscle, like a freight train, driving into you mercilessly.
Not that you wanted mercy.
You sighed as he pushed into you and the sound almost made him cum then and there. All your yapping, all your attitude, and you were still happy to feel him there inside you, stretching you, filling you. Even when he was harsh. Even when he thought you wouldn’t be able to handle him. You always made those little sounds, breathy little sighs and moans that were way too gentle to be for someone like him.
“Red…” you sighed again, eyes closed, head leaned back as your hands found his arms and held on. He always felt so good, so right, fitting so perfectly.
“Yeah, baby?” He grunted, moving slowly, one hand braced next to your head while the other cupped your cheek.
His bare skin looked strange. Foreign. The gnarled, scarred flesh was too gruesome against your face, too rough and harsh and ugly…and yet you leaned into it, like you always did, a faint smile ghosting over your lips.
Too trusting.
You were so happy to be feeling his skin. It was difficult to focus on, with so much stimulation, but it was there, the roughness, the warmth. You loved it. You wanted more of it. You were vaguely aware of his thumb brushing over your cheek and then your lower lip, and before he could pull it away, you opened your mouth, tongue swirling around him the same way it did around his cock when you gave him head.
He had to stop.
He couldn’t.
His chest heaved and his cock ached and it felt so good, you felt so good. So incredibly, impossibly good. You drove him mad and you didn’t even have to try.
You hummed and he felt teeth gently gripping his thumb at the knuckle. For a moment, all he could do was look at you, the way a thin sheen of sweat glistened across your forehead, the way your tits were almost falling out of your bra. Maybe it was the way he had too many emotions tangling around inside his head, but it felt different, intimate, in a way he hadn’t felt with you before.
It scared him.
-0-
The next time you saw him, it was snowing, a late, freak blizzard in early April.
The snow in Gotham wasn’t pretty for very long, quickly turning to ugly, industrial gray slush, as if it were somehow rotting with the rest of the city. It was never enough to stop the crime, either, and for the brief period that it was still crisp and white, it showed the splashes of blood so brightly that it was somehow worse than the gray gloom.
As you sat, huddled under the thickest blanket you could find, chipped mug of hot chocolate clutched in your hands, you could hear the wind howling outside and grimaced.
When a familiar creak and thud reached your ears, you turned quickly, straining to move in your blanket cocoon.
“Close that!” you said, surprising him.
Red Hood grumbled something but obeyed, pulling the window shut before turning to look at you.
You looked pathetic.
“Radiator’s busted.” you sniffled.
He caught the way you were shivering, even while wrapped up in a quilt, and sighed in frustration.
“How long?” he asked.
“Ever since I got home.”
He walked towards you, heavy boots clomping as he grew closer, and flopped down onto the couch next to you, wordlessly pulling you against his side.
“Hey!” you protested, a drop of hot chocolate spilling over the side of the mug.
“Shut up.” he grumbled, staring forward at the tv.
This wasn’t what he wanted. Not what he should want. If he were smarter, he’d run right back out the window and take out his anger elsewhere. He’d leave you alone and stop digging his own grave like this.
But he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you, cold and alone, in a shitty apartment building in a shitty neighborhood in a shitty city.
When you curled against him, it startled him out of his thoughts. His grip on you automatically tightened, holding you there, safe and warm, somewhere he could keep an eye on you and know that you were okay. He’d stuck a tracker in your purse months ago, using it to ease his anxiety whenever it flared up and threatened to pull him down into a spiral, and whenever you seemed to linger too long at work or the store, his first thought was always that something had happened.
He was ashamed to admit that he had nightmares about it.
There was no way he could leave you there. Even though the growing intimacy terrified him, the thought of not knowing where you were or if you were okay was even worse.
“What’re we watching?” he asked after several minutes of silence.
“Hmm?” you asked lazily, cocoa long since abandoned on your duct-taped coffee table, face buried in his side. You were surrounded by the scents of leather and gunsmoke and Gotham, his body heat lulling you into a happy haze. If you could feel it through the armor and the jacket, you couldn’t imagine how warm he actually was underneath.
He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh, his chest rumbling. You felt him move and heard the clipped sounds of channel surfing. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re so warm,” you hummed, body exhausted from shivering all night.
“I run hot.”
“You’re hot.”
He paused, looking down at you. Flirting? And so innocently, too, with no intention of climbing into his lap. For a second, he considered pulling you onto him and coaxing you into riding him. It would warm you up, he was sure. But there was something…nice about simply having you there next to him, like that first night at the club.
“Nah, I’m not.” he said finally, turning his attention back to the tv.
“I think you are.” you mumbled against him.
And you’re wrong. He thought.
“Yeah? You got a thing for masks, or what?”
You laughed quietly, the sound muffled. “Not necessarily, but it’s not the worst one I’ve seen.”
“You deal with a lotta weirdos, huh?”
“You’re the weirdest.”
That time, you were sure it was a laugh that vibrated through him.
“Hey,” he said, and something in his voice was different this time. “You’d, uh. Tell me if you had trouble at work. Right?”
You shifted and looked up at him, revealing your face. “Uh. Sure, I guess.”
He felt stupid and awkward for even mentioning it.
“It hasn’t been too bad lately,” you said. “Just the usual drunk assholes. Nothing security can’t deal with.”
“Sure, but…if something ever happens.” he stared at the tv, avoiding your eyes.
“How would I even get in touch with you?” you snorted. “You’re not exactly the easiest guy to find.”
Shit, you had a point. You probably didn’t carry a flashlight around to a rig a little bat signal with, and it’s not like you had his number.
“...there’s a tracker in your purse.” he admitted.
You sat up, staring at him.
“You can use it to send an SOS. Straight to me.”
“You’ve been tracking me?”
He swallowed hard, suddenly extra glad to have armor hiding the motion. “...yeah.”
“Unbelievable.” you fell back against the couch, shaking your head.
“It’s to keep you safe,” he snapped.
“You don’t even know me.”
“So?”
“Why do you care?”
Silence hung between you, thick and heavy enough to cut with a knife.
“I don’t.” he grumbled, looking away. “Now come back here before you freeze.”
You rolled your eyes but complied, settling against his side again. At least he was warm.
“I won’t use it,” you growled stubbornly. “I don’t need you to save me.”
“Fine.” he said tersely, chest clenching in a weird, painful way.
-0-
Everybody needed saving in Gotham, at least once in a while.
The snow melted and spring came. In Gotham, that meant miserable, rainy nights, too cold to be comfy but too warm to stay bundled up, and while the winter never stopped any of the crime and violence, it always seemed to increase when it warmed up.
You had looked for the tracker in your purse, eventually finding it hidden in the lining. When Red Hood had found the time to cut open and sew it back up, you had no idea, and you were kind of impressed by the skill with which he had done it. When you had found it, you’d stared at it for a long while, initially intent on destroying it or throwing it out into the alley behind your building. You didn’t need him babysitting you like that. You’d survived plenty long without his help, and the thought of somebody who was nothing more than a fuck buddy thinking he had to keep an eye on you was infuriating. It reminded you of every lame situationship you’d ever been in, every guy who wanted exclusivity but never commitment.
None of those guys were the Red Hood, though.
In the end, you’d decided to hang onto it, keeping it zipped up in the little pocket that held your makeup. Knowing that it was there actually made you feel a little better, even if you hated to admit it.
Now, as you walked home, shadows in the alleyways seeming to leer as you passed by, you were glad you had kept it.
You should have waited for a taxi, you knew, but the road outside the club was torn up thanks to a gang war the previous week, and you would have had to walk a few blocks just to get to one anyways. Maybe it was time to invest in a car of your own, if this was going to keep happening.
Your pace was quick, a lifetime of Gotham having taught you to never dawdle. Your boots splashed through puddles, a reminder that even though there was a break in the rain, more was sure to come. You had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and your purse over the other, fingers gripping the straps tightly as you walked. Maybe you could buy a bike soon. Or a scooter. No, a bike sounded cooler, and probably faster, too–
“What’s this?”
The hairs on the back of your neck raised, goosebumps prickling your skin. Oh, great. You weren’t alone.
A group of men lurking on a nearby stoop were watching you, a few holding crowbars, a couple others wearing gas masks.
Great.
Just great.
You slipped your fingers into your purse, feeling the handgun there.
“You alone?” one of them called.
You kept walking.
“Hey, bitch, I’m talkin’ to you!”
“What’s she got in the bag?”
“Looks like a hooker. Bet she’s got cash.”
“Bet she’s got more than cash.”
They were all standing now, all watching you, and with your heart hammering in your chest, you realized they weren’t going to let you go easily.
You could drop your bags and run, hope that they would rifle through your things, and cut your losses. It would be the smart thing to do, probably, the kind of thing they always told you growing up. Don’t risk your life. Material possessions don’t matter.
Except they did, because you did have a lot of cash in there, and you needed cash to pay the rent and the bills for your shithole of an apartment.
“She’s pretty.”
Your skin crawled.
With a glance to the side, you realized you couldn’t even cross to the other side of the street, because there was no other side, just a collection of sink holes and crumbling pavement left over from the latest catastrophic event to grace Gotham.
Great.
Thanks, Gotham.
As you walked, eyes trained forward, your fingers found the tracker in your purse. Begrudgingly, you realized you might need it.
If Red Hood gave you so much as an I told you so, you’d bite his dick next time you saw it.
“Hey, bitch!” you heard the men following you, catching up to you quickly. You heard the scrape of metal against pavement, the slap of a wooden bat against a palm, the grating of sick laughter.
There were no lights on in any of the windows you passed, the street lamps above you flickering. This was already an unfamiliar route home, thanks to all of the barricades and ruined streets. Anxiety was rising in your throat, adrenaline spiking, hands growing clammy. Your fingers trembled slightly against the tracker, and when you felt a hand tug on your jacket, you pressed it, hard, hoping that’s what Red Hood had meant when he said you could use it.
You really should have clarified that, in hindsight.
“Fuck off!” you spat, spinning around, pistol in hand.
Your eyes widened when you realized how many men had been following you, and how close they had gotten.
Fuck.
The one closest to you laughed, and you saw the cracked white paint on his face and felt the blood drain out of your own. Joker’s goons? Wasn’t he dead?
“C’mon, baby,” he said, crooked, yellow teeth bared. “Don’tcha like us?”
“I’ll shoot.” your voice wavered.
“Aw, we don’t want trouble,” he crooned.
“I don’t have any cash.” you lied. “So just go away.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said with a grin. “Just wanna have some fun.”
You squeezed the trigger and a shot rang out, and you ran.
Chaos erupted.
Shouts, heavy boots on pavement, the shuffle of fabric as they chased. You didn’t even know if you got the first one. You hoped you did, but there wasn’t any time to look back. You didn’t want to look back and see them there, pursuing you like hungry dogs.
You ran in a blind panic, turning down twisting streets, lungs burning with the effort of hauling your bag around with you. You didn’t know this part of town. Didn’t know it at all. You were only getting yourself lost, and the whole time, you heard them behind you, sometimes so close you swore you could feel breath on the back of your neck. Laughter echoed off the walls as you scrambled down an alley, kicking over trash cans before skidding to a stop.
A dead end.
Fuck.
“Finally!” a man snarled as they gathered, blocking the only exit. “Now we can play–”
You raised your gun with shaky hands and another earsplitting shot rang out, the man crumpling to the ground in a sickening way.
Your finger hadn’t squeezed the trigger, yet you watched as another collapsed, blood staining his jacket. And then, you realized what was going on, as someone big, and tall, and masked dropped down from the roof, landing with his back to you. His shoulders were hunched angrily, a gun in each hand, his grip tight and full of rage.
He didn’t bother speaking. There were no warning shots. He just killed them, bullets buried in their skulls and their chests, crowbars and bats and chains clattering to the ground. You saw the way his form heaved with each breath, the way that some men got two bullets behind their eyes when one was more than enough. He was killing, quickly, angrily, with no hesitation, in a way you didn’t think you ever could.
He shot the last thug as he was scrambling to run, tripping over the limbs of his former comrades. Then he shot him again.
And again.
And again.
“Red!” you yelled out, choking on a sob.
When Red Hood stiffened and turned to you, you felt like you should have been scared. You should have been terrified of the sort of man who was capable of so much violence.
But you weren’t.
You were just relieved.
He stomped towards you, quickly taking the pistol from your trembling hands.
“Are you okay?”
You looked up at him with teary eyes, stifling cries as you nodded.
“Did they touch you?”
You shook your head, hiccuping.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Good.”
“You came.” you said quietly.
“You called.”
You nodded again, and he realized he had no idea what to say. He was never good at that part. He could save a citizen anytime, anyplace, but the comforting part afterwards? Not his strong suit.
You reached for him, gripping his sleeve tightly. He could feel you shaking, probably full of adrenaline.
“I got you,” he murmured, taking the duffel bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Thanks.” you mumbled as he led you out of the alley, guiding you through the pile of bodies.
“Don’t mention it.”
The walk back to your place was quiet. You didn’t see anyone else, probably all scared off by the sound of so many gunshots. In the morning, someone would find the remains of all of those men, and they’d get scraped up and taken down to the morgue. You wondered if anybody would claim them. You wondered if they had families.
For the second time, Red Hood followed you through the front door, trailing behind as you trudged past the broken elevator and up the stairs. When your hands were too shaky to fit the key in the lock, he took it from you and did it himself, silently pushing the door open and locking it again after you were both safely inside.
You fell onto the couch, drained and angry and nauseous. Somewhere behind you, Red Hood dropped your bag onto the floor with a thud.
“The hell you got in there?” he asked, more to himself than you.
“Shoes.” you said with a sniffle. “Makeup. Outfits.”
It almost made him laugh. “You haul all that around every night?”
“Yes.”
He came into view above you, looking down at your tear stained face. You were all done up from work still, makeup mostly holding up despite the rain and the crying. You were gorgeous, he thought. Too pretty to be walking around alone like that.
“Why didn’t you take a cab?” he asked.
“Road’s all fucked up. Cars can’t get through.” you mumbled. “I’m usually okay on my own.”
“I see that,” he said, looking at the gun he still held in his hand. “This thing is ridiculous.”
“Everybody’s a critic.”
He frowned. No snappy remark? That didn’t sound like you.
He tried again.
“I mean, seriously. Pink?”
“Matches my underwear.”
You sounded so tired. Still cracking jokes, but so, so exhausted, and he didn’t really know how to make it better. Dick would know. Even Tim would know. But Jason? He had no fucking clue how to speak gently, how to comfort you. He was good at shooting and killing and that was it, not the emotions afterward.
He tried to think of what he would do after a shitty night. Usually, he’d climb up the fire escape and come visit you, but he doubted you needed that right now. If he was back at one of his safehouses, he’d probably clean up, taking advantage of however much hot water he could get out of the shower before collapsing on his mattress.
“Come on,” he set the gun down on your kitchen table and then stepped around the couch, slipping his hands under you and lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all.
“What?” you grumbled, hanging there limply.
“You’ll feel better.”
He carried you to the bathroom, setting you down on the toilet before turning to the tub, twisting the knob and waiting for the water to come out clear instead of rusty. When it finally did, he switched the showerhead on, then turned back to you.
He stood you up, hesitating. “Do you want me to go?”
“No.”
“You want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
He unzipped your hoodie, shrugging it down over your arms and letting it fall to the tiled floor. His hands found the hem of your shirt and he looked to you for permission, pulling it up and over your head when you gave him a nod. You looked like you just wanted to sleep, your body and mind both exhausted and ready to crash.
He knelt down and untied your boots, then helped you out of your jeans, leaving you in a pink bra and matching panties.
“You weren’t lying about the gun matching,” he commented.
Your lips twitched in a smile. “Told you.”
There was nothing sexy about the way he unhooked your bra, yet somehow it was the most intimate he had ever felt with you. You didn’t resist, allowing him to move you whenever he needed to, and when he helped you into the shower, you finally spoke, for real.
“Those guys. Their faces…were they really…”
Jason blanched.
When a distress signal had suddenly flashed across his visor, he had dropped everything to get to you. When he had looked down into the alley and seen you backed up against a wall, a dozen men brandishing crowbars and clown paint closing in on you, he had seen red.
“He’s dead.” He said forcefully, trying to convince himself more than anything.
You let out a sigh. “Okay.”
When he had seen them, he had heard the cackling again, felt his back breaking. Nobody had come to save him then.
But he had come to save you.
“Hey, Red?”
Your voice pulled him back and he focused on you, mascara running as water washed over you. So tangible. So real.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
He said it casually, flippantly, trying to brush it off, but you both knew what the word really was.
A promise.
-0-
Promises go both ways, sometimes.
Red Hood visited you more regularly. You had grown even more used to the sound of him climbing in. Some nights, you didn’t even fuck, and they almost started feeling like hangouts, or even dates. He would sit next to you, watching whatever lame late night show you had on, never taking any of his armor off, never showing you his face. He talked about his nights, sometimes, but nothing personal. You still didn’t know where he lived, or where he went during the day, or what he looked like, but you knew which streets he stalked, which rooftops he lurked on. You knew that he hated almost everything on tv. You knew that he liked sitting in silence, sometimes, and other times, you got the feeling that if you didn’t fill the space with small talk, he would go insane. Sometimes, those things felt more important than names and identities.
You were in the kitchen brewing tea one night, unable to sleep, when you heard the telltale sound of the window sliding open.
“Hey, Red!” you greeted as energetically as you could. “Want tea? Kidding, I know you won’t–”
You were cut off by a thud and a groan and uncertainty crept up your spine. When you turned, the window was still open, a smear of blood on the sill. When you looked down, you saw him on the floor in a heap, trying and failing to stand, shoulders heaving as he tried to breathe.
“Red?” you dropped the kettle as you rushed towards him, kneeling. The floor felt wet beneath your bare knees, blood smearing as you leaned forward. “Hey. Hey!”
He didn’t answer and you knew you had to do something. Fast.
“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing his arm and trying to haul him up. “God, Red, come on!”
He was heavy.
“Fine,” you said under your breath, jamming your shoulder against his chest and pushing him to sit up against the wall so that you could look at him.
What you saw made your stomach drop.
Red Hood was in shambles. Entire chunks had been torn from his armor, his jacket ripped, bullet holes riddling his chest. You couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from. Maybe it was coming from everywhere. You heard a sick, sticky rattling whenever he tried to breathe, and as you followed the sound upwards, you saw the most shocking thing of all.
His mask was cracked.
For a brief moment, you could only stare. A single unfocused, blue eye stared back at you, pupil dilated, sclera red and bloody. It looked wrong. It looked inhuman. It looked beautiful, in a weird, fucked up way.
A wheeze brought you back to your thoughts and you tried to remember everything you had ever learned about first aid, every back alley operation you had witnessed in the club, every book you had ever read in those nursing classes before dropping out. You had to stop the bleeding. You had to figure out if his head was fucked up. You had to figure out why he couldn’t breathe right.
You needed to see what was going on with him first, though, underneath the broken armor.
He’d understand.
You hoped.
Fingers scrambling, you managed to shove his jacket off far enough to find the magnetic clasps on his armor and pull them apart. Cloth and leather and you didn’t even know what, Kevlar, ceramic plating, whatever fell away, thrown to the side as you revealed his chest. You barely registered all of the scarring, the burn marks, the healed gunshot wounds, the lateral slashes from knives and ice picks and things you couldn’t even imagine. Instead, you were focused on the splotches of bright red as you tried to wipe the blood away, pulling your hoodie off and using it to soak up what you could.
He looked bad. So, so bad. But the more you examined him, the clearer his injuries became, and you nodded to yourself. Ugly bruising spread across his ribs, and as you pressed, you thought maybe a few were broken.
Disgusting gargling sounds drew your attention up to his neck and you grimaced. Blood oozed from a wound high in his throat, bubbling slowly, thickly, and you thought of the time you’d watched one of Two-Face’s henchmen sputter and choke around a bullet hole there.
He had lived, though. You could recall that he had lived because someone had performed a cricothyrotomy right there on the table.
“Okay,” you whispered as he wheezed. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do this. Hey, Red? I’ll be right back.”
You sprinted to the bathroom, grabbing your big box of mismatched medical supplies and running back, falling to your knees in front of him as you began rummaging around. You found a scalpel, complete with a guard over the blade so you didn’t even slice your own finger off. You found some packages of sterile gauze. You even found a bottle of iodine buried in there, and your holy grail—some sort of catheter tube from god knows where.
Stealing surplus from Gotham State’s medical department had come in handy, after all.
“So, uh,” you said, more to calm yourself than to communicate to Red Hood, “gonna be real with you, I only watched this once at the ER and then once at the club, but both guys lived.”
Yeah, but would he live?
You weren’t a surgeon.
You weren’t a doctor.
You weren’t a nurse.
You were just a stripper from the East End, with an unconventional life and even more unconventional fuck buddy.
Who was currently choking on his own blood.
“Shit! Okay,” you stammered.
He was struggling to breathe, the sounds getting worse and more sickening by the second. It was bad. You knew it was bad.
“Gotta get rid of this,” you seized his mask, fingers trembling, scrabbling for the clips or locks or whatever, and pulled it off.
With the helmet out of the way, the wheezes were so much worse.
He coughed and sputtered, blood dripping from his mouth.
His lungs rattled.
His eyelids fluttered.
And you realized that you really, really had to get him breathing better before he couldn’t breathe at all.
“Okay!” You said, steadying yourself, finding the nerve. You didn’t even register that you were looking at his face. You just dumped disinfectant all over the wound, revealed in all its gruesome glory now that the mask was gone.
With a glance at his eyes, you took a breath and gripped the scalpel, a bloody hand on his throat, tracing his windpipe. You found a spot that felt right, seemed to match what you remembered, and as you worked, you hoped to god that you weren’t about to make everything ten times worse.
You were so focused, moving on autopilot, that you weren’t even woozy.
“Okay!” You said, voice wavering slightly but so much stronger than before you had resolved to do this. “Red, you got this, we got this—“
You shoved the catheter in, hoping you had done it, hoping there was no blood filling his airway down there—
And you saw as his chest rose, heard the sound of uninhibited breathing, finally, laughed in relief, and then realized you had no idea what to do next.
So you sat there with him, holding the tube, watching the color return to his lips.
With your free hand, you tried to stop the bleeding that had caused all of this, packing the wound with gauze, then removing it when it became clear that it wasn’t going to quit without further intervention.
“Stay there.” you said with a glare at the catheter, letting go of it to grab a needle.
The stitching was crude, messy, but it worked. You’d fished out a bullet, shocked to find both it and most of the tissue around it intact, and hoped that closing the wound from the outside would at least keep him from bleeding out until you could get him to a hospital, or somebody’s basement, or a mob doctor, or something.
But he wouldn’t want anybody else to see his face. This was probably all bad enough.
You wondered if he would kill you, if he survived.
A nudge on your leg startled you out of your thoughts. Red Hood was watching you, his eyes clear but tired. He had managed to reach into a pocket and grab a phone, tapping it against you, the screen open to the notes app.
Hey.
You rolled your eyes.
“Hope your voice box isn’t destroyed,” you said dryly. “I’ll miss those sexy grumbles of yours.”
He laughed, the sound unsettling in his current condition.
“Seriously, I…do you know anybody? Can I take you somewhere?”
He scowled.
“I don’t know what else to do,” you admitted. “There’s blood in your throat, I think you need a ventilator or something, I-I haven’t even looked at the rest of you–”
He took his phone back and swiped a few times, then tossed it at you. You picked it up with bloody hands to see that he had opened a text conversation with someone simply named Asshole, and had already sent the letters SOS. It looked like the first message he had sent in a long, long time, judging by the time stamps.
A reply came almost immediately.
What happened?
You ok?
Where?
“Friend of yours?” you asked, glancing up at him.
He was looking away, avoiding your eyes.
“Will they help?”
A nod.
You texted back your address and then returned the phone, not knowing what else to do. You saw the screen light up with messages, once, twice, three times, Red Hood looking more and more irritated with each one. You watched him type out a single reply and hit send, then let the phone fall onto his chest, a quiet settling over both of you.
Now that you knew help was on the way, you relaxed slightly. He still looked like absolute shit, but he was still breathing, and you took the opportunity to finally study his face.
Handsome.
He was somehow still so handsome.
Black hair with a shock of white, a strong, square jaw, and a litany of scars. His nose was a little crooked, like it had been broken in the past. His lips looked rough. And there was a brand on his left cheek, just below his eye, a big, ugly J.
It looked extra ghastly covered in blood.
His eyes flickered back to you and then he quickly looked away again. You saw guilt there. Worry. Shame. He was trying to hide, to avoid your gaze. You wondered what he was thinking.
“Hey.” you placed a hand on his cheek, gently pulling him back to look at you. “It’s okay.”
He looked upset. He looked so, so upset, his blue eyes stormy with rage and guilt and hurt and need, and you thought that was an awful lot to be worrying about all at once, especially considering the state he was in.
“I’m here.” you murmured, brushing his hair back from his sweat-slick forehead.
“Jay?” a masculine voice startled you and you immediately leaned over Red Hood, guarding him, as if you could possibly hide a guy his size from view like that.
Someone was in the window, peering down at you from behind a mask in surprise. “Jesus!”
Nightwing. The Nightwing. The Nightwing that all the girls at work were obsessed with because he was just so pretty.
That Nightwing.
“Back off!” you snapped when he jumped down and tried to move you, feeling and probably looking a little bit like a feral animal.
He raised his hands in surrender at the same time that Red Hood wrapped a hand around your wrist. You leaned back to look at him, surprised to see him nod, and then reluctantly shifted your weight to the side.
“Oh my god,” Nightwing said, crouching down. He pointed to the tube in Red Hood’s throat. “You do that?”
“...Yes.” you said. “Are you Asshole?”
Red Hood laughed beneath you and coughed up blood.
Nightwing sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “...Probably. Yeah.”
He was calm now, or at least pretending to be.
“Can you help him?” you asked.
“Yes!” he said quickly. “Yes. Let me just–get him on his feet–”
You sat back as Nightwing somehow managed to get Red Hood standing, surprised to see that such a lean guy could support such a bulky one.
Vigilantes.
You scoffed.
“I take it you texted?” he said, slinging Red Hood’s arm over his shoulders.
“Yeah. Sorry, you’re just…he’s got you in there as Asshole, I didn’t mean–”
“No, no. It’s fine.” he grinned. “That sounds like him. I’m just glad I was in town.”
“Me too,” you hugged yourself.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Just him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
You shook your head.
“Just found him like this, or..?”
“Basically, yeah.” you shifted uncomfortably. “Will he be okay?”
Nightwing’s gaze softened. “Yeah. He’s been through worse.”
And you had no real way of knowing it, but he had. He really, really had.
As Dick got him down the fire escape and into his car, Jason fell in and out of consciousness. Now that he was away from you, he felt like he didn’t need to be awake. He didn’t have your pretty face to focus on, didn’t have anything good to look at. There was just Dick rambling from the front seat.
He wished you had come along.
He wished you were there to hold his hand, and he felt like a kid afraid of his shots at the doctor’s office. He knew he would be okay. He knew he’d be fixed up fine and back out on the streets with new armor in a week or less. But god, he wished he could hear your voice.
“She seemed nice,” Dick commented, making small talk as if his brother wasn’t threatening to bleed out in his back seat. “Friend of yours?”
He said friend the way a parent would, with that tone as if he hoped Jason was being social at school.
“She likes you, whoever she is.” he continued, taking advantage of Jason’s inability to speak without choking on his own blood.
Jason wanted to laugh at that. Yeah, you liked him alright. You liked him plenty.
And he liked you, too.
-0-
Two weeks went by with no sign of Red Hood, and you had no idea if he was alive or dead.
It drove you insane.
If he was dead, that would suck. Like really, really suck. You doubted you’d ever even find out, unless it was somehow reported in the news.
If he was alive but avoiding you, that would also suck. Maybe it would even suck worse. The thought made you sick.
You thought a lot about how you had seen his face. Maybe that was why he hadn’t reached out. Maybe you were like a burned alias now. Maybe you had found out too much, and you’d never see him again. Or maybe you would, when he came to kill you for knowing his secrets.
There was a reason people always said to never get involved with vigilantes, or heroes, or villains. They weren’t worth dying over.
It was difficult getting yourself to go to work, but you managed it a few times. Mostly, you stayed home, awake all night like some nocturnal creature, sleeping on the couch so that you’d hear him if he came over. You knew it was more dangerous, being so close to the window, that any one of Gotham’s infinite number of absolute freaks could hop right in and gut you if they wanted to, but you didn’t care. You were blinded by hope.
One night, you were curled up, hugging a pillow that still smelled faintly of him, when you finally heard a thump outside.
The window slid open.
A heavy boot hit the floor.
And you shot up, pillow still in hand, to see Red Hood, your Red Hood, wearing new, unblemished armor, standing in the very spot you had scrubbed his blood from.
“Oh my god,” you rushed toward him, not caring if he was about to shoot you in the head to tie up his loose ends.
You made it all the way, wrapping your arms around him as you dove into his chest. “I didn’t know if you were alive, I’ve been so fucking worried–”
“Hey.” he gently pried you away, holding you at arm’s length.
Your heart fell. It felt like rejection.
This was probably the part where he gave you a talk about never seeing each other again because it had gotten too dangerous, too real. Your vigilante fuck buddy was probably about to break up with you, pull an it’s not you, it’s me, and then skip town.
“Wanted to thank you.”
…What?
“I, uh…don’t think I would’ve made it without you.” he said. “That was actually some…pretty fucking good work.”
“Don’t mention it,” you said awkwardly, pulling at your sleeves. “I’m glad your voice is okay.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Then came the awkward silence, and Jason knew he had to do what he came there for before he totally lost his nerve.
“So, listen, I–”
“I know,” you interrupted. “I get it. It’s probably for the best.”
“...What?”
“But just hear me out first.”
“...Alright…”
“I like you.” you said, looking down at the stained floorboards. “A lot, actually. And I’ve missed you every second since that night. It’s been actual hell not knowing if I managed to accidentally kill you somehow. Like, actual hell. I’ve missed you like, way too much, and I know it’s bad to get attached, but I did. So do what you’ve gotta do, but just…I don’t want you to go.”
You sounded so sincere that his heart ached in a way it never had before.
“Sweetheart, I’m not…” he sighed, reaching for his helmet.
At the sound of his voice changing, you looked up.
“...I’m not going anywhere.”
You stared.
His face looked so much better. The brand was still ugly and obnoxious on his cheek, drawing attention to itself in a way you were sure was deliberate, but there was no blood this time, no sick bubbling, no wheezing and rattling.
“Oh, thank god,” you wrapped your arms around his neck and he leaned down, dropping his mask to hug you.
He had been worried. He had been so, so worried. When you had last seen his face, he had been so out of it that he barely cared, but in the weeks after, he had gotten so anxious about it that he had broken his phone on accident one night. It wasn’t just that you saw him, something that Bruce had repeated should never, ever happen, it was that you saw him, the real him, for what he was–a broken, beaten, husk of a man, covered in reminders of how he was Batman’s greatest failure.
He practically collapsed onto you. You hadn’t so much as gasped at the sight of him tonight. You hadn’t looked away in horror. There wasn’t even any pity in your eyes, just recognition.
You both stayed there for a long time, in each other’s arms, warm and safe and secure. There was no blood tonight. No crying. No shouting. Nothing but contentment and acknowledgment.
At some point, Jason realized that had started laughing and he pulled back to look down at you. “What?”
“Nothing, I’m just…I’m just so glad you haven’t secretly been hideous under there this whole time.”
His heart leapt a little bit. “You don’t think so?”
“What? Dude! Red, come on. You’re hot.” you said, as if it were obvious.
He stared at you like you had suddenly grown another head.
“Do you seriously not think so?”
“It’s just…” he leaned back, gesturing to his face.
“Oh, please.” you scoffed. “I love a man with scars.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m serious!”
He rolled his eyes and let go of you, flopping down onto the couch with such force that you were afraid it was going to break and be added to the list of replacement furniture he owed you.
“Don’t patronize me.” he grumbled.
“What?” you trailed behind him. “Red, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You sank down, straddling his lap. “I think you’re handsome.”
His eyes flickered to yours. “Nobody in their right mind would–”
“Then maybe I’m not,” you cut him off again. “But I mean it.”
You raised a hand to cup his cheek, smoothing your thumb over the brand. He leaned into it, just like you always did with him, eyes fluttering closed as he let out a sigh. Your hand was so soft. He knew there was only one scar there, from that time with the glass. Not like his, gnarled and stiff. You had only drawn so much blood, only taken a couple lives. Your hands were so clean compared to his own.
When he opened his eyes, he found that you were still looking at him, searching his face for something. He wondered what it was, and if you ever found it. If you were going to ask about the brand, you decided against it, and he was glad.
“I’m really glad you didn’t die.” You said quietly.
“Yeah,” he replied, his eyes never straying from yours. “Me too.”
When you leaned in, he fought the urge to run.
When your lips brushed over his, he was glad he had.
They were just as soft as the rest of you, and his were just as rough as you had imagined. But somehow, he tasted the way you thought he would, and when his arms snaked around your waist to pull you closer, he felt just like he did in your dreams. Big. Solid. Safe. A bulwark against everything that went bump in the night.
He kissed back and you felt him sigh beneath you, deflating. Gloved fingers flexed gently against your shirt. There were no expectations, no moves, no suggestions. Just you and Gotham’s most dangerous vigilante, safe and warm, seeing eye to eye for real for the very first time.
Part of me is like “neat. Reblog,” and part of me is like “I understand now why impressionism took off, because there’s a 0% chance the artist wasn’t like ‘fuck this shit’ by the halfway point.”
Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.
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