synopsis: you happened to be stuck in a sticky situation, on a different universe that you have no idea how you've gotten here. What do you even do in this situation when you're far from home? I guess you'll have to do what you've always done: adapt. Though, how do you adapt when there’s vigilantes, specifically Batman that doesn’t want Metahumans to be in their city? Well, there’s the game of cat and mouse.
chapter 2 | chapter 4 | masterlist
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After the rift.
When Miguel came through the dimensional portal, the air still shimmered, fractured light bending around him before collapsing into silence. The platform beneath his boots hissed as the portal sealed shut, its final echoes swallowed by the vast, cold expanse of HQ. For a moment, no one spoke.
Everyone waited.
You were supposed to come through next.
Miles stood closest to the terminal, shoulders tense, his eyes darting between the flickering readings on the monitor and the space where the portal had been. Gwen’s fingers hovered over her wristband, refreshing data again and again as though the system had just lagged. Pavitr leaned forward, watching, hoping. Even Peter B., normally the one to crack a joke, just held Mayday a little tighter against his chest.
Hobie had his arms folded, glaring at the terminal with furrowed brows. Most likely, he knew something was wrong.
He was right.
There was no second signature. No flicker. No trace.
The silence dragged too long.
“Miguel,” Miles quietly called, his voice breaking the still air.
“Where is she?”
Miguel didn’t answer.
He just stood there with his mask on, knowing he usually had it off at Headquarters, his back straight, head slightly bowed, breathing sharp through his nose. The look on his face was unreadable, no anger, no exhaustion— just something cold and heavy enough to make Gwen’s stomach twist.
“No…” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, don’t say—” her voice cracked, the words tangling into a strangled sound.
“She was right behind you. She had to be!”
Miguel finally turned. The red glow from his suit reflected in his eyes, but there was no fury this time— just devastation barely restrained behind a wall of control.
His voice was gravel when he spoke, low and deliberate, as if forcing each word out would make it true.
“I don’t know.”
Three words.
They hit harder than any punch.
Unsure if you were alive or dead.
Gwen’s breath hitched. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” she demanded, her voice trembling, eyes wide and glistening as she took a half-step forward like she could drag the answer out of him by sheer will.
Miles’s voice joined in, cracked with disbelief. “What happened back there?” His hands were trembling, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Lyla booted all of our gizmos, everything was fine! How could— how could it not work!?” His words came faster, more desperate.
“Recluse was right behind you, right there!”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, trying to make sense of it all while his throat tightened. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, voice low now, like saying it quieter would make it less real. He didn’t want to look at Miguel— not out of anger, but because he didn’t want to see the guilt he knew would be there.
One that he recognized.
Miguel didn’t answer immediately.
His jaw flexed once, and without a word, he raised his wrist. A faint blue light shimmered across his palm as he brought up a projection from his suit’s internal recorder. Static hissed softly through the air, the holo-footage struggling to stabilize before flickering to life.
“Her… gizmo wasn’t working.”
“What?” Hobos stared in confusion, shoving his pockets into his pockets.
“How is that possible— we checked everything before we left!?”
The footage reverses, enough to the point where you found out your dead gizmo while Miguel was trying to somewhat stabilize the situation.
“Get to the seam,” he rasped, forcing the words past the tightening in his throat while he covered the both of you from this God, tearing the dimension apart.
“Go now!”
You listened to Miguel, reached for your gizmo, thumb hitting the interface.
Nothing happened.
The screen flickered once and went dark.
He froze for a second, dread clawing its way up his spine.
“Lyla!” he barked.
“Her gizmo’s not working. Reboot Recluse’s link, now!”
Static filled his earpiece before Lyla’s strained voice came through. “I’m trying! She’s out of sync! The quantum signature’s splitting apart! I can’t get a lock!”
It all happened so fast.
His heart pounded hard enough to hurt.
The air around the collapsing portal shimmered, bending light as the rift widened. You slammed your wrist against your thigh again, muttering under your breath, “Come on, come on— don’t do this to me!”
Miguel felt the panic settle like lead in his chest.
Fuck, this can’t be happening to him.
Not— not again.
There was too much to lose.
The device buzzed weakly, the shimmer of a forming portal trembling before collapsing like mist.
Miguel grabbed your shoulder, claws digging in.
“Switch with me! Take mine!”
You shook your head, breath coming in sharp bursts. “No! You’ll lose connection, you’ll be stuck here!”
He didn’t care. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the look in your eyes, full of fear and defiance and that stubborn courage you always had. “I don’t care!” He shouted, voice rough and cracking.
“I’m not letting you vanish in front of me.”
Before he could reach for your wrist, you pushed him back with everything you had. The force of it staggered him. You looked at him then, and for a second everything around you went quiet. The storm, the distortion, even his own heartbeat seemed to still.
“I don’t want you to vanish as well!”
You shouted, a wobbling smile appearing on your face, to comfort Miguel, but all it did was bring anguish.
You dodged the God’s next strike, the air splitting around you as reality itself cracked open like glass. Miguel’s heart slammed against his ribs. He could barely hear his own breath through the roaring chaos, but he could see you— his daughter— fighting like hell to live.
Not the recruit he found in an alley.
Not the Spider he trained.
You.
Hija.
The one person who made him believe that broken things could still be good.
“Mija, please.” The word rasped out of him, torn between a command and a prayer.
He had thought memories only surfaced at death’s door, that flashes of life came when the heart finally gave up. But watching you, battered and defiant.
He realized he was the one dying.
“Dad, please.”
The sound of it nearly undid him.
“They need you—” you started, voice trembling.
“I need you!” He roared, his throat raw.
Miguel slammed his claw through a collapsing beam, shattering it before it could crush you. His lungs burned from the smoke, but he couldn’t stop. Not when you were slipping further into the pull.
“I don’t care,” he barked, his voice breaking. “You think I give a damn about protocol right now? You’re not staying here!”
You tried to protest, but he couldn’t hear the words anymore. He tore the clasp from his wrist, shoving the gizmo toward you.
“Put it on. That’s an order.”
Please wear it.
Don’t argue.
“Stop! You’ll die if you stay—”
“I’ll find another way out,” he snarled.
You weren’t going to die here.
His eyes were bloodshot, glowing crimson beneath the chaos.
“But you don’t get to die in front of me. Not you.”
He reached for you, but you were faster. You forced the device back onto him, slammed your palm against his chest, and shoved.
“Mija!”
He stumbled back, boots scraping against fractured ground. Then the world lurched. A blast tore through the space between you, and you were gone from his reach.
He was moving before he even thought— claws digging into the ground, dragging himself toward you. The rift’s pull howled, trying to devour you both. When he caught your arm, he held on like his life depended on it.
Maybe it did.
The air tore.
The world screamed.
“Miguel—” your voice cracked, trembling with pain.
Yet you smiled, even as the void dragged you closer.
He shook his head, desperate. “Not again. Not again. I can’t—” His breath hitched, the sound strangled.
“Please. Please, Mija.”
He had begged before in his life. For mercy. For time. For the chance to undo his mistakes.
But never like this.
Never for you.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice breaking apart. “Don’t make me watch this again.”
He felt tears sting under his mask, his throat too tight to breathe. You were fading, your figure breaking apart in the rift’s glow.
“Then don’t give up before I find my way back.”
Your words tore through him, sharper than any blade. The Anomaly lifted her hand, the seam flaring with light and darkness that clashes against with one another.
“You’re staying with me!” he shouted, gripping your hands as the world split in two.
Lyla’s voice blared through static. “Miguel, her signal’s gone critical— she’s being rewritten! Pull her back, now! Or I’m forcing you to be sent back!”
He couldn’t let go.
He couldn’t lose you too.
“Lyla, no! I can still—”
“Send him back!” you screamed.
“No!” he bellowed.
You winced, forcing your hand tighter around his.
He could barely see now, tears blurring everything. His body trembled from the pull, the agony of holding onto something the universe was tearing away from him.
Then, suddenly you looked at him with the same defiant fire you always had— the same stubbornness that made him proud and terrified at once.
You were crying now. So was he. Neither of you wanted to admit it.
Miguel’s chest felt like it was splitting open as he watched you fight the pull of the collapsing rift.
The air was alive with static, heat, and sound, reality tearing itself apart around you both. You were clinging to him, your fingers slipping against his clawed hand, refusing to let go even as the world tried to erase you.
You were his little girl.
You were slipping through his fingers.
As if you were sand.
“I refuse to die now!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the chaos. Your gaze locked with his fierce, defiant, and burning.
“You will find me again. You hear me?!”
He wanted to scream at you to stop saying things like that, to stop speaking as if this was a goodbye. But instead, the words ripped out of him, raw and shaking.
“I will!”
His voice cracked, a roar breaking from his throat, ragged and filled with despair.
“I swear I’ll tear through every world if I have to. I’ll find you!”
You smiled through your tears, trembling but certain.
“I know you will find me.”
Miguel’s heart twisted painfully. He could feel your fingers slipping from his grip, the seconds stretching into an eternity.
Every inch lost felt like the universe was peeling you away from him.
The warmth of your palm against his burned into his memory, the final proof that you were still there, still fighting and the existence of your own soul.
“I love you.”
The words hit him like a blade to the chest.
You said them softly, but the weight behind them made his breath hitch.
He wanted to tell you that he loved you too, that you were the only light left in his endless fight, but the words stuck in his throat, trapped behind the ache that crushed his chest.
He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, forcing the words out through a trembling breath.
“I will never stop looking for you, Mija.”
Then, you disappeared.
Lyla’s voice came through faintly, but he didn’t hear her. His head hung low, his shoulders trembling. The silence was deafening. The air that once buzzed with energy felt hollow now, as if the entire world had exhaled and refused to breathe again.
You were gone.
And for the first time in years, Miguel O’Hara audibly sobbed.
Not as Spider-Man.
Not as the leader.
But as a father who had lost his daughter to the stars.
His scream tore through the stillness, raw and broken, a sound that cracked the heart of anyone who heard it.
The footage captured the brief moment of the desperate reach, the light fading, the shattering silence that before the recording froze. Unable to listen to his own screams.
Silence. Stillness. The kind that pressed against the walls and settled into every breath. You could hear a pin drop in the headquarters, and it would echo like thunder.
Miles stood frozen. His chest felt like it had been caved in, the breath trapped somewhere between his ribs. The footage replayed behind his eyes on a cruel loop— your voice, desperate, breaking apart as the rift swallowed you. His throat burned, but no sound came out. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides until Gwen’s quiet sobs pulled him back to the room.
She trembled beside him, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. Her shoulders shook, her breath coming in uneven bursts as if holding back the pain would make it easier. It didn’t. Miles stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her head against his shoulder.
She didn’t resist.
She just broke.
Her tears soaked through his suit, and all he could do was hold her tighter, like if he let go, she might vanish too.
“What are we going to tell Peni?”
Miles didn’t know.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Even the hum of the HQ’s tech seemed to have gone still.
Pav’s usual brightness, the spark that could light up any mission, was gone. The color drained from his face, his eyes wide and unfocused as if trying to piece together what he’d just seen.
He looked from Miles to Gwen to the frozen image on the screen, searching for someone to tell him it was fake, that Lyla had glitched, that you weren’t gone.
But no one spoke.
His throat bobbed hard, and when he finally did manage a sound, it was barely a whisper.
“She’s…really gone?”
His voice cracked, the disbelief in it twisting into something sharp and grief-stricken.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, muttering something under his breath in his native tongue, a plea to no one in particular.
Jess stood the furthest away, her silhouette framed by the cold glow of the monitors. She didn’t move at first, didn’t speak.
Her arms were crossed, but not in her usual commanding way.
It was defensive, protective.
Her jaw was clenched, her breathing uneven.
When she finally exhaled, it was slow and trembling, like the air itself resisted leaving her lungs.
Her eyes were glassy, the reflection of the paused footage shining in them. She swallowed, voice breaking the silence, soft but steady enough to cut through the heaviness that lingered.
“No, we can’t assume that.”
The words came out reverent, almost afraid to disturb the moment. Her lips trembled slightly before she looked away, the corners of her eyes glistening as she blinked hard.
“We have to…look for her.”
Hobie felt it worst of all besides Miguel.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a long time, just stared down at his wrist where the bracelet rested, your name woven into the pattern, each thread tied with care. His half was rougher, messy and uneven, just like him.
You always joked it looked like he’d made it with his eyes closed. Now the sight of it burned.
He turned the bracelet over between his fingers, thumb tracing your name again and again as if it could bring you back.
The others’ voices blurred into background noise.
He couldn’t look at the frozen image on the screen, couldn’t bear to hear Miguel’s scream replay in his head, the way it cracked, the way it sounded like something inside him had been ripped apart.
Hobie swallowed hard, jaw locking as he slipped his hands into his pockets.
His heart felt too heavy for his chest, his lungs tight with something he didn’t know how to name.
He left without a word.
No one tried to stop him.
The door hissed shut behind him, and the quiet swallowed the sound.
He couldn’t stay here.
Not after seeing that.
All within an hour.
Not after watching you vanish into nothing, when the last thing he had left of you was a bracelet and the echo of your laugh in his head.
Lyla appeared, glitching in multiple areas around Miguel, facing towards the group but had been proven to be helpful to Spider Society, scanning through the entire footage.
The heavy silence that lingered after the footage finally shattered when Lyla’s flickering hologram came to life. Her tone was calm, almost clinical, but the undercurrent of urgency couldn’t be missed. The glitching light of her projection reflected across their faces, painting the room in uneven shades of blue and white.
“Jess is correct,” Lyla began, her voice softer for a moment as her gaze turned to Miguel.
“Don’t give up.”
She lingered on him before continuing, her digital eyes narrowing with visible calculation. “I still cannot comprehend why Recluse’s watch was the only one interfered with. My scans confirm every other gizmo was operating perfectly fine before, during, and after the incident. And yet, when that… thing appeared, hers alone malfunctioned.”
Her image flickered again, expression tightening.
“What’s more concerning is that the Anomaly could have erased both Recluse and Miguel from existence. But it didn’t. It targeted her specifically. That suggests intent—and purpose.”
The group exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Lyla’s words sinking in.
“However,” Lyla continued, her tone firm, “we need to continue with our duties as usual. Panicking or making impulsive decisions will only make things worse. Whatever happened to Recluse— it wasn’t random. But if we act without understanding what we’re dealing with, we could jeopardize her and ourselves.”
The reaction was instant and sharp.
Miles’s eyes flashed with frustration as he stepped forward, voice breaking through the stillness.
“What do you mean, continue as usual? Our friend is missing, and Miguel can’t just sit around waiting! That’s not fair!”
Gwen turned toward Lyla, her expression a mix of disbelief and anger, streaks of her tears dragging her cheeks. “You’re asking us to just move on? Like she’s not out there somewhere— alone!?”
Pav’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice trembling. “She wouldn’t stop looking for us if it were the other way around. How can we just… keep working?”
The air felt heavier than before, grief and confusion pressing down on all of them as Miguel stood silently, his gaze locked on the hologram, every muscle in his jaw trembling with restraint.
Jess, standing apart but watching everyone closely, finally spoke when there was clear displeasure in that choice of matter.
Her voice was steady but laced with concern.
“We have to balance hope with caution. We don’t know the full scope of what we’re dealing with.”
Peter B. Nodded, voicing his agreement as well, even if Mayday looked a bit upset from the sudden news.
Lyla’s holographic form flickered softly as she turned her gaze toward the group.
Her voice was calm but carried the weight of careful calculation. “I understand the pain and urgency you all feel. Losing Recluse is not just a loss to the team— it feels like losing a part of ourselves, the cluster of us. But rushing into action without a clear plan could make things worse.”
She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing. “We have run every diagnostic possible on all the Gizmos, the devices we rely on to track and connect with each other. Every single one was operating perfectly until the moment the Anomaly appeared and Recluse tried to escape. That is when her Gizmo failed.”
The room shifted as her words settled on them, repeating her words once more.
Lyla’s voice lowered, becoming more precise. “Her device’s quantum signature began to split apart. It stopped responding. None of the other Gizmos showed any malfunction. Miguel’s, Hobie’s, the rest— they all continued working as expected as I explained before. This was not a random failure. This was targeted interference.”
Her digital eyes glimmered with urgency. “What this means is twofold. One, the being we are dealing with has the power to manipulate space and technology selectively. Two, Recluse is not like the rest of us. She is somehow special to this entity, which is why only her device was affected.”
She looked directly at Miguel and then scanned the faces of everyone present. “Recluse’s own words during that moment, ‘You will find me,’ are significant. Her spider-sense does not work like ours. It goes beyond immediate danger and reads deeper cosmic patterns. She was aware, on some level, that she was not in ultimate danger, even as reality itself was unraveling around her.”
The weight of those words filled the room, mixing hope with fear.
Lyla’s tone became more insistent. “We cannot afford to rush into a blind search. If we interfere with this being’s plans without understanding them, we risk worsening Recluse’s situation. We must also remember our responsibilities— to protect the many worlds and the Spider Society that depend on us.”
Her form shimmered slightly as she continued, voice steady but urgent. “There are countless universes, infinite timelines. Without guidance or a clear lead, searching for Recluse could take years, maybe even decades. Every moment spent without direction increases the danger to her and to all of us.”
Lyla took a breath as if gathering strength for what she was about to say next. “We do not know what this being wants with Recluse. We do not understand their true intentions or full power. But based on what we have seen and Recluse’s unique nature, I am convinced this is not the end. She is not lost forever.”
She softened her tone but kept the room’s attention fixed on her. “We will keep searching. We will not stop. But we must continue our work here, keep protecting and preparing. This is the only way to ensure that when the moment comes, we will be ready to bring her back.”
The room was quiet, but the silence no longer felt empty. It was filled with a difficult kind of resolve, a heavy acceptance that hope must be tempered with patience and clarity.
“You’re late.”
Damian’s tone was sharp, cutting through the low hum of the Batcave. He stood near the console, arms crossed, the blue glow from the monitors outlining the irritation on his face. Everyone stood present, a rare sight.
Even Jason had shown up, though he kept his distance.
He stood on the upper platform overlooking the Batcave, half-hidden in the shadows that draped over the steel railings. From up there, he had a perfect view of the small gathering below— Damian at the console, Dick and Wally standing awkwardly under his scrutiny, the glow of the monitors reflecting against their suits.
Jason’s arms were crossed, his helmet tucked under one arm, expression unreadable.
Dick and Wally froze mid-step, exchanging a glance before both attempted a sheepish smile. Wally gave a weak chuckle, scratching the back of his neck while Dick rubbed his shoulder, the faintest bead of sweat trailing down his temple.
“Traffic,” Wally offered lamely, his grin faltering under Damian’s piercing stare.
Dick sighed, placing a hand on Wally’s shoulder like it might save them both. “Yeah, we, uh… ran into a few delays.”
Damian’s glare didn’t soften.
His eyes narrowed, voice cold and precise. “You’re in the Batcave. Do not insult me with excuses.”
Wally mouthed to Dick, “He’s scarier than Bruce,” earning a quiet, defeated groan in response.
“Well, at least everyone is here.” Stephanie announced, her smile bright enough to practically summon cartoon flowers around her head.
She added a little hop to her step as she entered, determined to inject even the tiniest bit of optimism into the cave’s suffocating atmosphere.
Cassandra walked beside her, quiet and steady, offering a small nod to everyone present. It was brief, but it carried weight.
Duke stepped in behind them, gaze flicking from face to face before landing on Alfred with a knowing sigh.
“Let me guess,” he lifts an eyebrow, “is this about a certain vigilante?”
Alfred inclined his head, posture straight and expression composed.
“Precisely.”
Bruce’s footsteps echoed before he appeared, steady and unmistakable.
He stepped into the center of the cave with purpose, cape trailing behind him like a shadow that swallowed the room’s remaining noise.
The giant screens above flickered with paused surveillance stills, each one of the same masked figure leaping across Gotham’s rooftops in a way none of them had ever seen.
Recluse.
A new vigilante with not a single documentation on them.
Bruce stopped beside Alfred, eyes sweeping over the gathered family and lingered his gaze on the familiar red-helmet above them.
“Good,” he grunts, voice low and grounding.
“You’re all here.”
Dick let out a small breath.
“So this is really about them.”
Cassandra tilted her head, studying the freeze-frame of Spider mid-swing.
Her eyes softened with curiosity rather than hostility.
Stephanie raised her hand halfway, gaining everyone’s attention despite the meeting that had just barely started.
“Are we sure Spider even means harm? Everything I’ve seen shows them… helping. In a very chaotic, cartwheel-off-a-building kind of way.”
Duke folded his arms.
“Helping or not, showing up out of nowhere in Gotham usually means something’s up.”
Bruce finally spoke again, gaze locked on the screen.
“Spider’s skill set is unlike anything in our records. They have abilities we cannot identify, tech we do not recognize, and a pattern that does not match any vigilante or meta currently operating.”
He clicked a control.
The screen zoomed onto a still of Spider breaking the fall of a civilian with impossible reflexes, feet clinging to the side of a building.
“Wall-crawling. Enhanced speed. Agility far beyond human. Web-based traversal. And no known identity.”
Dick crossed his arms. “So what’s our goal? Contact? Capture? Observation?”
Bruce didn’t hesitate.
“Understanding.”
The single word cut cleanly through the air, pulling every eye toward him. He turned fully to face the gathered family, his expression unreadable, carved from the same stone as the cave walls.
“Recluse has shown they are not an enemy,” Bruce continued, voice steady.
“But they are also not accounted for.”
He allowed a brief silence to settle, measured and deliberate, before he spoke again.
“Damian.”
The boy straightened instantly. His viridian eyes lifted to meet his father’s, a faint frown tightening his features.
“Yes, Father.”
“You have personally encountered Recluse.” Bruce’s gaze held him still. “What is your assessment of them?”
Damian’s jaw flexed once. Behind him, Dick and Wally exchanged a glance, and even Jason, high above them on the platform, shifted as if anticipating the answer.
He finally spoke.
“They’re skilled. Very skilled.” His voice was clipped, but steady. “Their movements weren’t polished in a traditional sense, but they were precise. Efficient. They adapted faster than I anticipated.”
Jason let out a low whistle.
“They managed to keep up with you.”
Damian ignored him.
You didn’t manage to keep up with him.
Damian couldn’t keep up with you.
“They didn’t use tech. No grapples. No gadgets. Not even webs.” His gaze flicked to Bruce, emphasizing it. “It was all close combat. No ranged attacks. They relied solely on physical strikes, footwork, and instinct.”
That alone made several members of the family exchange glances.
Wally tilted his head. “So— no powers thrown around? No webbing? Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Damian confirmed. “And yet they countered nearly every attack. Their agility is… not human. Not metahuman in the traditional sense. Something else.” He paused. “They moved unpredictably. It was difficult to anticipate their next step.”
Barbara typed something at her console. “Their approach on the rooftops wasn’t any standard parkour technique. I analyzed the footage. No visible boosts. No equipment-enhanced momentum.”
“So their movement is natural,” Duke rubbed his chin slowly.
“It was just… raw ability.”
Damian inhaled and continued.
“They were also holding back.” His voice softened, just enough for Dick to notice. “Several times, they could have struck harder or taken advantage of openings. They refused.”
Stephanie blinked.
“Holding back against you?”
The boy bristled, but nodded once.
“And they weren’t trying to escape.”
Dick angled his head, brows lifting as he folded his arms.
“Hold on. What do you mean they weren’t trying to escape?”
Dick’s brows lifted as he tilted his head, confusion shading his voice. The question cut clean through the tension in the room, turning every gaze toward Damian.
The boy’s posture tightened immediately.
His spine went straight, his hands clasped behind him almost too formally, and his eyes lowered in a rare show of conflicted restraint. Irritation flickered across his face first: habitual and defensive, but it softened into something far more reluctant.
His lips pressed into a thin line before he finally spoke.
“I told them they were inexperienced,” he muttered.
There was a faint pout in his tone, the kind that drifted in when he knew he had acted brashly.
His expression even resembled a child caught sneaking a chocolate bar from Alfred’s carefully watched pantry: tight shoulders, downturned gaze, and stubborn denial hiding behind embarrassment.
Not like he eats chocolate anyways.
“I said they did not belong in Gotham,” he added, voice quieter. “That they should not interfere with things they do not understand.” His fingers curled slightly, as if replaying the moment step by step.
Yikes.
Internally thought by everyone.
Wally winced.
“Yeah, that sounds like you.”
He shot a glare to the speedster.
The words tasted bitter even now.
“Don’t… don’t end up in this life, kid.”
“I expected them to retreat,” he admitted.
“Most would have. But they didn’t.”
He shifted, scowling at the resurfacing memory with a mixture of frustration and reluctant respect.
“They challenged me. Not recklessly… not disrespectfully.” He struggled for a moment, choosing the right phrasing. “They responded as if they needed me to understand they were not incompetent.”
His jaw flexed.
“They were proving they were not inexperienced,” Damian finished, the words clipped but honest.
“They met my accusations in full.”
Silence lingered just long enough for tension to settle again.
Then Tim leaned back in his chair, lips twitching.
“So… did that mean you got your ass handed to you?”
The snort that followed was loud and absolutely intentional.
Damian’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with indignant offense. Before he could fire back, Bruce’s glare cut through the room like a blade.
Tim’s smirk faltered instantly as he straightened, hands up in surrender.
“Sorry,” he muttered, though the grin still tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Damian crossed his arms tightly, bristling like an offended cat. “I was not ‘handed’ anything,” he sharply claimed, chin lifting. “They were capable, skilled, and adaptable. They fought with instinct rather than form, but they were not superior.”
Jason coughed from his perch above, muttering, “Kid totally got folded.”
“I did not!” Damian snapped upward, cheeks warming with a mix of defensiveness and wounded pride.
Dick raised both hands soothingly, though he couldn’t hide the amused glint in his eyes. “Okay, okay. No folding. But you clearly weren’t expecting that level of skill.”
Damian grunted.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the subtle signal that the teasing had gone far enough. His voice cut cleanly through the scattered amusement, steady and grounding.
“That is enough.”
The room stilled immediately.
“We are getting off track.” Bruce’s tone carried no anger, only firm direction. “Damian’s encounter confirms a piece of importance.”
He looked around at each of them, meeting every gaze with quiet certainty.
“Recluse did not escalate. They did not attempt to harm him. And they did not try to escape even when they had multiple opportunities.” His gaze settled briefly on Damian, who stiffened but did not look away.
“This behavior does not align with someone who has ulterior motives,” Bruce continued. “If they wanted to disappear, they could have. If they wanted to attack, they would have. Their restraint tells us far more than the fight itself.”
Barbara nodded thoughtfully from her station. “So they’re not here to antagonize us.”
“Or Gotham,” Duke added, expression more serious now.
Bruce inclined his head.
“Damian, you are lucky that Recluse is not apprehensive,” Bruce remarked, voice low but unmistakably stern. “If they had reacted with hostility, or even simple self-preservation, that encounter could have ended very differently.”
Damian’s shoulders stiffened, the faintest flicker of embarrassment crossing his face before he masked it.
Bruce stepped closer, his cape brushing the floor as he continued. “You provoked someone whose capabilities you did not fully understand. Someone who could have escalated, who could have injured you, or fled, or retaliated. But they did none of those things.”
His gaze sharpened, calm but cutting.
“That restraint is the only reason there was not serious trouble. Do not mistake patience for weakness. And do not assume that every unknown in Gotham is an enemy.”
Damian’s jaw tensed.
“I understand.”
Bruce held his stare a moment longer, ensuring the lesson landed.
Wally clamped a hand over his mouth, shoulders trembling with barely contained laughter.
Of all the things he expected when he got dragged into a Bat-Family meeting, this was top-tier entertainment.
Damian getting a full Bruce Wayne lecture was a rare event, and Wally had no intention of missing a single second of it.
He tried to school his expression, but his shoulders were already trembling with silent, delighted laughter.
He glanced at Dick, who pressed his lips together in a failing attempt to look responsible. Then at Tim, who was trying very hard not to grin and failing spectacularly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward like a traitor.
Before Wally could whisper something that would definitely get him kicked out of the meeting, Bruce’s voice cut sharply through the air.
“Wally.”
Ah shit.
Wally’s spine straightened instantly.
He snapped to attention so fast a gust of air followed the movement.
“Sir; yes, sir!” He barked, eyes forward, every ounce of amusement obliterated in an instant.
Dick snorted.
Tim looked away, shoulders shaking while he tried to focus on something else.
“West,” Bruce calls with intention, voice flat.
“You were in Gotham when the disturbance hit.”
Yup.
Here it comes.
Wally nodded, hands clasped behind his back because Barry always said it made him look “military” and therefore “less annoying.”
“Yes sir,” Wally straightens. “Definitely felt it while in Bludhaven. Very… space-twisty.”
Jason snorted.
Bruce didn’t move so much as a molecule.
Does he move at all?
“What else?”
Wally hesitated.
He knew what Barry told him.
He knew what Cisco told him.
He knew the League was buzzing about it.
But Batman was… well… Batman.
And Batman had already made it very clear: this was his city, his case, and his cosmic disturbance for reasons only god, Alfred, and maybe the gargoyles understood.
In that Batman voice.
Wally lifted his chin a little.
“It wasn’t a meta-flare,” Wally reported carefully, trying not to sound like he was overstepping in the middle of a Bat-briefing. “And it definitely didn’t feel like a speedster anomaly either.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed just slightly, urging him to continue.
Wally lifted a hand and made a vague twisting motion in the air. “It felt cosmic. And intentional. Like the air twisted, or was pulling reality apart on purpose and then suddenly dissipated before anyone could really notice… does that make sense?”
That earned a reaction.
Even Jason, who had spent the entire meeting lounging against the upper platform rail like he was watching a slow-burn soap opera, pushed off the metal and folded his arms properly.
He stood tall, back straight for the first time all night, gaze fixed on Wally with a seriousness rarely seen from him.
Wally kept going, the words tumbling out faster the more the silence pressed on him.
“Central City only picked up the aftershock. Barry and Cisco explained that we were lucky to get even that. The original source was way stronger, way closer, and absolutely not random.”
He swallowed and looked toward the monitors showing Gotham’s skyline.
“It came from here. Gotham was the center of the hit.”
“And what’s interesting—” Barbara continues off of Wally, gaining everyone’s attention on the former Batgirl.
Barbara’s fingers tapped lightly against the keys, her gaze steady as she pulled up two separate timestamps: the cosmic disruption and the first trace of an unidentified vigilante.
“Coincidentally, Recluse started to show around Gotham right after this.” She angled the monitor toward the room, highlighting the timeline. “Here’s the exact moment the disruption registered, and here’s when Batman found the first physical evidence tied to them.”
The screen displayed the dim alley, security footage enhanced just enough to reveal the faint shimmer of silk across the brick. Criminals stuck against the wall, immobilized but unharmed.
Webs stretched tight, pattern unfamiliar, tensile strength off the charts.
“Leftover webs,” Barbara continued, zooming in.
“Material that isn’t from any known tech or metahuman on file. Organic structure, but not matching any spider species on Earth. And strong enough that it took Batman thirty minutes to safely remove the suspects. If not that, it took forever to practically dissolve.”
Dick let out a low whistle.
Duke leaned in, eyebrows raised.
“So that was our first confirmed sighting.”
Barbara nodded. “The same night as the cosmic spike. Not twenty-four hours, even. No activity from Recluse before this, none. No street cams, no comms interference, no rogue metahuman signatures.”
Her eyes narrowed, the kind of focus that meant she had already been sifting through every worst-case scenario.
“Now, the question I particularly have is this.” She turned slightly, addressing the entire room, twirling a pen in her hand without realizing it.
“Do we know if the disruption was a portal, a tear, or a forced displacement?”
She tapped the pen against the console once, a sharp sound in the quiet room.
“Because those aren’t interchangeable terms. A portal implies intention. Someone created an opening and Recluse walked through it willingly. A tear is usually unstable, sometimes accidental, sometimes catastrophic. It means something broke through reality here, not the other way around. And forced displacement…” She let the words hang for a moment, her tone flattening.
“That suggests someone was thrown here. Taken from one point and dropped into another without permission or preparation.”
Tim frowned slightly.
“That would mean Recluse is stuck here.”
“Or hiding the portal,” Duke added.
“If they’re smart enough.”
Barbara nodded.
“Exactly. A forced displacement typically leaves residual energy that fades unevenly. A portal is cleaner, more symmetrical in its decay. A tear leaves jagged signatures that spread outward unpredictably. But the problem is that Gotham’s interference levels have made it difficult to get a clear reading. The waveform Cisco sent me has three overlapping patterns. Three.”
Jason raised a brow.
“So it could be any of the above.”
“It could be a combination,” Barbara corrected.
“Which is worse. Because that means someone either miscalculated a jump, or something went wrong mid-transit.”
She brought up another hologram, the disturbance pattern rotating slowly.
“And if Recluse wasn’t in control when it happened, then their arrival here wasn’t planned. They might be disoriented, unstable under pressure, or trying very hard not to draw the wrong attention.”
Her gaze flicked across the room, landing briefly on Bruce.
“And that means we need to know not just where they came from, but what might have followed.”
The room went still again, the silence thicker this time.
Wally shifted, his voice quieter than before.
“So you’re saying Recluse might not be the only thing that came through.”
Barbara didn’t blink.
“I’m saying we’re dealing with an incomplete picture. And if something has pushed them here, we need to act accordingly if it escalates any further.”
“Which it won’t.”
Bruce’s voice cut through the air, even and immovable.
He stepped closer to the central display, eyes fixed on the rotating hologram of the anomaly as if he could force its secrets to unravel through sheer will. The certainty in his tone wasn’t arrogance, but a decision. A boundary. One he refused to let Cross.
“The situation is contained,” he continued, gaze unwavering. “The disruption hasn’t repeated. There have been no secondary spikes, no signatures suggesting a return event, and no evidence that anything else breached the city.”
Jason let out a small breath that might have been a scoff if he hadn’t caught himself.
Tim straightened slightly.
Cassandra didn’t move at all.
Barbara watched Bruce carefully, reading him with the same precision she used on data streams.
“Contained for now,” Stephanie commented softly, folding her arms while Barbara gave an approving nod to the blonde.
“Whatever triggered that spike was not random, and not local.” Barbara explains. “We have an unknown individual with unknown origins using abilities outside our catalog. We can’t ignore what that means.”
“We aren’t ignoring it,” Bruce replied. “We are investigating it. We keep Recluse under observation, understand their position. We control the spread of information. And we do not involve outside forces unless absolute necessary.”
Wally shifted again.
“Batman, with all due respect… cosmic stuff usually isn’t a Gotham-level problem, this would involve the League.”
Bruce finally looked up from the monitor, the sigh leaving him slow and heavy, as if dragged from the bottom of his lungs.
“Wally, Gotham was the epicenter. That makes it our jurisdiction.” His tone left no room for debate. “Until evidence proves otherwise, we treat this as a contained, localized event.”
Jason chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
Dick shot Wally a sympathetic look.
Tim mouthed good luck.
Bruce continued, voice steady.
“I’m not dismissing the scale. I’m acknowledging the responsibility. The disruption happened here. Recluse appeared here. And whatever caused that spike left no lingering signatures strong enough for a League-level alert.”
He folded his arms.
“If that changes, I’ll be the one to call them.”
Then, Wally will anticipate when the phone rings.
Bruce clears his throat.
The subtle sound was enough to reset the entire room.
“Enough,” he grunted. “We’ve established the parameters. Gotham was the point of origin. The interference is dormant. Recluse is operating nonviolently and avoiding escalation. That gives us room to proceed.”
Barbara nodded and closed a series of windows on her screen.
“I’ll keep monitoring for resurges in the signature. If anything spikes above baseline, you’ll know.”
“Good,” Bruce said. He turned slightly toward her. “And continue compiling data on Recluse. Movement patterns. Web samples. Behavior. Every detail.”
Barbara already had a new screen open.
Dick exhaled softly, hands on his hips.
“So. We’re not calling the League, yet. And we’re not treating Recluse as hostile.”
“We’re treating them as unknown,” Bruce corrected. “Unknown, but not an immediate threat. Until that changes, we focus on informed contact, not confrontation.”
Damian bristled but didn’t argue.
Wally lifted a hand halfway, like a student afraid to ask a question.
“So… Do you want me to stick around any longer? Or head back to Central?”
Bruce leveled a flat stare.
“Stay available,” he instructed. “But return to your regular assignments in your city. If there’s movement, Oracle will notify you. And we’ll notify Barry if the situation escalates.”
Wally’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, but the uncertainty in his eyes didn’t fade. He nodded anyway.
Jason hopped down from his perch with a heavy thud.
“Great. Fantastic. Meeting adjourned before we all start stress-eating like Tim.”
“Hey,” Tim muttered defensively from across the room, glaring at him over a half-finished energy drink. Jason smirked in amusement, tossing a careless salute over his shoulder as he turned away.
He headed for the ramp without waiting for a comeback.
A moment later the roar of his bike echoed through the cave, revving once before he shot out into the night.
Tim blinked after him.
“Tim.”
He nearly jolted out of his seat.
Bruce’s voice had appeared behind him out of nowhere, the way only Batman could manage even when not in costume. Tim straightened immediately, energy drink lowering an inch as if that would somehow make him look more responsible.
Bruce’s gaze fixed on him with calm expectation.
“Have you compiled the case?”
Tim nodded so fast it bordered on frantic.
“Yeah, I’ve compiled what you needed.” His lips thinned a little as he held out the tablet. “But… be warned there was barely anything to pull. It’s almost a decade old. Most of the original data is either corrupted, redacted, or missing.”
Tim continued, almost apologetic.
“It’s basically scraps,” Tim said, rubbing a thumb over the edge of the tablet.
“Lex Luthor practically wiped everything. There was only a partial report about the incident left behind. No location listed, no surviving logs. Just a timestamp, a few blurred personnel IDs, and one damaged inventory record. The rest is blank, but…” he exhaled softly, “I hope it serves some use.”
“Scraps are still data,” Bruce reassures him, scrolling through the cold case with slow, deliberate precision.
“Something always survives the erasure.”
Tim shifted his weight, clearing his throat softly.
“There’s… also the other file you asked for.” He tapped a few keys, pulling up a second report.
“The debrief of today’s meeting. I logged everything we confirmed about the disruption and Recluse. Cross-referenced the timestamps and added Wally’s account from Central City.”
Bruce accepted the tablet again, eyes narrowing slightly as the new file opened.
Tim continued, “It’s not much more than a summary at this point, but it’s organized. When we get more data, it’ll slot right in along with Barbara’s report.”
Bruce gave a small nod, tipping the screen just enough for Dick to glance at it over his shoulder.
“Interesting. You should send it to the group chat,” Dick said, tapping the edge of the tablet with a thoughtful hum.
Tim stared at him flatly. “Which one.”
Dick didn’t miss a beat. “The important one.”
Tim’s expression slackened.
“…That doesn’t narrow anything down.”
“Send it to the primary operations chat.”
Tim blinked.
“…we have one of those?”
You looked around your temporary abandoned apartment, taking in the clutter you had somehow managed to accumulate in only a few days. Half-finished gadgets sat on the floor beside improvised tools, wires coiled over scraps of metal, and a flickering light you’d rigged together from salvaged parts pulsed weakly in the corner.
It wasn’t much, but it worked.
Your eyes drifted to the door, where the small trap you’d set was still armed and waiting, a crude line of defense, but reliable enough to warn you if anyone tried entering. For now, it was the closest thing you had to safety.
Yet, you can’t help but miss home.
Home had warmth.
Home had routines you didn’t even realize you cherished until you’ve landed here.
It’s only been a few days, yet you were feeling terribly homesick.
You missed the quiet sound of Miguel tapping at a datapad, the soft hum of his holographic reports filling the living room as he worked late into the night. You missed the couch you always sprawled across, half-watching whatever Netflix series you were pretending not to fall asleep to.
Most nights, you wouldn’t last twenty minutes before your eyelids grew heavy.
You’d fight it, trying to stay awake until Miguel finished his shift, stubbornly insisting you could manage one more episode.
You never did.
What you did remember were the gentle moments after.
Miguel realizing you had drifted off.
Him setting his report aside with a quiet sigh.
The soft rasp of the blanket being pulled from the back of the couch.
The warmth of it settling over your shoulders.
Or sometimes, if you were too far gone, the faint sensation of being lifted, Miguel’s arms steady and careful as he carried you to your room. His voice a low murmur you never managed to fully catch.
Those were the parts of home you never had to question.
The spider suit sat folded inside your backpack, tucked between the few clothes you owned in this world. Beside it were the warm layers you had managed to scrape together from a discount bin, threads already fraying at the seams. They smelled faintly of detergent from the laundromat downstairs.
You hadn’t paid for them.
You hadn’t paid for much of anything in Gotham.
You justified it the same way you had justified every desperate decision you made since you arrived here. Another criminal had tried to rob a convenience store earlier that night, and you picked his pocket clean after webbing him to the alley wall for the police to find. His wallet held cash, barely more than a crumpled handful of bills, but enough to buy food and clothes that didn’t leave your skin cold.
He was a thief.
You just… took back from a thief.
You told yourself it balanced out.
As you sat on the bed with its thin mattress and dust-smelling sheets, you rubbed your thumb over the zipper of your backpack. The spider suit inside felt like a life that was both yours and not yours, a reminder of home and a reminder of everything you had lost.
“This is a mess.”
You mumbled to yourself, flickering your gaze to the gizmo on your wrist, not turning on whatsoever.
A reminder of failure.
Unable to get home.
Unable to reach your friends.
Unable to reach Miguel.
Unable to do anything but exist here, in a world that wasn’t yours.
Gotham was a different breed altogether.
You’d only been here for less than a week, and already your silhouette had appeared on the evening news.
It was last night, changing out of your spider suit that’s shoved in your backpack and saw it was through the window of a rundown electronics shop, a wall of dusty TV screens broadcasting footage of your figure swinging clumsily across a dark skyline.
You stood in front of the glass, staring through it as if it might offer an answer.
The screens behind the window cast a pale, bluish glow, washing over your reflection and cutting the shadows across your face into sharper angles. The TVs played the same short loop of footage.
Your figure swung between two crooked buildings, a fast blur of movement that made you look fearless. The cameras caught none of your panic when the wind nearly knocked you off balance or when your web misfired and you had to improvise midair.
All Gotham saw was poise and confidence.
You looked taller on the screen.
More sure of yourself.
The vigilante they labeled as Recluse, meaning the News has gotten your note. They say the posture of someone who belonged in this city. Someone who moved with intention. Someone who never second guessed their next leap. For a moment, that version of you almost felt like a stranger wearing your skin.
Then your eyes lowered to the reflection in the glass.
The real you stood still, shoulders slightly hunched from someone that ran a few hours of sleep.
The bags under your eyes were faint but noticeable beneath the store’s harsh fluorescent glare.
Your scowl, a natural set of your mouth, looked harsher in the cold reflection. You reached up and brushed a bit of street grime from your cheek, smearing it instead of removing it.
Your eyes lingered on themselves.
They had that sharp, alert look that came from growing up too fast. Determination lived there, something born from years of running, climbing, outsmarting whoever came after you. But if anyone looked close enough, really close, they would see the small fracture line beneath it. A flicker of tired fear that you were trying to pretend wasn’t there.
Hopelessness lived in the corners of your gaze.
Not the dramatic, world-ending kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind that whispered late at night that maybe this place would never let you go.
Gotham felt heavy, like a weighted blanket pressed tight on your chest.
The air tasted different here.
Metallic.
Polluted.
Heavy with the smell of wet concrete and smoke.
Even the light felt narrower, like the city rationed it.
You exhaled, fogging the glass for a second before it faded. Without a mask, you looked like someone worn at the edges. Someone barely in their 20s that somehow already knows what desperation felt like.
Someone who missed the warmth of a home that didn’t even exist in this world.
You just want your dad.
a/n: my exams are almost done!! Sorry for the slight delay, but I finally got to work with this chapter! Things will probably start picking up here ;) let me know what you guys think of this chapter, I decided to not have it focused on MC and give a brief inside of what’s going in the Batfamily and the Spider society! And MC’s internal dilemma within the abandoned apartment & after they had fought Damian, seeing themselves on the News and what the reporter was saying.
As an American, when they said truck load I was imagining an 18-wheeler style truck so I’m not too surprised by the final picture. There has to be like 200 - 300 bags of rice on that truck at LEAST. OPs BIL was incredibly lucky he only had to take 23 bags of rice from that thing.
why would 8 be brought up if it’s EVEN in a post about ODDS??????? the post said “every single ODD number has an ‘e’ in it” not “every single number with an ‘e’ is odd” what the fuck
Content: mentions of previous injury and reference to past torture.
You stare at your hand in a complex mix of awe and trepidation. Or, well. Not your hand exactly. You’re gawking at the thing in your hand. It’s much bigger than you expected, and heavier.
“Why is it so warm?” you mumble, thumb caressing a hard ridge.
“Because it was in my pants, bienchen.”
You flick a nervous glance at Krueger’s amused expression and shift, a fine tremble in your fingers. You didn’t think it would make you this nervous.
“It’s… not going to go off is it?” you ask, wrapping and rewrapping your fingers to get a feel.
“Only if you keep playing with it like that,” he chuckles.
You jolt, nearly drop it altogether, but he barks a laugh and catches your hand between both of his. Your eyes dart down again, enraptured by the roughness of his palms, how much bigger they are around yours. Stronger, more confident.
“I kid! It’s not loaded. See?”
He guides your wrist to the side, gentle but firm, and pushes a smooth button at the bottom of the trigger guard. He catches the magazine as it ejects, showing you an empty clip.
“And then, just to be sure…” He pushes the magazine back in with a movie-perfect click, then braces your hand while he pulls the slide back. “Nothing in the chamber.”
He releases it, letting it spring back into place.
“Even if it was,” he taps the side of the gun again, showing you a little switch, “it is not live. The safety is on - and it stays on unless you intend to shoot. Understand?”
Assured of everyone’s safety, fascination crowds out the trepidation as you hum an affirmative.
“Red means you’re dead, right?” you muse.
He chuckles. “You watch too much fake crime, but yes.”
“I saw it in a YouTube video,” you explain, “when I was first doing research. They never talk about how heavy these are.”
“It is why getting hit in the head with them hurts,” he explains.
“Pistol-whipped,” you supply turning the handgun this way and that.
You note how the lights catch it, how the grip feels against your naive skin. The scent too - you realize you’ve smelled it all over your neighbors’ house, all over your neighbors. Gunpowder.
You kick your feet in the open air, let your heels tap against the cabinets beneath you. Shithead is standing on the counter next to you, just at Krueger’s elbow, head cocked curiously to observe.
“Why does it say HK?” You ask. “Your initials are SK.”
He laughs again, but you recognize this as his more genuine (you dare say even charmed) chuckle.
“It is the brand, Heckler and Koch.”
You make a noise of understanding, flipping it around the other way to inspect it from the other side.
“There’s no safety on this side?”
“It’s right-handed.”
“There are guns for different hands?”
Krueger settles in closer, his hip pressed against your knee.
“Nikto has a left-handed one. We will have him bring it for dinner, hm?”
You nod. Tentatively press the button to eject the magazine again. You turn it this way and that, then try to put it back - with no success.
“More force, little one. Mean it.”
You bop the heel of your hand against the bottom and get that satisfying movie noise.
“Can you shoot it one-handed?”
“I can. You might have some trouble. Four pounds of pressure to pull the trigger.”
You perk up, make grabby hands for your notebook, abandoned on the other side of the counter when Krueger offered to let you hold his gun. Eyebrow cocked, he brings it to you, gently nudging Shithead’s paw away when she bats at the ribbon bookmark.
There’s already a bullet list of facts and statistics listed out from his initial explanation. You scribble out the new additions with one hand, balancing the notebook on your thigh with Krueger’s help.
“Do you guys ever decorate your guns?” you wonder.
He clicks his tongue. “Konig does. Like a schoolboy.”
“With what?”
At some point, he gently takes the gun from your cramping grip, tucking it back into his waistband while you continue scrawling details. He doesn’t move away. If anything, you’re vaguely aware that he’s leaning closer, inspecting your messy handwritig. His voice goes lower and quieter the closer he gets to your ear, a pleasant rumble that you try (and mostly fail) to ignore.
“What does it feel like to shoot it?” you ask finally.
“Like shooting a gun.”
“That’s not helpful.”
In the corner of your eye, he shrugs.
“Well… well could you take me to try it?”
He grunts. You can’t discern an answer from that, so you tilt your face towards his. He’s somehow even closer than you expect. Eyes you now realize are gunmetal gray smoldering as they trail down to your mouth, a sweet slow burn.
“You want to learn to shoot?” he asks, slower and rougher than you think the question warrants.
“I just want to know what it’s like,” you mumble, cheeks warm.
“No.” He twists until he’s facing you, crowding you. Not between your knees, but hipbone pressing against one. He taps your chin with an index finger, expression simmering with something that makes your heart stumble. “You learn proper. You do not try. It is not for fun. It is a tool for killing.”
“Oh.” You feel stupid and childish. Tears of embarrassment prick at the corners of your eyes. “Sorry.”
He huffs quietly, the line of his brow softening. He curls his finger along your jaw, unexpectedly comforting. “Do not be sorry. Learn. We want to teach you.”
“We?” you breathe, momentarily distracted.
“Konig has been whining about teaching you for weeks and Nikto thinks you need protection.”
You stutter for a second, caught up in the warmth of his gaze, and the revelation that they talk about you when you’re not around, and that those discussions include teaching you to shoot guns. And that they want you to be safe, they want you protected.
It’s all enough to make a poor romance author swoon.
“Well?” he prompts, arching one of those sharp brows again.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?” He teases.
You blink. “Please.”
He grunts, pinches your cheek gently. “Anything for our sweet little bee.”
You roll your eyes to hide the steam that must be coming off your face by now. You’re so flustered you’re damn near sweating and there’s not a thing you can do about it. Not when the cause is still looming over you, one big hand planted tantalizingly close to your thigh.
“Now then.” He reaches over and past your head, and you’re overwhelmed by the metal-gunpowder-cologne scent of him. “We start on dinner, yes?”
It’s Konig’s turn to help with lunch. Well, technically he’s helping with a part of dinner - kneading dough for the homemade bread rolls to accompany some nice steaks - but you digress. Konig’s in your kitchen, all six-foot-something of him, sleeves scrunched up and gloves gone, big hands in a bowl of dough and making you think sinful thoughts at noon on a Wednesday.
“What about that one?”
“KA-BAR knife. I was protecting my neck.”
You take another slow sip of punch, eyes perusing the uneven tan lines and spackling of scars that decorate his skin.
“And that one?”
He twists his wrist to glance at the outside of his arm, half hidden by flour.
“Bomb shrapnel.”
He says it so casually. Like he scraped his knee roughhousing or something.
“You got blown up?”
“Nein, or I would not be here for you to interrogate.”
He shoots you a sideways grin, assurance that he’s just poking fun and not actually annoyed. You didn’t think otherwise, but it’s sweet that he wants you to know.
You huff. “Yeah, I’m sure this torture.”
He hums, eyes on his work so he thankfully doesn’t see how the sound makes your eyes flutter. Christ, you must be ovulating or something because you should not be this affected by that rich, warm voice echoing in that thick chest.
“I would know,” he agrees.
Wait, what. “You would?”
He clicks his tongue as his sleeve slips down his arm, threatening to get in the dough. You automatically reach to fix it, rolling up the fabric so that it won’t come down again.
“Danke,” he says, “Will you do the other?”
You round to his other side, get distracted by the tiniest sliver of… ink?!
“You have a tattoo?!”
He glances down, as if he could have forgotten it’s there.
“Oh. Yes. Krueger’s idea.”
You coo in delight, tugging gently at the fabric hiding it. You’ve seen Krueger’s tattoos of course - flaunting them about shirtless and sweaty as he does. (Not that you’re complaining either.)
“Can I see?”
“I don’t think the sleeve goes up that far,” he replies, pausing to let you try.
It doesn’t. You’re teased by dark lines, the bottom of what might be… feathers? You’re terribly curious, but you can see Konig’s face steadily flushing darker the longer and harder you look.
“What is it?” you inquire finally, not quite to the point of demanding he take his shirt off. (Even if you want to.)
“You will have to wait and see,” he replies, turning back to the bread.
You frown. “Wait for what?”
He winks at you (despite the bright pink at the tips of his ears) and it shouldn’t be so endearing but it is, so you spin on your heel and busy yourself with the last of the lunch items.
You don’t stop thinking about it, though.
“How many do you have?” you ask as you pour him a lager.
He slides you a half-amused, half-exasperated (yet still so fond) glance. “Three.”
“Where?”
“You will see.”
“Well, that’s ominous!”
“Mm. Watch your head, Biene.”
You poke your head around his elbow as he’s cutting chicken.
“Did they hurt?”
He shrugs those big shoulders. “Some. I have had worse.”
You hop up to sit on the counter, waiting for things to finish cooking.
“Do you plan to get more?”
His lips twitch with amusement. “Maybe.”
“Where?”
He steps closer, giving you a put upon sigh. Even sitting up here, he’s just a little taller than you, head tilted indulgently at your antics. You stomach flips and lands low in your abdomen. (It reminds you too much of Krueger teaching you about guns.)
You make your expression as guileless as possible until he breaks on a chuckle.
“I see where the bubchen gets it from.”
You glance at Little Guy, who is indeed giving Konig a similar expression in the hopes of getting scooped up. (Nevermind that he’s been threading between Konig’s legs since he came through the door, and was making “biscuits” on the counter in solidarity while you were asking about scars.)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.
He clicks his tongue. “Krueger has them too, you know. Why do you not ask him?”
You scrunch your nose. “Maybe I will.”
He narrows his eyes in amusement, opens his mouth - just as Krueger and Nikto enter. With you distracted, Konig scoops up Guy and escapes.
“Sebastian, how many tattoos do you have?”
“Many.”
“Will you get more?”
“Eventually. Why? Do you wish to give me one?”
You blink, dangerously intrigued by the idea. “What?! No!”
He grins wickedly as Konig shakes his head. “I could get your name right over my heart, hm?”
“Absolutely not!”
But he does tug the short sleeve of his shirt up so that you can inspect the crossed daggers on his tricep.
“What’s the 2-8 for?”
“My unit when I first joined the KSK. This was my first tattoo.”
You trace a finger over the simple outline, noting how the ink looks slightly faded, almost bluish now. You thumb the 8, mostly just enjoying the excuse to touch.
You turn to Nikto, currently trying to hold Shithead at bay without disrupting Rasputin’s perch on his shoulder. “What about you?”
“I did.”
You frown, about to ask but think better of it as you remember the glimpse of his face he entrusted to you. Right. You can put two and two together, no need to ask and possibly bring up painful memories.
“Why this sudden interest, bienchen?” Krueger asks.
“I noticed one of Konig’s but he’s being mean about it.”
Krueger glances over your shoulder (presumably at Konig) then barks a laugh.
“Ah, you see the truth of him now. He is a sadistic bastard. Not nearly as sweet as old Sebastian here, hm?”
You drop your hand from his arm. “Nikto is my favorite.”
aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood
part one
warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault
It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.
“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.
He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.
You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.
He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”
“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.
He frowns at you, confusion evident.
You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge.
Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.
When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.
You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go.
He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”
You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”
“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.
He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”
“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”
It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”
“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”
He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”
You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.
“Mhm.”
You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.
“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs.
Your head tilts, “You live here?”
He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”
You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”
He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”
You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”
“I don’t always come to your apartment—”
You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”
You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”
“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.
That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”
“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”
“What?”
You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”
“Okay...”
“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”
He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”
You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.”
He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”
“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.
He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”
“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”
He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”
You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”
You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens.
“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.
He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before.
His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”
What?
“What?”
“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.
You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”
He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”
You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”
“What?”
“We can’t do this again.”
He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.
You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”
“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”
“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.
He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.
Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.
And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long.
But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.
He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.
He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.
Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.
Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.
So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.
You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.
“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?”
There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”
His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this.
He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”
You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”
He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”
“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”
“Explain.”
He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”
You blink. “Explain.”
“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion.
You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.
You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”
He only gives a half-hearted shrug.
You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.
He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”
You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”
He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”
“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.
You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up.
He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.
As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works.
You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”
He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.
An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.
You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”
“But then where would you go?”
He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.
You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt.
His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.
Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.
The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.
A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.
“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.”
He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.
You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.
What the fuck?
Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits.
You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.
There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.
Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.
It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.
You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily.
The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.
“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.
You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey.
Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”
You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least.
You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”
She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”
You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”
“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”
“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.
You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.
“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”
You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.
A second man mutters something you can’t make out.
The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.”
Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”
There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”
“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”
A sigh, “Dumbass…”
The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?”
“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”
“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”
One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.
“What the fuck?”
You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.
Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”
She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”
The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.”
“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”
He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”
Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.
“Get up.”
She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.
You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.
You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.
“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.
Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing.
“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes.
Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you.
The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”
Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”
“I disagree.”
All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.
The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.
Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago.
“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”
He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.
He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”
Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.
Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”
“Really?”
“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”
Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.
He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.
Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.
Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”
Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”
The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”
“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.
The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”
The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”
“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you.
Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”
Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”
Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”
Boldly, Murray steps up to him.
But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”
The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.
It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it.
Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him.
Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”
“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.
Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.
His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.
After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”
He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”
You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”
That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”
His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”
You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?”
Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this.
He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”
This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking.
You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”
He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”
“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter.
His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”
You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”
He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”
You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…
He nods solemnly, “Okay.”
You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room.
“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air.
A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”
One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.
Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.
You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it.
So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water.
Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.
He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.
He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence.
“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
You stare at him incredulously.
After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”
You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.
He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”
You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”
He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”
You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”
He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”
You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”
He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”
“Bullshit.”
He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.
You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”
“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”
You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”
He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”
“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”
He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”
He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”
Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.
“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”
That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”
He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.
And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.
The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer.
He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”
You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.
He thinks about that for a moment.
“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.
You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him.
He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”
You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”
He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.
It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.
It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.
He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.
You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.
You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…
All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.
He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.
You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind.
J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…
Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”
He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”
Autopsy scar. Fuck.
“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”
He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”
He nods, likely relieved.
You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.
You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”
“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”
You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”
You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”
He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”
You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..
There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.
He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.
You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”
He pauses before telling you, “A cemetery.”
You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”
He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”
“Yeah, I’d say.”
“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.
You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.
He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it.
He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”
You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.
You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.
vaporwave
germansingergirl
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
dededos
baratheonpilled
