I like my odds too much
Twenty minutes if they tried to make it there like some lunatics auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Seven minutes by bike -but only if the traffic didn’t suck, Gotham streets didn’t decide they were free-for-all pedestrian zones, and someone wasn’t trying to have a mid-life crisis in the left lane.
That’s how long it should take them to get to his apartment from Schwartz’s Bypass.
He knew the timing too well. He’d been counting those minutes, over and over, for an hour now. Like the route itself held some answer he hadn’t figured out yet.
Why? Because three nights ago, she’d been in his apartment, bandaging a cut he didn’t even need fixing -because apparently, her definition of first aid included ignoring insistence that he was fine and using his kitchen scissors to cut gauze.
And then, somehow, it happened. That thing. That stupid thing he never planned, happened. He said something stupid -not Sinatra stupid. Something so stupid it should’ve made her roll those pretty blue eyes and jump out the window. But she didn’t. She laughed -like, really laughed. Like, full-blown, genuine laughter.
And before he could stop it, before he could think straight, he’d kissed her. Because what else do you do after so long of not-flirting that was absolutely, one hundred percent flirting? Because if he didn’t kiss her, he was pretty sure he was going to implode. Exploded. Or some other dramatic thing that he’d never admit out loud.
And she’d kissed him back.
That...? That was the moment. The moment. The one that replayed in his mind every time he let it. Not that he meant to. Not that he could help it.
How had this even started?
In the span of a few short weeks, or months, or however long it had been -he wasn’t keeping track- something had changed. Something had definitely happened. He just wasn’t sure what. Or how. Or if it was even allowed to happen.
Damn, if he closed his eyes right now, he could see it all -her on his bed, breathless, the box of condoms almost empty, the way he couldn’t stop, the way she didn’t want him to stop, and how all of it felt terrifyingly good. Like it was a hunger he had always known but never thought to feed.
And yet... it’s been three days, and he still couldn’t make sense of it. Of her. Of the fact that she hadn’t bolted the second the sun came up like he half-expected she would. Like he half-wanted her to -because it would’ve been easier that way.
Fuck.
Red Hood sat atop the stupid bypass, legs swinging over the edge like a kid who didn't get the memo that gravity was still a thing. The city stretched out beneath him, still cloaked in that gauzy promise of dawn. It was the kind of sky that poets wrote about -Jason wouldn’t, of course, but he could see why someone might. The color matched her eyes, which annoyed him just enough to kick the air and tell himself he didn’t care about poetry. Much.
Beside him, Batgirl -third of her name, but first somewhere between his head and his chest and his goddamn everything- picked at a soggy hash brown like it had personally offended her.
This thing, their after-patrol thing or ritual -if you could call it that- wasn’t glamorous. Leaky coffee cups, grease-stained bags from a 24-hour diner that looked one health inspection away from disaster, and a skyline that made everything feel small.
But it worked. And for Jason, working was... enough. Or it used to be.
In the past, whenever they ended up meeting before sunrise, in these in-between moments where the city finally shut up for a while, Jason found himself clinging to them. To her. Meeting her in places, sitting side by side, was the one thing in his new life that made sense -somehow. Not perfect sense -he wasn’t that delusional- but the kind of sense that didn’t detonate if you leaned on it too hard.
That was before he came inside her. Now, just sitting this close was driving him crazy.
“Sooo,” she drawled, casually tearing apart the last bite of hash brown. “Back to where we left it. I gotta say, I’ll never, ever be into sensory deprivation -specifically the tied-up stuff. Oh, and choking. Like, why would someone do that willingly?”
Jason nearly inhaled his coffee. He didn’t choke on it so much as fight for his life. A sharp breath went wrong, and the next thing he knew, he was doubled over, hacking like he’d just swallowed a live grenade. Something was definitely lodged in his lungs -probably his own surprise too.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. This wasn’t something he was used to discussing, and certainly not like this -casual, so matter-of-fact like they were talking about the weather.
“Whoa, you okay, Hood?” she asked, code names and all, as she gave him a thump on the back. Not a gentle one, either -it had the precision of someone who’d likely performed the action to knock out a few unlucky thugs.
Jason waved her off with a grunt, still trying to regain his dignity -and oxygen. “Yeah, yeah. Just... you know, wasn’t expecting that over coffee and carbs.”
“What?” Stephanie shrugged, unbothered, as she tipped her coffee cup to her lips. “You’re the one who wanted to ‘know me better,’ remember? Full disclosure comes with fine print.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, shooting her a look that was half-annoyed, half-amused. “Oh, sure. I just thought we’d, I don’t know, ease into it? Start with something less... neck-related?”
He coughed one last time for good measure, giving her a side-eye and her smirk sparked, bright and pretty, and Jason hated how much it lit up parts of him he tried to keep locked away.
“What brought that up, anyway?”
“Just tying up loose ends,” she quipped, and when he groaned at the pun, her grin widened. “Relax, Hood. I’m just saying -I don’t get BDSM. And I’m not into it. That’s all. Your turn.”
“My turn?” Jason repeated, incredulous. “Blondie, that’s not how this works. You can’t just drop that and then-”
“Can’t I?” She cut him off with a confidence that made his jaw clench. She leaned forward, her coffee cup tilted over his, half the contents spilling in like it was the most natural thing in the world. “It’s called sharing. You spill, I spill. Fair and square. Isn’t that how normal people bond?”
“Normal people bond over stuff like favorite bands or how they take their coffee-” Jason shot back, voice rising with that edge he couldn’t quite temper. “-not hot takes on bondage.”
“Fine,” she said with a shrug so casual it felt like a dare. “You drink your coffee black, and you’ve got a thing for Drake -the musician, not your replacement. See? We’re covered. Now, spill.”
It wasn’t the words that hit him, exactly. It was the way she said them. Light, breezy, as if ‘replacement’ was just another noun in her arsenal. But to Jason, it wasn’t.
Replacement.
That word landed with all the grace of a crowbar. It dragged up every fight he’d ever lost: the ones in alleys, in the Batcave, and in the suffocating quiet of his own head.
The replacement -his replacement- the golden child and former boyfriend who hadn’t screwed up. Who hadn’t died. Who hadn’t come back wrong.
Jason swallowed hard. The thought had wormed its way into his head, and all he could think about was that he was also the one she might’ve been spending time with on nights when the Red Hood wasn’t around.
He shoved the thought down fast, as deep as he could, but his chest tightened anyway. His eyes flicked to her, scanning her face for a tell. Was she teasing? Testing him? Or was it just... something else?
Why does she always bring him up when it’s just us?
He forced a grin, sharp at the edges because it was either that or let the silence eat him alive. “First of all, I do not have a ‘thing’ for Drake. Second, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m—”
“Spill,” she interrupted, sing-song, relentless.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stalling.”
His jaw tightened as he looked away, fixing his gaze on the Gotham skyline. The lights glittered against the smog, like answers he’d never find. But it gave him something to focus on. Something other than her. Something safer.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, forcing the tension to uncoil, piece by piece. “Alright,” he said, “Look, I get it. Why some people might be into it. Control, surrender, adrenaline... whatever floats their boat.”
His fingers found the back of his neck, rubbing absentmindedly like he could smooth out the thoughts that had been circling too long. “Maybe for some, it’s about letting go,” he added, softer now, like the words weren’t entirely meant for her or simply unfiltered -as if it could pass as insight if he kept it vague enough. “Think about it. People who’ve spent their whole lives white-knuckling control might find it... freeing. Not forever. Not with just anyone. But with someone they trust. Someone they choose to trust.”
The words stretched out longer than he expected, uncomfortably personal. Was this him talking? Was it too much? His throat tightened as he tried to gauge her reaction, his heart thudding a little too loudly. “Not that I’d know.” Jason shrugged, rushing to pull the mask back on. “But... I can see why some might want that.”
His eyes drifted to the river below, the gentle ripple of water offering an excuse to look away. But he could still feel her watching him, studying him like a book with pages still turned down, waiting for something to be written.
Fuck.
He hated how much her presence made him want to jump on the river, to disappear into the murky water, to hide in the darkness rather than be pulled into the light she was drawing him toward.
Stephanie leaned back, arms crossed with that quiet defiance of hers. "So, what you're saying, is that it's not about losing control. It's about... deciding who gets to hold the leash?"
He blinked, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, tension still coiled tight in his shoulders. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for his coffee, the paper cup warm in his hands, its solidity grounding him as he took a slow sip.
"Who knows..." he muttered, the words almost an afterthought, his head shaking like he was brushing the whole thing off. "Maybe some are tired of making decisions..."
"Sounds dangerous."
Jason let out a short laugh, this one almost genuine. “Gotham’s dangerous.” He glanced at her, motioning vaguely between them. “Look at us. You’re the girl who fights crime like the world’s sassiest grape, and I’m just some guy who... well...” He shrugged, his past creeping in uninvited. “Used to toss heads into duffel bags because... you know, feelings."
She leaned forward ever so slightly, watching him like she was deciphering some code only she could see, and he didn’t know how to stop her.
“Maybe,” she drawled, “you are tired of making decisions too...”
Jason shook his head before he even realized he was doing it, the instinct to deny kicking in like muscle memory. “I’m not.”
He wasn’t tired of making decisions. Not really. Decisions were easy. They were clear-cut, black-and-white -at least at the moment he made them. You charge in or you don’t. You pull the trigger or you don’t. Right or wrong, good or bad, decisions had rules.
“You sure?” she asked. “Because you’ve got about an hour and a half to figure that out. After that, I’ve got class.”
Jason blinked at her like she’d just spoken in some foreign language. His brain latched onto the words, replaying them like a broken record. Figure what out? Figure what?
“What?”
“I mean,” Stephanie said, her tone maddeningly calm, “if you wanted to try that out... we’re in a hurry to go somewhere else.”
The words did hit him like a live grenade. Mid-sip, his hand froze, the coffee cup suddenly a thousand pounds in his grip.
A punchline that wasn’t funny.
A decision he didn’t know how to make.
His brain stuttered, gears grinding like a machine out of sync, trying desperately to connect the dots. He thought he could recover -throw out a joke, deflect, brush it off like it didn’t matter. But his body wasn’t cooperating, and neither was the coffee.
“Shit!” he hissed, jerking back as hot liquid spilled over the rim and onto his chest. The shock jolted him out of his paralysis, but only barely. He fumbled at the stain on his pants and leather jacket, cursing under his breath as he tried to wipe it away.
“You... uh, you wanna what?”
Stephanie bit her lip, and Jason’s brain short-circuited again.
“Did I break you, Red Hood?”
He forced a laugh, brushing the mess off his uniform as if it was no more than an inconvenience. Maybe it was. But more likely, it was the pressure she’d put on him that was making it feel like a goddamn ticking bomb.
Jason’s laugh was a little too sharp, a little too loud, and it cut off abruptly as he caught the look she was giving him. That look. Like she knew exactly where the cracks in his armor were and how to press until something gave.
“Break me?” he said, straightening up like he was back in control. “Blondie, I’m the guy who crawled out of his grave. You think you can rattle me?”
“I don’t know,” she drawled, her voice light but her eyes steady. “I think you’re rattled enough already.”
He opened his mouth, a snarky retort teetering on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came out. She wasn’t wrong, and that was the problem.
“You’re serious about this?”
“Dead serious.”
“And you think this is a good idea?”
Stephanie shrugged, leaning back in her spot, all casual confidence. “I think it’s an idea. Good or bad? There’s only one way to find out.”
He could almost hear the ticking of a clock, counting down the seconds, but he didn’t need it. The decision had already been made. He wasn’t going to overthink this. He wasn’t going to hesitate. And he knew how long it would take them to reach his apartment.
He tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. Just as it happened three days ago, he let go of the tension.
It wasn’t about what was right or wrong. It wasn’t about saving face.
It was about what he wanted, what he needed.
And right now, what he needed was her. “Alright, Blondie,” he said, the edge in his voice smooth and sure, a shift in his entire demeanor as the control slipped back into his hands. “I’m game.”
2/4
https://archiveofourown.org/works/61096540/chapters/157408735#workskin
