Summary : Benjamin Poindexter confesses that he has been obsessively fantasizing about a domestic future with you.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! (Maybe flangst?) Domestic but still unhinged Dex, obsessive love, possessive relationship, reader is mentioned to be a PhD student in forensic psychology (no age is mentioned), codependency, romanticized violence, injury care, talks of marriage, future children talk, brief mention of breeding kink and sex is implied (but it’s for set up I swear), established relationship, hurt/comfort, Dex's version of a nuclear family is a bit unhealthy but he means well!! (Let me know if I miss anything!) set right after the ending of DDBA Season 2.
Word Count : 9.8k
Requested by : multiple people asking for Dex fluff!
Notes : this is my attempt to write a domestic (yet still obsessive) Dex while not being too ooc, inspired by the song Bloom by the Paper Kites. Also, should I start a Dex taglist? Anyways, Enjoy!
You had not meant to start talking about employment while you were wiping blood off Benjamin Poindexter on your bed.
It just slipped out of you, somewhere between the towel going pink under your fingers and the smell of peroxide rising through the warm, lived-in air of your studio apartment.
You and Dex shared that space in New York, which sounded more pathetic than it felt. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t really the kind of place people imagined when they said they wanted to build a life with their love of their life. There was no separate bedroom, no separate dining room, no hallway to put your coats in. The kitchen was barely its own room, more of a stubborn little strip of counter and cabinets pretending to be separate from the rest of the apartment, and the bed sat close enough to a cabinet that you had once knocked a stack of your research books onto the mattress by accident and Dex had caught two before they hit your knees.
But it was yours, and that made a difference.
Dex didn’t really need much. That was one of the first things you had learned about him, and one of the saddest.
He owned what he could carry, what he could hide, what he could use: clothes, weapons, toothbrush, a plain black jacket that had seen through more death than most people. He hadn’t moved into your life so much as folded himself carefully into the empty spaces of it, as if he was still waiting to be told he had taken up too much room.
You had filled the rest. Your desk sat in the corner under the window, always drowning in highlighters, case studies, printed articles, and half-dead pens. Your forensic psychology textbooks were stacked wherever they would fit. There was a mug full of rulers and pencils beside your laptop, a corkboard with notes and deadlines and a photobooth strip of the two of you in Coney Island that Dex pretended not to care about but always noticed when it tilted crooked.
Of course he cared. It was your first date.
And though he didn’t tell you, he had made a copy of it and put it under his suit when he went out, right over his heart. It was a reminder that you wanted him home.
But this space was enough. It was more than enough, somehow.
There was still room to dance in the kitchen if you were careful. Last Saturday, barefoot and half-asleep, with the radio turned on, you had twirled yourself into his arms to Tina’s Proud Mary. Dex had just stood there like he had no idea what to do until you took his hands and put them on your waist. There was still room for him to lift you onto the counter when you kissed him too sweetly for too long. There was still room for dinner eaten on a small table with two folding chairs, there was still room for your laundry tangled together in one basket, for his shoes beside yours by the door.
There was still room, somehow, for Dex to crowd you back against the wall, hands firm on your hips, mouth hot against your throat while you laughed under your breath and told him the neighbors were going get tired of hearing how well he fucked you.
Room for him to murmur filthy and wrecked things, that he should “throw your pills away,” that he was going to “knock you up, huh? Want me to put a baby in you?”
You’d pull back with a wicked smile, nails hooked in his shirt, and you’d whisper, “That is not the threat you think it is, baby.”
You chalked it up to your boyfriend being a kinky little shit. You should have paid more attention to the way his eyes went black, the way his grip tightened on your skin. When he kissed you again, it was with the devoted certainty of a man who had just realized his most unhinged fantasy was not his alone.
Still, even in this small fantasy, there was still room to pretend, on the good nights, that you were normal.
Tonight was not one of the good nights.
Dex had come home after a day across the Supreme Court building with blood dried dark along his cheekbone, though you suspected none of it was his.
Even if it was, you knew he wasn’t hurt at all, because Dex didn’t stagger or slump. He didn’t come through the door gasping or cursing or asking for help. He entered the apartment with rigid control in his body, like every step had been measured in advance. He came in like arriving home had been a decision, not an escape. Like whatever had happened in this room, with you, was sacred compared to the rest of the world.
He came home like he had not been part of the makeshift siege at court.
Like he had not shot the Mayor’s aide.
Like the whole city had not been tearing itself apart on the news for hours while you sat on the bed with your phone in your hand, refreshing headlines you didn’t want to read and listening for footsteps in the hallway.
When he looked at you, his pupils tracked your face. Before he let you touch him, before he let you ask questions, before he decided whether his own body was allowed to matter, his eyes went over you like a security sweep to make sure you were safe.
Then they landed on your arm and saw a bruise.
It was nothing, really. You had caught yourself badly against the fire escape earlier when you’d climbed out for air because the apartment had felt too small with sirens in the distance and Dex not answering his phone. It was a mean little scar, blue and purple, but shallow enough not to hurt you permanently. It was annoying, more than anything. You had almost forgotten about it.
But Dex looked at it like it was evidence.
So now you were sitting beside him on the bed with a towel, a bottle of peroxide, cotton pads, and the sad frozen bag of peas you had pulled from the freezer because neither of you owned a real ice pack. You were trying to clean blood from his face. He was trying to ice your bruise.
It would have been funny if it did not make you want to cry.
“Give me your arm,” he said.
“There’s literally blood on you,” you sighed.
“Not mine,” he said dismissively, confirming your suspicions, “give me your arm.”
“Benjamin.”
His hazel eyes flicked up, mostly because you only called him that when you were annoyed at him.
You stared at each other for one stubborn second, but he didn’t seem like he was going to let up.
Then you sighed and gave him your arm.
He took it carefully, his fingers gentle around your wrist despite the split skin across his knuckles. He pressed the frozen peas to the bruise like he was handling precious and breakable gemstones, his mouth set in a hard line, his focus absolute.
That was the thing about loving Dex: it wasn’t sensible. It had never been sensible.
You’d always had a practical head on your shoulders. You were getting your third degree in forensic psychology because you liked patterns, motive, broken systems, and the strange little hinges inside people that made them choose one door instead of another. You were both a student and a research assistant at the university, which sounded better on paper than it felt in your bank account. You were technically employed, technically building experience, technically lucky to have the position at all. In reality, you were paid in a way that felt insulting once, tuition costs, books, and subway fare had finished carving you hollow.
Still, you were smart. Academically, you understood obsession. You had annotated articles on attachment trauma, violent conditioning, hypervigilance, and maladaptive devotion. You had spent whole nights highlighting phrases that described people like Dex in clinical and sterile language.
You knew the warning signs and studied the red flags. You knew the vocabulary you were supposed to use. You knew what you were supposed to do when someone like Bullseye looked at you like you were the last fixed point in the universe: run.
But when Dex saved your life during an Anti-Vigilante Task Force raid on the lab you were visiting, all that practical knowledge had become extremely inconvenient.
It had been chaos: glass breaking, alarm screaming. Your supervisor shouted for everyone to get down. The AVTF had come in hard, looking for records, samples, names, anything connected to vigilante research and enhanced activity. You had hidden beneath a workstation with one hand clamped over your mouth and your heartbeat so loud you thought it might give you away.
Then Dex had arrived.
He had been hunting that day. You later found out because he told you.
He had moved through your lab with a purpose, turning the room itself into a weapon. A glass beaker found its way into a man’s throat. He had thrown a ruler with such perfect force, it split skin and cartilage. A metal clipboard managed to dislocate a man’s jaw, even through the helmet. Pens, scalpels, broken glass, a heavy ceramic mug from your professor’s desk were all used. Ordinary things became fatal in his hands, as if the universe had been waiting for him to point at something and decide what it was for.
He killed twelve men with office supplies and lab equipment, and then he crouched in front of you, breathing hard, blood on his cheek, and asked you if you were okay.
You should have been horrified. You were horrified.
Part of you had been shaking with terror. Another part, the part you did like to examine too closely, had understood with awful clarity that some monsters were safer when they were loved than when they were not.
You should have run from him.
Instead, you had fallen in love.
Worse, he had fallen, too.
The love that grew between the two of you wasn't sweet, nor safe. Not in the way people with normal jobs and normal apartments and normal dinner plans fell in love. Dex loved wholly. He loved like if he took his eyes off you, the world would immediately try to take you from him. He loved like affection and violence had gotten tangled in him so early that he no longer knew how to separate protection from possession.
And you, for whatever reason, loved him right back.
You loved him in the studio apartment with the too-small kitchen and the desk in the corner. You loved him when he stood behind you while you brushed your teeth, chin resting against your shoulder, silent and half-asleep and watchful even then. You loved him when he checked the locks twice before bed. You loved him when he pretended not to care about your old Greek and Roman mythology books and then remembered every story you had ever told him. You loved him when he came home with blood under his nails, but looked at your scraped arm like the city owed him an explanation.
“Hold still,” he said, pressing the frozen peas more carefully against your skin.
You stared at him, at the slight bruise under his jaw and the split knuckles he was ignoring because your shallow scrape had somehow hurt him more.
“I should get a job,” you said, almost offhandedly.
His hand stopped.
You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that: flat and sudden. Not while he was sitting on your shared bed after a long day. But there it was anyway sitting between you and the ruined silence of the apartment.
Dex looked up slowly. “You have a job.”
“I have half a job.” You laughed without much humor. “I have a professor who thinks payment is optional because experience is apparently a currency. Because PhD students clearly don’t need to eat, right?”
He huffed. A few months ago, he did offer to dispose of your professor and you just waved him off, saying the person who would take his job would be worse. He offered to dispose of him, too, but stopped offering half-measured solutions when you kissed his forehead and said the department would probably just shut down because they can’t afford two murders. “But you’re in school,” he said.
“So?” You shrugged, “Lots of people are in school and have extra jobs.”
“You babysit Mrs. Smithers’ cat,” he frowned.
You snorted before you could stop yourself. “She pays us in lasagnas.”
“She makes good lasagna,” he insisted.
“That is not an income stream, Dex.”
“No,” he shook his head, knowing how hard you actually worked for your spot in the institution. “But you’re always busy anyway. I can take care of you”
“You’re wanted, baby,” you reminded him.
That hurt.
Dex’s eyes barely changed, but you knew him too well now. You saw the tiny shift in his eyes. His fingers adjusted around your wrist. He looked down at your arm again, focusing too intently on the ice pack, as if his obsession to keep you safe could be used to cover a wound in the conversation.
“I can provide,” he said.
You sighed immediately, because of course he would say it like that. Like a vow, like a reflex, like a wound of his own.
“I know.”
“I pay rent,” he reminded you, though he said it like it was a responsibility. He didn’t use it against you; it was just a fact.
“I know.”
“I pay groceries,” he said.
“Yes, Dex,” you huffed, “I know.”
His teeth clenched, more disappointed in himself than at you. “Then what?”
You looked around the apartment because it was easier than looking at him.
Yes, Dex paid rent. Dex bought groceries. Dex came home with cash sometimes, folded tight and tucked away in envelopes. He made sure there was good coffee in the cabinet because you hated your mornings without it. He bought the brand of cereal you liked and pretended it was because it had been on sale. He fixed the loose leg on your desk chair. He remembered bills before you did.
He provided, but it was not stable.
Dex didn’t clock into shifts. Dex didn’t have a payroll department, a predictable deposit, a pension, or a neat little tax form with an employer’s name printed at the top. His work came in fragments and dangerous calls from powerful people who knew what he could do.
Odd jobs, if you wanted to be generous. Assassination, if you wanted to be honest.
He did it because he was good at it.
But mostly, lately, he did it because of you.
Because rent was due. Because the fridge needed filling. Because your textbooks cost you too much. Because he liked watching you eat takeout on the bed with your legs folded beneath you, he liked seeing you safe and warm and full in his room. Because every dollar he brought home became proof that he could keep you satisfied, that he could build a life, that he could be more than the worst thing he knew how to do.
And that terrified you almost as much as it touched you, because there was no stability in that kind of work.
Sometimes, Dex wished he had known you when he was still with the FBI.
Before prison. Before Fisk. Before his face was plastered on the news. Before every job application in the world became a joke. He imagined it sometimes in a way that felt masochistic.
He imagined coming home to you in a suit and taking you to dinner with a paycheck that had his name on it. He imagined you flowers, buying you pretty things and whatever else you asked for.
He could have been a man for you. As outdated as he knew that sounded, he still wished he could be that man again.
“It’s not about whether you do,” you said carefully. “It’s just that… it’s not steady.”
His teeth tightened further.
“I’m not insulting you,” you reassured.
“You think I can’t take care of you.”
“No.” You leaned closer, your voice softening the impact. “I think you take care of me so much that you forget I should be allowed to take care of you, too.”
He didn’t answer.
Outside, a siren wailed below, then faded into traffic and distance. The studio felt very small around you, too warm and intimate.
Dex looked down at your arm again and pressed the melting bag of peas more gently against your skin.
“I’ll find something steady,” he said.
Your heart clenched. “Dex.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Where?”
His eyes lifted to yours. You tried to smile, but it came out tired and fond and sad all the same. “You shot Buck Cashman in front of half the city. I’m not saying that like I’m mad. I’m saying maybe LinkedIn is not going to work out this month.”
“I’ll find something,” he said.
It came out too quickly, too flatly, like he was sealing a wound before you could see how deep it went.
You looked at him where he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pressed against yours, the frozen bag of peas melting slowly in his hand. You saw the bruise smudged high beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lower lip that he kept worrying with his tongue like he had forgotten it was there. He looked awful. Beautiful, too. The world had tried, again and again, to make him unlovable, and your stupid heart had taken one look at him and said, mine.
“What, a desk job?” you asked.
Dex gave you a look.
He wasn’t offended exactly. More like you had asked him to picture himself, in his Bullseye suit that you loved so much, sitting under fluorescent lights, wearing a lanyard, filling out forms, and smiling politely at coworkers named Brad from HR.
The idea was so absurd that, despite everything, your mouth twitched upward.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, leaning in a little. “Did I insult your very promising administrative career?”
He frowned unwillingly, and for a second you hated yourself for accidentally being a little too mean.
Still, you couldn’t help yourself. You leaned closer and kissed the scar near his cheekbone so gently it was barely anything at all. Dex closed his eyes for half a second. When you pulled back, he still kept his eyes closed for one breath longer.
“Baby,” you whispered, voice gentler now, nearly breaking with fondness, “you cannot put ‘excellent with projectiles’ on a résumé.”
His eyes opened and found you immediately. “I could.”
You shook your head, “You really, really shouldn’t.”
“I have skills.” He pouted. It was cute.
“You have criminal charges.”
“Transferable skills,” he said, with such dry seriousness that you chuckled before you could stop yourself.
His posture changed, like he always did when you laughed. Not dramatically, though. He didn’t transform all at once. He softened by millimeters, as if your happiness had reached into some fortified part of him and loosened one bolt at a time. The hard line of his shoulders eased. His teeth unclenched. His thumb, which had been pressing the peas too carefully to your bruise, shifted a little.
For a moment, he looked less like a weapon that was left loaded in your apartment and more like a man who had come home to you because there was nowhere else in the world he could bear to be, because he was yours. Because he wanted so badly to be good for you that it almost broke your heart.
He adjusted the ice pack again. “You shouldn’t have to worry about money.”
“We live in New York, Dex.” You tried to sound light but it just came out tired. “Worrying about money is basically a civic duty.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he said again.
He didn’t say it like a boyfriend trying to be useful. He said it like a soldier stating a mission objective. Like he had identified the enemy— rent, groceries, tuition, your professor underpaying you, the whole grinding machine of the city— and had decided that he would kill it if he could. “Not you,” he added, quieter.
And Dex didn’t feel this way for you because he had learned to be a sympathetic person. He wasn’t.
He didn’t suddenly feel tender toward the whole world because he learned how to love. He didn’t look at strangers and imagine their mothers. He didn’t hesitate before hurting people who had put themselves on the wrong side of his line. He could kill a room full of people and sleep like a baby afterward. He didn’t ask himself if the Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents had families who were waiting for them. Their blood did not weigh on his conscience in any meaningful way.
He hasn’t learned to be secretly good and noble under all the damage in some easy, redeemable way. He was only tender with you, and even that was not because you were an exception to his nature.
It was because somewhere along the way, Dex had thought of you and him as the same person.
You weren’t some separate innocent woman he loved from afar. You were not a moral compass he worshipped because you made him better. You were his life. His home.
Your body was his body outside his body. Your exhaustion was his exhaustion. Your money was his money, and his money was yours, not because he felt entitled to it, but because the two of you had stopped existing as separate organisms somewhere around the first month he slept in your bed and woke up with your hand on his chest. You were one system now. One thing. One fused unit pretending to be two people for legal convenience.
So watching you work long hours in a lecture hall that barely paid felt like self-harm. That was the clearest way his mind could understand it. Like the two of you shared one nervous system, and every hour you worked yourself past exhaustion was pain traveling down the same wire until it reached him, too.
“Come on, Dex,” you frowned. “You think I want you running yourself into the ground because you decided you have to pay every bill?”
His eyes lifted to yours, and all you saw was terrible sincerity. It was desperate enough to frighten you because it didn’t know how to ask for love without offering blood in return.
“I should take care of you,” he said.
Not I want to. Not I’d like to. Not even let me.
I should.
You swallowed. “Dex…”
“I should.” His voice roughened, and it was absolute, like he had said this to himself before. Like maybe he had been saying it for months, in his head, every time he bought groceries, every time he counted cash, every time he watched you fall asleep over your notes with your cheek pressed to an open textbook. “You shouldn’t have to think about it. Rent, food, school, any of it. You should just—” He stopped, eyes darting away. “You should just sit there and be pretty.”
That ruined you a little.
There were things you could have said: Things about partnership, equality, how love was not supposed to turn into duty, how his need to provide came from some wounded place in him that still believed usefulness was the same as worth. You knew those things. You believed them, mostly.
But then he looked at you like taking care of you wasn’t a burden but a privilege. Like the idea of failing at it scared him more than the city hunting him. Like every terrible thing he had ever been made into could be balanced, somehow, if he could use it to keep you warm, fed, safe, untouched by the worst parts of the world.
He sat there, bruised and exhausted, dried blood at his temple, your scraped arm cradled in one hand as if it mattered more than every wound on his own body.
So you kissed him.
You didn’t mean to make it deep. You meant it to be reassurance, just a little press of your mouth to his, a way of telling him you were not leaving, not angry, not disappointed in how his love manifested even when it frightened you.
But Dex never received you halfway.
He leaned in, immediate and helpless, his free hamd coming to your waist with that familiar, possessive spread of his fingers. It was not rough, because he was never rough with you unless you asked him to be. But it was intense, as if the second your lips touched his, his body decided the only thing that made sense was pulling you closer.
You kissed him until the frozen peas slipped slightly against your arm and neither of you cared. Until his muscles relaxed under yours. Until he made a small sound in the back of his throat that made you hum, pleased with yourself.
When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your lips, looking at your mouth like it had betrayed him by leaving.
You brushed your thumb over his chin. “You cannot just decide to provide by sheer force of will.”
Dex blinked, still dazed enough from the kiss that it took him half a second to find the conversation again.
Then his eyes sharpened in that almost boyish, almost hopeful way. “What if I got work?”
You exhaled through your nose. “Again. Where?”
His thumb moved once against your waist in small strokes that were barely there.
“I heard that the CIA director is looking for someone to take over a contract,” he said.
You blinked.
It sounded clean on the surface and filthy underneath.
He said them carefully, like he was testing whether they could pass as normal if he used the right tone.
“You mean black ops,” you said blankly.
“I mean work.”
“Benjamin,” you tilted your head.
“It’s steady enough.” His eyes did not leave yours.
“That is not the same as safe.”
His eyes looked like guilt passing quickly through the devotion. “I can handle that.”
“I know you can.” You touched his cheek again, achingly gentle. “That’s what scares me.”
He looked at your face, taking inventory of every emotion there. His hand tightened at your waist.
“I’d come home,” he said.
Your heart ached. “You can’t promise that.”
“I’d make it true.”
“That’s not how promises work.”
“It is for me.”
And there he was. Your Dex. Your impossible, obsessive man, sitting in your too-small studio with blood on his face, telling you with complete sincerity that he could bend fate into obedience if the reward was coming home to you.
You wanted to argue, but he cut you off before you could even finish forming thoughts.
“If I got a job,” he said carefully, “I could buy you a ring.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
He had said it so quietly, so carefully, like the word itself was fragile. Like if he had manifested it into the room too hard, it might shatter before you could touch it.
A ring.
Dex watched you like he was waiting to see if he had ruined everything.
He didn’t look casual. He was never casual about you. He didn’t toss out precious things like the future just to see if they landed. He offered them like they had been a piece of his flesh cut out of him.
And you realized, in that second, that this had not been a stray thought.
Dex hadn’t just imagined it. Dex had been living with it.
You could see it now, in the way he held himself in the way his fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, in the way his eyes kept flicking down to your mouth like he wanted to kiss the answer out of you and was forcing himself not to.
He had carried this around. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months.
Maybe he had been thinking about marrying you while listening to your rant about your professor. He had been thinking about it while fixing the wobbly leg on your desk chair. He had been thinking about it while watching you laugh at Mrs. Smithers’ cat through the cracked door.
Maybe he had been thinking about it while buying groceries. Maybe he even stood in the pasta aisle with blood still under his sleeves, picking the brand you liked better because you once said the cheaper one tasted “dusty.”
“Mm,” you managed.
It was barely a sound. Your throat had gone tight. You were trying very hard not to break apart, trying not to let the whole sweetness of it take you down completely, but your hand was already lifting to his face. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, careful of the split in his lip.
“You sure you wanna marry me?” you asked.
Dex looked genuinely offended. “Yes.”
It came so fast you almost laughed. You did, a little, but it cracked around the edges. “Really?”
His brow furrowed, as if the question itself made no sense. “Yes.”
“You’ve thought about it?”
Dex stared at you, and the answer was so obvious then.
He had probably thought about it too much. Dex didn’t daydream. He planned. He mapped. He calculated. Even his fantasies came with exit routes and contingency plans.
“Okay,” you whispered. “What would that life even look like?”
You saw this glint in his eyes, the way they widened by a fraction. You had asked the one question he had been dying to answer.
His hand stayed at your waist. His thumb moved once, almost unconsciously, a small stroking motion through the fabric of your shirt.
“I’d get us a house,” he said.
Your heart gave a helpless little kick.
His gaze drifted past you, not away in dismissal, but as if the apartment disappeared from his eyes.
“Not in the city,” he said. “Close enough if you still wanted it, for work or whatever you wanted, not right in it. Not sirens under the window all night, not this building where you can hear every footstep in the hall and know which ones don’t belong.”
His thumb moved once against your waist, like even with his head in the clouds he needed one hand on you to make sure the dream had a center.
“We’d look at the suburbs,” he continued. “I’d want roads I could learn. I want neighbors so you can bake them pie, but I don’t want them too close. We need a neighborhood with space between houses. We need streetlights that work. A sidewalk, maybe, where you could walk in the morning if you wanted and I wouldn’t spend the whole time looking over your shoulder.”
You stayed quiet.
You didn’t want to interrupt him. There was something too precious about the way he was speaking, like he had cracked open a safe inside himself and all these impossibly domestic things were spilling out.
“It would have a yard,” he said, smaller now. “Not huge. We don’t need huge, but we need enough. We would need a fence. A good one. Tall, but not ugly. I’d make sure it looked nice. You’d care about that.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’d make sure I have good sightlines in there,” he continued, “no blind spots.”
There he is.
“And I’d plant flowers,” he added.
You blinked. Dex glanced at you, then looked down again as if the admission embarrassed him more than the blood on his face.
“You like flowers. The wild-looking ones. The ones outside delis in buckets, or growing through fences. You slow down when you see them.” His mouth twitched faintly, affectionate. “You pretend you don’t, but you do.”
He… noticed?
“I’d plant those,” he said. “I don’t know anything about gardening, but I could learn.”
He kept going before you could answer
“There’d be a porch, or a back deck. I’d put a chair there for you.” A little warmth moved through his eyes, as if imagining it. “You’d probably bring a blanket out even if it wasn’t cold.”
You smiled, and it seemed to give him more courage.
“And you’d have an office,” he said. “A real one, not a desk shoved into a corner with your papers stacked on the floor.”
Your eyes stung.
“Built-in shelves if we could, for your research books,” he continued. “Your fiction books, all of them. You wouldn’t have to pile them on the windowsill or keep the heavy ones under the desk. Your desk would face a window, but no one should be able to see into it from the street.”
You let out the smallest laugh, but he kept drifting deeper now.
“There’d be a couch in there,” he said. “So I could sit with you while you worked. I’d be quiet.”
The confession was so completely him that something inside you melted. He said it without shame, without trying to make it sound less obsessive than it was. Of course he would watch you. Of course he had already imagined sitting in a room built for your mind, staring at you while you read and wrote and thought, content just to be near the machinery of you.
“I like when you’re focused,” he murmured. “You make that face.”
You did not ask what face. You wanted him to keep talking.
“The kitchen would be big,” he said next, and there was certainty in that, like he had stood in it a thousand times. “Big enough for that island you like.”
Your mouth parted.
“We’d have one with those ugly pendant lights,” he added, with the resigned tone of a man making a grave sacrifice.
You smiled fully now. “They’re not ugly,” was all you could manage under your breath.
He heard it and very quickly added, “They are. But you like them, so we’d have it.”
That nearly did you in.
“There’d be storage,” he said. “Pans would be in the cabinets, not in the oven. I’d build you a spice drawer and I’ll organise them.”
You pressed your lips together, smiling harder.
“I’d make coffee before you woke up,” he continued. “Yours first. I’d make breakfast and I’d make more than eggs. Pancakes, maybe. You like pancakes when you’re sad.”
Your smile trembled.
“I’d make dinners, too,” he said. “You could sit at the counter and read to me while I cooked.” He looked almost shy at that. “Or talk. I don’t care. I just like your voice.”
The room felt too small for him then. Too small for the size of what he wanted.
“And a dining table,” he said, his thumb stilled against you. “With more than two chairs.”
He swallowed once and kept going.
“The bathroom would have that shower,” he said. “Like the hotel you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
You almost laughed. “A rain shower?” You asked
“Yes,” he said seriously. “With a glass door, a bench, and heated floors, because you hate cold tile.”
His eyes flicked to your face.
“I’d spoil you,” he said, like a vow. His eyesight lowered to your hand, then back to your face.
You couldn’t speak, but he went on anyway, because now that he had started, the dream seemed to pull him forward by the heart.
“There’d be security,” he said. Of course there would be. But from Dex, even that sounded like love.
“I’ll get good locks with reinforced doors. I’d install cameras.” he said immediately, almost gently. “I’ll get motion lights and window sensors.”
He breathed out slowly.
“You wouldn’t have to check anything,” he said. “I’d do it.”
What he was saying was wouldn’t have to listen at night, or wonder, or brace, or be scared just because the world was dangerous. Dex would take the ritual of fear and make it his. He would check the doors, the windows, the shadows, so you could go upstairs and sleep.
“I’d check the locks before bed,” he said. “You could just go up and get in bed. Read or sleep with the light on if you want. I’d turn it off.”
He said it with such certainty that tears gathered before you could stop them.
He didn’t notice yet. He had gone too far into the house.
“There’d be a gun cabinet,” he continued, practical now. “Locked, of course, and separate from ammunition. I’ll get biometric locks and a backup key hidden somewhere only we knew.”
His focus sharpened slightly as he pictured it.
“And a weapons cabinet too, with knives, anything tactical, anything I wouldn’t want left out. It would be hidden or built into the wall somewhere no one would look. Not near the kitchen. Not near the bedrooms.” He said it like he had already rejected three possible locations. “Everything would be secured,” he continued. “No exceptions. Nothing lying around.”
Then, still looking into that future house, still seeing the walls and the locks and the rooms and all the dangerous love he wanted to put inside them, he added, almost absently, “at least until the kids are old enough.”
Oh.
“The kids?” you asked.
Dex blinked. For a second, he looked almost confused that you had stopped him there, like the kids had been so naturally integrated into the architecture of his fantasy that he had forgotten you were only just now seeing the floor plan. In his head, apparently, they already existed.
“Yes,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Kids.”
He said it as if this were already settled. As if the universe had filed the paperwork. As if somewhere, in some future suburb with a fenced yard, your children were already waiting for him to come home.
“You just assumed?” you asked, your voice dazed.
Dex’s brows pulled together like he was only now realizing assumption was supposed to be a problem.
Then his eyes searched yours, suddenly cautious.
“I—” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. “I assumed you’d want them,” he finished. “I assumed I’d give you anything you wanted. And I assumed…” His eyes dropped, then lifted again. “I assumed if there was any way the world let me have you like that, I’d take it.”
There it was.
Dex didn’t want a family because he had always dreamed of domestic happiness. He wanted it like conquest. He wanted children because they would be yours, because they would be his, because they would be the physical evidence of a future he had no right to expect. Benjamin Poindexter didn’t want in half measures. He consumed possibility whole. If he loved you, he loved the future of you and the shape of you extended forward. The house that held you. The children that might come from you.
That was deranged. That wasn’t normal. But to you, that was also, for reasons you could not explain without sounding like you needed professional intervention, romantic.
Dex watched your mouth part. “I’d love them,” he said. “I would. I know I would. Because they’d be yours.”
There it was, not the socially acceptable version. Not I love children or I always wanted a family. Dex didn’t know how to make love sound normal when it came from him.
He would love them because they would carry your eyes, maybe, or your mouth, or your stubbornness. Because he would look at them and see you continued into another body.
“They’d be mine too,” he added, like that part was harder for him to trust. “And maybe that part could be good because it came through you.”
Dex looked down at his hands that had done terrible things and could still hold you like it was made of light.
So you only sat there letting him talk, letting him show you the things he had apparently been thinking around for months.
“Have you thought about names?” you asked.
Dex nodded slightly.
Your lips parted.
“You have,” you whispered.
He looked almost offended again, but not at you this time. At the idea that he could have built this whole imaginary house, this whole impossible future, and not named the children already running through it. “Of course I have.”
“Tell me,” you said.
Dex watched you carefully. You could tell that there was still that small, frightened part of him, the part waiting for the insult, the laugh, the moment where your wonder hardened into common sense. But you just looked… patient.
“For a boy,” he said, “Jason.”
Jason.
Dex’s voice lowered. “Because you loved Jason and the Argonauts when you were little. The way everyone went after something impossible.”
You remembered telling him that, barely. It had been one of those late-night conversations with your cheek on his chest. His fingers moved through your hair as you rambled about mythology books you used to check out of the library, about heroes who were never as perfect as people wanted them to be.
Dex had listened.
“And for a girl?” you asked, already knowing he had one.
“Callie,” he said then immediately added, “Short for Calliope. Callie at school. Calliope if she liked it. Whatever you liked.”
Your eyes stung. “Callie,” you whispered.
Dex nodded. “You said she was the muse of epic poetry. You liked that she belonged to stories.”
You pressed your fingers to your mouth. He remembered that too.
“Jason and Callie,” you said with a sigh.
You realized then, that Dex had not chosen names because he liked them. He had chosen names because he thought you would.
Because even in his most private fantasies, the children were not abstract. They were not trophies. They were not little versions of him he could shape into whatever he wanted. They were pieces of you carried forward into the world, proof that some part of you could exist outside your own body and still belong to him, too.
“You like them,” he realised.
“I love them.”
His hand tightened around yours. Then, as if the names had opened a door he could no longer close, he kept going.
“Jason would have your eyes,” he said, voice distant again, head fully in the clouds now. “He’d be quiet, I think, the kind of kid who watches first. He’d notice everything.”
Your throat tightened.
“And Callie,” he said, and a faint helplessness moved through his face. “She’d be trouble.”
You laughed a little.
“She’d climb things,” he continued. “She’d argue. She’d look right at me while doing exactly what I told her not to do.”
You could see it.
Worse, you could see how much he loved it.
This imaginary little girl, stubborn and wild, already had him wrapped around her tiny, nonexistent finger.
“She’d have your mouth,” he said, almost to himself. “Your attitude.”
“My attitude?”
His eyes flicked to yours, and there was something wickedly fond in them. “Your attitude.”
He looked down at your joined hands again, thumb moving over your knuckles, and his voice changed.
“They’d need to be ready.”
For what?
But you knew what for. This part that should’ve made you want to retreat, but it only made you want to lean in more, because this was Dex’s love too. The same root, grown through darker soil.
“Ready?” you asked.
“For the world,” he clarified.
Dex’s eyes were calm now, focused and devoted. There was nothing theatrical in him, nothing performative. He was not fantasizing about violence for the sake of it. He was imagining two children made from you and him, and his first instinct was to make sure nothing could ever make them helpless.
He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. He was in the woods with Jason and Callie when they were older and taller.
“I know what I am,” he said with finality. “I know what I’m good for.”
Your heart pinched. “Dex…”
“No,” he said, because he knew you. Because he could hear the protest forming before you even opened your mouth. “Don’t do that.”
You tilted your head.
“I know what I’m good for,” he repeated, gentler this time, but no less certain. “And if I’m good for anything, I will make sure they have every tool in their disposal to survive.”
There was no self-pity in it. He didn’t sound like a man condemning himself. He sounded like a man who had finally found a use for the worst parts of him and decided that they would serve you.
“They won’t be helpless,” he said. “Not our kids.”
Our kids.
“Jason and Callie won’t be fragile and easy to hurt. I won’t do that to them.”
His jaw tightened, and pride flickered through his face.
“They’ll be smart. They’ll be aware. They’ll know when a room feels wrong. They’ll know what a threat looks like before it reaches them.”
You listened, heart thudding.
“And they’ll be skilled,” he said.
It mattered to him. You could hear it.
Skilled.
Not broken. Not molded. Not made into little copies of him. He wanted them skilled, accurate, and alive.
“I’d start small,” he continued. “I’ll teach them hand-to-hand, teach them how to use their reflexes. I’ll teach them how to move without panicking, how to get up when they fall, how to breathe when they’re scared. Jason would overthink it at first. He’ll want every movement perfect before he tries. Callie would rush in and get mad when I made her slow down.” His mouth curved up faintly. “She’ll hate slowing down.”
You almost smiled through the ache in your chest.
“But she’ll learn,” he said. “They both will.”
His eyes darkened around the imagination.
“When they’re older, I'll teach them how to aim.”
Aim was not violence to him, not really. It was discipline. It was proof that the body could obey the mind.
“They better have their old man’s aim,” he murmured.
It should have sounded awful.
And it did, a little.
But it also sounded like him imagining a son and daughter with pieces of himself; His focus, his loyalty, his ability to lock onto a target and not shake.
“They’ll know how to throw,” he said. “How to hit what they mean to hit. I’ll get them knives, when they’re old enough. Take them to the range to shoot guns when they're older. No one fucking picks on my kids and lives to see another day.” He looked at you then, and the obsession in his face had turned holy. “I’ll make sure they understand that.”
You swallowed.
“If they find themselves in a bad situation, I’ll make sure they’re better than lucky. Lucky runs out. Lucky gets them killed. I want them trained. I want them calm. I want them to be able to look at danger and know they’re more dangerous.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“I want Jason to know how to get Callie out if something happens. I want Callie to know how to get Jason out. I want both of them to know how to get back to their mother.”
Your breath caught.
Their mother.
Dex said it as if it were the center of the whole plan.
“I’ll make sure they come home in one piece,” he said, voice rough now. “Ready for dinner. That’s the point.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’ll make damn sure they can leave this house and come back to it. I’ll make sure you’re not sitting at that kitchen table wondering if they’re safe.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “I don’t want you afraid.”
Fuck.
The whole deranged, violent, tender fantasy had always curved back to that. Dex teaching your future children to fight, to aim, to survive, not because he wanted war in the home, but because he wanted peace for you. Because his idea of fatherhood was Jason and Callie walking through the front door with backpacks tossed on the floor, cheeks flushed, while you stood at the stove or sat at the island with your coffee and didn’t have to imagine every terrible thing that might have happened to them.
“I’d kill for them, you know this,” he said, rubbing a slow circle on your skin, “I’d burn the whole world down for them.” Dex did not look away. “But if I know they can take care of themselves, then my eyes can stay where they belong.”
His hand cupped your face fully now.
“On you.”
He said it like it was obvious. Like the whole future had a single center of gravity and he had been circling it the entire time, pretending he was talking about houses and kitchens and gun cabinets and kids, when really he had only ever been talking about you.
“Because all of this,” Dex whispered, “would happen because of you.”
His thumb moved beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall properly. He looked at you like the city and the sirens and the blood on his knuckles were temporary, like the whole world outside the window was an environment he could outlast if it meant getting you somewhere safe.
“You understand that, right?” he asked, but his voice made it sound less like a question and more like a confession he needed you to survive hearing.
Dex leaned closer, his hand cupping your cheek now, holding you with that possession that never felt casual.
“I’d make sure the kids knew that,” he said. “I’d make sure they knew anything good in me came from you.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
“The warmth in the house, the fairytales they would hear before bed, the flowers they pick from the garden.” His thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone. “They’d know that was you. That all of it was you.”
Your eyes burned.
“They’d love you,” Dex whispered. “because you’re perfect.”
“Dex…”
“And they’d love me because I’d earn it.” he said.
Oh, Benjamin.
Your heart broke a little at that.
He said it simply, like love was not something he had ever expected to be given for free if it was him.
His hand slid a little lower, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, parting your lips.
“You wouldn’t have to learn how to shoot,” he reassured. “Because you’d have me.”
His voice dropped lower, intimate and possessive all the same.
“I’d take care of you,” he continued, “because that’s the only thing I was made wrong enough to do right.”
It should have sounded suffocating. Maybe from anyone else, it would have. But from Dex, it felt less like a cage and more like a shelter.
A small, broken laugh caught in your throat.
His mouth curved faintly, almost shy and almost wicked. “You can just sit there and be pretty, huh, baby?”
Your heart gave in completely.
He said it like a promise, like he would happily make a fortress of his own body if it meant you never had to lift a finger.
Your tears started falling quicker before you could stop them.
They started coming too quickly, gathering along your lashes and breaking loose before you could blink them back. One rolled down the side of your nose. Another slipped along your cheek toward his thumb. Suddenly you were crying in front of him over a house that didn’t exist, children who hadn’t been born, a ring he hadn’t even given you yet, and the sincerity of Benjamin fuckin’ Poindexter imagining a life precious enough for you to be loved.
Dex noticed and his whole face changed. His hand, still cupping your cheek, squeezed slightly. His eyes moved over your face, searching for the wound, the mistake, the exact word that had hurt you.
“What?” he asked, his voice wound tight. “What did I say?”
You shook your head, but that only made another tear fall.
He frowned. “I upset you.”
“No.” Your voice cracked. You hated how small it sounded. “No, Dex.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
There was a panick-y edge beneath the flatness of his voice. Dex could handle blood and anger Dex could handle fear if it had a direction, if it could be aimed back at something. But your tears did something awful to him. They made him look helpless in the one way he could never tolerate: like he had caused pain he couldn’t kill.
You caught his wrist before he could pull his hand away from your face.
“Baby,” you whispered, “no.”
You pressed your cheek harder into his palm, making him understand that you were not resisting his grand plan. “These are not bad tears.”
Still, you could tell he didn’t believe you yet.
“They’re not,” you promised, laughing weakly even though your throat hurt. “You just… fuck, Dex. You just said all of that like it was real.”
His mouth parted slightly.
“You really want all of that?” You asked, though it sounded more squeaky than you’d like
Dex stared at you, looking almost offended again, as if he was wounded by the possibility that you could still doubt the size of what he wanted when he had just laid it open in front of you.
“Yes,” he said.
You breathed in shakily. “The house?”
“Yes.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“The flowers?”
His thumb moved under your eye, wiping away another tear. “Yes.”
“Jason and Callie?”
His eyebrows relaxed immediately at the mention of the names. “Yes.”
You shut your eyes.
And for one second, because he had given you permission by wanting it so badly, you let yourself imagine it.
Dex driving with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back at a red light because Calliope had dropped her stuffed animal and immediately made it everyone’s emergency. You could see it his eyes flicking from the mirror to the road to her little outstretched hand, his mouth set in that serious line like recovering a plush rabbit from the floorboard was a tactical operation. Callie would kick her feet in the car seat, impatient and bossy, already certain her father would retrieve anything she dropped because Dex had never once been normal about anyone he cared for needing something.
Dex in a school parking lot, terrifying every other father by accident. He’d stand there in a dark jacket and smart-ish trousers, trying to look approachable and while still planning thirteen ways to neutralize a PTA committee just in case someone tried to speak wrongly about his kids. Jason walking beside him with a too-big backpack and the solemn concentration of his father. Callie skipping ahead, fearless because her father was behind her and therefore the world hadn’t yet invented anything that could touch her.
Dex teaching Jason how to throw a ball in the backyard. His son would squinting with concentration, little shoulders tense, trying too hard because he had inherited that from you. Dex crouched in front of him, adjusting his grip, telling him to breathe. Then he’d step back, watching Jason throw too hard and too wide, and smiling anyway. He’d be proud anyway, because it was a start. He’d make his way to the knives eventually.
Dex standing behind you in the kitchen, arms around your waist, chin tucked against your shoulder while your children ran through the yard beyond the window.
He’d kiss your temple and ask for another one, and you’d say, “We’ll think about it,” because you two were a unit. You were two parts of the same whole.
You opened your eyes, and he just looked terrified of how much he wanted it.
Your hand tightened around his wrist.
“When you eventually ask me,” you said, voice shaking, “know that I’ll say yes.”
For a moment, Dex didn’t move.
He didn’t even seem to breathe.
His eyes searched yours once, twice, desperately, like he had to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“You will?” he asked.
You smiled through the tears. “Of course.”
Joy did not sit easily on Dex, but you knew this was what it looked like.
You let out a watery little laugh, because if you did not laugh you were going to sob properly.
That seemed to bring him back to himself.
Dex leaned in and kissed your neck once, then your cheeks, then the damp place beneath your eye where a tear had slipped down.
Each kiss was careful and possessive in the best way. He wasn’t trying to stop you from crying. Instead, he wanted to claim every tear.
Dex kissed your jaw again, then tucked his face into your neck, and for a long time he just held you.
What you did not know was that the ring was already more than a fantasy to him.
What you did not know was that earlier that evening, before the Supreme Court had gone to hell, he shot Buck Cashman, before he came home, Dex had received confirmation of an advance from Mr. Charles.
He had a government contract. He had a stable job.
Dex had read the confirmation once.
Then twice.
Then, because he was Dex, he had memorized the number. The second he saw the advance, his mind had gone to you.
Rent. Groceries. Your tuition. The overdue utility bill you had tried to hide under a stack of journal articles like paper could make debt disappear. The textbooks you kept putting off buying because you said you could “probably survive with library copies,” even though he had seen the way you frowned when you said it.
And then the ring.
He’d already planned the ring.
And no, he hadn’t told you any of this yet.
Maybe he will after the first payment cleared. Maybe after the first job was done and he knew the money was steady. Maybe after he had washed the blood off well enough to convince himself he was allowed to touch something as clean as your hand.
He’d find the right jeweler, though he already had one in mind: a shop in the Upper East Side that did custom pieces. He’d get one commissioned specifically for you. Nothing too delicate, because he wanted people to notice it. Nothing too flashy, because you would wrinkle your nose and tell him he had lost his mind.
He’d get something that looked right on your hand when you reached for your coffee in the morning. A gem that would catch the kitchen light when you turned pages in your office. Something Jason might touch curiously as a child, asking if Dad gave you that, and Dex would hear you say yes from the doorway. Something Callie would one day ask to try on, and you would laugh and tell her when she could when was older. Something that said you belonged to him.
And more importantly, that he belonged to you.
For now, he said none of that.
For now, he only held you tighter on the bed, making sure you were okay.
“You’re going to be so spoiled,” he whispered against your skin.
You smiled, eyes closing, tears still drying on your face. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“By a wanted man with frozen peas?”
That got the smallest laugh out of him.
“By your future husband,” he said.
Your heart did a helpless little flip.
Little did you know, with this contract, the future wasn’t just a fantasy to him anymore.
He just needed to ask.
—end.
-
Extra note: at this point I think everyone’s seen that clip of Wilson saying Dex should get an equally unhinged girlfriend, and I just can’t help but think of this reader getting as obsessed with his plans for the future as he is and she would not let anything stand in her way! Like she’d kill her way into it if she had to, and her being a forensic psychologist would make for interesting storytelling. (This is just a thought, I make no promises!)
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
Arkham Knight!Jason Todd x Female Vigilante Reader
: ̗̀➛ Summary: You hate lying to Jason, but with the Arkham Knight out there, you can’t bring yourself to leave the city and watch as Gotham deteriorates. This new foe must be stopped at all costs, and you were never one to back down from a fight
AKA: You are a vigilante and Jason doesn’t know. Jason is the Arkham Knight and you don’t know.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 20.6k
Warnings/Tags: Pre-established relationship, Reader’s backstory is vague but Bruce did not adopt you or anything, your vigilante suit has a mask and hood of some kind but that's all I describe, vigilante name is never specified, for plot reasons the story of the game takes place over multiple days, Arkham Knight Spoilers (but I try and keep all the big ones out of it aside from the obvious), you can read this without extensive knowledge of the games, canon typical violence, AK is kinda mean, bullet wound, I call this the “cautiously optimistic” ending, grammatical errors probably
: ̗̀➛ A/N: HAHAHA YOU PROBABLY THOUGHT I'D VANISH FOR A MONTH BEFORE POSTING A LONG FIC AGAIN. YOU'RE WRONG!!! Also, I know I don't typically write vigilante!reader, but guys TRUST the process. Hope you enjoy the fic :D!
Masterlist
You swallowed nervously as you crouched against a pole for support, eyes gazing over the drones patrolling the streets. “I see at least five near the Diamond District.” You quickly ducked beneath the ledge of the rooftop your on, placing your back firmly against the wall as you watched the red light flash over where you were just looking.
That was close.
“Any sign of him?” Tim asked, and you sneak a look over the ledge.
You shook your head, “He’s not here.” You sighed, frustrated.
Tim seemed to share your frustration, “It’s a shame.”
You scoffed, leaning lazily on the edge of the rooftop as you watch the drones circle the streets below you. “I don’t know what Bruce expects from us. We could be out helping him, but instead he sticks you in lab duty, and me on surveillance duty.” You sat yourself on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling over the side of the building. “I haven’t surveyed anything we haven’t already been seeing. Bombs, drones, more bombs, even more drones. It’s an endless cycle.”
Tim chuckled lowly, as if saying “You’re telling me.” The two of you sat in silence for a long moment before you stood up. “I’m done with this.” You step off the ledge and back to the rooftop. “If there’s an emergency feel free to contact me, but otherwise I’m going to actually try and get some sleep for once.”
Tim hummed, “Wow, sleep? Hardly know her.” He drawled teasingly, knowing neither of you have slept at all for the past day. It’d been a long night. Ever since he showed up, none of you have truly relaxed. “Got more important things to do then survey the city?”
You pursed your lips, “Yeah, sleep.” You fidgeted with your grapnel gun before launching it, “I don’t understand him sometimes. We’re of no use to anyone like this.” The wind whips past your ears as you moved.
He huffed, “Tell Bruce that. He’s insistent that I work on figuring out this cure when we have bigger issues currently out there.”
You frowned, “If you want, when I wake up we can switch shifts?” You offered hesitantly, landing onto the balcony of your apartment. You didn't hear anybody inside, and you took this as your cue to go inside and quickly change out of your suit.
Jason has always worked late nights for as long as you knew him. It was, frankly, a miracle considering you weren’t sure how you’d explain your nightly escapades. It wasn’t a conversation you were ever going to look forward to, so you delayed it for as long as possible.
“I’ll be alright.” Tim sighed, “I’ll probably just nap on the computer or something.”
You sighed, “Tim.”
“Don’t.” He started, dry amusement evident in his tone despite the snappy words. “I will not hear the ‘Sleep is important’ lecture from you when you’re just as bad as I am.”
You chuckled, “Yeah, yeah, touché." You tone became more serious, “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”
He hummed noncommittally, but you know he’s listening. “Of course, have a good night.”
You smiled, “You too.” You took out your comm, putting it in its case before stashing it away with your suit.
Based on Jason’s usual schedule, he’ll be home in a couple hours, which gave you plenty of time to prepare for his arrival.
While you could've just hoped that Jason would never come home early while you were still out, you had decided against that early on. It was too risky, and it was better to just provide and potential explanation why. You had told him that you also worked late nights, and would be out at around the same times he was.
As you go through your post-patrol routine, prepping for bed, you find yourself conflicted. Every night you look at Jason’s side of the bed and wonder if this is the night you tell him. You’ve rehearsed the conversation dozens, if not hundreds of times.
Not once have you taken action to tell him though. A mixture of apprehension and fear of judgment always win, leading to you telling yourself the same lie every night: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”
You never have, and it’s been long enough where you question if you ever will. The longer you wait, the worse it gets, and not just because it’s a big secret. How does it somehow get worse?
You have concluded that Jason does not like Batman. Hell, you would go so far as to say he loathes the vigilante.
While you may not always work with Batman, you do it often enough to the point where it's well known that you have some sort of association with him. It was apart of the (many) excuses you used in order to stall your inevitable confession. You needed to get him “open” to the idea of you working with the hero he detests. Every time you “innocently” inquired why he hates the Bat, Jason would get this far off look, his eyes narrowing in what looked like inner turmoil.
You stopped asking after he snapped at you about it.
In his defense, you had asked the question multiple times in the past (all with no success). You figured that if you kept prying at it, he’d eventually relent. However, you had clearly underestimated how personal his hatred was for Batman. He had left angry that night, fists clenched and whitened at his sides as he threw the door open. You had watched him leave regretfully.
It was a bad night.
That was the night that Scarecrow had first leaked his new Fear Gas to the diner. Millions of people fled the city, and you had felt a sense of dread settle into your chest. You knew, at that moment, that it was going to be a long few nights. That initial night was when you had first heard his name: the “Arkham Knight.”
You only recently started operating in Gotham, so you were accustomed to being unfamiliar with some of the household names in this business. Bruce had (very) reluctantly allowed you to operate in Gotham on your own. He let you do your own thing as long as you agreed to keep him in the loop if anything major happened. This whole Scarecrow and Arkham Knight mess fell into that category, and so the two of you came to an agreement to work with one another for the time being. You had hoped that, with how long Bruce has been doing this, he’d recognize the Arkham Knight. It turned out that not a single one of you had previously heard the name, and if Bruce didn’t know it, that didn’t bode well for the rest of you.
It didn’t take long for you to commit his name to memory. Soon it became the one thing that you focused on. Figuring out who he is. You and Alfred worked on it the most, sifting through files upon files of patients at Arkham who may have a vendetta against Batman (no small number), yet none fit the profile.
“You’re still here?”
You— the trained vigilante you are— jumped as Jason walks into your shared bedroom. He looked worn, just like every night he had left previously. However, he looked considerably more unkempt this time, and he had a stiffness about him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I do live here, you know.” You grinned at him as you made your way into your shared bed.
His mouth parted, and then he frowned. “I just… You know with all the shit that’s going on—” he tilted his head lazily to the window, “—I thought you’d leave.”
You chuckled, more out of surprise than amusement, “You thought I’d leave without telling you?”
He offered a strained smile, silently walking to the bathroom.
You blinked, frowning. Jason was never the most talkative person, and you were content to be the one that carried the conversation between the two in the beginning. As time went on, he opened up more, and more. It felt strange to have him be quiet again, and you did not like it one bit.
“Jay?” You called out his name, standing up from the bed. You knocked gently on the open bathroom door and find him looking at his reflection on the mirror. His eyes snap up on the reflective surface, meeting your own. “You know I wouldn’t leave you, right?” Steadily, you walked up behind him, adjusting your position before leaning your head onto his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. You don’t squeeze tightly, giving him the opportunity to push you off if he doesn’t want you touching him. He relaxed faintly under your touch, and you basked in his warmth. He’s always warm when he returns from his nights out.
The two of you were silent for a moment, and you looked down at his hands, rough and scarred. Gently, you caressed the skin, and he shuddered lightly. “I…” His sounded conflicted, and you turned your gaze to face him. He didn't return the look. “I think you should leave.”
You froze, staring unblinkingly at his face.
“Leave?” You tested the words in your mouth, they felt unfamiliar. You’re used to never leaving this city, even in times of crisis. Back before you started dating Jason, you had no reason not to stay. You were more useful aiding Gotham.
You never had somebody to prioritize over the city, not until Jason.
And if this is what Jason wanted, then you’ll figure out a way to apologize to Bruce later. You haven't even told him you have a boyfriend. “If that makes you feel better we can leave.”
Jason slowly maneuvered his way out of your grasp. “No,” he shook his head, brows downturned, “I have to stay.”
Your lips parted in surprise, “Jason,” you began slowly, “it’s not worth your life to stay in this city.”
He didn't react to that comment, “I can’t risk you being here when it all goes to shit.” His voice is stronger, colder, calculating. It’s not a tone you hear from him often. Sure, he’s gets mad or frustrated, but this?
You shook your head, “Batman will figure—”
“—Batman,” the words were spat with such venom that your eyes widened, taken aback, "won’t be able to stop this. This is beyond him.”
You furrowed your eyebrows, “How can you be so sure?”
He turned his gaze to you, his eyes set and narrowed. His next words were low, quiet, not out of uncertainty, but more akin to a promise to himself: “He won’t be walking away unscathed after this.”
You took a deep breath, “That…” you swallow, unsure how to proceed, “sounds like a threat to him.”
His expression was unreadable, “He should take it as one. This isn’t a battle he will win.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off again. “Leaving is your best option. It’s the safest option.” His eyes softened slightly as he raised a hand to your face, brushing your skin.
You grabbed his hand, “Then let’s leave together. I don’t understand why you feel obligated to stay here.”
He exhaled, shaking his head, “No, no. Don’t you get it? I can’t stay. I have…” He looked into your eyes, trying desperately to get you to understand him. It pained him to look at you, knowing he couldn't ever share his reason why he must stay. “…I have unfinished business here.”
You scoff, “Jason, whatever it is can wait. With all that’s going on with Scarecrow and the Arkha—”
“—You can’t be here for it.” He grounded out, “Please,” he tone turned into a imploring whisper. He shifted his grasp from your hands to your entire forearm. Supporting the weight with his own arms, he met your gaze, “I know— I’m aware I’m giving shitty reasoning, but I cannot do what I have to do if I know you’re in the city and could be in danger. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I heard you got caught in some crossfire.”
You shook your head at him, “Jason— I— How can I know you won’t get caught in the crossfire?”
His gaze turned steely, “I won’t.” He must have sensed your uncertainty, “I will— fuck— I can call you every night. I can give you my location. I will personally find you once I’ve done what I need to do. We can go wherever you want after this. Just please,” he gently raised a hand back up to your face, “please get out while you still can.”
You stared into his eyes, his despair nearly appearing manic. You shifted your focus to his hand cradling your chin, then to him. “I don’t want— I can’t abandon you Jay.”
He vehemently shook his head, “And you won’t. I know you aren’t. I’m asking you to. It’s all I’m asking of you, get yourself out of this mess before it gets worse.”
Your heart settled, and you take a deep breath. Slowly, you remove yourself from his hold, crossing your arms. “You’ll call?”
He nodded emphatically, “Every morning, every night— I’ll— hell— I’ll even answer during work.”
You slowly nodded, “If anything happens—” he opened his mouth to cut you off, but you glared at him, “—do not cut me off again." He swallowed before nodding. “If anything happens. I want you to leave the city at that very moment. I don’t care if your ‘business is unfinished.’ I don’t want you here.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“Jason.” You narrowed your eyes at him, “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
Hesitantly, he nodded, “Yeah,” he sounded breathless, “yeah, that’s… fair.”
You sighed, “You better mean that. Otherwise I’ll come back to the city just to drag you out.”
He looked immensely concerned by your words, “…You won’t do that.” At your unwavering expression he coughed lightly, “Please don’t do that.” He amended his statement.
You smiled humorlessly, “Then don’t give me a reason to.” You turned to walk out of the bathroom. Just as you were about to get past the threshold, you placed your hand on the doorframe, turning to face him again.
“Promise me you’ll be careful, Jay.”
His eyes lifted from the ground to meet your own. Still conflicted, but lighter than they were when he entered.
“I promise.” He vowed.
“Wait, you’ve been staying where?”
You lean back in your seat at the Batcomputer, looking at Tim projected on the monitor. “Well, Bruce is out right now. He hasn’t been home for days.” You shrug, “I do not understand what keeps that man going.” You mutter to yourself, shaking your head. “Anyway, I thought I'd just camp in the cave for the next few nights. It’s not like I could actually leave the city.” You sigh, reclining back in the chair.
“Remind me why you even considered doing that? We’re already stretched thin as it is.” Tim frowns.
You look up to Tim, his frown clearly projected on the screen. “Uh…” You cough, “Reasons.”
He walks off screen. “Ah, yes, reasons, very descriptive.” You can hear him rolling his eyes. “You know, it’s really none of my business—”
“—it really isn’t—”
“but it might feel better if you get it off your chest?” Tim returns, offering a small smile. You can vaguely see him working with some blood samples on the left side of the screen.
You twist in your chair, shifting your position to get a better look at him. You lazily rest one leg over the other. “I…” The problem with Tim’s offer is that you do want to talk about it. There’s not many people who could understand your inner conflict, and Tim would be one of the few.
“Don’t feel pressured. It’s just…” he sighs, “Don’t stress yourself too much. That’s Bruce’s job, we don’t need to do it to ourselves too.”
You chuckle, tapping a finger on the armrest of your chair contemplatively. “If… If I tell you—” you scoot closer to the screen, “you gotta swear not to tell Bruce.” You pause for a moment before continuing, “And you can’t look into it.”
Tim raises an eyebrow, but he eventually nods. “If that makes you feel better, then I suppose I can keep a secret.”
You brace yourself, looking around the cave for any third party listeners. Hesitantly, you clear your throat, “I… Hypothetically… have a boyfriend.”
Tim doesn’t outwardly react other than switching his focus from the samples to you. “How hypothetical are we talking?”
“…Not very hypothetical,” you smile sheepishly.
Tim gives you a sympathetic look, and slowly nods. “How long?”
You grimace, “About a year and a half?” You do a so-so motion.
His mouth parts, “Oh,” he blinks, dumbfounded, “so this has been a while.”
“Yeah…” You trail off.
“And Bruce has no idea?”
“No…” You trail off. “Probably not? I think I’ve done a pretty good job hiding it.”
He nods, “Alright, wow. You know the boyfriend thing? Kinda expected that.” He holds his hands up in surrender at your slightly offended look. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just surprised you haven’t… you know.” He vaguely gestures.
You blink slowly, “No, I don’t. Elaborate, Tim, please.”
He purses his lips, “Uh— Actually forget I said anything.” He pretends to busy himself with the samples. “So, uh, boyfriend huh? Got a name?”
“Most people do, yeah.” You nod, grabbing a pen on the desk and loosely spinning it.
His shoulders sag, and he places the blood samples down. “Oh come on, I already said I won’t tell, and I won’t look into it.”
You stare at him for a moment, assessing him for any lying tells. “You will not say a word or look it up.”
He groans, “Yes, otherwise you’ll kill me or something I don’t know. Honestly, you might have to wait to see if we survive these next few nights in order to do that.” He gives you his full attention, blood sample forgotten.
You snort humorlessly, that's a bit too realistic for you right now. “Alright,” you sigh, “his name is Jason.”
Tim blinks at you, and neither of you say anything for a bit. "Hello?” You hesitantly wave at him. Did the connection go out?
He shakes his head, “No— sorry— yeah, I’m here.” He nods carefully.
You raise an eyebrow, “Something… wrong with that?” You never really heard of Tim having something against the name “Jason,” but you’ve heard stranger things.
“No. I just—” he scratches his neck, “I know somebody by that name… Well—” he frowns, looking off into the distance before shaking his head, “technically I never knew him. I just heard nearly everything about him.”
You raise an eyebrow, a silent inquiry.
He looks down at the table in front of him before looking up again. “He was the— uh— previous Robin.”
You tilt your head, furrowing your eyebrows, “I thought that was Dick?”
He nods, “Dick was the first, but he wasn’t my predecessor.” He crosses his arms, leaning onto the table. “You know that one Robin suit in the cave?”
“Oh,” your eyes flickering over to the Robin suit displayed on instinct. “I… never knew.”
Tim shrugs, “He doesn’t talk about it much. I only know so much cause he kept calling me ‘Jason’ in the beginning.” You wince. You couldn’t help but feel sympathy for everybody involved. Losing Robin, losing a kid like that. It must have been hard on anybody. Then to constantly be compared to him.
“I’m sorry, Tim.” You apologize, voice quiet.
He shakes his head, “I never knew him… Not really anyway. It can't mourn him the same way Bruce, Alfred, or even Dick did. It just wasn’t the same.”
You nod, “Yeah.” You mumble, eyeing the costume.
He exhales, grabbing the blood samples, “Didn’t meant to dampen the mood.” He smiles apologetically at you. “The name just reminded me of him, that’s all.” His begins to work offscreen. “He treat you well?”
You nod, “He… He loves me. I know that,” you fidget with your fingers.
Tim leans back into frame, “But..?”
You exhale, feeling exhausted just remembering the argument. “He… He’s being a fucking idiot.”
Tim snorts, “How so?”
“He’s the one who told me to evacuate the city.” You prop an arm up on the desk, “At first I had actually considered the idea— don’t give me that look.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Tim grumbles.
“I wasn’t actually going to vanish, Tim. Why do you think I’m here and not at my apartment with him?” You rub your temples. “I would’ve figured something out. I just— I thought,” you exhale, frustrated that the words aren’t coming out as intended, “I thought that if he cared about me so much, he’d understand that I care about him just as much.”
“Does he not?” Tim asks, frowning as he sets the blood sample to spin in a centrifuge.
“He was insistent that he stay in the city. Said he has ‘unfinished business.’” You do air quotes, “Apparently, that is more important than his safety.”
“Did you ask him what it was?” Tim asks, mirroring your pose, propping his face onto his hand.
You slowly shake your head. “He… I don’t know.” You groan. “He knew it sounded stupid, and he told me that, but he never actually told me what it was.”
“Hm,” Tim hums disapprovingly. “I know you may not want to hear it, but that sounds—“
“—Suspicious as hell.” You nod, “I know, Tim. I’m not stupid.”
He holds his hands up in a surrender, “I’m just saying. ‘Unfinished business’ could be a way of saying he works for Scarecrow or just maybe he works for—”
“—the Arkham Knight.” You both chorus. You mouth parts as you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest.
Tim nods, “Look at us,” he chuckles, “teamwork at its finest. Finishing each other’s sentences.” He gestures between you both.
You don’t share his joy at coming to the same conclusion, “I don’t— Tim, it’s not fair of me to accuse him of something that drastic just because he won’t leave the city.”
Tim leans forward, hands propped up, “I don’t want to bash your boyfriend, but can you truly come up with another reason why he’d want to stay here with everything that’s going on.”
You remained silent.
“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” Tim tries, voice artificially optimistic. At your distressed sound, he panics slightly, “I can’t imagine you’d have subjected yourself with a relationship with an asshole for that long, so I genuinely don’t think he is a bad guy. He’s likely in a similar situation to many other criminals: forced into an awful situation, and forced to make it work.”
“I could help him though!” You groan.
“Have you told him about…” he gestures around loosely, “all of this?”
You purse your lips, shaking your head, “No…” you sigh. “I know it’s hypocritical, but it’s just—” you huff, laying your head into the crooks of your elbow on the desk. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s my issue to solve. I’ll probably tell him after all of this.” Your voice is muffled from speaking into your own arm. “I… I’ll just make sure to keep tabs on him while he’s here.” You sit up straight. “We got bigger issues to solve than my relationship issues.”
Tim removes the blood sample from the centrifuge, “Any updates on who the Arkham Knight could be?”
You shake your head, “Nope,” you pop the ‘p,’ “Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if this guy materialized out of thin air just to mess with us, or Bruce I guess.”
Tim raises his eyebrows, huffing as if considering the probability of that. “I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point.”
You chuckle humorlessly. “I’ve checked everything. Past Arkham patients, inmates at Blackgate, hell— I’ve begun to widen the search outside of Gotham and Blüdhaven. There’s nothing on this guy. He’s a ghost.”
Tim frowns, “You’re telling me somebody capable of leading the militia has just been hiding out in public then?”
You rest your head on your hand, rubbing your temples. The stress of figuring out who the Arkham Knight is has really been getting to you. “Seems like it." You admit. “I think I’ve just accepted that we’re not going to know who this guy is unless he reveals himself to us.”
Tim sighs, “Then let’s hope that it’s sooner rather than later.”
You can hear your heart beating.
It pounds in your ears as you watch the militia henchman walk over the grate your hiding under. The Arkham Knight had been setting up these bases across the city, and Bruce had tasked you with dismantling as many of them as you could.
Easier said than done.
“Have you heard about the calls the Knight has been taking?” One of the henchman asks his friend.
You crawl as close as you can to them in order to hear them better. “The Knight? Hell, I barely see the guy. Only times I’ve seen ‘im are when the Bat is involved.”
The first henchman huffs, “Well,” he looks around, checking to see if anybody is listening, “rumor has it, that he’s spent the past few nights callin’ someone. He doesn’t go out on jobs ‘til after the call.”
You watch as the second guy lowers his gun, “Eh, it’s probably ‘bout a job. You guys are looking into it too much.”
The first guy shakes his head, “Nah, man. We thought that too. Then one of the lieutenants accidentally walked in during one of these calls.” He huffs, “The Knight calmly ended the call, then absolutely lost it.”
“Did the guy knock? Manners are important.” The second guy asks dryly.
“I dunno,” the first guy shrugs, “but apparently what he heard? The Knight was talking to some woman.”
The second guy snickers, “Oooh,” he mockingly coos, “the Knight got a fuckin’ girlfriend? You sure we’re talkin’ about the same guy?”
The first guy huffs, as if offended. “Whatever, man. I’m just tellin’ you what I heard. Now, don’t go blabbing your mouth to everyone alright? Apparently, the Knight threatened the lieutenant, saying he’d kill the guy if he said anything about the call.”
It’s silent for a moment.
“So why the fuck would you tell me? I don’t wanna die!” The second guy whisper-yells.
“I just said don’t blab. If ya don’t blab then you’re fine.” The first guy waves him off.
“Yeah, but what if somebody is listening?” The second guy continues to whisper, eyes flickering around apprehensively.
Yeah, it’d be crazy if somebody was listening.
“It’s just us, buddy. Batman’s busy trying to get Ivy’s aid or some shit. It’s just us tonight.” The first guy pats his friend’s shoulder.
“Don’t he have those sidekicks of his running around?” The second guy gestures loosely.
“Eh, what’re the chances they’ll show up? The Bat is the only one we really need to worry about.” You quietly exit the grate, crouching behind a concrete wall.
“Yeah, I guess,” the second guy responds, unconvinced. You carefully sneak behind the two of them. “I suppose you’re right. What’re are the chances that one of the Bats will decide that we’re worth— OH SHI—”
You slam their heads together before knocking them both unconscious. You wipe imaginary dust off your hand, grabbing the controller from the pockets of the left guy and smashing it beneath your feet. The second you destroy it, the walls around you come down.
You open your comms, raising your wrist as Alfred's projection appears, “Another base dismantled.”
“Copy that, Madame.” Alfred gives a resolute nod.
“Also, I may have gotten more info on the Knight.” You lightly kick the militia goon, checking if he’s fully unconscious.
“Oh?” Alfred prompts.
You can’t help the grin on your face, “Apparently, the Arkham Knight has a girlfriend.”
Alfred is silent for a moment, “A… girlfriend?” He sounds baffled.
“Yeah, so I was listening to these militia guys talk, and apparently he has a girlfriend.” You sit on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down on the tanks patrolling the streets. “So now we’re dealing with a masked rogue working with Scarecrow, that has a grudge against Batman, that has no prior incidents actually recorded at Arkham, AND has a girlfriend.” You huff. “Gotta admit, the guy is one hell of a multitasker.”
“We can attempt to narrow the search, but I regret to inform you that I find it unlikely that any results with turn up with a real answer.” Alfred informs you, frowning.
“Yeah, I know, I’m just… I guess I was surprised. It’s the first piece of information we’ve caught on the Arkham Knight’s personal life.” You sigh, standing up. Alfred hums in acknowledgement. “Anyway, I’ll be heading to another base. I’ll keep you updated, Alfred.” You nod at him.
“Please remember to be careful.” Alfred nods at you in return.
You smile, “When am I not?” At his exasperated sigh, you chuckle. “I won’t get killed, Alfred. You needn’t worry.”
He sighs, “I always do.” The two of you sit in silence before he hangs up.
You slowly lower your wrist, staring over the city. The neon red lights of the drones shine through the alleys below, searching. Searching for Batman in particular, but willing to take any target that dares to venture into their line of sight. Occasionally, you’ll see a criminal duck into an alley, attempting to get out of the militia’s path. For once, you cannot blame them for trying to run.
It’s been one night since you “left” Gotham.
You had called Jason last night, standing on the balcony of Wayne Tower. Staring down at the city as it’s overrun by more militia and rogues than you’ve seen in a while.
“Hey,” You spoke softly into the phone. The rain attempted to drown out the sound of your voice, but Jason could hear it clear as day.
“Hey,” Jason started, “you got out of the city okay?”
You smile sadly, “I texted you the second I got out.” You had texted him six hours after you had reached the Manor. You made sure to scramble your location so that he couldn’t track you to Bruce’s.
“Yeah, I know.” He hummed “I wanted to hear it from you.”
You chuckled, “I’m alright, Jay. How about you?”
He’s silent for a moment, “I’m managing.”
You sighed, leaning against the railing, “Do you think that you’ll finish up soon?” You asked quietly.
He sighed, “No… Not for a couple of days at least.” You heard the creak of a door open in the background. Jason inhales so sharply that it was actually audible. “Hey, sweetheart,” he started slowly, and you can hear the sound of a chair squeak in the background, “somethin’ just came up. I can call you in a minute, you mind if I deal with this real quick?” Well, that wasn’t a very long call.
“It’s okay, Jay. Go and deal with it. We can always call tomorrow. I know you’re busy.” You smiled ruefully.
“Are you sure?” His voice became rougher, and you could tell somebody is in the room with him.
“It’s okay, Jay.” You chuckled, “The quicker you get this done, the quicker we can see each other again, yeah?”
“Yeah,” his words were a whisper meant for you. “Alright, I’ll call you tomorrow." He paused, and his next words were somehow softer than the last. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”
You bite your tongue to keep from grinning into the phone, “I love you more, Jay.”
He chuckles humorlessly, “Doubt it.”
You roll your eyes, “Alright, alright. I’ll let you think that.” You pushed yourself off the railing, walking into Lucius’ office with a nod of acknowledgement for the man. “Good luck with whatever you’re dealing with.”
“He’s gonna need it.” Jason hung up the call, and you put your phone away.
You had called him for a quick check up in the morning, but he seemed even more busy than last night. You didn’t want to bother him too much, and accepted the quick phone call, not questioning any of the oddities that came with it. You were just glad to hear he was okay.
You pull your phone out, opening Jason’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. The rain patters onto the screen, causing the pixels to warp slightly underneath the liquid. You wipe it, gloves smearing the droplets off the screen.
Is it too late to call him? Is he busy again? What if he’s out working? What if he’s working for them?
You shiver from the cold, raising your knees to your chest to conserve warmth. Your about to lower your thumb to press that button, when you hear the militia begin to speak into your comms. Bruce had given you the frequency they were on, and you had been listening to them all night.
“Got her located in sight, Boss.”
You whip around, narrowing your eyes as you notice a helicopter in the distance approach you. What the hell?
Narrowing your eyes, you stand your ground as the helicopter closes in on you. It turns to open the doors that are now facing you. Half a dozen militia henchmen jump out, landing in front of you. You ready yourself for a fight, fists raised, “Oh, now you decide I’m worth the effort?”
“Take her out!” The medic yells from the back, and you maneuver your way around the other members in order to take him out first. Bruce has mentioned once or twice how annoying they could be, and you didn’t want to find out.
Standing up from the now unconscious body, you use your peripherals to catalog the other members of the group. They’ve got training, but they’re not nearly as good as some of the simulations Bruce has made you fight for practice. You focus on one at a time, incapacitating them one-by-one. Attack when you can, but focus on keeping yourself safe first. By the time you finish. You look back up to the helicopter, gesturing your hands out as if asking “Got anymore than that?” Was it smart to taunt the heavily armed military group occupying your city? Probably not, but to be fair...
You didn’t expect the Arkham Knight to jump out of the helicopter next.
You immediately crouch into a fighting position, narrowing your eyes at him. This is the first time you’ve seen the man up close in person and not just from Bruce’s recordings. “You aren’t who I was expecting.” You keep your tone steady, quips dying as you realize the severity of your circumstances
“I could say the same about you.” He strolls casually to the left, and you begin to circle one another. “I knew that the Bat had gotten a new sidekick.” He pauses, lazily pointing his gun at you, as if you aren’t a threat, “I didn’t expect him to get two new sidekicks.”
Now, you haven’t been doing this for as long as Bruce, but you wouldn’t consider yourself “new” to this anymore. Even if you were “new,” the Knight said that there were two new sidekicks. The newest after you is Tim, and he is certainly not new to this.
“New?” You ask cautiously.
The Arkham Knight laughs, the robotic sound sending an uneasy shiver down your spine. “Still can’t figure it out?” He slowly approaches you, and you reach your hand back to your utility belt, ready to attack. “All of these allies and nothing to show for them, huh?” He continues to laugh, and instead of being scared, the sound begins to grate on your nerves.
“Don’t pretend to know anything about us.” You glare at him.
“Oh, I don’t have to pretend. I know how he thinks. I know how he operates. I’ve known longer than you have, and longer than you ever will.” The Knight stops in front of you, the lights on his mask pulse as you stare at it.
“Is that a threat?” Your words are quiet, stiff.
The Knight shrugs, “Take it how you will. I don’t care. Either way, I won’t hesitate to stop you if you attempt to meddle with my operations any more.” He points his gun beneath your chin, and you swallow nervously. The metal doesn't touch you, though. You don’t break eye contact with him.
“Then why hesitate now?” You grit your teeth.
He chuckles quietly, “Don’t mistake this for hesitation.” He presses the barrel of the gun up against your chin, causing you to jerk back instinctively, “This is your warning, your only warning. I don’t care what your partnership with him is like. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stop interfering with my plans.”
“You’re hurting innocent people—”
“Innocent?!” You wince at the sudden change in volume. “You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?” He lightly nudges the gun against your chin, and you avoid looking into the barrel of it. “Do you wanna know somethin’?”
You don’t respond, and you don’t think he’d care what your response is.
“Well, the Bat? The guy you hold in such high regard?” He waves the gun away from you. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you. He doesn’t hold your life in any higher regard than any of those low-lives running amok in the street.”
“You don’t know that.” You push the gun away with your hand, and the Knight lets you.
“I know that better than anybody.” He spits the words out, waving the gun around. “Perhaps you will learn that someday, but really— it's not my problem.” He holsters his gun, turning around as he walks back beneath the helicopter. “This is beyond you. Stay out of this fight. This is your only warning, and you’re very lucky I’m giving it to you.”
You slowly trail behind him, keeping your distance, but curious what more he has to say. “No, no, wait—” six more militia members drop to the Knight’s sides, “—I don’t understand, how do you know—”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” The Knight cuts you off. “Let’s make this our final meeting. If you’re smart, you’ll stop aiding the Bat,” he pauses for a moment, reaching for his grapnel gun, “but something tells me you won’t listen to me.” He launches himself away, back into the helicopter, before you even get a chance to respond.
“Damn it.” You mutter to yourself, looking up at the helicopter hovering above you. The Knight grabs the edge of the door for support, looking down at you. “Do what you can against her.” He commands before walking out of your sight. You glare up at the helicopter as it begins to depart.
A quick jab comes your way, but (luckily) you raised your elbow to block the blow. Wincing, you huff at the goon; you know you’ll be feeling that tomorrow. You parry the goon’s next jab before sweeping him off his feet, and punching him in the jaw. He grunts as you hit him once more, knocking him unconscious. You look back up to the helicopter fleeing the scene as the remaining henchmen surround you.
That wasn’t what you expected.
“Did he give any tells as to who he may be.” Bruce asks over the comms.
“I… No? I don’t think so. He seemed to believe that he knows you better than Tim and I do.” You look over the rooftop you’re standing on, surveying the militia base below. There’s a drone stationed in there, damn. It looks like you’ll have to dismantle that first before taking on the rest of the henchmen.
Bruce says your name, “Think.” He prompts. “Was there anything he said that you think could clue us into who he is?”
Frustrated, you shake your head, “Bruce, I don’t know who this guy is. I’ve looked. I uploaded the footage of our encounter to the Batcomputer. You can view it if you want, but there’s nothing we didn’t already know. He acts like he knows you better than Tim or I do, then goes on about having a grudge against you.”
Bruce grunts, and you sigh. “I’m sorry, I wish I had more to say, but I don’t know who he could be.” You frown, grabbing your disruptor. “I can keep looking—”
“Don’t.” Bruce interrupts you (apparently everybody feels the need to cut you off).
You straighten your posture, “But you said that you wanted me to try and figure out his identity.”
“It’s too risky right now. If that was his only warning, I don’t want you getting hurt on the field.” You can hear Bruce’s cape in the background of the audio.
You furrow your eyebrows, “That’s never stopped you before.”
He remains silent for a moment.
You sigh, “Fine… Fine, I’ll stop looking into his identity.”
“And the bases.” Bruce adds.
You stand up, turning away from the base below you, “What? Are you serious, Bruce? You want to bench me now?” You scoff, “We finally make progress, and you decide that sending me away from this is the best option?”
“You have a target on your back now.” He responds stoically.
“Oh,” you chuckle humorlessly, “so now I’m an obstacle? A person to babysit on field? I’m an adult, Bruce. You don’t need to baby me. I've had a target on my back since my first day out.” You cross your arms as you turn you back to the base below you.
Bruce is silent for moment before he says your name, “Help Tim if you must, but it’s safer for you if you aren’t out here.”
You inhale slowly, attempting to control your breathing. You let out a long exhale, “Fine.” Fuck you too, Bruce.
You stare blankly ahead for a moment before you hear Bruce switch channels. You take the opportunity to turn around, looking down at the base again.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I suppose.” You mumble to yourself, before switching the comm channel. “Hey, Tim?”
“What’s up?” You can hear his voice off in the distance.
“So, Bruce tried benching me,” you trail off, pulling your disruptor back out.
Tim snorts, “Welcome to the club. I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he wants me working on this cure just so I’m not out on the field.”
You huff, “I can’t imagine why he’s so set on working alone, but I’m going to keep trying to dismantle as many bases as I can.”
“Hm,” Tim hums, “well, if you need help—”
“—then I’ll let you know. I just wanted to make sure somebody knows what I’m doing.” You hold down the button on the disruptor, connecting it to the drone.
Tim snorts, “You’re better than Bruce at least.”
You roll your eyes, “I’d hope so.” You click the button to turn it off for thirty seconds. “Anyway, I’m at a base right now, I gotta go, bye!” You quickly hang up, ignoring Tim’s baffled “Huh?”
You take the opportunity to sneak behind the drone before making quick work of it. Obviously, dismantling such a big weapon wouldn’t go unnoticed, so you quickly throw a Batarang at the one gunman in the corner. You roll before grabbing your Batclaw and disarming him.
You narrow your eyes, a smirk forming on your face as you watch one of the goons run toward the crate of guns. Grinning, you decide to taunt the guy, knowing he won’t listen, “Uh, I wouldn’t touch that—”
The second he touches the crate, he gets electrocuted, crumbling to the ground. You wince in sympathy, that’ll leave a mark. You shoot the Batclaw out again before yanking one of the militia members to you; you use the momentum combined with your punch to instantly knock him to the ground.
“Thought we’d only be worrying about the Bat tonight?” One of the guys yells out.
“Well obviously not. Last I checked she wasn’t the Bat!” The other one grabs a club before attempting to hit you with it.
“Can confirm: I am not the Bat.” You block the club, yanking it from his grasp before whacking it back on him. “Kinda more like a subcategory. Bat-adjacent, if you will.”
“So like a sidekick?” Another goon asks.
“Eh, yes but no?” You respond, using the wall to jump off of and knock him out. “Sidekick feels a little demeaning. Like do you want me to call you guys sidekicks to the Arkham Knight?”
One of the other goons slowly lowers his hands, sharing a look with his buddy, “Well, no—”
“So you see my point!” You offer him finger guns, before grabbing his elbow. You twist it to an unnatural angle before snapping it. He cries out in pain, “Sorry, it ain’t personal.” You sheepishly shrug.
“The hell is she doing here? The Knight told us we wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else!” One of the goons cries out.
“He fuckin’ lied that’s what!” You knee him in the face, ouch.
“So like— since you guys are feeling chatty— Have you heard anything about the Knight’s girlfriend?” You pin one guy to the ground, using your weight to keep him stationary.
“How—” He coughs, “How do you know about that?” His voice is raspy. You smile, putting a finger up to your lips.
“Don’t worry about that. I was just curious cause like— no offense to him— but I did not imagine him to be the romantic type.” You wave a hand casually.
“That’s— That’s what I said!” The goon beneath you cries out.
You nod sagely, noticing a guy sneak up behind you. You move out of the way in the nick of time, and he slams his arms down onto his friend’s body— right where you previously were. The grounded goon cries out in pain, and you frown.
“So you guys got any info on that matter?” You grab a Batarang, throwing it at one of the guys attempting to pick up a gun off the ground.
“Like we’d tell you anything!” He yells back, cradling his hand as if you smacked it (the Batarang didn’t even hit him).
“Okay, fair, I can respect the loyalty…” You raise your hands up in mock-surrender. “But like— does he get all gushy when he talks about her?” You snicker to yourself, you can’t imagine the Arkham Knight being a loving boyfriend.
One of the guys snorts, “He like fully changed into another person. Like I heard from outside the door he was like ‘you get out of the city okay?’ or somethin’—”
“Hey, you never told me that!” One of the other goons whips to face his friend, offended.
The first guy shrugs, “You didn’t seem like you cared.”
“Are you kidding me, dude?” He grumbles under his breath.
“Yeah, yeah, so did his girlfriend leave the city?” You pry, putting your hands on your hips. At this point the fight has been long forgotten.
The two remaining goons shrugged, “I dunno? I think so. I left soon after the other guy walked in on his conversation with her.” The second guy winces, raising a fist to his mouth with a hissing sound.
“Yeah, I could hear his yelling down the hall.” The second guy adds on.
You nod solemnly, “Damn, so have any of you guys asked about her since?”
While getting information about the Arkham Knight be difficult, getting information from his girlfriend?
Now that is a much easier mission.
Based on what they’ve told you, the Knight told his girlfriend to evacuate the city. This means that she’s likely a civilian, a lot easier to interrogate than the Knight himself.
“You kiddin’? Last guy who said anything about it was made an example of.” The first guy cries out, shaking his head. The other guy frantically nods his head.
You frown, “Does he make an example of you guys often?”
“Nah, he’s not abusive. Tough and maybe a bit too vengeful, yeah, but the guy has done a good job training us for this.” He shrugs, “Well, other than the guy who said something nasty about his girl.”
You raise an eyebrow, “What’d he say?”
The two guys shrug in unison, and your hold back your chuckle at how innocent they look. “We don’t know. All we know is that the guy hasn’t been seen since.”
You nod slowly, “Huh, alright… Thanks.”
“Yeah— Wait, you think we gave her too much info?” The first guy turns to face his friend. The second guy slowly looks between his friend and you.
“Probably,” his voice sounds, understandably, worried.
“It’s fine. I’m not really happy with Batman right now. Rest assured that that info won’t reach him.” You pull out your detonator.
The two guys exhale, relieved.
You hold the detonator up, “Still gotta knock you both out though,” you offer a pitiful smile, “sorry?”
“What—”
You press the button, and both of them fly a few feet before laying limp on the ground. You frown, checking their heartbeat: unconscious, but alive.
You raise a hand up to your comm, turning it on. “Tim, you will not believe what these guys just told me, oh my goodness.” You hold your wrist up, looking at Tim on the projection as you locate the signal for the controller for the base’s walls.
“Good news I hope? We’re kinda running low on that.” He mumbles the last part to himself. You grab the controller from the goon beneath you.
“Eh, interesting news, that’s for sure.” You crush the signal, watching as the walls around you fold onto itself.
Tim raises an eyebrow, “Alright, I’m listening.”
“You remember how the Knight has a girlfriend? Well, I was just chatting with some of the militia guys, and—”
“The Arkham Knight has a girlfriend?” Tim slams his arms down onto the desk in surprise.
You pause, frowning, “Did… Did I not tell you that?”
“No! I think I’d remember!”
“Huh,” you pause, contemplative. “Oh! Right, I told Alfred first.”
Tim’s mouth drops open, “You told Alfred before me?”
You purse your lips, “Sorry, Tim, kinda forgot. Alfred has been the one helping me identify the guy.”
“No worries, I’m just surprised— we are talking about the Arkham Knight, right? The ‘Look at me while you die, Batman’ guy?”
“Yep,” you release a dry chuckle.
“He has a girlfriend?” Tim asks again.
“Yep,” you grin.
“Who’d date the guy? Wait, do you think he practices his lines for when he attempts to kill Bruce? You think his girlfriend hypes him up?” Tim chuckles at the idea.
You cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, “Tim.” You lightly scold.
“Okay, sorry, but like— he’s gotta bounce the ideas off somebody.” Tim smirks, shrugging. You ponder the question for a moment.
“You think his girlfriend gets tired of it?” You eventually ask, smirking back at him. “Babe, it’s three in the morning, please stop threatening Batman.”
Tim lets out a long exhale that sounds like a wheeze. “He— He wakes her up like: ‘Babe, wake up, I came up with a new Batman threat.’”
The two of you continue to cackle on call, your volume garnering attention from criminals roaming the street. When they go to investigate, they see you, and immediately turn the other direction which only spurs your laughter even more.
“Okay, okay—” you continue to laugh, “seriously though. I was talking to some of his guys about it. Apparently he like likes her.”
“Oh?” Tim coughs, attempting to catch his breath from the laughter.
“Yeah, and I quote from one of the guys: ‘he fully changed into another person.’ Which leads me to think she isn’t involved in his business.” You theorize.
Tim nods along, “You think you can find her?”
You deflate, “Well, uh, no.” His shoulder sag, and you rush to add another comment. “But,” you hold up your index finger in a “Wait” motion. “But, I do know she left the city.”
Tim frowns at you, “I think that’s the opposite of helpful.”
“Yeah, well. It’s something. We know she’s a civilian, and she is currently not in the city.”
Tim chuckles, tired, “Wow, with that much information, we might as well consider it a case closed.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. His goons talk easily. I didn’t even have to threaten them. I’ll just wait til some of them talk about the girlfriend again.” You smile at Tim.
“Well, that sounds enjoyable. I hope you have fun with that.” Tim responds dryly.
“Don’t act like testing blood samples is any more fun.” You deadpan.
“What?” Tim gasps, “What’re you talking about? This is a blast.” He set the blood sample in his hand back into the centrifuge to spin.
“Mhm,” you hum, “yeah that’s what I thought.”
“Don’t you have goons to be eavesdropping on?” Tim’s lip twitches, betraying his smile.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep you and Alfred updated.” You lower your wrist and dismiss the projection of Tim.
“In that order, or will I be the second to hear about any new info you gathered?” Tim’s voice echoes in your comms.
You chuckle, “Bye-bye, Tim.” You hang up the call, checking the time. It’s nearly four in the morning, and upon seeing the time, you feel the exhaustion deep into your bones. You should call Jason. It’s what you were going to do before the Arkham Knight oh-so kindly interrupted you.
Heyy, sorry, I fell asleep on accident
do you still wanna call or is it too early?
or I guess late
idk depends on perspective
Not even a minute goes by.
Jason: I can call if you’d like
Jason: but if you were asleep, then you should go back to sleep
Jason: we can always call in the morning
Jason: or now
You smile, pursing your lips as you consider your options. On the other hand, you are tired. Calls with Jason can last two minutes (given his mystery job), but also the possibility of spending the next two hours on the phone with your boyfriend is very real.
it’s okay, we can call in the morning
sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep lol
Jason: Don’t worry about it
Jason: I should’ve texted you earlier
Jason: It’s been a long night
Don’t you know it.
I get that, just make sure you rest
Jason: Only if you do
Damn fair enough 💀
Jason: Joking, joking
Jason: Not really
Jason: Seriously get some rest
No need to tell you twice.
Whatever you say 🫡
He pauses for a moment, bubble reappearing and disappearing.
Jason: That felt a bit too easy
Wow okay so you wanna argue about it?? :(
For a beat, there is no bubble or message.
Jason: Good night, I love you
You snort.
That’s what I thought
Good night, I love you too Jay :)
The two of you like each other’s messages, and you put your phone away. Time to trek back to the Manor. You look up to the city above you, Ivy’s plants wrapped around bridges, smoke in the distance puffing up into a smoky gray cloud— probably Firefly’s fault.
Sighing, you grab your grapnel gun and head back to the Manor.
“I know that better than anybody.”
You press the space bar, looping the audio.
“I know that better than anybody.”
Once again.
“I know that better than anybody.”
“Madame, I don’t believe looping your encounter with the Knight will be beneficial for you.” Alfred walks up to the Batcomputer beside you.
“Well, it’s the best we got.” You sigh as Alfred places a mug beside you. You smile at him gratefully. “Thanks.”
He nods, “Forgive me for prying, but I was under the impression that Master Bruce was going to be the only one out in action for the next few days.”
You scoff, “Yeah, well, he is insane if he thinks that tackling on the city with no field back up is smart.”
Alfred hums, “I suppose you make a good point.”
You turn toward Alfred, eyes pleading, “Don’t tell him please. I already told Tim that I’d call him for help if I mess up.”
Alfred remains silent for a moment before slowly nodding, “As long as you aren’t mortally injured, then I suppose I can omit this bit of information from him.”
You smile, exhaling in relief, “Thanks, Alfred.”
He nods, “Thank me by not making me have to resort to that.” He walks off, leaving you alone at the computer once again.
You watch him leave before slowly returning your attention to the screen. You zoom in on the Arkham Knight’s appearance. He looks the same as he has every time Bruce showed his footage of him. Screen-like mask, a military style suit, the “A” in the center of his suit. Upon closer examination, you notice that his suit has similar patterns in some parts that match some of the militia’s, only difference being that his is more vibrantly colored with a red. You hadn’t noticed it when you first met him. All you could focus on was his eyes. Bright and unyielding and betraying no emotion. The only way you were able to discern his thoughts was when he spoke. You click on a different time stamp in the audio.
“Innocent?! You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?”
His body language seemed frantic yet controlled. His wide gestures aren’t out of any lapses into mania, but out of anger. You frown as you watch him hold the gun underneath you chin. At the time, you had been focused on not dying. Now, you notice the slightly tremble in his hands. You aren’t so naive to think that it’s out of fear of killing. A man like the Arkham Knight— a man who has taken lives without remorse— wouldn’t feel scared of killing you. You recognize it for what it is: fury.
Whatever his grudge against Batman is. It’s personal. It feels too personal for Batman not to have met the guy at least once.
Stretching, you stand up from your chair before grabbing your utility belt laid out on the desk. Alfred was right. This isn’t helping. If anything, you just feel crazy listening to the same modulated voice lines over and over and over, analyzing fabric just for a hint on who this guy may be.
You might as well go to the city, make use of yourself.
Journeying from the Manor to the main part of the city isn’t an unfamiliar trip. The trip back is automatic, and you barely even process the fact that you’ve made it back onto the main road. The only reason you do is that the drones patrolling the sky nearly blind you with their unforgiving beams of light waiting to claim their next victim.
The night started out slow, at least relative to the other ones.
You didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself— with Bruce not knowing you’re still patrolling— so you focused on the more minor crimes… for the most part. You didn’t actively go looking for any rogues or militia bases to dismantle, but if you stumbled onto them?
You might as well.
Some of them were evidently made with the intention of taking on the Batmobile (something you did not have access to), so you had to settle for taking on the ones without a dozen turrets scanning for a hint of movement. While not ideal, it still left plenty for you to take down.
By the time you had taken down two bases and two watchtowers, you had eased yourself comfortably into the night’s routine. The watchtowers required a bit more stealth than the bases, but if anything, you were grateful for the change in pace. It kept you on your toes.
You heave a sigh, detonating your third security console of the night. Another watchtower gone. You linger for a moment, grateful for the heating your suit provided. With how cold it is, and with the constant on-and-off rain, you imagine you’d get sick very fast without it. Frowning, you look over the unconscious bodies scattered at your feet.
Despite all your work tonight, not a single base has provided useful information. Frustrating? Absolutely. However, you aren’t too surprised. You kneel down to examine the armor the militia is wearing. “Hm,” you hum to yourself. It's the first time you've actually considered analying their attire. It appears to be standard military wear. Perhaps it has extra padding, but you note that it isn’t bulletproof, which is a bit surprising. You narrow your eyes at the scuffed up pieces of armor.
You suppose that makes sense, Bruce doesn’t use guns. It makes no sense to prepare for bullets when your biggest target doesn’t use them. You are about to reach into their pockets when you still.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You pause, but don’t look around. You don’t want to alert anybody that may be watching that you are aware they’re watching. Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to calm down. Biting your tongue, you slowly proceed with your original intention: looking through the militia’s pockets.
Then you see it. The flicker of a red dot flickers onto your arm before trailing up to your head. You heart spikes as you instantly raise an arm up, diving to the side to avoid the bullet. You scramble to push yourself against the now destroyed control console, smoke still piling up from your earlier explosion. You reach for smoke bombs in your utility belt, before quickly realizing your grasping at air. You mutter a soft curse, attempting to look for any other cover in the environment around you.
The control console was placed on the center of a long bridge walkway. The nearest crates for cover are at least thirty feet away. A distance you can’t cover, lest your sniper attempts to shoot you again. You attempt to raise your head over the top of the console, using the smoke to mask yourself. Upon seeing a figure on a rooftop above you, you feel your heart drop.
Of course, it’s the Arkham Knight. Why wouldn’t it be? You had blatantly disregarded every warning he gave you.
You tap your comms, “Tim— Alfred— Somebody— Arkham Knight is attempting to kill me. He’s sniping me just south of Kingston on Miagani.” You flinch as a bullet hits the console. “I could use some backup, as soon as possible!”
You hear Tim curse in the background, “I’m at least five minutes out. Think you can hold him off for that long?”
You attempt to steel yourself, “I’ll try my best. Please hurry.”
“Not so confident are you now?” The Arkham Knight’s voice echoes between the two buildings you’re between.
You scoff, not deigning to respond to his taunt.
“You can’t hide there forever.” He continues, his casual arrogance leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s like he already considers you dead.
“I’m assuming we can’t talk about this?” You yell out, wondering if he’ll even be able to hear you.
“Oh, we’re long past talking.” For a second, the red light of his rifle vanishes. You narrow his eyes, what is he planning?
Then you hear the faint familiar clatter of a grenade. Your eyes widen as you launch yourself out of the blast radius. However, you weren’t able to escape it completely, and it sends you skidding near the ledge of the walkway. Forced out of your cover, your eyes flicker to the Arkham Knight. He is propping the rifle against his shoulder, and he tilts his head at you.
“I gave you a warning.” He slower lowers the rifle, preparing to shoot it. Your muscles tense, and you run towards a shield an unconscious militia member left on the floor, raising it at the last second as the Knight sends a bullet straight into the shield, a resounding “CLANG!” nearly making you flinch.
“I remember!” You sneer, raising your shield up again as he sends another bullet your way. Reaching for your Batclaw, you hide it behind the shield. Keep him talking, not shooting. “In case it wasn’t obvious, your threat—” you emphasize the last word, “wasn’t appreciated.”
He chuckles, the sound distorted and wrong. “A shame.” He shoots your shield again, and the second the bullet impacts the metal, you shoot the Batclaw out, yanking the rifle out of his hands. You both watch as it falls to the ground, about fifty feet in front of you.
The two of you stare at each other for another moment, before you lunge for the rifle. He quickly follows suit, jumping onto the walkway with you. You reach the rifle first, but that doesn’t deter him. He lunges toward you, and you side-step to your left. He pivots, grabbing a gun out of its holster before shooting it mere feet away from you. The bullet hits your shield again, and you take the opportunity to unload the rifle, throwing it off the walkway— hundreds of feet below.
The second you release the rifle, he tackles you. The two of you tumble, and you let out a surprised yelp. You attempt to secure your spot on top of him, but he presses his weight into your elbow, nearly snapping it. You wince, hissing in pain. You use your other hand to attempt to maneuver yourself out from underneath him.
He shifts his position, using his knee to pin your neck to the ground. You attempt to push him off, but he only puts more force into your neck.
“Think of this as sparing you even more pain down the line.” He begins slowly, raising his gun to your sternum. “If it makes you feel better, it’s really not personal. Not with you.” He lazily gestures, gun in hand, and all you can focus on is the barrel boring into your soul. You're unable to move underneath him, and it is then that you realize the true gravity of the situation.
You attempt to kick him off of you, but your efforts are futile. The Arkham Knight barely moves at your attempts of escape. “Sure feels personal.” You grit out, coughing again as he presses more weight into his knee.
He shakes his head slowly, “My issue is with him, and I thought that maybe you were smart enough to take my warnings.” The gun pointing at your head doesn’t waver. “However, you’ve gone and taken down dozens of my men tonight single-handedly.” His voice is low, telling you that he is fuming behind that mask. Good.
“You almost sound impressed.” You chuckle sardonically, and he matches the sound.
“At your audacity, perhaps. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He shakes his head thinking about it.
“Clearly, you thought wrong.” You retort.
He hums, “A mistake I will not make again.” You watch as his hand tightens its grasp on the gun. His index finger, slowly putting more pressure on the trigger. You watch as his finger remains frozen on the trigger, unmoving.
You don’t bother to hide your stilted exhale. For a moment, you’re glad that he can’t see the fear in your eyes as he shoots you, your mask conceals the terror that would no doubt be reflected upon its removal.
You watch as he slowly raises the gun to point at your head, and you shut your eyes. You don't want to look at your demise. You don't want to give him the satisfaction.
You feel the Knight shift slightly, and you take a deep breath— likely your final breath. You don't count the seconds, but you get the distinct feeling he is drawing this out.
At the deafening sound of the gun, the weight is thrown off of you, and your vision spins as you immediately open your eyes in shock.
You're not dead.
Frantically, you look around, searching for who saved you. You attempt to stand up, but quickly stumble over yourself, your shoulder crying out in pain. You resign yourself to the ground and watch as Tim uses his staff to shove the Knight off the walkway. You make eye contact with the Knight once last time, and you’re surprised to see him watching you until the very end.
You inhale sharply, attempting to catch your breath as you slowly crawl over to the edge looking over it to see—
Nothing.
He got away, again. Even the rifle you threw below has vanished.
Still scanning the streets below for the Knight, you don’t realize that Tim snuck up behind you. You jump as he kneels down, gently hoisting you up. It’s only at that moment, when he looks down at you in horror that you realize what the strange sensation in your shoulder was.
The Arkham Knight shot you.
The observation is apparent to anybody with eyes, but all you can do is stare at the growing red stain spreading over your suit— staining the material. The pain feel distant, and you tell yourself you can walk it off. You barely register Tim calling out for help over comms. He presses his hands onto your shoulder, and you feel light-headed. All you want to do is lay down and close your eyes, perhaps it’ll make the dizziness go away.
You aren’t sure how many minutes go by, but next thing you know, you’re wince as Bruce slowly sits you up. You somehow have enough energy to realize that you will be getting chewed out for this later on for disobeying him. Given your current circumstances, you can't truly bring yourself to care. It’s not long before you are being put into the backseat of the Batmobile. Tim is still sitting next to you, and you feel a bit more clear, and only one thought enters your mind:
You want Jason.
You want to see Jason.
You don’t want to be out fighting the Knight. You don't want to think about him
You want to see your boyfriend.
You don’t have any tears to cry, and you look up at Tim as a dry sob escapes your mouth. You’re so tired. You hear him mutter some empty promises. Promising it’ll be okay, and that you’re almost there.
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I thought that— I just…” You lean your head against the back. “I didn’t know he’d be there tonight.” You slowly open your eyes to look at Bruce. He doesn’t turn to look at you, nor does he meet your gaze in the rear view mirror.
You shift uncomfortably, Tim still putting pressure on your wound. “You shouldn’t have kept going out on patrol without me knowing. Not without backup ready on the field,” he breaks the silence, “but that’s not my priority right now.”
You nod solemnly, part of you wants to argue with him, but you’re in too much pain to fight back on it. Perhaps when you have more energy. “He…” you swallow, “…was going to shoot me in the head.” Your mouth feels dry.
Tim stiffens next to you, and he can’t meet your eyes. “I… I saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”
You shake your head, offering him a pained smile. “You made it. That’s what matters.” He attempts to mirror you smile, but it looks wrong.
You laugh softly, “You know—” you wince as a burning pain pierces your shoulder, sending burning waves of pain up your next, “It wasn’t even worth the bullet. I still don’t have an idea who this guy is.”
Nobody else laughs with you, not that you were expecting them to.
“You will not be investigating the Knight any longer.” Bruce declares.
You huff, feeling your stomach turn, “Mm…” You think you see him narrow his eyes at you in the rear view mirror. The familiar sign of Leslie’s clinic comes into view, and you exhale in relief. Even if every move you make is painful, you feel better knowing that you’re in safe hands.
You will worry about the consequences of this night later.
The fogginess from your eyes slowly dissipates as you blink.
You hear the soft squeaks of the bats above, the electronic hum of the technology in the cave, and yet there’s no sign of anybody in the cave with you. Frowning, you sit up, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through the wound. “Hello?” You call out, and your voice echoes around the empty cave.
Carefully, you maneuver yourself off the bed, making your way over to the Batcomputer. You hold your shoulder as you slowly walk over. Sitting down, you're about to message Tim or Bruce when dread hits you full force.
You got shot, and you haven’t told Jason.
More accurately: You got shot, and you can’t tell Jason.
Eyes falling on your phone, you hesitantly reach for it. You navigate your phone to his contact.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring—
“Was beginning to worry you forgot about me.” Jason’s voice breaks through all the ambience of the cave. Despite the teasing tone, you can hear the relief in it.
You smack your lips, “I could never.” You swallow, feeling emotional just hearing him. “It’s been a rough night.” Your voice is quiet, and you wince at how small you sound. Your goal is to avoid alerting Jason to your injury.
He’s silent for a beat, “Rough, hm?” He hums. “I’m sorry.” He does sound genuinely apologetic.
You stare through the ground with a strained smile; it’s not like he can see. “It’s not your fault.” You settle into the chair at the Batcomputer.
Jason exhales, “I’m sorry nevertheless.” You can almost hear him trying to figure out what words to say, “I’m sorry that we had to do this.” He adds on.
Heaving a sigh, you slowly lean against the back of the seat. You want to say it’s okay, but really it’s anything but. You never wanted to leave the city, and if Jason found out you stayed despite agreeing otherwise?
You fear the look of betrayal more than his ire.
“…How’s your thing going?” Your attempt at changing the topic doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and you hope he won't comment on it.
“Slower than expected,” you hear him set something metallic down. “I… I’m not sure when I’ll be done.”
You hum, nodding slowly. That was the answer you expected, but it wasn’t the answer you wanted. “You’re safe though?”
There’s an unusually long pause. Your shoulders sag at the lack of response, and you bite back the hiss of pain it sends through the bullet wound. The silence speaks more than any words could.
“Yes.” Jason’s voice is unwavering, but you don’t believe him. Your heart aches to not believe him, but you cannot deny the suspicion that arises from hearing how obstinately he refuses to leave the city.
“You’d tell me if something happened, right?” You ask, and you make sure to keep your tone skepticism free.
You hear him inhale, “Of course.” His words are low. The silence that ensues makes you wonder if he is able to differentiate his own truths from lies.
“Alright,” you relent, and you see a notification pop up on the Batcomputer. Tim must have noticed you are awake now. “I have to go, but be safe, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” His attempt at humor doesn’t land as he likely intended, but you muster up a soft chuckle in spite of it. “I love you.” He continues.
Your smile turns more genuine, “I love you too.” When you look at your screen again, the call has already ended. Setting the phone down, you pull up Tim’s messages on the Batcomputer.
He’s already frowning at the screen the moment you accept the video call. “Hello to you too.” You comment dryly.
“Are you okay? Since when did you get up?” He asks, and you notice he’s back at Panessa Studios. Damn, Bruce is still making him do those blood tests?
You frown, “If you didn’t know when I got up, why did you spam the Batcomputer?”
He waves you off, “I noticed that there was some activity on the network there. I’ve been monitoring it since I left.” Oops.
“Oh,” you nod, “yeah that was me.”
“I sure hope so. I’m not anywhere near the Batcave right now.” Tim crosses his arms, but then his glare softens. “How bad is it?”
You experimentally rotate your shoulder in a circular motion, “Could be worse. Not great, but it’ll have to do. Pain meds are helping.”
Tim sighs, and you hate the wounded look he’s giving you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there faster—”
“Tim, it’s not your fault. I went out there knowing what I could encounter— who I could encounter.” You don’t break eye contact with him. “If you weren’t there, I can only imagine how things could’ve gone.” He winces at your words, and you soften. “I am not upset, Tim. I’m just grateful that you showed up when you could.”
Tim purses his lips into a thin line, and you wish you could reassure him in person. “I… Logically I know that, but—”
Static cuts him off, and both you and Tim turn your attention to the other monitors of your respective computers. “Arkham Knight and militia just south of Bristol! Requesting backup!” The chatter in the background makes it hard to identify what’s going on, but you didn’t need to hear anything else.
Your blood boils hearing his name.
Tim, as if sensing your thoughts, eyes you cautiously. “I can handle it. I’m pretty sure Bruce is handling Two-Face right now.”
You shake your head, attempting to seem casual, “No, no, it’s fine. I got it. You’re busy as it is. I’d feel bad if Bruce was working you to the bone and I made you handle this.”
Tim narrows his eyes at you, “Are you sure? Weren’t you just shot?”
You make a show of rotating your shoulder, ignoring the dull ache that accompanies it. “See? All fine.” You grin at him.
He frowns, “Alright,” he begins reluctantly, “but if anything happens.”
“I will contact you and Bruce, how about that?” You are already moving off camera to go grab your suit. “I’m glad we agree, Tim. Thanks for the back up, bye!” You make a move to hang up before Tim can change his mind. You hold your laugh back as Tim’s astonished expression is the last thing you see before the call ends.
Now, is this a smart move to make? Going after the Arkham Knight fresh off a bullet wound? No. Even you are self aware enough to know that this is an incredibly foolish move, but that doesn’t stop the burning fury and questions you have. Perhaps your curiosity will truly get you killed someday. Putting on your mask, you shut off the Batcomputer.
You can almost hear Bruce’s voice echoing in your head: “This isn’t an investigation, this is an attempt to avenge yourself.” Perhaps the voice has a point because this isn’t just professional interest. It’s personal now. The Knight made it personal. The sound of his name grates against your nerves in a way that leaves you out of breath. With how spread out you all have been, you have no doubt that the Arkham Knight took advantage of that. He probably chose this time to act knowing that you’d all be busy.
He probably didn’t account for you impulsively searching for him, but at this point he should’ve with how many times you’ve met.
Upon arriving at the scene, you frown. It’s practically the same setup as when his men are stationed in those towers, and it feels a bit too predictable. You attempt to look for the Knight, but there’s so many goons that you aren’t sure where to look first. You stay up above them as you continue surveying the ground below, searching for any signs of him.
Instead, you find a shipping container hidden around a corner (courtesy of the goon you followed). Upon reaching it, you narrow your eyes down below. His mask is quite distinct. You imagine that even from a distance, you’d always recognize it.
You use your grapnel gun to get slightly closer, making sure to minimize your movement, lest they hear you.
“—ready for Scarecrow by tonight.” One of the militia henchmen informs the Knight, clipboard in hand.
The Arkham Knight slowly nods, “Excellent. Have the trucks move them.” He gestures off.
The guy looks back between the Knight and the shipment container, “..Are— Is that a good idea? What about the Bat or any of his sidekicks—” You frown, leaning closer to try listen better.
“—The Bat won’t be an issue.” The Arkham Knight sounds really sure of that. “As for his sidekicks?” He slowly turns around before turning his attention up to the ceiling above him. Your heart drops into your stomach. “I would’ve hoped they wouldn’t be foolish to come here alone.” He raises something in his hand, and you realize all too late that it’s a detonator.
You don’t even get a warning before the gargoyle you’re perched on explodes, causing you to fumble as you attempt to save your fall. The Knight doesn’t break eye contact with you, but you’re forced to turn away from him. The first few militia guys who approach you aren’t armed, and you sweep them off their feet, dealing with them as fast as you can.
However, they don’t stop.
It’s only when you realized how outnumbered you are (and outgunned) that you attempt to reach into your belt to reach help. The moment you reach for it, a gunshot ricochets next to you, causing you to flinch.
For a moment everybody is frozen. You aren’t sure who to look at, every direction you turn just shows a sea of the black and red uniforms. Swallowing, you are forced to watch as they part the path for the Arkham Knight. When he reaches you (all too casual for your liking), the henchman behind you strikes the back of your knee, causing you to collapse. You turn around to glare at them, ready to stand up, but they shove the barrel of a rifle onto the back of your head.
Damn. You knew this was stupid going into this, and yet you went through with it anyway. You silently berate yourself before raising your eyes to look up at the Arkham Knight who is now looking down on you. You hate how he looks down on you.
“I did that as a precaution. Can never be too sure with you lot.” He points down to you, circling you slowly, mockingly.
You bite your lip so hard you offhandedly realize that the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth. The synthetic voice sounds like nails on chalkboard, and you find yourself wishing he’d shut up.
“I gotta say, I expected Robin though. I figured you’d be outta commission still.” He stops his pacing, his boots mere feet in front of you.
You sneer, “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, don’t be.” He looks up, nodding to the massive militia squad behind you. You don’t turn your head (the pressure of the rifle’s barrel is starting to feel too real), but you can hear the shuffling footsteps dissipate. By the time they leave, there’s less than five of you in the area. You swallow, meeting the Arkham Knight’s “eyes.”
“I didn’t expect him to be such a coward. Letting his injured friend handle the dirty work out here.” He (not so lightly) shoves your wounded shoulder, and you let out a surprised whimper. The Knight resumes his pacing, and you get slightly dizzy watching him move back and forth.
Scoffing, you attempt to quell the thumping beat in your chest as you steel yourself. “Don’t call him a coward. You don’t even know Robin.” You swallow, attempting to push yourself up off the ground. One of the militia members uses a rifle to pin you back down, and— not wanting to be shot— you reluctantly settle yourself onto the floor.
The Knight pauses his pacing, looking down at you on the ground. He looks at the man with his gun pointing his rifle at your chest, and the man slowly lowers the weapon. The Knight strolls over to you, kneeling down to you, yet not low enough to be eye level. You wonder if he gets some twisted enjoyment looking down on you. You hide your trembling arms away from his view.
“Tim Drake…” He begins slowly, a mere whisper just above your ear.
You blink, “What—”
“He isn’t the first you know. He isn’t even the second.” He props his arms onto his knee, leaning closer to you. Instinctively, you lean away from the man, as if your body has a visceral reaction to his presence. “Do you know who was before him?”
You grit your teeth, “Why the hell should I tell you?” He doesn’t react, and you both are caught in a long staring contest. Neither of you back down, and you hate yourself for being the first one to. “Jason.” You eventually mutter.
Slowly, he nods, “And you are aware of what happened to him?”
You bite your tongue, attempting to look away from his mask. You tilt your head slightly. It could be interpreted as “so-so” but it could’ve just been a flinch. The Knight leans closer, “I need words. Silence doesn't tell me anything but that you lack the knowledge, and I find that hard to believe.”
You exhale, “I don't know everything, but...” You slowly look up to him. “I know that he died.”
The Knight freezes at your statement. His hands clench at his sides, and you half-delusionally wonder if he’s going to try and kill you again.
“Lies.” He spits the words out, and for a moment you are taken aback. “The Dark Knight fed you all lies.”
Your mouth parts, “What is your issue with him?” You scoff, glaring at his mask. “Look— He isn’t perfect, and I’m not always partial to the guy myself, but you’re acting like he’s the devil incarnate.”
A mangled sound comes from the Knight, distorted by his modulator. Frustrated, he stands up, resuming his pacing. He mumbles something to himsef before chuckling sardonically, the sound grating on your nerves, “You’re a fool for returning.” He raises a hand to point to you lazily, “You’re a fool for trusting him. I told you once before that in his eyes, your life is equal to the worth of some criminal roaming the streets.”
He walks back over to you, “Don’t you think if he wanted to be here, he would? He would’ve found you by now?” He throws his hands up casually, “I don’t exactly see him, and if he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike from the shadows?” He leans closer to you, “He’s taking a long time.”
You try not to let his words get to you, “He’s looking for me. He’ll find me.” You glare at the Knight, but even you start to doubt your own words.
The Knight stares at you for a long moment, before he softly continues, “I once thought that too.” His words are low, quiet, only meant for you. The softness in his tone isn’t out of empathy, but out of pity, and it sends an wave of anger up to your throat, waiting to be spoken. The softness isn't mocking, and that irritates you more than any genuine statement the Knight could have half-heartedly mustered up. “Save yourself the trouble, and lose that optimism.”
You grit your teeth, angry tears flooding your eyes, followed by the impulsive decision to headbutt the Knight. It seems you caught him off guard, and he stumbles back slightly. His mask has a large crack in the screen, and you take immense satisfaction watching it glitch. The two militia members behind you kick you back down to the ground. Your jaw and nose echo in a resounding ache as one of them uses the butt of their rifle to hit you.
You can feel the familiar tang of blood fill your mouth, whether it was from the strike or biting your tongue to hard, you aren’t sure. What you immediately notice is that your mask is no longer fitted pristinely to your face. Pieces of it rest on the concrete floor below you, and you scowl at them as if they personally offended you.
You don’t attempt to sneak a glance up to the Arkham Knight, not wanting him to see your face. You don't want to look up while he's still your vicinity. It takes a minute, but once his footsteps become more distant, your eyes flicker up. Head still facing down, you peer through your eyelashes to watch as his figure grows smaller and smaller.
One of the militia soldiers hits you at the back of your neck causing your hood to fall limply off your head. Just great. One of them snickers before attempting to rip the remaining pieces of your mask off your face.
You yelp, attempting to fight him off, but three other soldiers restrict your limbs. Perhaps if you had been in better condition, you could figure out a method of escape, but all you can feel is the utter futility of your situation. Despair rises in your chest. The Knight’s footsteps taunt you as you hear them slowly fade into near silence. “Not so tough without ya mask, ain’t ya?” One of the men snickers, and you’re planted into your spot on the ground, knees digging painfully onto the uneven floor. You continue to scowl, forced to watch these men expose you as he rips your mask off.
They all laugh at your expression, and you can hear them mutter taunts to you. You tune them out, and one of them kicks your back, sending you to the ground, elbows first. The blow aggravates the bullet wound, and you bite back a scream of pain. Hunched over, coughing, you ball up your hands into fists as you look up to the Arkham Knight before he exits the area.
For a moment, the two of you make eye contact, and all you can do is attempt to catch your breath as the men above you continue to taunt you. Their words go unheard by you, but their presence is enough to drive you mad.
The Knight is no longer moving, and— similar to you— is rooted in his spot. You break eye contact with him as the soldier kicks you down again, pinning you with his boot.
“To think I unmasked one of the Bats,” his cocky tone inspires nothing but annoyance in you. You attempt to take a breath, but he presses harder, and your head is pushed right-side down onto the concrete. “I think I’ll be keeping this as a souvenir.” From your peripherals, you can see him pick up your broken mask.
“Oh come on, man! It was a group effort. Split it four ways, we each get a piece—” Something causes him to stop talking. The guy sounds like he begins to choke on air. For a moment, you feel utter relief.
Took Bruce long enough.
Your face is still planted into the ground at an awkward angle, and you use the goon’s distraction to your advantage, grabbing his foot and sweeping him from underneath, causing him to fall next to you. Once floored, you give him a quick strike to the head, making sure he’s knocked out before standing up again. You cough again, rubbing your chest, still feeling the imprint of the soldier’s boot.
“Finally,” you groan, twisting your neck, popping it, “I—” you turn to face Bruce, a small relieved smile on your face.
It falls immediately, for you aren’t met with the familiar silhouette of Batman.
Instead, the Arkham Knight is standing mere feet away from you, a few of his own militia groaning and unconscious on the floor beneath him. He has his guns pointed to the one who pinned you down. You flinch back as the Knight’s gaze meets your own, startled by his appearance. Why did he come back? You thought he left
The two of you stare at each other for a moment, both of you waiting, anticipating.
Slowly, his hand lowers, and your own hand snaps towards your utility belt, Batarang in hand within within milliseconds. At your reaction, he pauses. He is still, too still, and it causes you to panic internally. Whenever you saw him, whether it was in person or on a recording, he was constantly moving. Pacing back and forth, scanning the area, gesturing with his arms. For somebody so enigmatic, his body language was surprisingly expressive.
It makes his current stiffness all the more unnerving.
“You… I…” His voice sounds more subdued than you’ve ever heard, nigh distraught. It’s contrary to everything you’ve encountered with him. The Arkham Knight wasn’t quiet. The Arkham Knight wasn’t soft. Not like this at least. His “soft” words were always quiet taunts, never meant to comfort, only to break. This is the person who shot you with no remorse. This is the person who has pledged himself to kill Batman.
Yet he stands before you, bodies beneath him, speaking in soft tones, soft tones that lack that condescension.
What kind of tactic is this?
“If you have something to say, just spit it out.” You haven't lowered your hand. The Batarang glints dangerously in your dominant hand, perfectly within the Knight’s view.
“You…” he begins again, “You aren’t— When—”
You furrow your eyebrows. Add stuttering to the list of odd phenomena with the Arkham Knight that you aren’t entirely sure how to deal with.
“Oh, I get it.” You sneer at him, “You see my face, and you want to catch me off guard by acting like we’re supposed to be cool—”
“You said you left the city.” He cuts you off, and your momentary anger is replaced by pure unadulterated confusion.
You blink dumbly at him, “What?”
He shakes his head slowly, guns dropping to his side, but you don’t let your guard down. “You—” he shakes his head more aggressively, as if trying to shake a thought away. “You said you left the city.” He repeats, turning up to face you.
You furrow your eyebrows, “When did I ever tell you that?” Your palms feel sweaty in your hands, and you grip the Batarang tighter, worried it’ll slip between your fingers.
“I checked your location— I saw—” he sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself, “It said you were out in Central City.”
Your stomach feels queasy the longer he continues to speak. The unease causing you to shift restlessly on your feet. There was only one person who you gave that location to. A horrifying thought enters your mind, but you refuse to consider it, immediately shutting down the idea. “And… You know this how?” You attempt to sound indifferent, but you can hear the shift in tone of your own voice.
He remains frozen for a moment before he says your name; it’s so quiet you wonder if you even heard it correctly.
Your chest shudders, “You know me.” You don’t want it to be true.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t move to deny your statement— your accusation.
You swallow, “Say something.” You attempt to keep the break out of your voice, and the Batarang in your hand involuntarily lowers.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a step closer to you, and as if setting a switch off, you immediately raise the Batarang again. He freezes mid-step, and when you don’t throw the weapon, he resumes his approach. You keep your eyes trained on his mask, watching as the distance between you both dwindles faster than preferred. By the time he stops, he is mere inches from your face, and the tip of your Batarang is pressed weakly against his chest.
You’re breathing heavily at this point, yet you don’t feel physically exhausted. You force yourself to take a deep breath, but your chest shudders at the action. “Who are you?” Your voice is a low whisper, and your question, a plea for him to deny every thought racing through your mind.
Your hands don’t move as he slowly raises his own, reaching toward your face. Your breathing halts as he pauses before gently running a gloved finger against your jaw. Your eyes flicker over his form— unsure where to look— waiting for the attack. Why are you allowing this? The Knight is messing with you— he’s going to use your distress to his advantage.
Yet you are frozen to your spot, and something tells you that he is too. You are both frozen in front of one another.
His hand brushes down to the tattered shoulder of your suit, grazing lightly over the injury that he caused. Despite attempting to hide your wince, the Arkham Knight seems to sense your pain, and pulls his hand back slightly at your first sign of pain. You can’t look at his mask, but you can feel him staring at you. His gaze is piercing, as if waiting for you to start the conversation.
“No.” You deny, shaking your head as you attempt look down— away from his mask— away from him. “No, you're— you’re not…” you trail off, the words dying on your tongue. You attempt to push him back weakly, but he doesn’t move. “…You’re not Jason.” Your eyes glisten with tears as you look up to stare at his mask.
Hesitantly, as if afraid, the Knight raises his hand up, pressing his fingers just below his ear as the mask releases a hissing sound before it lifts up.
Despite having already reached the dreadful conclusion, you sharply inhale upon seeing Jason beneath the mask you have come to loathe.
You let out a sound that almost sounds like a whimper mixed with a sob. Before, you could at least pretend that the Arkham Knight wasn’t a real person. He was just another foe that had to be defeated. Seeing a person underneath all of that. It changes things.
You try and scour him for hints of your boyfriend, of Jason. Instead, you see the mask resting atop his head. You see the armor covering every inch of his skin. The holsters at his sides. The “A” in the center of his chest.
Looking at Jason now, you can’t see your boyfriend. You see the Arkham Knight.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him, as you keep your eyes shut. If you close your eyes long enough you can pretend that he isn’t there.
Then the Knight says your name, and it sounds like Jason. No longer is the distorted voice mocking your every action. Instead, it’s your Jason, calling out for you. Every cell in your body screams to you that the man in front of you is Jason. That he’d never hurt you. Your loving boyfriend adores you more than anybody in the world. He would sooner strike himself down before doing anything to hurt you.
You slowly turn your head to the healing scar at your shoulder. Jason The Arkham Knight follows your gaze to the injury, “I… I never knew that… You know I would never—” he turns his gaze up to you, desperate “you know I would never have done if it I knew. I thought— I never wanted—” he lets out a hurried exhale, saying your name again.
“Please, please look at me.” He begs, raising a hand to your face, but at your glare at him, and he hesitantly lowers it, as if unsure what to do with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” His voice a broken plea for forgiveness. “I’m so, so sorry. I would take it back if I could—”
“You shot me.” You cut him off, voice sounding more stable than you feel. “You were going to shoot me in the head.” You raise a hand to wipe the tears overflowing your eyes.
“No!” He yells out, and you stiffen up. His hurt expression reminds you of Jason so much, that you force yourself to look away again. “No, no. I didn’t want to actually hurt you.”
You narrow your eyes, disbelief evident in your gaze. “You said that I blew my ‘only warning.’” You scoff, but the sounds more pained than mocking, “You placed that gun against my body with your finger on the trigger. You were ready to shoot.”
He scrunches his eyes tight, “I was just trying to scare you— I didn’t actually intend to kill you. I... I didn't even intend to shoot you.” Your eyes slowly lower to his holsters before moving back up to his imploring expression.
“Then why did you shoot me? Why did you go searching for me with a rifle?” Your eyes burn as you point an accusing finger at him.
He looks down, unable to meet your eyes for the first time. “I… My issue was with him. You were dismantling my operations,” he swallows, “I had to send a message to him that I wouldn’t tolerate any interference. I knew he wouldn’t relent.” He shuts his eyes, before opening them, steeling himself for his next words. “However, if I threatened you or Robin?” He sounds pained, “If I showed him that I wasn’t messing around… Then maybe I could finally catch the Bat, catch Bruce. It’s stupid now. I shouldn’t have— I…” He slowly trails off, eyes frantically looking over you.
You stare at him for a moment, and hesitantly he attempts to look up— almost as if waiting for your permission. “You… You know Bruce.” You think out loud, Jason don’t respond. “You’re… You’re that Jason.” The realization dawns on you. You had been so focused on him being your Jason, that you didn't even consider he could be that Jason. He meets your eyes for the first time, slowly nodding.
“I…” It made sense now. Jason’s grudge against Batman, the Knight’s knowledge of how he operates— knowing his weaknesses. Jason didn’t just know Batman. He was Robin. “…never knew.” You clench your fists.
He huffs, and it’s somehow the most “Jason” and the most “Arkham Knight” he has sounded this whole conversation. “Yeah, that… doesn’t surprise me.” His voice trails off, quiet, but with rage bubbling beneath.
Neither of you say anything, and all you do is stare at each other. Slowly you push yourself away from Jason, and he doesn’t move to stop you. He watches as you kneel to grab the pieces of your broken mask. He starts to lower himself as well, intending to help most likely, and you send him a pointed look. He stops, slowly straightening up, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his expression.
Before, you’d have fought tooth and nail just to catch a glimpse of the Arkham Knight, to be able to see his face. You expected fury underneath, a sneering expression built out of personal grudges and vengeance.
Now?
You find yourself wishing he was never unmasked. The despair of seeing Jason’s face is worse than any bullet to the chest could’ve brought you. You grab the last piece of your mask before starting to walk away from Jason.
“You’re leaving?” Jason sounds as if he’s preparing to follow you. His hand twitches as if he wants to reach out to you.
You grit your teeth, “Are you going to stop me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. At his silence, you turn to face him, the weariness in your gaze evident. He looks as if you struck him, mouth open, and for a moment you wonder if you broke him. You don’t say any of that, simply choosing to raise an eyebrow.
“Of course not.” He responds, his voice nearly inaudible. He isn’t moving, but he is leaning forward, as if he wants to be closer to you, yet he doesn’t reach for you. His hands lay limp at his sides.
You stare at him for a moment before turning away from him again. After a beat of silence, you think that this is the end of the interaction, but then he speaks again. “Is this it?” He breaks the silence, and you freeze.
“What?” You ask, and your voice sounds exhausted. Despite that fatigue, your alarm at hearing his words is evident.
Jason shifts awkwardly on his feet, and it makes him look so small despite him being anything but. “Are you going to leave?” He asks, and it sounds so helpless and utterly pitiful. You hate that you’re the one causing him to use that tone. Desolate and expectant. As if he isn’t surprised you’re leaving.
“I’m… I need to think.” You respond, tilting your head away from him. “My judgment is…” you loosely wave your hand around, “When you’re involved, I can’t—” you struggle to find the words, “I have to get out of here to think.” You land on, swallowing.
He doesn’t react initially, but then he hesitantly starts again. “I meant are you… are we..?” He trails off, swallowing down the words. He inhales, and you see his chest shudder slightly as it rises.
“Jason,” you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him. The anger floods out of your body, replaced by anguish. “I need to process this.” You hesitantly sneak a glance to him. “I’ll return, but I can’t do this right now.” You purse your lips, shaking your head.
“And how long will that take?” He asks softly, and he looks so pained, so hurt. Part of you wants to reassure him, to go back to him. That was all you wanted for days. “Do you intend to return, or—” he chuckles humorlessly, “or…” he repeats, trailing off, his already soft tone becoming inaudible. The implication is obvious to both of you.
“Jay,” you plead, “don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, please.” You open your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, calming your racing heart. “You know I don’t want this.” You turn to face him before quickly averting your eyes back to the ground.
“Really?” His words sound disbelieving, and you wince at the tone. “If you don’t want this, then don’t go.” He walks up to you, and hesitantly grabs your palm laid at your side. “Just…” you watch as his lip trembles, nearly imperceptible, “Just don’t leave… Don’t leave me, please.”
You finally look up from the ground to him. His plea is desperate and only meant for you. To think that the same man begged you to leave the city is now pleading for you to stay with him. His words are soft, but the weight of them was never valued in their volume. He is breathing heavily, but you doubt it’s from physical exertion. The brawl had ended what must’ve been ages ago. His eyes follow your every moment, as if trying to predict your response based purely on eye contact.
“Jason,” you start and your voice cracks slightly, “It’s not that easy. I’m not— I don’t want to leave you. That's never what I’d want.” You raise a hand to his head, eying him as you carefully grab the mask off the top of his head. He doesn’t stop you. “I just…” You look down at the mask in your hands, the Arkham Knight’s mask. “I wasn’t… It was unexpected.”
He remains silent, and you see his jaw clench. Your shoulders fall slightly as you shift the mask into your offhand. “Give me a day or two… We can meet at the apartment or wherever you decide. I just need a little bit of time.” You thoughtlessly run your fingers over the mask before offering it back to him. “We need time, whether you think so or not.”
Jason looks down at it before looking back up at you. Slowly, he grabs it, “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.” He repeats his words from earlier.
You exhale, slowly blinking, “I know, Jay.”
“No,” he grounds, frustrated, “you don’t sound like you believe it.” He clutches the mask so tightly you see it tremble. “I never intended for you to get shot. That’s not how we planned it.”
“I believe you, Jay.” You offer him a strained smile. You do believe him. It’s hard not to when he’s looking at you as if your opinion is the only one that matters. You believe that he never intended for you to get shot, that he never wanted you to get shot.
That doesn’t change the fact that it happened though, and this revelation will be no small obstacle to overcome. You can’t imagine he doesn’t feel some sort of betrayal at finding out you’ve been working with Bruce for the past few nights, lying to him. You may have been the one to get physically hurt, but you can imagine— in fact, you can see the emotional toll it’s taking, not just on yourself, but on him. No matter how much he may insist you needn’t leave, you doubt that he doesn’t need time to process this too.
“I believe you.” You reassure him.
No matter how much you love him, belief doesn’t change the past.
The next couple days pass by with an aching slowness, tension taut as if waiting for an inevitable snap. You find yourself awaiting for it to crumble down upon you, but Jason adhered to you. He didn’t contact you, and despite telling him to not message you, you felt a pit at the bottom of your stomach every time you checked your phone only to not see his name. It left an uneasy weight on your chest, and you kept telling yourself that you both needed this. Not a break, per se, but at least some time to understand the consequences of both of your actions.
Your train of thought inevitably led to one question: where did this leave you both?
It wasn’t as easy to answer as what you may suppose.
The part of you so blindly in love with Jason says that this changes nothing. Even when Jason was actively the Arkham Knight, he never treated you— the real you— any differently. If you wanted to be blind once again, perhaps you both could pretend.
Of course, that’s naive, and dangerous in more than one way.
There’s no way you’d be able to ignore that facet of him. You doubt he could hardly ignore you going out masquerading into the night either. Best case scenario, you two would ignore each other out on the field. It’s not even a good case, yet it is better than having to fight with Jason. Even if you try to ignore each other, it would be downright impossible given Gotham's current state. Bruce would catch on immediately, and it’d create a whole other slew of problems.
You’d reached your conclusion on the afternoon leading to the second night. You’d pulled out your phone, and texted Jason for the first time since the night of the reveal. He responded within seconds (you were not counting), and the two of you agreed to meet at the apartment tonight.
You’d gone on dates many a time throughout your relationship with Jason. The first few were filled with that fluttering feeling in your chest, the giddiness of thinking you found the one. You had felt nervous, but excited.
Now, you feel that nervousness tenfold, but with zero of the excitement. No matter how well this could go, you can’t help but wonder how different things could be. Why did you have to be helping Bruce? Why did Jason have to be helping Scarecrow? Why did he have to be the Arkham Knight?
They were fruitless questions, more what-if’s to add to the growing list of regrets you have.
You can’t help but feel that both of you would’ve been happier if you weren’t who you are. Would ignorance be better than the guilt you feel churning in your gut? You whisper a lie to Tim, telling him you have business to attend to tonight— unavoidable. He frowns, but doesn’t question it. You wonder how he’d react to finding out that you are the one dating the Arkham Knight.
You try desperately to bridge the connection between the two: Jason and the Arkham Knight. If you think hard enough, and reflect on the footage of your meeting for the millionth time, perhaps you can find some similarities. Idiosyncrasies that you would’ve never connected between the two.
The longer you mulled over that footage the longer you realized that they were never separate. Jason is just as real as the Arkham Knight is. They aren’t mutually exclusive. Jason may have been real in different ways, but both of them are real. Jason shares his feelings with the Knight, and the Knight shares his feelings with Jason. They’re equal, and somehow they aren’t opposite. If anything they feed into each other.
It was yet another thing to add to your list of regrets. You had initially separated the two in your head, Jason and the Arkham Knight. The Arkham Knight could not love you because he is not Jason. Jason could love you because he is not the Arkham Knight. It wasn’t a fair distinction to make because Jason does love you, and you know that. He loves you even when he wears that mask and he loves you without it. Putting on a mask doesn’t change that.
Perhaps your first mistake was assuming that it did.
By the time you get there, he’s already waiting in your shared apartment. You walk to the living room, and despite everything that's happened, you feel glad to see him. It’s the first time you’ve seen each other since the revelation. He looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on the bullet wound he caused. You can’t tell if he’s attempting to be obvious, or if he really can’t tell he is staring. Either way, you adjust your clothes to cover the bandages around it. He turns his attention away from you, back to the coffee table he was staring into.
Neither of you want to be the first one to speak, and it’s painfully apparent. The silence is suffocating, and neither one of you act to allow the room to breathe. Eventually, you suck it up and break it.
“You’re here.” His head snaps up to yours as if he wasn’t expecting your voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon.”
He pauses before answering, “I never left.” His voice is rough, raw, and strained. You can’t tell if it’s from overuse or underuse.
You frown, “You stayed here?” You're slightly taken aback by the revelation. He stayed even when you had left? “Even when planning…” you gesture your hand loosely around you.
He shakes his head, “No… God, no, I didn’t want you involved in that stuff.” He shakes his head profusely.
“Bit too late for that now.” You reply dryly, barely louder than a whisper.
Jason doesn’t respond to that comment, “Why’d you come early if you weren’t expecting me here?” He sits up straighter, turning back to look at you.
You blink at him before slowly shrugging, you begin to pace the room. “I don’t know… I wanted to see if I’d find anything that would’ve clued me in sooner. Closure, I suppose."”
“Closure?” He repeats, sputtering. “That… You’re making it sound final.”
You sigh, “Jason…”
He furrows his brows, “Is Bruce making you do this?” He asks softly, standing up. He sounds like he understands, as if he’s been in your position before. “We can… We can just leave. You don’t have to listen to him.” He walks over to you, grabbing your hands.
You open your mouth to speak, but your mouth runs dry. He takes this as an opportunity to continue. “We can leave Gotham. Forget Bruce. Forget Scarecrow. Forget everything going on here.”
His words are a whisper into your ear, for a moment you don’t register the panic hidden underneath.
The offer is tempting, so tempting. You feel yourself faltering, wondering if this is the right decision to make. Could you ditch everything here? Could you leave Gotham and— realistically— never look back? You’d never be able to look any of your friends in the eye again. How could you look at Tim, Dick, Barbara, or even Bruce knowing that you ditched them out of fear of facing reality?
“Jason,” you begin slowly, “it’s not that easy.” You squeeze his hand.
“It can be. I can get us out of the city within the hour.” His eyes bore into your own. “Just tell me to, please.” He squeezes your hand back. The gesture isn’t comforting, not to you. It’s not a gesture born out of grounding you, but out of fear. Fear that if he let go, you might never return. “Tell me anything, but I—” he exhales, “I can’t do this silence anymore. Just talk to me.”
You open your mouth, the words are on your lips. The desire to stay with Jason is overwhelming. Your lips part, and you let out a shaky exhale.
“Jason, I can’t ask you to do that.” You look down, focusing on your intertwined hands. The scars on his hands make so much sense now, and hesitantly you raise your hand to gently caress them. Jason watches you the whole time, and he looks conflicted by your gesture.
“You can.” He nods obstinately, “Please ask me to do this.”
“Jason, I don’t think—” you force yourself to look to the ground, away from his distraught expression, “—this is a good idea…”
He doesn’t react immediately, yet you know he heard you. He can’t not hear you, your inches apart.
He says your name, “Did Bruce ask you to do this?” He repeats his question from earlier gravely, and you shake your head.
“No, no,” you sneak a glance up to him, “I haven’t even told him.”
“So why?” He sounds wounded with an aspect of bewilderment thrown in. “We don’t have to break up.”
You swallow, shaking your head, fighting the tears. You tried to avoid that phrase: “break up.” Digging your nails into your palm, you sigh, “Jason, this isn’t going to stop anytime soon. We’re on opposite sides of this—”
“And you’re not willing to work past that?” His eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are filled with utter confusion.
“Jason, I don’t think we can.” You mirror his expression. “I mean— Look where it got me.” Your eyes flicker down to your shoulder.
He sucks in a sharp breath, “That’s— That’s not… I would take it back in a heartbeat if I could. You know it was a mistake. I was caught by surprise. I never meant to actually hurt you, even when I didn’t know it was you. I—”
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but it’s just proving my point.” You shake your head. “We won’t be on the same side of this battle. It’s dangerous for both of us if we’re out there fighting each other.”
“You wouldn’t have to fight me. I wouldn’t allow them to hurt you.” He grounds out, teeth gritting.
“If they hurt Bruce though? If they hurt Tim? Dick? Barbara?” You shake you head, “Jay, I won’t be able to avoid fighting your forces if any of them are in danger.” You squeeze his hand again. “This—” you gesture between you both, “won’t work for as long as we’re on opposing sides. We’re too close to the situation, too each other. It’s going to get one of us hurt or worse.”
Shakily, you raise a hand up to his cheek, gently avoiding the ‘J’ scar. His pupils are dilated, and you can see your teary reflection in them. You blink away the tears, “Perhaps, perhaps when this all dies down… Maybe we can make it work again, but with the current circumstances…” You turn your gaze to the window, looking down over the city, filled with drones patrolling, buildings aflame, and the familiar echo of not-so-distant gunshots. “Jason, we can’t continue this right now, and I think you know this.” His eyes stay trained on your own as you gently lower your hand from his face.
“I… You’re choosing them and not us?” He doesn’t meet your eyes, and he angles himself so you can’t read him.
“Jason— No— How could— I’m not choosing anybody. I’m…” You swallow, “I’m not going to be going out for patrol until this is over.”
His eyes snap up, “You’re… quitting?”
Dubiously, you nod. “At least until this is over. I can’t— I wouldn’t be able to make a decision out on field if I had to pick a side. I’m a liability.” It’s a lie, and you aren’t sure if he caught it. You know what decision you’d make. You know who’d you choose, and you know you’d only exacerbate the situation if you continued to aid Bruce. “I’m sorry, Jason.” You meet his eyes, the tears are silently falling down your face. You rub them away, attempting to pull away for the last time when he grabs you, luring you in.
You fall against his body, and he tilts your head to face him. Neither of you say anything as he leans down and kisses you. It’s slow, lingering, as if both of you are savoring what very well may be your final moments together. Jason raises his hand to wipe away the remainder of your tears as he deepens the kiss. It’s not sensual, but it contains desire. It’s the desire to stay in each other’s presence for just a little more, drawing out what inevitably must end. It’s the desire to spend just one more minute in each other’s presence. Neither of you pull away, and you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around him, leaning closer to him. You can feel Jason's shoulders relax under your touch.
The moment is drawn out, but that doesn’t make it artificial. If anything, it only makes the reality set in. Neither of you are eager to pull apart, and you offhandedly realize you should’ve. Perhaps it would make this easier.
Despite everything, one thing your heart and mind could agree on was that you still want Jason. No matter how much you’re pushing him away with your current actions, you still want him. Even after learning of who he is, you still want him. You don’t ever think you can stop wanting him.
Perhaps that’s why you don’t pull away, not for a long time.
Inevitably, one of you has to pull away for air, and Jason continues to lean closer to you, as if chasing your lips for just one more kiss. You open your eyes, and he is panting heavily as he shifts his gaze from your lips up to your eyes. Neither of you say anything as you look down to his lips. Both of you craving the other, yet unable to do anything about it. You gnaw the inside of your lip as you pull away. None of you say anything. You stare at each, and his gaze is heavy like a promise. A promise to return to each other one day.
For that moment, he was your Jason again, and you feel content in knowing that one day, he may be yours once more.
Both of your eyes linger on one another as you exit the apartment. You’re unhurried, almost as if you’re attempting to burn this memory into the back of Jason’s mind. He supposes that you do an acceptable job burning it into his memory. The kiss you shared is vividly painted in his brain, and he doesn’t think it’ll be leaving his thoughts anytime soon.
He okay with that.
He watches the door as if hoping that by some miracle you might turn around and take back every decision you made. He doesn’t wait long, but there was the tiniest bit of optimism.
He walks back to your shared bedroom. Opening the closet, he reaches for the duffel bag inside. Upon unzipping it, his mask is atop the pile of his armor. He slowly grabs it, the pulsing light emanating from it illuminates the otherwise dark room.
You had said that maybe in the future it could work again. That being on opposite sides is dangerous, and Jason knows that logically, you’re correct.
He’s never been logical when it came to you.
He looks out the window, seeing the city reflected below. You were right. Both of you are too deep into this situation. He knows you can fight— he’s seen you fight, but knowing that you’d be out there on the field with unaccounted variables, variables he can’t control? With the current state Gotham is in? It’s a wonder how Bruce thought it was acceptable to be going out alone against the wolves of Gotham. It’s one thing for Bruce to endanger his own life, it’s another thing to endanger yours.
The thought sends a shiver through him that Scarecrow never could. To think that he could get his hands on you if Jason wasn’t careful. Jason banishes the idea from his mind, for he’d never allow that to happen. He’s already failed you once, and he will not be repeating that mistake.
Perhaps, one day you will reunite. Perhaps one day, he will be able to hold you in his arms once again, untroubled by the headache of Gotham. Perhaps one day, he won’t have to worry about Bruce, the enemies you've made, or any criminals of Gotham itching to get one over his head and take you.
Today isn’t that day. It won’t be tomorrow either. There’s a possibility it may not come for years.
But Jason is patient. He's been patient.
He will wait.
However, he has the power to expedite your return. He holds the mask up before gently placing it onto the bed as he grabs the rest of his armor, slowly putting it on.
He can get out there right now, and make those years apart turn to months. He can make those months turn to weeks. If he tries hard enough, perhaps he can make those weeks into days. If finishing his business with Scarecrow is what it will take to be able to feel your touch upon his skin once more?
Jason adjusts his holsters before grabbing his guns, sliding them into place. He reaches for the mask, placing the familiar weight onto his head. He presses the button against his neck, and it lowers onto his face. He takes in a deep breath.
He will do what it takes.
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Yes I’m aware I said that I would be posting that one Jason fic ft. Damian idea next. No, I will NOT apologize. I had this idea in mind ever since I finished the games. For those of you who’ve been following my updates. THIS is the fic that I’ve been unsure about. I hope I did AK!Jason justice. I adore him so much.
Anyway, I wasn't sure whether to tag this as ooc. The way I see it, Jason may love you, but at the same time he did go and commit all those crimes in the game. He was out for BLOOD in Arkham Knight (at the very least he wanted Bruce specifically dead), and I wanted to make sure that was evident here even if he loves reader. Honestly, I could go into a whole deep dive of why I wrote him the way I did. I have SO many thoughts about him.
ANYWAY, this is already long enough as it is, I hope you enjoyed the fic! :D
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Jason Todd x Female Reader, Dick Grayson x Female Reader (Unrequited)
This can be read as a standalone! However, if you want to check out the other parts click here (personally I’d recommend at least part 1):
Part 1 Alternate Ending (Dick Grayson)
Summary:
There was a point where you liked Dick Grayson as a kid, but you knew he never reciprocated those feelings, so you forced yourself to move on. When Dick finds out years later, he can't help but feel conflicted. Struggling with his own feelings, he wonders if he is too late to figure out his own. Do you still love him, or does he need to win your heart back? In theory, this shouldn't be too difficult.
However, he doesn't realize that there may be competition for your affection.
Word Count: 26.6k
Warnings/Tags: Lots and lots of banter and dialogue, kinda slow, happy ending for Reader and Jason, not for Dick lol, premise sounds kinda angsty but there’s lots of silly stuff in it, breaking and entering, inaccurate lock picking, just generally expect grammar errors it’s too long to be perfect lol
A/N: I'll make a separate post. This fic reached Tumblr's post length limit lmao. All I will say is that my requests are now open! Check out the rules and send a few :D! Okay enjoy :)))
DC Masterlist
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Tonight wasn't going as planned, but to be fair, it rarely did.
Jason had noticed that recently, the drug trade throughout the city had spiked. While it had initially appeared in Crime Alley, it didn't take long for it to spread throughout Gotham entirely. He wasn't sure who exactly was responsible for it. After all, the list of potential suspects was a mile long.
He'd been stationed in Coventry, attempting to get scraps of information. After days of dead ends, the city took pity on him and threw him a bone. Apparently, a truck shipment was supposed to be heading through the Upper East Side around midnight. The dealer he questioned told him that it'd be leaving from a warehouse a couple blocks down. He set off without hesitation. They didn't expect him. This could be the best shot for him to catch them off guard.
It wasn't long before he found it. He slipped in unnoticed (nobody ever thinks to look up), kneeling on top of the truck with no issues.
"Don't stop for nothin'." Goon One gestured towards his buddy in a "I'm watching you" motion.
"Hm, what about the Bats?" The other guy, Goon Two, crossed his arms, nose scrunching at the first guy's words. He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out onto his face.
Goon One swat the smoke away, "We should have somebody distracting them up by Newtown or Crime Alley, somewhere in that area. I can't remember. Truthfully, we're just trying to get Red Hood off our ass for a night." Goon One climbed into the truck's driver's seat.
"I'm telling you! It wasn't worth dealing to them kids to get his attention on us." Goon Two threw his hands up, tossing the cigarette onto the ground and stomping out the ashes. He ran his fingers through his hair, visibly distressed. Jason absently noted that both of them were easily identifiable. They had no masks, and one of them had visible tattoos of a dragon curled on the side of his neck. Amateur mistake, but Jason wasn't complaining. It made his job a whole lot easier.
He felt the truck shake as it started up. He carefully crouched towards the front of it, looking down the windshield to see the goons still in there. Their voices are muffled, but they are so loud that Jason can still hear them. Somebody doesn't know how to use their inside voice.
"Relax, man." They started to pull out of the warehouse, and Jason made sure to keep his balance on the truck. "It'll be a clean job tonight."
Goon Two scoffed, "Yeah! I'm sure you'll be saying that when Hood comes crashing down onto our windshield." Jason smirks under his helmet, these guys have no fucking idea.
"Christ, dude, you act like he's out for your hide specifically!" They started pulling onto the main road. Jason latched his hands onto the corners of the vehicle, securing himself to it.
"I'm telling you! He's gonna know it was me who was dealing to those kids by Brentwood!"
"Can he blame us though? Those kids pay up." They turn onto a different street. Jason scanned the area, not as much traffic as the main road. If he's gonna bust them, now is the golden opportunity. He adjusts his jacket, preparing for impact.
Inevitably, they slow down. Just before they come to a stop he decides to act. He uses the boost of momentum to propel himself onto the windshield, shattering it.
"HOLY SHIT!" Goon One presses on the gas, swerving to the side, nearly slamming Jason into a nearby store. Luckily, he moves off the vehicle before they get that chance.
"How'd you know I was gonna go for the windshield?" Jason called out, smirking as he loaded his Glock with rubber bullets.
"Dude, DRIVE—"
"YOU DON'T THINK I'M TRYING?!" Goon One snapped back, attempting to reverse the truck away from the massive dent in the (now-decimated) store.
Jason strolls casually over to the truck, knowing it won't get very far. The shattered glass beneath his feet clinks under his boots as he slowly approaches the vehicle. He doesn't get too close though because—
"OH FUCK!" Goon Two cried out as the vehicle was propelled upward by an explosion, causing it to land on its side. The entire back half of the truck was bathed in bright incandescent flames, but— Jason noted— it hadn't spread to the front yet.
Jason saunters over to the front, noting the lack of a windshield. He tilted his head down the side of the tilted vehicle to see the two goons still inside, coughing. Hastily, they unbuckled themselves and crawled through the shattered glass, garnering sharp cuts with each movement. Eventually, they distanced themselves from the burning vehicle, laying sprawled, face up, and eyes closed on the pavement. Then they open them, only to be greeted with his body towering over their own.
Jason gives them a malicious smirk behind his helmet. "Hey, I don't think you can park here." He gestures his thumb towards the flaming truck.
Goon One's brow turned down, his lips scrunched up in such a disdainful glower that Jason was almost impressed. He spat towards Jason's boot, missing it. "Fuckin' bastard. Thought you was busy in Crime Alley."
"Well, now I'm busy here." Jason took his boot, placing it over the guys ear. "Now, how about we talk? I gotta few questions for you two."
"Hold it right there, Hood." Jason turned, unsurprised by the new voice, towards the dozen of armed men surrounding him.
"I'll take that as a no." Jason pressed down harder onto the guy's head, the goon let out a small whimper at the pressure.
"How about you leave my buddy alone, and we'll make this quick." One of the new guys said, turning his pistol's safety lock off.
Now, Jason isn't stupid. While he knows he could take these guys down, he also knows he's extremely outnumbered. Typically, anybody would say that in this case, the odds are against him.
He knew something like this would likely happen. He can't imagine that transporting such precious cargo would go without safety precautions. He realized early on that whatever caused this spike in the drug trade wouldn't vanish over night; he had to play the long game.
While intercepting the truck was a bonus, the real point of this was to find the base of operations. It was to find where this started and who they reported to. It's why he went out of his way to go get a special smoke bomb from Bruce.
Okay, he didn't actually ask Bruce, but that's besides the point. He had gone into the cave a couple weeks ago, not knowing anybody would be there, let alone you. Jason immediately recognized you, though. There was a point in time where all Dick would do was rave about you. It was honestly a little annoying, but it was all worth it the moment he cut you off in the middle of your introduction. The way your mouth parted in surprise, like a fish out of water. He chuckled at the thought.
Anyway, you being there didn't stop him from completing his objective. He was already there, so he wasn't going to turn around because you were hanging around. If anything, he was glad he ran into you as opposed to literally anybody else. At least your questions he could handle (as nosy as they were).
The smoke bombs he wanted to take were special because they expelled nanoparticles into the air. Anybody exposed would be coated in them, and could thus be tracked when isolated on one of Bruce's satellites. They wore off after a week or two, but they'd get the job done. Jason knew that Bruce had them, and he grabbed it specifically for this mission. With so many people surrounding him, one of them was bound to end up in an important location, one that he could track.
He had taken them back to one of his warehouses weeks ago in the box you provided. While he was there he had also restocked on some of the gadgets he was low on. He already made an effort to show up at the cave, might as well make the most of it.
Jason grabbed the smoke bomb, hidden in one of his pockets. He kept it out of view before he reached to pull the pin—
Wait, this was one of the normal ones.
Trying not to show his alarm, he subtly pats himself down as the other guy continues to blab about who knows what. He doesn't feel it anywhere on him. Fuck, he could've sworn he grabbed it. He tries to think back to where he left it… The box… Then he realized.
Shit… you were right.
—
"Go left," you tap your finger on the desk of the Batcomputer as you watch the purple and red dot— Spoiler and Red Robin— move across Gotham. "Your other left." You correct them as you watch the dots move away from the crime.
For the past couple weeks, you had been practically begging Bruce to let you be useful in some manner. After all, you already spend so much time with them, why not just add you to the team?
Okay, that was a bit of a reach, but you argued that even if you aren't a skilled fighter or trained assassin, you can always help on comms. You had gotten Babs to vouch for you, and finally Bruce relented, saying that you could help only when Babs is on comms with you to help. You thought it was a little counterproductive considering Babs could be out there as Batgirl instead of being forced to babysit you as Oracle, but you knew you needed the training. Perhaps one day you'd get good enough for Bruce to let you work on your own with comms.
"What do you see? There's no cameras I can access nearby." You ask, cycling through all nearby cameras at the crime scene. All of the available ones are out of range. You'd have used the cameras on Steph or Tim, but that's not something Babs has taught you to use yet.
"Looks like a group of four thugs, all around the same height, like 5'11? They are covered head to toe in all black. Each of them has a balaclava on. It looks like they're robbing a…" Tim hesitates, "sandwich… store? One of the guys is attempting to break into a car parked on the curb."
"Are they hungry or something?" Steph whispers.
You frown as you look at cameras in the area, noting that a nearby building is burning down. You look back at their colored dots on the map of Gotham. "Not hungry, just panicked. There's a building burning on the seventeenth floor two blocks down from you. Looks like an explosion went off. You guys think you can handle that?"
"We'll be fine, one of us will deal with the building while the other goes after the sandwich guys." Steph proposes. "I'll go after the sandwich guys."
"That's objectively easier— whatever, guess I'll see you then." Tim hums frustrated, you watch as their dots separate on the screen.
"You're doing pretty good." Babs suddenly speaks, causing you to jolt. You had decided to make a specific channel for your work to be on. It wasn't very practical, but it meant that there was a backup in case the main one ever got leaked.
"Thanks." You huff, this was stressful.
"Might wanna send some backup to Red Robin though, it looks like that fire spread." She notes. You look at one of the cameras near it, and— yep, wow that spread really fast.
You make sure that Tim can hear you before you speak, you tend to make sure you're muted unless they actively need you. After all, it'd probably be distracting to hear casual conversation in the background while you're fighting.
"Red Robin, do you need backup?"
Tim breathes heavily, "That'd be nice!" You hear the building start to collapse in the back of his audio. "If I can get to the heart of the fire I should be able to extinguish it, but I'll need help getting these kids out. I'm almost there." You nod before searching for the other dots that are nearby him that are tuned into your frequency. You notice that one of them is oddly close to you, that's weird, basically everybody is out tonight.
"I think Black Bat is near you, I'll send her over in a sec—"
"What the— Oh shit— What are you doing here?" You hear Tim curse before asking… somebody. It's kind of difficult to tell what the other voice says. It seems that Tim stopped the fire, but the background of his audio wasn't any calmer.
Sitting up straighter, you scoot closer to the desk, "Red Robin, do you copy?"
After a long pause, Tim responds, "Backup is here… I'll be fine, tell Black Bat it's all good."
Raising an eyebrow, you try to see who it is, "You… sure?"
"Yep!" Tim immediately responds, "Yep… I gotta mute though—"
You furrow your eyebrows, "What? Who is it?"
"I'll tell you later— Yeah, give me a second— Actually, you'll probably see him later. Gotta go— Yes, we're on a different comm frequency give me a moment!" You presume that the random switches in topic are him talking to the "backup."
"Red Robin, wait—"
"I'll be all fine, bye!" You can't conceal your jaw dropping as Robin mutes himself from the comms. You clench your hands as you attempt to pull footage of Tim's location. With how deep he is in the building, there is nothing that provides a clear view of him or the mysterious assistance. You huff, leaning back in your chair. "I can't believe him."
"I can."
You whip around so fast that you feel your vision blur momentarily before settling on none other than—
"Jason Todd?" You furrow your eyebrows and immediately compose yourself, trying to appear unbothered.
Jason raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "We still doing the full name thing?" He sets his helmet next to your keyboard.
"Don't act like you aren't the one who started it." You point an accusing finger to him.
"Hm," Jason grunts, turning his gaze from you to your workspace.
"Don't 'hm' me!" You furrow your eyebrows, following his gaze to your desk. It's less than ideal. The entire space is crawling with scrap notebook paper, filled with little notes you left for yourself. The Batcomputer is even worse. Despite the numerous monitors that make up the device each one has its screen split into at least two other tabs. "Oh, so we're judging now?"
Jason blinks slowly at you, moving to lean against your desk. "I'm not judging."
"Ohhhh my bad, are you 'merely observing?'" You do air quotes. Tim would say that to you all the damn time. Even repeating the wretched phrase makes the heat in your chest rise.
Jason raises a hand, snapping the fingers before pointing at you. "Yes."
You nod, "Great, great. Just so you know, for the record…" You slowly close out of some tabs on the various side monitors, "I'm usually more organized." You close a few more.
Jason nods slowly at you, "Alright." He sounds vaguely amused.
"Like a lot more." You close a few more tabs.
Jason nods slightly faster, his eyes closing as if he resonates with your statement. "Of course."
"You caught me at a bad time." You close even more tabs.
Jason sucks in air through his teeth sympathetically, wincing. The amusement on his face is now evident. His lips are turned slightly upward the longer you keep talking. "Been there."
"It's organized chaos… It looked bad, I know, but I knew where everything was." You close the final tab, silencing your comms, before turning to face him entirely.
Jason crosses his arms, still leaned against your desk, "Yeah," He is openly smirking at you.
"You know your sarcasm isn't really appreciated." You feel your eye twitch as you mirror his pose, crossing your own arms and kicking up one leg to rest on the other in your seat.
"Hm, unfortunate." He deadpans, "Is there a more convenient time to deliver it when you will appreciate it?"
"Actually yes," you roll your eyes, but can't help the smirk on your face. You back straightens as you clear your throat, "Saturdays, 2:34 AM." You randomly pick the first time and date that comes to your mind, something inconvenient.
Jason's eyebrows shift up slightly before settling, "Really? That's the only window?"
You nod contritely, "No later, no earlier."
"Does the second matter?"
You're taken aback for a moment, but don't let that show. You are committed, you can not let this guy win. "As long as it's within the minute."
"Generous." Jason snorts.
"As I'm told." You bow your head in acknowledgment, no bothering to hide your amusement. "Now, care to tell me why you decided to try and give me a heart attack when I'm trying to help your teammates not die?"
"I didn't try to." Jason tilts his head slightly.
"Yet you did anyway." You stand up, pushing your chair back. You got the feeling he got a sort of satisfaction of looking down and teasing you in the chair.
"Unfortunate side effect." Jason shrugs.
"You don't seem that upset." You raise an eyebrow.
"Unfortunate for you." He emphasizes, he is openly smirking now.
"Oh, so you're saying you don't want my help with whatever you need." You pretend to think, watching as his mouth parts in surprise. Feigning innocence, you prepare to sit back down in the chair—
"Now I didn't say that." Jason holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.
"You implied it." You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, shrugging.
Jason doesn't dignify that with a response, giving you an unamused stare. (Okay but he's got to be amused, he was smirking less than a minute ago!)
You sigh, eventually conceding, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I need something."
"I… figured. I can't imagine we'd be having this conversation if you didn't." You respond dryly, leaning against the desk.
Jason's eyes narrow, but you don't fold, merely raising an eyebrow. He sighs, "Remember what happened a couple weeks ago?"
"A couple weeks ago…" You nod, "When we met?" Jason nods, silently.
"Oh," you blink, "Oh." You smirk. He came back for what he dropped in the cave a few weeks ago. Something he wouldn't have dropped if he had just listened to you when you told him to not drive his bike with an open box.
Jason doesn't meet your eyes, "Do you have it?"
"Have what?" You smile innocently, batting your eyelashes.
Jason's eye twitches slightly, his smirk widening in irritation, "You know."
"Mm, I don't? There are lots of things that I have and don't have." You casually trace your fingers on the ridges of his helmet on the desk. Jason glares at your hand, but doesn't move to take his helmet back. The helmet is rougher to the touch than you expect, you can feel every imperfections on it. "Gonna have to specify what you want."
Jason narrows his eyes at you, and you smile at him. "The thing."
You nod, "Oh, the thing." You reply gravely, pointing to him as if you just figured out what he's talking about. "Yes, I know where the thing is."
Jason takes a deep breath, before sighing. "I thought you said you don't accept sarcasm unless it's during your unnecessarily specific time?" He raises an eyebrow, frowning slightly, it almost looks like a pout.
Closing your eyes, you nod, "That I did." You look from his helmet to his eyes, "But I said I don't accept it until that time.
"So you can just dish it whenever?" Jason responds impassively. "That doesn't seem fair."
"What can I say? I receive a lot of it." You shrug, sitting down in the chair, the added weight to the chair causing it to roll away from Jason.
Jason watches as you roll back to the keyboard of the desk, letting out an amused exhale, "I can imagine, working with them?"
"I can't imagine you're innocent." You raise an eyebrow.
Jason smirks, but doesn't respond to that. "I do need the thing though."
You slowly turn the chair to face him, "That is no more specific than the last time you said 'the thing.'" You tap the armrest of your chair.
Jason inhales, and this time you can hear it. "The gadget."
"Which gadget?"
"You know which one."
"The one you dropped when leaving after I told you to close the box?"
Jason is silent for a moment, staring at you as if your expression will tell him its whereabouts. You raise an eyebrow, an easy-going smile painted on your face. "Yes." He grits the words out.
The smile on your face grows, you perk up in your seat. "Ohhh, why didn't you just say that?"
Jason tries to mirror the smile on your face, but it looks stiff. "I did."
You raise a finger up, shaking it. "Nuh-uh, you said 'the thing' and 'the gadget.'"
"You knew what I meant." Jason huffs, looking away from you.
You smirk, "Well, now I do."
Jason sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. You almost feel bad."You have it right?"
"Hm?" You blink, holding back a smile, "Oh, no. I threw it away like a week ago." You wave your hand casually, biting the inside of your lip to keep yourself from smiling.
Jason stares at you, unblinking. "What?"
"Nah, I'm playing." You grin. "Be lucky I didn't though." You stand up, gesturing for him to follow.
"Yeah," he huffs, slowly following behind you, "so lucky."
Grabbing a small box, you hand it over to him. "It's actually sealed." You drop the box abruptly into his arms. It's small, but light. You can feel the gadget roll around the box as you drop it. He catches it with ease.
"Taking a gamble just dropping it like that." Jason examines the tape covering the box. "What if there's a bomb in here?" He shakes it gently, as if trying to hear what is inside.
You huff, "There's not a bomb in there. Didn't look like any bomb I've seen." You shake your head at him. No need to tell him you've never really seen a bomb in person. He eyes you, looking from the box, up to you, and back down to the box.
You stand up straighter, furrowing your eyebrows in contemplation. Jason smirks at your uncertainty, shaking it harder. "Wait!" You frantically shake your head, reaching your hands out to him. Snatching the box back, you hold it out of his reach, "Are you crazy?"
"You just said there's 'not a bomb in there.'" He tilts his head innocently, something that should not be possible for him.
You open your mouth to respond, before closing it. "I'll give it back before you leave."
Jason shrugs, he chuckles silently, "If that makes you feel better."
"It does." You nod, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirks at your stare. You look down at the box, "Did you seriously just come back for this?"
"It was very important." He nods at the box.
"So important that you left it behind before you even left the cave and didn't come back for it for—" you pretend to check a watch on your wrist, "—two weeks?"
Jason doesn't respond, instead he walks by you, pushing past your shoulder, back to the computer. "Weren't you busy making sure they didn't die or something?"
You huff at his avoidance. "I left my comm open, it's fine. They can yell if they need my help." You follow him back to the computer.
"Right," He looks at the home screen of the computer, with no tabs open. You walk up from behind him, confused why he is just staring at the screen. It's not that interesting. Last you checked, it was just a couple of red dots flashing on a screen. Tim had back-up anyway (whoever that may be). It can't be that riveting—
Oh… right. You closed off all the tabs, essentially going radio silent. Frantically, you push yourself past him, sitting in the chair and opening the comms again. "There you are." Oracle immediately cuts in the second you activate your comm again.
"Heyyy…" You grimace, feeling Jason rest on the back of your chair. You look up at him, and recline your chair back in an attempt to shove him off. He offers you an innocent wide-eyed look before moving to lean against the desk again. "Sorry, something needed my attention."
"More important than Spoiler, Red Robin, and Nightwing?"
Both you and Jason freeze, sharing a look of pure unadulterated horror. Well, Jason looks more amused than alarmed at the prospect, but you are definitely horrified. "Nightwing?" You attempt to sound unaffected.
"Yep. Apparently that's the 'backup.'" Babs responds.
Jason mouths "Oh shit" to himself before leaning closer to you, eying your screen. The grin on his face is positively roguish. You glare at him. "That's… uh… great! Didn't realize he left Blüdhaven." You attempt to smile, but your strained frown and twitching nose at the idea says otherwise. Jason openly chuckles at your face.
"Yep, he's been around since yesterday…" She pauses, "Is somebody there with you?" Barbara asks tentatively.
You whip your head around to Jason— who is still smirking— already opening his mouth. You frantically cover his mouth with your hand, cutting off any words he was going to say. He attempts to lean out of your hold, glaring at you. You mirror his glare, using your free hand to do the "Shush!" motion at him. Slowly you remove your hand from his mouth, using your middle and index finger to point at him in an "I'm watching you" motion. He huffs, looking away, but not attempting to speak again.
"Nobody is here." You speak into the mic, eying "Nobody." Jason nods his head in acknowledgment at your words, eyes dancing with amusement. "Just me." He huffs, shaking his head disapprovingly.
You don't think before locating your favorite pen, throwing it directly at his forehead. To your surprise, it actually hits the target. You have to withhold your bark of laughter seeing his unimpressed face, the ink left a light streak of black ink across his forehead. Smirking, you turn your gaze back to the screen.
"...Okay?" Babs doesn't sound convinced, but doesn't ask anymore questions. "Well, think you can refocus?"
You break your attention from the screen to look at Jason… Who is not currently where you last saw him.
Alarmed, your eyes scan the cave, trying to find where Jason could've gone. He was just beside you less than five seconds ago! He couldn't have gone that far. Apparently, he's a lot more stealthy than he looks. You can barely hear Babs' voice as you stand up to look around the cave. Finally, you spot him.
The white streak on his forehead starkly contrasts his otherwise dark hair. It makes him easily identifiable even from a distance. Once he notices he's been spotted, he straightens up against his bike— box in hand, when did he even grab it— before getting onto it. He doesn't break eye contact, smirking the entire time. He gives you a wave, and you can observe something in his hand. You can't tell what it is due to the distance though. Nevertheless, your blood pressure rises as he lightly shakes the box.
Barbara says your name, but you don't pay it any mind. Instead you shake your head at Jason, who chuckles under his breath. Neither of you break eye contact as he puts his helmet on. He starts his bike, tapping the box— as if taunting you before revving the bike and zooming off, as if he was never here at all.
Babs says your name again, and you snap your attention back to the screen. "Yeah, sorry. I was distracted, it won't happen again." You inhale as the bike's engine echos grow quieter throughout the cavern.
Babs sighs, "Alright," she sounds less stern, more worried. "Was just trying to say that they put out the fire, all the civilians are safe. Nightwing will likely be returning to the cave with Red Robin and Spoiler." Her words are merely facts, but you can't help but take them as a warning, whether that was her intention or not.
You take a deep breath at her words, your chest nearly shuddering in apprehension. It's been about two months since you've returned to Gotham after leaving for college. Years used to get over your feelings for the first Robin. Two months of not contacting Dick about being back in Gotham. All culminating to the present, your inevitable reunion. You inhale through your teeth, the sound almost like a hiss. You force a smile, despite knowing Babs can't see it.
"Great."
–
Tim glances as Dick as they enter the cave. Dick doesn't look at him, instead narrowing his eyes at the ground. He glances at Steph who seems to sense the tension, but doesn't say anything. She meets his gaze before looking past him towards Dick. Tim follows her gaze, only to already see Dick eying him out of the corner of his eye. Everybody's eyes are awkwardly shifting over one another, the silence only exacerbating the tense atmosphere.
So it's going great.
Dick had quickly realized that Oracle was not who they were talking to, figuring out it was you. He had all but demanded the frequency their comms were on. Tim had reluctantly told him, but (thankfully) you suddenly vanished from the comms. Tim isn't sure what caused the big gap, but when you returned you had just told everyone to "Head back to the cave," not leaving any room for comments.
Anxiously, the three of them enter the cave. Dick looks up to see you in front of the Batcomputer. He draws in a sharp breath at the sight of you. He hasn't seen you for years, and you've been here sitting in the cave. You slowly sip the mug sitting at your desk, gently placing it on the Batman coaster next to your keyboard. Your foot bounces uneasily as you pretend you don't see them in your peripherals.
Dick takes the mask off his face, his eyes trained on you as he approaches. Tim and Steph follow closely behind him. She peeks around Dick's shoulder to see you inconspicuously turning your head to a different monitor. Dick's exhales steadily before he speaks. He says your name.
You pause, your hands frozen on the keys before turning to face him. You note Tim and Steph in the back. Tim looks unsure how to proceed, but Steph doesn't give away her thoughts.
You sigh, you expected this. "Dick." You hesitantly stand, meeting Dick's eyes. The two of you stare at each other for a moment as he hesitantly draws near you. You resist the urge to look away, feeling the shame bubble up. After all, now he knows you're here and that you've been here for at least some time, all without mentioning it to him.
"I–" He tackles you with a hug, cutting you off. The force of his action surprises you, almost knocking you off balance and into the desk. You slowly hug him back, "Sorry, I didn't– uh– say anything." You swallow down your nervousness, looking back at Tim and Steph. Both of them are blatantly watching you. You glare at them as Dick constricts you in his embrace.
"It's okay," he pulls back slightly, but doesn't let go of you. His hands rest on your arm, a soft smile on his face. "I get it."
You chuckle awkwardly, "You… do?" Your eyes flicker between him and Tim. You have a feeling he's got something to do with this.
Dick sneaks a glance back to Tim, who does not meet his gaze. "Uh– Well, I mean– I get that you probably needed time to settle back into Gotham! Stuff must be different now. All that time gone, you know?" Dick frantically explains.
You narrow your eyes to Tim, who avoids your eyes. "Right,"
"Well, we should hang out sometime! Catch up, you know! I mean if you're going to be helping us out we gotta do– like– team bonding activities!"
You blink, "Is that a thing?" You ask Tim and Steph. Steph opens her mouth, but Dick covers her from your view.
"It is now! Come on, it'll be fun!" Dick grins. The rest of you look at each other dubiously. You let Dick pull you along, watching as Tim and Steph attempt to follow you two.
"Shouldn't you guys change first..? Are we uh– doing this now?" You ask, slowly taking your hand back from Dick. He looks down at your hand before letting it leave his grasp.
"Oh," he pauses, suddenly hesitant, "I just figured we could catch up. With you being back and all." He gestures you up and down, as if still stunned that you are actually here.
You nod, glancing at the time which reads 2:02 AM. "It's–" You pause at Dick's hopeful face, "Yeah, sure?" You attempt to smile at him, looking to Tim and Steph for help. "I can't imagine you guys would want to be walking around in full vigilante attire though."
Dick sighs, as if this is a deal-breaker, "Fine…" He looks at you hesitantly. "We'll be back before you know it." You watch as Dick slowly moves away from you, grabbing Tim and Steph as he walks away.
Weird. Maybe he is not that mad that you didn't tell him you were back? The conversation didn't really flow like it used to, but you'd chalk that up to having spent years apart. Perhaps he's right, after a couple conversations everything will go back to normal. Watching his retreating figure, you can't help but smile. He mutters something to them both, leaning down to talk to them. They both point at him, responding in turn.
Getting over him wasn't an easy process. Part of the reason you chose to move so far away was to get over him. Sure it wasn't the only reason, but it was one of many. Time apart would give you time to separate yourself from him. You knew he never liked you back even back then, him dating Kori soon after your departure sure communicated that loud and clear.
If anything, it gave you a sense of peace. It almost felt like you two were stuck in an endless dance around each other for years with no resolution. When he started dating Kori, it ended your torment, proving that you were never an option. You could finally move on. Of course, you still thought about him. You still wondered how he was doing. You had heard that there was a new Robin and that the vigilante "Nightwing" had appeared in Blüdhaven.
When you came back, you figured that things would finally be okay. You wouldn't have to worry about messing up your friendship because of liking him. Your worries were gone. That doesn't mean you weren't surprised about some things, though.
Ever since learning about Dick having dated Barbara previously, you've been waiting for one of the two to mention it to you. You aren't surprised that Dick didn't say anything, seeing as he didn't decide to tell you about Kori. You never met Kori, so you weren't shocked that he never spoke to you about her.
But Babs? You were there when they started getting close, and you had befriended her quickly. Hearing that none of them decided to say anything? That hurt. Not in the heartbreaking lovesick way, but as a friend. Not one person told you, and you had to find out from Tim. Someone you hadn't even met until a couple months ago! Sure, you questioned if they were dating when you were kids, but that's much different than actually hearing that they've not only dated but have broken up. It's not like it's any of your business anyway.
"We have returned!" Dick grins, arms spread grandly as he walks back to you.
A small smile appears on your face, "Joy." You deadpan.
"Don't be like that," he chuckles, rubbing your shoulders casually, "Anyway," he slings that arm around your shoulder, "I asked Alfred if he could make some of his cookies for us." He whispers it to you like it's a secret. "It would've just been just for us, but somebody blackmailed me into sharing." Dick throws a half-hearted glare to Tim, who shrugs.
"Shouldn't have barged into my room." Tim gives a small, knowing smile.
You raise an eyebrow, "Why would you do that?"
Dick eyes look through you as if realizing he messed up, "Yeah, why would you do that?" Tim asks smugly, walking over to you. Steph appears to be messaging somebody on her phone, typing at light speed.
"Cause I found out some very important info about a case." Dick offers a strained smile to Tim.
Tim smiles, "Mhm, a 'case.'"
You blink at the two of them, maneuvering yourself out of Dick's hold. The tension is palpable. There's clearly something there, and if there's something you've learned during your time here, it's that you don't push it. No matter how curious you are.
You move in between them, clasping your hands together, smiling, "So… Cookies?"
—
"You were not invited." Tim's eye twitches as he watches Damian grab a cookie from the platter laid before the four five of you.
"I do not require an invitation to dine at my own residence, Drake." Damian scoffs, taking a bite into the cookie.
"The cookies weren't for you." Tim narrows his eyes at Damian.
Damian raises a dubious eyebrow, "And they were meant for you?"
Tim exhales, affronted, his eyes flicking to you and Dick. Damian smirks, tilting his head up before looking down haughtily at Tim, "That's what I thought." He takes a bite of his cookie, waving it tauntingly back at Tim.
Dick sighs, but the action is more out of fondness than exasperation. "You know, you could've called me if they ever got out of hand. I know they can be a lot to deal with."
You shrug, grabbing a cookie, Alfred's cookies really are the best. "They eventually sort it out on their own…" you take a bite. You smile, turning to watch Damian and Tim bicker. Steph seems to be using it as a distraction to sneak more cookies into a separate container to stow away. "It's actually kinda funny."
Dick snorts, "You say that now." He takes a cookie from the tray. "Babs was telling me that you've been helping out on comms too?"
You nod, a proud smile forming on your face, "Yep, took some convincing, but eventually Bruce said I could help as long as she's there to guide me."
He nods, slowly, "Nice…" He stares down at the cookie, "That's… uh— nice." The wavering in his voice doesn't go unnoticed. You aren't sure if you should ask about it, but you don't have to. "No— I mean, I'm really happy for you…" He attempts to correct himself.
You inhale through your nose, bracing yourself. "But..?"
He swallows, glancing between Tim, Steph, and Damian, who are engrossed in their own conversation, "But… I…" He exhales discreetly, "Why didn't you tell me?"
You blink, "Well, it's a pretty recent development. I would've told you eventually—"
"Would you?" Dick cuts you off, his words are soft, lighter than a whisper despite the heaviness they carry. They're soft in the way his expression conveys his pain: nearly silent, but present.
Cookie forgotten in hand, you place it down onto your plate, turning to Dick. Perhaps he was downplaying how upset he was earlier. "I would have eventually. I just needed…" You inhale, frustrated, and are faced with a new dilemma. Uncertainty churns in your gut, should you tell him you liked him back then?
On one hand, it shouldn't matter anymore. You don't like him like that now. The biggest reason you never told him was to preserve your friendship. There is no risk of losing that now that you no longer hold feelings for him. On the other hand, it's been so long. Like it or not, there's a distance between you two that wasn't previously there. Years apart have widened the gap between you both, something that was once so closely knit. If you tell him now, will that widen it further? Despite the fact that you avoided him, you don't want to lose him as a friend. Will telling him now ruin everything you held so closely to your chest for years?
"It's complicated," you turn your head away, unable to look him in the eyes.
Dick's pained expression steels itself at your words, "I…" he looks down at the plate in front of him, "I understand."
You sneak a small glance at him, "It wasn't personal…" You blatantly lie.
He smiles, the action strained, but still a smile nonetheless. "I know." His words hold something knowing to them. "I can't imagine how different everything must've been after being gone for so long." His smile turns more genuine, but his eyes are gazing far off.
You reluctantly smile at him, "It was definitely something. There's so many of you now." You pick the cookie back up, taking a bite.
Dick snorts softly, "Sometimes I miss when it was just us." His eyes rest upon Tim, holding a cookie out reach from Damian.
You smirk at him, "'Sometimes?' Not all times?" You lean into the back of your chair, this is more familiar. The banter, the teasing quips shared with one another.
Dick mirrors your smirk, it feels more drained than usual, "All times." He jokes.
You nod approvingly, "That's what I thought."
He looks down at your hands, absentmindedly holding the cookie. "You are going to finish that, right?"
You glare playfully at him, holding the cookie out of his view. "Why? You want it or something?"
"No." Dick lies, grinning as he conspicuously eyes it in your hand.
You take a bite of it, not breaking eye contact. "I've already eaten half of it."
Dick shrugs, huffing, "Like that will stop me."
"It's got cooties." You tut, waving the half-eaten cookie up at his face tauntingly.
He glares at you, "It was one time."
"Cooties last forever—" you take another bite of the cookie, "It's mine." You grin at him. He narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting to the cookie, then back to you. With no warning, he hand snatches the remaining chunk of your cookie. You can't move fast enough to reclaim it before he devours it.
Your mouth parts slightly in surprise. For a second you're struck wondering if you've ever shared food with him like that. All you can do is blink as he smugly takes a few stray crumbs from your plate. In the past you might've shared snacks, but nothing that the other had already eaten. You were close, but Dick had one time (jokingly, he insisted) told you that you had "cooties." Cooties! Like you were in preschool. For about a month afterwards, you avoided sharing snacks with him under the pretense that they had "cooties." He was amused at first, but your stubbornness eventually got to him.
"I can't believe you." You scoff. Even if you wanted another cookie, you couldn't get one. During your conversation, somehow the table had cleared the entire platter.
"Believe me." His eyes crinkle in amusement, the grin on his face growing even wider.
"I'm starting to remember why I left." You meet his gaze with an unimpressed stare. He gasps so loudly that he catches Tim's attention, who looks curious, yet unsurprised by Dick's antics. Dick doesn't pay him any mind though, merely continuing to give you an exaggeratedly anguished expression.
"After all we've been through? You wound me." He gestures dramatically, and you roll your eyes at him unsympathetically.
"Shouldn't have taken my cookie." You sigh, matching his tone. "It pains me just as much— actually… more to do this."
"Are you cutting me off over a cookie?" Dick narrows his eyes, playful irritation in his eyes.
You wipe an imaginary tear from your eyes, "I'm sure you understand… It must be done." You respond gravely.
"Must you continue with these dramatics?" Damian cuts in, the two of you turning to face him. You offhandedly notice Tim smiling in faint amusement, and Steph seems to be engrossed in your antics as if watching a telenovela play out in front of her.
"We must." Dick nods solemnly. You snicker from beside him.
"Hey, don't judge us. I've seen the way you guys fight over these cookies." You point to your empty plate, leaning against the table.
Steph whistles lowly, "She's got a point." Damian eyes her judgmentally. You gesture your hands grandly around the table, nodding in a silent "I told you so."
"Besides, you two were fighting like ten seconds ago." You turn, pointing between Damian and Tim.
Damian's eye twitches, "That's because Drake believes that he has jurisdiction in my residence."
Tim looks away as if avoiding eye contact with Damian will make this better, his eyebrow betrays his irritation. "This isn't about—"
Seeing that this isn't going to lead anywhere good (and that you were proven right). You make a point to loudly interrupt. "I'm going to head home for the night. It's already late as it is." You resist the urge to rub your eyes. The argument pauses as the attention is brought to you once more.
Damian frowns, and Dick looks contemplative, pursing his lips. "You sure?" Tim breaks the momentary silence.
"Positive. I want to sleep on my own bed." You nod, smiling. Now that you've mentioned it, you can feel the exhaustion seep into every cell of your body.
Dick frowns, standing up from beside you. "I can drive you back."
You turn toward him, "It's alright. You guys were out all night. I wouldn't want to force you to go out again. Plus, worse case scenario, I call Cass or Bruce or… something." Last you checked, they're still out for the night, and you feel pretty safe knowing that either one would come to your aid if needed.Dick clearly disapproves of the idea, his mouth turned down in a stilted frown, eyebrows furrowed. You heart stings a little by his lack of faith, even if you know it comes from a good place. "I'll be fine."
You and Dick stare at each other for a long moment. For months you've managed to ease your way back into Gotham's atmosphere. You know this city, even if you were absent for a few years. Dick challenging you won't change anything. You may not be Nightwing, but you've lived in this city. You know how to handle yourself relatively well.
Dick sighs, the tension dropping from his shoulders, "Okay, just… be safe."
Your pointed stare breaks into something softer, "Always."
—
When you left, you almost worried you jinxed yourself, that by saying you're "always safe," you'd somehow get kidnapped by Bane or something.
Luckily, you were true to your word (not that you ever doubted it). You even texted Dick a quick notice that you'd arrived home, something he appreciated. You didn't give too much thought before liking his message. Soon after, he sent a quick text asking if you wanted to catch up soon without any intrusions.
You snort at the text. The two of you never really cared back then if Babs tagged along when you hung out or something. You can't imagine that'd be something he cares about now, especially since you've heard how close he is with his family. Perhaps it's because it's been so long? It has been a while since you've gotten to catch up with him. You can see why he wouldn't want his entire family witnessing every moment between you two. Tapping the sides of your phone absentmindedly, you type out a response, confirming that you'd like that.
Dick likes the message, and then proceeds to wish you good night. You smile at the text, before sending the same and finally turning away from the screen. Working on comms is fun until it's one in the morning and all you feel is the sensation of your eyes burning due to the strain of blue light.
Getting into bed, you throw the covers over your body. After a long day, you can finally rest. Of course, you sure didn't feel rested when you woke up the next day. It's a wonder how anybody you know functions like a normal being when they're essentially up from sunrise to sunrise.
Slowly, you get ready for the day, and just as you're about to leave, you pause. You're missing something. Sluggish from the early morning, you carefully pat yourself down as you search every pocket of your clothes. Once you realize what's missing, you groan, heading back inside your room. You rifle through your jacket from last night, finding nothing. Standing up from your now messy floor, you narrow your eyes at the scattered articles of clothing as if it'll provide the answer.
Okay, where did you last see it? You were working at the Batcomputer last night… You had been taking notes.. Then Jason had come, and you threw—
You take a deep breath. That asshole took your favorite pen.
—
Cass analyzes your form as you get into position, her arms crossed and stance lax. She's been the one helping you the most with learning self defense. "You're sulking, makes you tense. It's bleeding into your posture." She maneuvers her way behind you, her touch lightly grazing your shoulders, forcing you to relax them.
You raise yourself out of position. "I'm not 'sulking.' That's a bit extreme. I'm just off my game."
Cass raises a dubious eyebrow, looking you up and down.
"Okay, I'm a little upset." You relent.
She blinks at you, unconvinced.
"It's not that bad." You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
"Was it Dick?" She tilts her head at you.
A chuckle escapes past your lips, you smile at her assumption. "Actually, no."
She walks over next to you, expectantly, and your arms lower from their position. You exhale letting your arms relax, "Doesn't change the fact that you're upset." She frowns at you.
You look down to the floor, avoiding eye contact, "It's stupid."
She shakes her head, "If it makes you upset, then it can't be."
A smile grows on your face, "No… No, this one is prettyyy stupid."
She mirrors your smile, "Try me."
You look up at her, opening your mouth, but then closing it. "You know… How about we get back to training?" You're not going to complain about a stupid pen to any member of the Wayne family. Even if that pen had the smoothest ink you've ever seen, and had the perfect shade, and had the perfect angle, and you carried it with you everywhere you went, and had been given to you by Dick when you had just started being friends, and—
"You lost something." Cass determines.
You sigh, "I'm really not joking when I say it's stupid."
"Something that had sentimental value." She frowns. "That's not stupid."
"I…" You couldn't really argue with that one, even if the object was a damn ballpoint pen. It's not like you could ever get a replacement! A couple years after you had met Dick, you had attempted to find that pen again, but it was quite literally nowhere to be found. You had even gone so far as to ask him where he got it, and when you searched it up on their website, it didn't exist. Dick had found it amusing, but suddenly that pen became a lot more valuable to you. Not just for sentimentality, but because it was a really good pen, and you'd never be able to buy another.
Cass waits patiently for an answer, and you know she won't judge you. However, currently, you are judging yourself. Imagine being out on the field and the reason you aren't performing to standards is "I lost my favorite pen." Might as well say bye-bye to that comm position you just got cause Bruce will be testing you for brain damage. You inhale, "I lost my favorite pen."
Cass doesn't react, as if that is a perfectly normal response. "Lost?"
You purse your lips before smacking them, "Lost." She stares at you for a long moment, and— of course— you crack under no pressure, "Okay, maybe it was taken."
Cass' lips twitch in amusement, "You know who?"
You think back to Jason, waving what was once an indistinct object, an object which you now know was your pen. "Regrettably." You deadpan.
She smiles, "Then what's stopping you?"
"Can't exactly contact the guy, not like he offered his business number before taking it." You crack your knuckles, sighing as you fiddle with the gauze around the joints.
She looks at the Batcomputer, your gaze tracking her movement and following it. She eyes you from the corner of her eye as if saying "You sure?"
Snapping your fingers, "You… make an excellent point." You tap your temple, smirking as the two of you make your way to the Batcomputer. Powering it on, you navigate it until you find Red Hood's tracker.
"You think he would be able to receive a message from me? Wouldn't he need his comm or something?" You frown, crossing a leg over the other as you ponder your next move.
"Most likely. Try sending a message to his phone instead." Cass suggests, and you nod, a smirk growing on your face.
You pull up an emulator embedded with the computer. It already has everybody's numbers saved, so you click his contact and start typing. Simple. Straight to the point. No possibility for your message to be misinterpreted. Professional in every sense of the word. Concise, yet thought provoking. An argument so convincing that Batman himself would have to cede victory to you. A message so moving that he would be riddled with guilt for even thinking to steal your prized possession—
Pls give it back :(
Cass' eyes shine with mirth, her lips twitching. The two of you stare at the screen, as if your combined concentration will invoke his response. You tap your finger apprehensively against the cold metal of the desk.
Red Hood: ???
Red Hood: What?
You know what you did.
Red Hood: So accusing
You can almost see him mockingly shake his head. He probably has the damn smirk on his face too.
Red Hood: Do you even know what I did, or are you just trying to get me to confess to a crime I didn't commit?
Come on, I literally gave you your not-bomb bomb back
Red Hood: yeah after pretending not to know what I was talking about for 15 minutes, great service, truly
exactly, so return what you took from me
Red Hood: get it yourself
I don't even know where you live
Red Hood: you're literally tracking my stuff
I'm literally not??
yeah that's why I can hear you muttering to yourself from my comm that you definitely aren't tracking
You gasp, turning to Cass whose face betrays nothing. You scramble to turn off your mic, horror-struck. After fiddling with the input devices connected to the computer, you eventually find— to your embarrassment— that your mic isn't even connected.
Red Hood: bet you just checked didn't you
no
Red Hood: admit you did it and I will consider returning your pen to you
Your heart pounds as you hastily type your confession.
ok ok I did
You pause for a moment, waiting for a response. When nothing appears you send another message
can I have it back now
Red Hood: I said I'd consider
Next time you leave something behind I'm gonna send you a video of me destroying it
Red Hood: wow okay, you aren't getting this pen back
wait I'm sorry please don't go
Hooooood
I'm sorry I would never destroy your stuff, it's very precious to me
pls respond
Jason Todd you asshole I will never forget this
Read 3:54 P.M.
Your eyes narrow at the screen, the status taunting you. Why can't he just cooperate? Your hands hover over the keyboard, debating whether or not to send him a message. You look to Cass in exasperation. "That went as well as I was expecting." You mumble. Groaning, you shut off the computer, not even wanting to see the screen.
She gives a reassuring smile, "At least you know where it is."
"I figured he had it, the worry was that he'd just taunt me with it." Crossing your arms, you stare into your reflection in the now black screen. "Seems I was right."
She pats your back sympathetically, "You'll get it back eventually."
Your hum in acknowledgement, still staring at the darkened screen. "You're right." You narrow your eyes at your reflection, a plan starting to form.
—
The night wasn't quiet, it rarely was. In fact, Jason has learned that Gotham being quiet never bodes well. Silence invites catastrophe. Sure, a lack of silence meant there was work to be done, but it was familiar. He didn't have to wonder if there was some plot affront (there often was, but at least it's more predictable). What wasn't predictable, however, was Nightwing joining him for the night.
"Remind me why you're here again?" Jason doesn't bother turning to face his brother, brushing his hands against his jacket as he holsters his pistols. He kicks the head of a thug attempting to crawl towards the gun at Jason's feet. Don't bring a gun to a fight if the first thing you're going to do is lose it. Fucking moron.
Dick grins, flourishing his escrima sticks, "'Cause drugs are bad?"
Despite himself, Jason's lips twitch under the helmet, not like he'd let Dick know that. "Aside from that."
Dick secures his escrima sticks to his back, "It's been a while since it's been just us."
Jason grunts, checking the time before walking out of the busted warehouse. "So… you decided that teaming up with me to take down a drug spot was what? Bonding?"
Dick chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender, "Your words, not mine."
Jason sighs, heading towards his bike.
"Any other warehouses to bust? Drug dealers to…" Dick trails off as mimics a lazy punch doing a silent "Pow!" sound effect.
Jason slowly turns to Dick, who is still following him. "It's nearly six in the morning."
Dick shrugs, "Okay…?" He crosses his arms, "That doesn't really change my question."
"I'm heading home." Jason rolls his eyes in exasperation.
"Got it…" Dick doesn't move from his spot.
Jason looks at his brother, revving his bike, "Do you… need something?"
Dick shakes his head, slowly heading to his own bike. "No…"
Jason groans, he's not going to fall for it. This is manipulation. This is a way for Dick way to monopolize his morning. He will not—
"Breakfast at mine, be there in half an hour or else I'm eating your portion." Jason speeds off, not even bothering to check Dick's reaction. If luck is on his side, he will not be seeing Dick at his apartment in half an hour (he knows luck isn't on his side).
He opens the door, already anticipating his older brother to be in there. Shockingly, he isn't, and Jason slides his leather jacket off, throwing it onto the couch carelessly. His apartment was, thankfully, clean. The only thing out of place was a single ballpoint pen on his living room table. Unwittingly, he smiles at the object, thinking back to your messages over it.
He had taken the pen thoughtlessly. You had thrown it at him, so he thought it fair to take it as punishment. After all, it's a pen. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, nothing could've prepared him for what spiraled.
The text he received from you— hell, he thought he was being pranked by some idiot who thinks that messing with him is a good idea. However after staring at the message for a minute he realizes. He hadn't stolen anything recently, certainly nothing from anybody who would send a text message with a sad face.
Upon realizing it was you, he had felt something akin to amusement rise in his chest. He texted back, staring down at his phone, finding himself awaiting your response. The amusement in his chest eventually rose to his face, a small smile at your outrage. He found himself even seeking the object upon your request that you return it. Of course, out of principle, now he had to keep the pen. He found himself chuckling as he pocketed his phone, leaving you to spam notifications to get his attention.
Jason stares at the pen for a long moment, before heading over to the kitchen and grabbing a pan. He greases it with butter before grabbing some eggs from the fridge. He looks at the window, shedding the morning light upon his sink. The sight of it almost makes him feel sleepy, the lack of sleep catching up to him after being out all night. The soft sizzling from the eggs frying the sole sound in his apartment. It's almost peaceful, contrary to the eventful night he had.
Then Dick throws his door open. Jason doesn't even bother turning around, knowing it's Dick just by the way he opened the door.
"Didn't come to greet your guest?" Dick takes off his shoes, tossing his own jacket on top of Jason's on the couch.
Jason breaks his focus from the eggs briefly to look at Dick. "Could you at least hang your jacket or somethin'?" He asks, the tiredness present in each word he speaks. Dick glances at his jacket before turning back to Jason, an amused eyebrow raised. He gestures his thumb to Jason's jacket, a silent question. Jason finally turns to face him, "My mess is fine in my apartment. You could at least be a good guest and be considerate." Jason takes the eggs off the pan, moving them to a plate.
Dick makes a point to deliberately stare at Jason— who is not even looking at him— as he hangs his jacket up, "Satisfied?" A mocking smile on his face.
"Thrilled." Jason deadpans, putting bacon on the pan.
Dick chuckles behind him, walking around the apartment, taking note of some swords and knives on display. He walks over to investigate Jason's bookshelves, filled with classics, he smiles at them. It's not often that Jason actually invites anybody to his apartment. Most of the time, they have to break in if they need something from him. His smile widens slightly as he turns to Jason, whose back is turned toward him, cooking silently. Then he turns his attention to the couch and table in front of the TV. He tilts his head as he approaches it, noticing a random pen laying on the otherwise clean apartment.
He freezes, an audible inhale as he stares disbelievingly at the table. "What's this?" The words are deceptively light, Dick grabs the pen, examining every ridge of the object.
Jason pauses for a moment, turning to face Dick. He narrows his eyes slightly at the way Dick holds the object. "What?" Jason chuckles humorlessly, noticing the way Dick's hand clenches around the pen. "The pen?"
Dick swallows, not even looking at him. Jason straightens up, realizing that something is wrong. "Where did you get it?" Dick asks, the question is quiet, yet its gravity is all-present. The words grind out roughly as they are spoken. His hands tremble underneath the small object, as if it's too much to bear upon his fingertips. Jason's mouth parts in surprise, the words not forming as he watches Dick bite his lip.
"Where?" The words scrape his throat as he snaps his head to Jason. However, his eyes are still trained on the ballpoint pen, as if asking the pen itself.
"I…" Jason hesitantly walks to Dick, the pan forgotten. He isn't sure whether to approach Dick. "The cave."
Dick narrows his eyes, scoffing "So you took it." He whispers.
Jason immediately opens his mouth to correct the misunderstanding, eyes narrowing in indignation. "No…" He scoffs, unable to meet Dick's gaze. "I mean—" he huffs, frustrated the words aren't coming out the way he wants to. He says your name, and Dick freezes at it. "She—"
"She gave it to you." Dick interrupts him.
Jason, frowning, tilts his head, not making eye contact. "I guess you could say that."
Dick stares at Jason for a moment before walking back to the front door. He snatches his jacket off the hanger, roughly putting it on. He forces his shoes onto his feet, not even bothering to unlace and tie them. Grabbing the doorknob, he twists it, causing it to squeak.
Jason furrows his eyebrows, "You're not… staying?" It was unlike Dick to actually ditch any of his siblings.
Dick pauses his body already half past the doorframe. He turns his head to the side, allowing Jason to see his profile. Dick slowly steps back inside, placing the pen on the table near the entrance. "I… I don't feel hungry anymore." He doesn't even give Jason the chance to respond, not bothering to even look at him before slamming the door.
Jason blinks slowly at his closed door before turning his attention to the pen that Dick almost lost his shit over. He thinks back to your text. You didn't seem that upset over losing the pen. Sure, you had asked for it back, and had expressed immense interest at its return.
But not a single one of your messages implied you were that distraught. If anything, they seemed almost playful, with a small twinge of genuine desire to have the pen returned. Jason slowly walks over to grab it, attempting to find anything special with it. If he knew it'd cause this many issues, he would've left the damn thing. Sighing, he walks back over to the table it was originally on. Perhaps he should return it. He didn't mean to take a sentimental object from you. He runs his fingers across the pen, before scrunching his nose in disgust. It smells like something is burning—
His eyes widen. Shit, he forgot about the bacon.
–
"Honestly, just break into his apartment. You said you already know where he keeps whatever you're looking for." Tim shrugs, attempting to keep a straight face. "Just do a little research on the computer before you break in." He waves a hand nonchalantly.
You nod, typing furiously on your phone as if taking notes. "Got it… Would you recommend door or window?"
Tim's eyebrows raise, wow, you are taking him seriously? "Window, most people don't lock them."
You frown, eyebrows furrowing, "I don't think this guy is constituted as 'most people.'"
Tim mirrors your frown, sitting up straighter. Who exactly are you going after? "Okay… Do you mind if I ask who 'this guy' is?"
You fidget in your chair slightly, kicking one leg up over your other, "Uh…" You look around to make sure nobody is listening, "You won't judge?"
Tim snorts, "No, I won't." Actually, before he was just mildly interested. It'd be your first B&E (closer to burglary, but really, same difference, you seemed pretty justified based on what Tim heard). However, it seems that you don't aim low because if you are this nervous about it, it must be serious.
You smack your lips, "It's Jason." Your words are quiet, but they echo throughout the cave. Tim can't hold back the stunned expression he makes, eyes wide and eyebrows so far up they almost disappear behind his hair.
"I know, I know. Trust me, I know it's bad, but–"
"Wait, wait, wait, since when did you meet him?" Tim suddenly cuts you off, his palms pressed against one another, hands covering his mouth. His eyes are focused on you.
"I–" You pause, momentarily thrown off track. "What?"
"You met Jason." Tim states, and you nod slowly. This is not what you pictured from this conversation. You imagined something more along the lines of: "Why would you steal from my brother?"
"Yeah?" You blink, "Was I not supposed to…?" You ask hesitantly. You didn't think meeting him was that big of a deal.
Tim shakes his head, looking down. "I was just surprised." He snaps his head up to you, startling you slightly, "Does Dick know?"
You stare blankly at Tim, "Why… would he?"
Tim nods slowly, pursing his lips. "Taking that as a no."
You nod, amused, "Yeah, no."
He hums in acknowledgement, shaking his head subtly, "Anyway, you said that you wanted to break into Jason's?"
"Yeah, I know he's kinda your brother and all," you hold your hands up in a placating gesture, "but he took something that was mine."
Tim snorts, laughing at your cautious approach, "I'd help you even if he didn't have something of yours. What'd he take anyway?"
You open your mouth, then close it. "The details aren't important, what matters is that he betrayed my trust."
Tim smirks at you, "Alright then, keep your secrets." He pauses slightly before speaking, "How'd he betray your trust?"
Rolling your eyes, you groan, "Don't get me started."
Tim blinks, "That bad?"
"It's just that I was nice to him, then did multiple favors for him– all without being asked!" You emphasize, your eyes crinkled in barely masked indignation. "I did all of that, and when I ask him to return the one thing he stole, he leaves me on read!"
Tim snorts, "Oh, yeah that's pretty common."
"Yeah, I was messaging on the computer, and like I asked for him to return it, and– Tim, I swear– he was taunting me. Oh, and he got satisfaction out of it." You aren't even looking at Tim anymore. Your chair moves slightly under your flailing gestures.
Tim nods seriously, "Sounds about right." He isn't even looking at you, his eyes frozen on the floor in contemplation. "Tonight, he should be out on patrol. I can try and guide you."
You whip your head back towards him, "Really?" You grin.
He nods, amused, his eyes telling you that he's plotting something. "Of course, all you needed to say was 'break into Jason's,'" and I was sold."
You grin, "Great!" You check the time, "Oh– I have to go, but if you get any info could you send it over?"
He offers you a casual thumbs up, "Yeah, of course. I'll hear from you tonight?"
You nod enthusiastically, "Yep! Thanks, Tim!" You head out of Tim's room, closing the door behind you. Tim waits for a moment, listening for the manor's entrance doors to close before he gets up and makes his way down to the cave. Now, this may be considered an invasion of privacy, but you gave him permission to guide you through this operation.
So naturally, like a true detective, he has to learn all the facts.
Tim scans around the Batcave. Nobody is around right now. The perfect opportunity to learn more. It's convenient that evidence is located on the computer. Tim easily navigates the familiar system, pulling up the emulator. For the future, he would tell you that it's important to delete the trail of messages left behind unless absolutely necessary, but for now…
Tim scrolls to the top of the chat, it wasn't very long, but it was long enough. You said that Jason had taken something from you, but you hadn't elaborated on what. Tim wasn't that nosy, but he probably should know considering he's dedicating his night to helping you retrieve said item.
"Why are you texting Todd like that?"
Tim heaves a sigh, turning around in the swivel chair to see Damian looking at the monitor. "Hello to you too."
"It doesn't match your style."
"Astute observation. 'Cause it isn't." Tim tries to ignore Damian as he turns back towards the screen, hoping that if he makes it sound boring then he'll be left alone.
Damian's lips twitch slightly in a frown, "Then whose?"
"Apparently the last person who texted Jason." Tim attempts to focus on the texts, but he can see Damian also reading them next to him. "Hey, can you not?"
Damian narrows his eyes at Tim, "They aren't even your messages."
"Exactly, give them some privacy." Tim attempts to shove Damian out of the way, but he merely positions himself on the other side of Tim's chair, undeterred.
"As if you reading their messages is 'privacy.'" Damian raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim.
Tim attempts to swat him, but it's less forceful than the (attempted) shove. The action is more of an afterthought; his eyes are still trained on the messages. However, it's becoming increasingly difficult to read them with somebody pestering him. "I'll have you know I got permission."
"So you do know who sent it." Damian states. He reads a couple of the messages before saying your name, Tim glances at him for a moment, but doesn't confirm or deny his guess. "It is her. My second guess was Steph, but she uses more emojis."
Tim sighs, "Sure,"
Damian glares at him, but quiets down as he reads the messages next to Tim silently, the two of them attempting to decipher their meaning. It's not long before they reach the end, after all, there weren't that many. "She gave him a bomb?" Damian asks, incredulously.
Tim rolls his eyes, wiggling his finger, "Nuh-uh, it says 'not-bomb,' see?" He points his finger to the screen.
Damian scoffs, "I can see that." He leans in to reread some of the messages, "Did she only message him for a pen?"
Tim shrugs, "Must be a nice pen."
Damian points at the last line, "She calls him by his full name too." He notices.
Tim nods, "I mean she's mad at him, I can see it. Plus, you still call me by my last name, you don't get to comment on that."
Damian shakes his head, but Tim swears he rolls his eyes. "She doesn't do that with us though."
Tim thinks back to it, you haven't really gotten mad at anybody in his family (from what he knows). If you have though, he has no recollection of you ever dropping full names onto one of his siblings. Honestly, this would have to be something he'd need to ask Dick about. He has known you much longer. "Hm," Tim frowns, scrolling back to the top of the messages.
Damian smirks, "I'm right, aren't I?"
"I wouldn't go that far, but–" he turns to Damian, "I suppose it's worth keeping note of."
Damian scoffs, "You just don't want to admit I'm right." He walks away from the computer, leaving Tim alone in the cave.
Tim narrows his eyes at the messages. The tone, the style of messaging, Jason even replied quickly.
There is something else there.
–
Tossing on a dark hoodie, you exhale nervously. "Okay, how about a hoodie?" You ask Tim, throwing the hood over your face. You look over to your phone, still on a call with him.
"Well… Definitely matches the breaking and entering aesthetic."
You snort, "So is that a no on the hoodie?"
Tim exhales, "You'll probably be fine." He says dismissively.
You raise an eyebrow, "Probably?"
Tim clicks his tongue, "You're the one who thinks breaking into his apartment is a good idea."
"Yeah, and you're helping me. Don't act like you aren't involved." You point your finger at the phone, despite the fact that you aren't on a video call.
"It's more of a passive involvement." You can hear him roll his eyes.
"Involvement nonetheless." You smile.
"All I'm saying is that if you get murked by Jason 'cause he mistakes you for being some random intruder, it is not on me." Tim says helpfully.
"Thanks for the optimism—" You're cut off by a loud honk outside your apartment.
"I'm assuming that's you." You grab your phone and hurriedly put your shoes on before running down the stairs of your apartment building.
"Let's hope your assumption is correct." Tim responds ominously.
"You really aren't making me feel better about this." You exhale warm air into your hands— it's freezing.
Tim laughs as you knock on his window. He slowly rolls it down, "Uber for one B&E?"
You groan, "If I knew you'd make a big deal about this I would've just done it on my own."
Tim unlocks the door as you shove yourself into the passenger seat, teeth chattering. "Sure you could've, but your chances of success exponentially increase when you get help." He looks you up and down, "Do you… want the AC?"
You toss him a half-hearted glare, "Obviously. I'm sweating in here." You hold your hands together to conserve warmth. Tim doesn't break eye contact as he turns the AC on. You stare at him in disbelief at his sheer audacity. He smiles back innocently.
"Alright, yeah, sure, whatever, can we just go please?" You groan.
Tim chuckles, "Of course, of course." He starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot.
"So, what's the run down?" You bounce your leg as you debate burrowing yourself into your hoodie. You find yourself respecting the Bats a lot more. You could not imagine fighting crime in weather like this.
"What?" Tim stays focused on the road.
You turn toward Tim unimpressed, "Like, what should I keep on the look out for?"
"Oh," he pauses, a smirk growing on his face, "yeah don't worry about that."
You frown, eyebrows furrowing in concern, "I feel like that response in itself is something to be worried about."
Tim spares you a quick glance, eyes alight with mischief, "Let's just say, I came prepared."
You sink into your seat, "Great, so you're just gonna send me in blind."
Tim shakes his head, "No, I'll be there with you— well, in the car. You'll be fine. You're stressing a bit too much."
You narrow your eyes towards him, offended, "Oh, I'm sorry that I'm stressed about breaking into your vigilante brother's apartment despite having no prior experience in any crime whatsoever."
Tim purses his lips, "…You'll be fine." He repeats.
"You know that is no more reassuring than the last fifty times you've said it." You cross your arms, staring out the window.
Tim exhales, amused. "Fine, if it makes you feel better, I should have earbuds in the glove compartment we could use for comms."
You open the glove compartment to find a couple old earbud pieces with the Wayne Enterprises logo plastered on the case. "They still work?"
Tim shrugs, "Should."
You sigh, "Alright, then we'll be on comms. You better not ditch me."
Tim rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, "I'm not that mean."
The rest of the ride is silent. Despite Tim's multitude of reassurances, you did not— in fact— feel better doing this than you did earlier that day. Part of you thought it was just something you'd talk about doing, but would never actually do in practice.
However, Tim seemed very eager to get in on this… heist? Whatever it was. You honestly didn't think he'd care, but apparently you and Jason knowing each other was news.
Thinking back to the conversation, you wonder why Tim cared if Dick knew. It's not like Dick has to know everything going on in your life. So what? You met his family, big whoop. That doesn't explain why would Tim care that you had met Jason.
You tap your finger on the window sill of the car.
Unless…
You think back to Jason's messages. The way that Duke looked at the two of you during your initial meeting. The shock on Tim's face. Suddenly, you sit up, catching Tim's attention, does he think that—
"Okay, we're here." Tim parks the car at the curb across the street from Jason's apartment, (you scouted it out with Google Earth earlier this morning). You open your mouth to ask Tim what he really thinks about this whole scenario, but the question dies in your throat. Instead, you nod resolutely, and pop an earbud into your ear, using the hood to cover it.
"You look sketchy as hell." Tim eyes you dubiously, an amused— almost concerned smile on his face.
You glare at him, elbowing him, "You approved it. Said it was— what was it? 'B&E aesthetic?'" You gesture to your lackluster appearance.
Tim scoffs, "I'm just saying. You just look like somebody who I'd avoid on the street."
Your eye twitches, "Thank you, Tim."
He waves a hand at you, "Yeah, yeah, go head inside." You exit the car, fiddling with the earbud to make sure it stays in your ear. "Oh— take this too." Tim throws a small kit to you.
Not wanting to drop the item, you fumble with it in the air for a brief second before reading the packaging. A lock picking kit.
Your eyes widen as you read it. You rest your arm on the open car door as you turn the kit around for him to read. "You serious?"
He shrugs, "Steph said you had gotten some experience in."
"She taught me once on a random afternoon."
Tim snaps, "Perfect time to make sure your skills are up to date."
You groan, pocketing it into your hoodie, creating an odd rectangular shape against your stomach. Flattering— no, but at least you aren't walking into the apartment practically screaming "Don't mind me, just gonna break into this apartment right here!"
"I'll have your back, don't worry. All you need to worry about is opening that door."
"Thought you said the window was a better option?'
Tim winces, sucking in air, "Ohh, yeah… Don't do that." He shakes his head.
You sigh, shutting the car door. Hearing Tim's muffled "Good luck!" You take a deep breath before making your way into the building and up to his apartment. The trek isn't very long, but you are positively sweating by the time you reach his door. Even if you know Jason won't actually do anything to you if he does stumble onto you lock picking his apartment, it's not exactly something you want to happen. You check the hallway, making sure nobody is around, before opening the kit. Sighing, you get to work.
Tim wasn't lying when he said that you got some experience in lock picking. However you also weren't lying when you said it was a single afternoon. You wouldn't even trust yourself to break into your own apartment if needed, let alone Jason's.
"You almost done there?" Tim's voice causes you to jolt, cursing under your breath.
Clenching your teeth, you attempt to pull on the doorknob, another failure. "Nope."
Tim hums, "Well, he should be out on patrol for at least the next few hours. No rush."
You huff, not saying anything. Instead you focus back to the lock. Inserting the pin, you attempt to listen for the soft clicks of the mechanisms.
Click.
You smile, thank goodness you still remember. Now you just need to do that a few more times. Gently, you maneuver the pick until you can feel the pins. You move the pin until you hear the sound again. You exhale shakily, a smile plastered on your face. While you may not live this kind of life, you are certainly feeling the adrenaline of it.
"One more." You whisper to Tim. He doesn't respond, but you don't expect him to.
Your hands are clammy at this point, sliding against the rusted metal of the doorknob. While it does make your life a bit more difficult, it definitely doesn't stop you. The pick attempts to slide out of your grasp, but you hold onto it so tightly that your hands start to shake.
You press your ear close to the doorknob, pushing the pick further in. You can hear the last pin shift with your movements, it's just a matter of getting the right angle. Eventually, you feel your pick latch onto it.
Click.
You don't celebrate too soon, slowly moving your hand up to the doorknob (somewhere along the way you had sat on the floor to focus better). The door creaks open. "Tim— Oh my— I did it." You stand up in celebration, pick forgotten on the floor.
"Congrats," he slowly claps in the background, and despite the mocking nature of it, you can't help but feel accomplished (even if that accomplishment is successfully breaking into a Jason's apartment). "Don't forget why you're actually there, though."
Snapping out of it, you grin, "Right… Right." Hesitantly, you entire his apartment. The first thing you note is that it is not any warmer than the outside world.
The second thing you notice is that it is impeccably clean. You're not saying you thought Jason would have a messy apartment… but it's clean. Almost unlived in. Perhaps he was expecting a guest?
Your shoes softly patter as you enter the apartment. It's so clean you almost feel bad for leaving your shoes on. You withhold a snort at the thought, expert robber here, need me to take off my shoes before entering?
It's dark inside, the lights of the city funnel through the window just above the sink. You attempt to look for a light switch, eventually turning on the lamp near the entrance.
Now, if you were Red Hood, where would you hide a pen?
"Have you found it yet?" Tim asks.
"I just got inside." You make your way over to the kitchen. Looking to the counter, it's not as clean as the rest of the apartment. You run your finger over it, looking down at the crumbs at your fingertips. It's brittle, blackened, almost burnt. Hesitantly you raise your finger up to your nose to smell it. Bacon? You slowly walk to the sink, flicking the remaining crumbs off your hand.
Making sure your hands are clean, you walk out of the kitchen into the living room. What immediately catches your attention is a bookshelf filled with classics. You walk over to it, curiously running your finger over the spines of the books. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, the list goes on.
You continue to admire the collection before pausing, finger rested on the spine of The Great Gatsby, your eyebrows furrow in disbelief. Did he seriously..?
Gently, you remove his copy of it off the shelf, opening the book to look at the bookmark used.
Smiling, you chuckle as you remove the small index card.
Red Hood Jason Todd,
If you're reading this then I was right in assuming that you'd return for your bat-gadget thing. I'm not gonna say I told you so, but… :). Anyway, I hope you enjoy your sealed package. (Notice how I highlighted "sealed"). Thank me later.
Your chest jumps slightly as you reread the message, signed off with your full name. You had written it just for funny 'Gotcha!' moment, not expecting him to keep it. You flip the paper around, it's a standard index card, nothing special besides a few stupid doodles you did to make it stand out.
It's not creased... Not folded, smudged, or damaged. It's in perfect condition.
A fond smile finds its way onto your face. Silently, with all too much care, you place the index card back to the page, closing the book. You slide it carefully back into place, leaving no trace of your interference.
Your eyes fall to the table in front of the couch, and your smile widens. You lean down to grab the pen, giving it a look once over. Yep, it's definitely the pen Dick gave you. Your grip around it tightens, and you look to the front door.
"Okay, object secured." You whisper.
"Great— Oh, shit, get out now." You hear Tim shift in his car seat.
"Tim?" You frown, immediately on alert.
"He is not supposed to be back at his apartment." Tim mutters, and you swiftly make your way to the front door. You open it, and immediately walk into something… someone.
You move your gaze from the floor up to the helmet of Red Hood. Damn it, Tim.
"Hey, you outta there yet? I don't have eyes on him anymore—" You tap the earbud once, muting Tim, not breaking eye contact with Red Hood.
"Heyyy," You smile casually, leaning against the doorframe, acting like it's your apartment.
Red Hood looks you up and down, sketchy outfit and all. "Hey,"
"I didn't expect to see you here." You attempt to inconspicuously slip the pen into the pocket of your hoodie.
"Could say the same about you." He responds, tilting his head. "Could you… move out of the way?"
You blink, looking at his empty apartment, then back to him. "Go ahead… It's your apartment." You slowly move out of the way, opening the door for him.
Red Hood steps into his apartment, "Really?" he mutters, his shoulder bumping into you as he walks in. You roll your shoulder, glaring slightly at him. "Didn't know that."
"Your sarcasm is noted." Rolling your eyes, you watch him head into a hallway, presumably to his room. He doesn't say anything else. You can feel your phone vibrating with notifications (probably Tim), and realize that if you're planning to leave, now is the perfect chance.
You're about to walk out when you pause, "You… You aren't upset?"
Red Hood— Jason walks back out, helmet off, but domino still on. "I'm not surprised."
You frown, "That's… not what I asked."
His eyes narrow, "I'm not surprised." He repeats.
You smack your lips, turning to face him, the door still open. "For the record, you stole my pen. "
Jason snorts, "Yeah, and you can have it back. I ain't gonna deal with whatever emotional attachments you and Dick have to it."
You straighten up, moving away from the door to move back into the apartment, "He saw it?"
"If you're planning on staying, at least close the door, please." Jason moves over to the fridge. His calm detachment of the situation leaves you taken aback.
"I'm not planning on staying." You scoff, moving further away from the door, back into his apartment.
Jason turns to face you, and you raise an eyebrow at him. He sighs, walking over to you. You inhale in preparation for…
He shuts the door behind you. You blink at the action. "I was gonna leave, you know."
"Mhm, yeah, I'll believe it when you actually step through the doorframe." Jason moves over to the couch, practically throwing all his weight onto it. You hesitate, unsure how to proceed. It'd just be plain awkward to leave now.
Shifting on your feet, you open your mouth to speak when he cuts you off. "Dick came earlier today." Jason doesn't turn to face.
You slowly move over to lean your arms onto the back of the couch, next to where his head rests. "Sounds exciting."
He exhales, a small smile at his face, then it vanishes as quickly as it came. "Y'know in the past I've always tried to encourage him to leave whenever he decides visiting is appropriate."
You hum in acknowledgement, but don't say anything.
"Then he saw the—" he gestures lazily at you, "—the damn pen." He slowly removes the domino from his face.
You watch as he slowly removes the mask, his eyes wincing as he forcefully pulls it off his face. "I could've told you it was a bad idea to take it." You smile.
He huffs, "I wish you did." He tosses the domino onto the table.
You nudge his shoulder softly, "I practically did."
He turns to face you, no mask obscuring your view of his features, "No, you just called me an asshole."
You lean your body onto the back of the couch, glaring at him, "'Cause you were being one. You left me on read, after I kindly returned your stuff."
He groans, "Can we just let it go? I fucked up."
"I dunno, I'm currently in your apartment. Will you let me go?" You tap your finger on the back cushions. "You shut the door on me when I was about to leave."
Jason's posture straightens up meeting you at eye level. "Maybe." He whispers, his voice gruff, but a softness is present within it. "As long as you tell Tim to fuck off." He smirks at you.
You swallow, matching his smirk, attempting to appear unfazed. "How'd you know he was involved?"
Jason leans away from you, and you straighten up. He isn't facing you anymore. "I didn't."
Shit, sorry Tim.
You purse your lips, slowly nodding. "Oh," you whisper dumbly.
Jason chuckles, turning back to you, his eyes almost smiling with amusement despite his otherwise neutral expression. "He was the one who disabled all the security measures I had in place. I figured he was with you."
You exhale slowly, "Right…" You meet his gaze, "Sorry… About the whole breaking in thing." You smile sheepishly.
He shrugs dismissively, "Figured it was you anyway."
You raise an eyebrow, "You figured I'd spend my night trying to steal back a pen?"
His lips turn upward, "Well, you're here, aren't ya?"
You offer a small smile, "Hm, guess you're right about that."
You stare off at the table in silence, neither of you speaking for a long minute. "You know, I wasn't joking about telling Tim to fuck off." He tilts his head to look at you, and instinctively you lean closer.
You snort, "You're funny."
"Funnier than Dick?"
You smile, not giving him an answer, "You'll let me go if I text him?"
He nods, not taking his eyes off of you. "If you want."
You raise an eyebrow, "'If I want?'" You repeat unbelievingly. "What's the alternative?" You chuckle, "Like— I could stay 'if I want?'" You ask.
Jason tosses you a disinterested look, "Just tell him to leave my shit alone." He replies, not answering the question.
You smile, "Want me to word it like that?"
"Word it however you want. Just get the point across." He shrugs.
You pull out your phone— which is still vibrating with texts he's been sending. "You know it isn't his fault." You frown, feeling defensive of Tim. Sure he intentions may have been made out of nosiness rather than genuine goodwill, but he still helped you nonetheless.
"He knew what he was doing, tell him to fuck off." Jason shrugs his leather jacket off, you watch him before turning away.
Leaning on the couch, back facing Jason, you type out a response. "How does: 'Hood says to fuck off' sound?"
"Perfect. Send it." Jason takes his boots off. You are momentarily struck by how… relaxed he is. You send the message.
"Alright, message delivered." You smile at Jason, looking at your phone as the read receipt pops up milliseconds after you sent the text. "…And read."
Jason nods, not bothering to actually look at you as he takes off his gear. "Wonderful."
Your phone vibrates, you frown, raising it up for Jason to see, "Now he's calling me." Jason holds his hand out expectantly, his other hand still working with a strap on his boot. Hesitantly you place your phone in his hand, "You aren't gonna steal this too, right?" You smirk, his hand brushing your own as you place it into his palm.
He raises an eyebrow, not breaking eye contact as he answers the phone, putting it on speaker.
"—you can't leave me with that. Is he letting you leave?"
Jason huffs, "Christ, I ain't holding her hostage."
"Funny, I don't exactly see her though." Tim responds.
"I'm alright, Tim. You can head home for the night," you look at Jason for a moment, and he raises an eyebrow, "thanks though."
Tim pauses, incredulously. "The hell did you tell her?" The question isn't directed at you.
"Just had a quick chat. I said she can sta—" You cover Jason's mouth (oddly reminiscent of a prior instance). You don't want to fan the flames of Tim's curiosity.
"He's giving me the pen back. I'll fill you in tomorrow."
"Wait, 'chat?' What about?" Tim suddenly switches topics.
"Goodnight, Tim." You smile wryly. Tim says your name, as Jason hangs up the phone, you frown. "You didn't have to hang up on him."
"He wouldn't've shut up if I didn't." Jason offers the phone back to you. You grab it, pocketing it into the pouch of your hoodie. You tilt your head, a silent nod. He isn't exactly wrong, but Tim has been helpful.
"So…" You attempt to shift topic, moving over towards the bookshelf from earlier. "You like to read?"
Jason leans back casually, "No, I just put them on display."
You frown, the bookmarked book said otherwise. "Rightttt," You drawl out. You pick up the copy of The Great Gatsby, thumbing the pages until you reach the index card. Jason watches you, not saying anything, eying the way you pick up the index card.
"Really?" You wiggle the paper towards him, but even you are a bit careful. After all, if it's in this good condition, you'd like to preserve it.
Jason gives you a small smile, "I needed a bookmark."
"So you used my message?" You raise an eyebrow at the index card.
He shrugs, "It was conveniently located. It's worked pretty well so far. Thanks for that."
You place it back, shelving the book. "Yeah. Let me know if you need another."
Jason nods sagely, "Back-ups would be nice."
You chuckle, "You wish." You slowly move your way around his apartment. You feel his eyes follow you as you move around. "Is it just you here?"
Jason nods, "Yeah," his words quiet, but you hear them clearly.
You walk around the kitchen island, "You like it like that?" You circle around it, heading back over to him. "Just you?"
His eyes flicker up to you, his gaze unreadable. "I manage." He looks down, rubbing his knee.
You look down at him before hesitantly settling down on the opposite side of the couch from him. Well, "opposite" is generous. You refrain from getting close enough to touch him, but he is sprawled out so vastly that you're forced into an awkward position.
You look over to him, "You gonna let me on the couch or what?"
His lips twitch, eyes alight in amusement as he turns to face you. In an attempt to give him some semblance of personal space, you press yourself against the back of the couch, clearing up what little space you had. He kicks his legs up, laying his feet upon your lap, and all you can do is stare at him, aghast.
You scrunch your nose up, glaring at him. "Dude, you stink." You attempt to shove his legs off of you, unsure how to proceed.
He doesn't make it very easy, forcing you to exert some effort in tossing his legs off you. "You're the one who sat down."
"You treat all guests like this?" You glare at him, attempting to distance yourself from him, disgusted.
He holds his hands up in surrender, now fully laying down on the couch. His neck is propped up on the armrest, arms crossed, and legs glued to your lap. "You aren't a guest. You broke into my apartment." He stares at the ceiling, a smile on his face.
You finally shove his feet off of you, "Okay, but you said I could stay. That sounds like a promotion from 'trespasser' to 'guest.'" You sit up on the edge of the cushion, ready to stand at any further attempts of trapping you he has in mind.
"Ah," he raises a single finger up, waving it at you condescendingly, "you said that you could stay, not me."
You meet his smug expression with an unimpressed one. "Alright," you sigh, standing up. He startles slightly, sitting up to watch you head to the door.
"Where're you going?" He asks, and you find yourself almost charmed by his stupefaction.
"Home?" You toss on your hood off your back, ready to brave the freezing weather.
Jason places his elbow onto the back of the couch, eyebrow raised, "It's one in the morning."
You open the door, a blast of cold wind whipping past you. "Glad you know how to read a clock."
"You even have a ride?" Jason asks, looking you up and down.
You chuckle, shutting the door slightly, but not closing it. "You won't believe this, but Red Hood actually told my ride to 'fuck off.'" You do air quotes.
Jason relaxes his head against his propped up hand, "Crazy," he deadpans. "So what, you just gonna walk home?"
You pause, thinking about it. Technically you could. You've walked further in the past. Sure it's Gotham, but perhaps you can convince Jason to lend you a bat or something (ha, get it?). Honestly, thinking back to the drive, it'd probably be like a thirty minute walk you could—
"Tell me you aren't actually considering it." Jason sits up straighter, now ready to stand up.
You stand there, frowning, "I mean you proposed it."
"I was joking," he rubs his temples before standing up. "I'll take you home."
"You don't have to do that…" You open the door wider, ready to leave. Jason, as if sensing your idea, moves past you to shut the door, locking it.
"I know." He looks at you before heading back to the couch. You shift on your feet as he puts his boots back on, when he finishes he grabs his leather jacket. He's about to put it on when he stops, he looks you up and down (again).
"What— Oh my—" You're cut off by his leather jacket smacking you in the face.
"How can you and Tim plan to break into my apartment and forget to wear proper clothing for the weather?" Jason doesn't even spare you a glance, heading to his room down the hall. He returns seconds later with another leather jacket and two motorcycle helmets, giving you an odd look. "You gonna put it on or freeze?"
Slowly, you place the leather jacket down onto the couch "You don't need to give me your jacket. It's a quick drive anyway."
Jason grabs the jacket and attempts to give it to you again, "It doesn't matter if it's a quick drive, it's cold and we're taking my bike."
You open your mouth, but he raises his eyebrows as if challenging your next words. You don't break eye contact as he slowly puts the leather jacket back into your arms. "Guess you make a good point." You mutter softly. Jason huffs, muttering something under his breath. You aren't sure what he says, but you feel bad for taking so long since Jason patiently waits for you to finish putting the jacket on before opening the door once again. "Thanks, Jason." You look at the ground as you speak, before turning your gaze up to his. His mouth is parted slightly in surprise before settling into something more quiet. His eyes squint slightly, and you furrow your eyebrows at his expression. He's openly smiling now. "What's so funny?"
He blinks, and the moment that felt almost too personal vanished. His countenance settles into something more familiar. He lightly taps your shoulder, "Jacket on hoodie combo. Quite the fashion statement you got there." He uses his arm to push you out of the apartment. Not forceful, but enough to get you moving. "Watch your step."
You stumble out of his apartment, "I'll have you know this outfit had Tim's approval."
Jason barks out a sharp laugh, "That was your first mistake."
You chuckle softly, your warm breath visible in the air. Jason walks past you, heading down to the parking lot as you follow behind him. "Where do you live anyway?" He hops onto his bike. You tell him your address as he checks his phone, plugging in the location. He looks from his phone up to you, "Well?"
You raise an eyebrow, "Well, what?"
"You gonna get on?" He asks, head tilted slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, and your eyes follow the action. He smirks softly as you clear your throat.
"Right, I was just…" You had never been on a motorcycle before. Jason watches as you slowly make your way onto the seat, your arms settled onto your legs. He eyes you out of the corner of his eye. Just as you finally get accustomed to it, he shoves a helmet into your lap. You smile, giving him a quiet "Thanks."
"Dick never give you a ride on his bike?" He shifts his body around slightly, looking down at your hands stiffly placed on your thighs. His arm adjusts slightly, raising to almost grab your own, but he stops. "Quick warning," he eyes your hand before looking up to you, "you're gonna wanna hold on."
You nod, not trusting yourself to respond as he revs the bike. Wincing at the sound, you slowly wrap your arms around his torso, causing him to stiffen up. "Sorry!" You wince, voice competing with the bike. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. Despite stealing your pen, you don't think he is a bad person. You already feel awful making the guy drive you home after you broke into his apartment.
He clears his throat, the sound is low, you barely catch it, "'s fine," he mutters softly, "ready? Just follow my lead." You nod against his back, finding yourself thankful he insisted you wear the jacket. He starts up his bike, and you give his torso a tight squeeze in anticipation as he moves out.
The ride is quiet, but quiet isn't necessarily bad. As the minutes pass, you begin to feel yourself relax. It also helps that as it progresses, so does Jason. You can't see his expression, covered by the helmet, but for some reason you can't help but find yourself wondering. You look down at your hands wrapped around him, then back at him, concentrated on the road ahead. You'd never met Jason before before his time as Red Hood. Unlike Dick, you never witnessed his time as Robin. Would things be different if you did?
You lean slightly into him unthinkingly. If he notices it, he doesn't say anything. You attempt to catch his eye, but he doesn't spare you a glance. You look at his hands, clenched around the handlebars, turning your focus to his mirrors. Coincidentally, he also looks in his mirrors, catching you observing him. You look away. He pulls up to a stop light, "You alright?" He asks, turning his head to face you slightly.
You swallow, nodding. "Yeah, I'm good." He nods in acknowledgment , the light turning green.
It's not long before he pulls up to your apartment. "This it?" He asks, turning towards you.
"Mhm," you hum, turning towards your apartment. "Thanks, Jason Todd." You remove the helmet, the cold air attacking you once more.
He removes his helmet too, revealing the tired, yet mirthful glint in his eyes. "Of course," he says your full name. You can't hold back the smile at it. The first time he said it in the cave it sounded like he was stating facts. Like you were something to be cataloged.
Now? The way he says it… It's quiet, personal. It was a small joke that spiraled out of proportion. You can imagine somebody might be offended by such an impersonal gesture. However, neither of you appear upset at how you address one another. In the past the tone was teasing, but it doesn't feel that way anymore.
It's between you two, and only you two. Natural in a way that can't be replicated with anybody else. Even with Dick, somebody you kind of grew up with, saying his name never felt so… personal. Sure he'd call you pet names, but you had learned long ago that's just how Dick rolled. Maybe that's why you feel your heart stutter as Jason says just your name, no last name attached. Your eyes snapped to him. It's a step past teasing… almost intimate. It's not the "sweethearts" Dick would throw at you relentlessly. It's simply… you.
"What?" You snap out of your head, still caught by the whole name thing. Frowning, Jason looks at you expectantly.
"Geez, did you get any sleep before coming to my place? Don't fall asleep here, you're almost home." He rests his helmet onto his lap, still looking at you.
Chuckling, you shake your head, "No, sorry, I'm just…" You pause, "Thanks for the ride." You give the helmet back to him.
"No need to make a big deal out of it." His diverts his gaze from you to the helmet, brushing off imaginary dust.
You smile, "Still, thanks." You aren't sure when to look away from him. Is this goodbye? Should you say bye? No… it feels too formal. Goodnight? Is that too casual? Maybe you should just—
"Need me to walk you up?" He asks, his gaze unreadable.
Your eyes widen dramatically, "No! Uh— Not that I don't want you too. I mean, it's just right there. I'll be fine. Thank you," you swallow, "thanks… though."
Jason's unreadable gaze turns into something almost fond. "Of course," he turns away, as if aware you're over-analyzing his face, shielding himself from any further examination. "Text me when you get home, 'kay?" The eye facing you flickers to your body, but he doesn't turn to face you. His attempt at casual indifference makes you smile internally.
"Mm, two things, one: I am already home," you gesture to the building. "Two: I don't have your number." He blinks at you, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to reason through something. It's kind of funny, you can actually see him think on his face, wondering how you texted him to begin with, before realizing it was on the Batcomputer.
"Well," he holds his hand out, "perhaps we should change that." You feel your heart begin to race, placing your phone onto his hands. He immediately types in his contact info before holding it back towards you. You take it back, looking at the screen.
Jason Todd
You raise an eyebrow at him, "Insistent, huh? Wanna add your middle name too?" You tease. Jason huffs, a small puff of air visible in the cold Gotham atmosphere. He snatches your phone back, typing something on it, and handing it back.
Jason
Face heating up in spite of the cold weather, you chuckle softly. You can't help your heart's increase in tempo. It's so stupid, it's literally just his damn name. Removing his last name doesn't mean anything, but your heart sings at the gesture. "Prettyy sure removing your last name is kinda the opposite of what I asked." You wave your phone at him.
He scoffs, but you can see the smile on his face. "Goodnight," he says your name, and only your name. "Text me once you make it inside your apartment."
You nod, your smile widening at his concern, "Goodnight, Jason."
Slowly, you walk away from him, expecting him to leave as soon as you turn your back. He doesn't. He watches as you make your way inside the building. You offer him a small wave before entering. He nods, putting his helmet back on, and driving off. With a grin on your face that should not be there at 2:14 AM, you make your way to your apartment.
Now, of course, after all of that, you couldn't sleep. You hadn't even taken a shower yet. Instead, you laid on the floor, on your phone. You had texted Jason once you made it inside, a quick message. He had liked it a couple minutes after you sent it, making you wonder if he liked it while driving.
As you sat on the floor, doomscrolling, you couldn't help but feel… kinda pathetic. I mean this is basically how you acted with Dick back when you were kids. You refuse to regress to the "idiot in love with (former) Robin" phase. It's not like you even love him. You scoff. Not doing that again. With that thought fueling you, you take your time doing your night routine. You remove your jacket— wait.
You look down at the leather jacket laid comfortably over your torso being used as a makeshift blanket.
God, he's going to think you did it on purpose after stealing your pen. You groan, carefully taking the jacket and hanging it up at the front of your closet. Guess you'll need to return that.
Ignoring your (accidental) theft, by the time you've finished your routine it's just past 2:30, and you nestle yourself into your warm bed, ready to let sleep capture you. Then, just as you make sure your phone is charging, you get a notification. Usually you wouldn't care, but its sharp ring signaled it to be text. Curious, you check your phone to see who is messaging you at this time.
Jason
You want to know something crazy? I think somebody just stole my jacket.
Delivered 2:34 AM
Immediately, you sit up as if your phone shocked you. You rub your eyes as you check the day. Saturday.
You feel your stomach do so many somersaults that it'd make Dick proud.
You had honestly forgotten the throwaway comment you had made all those days ago. 2:34 AM on a Saturday. You had picked such an inconvenient time on purpose. It was meant to discourage him, not enable him.
Apparently, Jason never forgot it.
Unplugging your phone, you pull it close to you, the light illuminating your face as you reach to answer it. Laughing quietly to yourself, your legs kick underneath the sheets as you open the message. Perhaps you are relapsing to your "in love with a (former) Robin" phase. You roll onto your back, phone casting light down your face.
However, the thought isn't as filled with dread as it once was.
—
Dick flips onto a rooftop, allowing his body to crouch as he absorbs the impact of the fall. Robin is sitting on the ledge of the building, and Dick slowly approaches him. "You know, you aren't supposed to be patrolling alone." He looks down at Robin, sitting himself next to him.
"I am not alone. You are present." Damian narrows his eyes up at Dick.
Dick sighs, "That's not—" he shakes his head, "Just head back for the night. You have school tomorrow. It's late." He places a casual hand on Damian's shoulder. Damian doesn't react to the touch, merely rolling his eyes at his brother's words.
"Did you come here solely to remind me of my curfew?" Damian stands up, crossing his arms indignantly.
"Well, you were just staring at a bank. I'd say sleeping seems more productive." Dick shrugs, smiling up at Damian from his spot on the roof.
"Not if the tip Red Robin provided holds any truth." Damian turns his focus from Dick back to the bank.
"What did I provide?" Red Robin looks down at them from the building on their left. Dick and Damian turn to look up at him as he makes his way down.
"Apparently nothing of use." Damian steps down from the ledge, walking away from Dick and Tim.
Tim opens his mouth before turning to Dick, "I… I wasn't joking. I don't remember what I provided."
Dick shrugs, "Kid insisted you had given him a tip that something would happen at the bank."
Tim blinks, "That's not very specific… There's a whole lot of banks that get robbed…" He trails off as Damian glares at him. "It doesn't matter." He waves a hand dismissively at him. "Why're you still here anyway?" He turns to Dick.
Dick frowns, "You telling me to leave?"
Tim frantically shakes his head, "No! Just curious, we figured that just… After the case, you'd go back to Blüdhaven."
Dick smirks at Tim, "Yuh-huh." He places a hand on his chest gravely. "Don't worry Red," he places his free hand onto Tim's shoulder, "message received." Tim lightly swats his hand off his shoulder, making a small huff in amusement. "Can't I just spend time with my you guys?"
"You know nobody actually believes that's why you're still here, right?" Tim crosses his arms, unimpressed.
Dick raises his eyebrow, "And… Why is that?" He looks between Damian and Tim who appear to have cornered him. This is starting to feel like a trap.
Damian says your name, "I have been informed of your past companionship with her."
Dick inhales, slowly turning to Tim. "What'd you tell him?" His tone is exhausted.
Tim flinches, taken aback, "Why do you assume I told him?"
"'Cause I told you everything about it!" Dick narrows his eyes at him.
"Okay," Tim holds his hands up in mock surrender, "doesn't mean I told him though." He mutters.
"Tim." Dick attempts to catch his eye. Damian frowns, a quiet "Codenames" under his breath going unheard.
"I only told him cause he saw the…" he looks at Damian, who returns his look with a stoic stare, "uh… Well, it doesn't really matter anyway."
Dick looks between the two of them in disbelief, "Saw the what? And what do you mean it doesn't matter. I don't want her finding out that I know she liked me."
"And she won't!" Tim reassures him, scratching his neck.
"What'd you see though? Don't avoid the question." He looks between the two. Tim obstinately refuses to make eye contact, making him look towards Damian. "Well?"
"Messages." Damian relents after a short staring contest. Dick's blood runs cold.
"Robin—"
"He was going to find out eventually!" Damian hisses quietly to Tim.
Dick looks at Tim, eyes sharp. "What messages?"
Tim purses his lips, waving a hand at Dick, "Basically nothing. Don't worry about it really—"
"If it isn't something to worry about, then you won't mind telling me." Dick moves over to Tim, desperate for answers.
Tim frowns, narrowing his eyes. He looks at Dick, then to Damian just behind him. Sighing, he swallows. "She was just talking to Jason on the Batcomputer."
Dick's eyebrows shoot up, exhaling with a disbelieving smile on his face. "Oh.. Okay? Why," he exhales unevenly, shaking his head, "why would that be something to hide from me? I mean— it's not like it's a big deal or anything." He moves away from Tim, heading back to the ledge. "She talks to you guys all the time. Why would Jason be any different?" His hand clenches at his side, willing away the memory of the pen— the pen he had given you— casually laid out for everyone to see in Jason's apartment. "I'd assume it's normal, like— she texts you two all the time, right?" He looks towards Damian and Tim.
Tim pauses for answering, "Uh… Yeah." He looks to Damian who slowly nods. "Yeah, all the time."
Dick nods, the smile on his face turning more genuine rather than the panicked distress he was displaying. "Right, of course," he runs a hand through his hair, "nothing to worry about! Maybe she's just interested in getting to know everyone." He snaps his fingers, pointing to Tim and Damian.
Neither of them say anything.
Damian scoffs, "'Interested.'" He scoffs under his breath, only stopping at Tim's elbow jamming into his side.
Dick picks up on it immediately, "What?" The smile disappears, dread flooding back into his chest, "Did…" He looks between them, eyes focused, "Did she say something?"
Tim shakes his head, mouthing a few silent words, "I… Look, you just said that it was nothing to worry about."
Dick narrows his eyes, "Is this your way of saying I'll have to figure it out myself?"
Tim winces, "That's not what I meant. I'm just saying that…" he rubs his temple, "God, what am I saying?" He whispers to himself.
"What he intends to say is that she's been spending a considerable amount of time with Todd recently." Damian steps forward, narrowing his eyes at Tim.
Dick tilts his head slightly, eyes set on Tim, "Care to elaborate?"
"Look, it's probably nothing." Tim holds his hands up as if placating a wild animal.
Damian huffs, "We both know that isn't true." He mumbles under his breath.
"Yeah, well I don't wanna be that blunt." Tim glares down at Damian.
"No, no," Dick crosses his arms, "be blunt. I want to know what you know."
Damian tosses Tim a smug glance before looking up at Dick with the somber expression possible. "He slept with her."
Tim makes a noise of horror, and Dick stares blankly at his younger brother. "That is poor phrasing!" Tim turns towards Dick, their expressions almost exact opposites. Dick doesn't react to his words. "That's not what happened. She just stayed at his place for a little bit. Nothing like that." Tim whips around to glare at Damian, gesturing for him to stop talking.
Dick feels his heart slow down slightly at Tim's reassurance, but his mind still races. "How do you know?" His words are even, betraying nothing.
"What?" Tim frowns, "Well, Jason kinda just told me to 'fuck off' while she was still there."
Dick looks down to the ground, exhaling slowly. "How does that prove that nothing happened?"
Tim opens his mouth and closes it, "I… Well, it doesn't," at Dick's distraught face he adds "but they didn't." He nods with a certainty that both appeases and concerns Dick. Scoffing, Dick walks away from the ledge and to the back of the rooftop. His hands tighten around the grappling hook in his hand, shooting it to a nearby building. "Nightwing?" Tim asks hesitantly.
"Go home for the night." Dick responds, shooting the grappling hook and letting it carry him to the rooftops of buildings below. He doesn't bother to hear their response.
—
He didn't think about it…
Okay, correction: He tried not to think about it.
He had only just stopped thinking about the pen, when of course the situation got so much worse. He had naively optimistically hoped that perhaps you just left it somewhere, and Jason just happened to need a pen at the cave.
Apparently Tim and Damian decided to crush that illusion he'd built up. It's fine. He didn't spend days thinking about the implications. He did not spend nights staring at the walls wondering if maybe Damian's words had a hint of truth to them. They didn't! There's no way you've known Jason long enough to even consider going that far.
The following days lagged into weeks of concerned curiosity. You betrayed nothing. Jason betrayed even less. If you two were dating, then both of you did an exceptional job of hiding it, considering who your company is.
Then he saw it. A smile on your face, your hand raised to cover it as you laughed at your phone.
"What's so funny?" Dick continues to stretch as if nothing is out of order.
Your eyes linger on the device for a second longer before looking up to him, "Huh? Oh," you pocket the phone as if caught doing something illegal, "don't worry about it. Just a funny video online."
Dick narrows his eyes, looking down at the phone in your pocket as if it would tell him the secrets of the universe. "Right."
"It's uh…" you clear your throat, "cat video." You shrug, turning back towards the Batcomputer.
Dick pauses, "A… cat video."
You nod, "Yeah, mhm. It was really funny." You elaborate.
Dick nods slowly, "Great… Can I see it?"
You freeze, and Dick withholds a smirk. He got you. Shaking your head, you frown. "Sorry… I closed the app. Forgot to like the video." You smile sheepishly. "If I wanted to find it again I'd have to just hope and scroll."
Dick hums, convenient. "I see, that's a shame."
Nodding mournfully, you locate Cass on the computer, "Truly…" You sigh.
He narrows his eyes at you as if compelling you to reveal something, but you merely gave him a thumbs-up before getting on comms with Cass. Maybe there wasn't anything to worry about. Cat videos are funny, so maybe he's just overthinking it—
Then he finally caught you.
It had been after patrol, everybody was exhausted. It was a long night after Crane broke out of Arkham. Most of them went back to the cave. Upon entering, he saw that you were still on the computer checking cameras.
Then Dick saw it. Your phone, left absentmindedly on the far side of the desk, flashing.
On for one second. Dark for a few. Then on again.
The cycle would repeat, and eventually he got curious. You barely seemed to notice that they had all returned, and so he approached the desk. The actual messages weren't able to be read without unlocking the phone, but he didn't need to. His breathing sharpened at what he could read.
Jason
New message
Sent now
Jason
New message
Sent 1m ago
Jason
New message
Sent 2m ago
Dick hesitated to touch the phone, as if touching it would cause the evidence to evaporate into thin air. Slowly he grabbed it, clearing his throat. "Hey, I think somebody is trying to text you."
Your eyes slowly move to him, barely giving him attention. "Huh?" You reply distractedly as you offer most of your attention to the Batcomputer.
Dick waves the phone in his hand, "Jason is trying to contact you…" He looks down at the messages, "Well, he's been trying to contact you. Have you picked up your phone in the last seven hours?" Jason had called you about every couple of hours, each wave increasing the frequency of messages more than the last.
"What?" You frantically snatch your phone from Dick's hold, surprising him as you scroll through the dozens of messages you missed.
After a few seconds, Dick speaks up, "Everything good?"
Your eyes brush over him, "Great! Nothing to worry about."
Dick leans against the desk, "What was he texting you about anyway?" He tries to sound less nosy than he actually is, "Seemed important."
You shake your head, "Nah… No, just case stuff."
"Case stuff." Dick repeats slowly.
You nod, "Case… Yeah, case stuff." You rub your eyes.
"Must be important. Need help with it?" Dick pushes.
You shake your head, getting distracted as your phone vibrates again, "We solved it already." You type out a response, "Thanks, though." You smile disarmingly at Dick.
"Alright," he rubs your shoulder, causing you to wince as he hits a knot. "Just don't overwork yourself, 'kay? Let me know if it becomes too much." He pats it gently before moving away.
Your smile turns more genuine, "Thanks, Dick."
He stays for a moment, taking a deep breath and pursing his lips before walking off. After that day he had confirmed that something was going on between you and Jason.
Then he had reached a month-long stalemate.
He knew that you and Jason were talking, but both of you were surprisingly good at hiding it. The most Dick got was a couple of comments admitting you two had "talked recently." It led him to the conclusion that you must talk everyday because no matter when somebody asked, both of you had always "talked recently."
A small voice in his head told him it wasn't any of his business what you two were talking about. If you both wanted his help with something, you'd have asked. That didn't stop him from investigating though. For weeks upon weeks, he would overanalyze every comment either of you made. He looked for something that implied that there was something bigger going on.
"Yeah, I was talking with somebody, and…"
While you continued to speak, Dick didn't hear the rest. Talking with somebody. Who? Why not just say their name? From what Dick knows, the two of you essentially share the same friend group. Why would you feel the need to deliberately make it vague when you were talking to…
Unless you were talking to Jason.
"—and I told her that I believed that it was impossible. It was…"
Dick narrows his eyes at Jason as he talks on about… Well, he wasn't listening. He said "her." How many "her's" make a prominent appearance in his life? He said it casually enough for Dick to surmise that maybe he didn't make a deal out of it because…
You both were dating.
The realization caused him to tune out the rest of the conversation, responding in half-baked monosyllabic replies. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. Why… Why would you not tell him? Did you tell anybody? Is this just how things were between you both now? An ever growing distance that could never be bridged?
Dick's teeth clench as he considered the possibility. Even if that distance persists, did you still think that Dick wouldn't want to know you're dating his brother?
He can't control who you date. He can't do anything about that…
But you could've told him.
Maybe… Maybe he was exaggerating, after all, it is a large jump for Dick to make. Did he have a lot of evidence to back it up? Not really.
Did he believe it anyway? Absolutely.
For weeks, it was just conjecture. Dick already concluded that something was between you both, but he needed something substantial to have it set in stone, before he could truly panic.
Eventually, his patience paid off.
Dinner. Family dinner. Alfred had requested that everybody must show up, and that meant that, despite efforts to not make an appearance, Jason was there.
Oh, and who else was also there? You.
It started off like usual, chaotic, but familiar. Tim had attempted to bring his laptop and hide it in his lap as he ate, but Alfred shut that down quickly. Bruce had asked Duke how school was going, and of course Damian felt it vital for everyone to know that he was excelling in every single one of his classes.
Then Jason appeared. While not common, it wasn't exactly rare. What immediately caught everyone's attention was his seating choice.
Right next to you.
He had pulled the chair out as if nothing was amiss, but Dick had immediately noticed the action. It was not Jason's usual spot. Dick looked over to the spot reserved for Jason, then back to his brother. Jason didn't even notice the glances at the table, instead deciding that you had his full attention.
Dick's fork scratches against the plate as he bites his tongue. Perhaps… Perhaps you had something important to discuss. The rest of his family decides to ignore what is occurring before their very eyes.
You giggled— giggled at something Jason whispers to you. Dick attempts to subtly watch you both, not realizing his mouth is still running through the chewing motion, despite not having any food in it. Jason's arm adjusts slightly. Your body shifts at his movement.
Dick stiffens, freezing in his seat.
Dick can barely see, after all, he is seated across from you both. However, he knows that Jason's hand is resting on your leg. Dick's heart races, he feels his vision swim slightly. He shudders as he takes a deep breath. "When did that become a thing?" He asks, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Everybody at the table turns to him, quieting down at his question. After a moment, Duke breaks the silence, "What?"
Dick doesn't even look at him, not taking his eyes off of you. Jason shifts, taking his hand off of you as if nothing happened. "What're you talking about?"
"You two." Dick sneers, pointing his fork between you and Jason.
The rest of the table is now openly staring at you and Jason. Dick has to give you both credit, neither of you shrink under the scrutiny of nearly every vigilante in Gotham. "When were you planning on telling everybody?" Dick asks, setting his cutlery down with an echoing "Clang!".
You break first, shifting uncomfortably before Jason steps in, "We were going to say something at the end."
Dick raises an eyebrow, "Were you?" He looks between you both. "Hm, awfully convenient."
"What's that supposed to mean?" You narrow your eyes, frowning.
"Nothing." He almost can't bring himself to look at you. Every time he does, a wave of fury and hurt runs over his body. He forces his gaze from his plate to you. "Congratulations."
Jason narrows his eyes, but you give him a look. The two of you share something. God, you two can read each other by a single look now?
"Thanks, Dick." You offer him a small smile, hesitating as you speak the words, but still with genuine gratitude. Somehow, even when being an asshole, you're still treating him like a good person.
Jason, apparently, doesn't agree to the same restraint you were restricting yourself with. He glares at Dick, not saying a word. Neither of them move, locked into a silent staring contest.
"I called it!" Steph cries out in victory.
"I had already told you." Tim rolls his eyes, offering his brothers an unimpressed look.
The conversation sparked around the table as Dick and Jason continued their staring contest. Neither one of them broke the joyful atmosphere that had emerged.
Then Bruce spoke up.
As if sensing that he was about to speak, Jason shifted his glare from Dick to Bruce. Bruce looked at you and Jason, contemplative. Jason glares harder at Bruce as if daring him to say anything.
Neither of them blink. The table watches in anticipation. Then, Bruce offers a small, tired smile. "You look happier." He nods at Jason's glare.
Jason doesn't relent, "I am."
Bruce slices the steak in front of him, continuing to nod. "Then I can't ask for anything more."
With that, the tension at the table dissipates. You reach for Jason's hand, causing him to turn away from Bruce and look down at your hand clasped in his own. His shoulders fall at your touch. Everybody takes this as the green light to start bombarding you both with questions. You are mainly the one to answer them, but every now and then Jason adds a comment or two. You grin as you recount each story, each meeting. Messages you'd leave for him.
Dick can't bring himself to address this in front of everybody and break your smile. He can't bring himself to listen to the stories. He can't even bring himself to be happy for you. All he can think of is a single question, looping in his head. He distantly notes the migraine he feels as he continues to clench his teeth. His fists shake in his lap at your ringing laughter.
Why is it him?
—
"My brother? Are… Is this some way to get back at me?" Dick attempts to stomp the hurt that threatens to crawl its way out of his chest.
You turn around from your seat at the Batcomputer, "…What?" You blink, looking behind you for other people in the room. You furrow your eyebrows, a bit surprised by his furious onslaught.
You think that dinner, despite the shaky start, was a success. Everybody seemed to accept your new relationship with Jason. Well… almost everybody.
You could tell that Dick had something to say about it at dinner, how could you not? You were worried about his reaction considering you'd known him the longest out of anybody involved in the Wayne family. You had kept your relationship with Jason on the down low until you had both decided you were ready to say something.
Meaning, you couldn't tell Dick, even if you wanted to (and you wanted to). Your biggest fear was that Dick would take offense to the fact that you were dating his own family. However, that fear didn't stop you from getting into a relationship with Jason, so you knew that confrontation was inevitable.
You expected anger. You could even understand if he felt a little betrayed.
However, nothing prepared you for him to confront you when you least expected it. This was planned. He waited for you to be alone in the cave to confront you, part of you is both grateful and hurt at the action. All of this, the confrontation at dinner… It was all planned.
Dick reaches your desk, livid. He doesn't even look at you. "I mean… The audacity—" he sharply barks out a broken laugh.
"—Dick, please—" You stand up, and he glares at you as if the action was a personal offense.
"—to, essentially, break contact with me and then go and date my brother behind my back?!" He snidely laughs, eyes narrowed with sardonic bewilderment. His hands gesture wildly, being thrown all around his head in anger.
Your eyes instantly narrow, "What are you talking about? I didn't break contact with you!" You ignore the unease in your gut at your lie.
His eyes snap to you, pointing a finger to your chest, "Don't lie to me." He grounds out, eyes flashing with betrayal. "You've barely contacted me since you've returned. You didn't want me to know about you and him, yet you two were practically flaunting your relationship. Is this your idea of petty revenge?" You grab his pointed hand, shoving it away from you with a hard glare, but he continues. "I mean, what else could it have been? Did you seriously believe nobody would figure it out? Did you just believe that nobody is in the room with you?" You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, "Oh, right, I guess you just didn't care who sees. Just as long as I couldn't see. Seems you failed that."
You inhale, feeling the flames of indignation rise in your chest, "And you're offended why?" Your voice shakes with false neutrality, betraying your anger at his accusation.
"God, you two might as well have started making out on the dinner table. I imagine it would've had the same effect." Dick continues, scoffing.
You hold your breath, taken aback by his words. "Oh, I'm sorry." You raise your hands up in mock surrender, "All we did was sit next to each other, hold hands, and talk a little. We weren't even talking loudly, Dick." You stand your ground, narrowing your eyes at Dick as he glares at you. "And I can assure you, we weren't 'flaunting our relationship' to get 'revenge' on you." You scrunch your nose up, wondering where he possibly got the notion of "revenge" from.
Dick scoff, looking away before looking back to you. "Yeah, okay." He sneers.
You raise your eyebrows at him, nose twitching, "That's why you're yelling at me right now?" You rub your temples, sneering back at him. "I mean… Why— Why should us dating— which was not born out of pettiness— be reason for you to come down here and yell at me about— what— family dinner? Get over yourself."
Dick scoffs, "You're dating my brother." He spits as if you insulted his entire bloodline.
You snap your eyes up to him, "Did I need your permission?" Dick opens his mouth to respond, narrowing his eyes at you, but no words come out. Instead, his hands clench around air before he turns around, running a hand through his hair. You scoff, "You seriously came down here to accuse me of petty revenge because I'm dating your brother?"
Dick whips around, "Yes! Can you blame me? I'm your best friend. I figured you would've told me you're dating somebody in my family!"
You raise your eyebrows, "Oh, really?" He doesn't react to your words, "Then how about how you dated Babs? Back then, she was my best friend right next to you, and you dated her." Dick inhales, suddenly looking like the wind was knocked out of him, his eyes unable to meet your own. "Had to find that one out from Tim."
"It's not the same." His voice is a low rasp.
"It is. You just can't stand the situation being reversed." You scoff, settling back into the chair. Dick looks down at the ground beneath your feet. You look up at him through your eyelashes, elbow rested on the armrest for support. Neither of you make eye contact.
He sighs, leaning against the desk, covering his face with hands. "I'm sorry," he groans, words muffled through his fingers. You stare at him for a long moment before standing up again. Grabbing your jacket hanging off the back of the chair, you don't respond to him. Closing your eyes, you exhale. When you open them, you don't make eye contact, instead attempting to storm past him.
He grabs your forearm, causing you to spin around. Your breath hitches in surprise, and he pulls you closer. You flinch at the unexpected contact. "I… Really, I am sorry." He moves closer to you, his gaze flitting across every detail of your face. Freezing, you look him up and down, eyes narrowed.
His eyes land on your lips, and you inhale long and slow. "Dick." You utter his name quietly, but not softly. It's more like a warning. His eyes are locked onto your face, not looking away. Slowly he reaches his hand up, it's cupped, reaching for your face. Shoving him, you refuse to let your breath come out shaky. "What are you doing?"
Dick pauses, his hand still raised halfheartedly. He is looking down at the ground, but slowly his eyes meet yours. His gaze is unreadable, the normal light you've come to associate with him appears snuffed out. His hand moves down robotically, as if he's barely aware of what he's even doing. Hesitant to leave him alone, despite your anger, you slowly lean towards him, "Dick?"
His stare meet yours once more. "I…" You look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. Your eyes, though conflicted and piercing, holds a softness to them, paradoxical. A softness he'd grown used to over the years. A softness he craved when you had left all those years ago. An understanding despite it all. The words were in his throat ready to bubble up to the surface, but your single look silenced that. Your eyes are cautious, looking him up and down in concern, but you don't move to get any closer to him.
For a moment, Dick wonders what compelled him to come down to the cave and confront you. Fleeting anger? Jealousy? What right does he have to be jealous? He looks at the taupe leather jacket clutched in your hand, the phone in your other— no doubt filled with messages from Jason, the light in your eyes. The light that he is killing with every second this confrontation drags on for.
He lowers his hand, "I…" love you.
Your eyes narrow at him, ready to bolt at the first sign of escalation.
"I'm sorry." He swallows down any other words he could've said. "For… everything."
Your mouth parts in confusion, pensively looking him up and down. The silence stretches between you both, constricting the atmosphere. Dick's heart speeds up, the beat rushing into his ears creating an internal tempo to his stress. After a long moment, you slowly make your way back to him. You approach him steadily, as if sudden movements will spook him.
At your approach his airways seize, your presence suffocating him. Everything. He wonders if you understand what he meant by that. He's sorry for not saying anything back then. An apology for what could've been, but never was. This argument is one of the many symptoms of his long lack of acknowledgement.
You take a deep breath, slowly raising your hand— an imitation of the action he took earlier. It reaches his face, and the warmth of your hand makes Dick melt into your touch. You brush loose strands of his hair out of his face, but you don't say anything. Dick closes his eyes to savor the moment, his body intuitively leaning closer to yours.
He can feel the slow air of your breath brush past his face, you're so close to him. The slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand cups his face into your palms. He can feel the way your thumb slowly caresses his cheek— a slow back and forth motion. He doesn't dare open his eyes, instead, basking in the warmth of your affection. He doesn't see you, but he doesn't need to. He hears your breathing, slow, calm. He smells the perfume you put on earlier that day lingering onto your skin. He feels your skin brush his own with a gentleness that leaves him compromised all for you.
Then it vanishes. A light stroke against the skin beneath his eyes.
His eyes snap open, searching for the sensation of warmth that you left him wanting more of. Your hand has lowered, eyes not meeting his own— steeled down at his chest. When they do meet him, your eyes don't soften like they used to. Your pulse doesn't race at the sight of him anymore. You aren't affected.
"I know," your words are quiet, but there's a finality to them. An understanding. "Your eyes look tired, Dick." You shift, hugging Jason's jacket closer to you. "Get some rest." You whisper, walking past him solemnly.
He turns around to try and catch your eye once more, but you don't. Instead, you resolutely continue to ascend the stairs of the cave before inevitably leaving his view. Dick's eyes remain trained on the place you were last visible, as if his stare will manifest you to come back down. To tell him that it would all be okay. To embrace him with the enthusiasm you once held for him.
You don't.
—
That day, you and Dick reached an understanding. Neither of you explicitly acknowledged what had transpired, but you didn't need to.
You understood that Dick knew about your previous love for him. Dick, despite feeling as you took his heart and dragged it through the mud, understood that your love, that warmth, that adoration now belonged to Jason.
He could never bring himself to tell you that it ran deeper than that. You had assumed that he had been upset because of your distance, about dating his brother without telling him— which he was, but that wasn't the main reason.
He made a decision. Even if it went against what his body was screaming at him to do, what it was desperately pleading with him to reconsider. He made a decision to not tell how you had unknowingly turned the tables. The part of him so desperate for your attention almost admitted it that very night. For weeks after that day— months, he considered just pulling you aside and telling you before his heart burst at the seams.
He didn't. Moreover, he couldn't. After all, while you may not have noticed his longing, somebody else did.
"Jason—"
"I don't care what you were. If you dated, if you were just friends, it doesn't matter." Jason glares down at Dick, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. "You can be her friend. I can't stop that, but you will never be more than that to her." He whispers venomously. His words were hushed, but somehow they rang louder in Dick's ears than any time Jason has yelled in the past.
"Jason." Dick repeats his words matching the volume of their discussion, "I wasn't planning on anything."
Jason scoffs, but doesn't look away from him, "Bullshit." He pushes past Dick, walking to grab his knife, sheathing it. "She doesn't realize what's going on in your head when you look at her." He turns to face Dick, "I do."
Dick doesn't meet his eyes, "And what's that?"
Jason crosses his arms, deceptively relaxed, "You pause when her hand touches you, your breathing halts. When her eyes land on you, your posture straightens."
Dick looks up, "That's not looking—"
"—The way your pupils dilate when your eyes look at her." Jason continues slowly, as if uninterrupted. "You look at her like you love her."
Dick narrows his eyes, continuing to look at Jason, but not saying anything.
"I understand that you two were friends long before we knew each other." Jason begins to walk to Dick. "I can't change that. She values your friendship." He pauses right in front of him. "Do not mistake that for anything else. She's made her choice clear."
Dick's fists clench at his sides, a jealous fury rising in his chest, something Jason immediately takes note of. His eyes narrow at Jason's despite knowing that on some level he is right. However, all rationality is thrown out the window at Jason's taunt. He already won, and is still goading him.
"Choice?" He sneers. "She loved me first." His mind wars with his heart at the admission. Whether he should've said it or not, the words were out. Any sensible idea for him to concede to Jason, to admit that he had lost what he now desires is cast aside.
Jason's eyes don't flicker with the anger Dick expects. There's no rage swimming in his eyes or painted onto his face. No narrowed eyes glaring at the slight.
It's indifference.
His callousness spurs Dick’s fury more than any wrathful response could. Jason's indifference isn't born out of lack of care, but out of awareness. He knows that he doesn't have to be enraged by Dick's jeer. He knows that when the dust settles— if it has to settle, you will still come back to him, not Dick.
"Perhaps," Jason begins slowly, "perhaps she loved you first." He walks past Dick, opening the door. "But she loves me now." He opens the door, turning to face Dick one more time. "I'm telling you this now as a courtesy. Stop trying to chase after that past. It's over." Jason waits for a response, but after a moment of silence, he slams the door behind him.
Dick doesn't face the door, staring blankly at the living room of his apartment. He attempts to fight the way his eyes burn. He controls the tremble in his arms, forcing his breathing to remain slow— controlled. Gnawing at his lip, he barely notices the skin nearly bleeding under the stress he's putting it under. Heart beginning to race, he stiffens, as if anticipating an attack. His eyes burn, and now he feels furious at the unbidden tears that appear in his eyes, obscuring his vision. He doesn't sob, he doesn't let them fall, he won't let them fall.
She loves me now.
The tears don't fall, Jason is right. You don't love him anymore.
—
He thinks he gets over it.
The process is slow. Slower than it could've possibly have been for you. Seeing you with Jason somehow makes it both easier and harder. On one hand, it's a constant reminder. However, the forced reminder almost becomes… normal at a certain point. The first few months after are rough. He struggled to even make eye contact with Jason, let alone you. He'd make excuses, excuses you knew were bull, but thankfully never called him out on.
The following months pass by slowly, an agonizing passing of time that he can nearly feel each second of. However, it eventually passes and reaches a year. He thinks of that like it's an achievement, but it feels like anything but. A year of lying to yourself? A year of attempting to move on from a mistake he will never take back and will haunt him for the rest of his life? It's nothing to celebrate.
It becomes easier to think about. He and Jason had reached a stilted truce, but fundamentally something had changed about the way they interacted with each other. Everybody noticed, but nobody was brave enough to ask. He wonders if you asked.
He figures you probably would've, and he imagines that Jason wouldn't tell you the full story. Why would he? After their confrontation all that time ago, Jason had ensured that Dick would never confess to you. He doubts Jason would toss that effort aside. Still, he can't help but wonder if you think about what had happened between them.
Whenever you want to spend time with Jason, Dick abstains from any involvement. Whenever you're spending time with Dick, Jason declines. You're not stupid, you probably question it. Hell, you might've already figured it out, and kindly decided to not comment on it.
Another year passes, better than the first, but still slow. Dick wonders if this will be the rest of his life.
Then he hears soft chatter in the cave, stiffening at the meaning of their words. It all comes back to him. For years, the tide had receded, and now it's coming back, crashing down like a tsunami of devastation. However, none of what he feels matters, because it's not about him. It's not about the issues that should've been solved years ago.
When the day comes, he almost wants to go back to sleep and come up with some excuse for not showing up. There are at least a dozen different ways he could miss this: being injured on patrol, waking up late, being indisposed due to a sickness. Yet, he knows he can't.
He gets through the day with an almost cool detachment. Each action he takes to help enact the plan doesn't feel real. The bustling excitement between each member of the family doesn't reach him. He tries to replicate it, not for them, but for you.
The hours pass until it is time, and all he can do is watch. The first thing he notices is that your eyes light up at Jason.
Your eyes shine, a supernova, with all the brilliance of a dying star. Only you weren't dying. You were anything but. Dick realized the aching truth in his heart, something that settled over his entire body and loomed over him— as if it would remain for eternity.
The light in your eyes, it's not just from joy. It's from acknowledgement. Knowing that even after all this time, your affections have been returned. This moment is proof of what you've always wanted. Your light is different from the light you had once shown him. It's something he has never seen, after all he never returned anything back then, did he? Not like Jason.
He wonders how foolish he was to ignore it when he was younger. If he could go back in time, he would rewrite his mistake. He can't even bring himself to think of the consequences. An unstable timeline? A different life? Taking you from his brother?
He would be selfish, oh, so very selfish. He would've kissed you while standing on those steps that led down to the subway where he nearly met his demise. He would've held you so, so, so tight that for a moment he could forget this reality existed. Every time you leaned in, every halted breath, he would rewrite it so that he made the right decision.
He would be so selfish to insist that you needn't meet Jason when you would've returned from college. You would never be introduced to him. The two of you lived separate lives for nearly his entire life. You would never know what you could've been.
You smile at Jason, throwing your arms around him.
He can't though. Even if he wants to rewrite his mistakes— which he so desperately desires— he can't. This is his reality. The reality he helped make, whether he loves it or loathes with every cell in his body. The way your eyes smile with Jason. The way your entire body relaxes with Jason. The way your entire body craves Jason's presence.
Dick's nails dig into his palms, refusing to look up at you both.
The same way your eyes used to smile at him. The same way your body used to relax with him. The same way you used to crave his presence.
You don't spare him a glance. Not even bothering to offer what you had once given freely, readily. Something he had taken for granted.
Perhaps you have cursed him. Doomed him to live with the pain you carried for so long. The anguish he feels— is it comparable to what you felt? Is this how you felt hearing that he had dated Kori and Barbara?
He doesn't know how you did it for so long. How you endured, giving him the pretense of being a supportive friend. He wants to be that. He wants to support you, support Jason.
God, Jason.
Nothing describes his feelings other than conflicting. He wants to be able to take you into his arms like he once did as Robin, like he once did as your closest friend.
But he can't.
He'd be taking away the best person to happen in Jason's life. Despite what his every fiber of his being urges him to do…
Jason deserves somebody like you.
Jason deserves to have somebody who will unconditionally love him. He deserves to have somebody who will tend to his wounds, somebody to talk to, somebody who will look at him and accept him as the person he is today.
A companion, a friend, but also everything but.
Friendship isn't a word that describes the soft whispers you and Jason share when you think nobody is watching.
Friendship doesn't describe how you tightly hold his hand in your own, nor does it describe the way he squeezes your hand in gratitude.
Friendship doesn't describe the soft touches you've shared, or the way Dick has seen his hands roam over your figure. Not scandalous, but grounding. A way to say "I will always be here. I won't leave you." It wouldn't describe the pure adoration in your eyes, something that Jason's reflects. It would simply never describe the way that Jason looks at you.
The answer digs Dick's heart up out of the grave he thought he buried it into, as if to remind him what he already knew. What he has known for years.
Love.
You love Jason.
Jason loves you.
No matter how much Dick regrets not loving you back, or how much he wishes he could go back to fix his mistakes. He can't. Perhaps there are millions, billions, of universes where you fall in love. Perhaps in some of them, it works out.
He has to wonder.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTears stream down your face.
Why wasn't this one of them?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA soft gasp escapes your mouth.
Is this really it?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYou cover your mouth in disbelief.
Is this his punishment?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYou nod, your voice a soft but irrefutable "Yes."
His lip trembles, attempting to hide his tears.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤFinally, you face him, your own face tear-stricken.
He meets your gaze, his vision blurry, shaky.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYour smile nearly blinds him as you raise your hand.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHe looks to see the jewel resting upon your finger.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤDick mirrors your smile, tears cascading down his face.
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You are currently at the Dick Grayson ending for this series. See the other parts here:
Part 1 , Alternative Jason Todd Ending
Summary:
There was a point where you liked Dick Grayson as a kid, but you knew he never reciprocated those feelings, so you forced yourself to move on. When Dick finds out years later, he can't help but feel conflicted. Struggling with his own feelings, he wonders if he is too late to figure out his own. Do you still love him, or does he need to win you back?
Word Count: 18.9k (sorry?)
Warnings/Tags: Some angst, happy ending though, Jason lowkey ragebaits Dick, Dick gets DESPERATE bro is YEARNING, Damian is so done this entire fic, obligatory gala scene, probably not reliable medical info guys idk how to do stitches lol, Reader wears a formal dress for it, way too much banter between everybody,
A/N: Sorry this took so long, I have a little proposal at the end for those who read to the end of this fic! For that reason, I will leave this note quick, enjoy :D!
Taglist Form , DC Masterlist
-
Sometimes life is full of coincidences. Sometimes those coincidences feel like they're spoken into reality. You suppose that's what "jinxing yourself" is.
You're starting to think you jinxed yourself.
While you had discussed your friendship with Dick briefly with Steph, Cass, and Tim, you did so with the idea that you wouldn't have to talk to him anytime soon.
Of course, he showed up at the Manor mere hours after your conversation with Steph and Cass.
You had gone another round with Steph, attempting to work on your footing when you heard the echo of footsteps across the cave. You turned to see who entered, only to see the face of—
"Dick?" Your eyes widen, turning to face him completely. He offers a small wave with an oddly strained smile. As a result, Steph takes the chance to knock you down, a firm punch sent straight toward your chest. You yelp out in surprise, stumbling backwards, sending her a sharp look.
She smirks, "Don't lose focus."
Dick walks over to you slowly, Tim following behind him. You try to catch Tim's eyes, but he obstinately avoids your questioning gaze. "I…" he looks you up and down, noting the workout clothes, "wasn't aware you were back."
You chuckle at his dispirited tone, "No need to sound too excited."
Dick's eyebrows raise exaggeratedly at your response, "No- What? Of course, I'm excited to see you—"
Your chuckles turn into laughter, "I was joking. It's not your fault you didn't know." You shrugged, tugging at a loose piece of gauze wrapped around your knuckles.
Dick eyes your hands before looking behind you to Steph and Cass, both blatantly listening to your conversation. "And you're training? Since when did you do that?" He smiles, eyebrows furrowing.
"Couple months ago." You raise your hand in a so-so motion.
Dick whips his head back to you, "Couple months—" He turns back to Tim, who has decidedly not made eye contact with a single person in this room upon entry. Dick slowly turns back to you, looking down at your lightly scuffed hand, "I would've taught you if you asked." He frowns.
You smile sheepishly, "I wanted to get to know Steph and Cass better." Dick looks back towards the girls, who smile smugly back at him.
"Oh," he nods slowly, "yeah, okay." He looks down at your hands. "Are they doing a good job? Because I can always—"
You roll your eyes, "Yeah, they're doing great." You smile at them.
He nods slowly, "Great."
You purse your lips, turning towards Steph and Cass. They smirk at you, and you pretend to ignore their expressions. "So… When'd you get back? I thought you were in Blüdhaven?"
Dick nods, "Yeah, I was, but there was some crossover on a case Tim was looking at in Gotham, so I figured it was easier if I just showed up." He points his thumb back to Tim.
You nod, "Ah, great." You attempt to grin at him. Why does this feel so awkward? "You couldn't say anything?" You lean around Dick, addressing Tim directly.
"Okay, I didn't know he'd be coming here. He kinda just burst into my room—"
"We should catch up!" Dick cut him off, moving in front of you to block your view of Tim.
You blink, "Oh," you smile, "yeah, we should. You free anytime soon?"
"Right now." He slings an arm around your shoulder casually, causing you to falter, letting out a surprised huff under the unexpected weight.
Meanwhile, Tim catches the eye of Steph and Cass. Cass shakes her head, while Steph smiles, walking over to him. "You know what I know, right?" She whispers.
"If you're referring to what I think you're referring to, then yes, yes I do." He whispers back, watching as Dick drags you away.
"Y'know it's funny, we were just talking about him." Steph raises an eyebrow dubiously. "So you knew and still brought him down here?"
"I was not about to say no. You're just lucky you weren't the one he confronted."
"Was he upset that he didn't know she was here?"
"He burst into my room. I think he was a little upset."
Steph crosses her arms as she looks at you. As if sensing their gaze, you turn around, narrowing your eyes at the three of them before refocusing your attention on Dick.
"How'd he figure out she was here?" Steph offers a small wave, with two thumbs up.
"He overheard you guys."
Steph slowly turns to Tim. Cass doesn't even flinch at the statement, still staring at your retreating figure as Dick guides you around the cave.
She throws her punching mitts on the ground, "Damn, I knew something was up."
Tim looked toward the now-grounded mitts, "And… you said nothing to her?"
"Lowkey thought I was losing it." She kicks the mitts lightly.
"Sure, you still aren't?" He retorts, causing her to look at him in offense.
"Why are you insulting me? You're the one who let him down here." She points an accusing finger at him.
"He let himself down here. I just followed to make sure he didn't do anything stupid." They frown at each other in a silent staring contest.
"You wanted to know what'd happen." Steph sighs.
"I wanted to know what'd happen." Tim admits, nodding.
The three look to where Dick has dragged you over to, talking animatedly as you nod along. "Well, it looks like he's having fun catching up."
"Let him have his moment." Tim shrugs.
"—and so I've been Nightwing for a while now." Dick walks by your side as the two of you walk through the cave.
You hum, "I remember you being attached to Robin. I'm surprised that you gave it up." You walk over to Jason's costume on display. Dick winces as you approach it.
"I wasn't happy at first, that's for sure." Dick looks towards the costume.
"You miss it at all?" You gesture to the costume.
"Eh," he shrugs, "There's a couple of things I miss, but I like being Nightwing."
"Like what?" You ask, turning towards him.
"Well, you for one." He meets your gaze.
You bark out a surprised laugh; it was so unapologetically him. "Aw, how sentimental."
Dick snorts, a grin on his face, "Oh come on, don't tell me you didn't enjoy working with me."
"It was probably one of the more interesting experiences in high school." You admit, nodding in agreement.
Dick blinks, taken aback, "I thought that was meeting me?"
"Nah, that was just funny." You chuckle, placing your hand on his arm, he looks down at your hand. "Most interesting was being kidnapped by Batman."
"Kidnapped? If I remember correctly, you willingly got in." He didn't move an inch.
"Yeah, but how exactly do you say no to," you take your hands off his arm, putting your fingers up like his ears, dropping your voice, "'Get in.'"
Dick laughs loudly, "Okay, yeah, that's fair." He rubs his thumb along the spot where your hand was.
Your eyes crinkle in fondness. You forgot how easy it was to be with him. "It's really good to see you."
He seemingly deflates at the comment, "Yeah." He looks down at the costume, then back to where Tim, Cass, and Steph were across the cave, before turning toward you, "Why didn't you try to contact me?"
You blink, okay, straight into it.
You scratch your neck, "I figured I would've seen you sooner or later. I didn't want to distract you."
He scoffs lightly, but there's something hidden underneath it, "I'm pretty sure a quick greeting wouldn't be that big of a distraction."
You frown, "I…" You really didn't have a good excuse, and you knew that. What could you tell him? Heyyy, so I actually had a really big crush on you back in high school, but I grew out of it… Wanna get Bat Burger? Yeah, that'd go great.
He furrows his eyebrows, his gaze deadset on you, "Is… Is there another reason?" He asks softly.
You blink up at him, looking into his expectant eyes. He was frowning, but it almost looked like a pout. His arms were still crossed, and his body language was still stiff. "I—"
"Richard, I wasn't aware of your return." Damian cut you off, causing you to jump in surprise, flinching into the glass. Dick grabs your shoulder to stabilize you.
"What— Damian? When did you get here?" Dick frowns, not taking his hand off your shoulder.
Damian narrows his eyes at the hand on your shoulder. You subtly shift to the side, causing Dick to let go. "Evidently, your observational skills have been compromised since the last time you were here."
"You could just say I was distracted." Dick sighs.
"'Distraction,'" Damian spits the word venomously, "would not aptly describe your current state." He looks between the two of you.
Dick frowns, glancing between you and Damian, "Do I want to know what would describe it?" Dick responds. You shake your head from his left, and Dick's lips twitch in amusement at your exasperation.
Damian glares at the two of you, "I wasn't aware of your prior affections with one another."
You both blink at the kid slowly, (noting that Steph laughs sharply in the background at the comment).
"I believe you've severely misunderstood the situation." You wave your hands casually.
Damian raises an eyebrow, looking at Dick's spaced-out expression. You nudge him, making him refocus. "Tt," Damian scoffs before crossing his arms.
You stand awkwardly behind Dick, watching as he attempts to explain himself to Damian. Turning to the side, you see Steph, Cass, and Tim all looking towards you with varying degrees of mischief on their face.
You aren't entirely sure what Dick and Damian are talking about, but the harsh whispers give you an idea. "I'm gonna go with Steph," you mutter, turning around, thinking that the two arguing wouldn't hear you.
Both of their attention snaps to you, "Go where?" Damian demands.
You blink, "Uhh... Bat Burger?" You hadn't planned on Bat Burger, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
Dick shoves Damian aside, covering him with his larger form, "I'll go with you!" Dick grins, rushing to your side. You furrow your eyebrows, mouth open as you watch Damian fume at the action. Is this their normal?
Damian squawks out something unintelligible, "I will join you as well!"
"Oh," you turn toward Steph, who is struggling to hold in laughter. "Great."
Tim raises his hand, "Can we join too?" He gestures between himself and Cass.
"Tim—" Dick looks towards him, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Of course! The more the merrier." The grin on Steph's face is positively devious.
"Didn't realize you were staging a reunion." Damian huffs, walking up to your unoccupied side.
"Me neither." You slowly walk over to Steph with Dick and Damian at your sides. "Alright, guess we'll head out." You sigh, looking towards Tim, who smiles innocently at you.
It's silent for a moment. "Can I drive?" Damian asks.
The five of you turn toward Damian, exasperated.
—
You sit squished in a booth between Steph and Cass. Across from you are Tim, Dick, and Damian, with Dick directly in front of you. You silently munch on your Jokerized Fries, the only sounds being Dick loudly sipping his straw and the soft chatter of the restaurant.
You look down at your meal before glancing up to Dick, who has not stopped eyeing you this whole time. "So… You guys come here often?"
Damian frowns, his eye twitching at the question, "Rarely, this cash-grab of a company's mediocre food isn't worth our time."
Tim slowly turns to him, looking past Dick squished in between them, "You know you could just tell them they forgot your toy instead of insulting their entire business." The whole table stares down at Damian's Bat-Mite meal, no toy present.
Damian glares at him, "I refuse to beg an underpaid employee for something so trivial as a figure meant to entertain toddlers."
Tim blinks at him, unimpressed, "A 'no' would've sufficed, but okay." You snort.
"Y'know, with how many of us there are here, we should've just invited everybody else." Steph takes a bite out of her burger. "Made it a whole thing."
"Yeah, cause it wouldn't be weird for like ten people to storm a Batburger. They would definitely not be overwhelmed." Tim took a fry from your plate.
"Seriously? You already finished your own." You place your arm in front of your french fry holder, blocking him from it, glaring.
Tim shrugs, "I know, right? Crazy. Anyway, as it is, they taste better from somebody else's plate."
Steph nods solemnly, "He's right…" She nudges your side. "Could Cass and I have one?"
You sigh, shoving the box in their direction.
"I sense bias." Tim shakes his head at you, narrowing his eyes.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eyes, "They didn't buy any."
"You're nicer to them than you were to me!"
"Yeah, 'cause they asked."
Dick chuckles, grabbing your attention. You turn to face him, "Oh, so you're laughing."
Dick, still laughing, waves his hand towards you, "No…" He clears his throat, "Nope." He gives you his best poker face.
You raise an eyebrow, "Got it…" You shake your head, disappointedly. "You're on his side." You put your hand on your chest as if wounded.
"Okay, wow, I never said that." Dick meets your stare, pointing a finger at you, his elbow resting on the table.
"You haven't disproved it." You look down at your fries, picking up a limp one before eating it.
Dick scoffs, an amused smile on his face, before shoving his own fries to you. You look down at his peace offering before looking up to him. Damian and Tim lean back in the booth seat, sharing a knowing glance with each other from behind Dick's head.
"What?" Dick frowns at your befuddled expression.
"Why're you giving me your fries?"
"I thought you liked them?"
"Clearly not as much as Tim."
Both of you turn toward Tim, "Do not involve me in this." He laughs, turning away from you both.
"Consider it a peace offering?"
"So you admit you were on his side." You sigh, trying to fight a smile on your face.
Dick looks so disheartened by your rejection that you almost give in.
"Just accept the fries, for our sake." Damian is covering his eyes with his hands, almost as if he doesn't want to be associated with you guys anymore.
Dick nudges his fries closer to you, a small smile on his face. You snort, "Alright, truce." You slide the fries over to you, and his eyes light up slightly at the action. Damian gives him a troubled glance before looking at you.
Even after spending a couple of months around him, you still struggle to read Damian. This is one of those moments. By the way he's looking between the two of you, you wonder if he knows something you don't.
You began eating your fries again once the conversation settled into normalcy (or whatever is closest to it). However, you quickly ran into an issue. You had finished your meal, but still had the fries that Dick had left you. The issue was that you were full. You look at the daunting fry container.
You look up slightly to see Dick watching you. You slowly pick up one fry and eat it. Dick smiles at you, kicking you slightly from under the table. Narrowing your eyes, you smirk as you kick him under the table. Peace offering your ass.
"Are you playing footsies under the table?" Damian asks, face scrunched scornfully, looking down at the table.
"I would like it on the record that he started it for no good reason." You take another fry, offering the container to Cass and Steph, who eagerly take some.
"Not even gonna take a little bit of the blame? You are just as guilty as I am!" Dick holds his hands up, outraged.
"It was self-defense!" You cross your arms, stepping on his foot for emphasis.
Steph coughs awkwardly, "Not to interrupt your quarrel, but we are being a tiny bit disruptive."
"It's Gotham, no one cares." Tim rolls his eyes.
"It's called being considerate."
"There's nobody here."
"Oh, so we're just ignoring all the workers now?"
Damian mutters something in Arabic, standing up and walking out of the restaurant, momentarily distracting you from your argument with Dick.
"Should we go with him?" You point your thumb at Damian's retreating form.
"He'll find a way home." Tim shrugs.
You frown, "That… sounds wildly irresponsible."
"I'll rephrase: he doesn't want us to follow him home." Dick takes a fry from your container.
"…Didn't you give that to me?"
"Yeah," he chews on the fry unapologetically.
You glance down at the container, then back up to him.
"Oh, don't give me that. I gave it to you. It's fair that I can take a few."
"Kinda defeats the purpose of 'giving.'"
"Think of it as a tax."
You scoff, looking at the nearly empty container of fries. Between the entire table, they had managed to demolish it. You slide the rest of the fries over to Cass.
Dick looks offended, "Why were you mad about me taking one fry when you give it to Cass five seconds later?"
"It's not about the fries, Dick."
On your side, you hear Steph gasps a quiet "Ooooh!"
Tim schools his expression to avoid laughing. You notice Cass smiles under the guise of eating fries. Steph is openly enjoying this display.
Why did you agree to do this? Maybe you should've left with Damian.
Thankfully, Cass proposed that the (now) five of you leave after that comment. Thank goodness for her timing, because Dick suddenly looked like he had a lot more to say after you're "Not about the fries!" comment.
You all return to the cave, and most of them immediately go to get ready for patrol. You frown, turning to your left, where Dick is. "You gonna go on patrol?"
"Yeah," he sounds hesitant, not making eye contact with you.
Sensing his hesitation, you raise an eyebrow, "I sense a 'but.'"
He looks toward you, "Well… Are you planning on staying?"
You blink, "Why… would I do that?" You frown, bemused.
"Well, if you've been here for months," okay, maybe he is still a little upset about you not telling him, "I figured you'd have room here. Bruce certainly has the room."
"Oh," you nod at his logical conclusion, "Well, I don't." You shrug, unbothered.
The tension leaves his shoulders, and he smiles, "Do you want to stay the night? It's pretty late out."
"I wouldn't want to intrude. Plus, it's late, I don't wanna make Alfred have to set up a guest room at the last minute." You politely decline.
"You can just stay in mine." Dick offers, gauging your reaction.
You raise an eyebrow, "Geez, at least take me to dinner first."
Now, Dick would make comments like this all the time when you were teenagers. Over time, you learned how to tune them out, knowing that it was just who Dick Grayson was. Sure, the first couple of times he caught you off guard, but you learned to roll your eyes and laugh it off.
Never in your life have you done the same to him.
It was a throwaway comment, something he'd say in jest. You had said it without much care. However, upon seeing his mouth part in surprise, even coughing to hide his reaction, you couldn't help but stare.
What the hell happened in the years you hadn't seen him? Last you checked, this was not a certified "Dick Grayson Reaction."
You are caught so off guard by his reaction that you momentarily forget he hasn't actually responded.
"I— Well, you don't have to take it. It was just a suggestion. I probably won't be staying here tonight anyway—"
You furrow your eyebrows, "Dick, I was kidding." You cut him off.
He smacks his lips, "Right." He rubs his hands together.
You chuckle, "Sorry, I can't stay, perhaps another time though? I don't wanna drive too late. Just let me know whenever you're around, we can plan something—"
"I'll be around." Dick cuts you off, nodding.
"Oh," you part your mouth in surprise, "Okay… Well, just text me whenever then. Have fun on patrol, punch a bad guy for me." You place your hand on his shoulder before moving to exit the cave.
Dick barely moves as he watches you walk out. Right as you're about to exit his view, you wave, causing him to wave back. He watches as you vanish.
"That was hard to watch." Tim appears.
Dick slowly turns to him, "Where did you come from?"
"Stop trying to change the subject." Tim glares at him, putting a hand on his hip. "What was that?"
Dick blinks innocently, "What was what?"
"Don't play dumb. What was the 'Oh, you can stay in my room!'" Tim mocks him, holding his hand up to his face bashfully.
"I did not sound like that." Dick furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head.
"Might as well have! I thought you were cool just being friends!" Tim crosses his arms.
"I am!" Dick walks over to the computer, taking off his jacket.
Tim raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. "Could've fooled me."
"It's none of your business anyway. Like— Why did you invite yourself to Bat Burger?" Dick crosses his arm over his body, stretching it.
"'Cause I wanted burgers?"
"That's not the reason, and you know it." Dick points an accusing finger at him mid-stretch.
"Am I not allowed to like burgers?"
Dick scoffs, grabbing his jacket before heading to change into his suit. "I know what you're thinking."
"Yeah, can you blame me?"
Dick didn't respond.
—
The drive back was relatively silent. You meant to put music on, but you completely forgot because all you could think of was the day that occurred. First, you stumble onto Dick after not seeing him for years. That is, of course, after you conveniently forget to mention that you've been regularly visiting Wayne Manor for months.
Then, you end up at a Bat Burger at 10pm with half of the eponymous vigilantes. After that, you come back to the Manor and Dick Grayson— the same Dick Grayson you had loved— offers for you to stay in his room. When you make a joke about the comment, he actually gets flustered. Flustered!
Upon arriving in Central Gotham near Coventry, you sigh, getting out of your car.
What a night.
You wonder how they do it sometimes, you feel exhausted, and all you did today was go to work and train. Not even patrol. Upon entering your apartment, you have to use all your willpower to stay standing. Rushing through your night routine, you eventually plop onto bed, letting sleep take you into its grasp.
The next day started out normally.
You had woken up at a reasonable time and gotten ready relatively fast. You had even decided to walk to that one bakery a couple of blocks down that you liked. You were early enough that all the pastries were fresh. You walked out with a chocolate croissant. It was going great.
Then you heard shouting and gunshots.
Of course, living in Gotham, you weren't surprised. However, that didn't mean you were stupid. Usually, when a person senses danger, it's common sense to walk away from it. However, it seemed that the crime started to follow you.
At this point, you were speedwalking— almost running away. The yelling had gotten much closer, and you were not about to get shot today. Just as you thought that maybe it's time to start running, you get tackled to the ground.
What has been going on recently?
You and the criminal, covered in a balaclava, both stared at each other in shock. You turned your gaze to whatever— whoever was chasing them.
"Oh," Red Hood jumps down next to you, addressing you by full name. Is this just going to be a thing between you both now? He stomps his boot onto the guy's throat, causing him to cough loudly, trapping the guy to the ground.
You click your tongue, "It's— uh," well, you can't exactly call him by his full name, "you."
Red Hood holds his hands out in a grand gesture, "Oh yes, me." You don't think you are imagining the smugness in his tone. You watch as he tilts his head down slightly.
You look down at the guy on the ground, who is quickly turning pale, "Hey, uh, I know this may be a big ask, but could you maybe not kill this guy right in front of me?" Your eyes flicker between Red Hood and the criminal.
The sound is distorted, but you think Jason snorts behind his mask. He kicks the man's head, and he stops moving.
You couldn't stop your look of horror if you tried.
"I was aware that it may have been a bit much to ask, but seriously?!" You cover your mouth.
Jason grabs the body, "Relax, he ain't dead. Just unconscious." He slings him over his shoulder.
"Oh, okay…" You nod, watching as he shifts the body on his shoulder. "I thought you're mainly in Crime Alley."
"I am," he answers. Well, somebody isn't very talkative.
"So, why're you here?"
"Because I have free will? What? Do you think I'm locked in Crime Alley?"
You nod, "Absolutely, still aren't sure if I'm imagining you or not."
Now he definitely laughs. You look down at your scattered items, picking up your now smushed croissant.
He's about to walk off when, "Hey, could you buy me a new one?"
Red Hood slowly turns toward you, "You serious?"
You nod, "I know you're rich. You probably got that crime lord money." You do the "money" gesture with your hand.
He remains silent.
"Is that a yes…?" You smile hopefully.
He sighs, walking back over to you, body slung over his shoulder. "Make it quick."
You grin.
-
If you thought yesterday was crazy, then somehow today is even crazier.
You are sitting in that bakery with Red Hood, who is leaning back lazily in a wooden chair that looks tiny in comparison to him. On his left is another chair with the criminal tied up. You take a bite of your croissant slowly, enjoying the scene.
Like you said, quite the morning.
"Y'know, I kinda feel bad that I'm the only one eating." You cross your legs.
Red Hood doesn't move. "You forced me here, and are using my money for this."
"I can't force you. I think you'd win that battle, but it'd be close." You take a bite of your croissant as Red Hood snorts.
"Yeah, real close."
"I'll have you know I've been training." You glare at him defensively.
"Oooh," he holds his hands up, "did your 'not-bestie' train you? You gonna beat me in a backflip competition?"
"Name the time and date." You smile.
Jason shakes his head, crossing his arms.
"No, seriously though, I wasn't joking. Please get something. I feel bad now."
Jason sighs, looking down at your croissant. "What would you recommend?"
You grin, "Any of their croissants are good. Oh, their danishes are pretty good if you like those too."
You two stare at each other for a moment before he gets up and goes to the counter. You have to hold back a snort at how people blatantly let him cut in line. Perhaps you should try dragging him around places, quick service. He eventually orders an almond danish before walking back over to you.
"What's so funny?" He asks, sitting down across from you.
"Nothing. This whole situation is just funny to me." You grin, covering your mouth.
Jason huffs, "You're telling me you don't often invite vigilantes to bakeries?"
"Not typically, no." You smirk, watching as he fidgets with the packaging of the danish. "You… Going to eat it?"
You have a feeling he's glaring at you from under the mask, "Yes, I'm going to unmask myself in front of this entire bakery. Great idea."
"Oh come on— I know you wear a mask under the mask!"
He sits up straighter in his seat. Ha, it seems that you stumped him with that comment.
"Which— I feel obligated to add— I think is silly." You wipe your hands on the napkin on the table.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Consider it charity, I like giving it away."
Jason laughs, causing you to laugh as well. Fidgeting with the now-empty wrapper, you cautiously speak again, "Y'know you should come by the cave more often."
Jason remains silent for a moment, "I'll pass."
You sigh, "Well, I can't force you." You lean back lazily in your seat, "Consider it a mercy."
"I feel so honored." Jason deadpans.
"They wouldn't mind." You shrug, watching as Jason tilts his head slightly at your comment.
"Mhm, I'm sure." He mutters.
Tapping a finger on the desk, you sigh. "Alright, well, the offer is always there. Don't worry, I'll defend you from the big, scary bat."
Jason clasps his hands together, "Oh, my savior."
Laughing, you notice something shift on your right. "Hey, I think your guy is waking up." Both of you face the criminal.
Jason stands up, grabbing the guy by the scruff of the neck, the ropes around him falling off loosely. You wince at the action. It looks very uncomfortable. "What'd he do anyway?"
"He was trying to recruit kids for his drug trade. Thought he would get far," he punches the man, knocking him out cold again, "he didn't."
"Oh," you scrunch your nose up in disgust, "yikes. Give him a good punch for me." You take the trash from the table.
Jason looks over to you, huffing before walking out.
"Thanks for the food!" You call out to his retreating form, watching as he grapples away, not bothering to respond.
—
Dick paces in his room at the Manor. He had spent the past hour rearranging everything so that it looked perfect.
"This is highly unnecessary." Damian leans on his doorframe.
"…Cleaning rooms?" Dick tilts a photo frame on a dresser slightly.
Damian sighs, unimpressed. "Are you expecting a guest?" He walks over to the dresser, eyeing the photo suspiciously.
Dick hesitates before answering, "No…" He tilts the photo down so Damian can't see it. Damian turns toward him, glaring.
"You aren't even living here anymore."
"It's still my room, I can rearrange whenever I want." Dick crosses his arms, looking down at Damian.
Damian raises an eyebrow, looking back towards the downturned frame. "Right," He narrows his eyes towards Dick.
Dick sighs, "You look like you want to say something."
"Correct."
"Care to share?"
"Not particularly."
Dick rubs his temples, "I know what you're thinking—"
"Do you?" Damian crosses his arms.
Dick hesitates slightly, "Yes…"
Damian scoffs, "So then you know that I find this courting act pathetic."
Dick raises his hand slightly, "Hey now, I thought you said that you didn't want to share—"
"I assumed you were above this." Damian snatches the photo frame the moment Dick lets his guard down. "Pining after ex-lovers."
"We never dated." Dick huffs. Did his entire family think he dated you? He attempts to snatch the photo back from Damian.
Damian looks up from the photo to Dick, "Truly?" He looks down at the photo, "It's worse than I feared then."
"Could you get out?" Dick finally retrieves the frame from Damian, who let him take the item back.
"Is that why you're renovating your room?" Damian looks towards the neatly made bed, giving it a look of disgust. "Is this some seduction scheme?"
"What? No!" Dick frantically shakes his head. "How did you conclude that?"
Damian stares at Dick for a moment before turning away, "Well, it's for her, right?"
"Not like that."
"Answer the question."
Dick pauses before putting the photo frame back up, "She doesn't have a room here." He rubs his thumb against the frame. "I thought that maybe she could use mine to stay the night— you know, if she ever needs it." He looks down at Damian.
"And there's no ulterior motives?" Damian raises a dubious eyebrow.
"No! Why are you still on about that?"
"What else is there to think? You're offering her your bed."
"Damian." Dick sighs, covering his eyes, rubbing his temples.
"You know I'm right, even the others have noticed."
Dick instantly removes his hands from his face, "What'd they say?"
Damian gives him an unimpressed blink. "She liked you. Now she doesn't." At Dick's wounded look, he sighs, "I'll rephrase. She no longer harbors romantic affections for you."
Dick groans, "Did she tell everybody but me?"
"No, I just figured it out."
"You just met her."
"And yet, I was still able to conclude where her affections lie."
Dick clenches his fists, walking over to the bed, "Do you think I messed up?"
"By not knowing? She cannot blame you for your ignorance."
"That… doesn't really make me feel better."
"I wouldn't assume it does. It's too late anyway, she's moved on."
Dick frowns, "With somebody?"
Damian pauses, "Not to my knowledge."
"So there could be somebody?"
Damian sighs, "The possibility is there."
Dick leans back onto his bed, ruining the perfect sheets. "Would she even tell me?"
Damian is silent for a moment, "Unlikely."
Dick lets out a wounded chuckle, "Why didn't any of you guys tell me? At least with her, I can maybe understand, but not a single one of you thought to contact me?"
Damian slowly walks over to the edge of the bed, looking down at Dick, lazily sprawled on the sheets. "I was under the impression that you two had previously… dated. I believe everybody else believed that, too. It wasn't any of our business."
Dick scoffs, "Like that's ever stopped you guys." Damian remains silent at his comment, so Dick continues. "Has she really met everybody while I was gone?"
Damian frowns thoughtfully, "To my knowledge, she hasn't met everybody. From my understanding, she hasn't met Todd."
Dick hums, "Should I confront her?"
"If I knew you'd be languishing in your room, I would have refrained from confronting you about this." Damian takes a few steps back, ready to exit.
"I never... liked her like that." Even to him, the comment sounded weak, as if he was struggling to believe his own words.
Damian pauses, looking down at Dick's pathetic form, "I believe this has dragged on long enough."
"Damian," Dick calls out as he hears Damian's footsteps soften as he moves farther.
"Damian," Dick props his head up, looking at his door wide open.
Dick stares at his open door, frowning. He looks at that photo left on the dresser. Why does it matter so much anyway? It's not like you like him anymore. He walks over to that photo.
It's a photo of when you were first in the cave with him. He was sitting on the medical bed, bandages covering his body, as you grin at the camera. He had argued at the time that too much had happened for him to look happy in any photo. To be fair, he wasn't wrong. He looks exhausted, but there's a fondness in his eyes as he glances out of the corner of his eye. You had taken it on his phone at the time and told him he could delete it after. He could never bring himself to delete it. While he was not thrilled at the prospect of having a photo of him injured lying around, you had seemed so excited, and he couldn't bring himself to dampen that joy.
Did you like him then? He runs his finger over your face.
Who is he kidding? You ran into a fire to pull him out. You had risked your life for him.
He looks into your eyes in the photo, the light glinting off the glass, his hands clenching around the frame.
—
"No way. That's how you found out his identity?" Steph cackles as she spins in the chair, her Spoiler suit on. She isn't wearing the mask, so you observe your reaction with a grin on your face.
"Yep." You smirk, "'Costume party,' he told me." You do air quotes.
She snorted, "He couldn't come up with anything better?"
You shrug, laughing, "Apparently not."
"That was foolish of him." Damian crosses his arms next to Steph.
"It's funny. I mean, come on— Imagine getting caught in the library of your high school." She grabs Damian's arm to stabilize herself as she cracks up again.
Damian glares down at her arm, not nearly as amused by the story as she is, but he doesn't push her arm away.
"Did I miss something?" Duke walks over to you three, suited up, causing you to jump back in your chair. Still, after all these months, every single person here manages to sneak up on you. You'd think you'd have improved your situational awareness by now.
"We were just recounting the story of how I met Dick." You shrug, tapping your finger on the armrest of your chair casually.
"Oh?" Duke raises an eyebrow.
You gape at him, "Did he tell none of you?"
Duke shrugs while Steph grins. Damian, however, is the one who speaks up, "Considering the mortification he must've felt, I imagine he'd be hesitant to narrate said anecdote."
You snort, "Fair enough. So, basically, he was changing in the textbook storage room at the library." At Duke's widened eyes, you hold your hand up to stop him from speaking, "Wait, it gets better. So I had been going in there for some textbook, and I opened the door to see none other than Dick Grayson changing into Robin's costume. So now I'm standing there like 'Uh, you good?' As he tries to convince me that it was for a costume party. Keep in mind, it was around one in the afternoon in the middle of the week."
Duke crosses his arms, his eyes lighting up in amusement, a smirk crosses his face, "I can see why he didn't tell us."
You snicker, "Right?! I mean, it was already bad, but he kept digging himself deeper and deeper. So now I have to smuggle him out, right? And—"
A loud motorcycle roars, echoing throughout the cave. You and Steph share a frown. You turn towards Duke, who looks puzzled at the newcomer. Meanwhile, Damian is already reaching for his katana.
"Could be Dick? I know he was out earlier today. I don't know if he has returned yet." Duke shrugs.
"Doing what?" Steph stands up, grabbing her mask before covering her face. She attempts to subtly cover you, after all, you don't exactly have a secret identity. Still, you frown indignantly at the action.
"I dunno.'" Duke shrugs, narrowing his eyes as the biker parks off in the distance. Damian looks towards Duke at that comment, when suddenly the figure becomes so blaringly obvious. How could you forget?
"Jason Todd?" You frown, standing up.
Duke sighs in relief as Steph and Damian snap their attention to you.
Jason walks over to the four of you, taking off his helmet, addressing you by full name. Behind you, Steph is covering her mouth in surprise before slowly turning to Damian, nudging him. They both share a look.
"I didn't realize you'd take me up on the offer so soon." You raise an eyebrow, putting one hand on your hip.
"That's not why I'm here." He rolls his eyes.
"Well—"
"Wait," Steph cuts you off, causing both you and Jason to turn to her, "since when did you two meet?"
You raise an eyebrow, "Uhh, few weeks back? Actually, he bought me a croissant yesterday."
Damian turns towards Jason, "You what?"
"Y'know the French pastry?" Jason raises an eyebrow at Damian. "Typically flakey, probably has an unhealthy amount of butter in it—"
"I know what a croissant is, Todd."
Jason raises his hands in mock surrender, "Just making sure." He looks down at Damian, unimpressed.
"Let's go back a bit." Steph steps in between them, "Why did he buy you a croissant?"
"I was hungry, and he kinda destroyed the one I bought." You shrug, pointing your thumb at Jason.
"Technically, I didn't. It was that guy that you ran into."
"Well, you were the one chasing him."
"Perhaps you should watch where you're running next time."
"My bad, next time I'll check both ways before walking on the sidewalk. Never know when you're gonna get tackled by a drug dealer."
"Exactly."
Steph and Damian both watch in varying degrees of awe as you two go back and forth. Steph looks almost amused, yet wary of your back and forth. Damian, however, is quiet. Duke looks unsurprised, attempting to hide the growing amusement in his eyes.
"So… You've been hanging out for a while?" Steph asks hesitantly.
"She forced me to 'hang out' with her." Jason gestures his thumb to you. You glare at him indignantly.
"I wanted compensation for my croissant." You defend yourself, pushing his hand down. Jason moves away from you, glaring. "What're you even here for anyway?"
"You said I could come over? What happened to that whole 'I'm gonna defend you from the Bat.'" Jason crosses his arms.
You hold your hand up, "You had already said that's 'not why I'm here.' Oh, and who says I wouldn't defend you?!" You say, knowing full well that Bruce would wipe the floor with you.
"You're not doing a very good job of it."
"He isn't here? Are you fighting invisible bats?" You gesture wildly around the cave at nothing.
"There are actually bats in here." Jason points up at the ceiling, the five of you looking up to the bats resting on the ceiling, barely visible, but there.
"Are you fighting rabies?" You place your hands on your hips.
Jason scoffs, letting the argument die down. "I dropped something a couple weeks back. Figured I'd grab it."
"You know, not answering the rabies question doesn't make me feel better."
"Wasn't supposed to." Jason rolls his eyes.
You hum, "Anyway, you said you dropped something a couple weeks back?" Jason nods silently, and you smirk roguishly. "That's crazy, cause a few weeks ago somebody actually dropped something after I told them it was a risk."
"Crazy. Who would ever do such a thing?" Jason deadpans, avoiding your eyes.
You grin even wider, gesturing for Jason to follow. "You're lucky I was nice enough to keep it. Figured it looked important. You know—"
Damian, Steph, and Duke stare in varying degrees of alarm as you take Jason away to find whatever he was looking for.
"So… They've met." Steph eventually breaks the silence. Damian grunts quietly in response. She turns to Duke, "And you've been awfully quiet."
Duke, avoiding eye contact, stares unyieldingly at your retreating figure.
"You knew, didn't you?" She crosses her arms, nudging him with her elbow.
"I didn't think it was that big of a deal. I just stumbled on them in one of the old storage rooms together." He scratches his neck.
Steph stares blankly at him, mouth agape. Damian stares up at him, lips pursed. "And you told nobody?!" She whisper-yells, shaking Duke's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, my first thought wasn't 'Let me tell everybody in a 10-mile radius what I just stumbled onto!'"
"It should've been!" Steph frowns. "I am not gonna be the one to tell him."
"Nor will I," Damian speaks up.
They both turn towards Duke, "Woah, I sure as hell aren't saying anything."
Steph holds a finger up, "Nuh-uh! You kept this a secret! You gotta tell him."
"How is that fair?! I didn't even know I was supposed to tell anybody!" Duke grabs Steph's shoulders.
"'Tis the burden we have in situations like this." Steph sighs dramatically, patting his hand reassuringly.
"I am not gonna tell him. Since you were so upset at not knowing, you can go and spread the news." Duke shakes his head frantically.
"I already said I'm not gonna do it!" She furrows her eyebrows, turning to Damian for help, who shakes his head in response.
"Well then," Duke crosses his arms, "it appears we've reached a stalemate." Duke sighs, staring resolutely at her.
The three of them turn to you and Jason's distant figures.
It'll be fine
–
Jason didn't linger in the cave after you retrieved the item he was looking for. You didn't expect him to. Truthfully, you're surprised he even showed up, having nearly forgotten the incident a few weeks back. When he left, you tried to ignore the looks that Steph and Damian gave you.
It was strange, you hadn't talked with Damian much in the past, but suddenly the boy was very interested in your love life. You weren't naive enough to assume it was just genuine curiosity.
"And have you considered dating anybody as of late?" He sits on a chair in front of the Batcomputer, hands clasped on his lap.
"Uh…" You frown, "No..?"
Damian hums, tapping his fingers on his lap methodically. "Anybody?" He emphasizes.
You lean against the desk, "You sound like you want me to say a specific answer."
Damian's stare pierces your soul, almost as if he's trying to assess you. "So you do have an answer in mind."
"I don't actually." You shake your head, frowning.
Damian raises an eyebrow at you skeptically, "Think about it."
"I don't think I'm enjoying this conversation." You cross your arms, sighing.
"The quicker you disclose your true intentions, the quicker this will end."
You stare blankly at Damian, "Damian, I have no idea what answer you want."
"Playing yourself the fool is beneath you."
"Then I am a fool," you shrug carelessly, ready to walk away. "Just ask bluntly."
Damian remains silent for a moment, "Are you and Todd courting?"
You stare at Damian, who doesn't break his inscrutable expression. You can't stop the laughter that erupts at your next question, "Why– Why would you ask that?"
"You requested that I ask bluntly. I am merely following your instructions. I had presumed that the name-calling was a flirtatious advancement, not to mention the childish bickering."
"Okay, first off–" you hold your finger up, walking over to Damian, thank goodness everybody left already, "I call him by his name."
"You don't call anybody else by their full name." Damian frowns, eyebrows furrowed.
"He started it!"
Damian blinks at you, unimpressed. "You are not helping your case."
"Why are you acting like this is my fault? Why don't you confront him?"
Damian makes a point to look around the now-empty cave exaggeratedly, "He is not here." He deadpans.
"Oh, so I'm just the convenient option. I feel so loved." You place your hand on your chest mockingly.
"You have yet to answer the question."
"I am not dating Jason. I don't know how one interaction between us convinced you of that, but it's not true." You look away from Damian.
He narrows his eyes, "There was mention of your previous outings with him. He apparently 'bought you a croissant.' A euphemism for more unseemly activities, I imagine."
You attempt to mask your horror at his words, but fail miserably. "If I knew it'd cause me this much trouble, I would've just skipped the damn croissant." You mutter, rubbing your temples.
"So you admit he 'bought you a croissant.'" He sits up straighter in his chair.
"He bought me like an actual croissant, yes! He even clarified that we were talking about the pastry. I never denied that!" You gesture wildly.
"Tt," Damian glares at you, his gaze scrutinizing your entire being. "What was the context for that outing?"
"I…" You begin before pausing, "Wait, why would I tell that to you?"
Damian raises an eyebrow, "Got something to hide?"
You glare at him indignantly, "I know what you're doing." You shake your head at him disapprovingly.
"Really? You are dancing around the question." He taps his fingers slowly, shaking his head at you, disapprovingly.
You groan, "It was an accident, I had accidentally ran into the criminal he was after. Both of us went down, and my croissant was smushed. I, jokingly," you emphasized, making sure Damian understood, "I jokingly told him— Jason, not the criminal— that he should replace my croissant."
"So you asked him out." Damian holds his clasped hands up to his face, concentrated.
You whip around to face him, "I just said it was a joke. I didn't think he'd actually stop what he was doing to sit with me in a bakery!"
Damian looks slightly taken aback, "You sat in a bakery with him?"
You rub your eyes with your hands, "Wait, okay, yes, but it was perfectly fine. It wasn't like that. We just bought a couple of pastries before he had to go."
Damian looks repulsed by your words, standing up. "I have things to attend to."
"Damian, believe me. We aren't dating or courting or whatever you wanna call it!" You attempt to stop him.
Damian remains silent as you look down at him, pleading. He nods once before exiting, not a word extra.
Well, that is not very reassuring.
–
The night had been going smoothly– well, as smoothly as a night in Gotham could go.
Dick, true to his word, decided to stay in Gotham. The night was still young, so perhaps he was judging prematurely, but it was nothing too crazy. There was some drug deal on a roof earlier, and that was about the most intense thing that happened all night. It's been quiet.
Dick decided that he was going to try and stick around Central Gotham that night, for he knew you had gone home earlier. Dick was going to ask if you wanted to hang out alone, and not with half of his family tagging along. When he began searching for you, he eventually ran into Damian, who gave him a conflicted expression. Before Dick got a chance to ask what that meant, Damian shrugged, telling him he had no idea where you were.
Eventually, he found out that you had left the manor earlier that day. Which was fine. It's not like he could control where you went, but he'd been hoping to catch you alone.
So maybe he'd been patrolling around your apartment, and maybe he'd circled around the block a few times, hoping to catch you alone. He wasn't sure when you left, but he hadn't seen your car around, so he figured you were still out.
That night, Babs decided to help out on comms, "Nightwing, there's an armed robbery two blocks over from your current location."
Dick frowns, leaving for five minutes couldn't hurt.
–
You sigh as you exit your car, grabbing your personal items before getting ready for the quick walk to your apartment. There was no parking, so you had parked a couple of streets over. The walk wasn't anything you hadn't done before, so you weren't too worried.
Damian's unexpected interrogation had you stressing for the rest of the day. What if he went around telling people that something was going on between you and Jason? Not like there was, but you know Damian is stubborn. If he believes that you are dating Jason, then it'll take more than a quick conversation to convince him.
Just as you were about to turn onto your street, you hear the sound of a gun's safety being clicked off. Slowly, you turn around to face the criminal. It was a man with long, greasy hair. He had a worn leather jacket on, the gun held lazily in his hand. "Everything on you, now."
Your mouth parts in surprise, well, shit. While Cass and Steph were teaching you how to fight, that did not mean you were confident enough to take out somebody with a gun pointed at your head.
"Okay," you answer slowly, grabbing your phone out of your pocket. He watches as you move slowly to fish the device out of his pocket.
"Hurry up. I don't have all day." He glares at you.
"I'm sorry that robbing me is inconvenient for you." You mutter to yourself, thinking that he won't hear.
"What was that?" He points the gun under your chin, and you feel your heart race at the action.
"I'll hurry up! I'll hurry up!" You hold your hands up in surrender, offering your phone in one of them, watching as he moves closer to take your phone.
Just as he's about to grab your phone, a figure descends from the sky, kneeing the robber in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground. The sheer force of the action causes you to flinch back in surprise. Instinctively, you move away from the attacker before you see who it is.
"Oh," you exhale in relief, "you know we keep meeting." You adjust your clothes, brushing off imaginary dust as if you were unbothered by the attack.
"Were you about to give this asshole your phone?" Red Hood gives a "light" kick to the now unconscious criminal.
"Not all of us are trained as well as you are. He had me at gunpoint." You scoff.
Red Hood turns towards you, "Thought you said that you've 'been training.'" He does air quotes. "If I remember correctly, I remember you challenging me." He crosses his arms, tilting his head slightly.
You purse your lips, "I was bullshitting and you knew that."
He chuckles, moving over to you. "Are you hurt?" The amusement from his voice is gone, replaced by something that almost sounds like concern.
You smile at him, "Physically no, but my pride is a little wounded."
"Mm, next time I'll let you get a hit in." He responds dryly.
You grin even wider, "Aw, so thoughtful." You start to walk past him.
"Where're you heading anyway?" He asks, following behind you.
"Home."
"Alone? This late?" He walks up to your right.
"It's nearby, I'll be okay."
"You were almost robbed."
"Keyword: 'almost.'"
Red Hood attempts to rub his temples, but the helmet he has on prevents that. The action is a little funny. "I ain't letting you walk home alone this late."
You blink in surprise, watching as he matches your stride, "Do you not have any important stuff to do? Fight crime? Tackle drug dealers? Crush croissants?"
Red Hood shrugs, the action stiff, "Some of the others can handle it. I think they'll be alright." You smile at him, noting your apartment as it comes into view.
The rest of the walk is pretty short and quiet. You're about to head into your apartment when you notice the right shoulder of his jacket is stained red. "Are you injured?"
"Not from that guy." Red Hood scoffs, crossing his arms, attempting to cover the wound.
"That's not what I asked." You frowned, looking at the maroon stain on his jacket. "Nope, you're coming with me."
Jason says your name softly, the first time he's ever just said just your name. His voice is quiet, and it startles you for a moment, "I'll be fine."
You both stare at each other for a moment, "You know you don't look very tough when your shoulder is bleeding out in front of me, right? Kinda ruins your whole persona."
Jason's posture straightens, and you think he's going to insist, so you cut him off before he gets the chance. "Nope," you grab his (good) arm, pulling him to your apartment. "I may not be as good as Dr. Thompkins or Alfred, but I refuse to let you go out without some sort of first aid."
Jason doesn't say anything as you drag him into your apartment. Turning on the lights, you look towards him, standing at the entrance awkwardly. "I'll go grab the first aid kit. You can head to the couch."
You put all your stuff down, head to the bathroom, wash your hands, and grab the first aid kit and a clean cloth.
When you walk out of the bathroom, Jason is sitting in the living room, helmet off, blatantly staring at the picture frames you have up. "I'm no doctor, but have you at least tried to stop the bleeding?" You dampen the cloth at the sink before walking over to him.
"Bleeding should be stopped by now." Jason responds. He sounds exhausted, and his hand is pressed on his blood-stained jacket where the wound should be.
You nod, "Okay, I'll try and clean the wound, but you're gonna have to take off that jacket." You sit next to him as he slowly removes the jacket. The wound is open, but it's not actively dripping blood. "Sorry if this hurts," you slowly take the cloth and attempt to clean any dirt around it. Jason doesn't react, only wincing on occasion, to which you offer an apology. You work in silence.
Eventually, once it's clean, you look at the first aid kit, searching for the suture. Typically, it isn't something you'd find in a first aid kit, but Alfred and Bruce had insisted you take one of the ones they keep in the cave "just in case."
"Gonna be honest… I have no idea how to do stitches." You grab the thread, frowning.
Jason chuckles quietly, wincing slightly, "I can do it. You've already helped out enough." You frown, but move the first aid kit next to him. "Do you want pain meds or something? I should have some Tylenol lying around."
Jason nods, "That'd be nice."
You stand up, walking over to your medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol, some water, and bringing it to him. Jason nods in thanks, and you wait anxiously next to him. It doesn't exactly feel great just sitting around while he's stitching his own wound.
"So you've talked with him?" Jason starts the conversation.
You blink, "Sorry?"
"Your 'not-bestie.'" Jason carefully cuts part of the thread.
"Oh," you blink, "a little? He came back yesterday."
Jason snorts, "I'm aware, he's out on patrol tonight around the area."
"Huh," you nod, "he did say he'd be in the area for a bit."
Jason hums, "How'd he react to you being here? You didn't tell him, right?"
You smack your lips, "Yeah,"
He chuckles, looking up from his wound to you, "That bad?"
"Maybe a bit passive-aggressive." You shrug, thinking back to Dick's unreadable expression when he saw you training with Steph and Cass.
Jason nods, "I can imagine." He grabs the pill from the table, using the water to down it. "You know he's been circling around your block for most of the night."
Your mouth parts in surprise, "Really? He knows if he wants to talk to me, he can just call or show up… right?"
Jason shrugs, wincing slightly as the action agitates the wound, "Who knows what he's thinking, I–"
You both turn to the glass door for the balcony, three loud knocks echoing across the room. You couldn't hide your startled expression if you wanted to. Jason snorts, "Speak of the Devil,"
You turn towards Jason, who is focused on his wound. Thinking he's got it handled, you turn your focus back to Dick, and he offers a small wave. Walking over, you unlock the door. "Uh… Hello?"
"Hi! I happened to be in the area–" you hear Jason snort in the background, "–and I thought I could drop by." He smiles at you before looking towards Jason behind you on your couch. His smile strains a bit, "I didn't realize you'd have company over."
"I didn't realize I'd be having company. " You chuckle, walking over to the couch next to Jason. Dick follows next to you.
Dick raises an eyebrow at Jason stitching his wound, "What happened?"
"I got injured." Jason deadpans, pointing a finger to the wound.
"I can see that." Dick frowns, watching as Jason finishes up the last stitch. You grab some Vaseline before placing it next to Jason.
You and Dick watch for a moment as Jason dresses the wound before he turns to you. "Did you two just meet?" Dick asks, turning to you.
You shake your head, feeling your stomach oddly turn in familiarity. For some reason, the conversation feels oddly reminiscent of your conversation with Damian earlier. "Few weeks ago."
"Oh." Dick nods slowly, looking at you. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he turns away. "I… wasn't aware."
You snort, "I didn't know I needed to tell you everybody I met."
Dick opens his mouth, "I– You know I didn't mean it like that. I was just surprised." He fidgets behind you, making himself look smaller.
You frown, "I've been around for months? It'd be surprising if I hadn't met everybody yet."
Dick nods, agreeing, "Right, I just thought I heard that… you two hadn't met…. " he pauses, "yet." His last word was almost silent.
You snort, "Who said that?" You turn to Dick, before snapping your fingers, "Wait, let me guess, Damian?"
Dick looks over to you, eyebrows furrowed, "...Yeah, actually."
You sigh, "Of course he would."
Your words seem to catch Dick's attention, "Did… something happen?" He asks hesitantly, occasionally throwing Jason odd glances. Jason seems wholly unbothered by the whole situation, a bit too unbothered.
"With Damian?" You clarify. At Dick's nod, you turn away, "Ask him. He's the one who decided to interview me about my life." You take the scissors and bandage scraps scattered around the first aid kit and put them away before throwing the scraps in the trash.
Dick is silent for a moment, "What?" You can't decipher what his tone was. Horrified? Outraged? His tone shocks you for a moment, "When was that?" He furrows his eyebrows, crossing his arms as he follows you around your apartment as you put the first aid kit away.
"Today." You shrug, closing the cabinet before walking past Dick back out to the living room.
Dick scoffs, "No wonder." He mutters to himself before turning to follow you.
He follows you over to Jason, watching as you offer to refill his water. Jason thanks you with a smirk once you return. Dick's breath hitches, his fists clenching as he watches you sit next to Jason.
"So, how was that danish you got the other day?"
What.
The question was innocent, but it caused a million different questions to run through his mind. You're asking him about a danish? You two have hung out previously. Do you both hang out frequently? Clearly, you trust him enough to be in your apartment, and you aren't afraid to joke with him. Your question is casual enough to suggest you don't think it's a big deal.
Jason pretends to think, "It was alright."
You hunch over in dejection, "Oh, come on, seriously?"
Jason shrugged, a smirk growing on his face as he sat up straighter, "You overhyped it a bit."
You furrow your eyebrows, "Okay, fine," you huffed, "but it was still good enough, right?" You lean closer to him expectantly. At your action, Dick distantly notes that his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth.
Jason snorts, and he doesn't move away. "It was 'good enough.'" His tone is teasing, and your frown immediately turns into a triumphant smile.
Dick clenches his fist, walking over to you both, "Hey, Little Wing, I think Oracle needs our help."
Frowning, you stand up, "Oh, you two should get going then. I wouldn't wanna keep you from going out."
Jason raises an eyebrow at Dick, who grins at him. His expression is uneasy, stiff as Dick walks over to your side.
"It's a shame you can't stay any longer, but you two are always welcome." You smile, grabbing Jason's bloodied jacket. "I can wash this and return it–"
"Thanks," Dick offers you a soft smile, "but we wouldn't wanna keep the crime waiting." He winks at you, and you snort. His eyes drift down to Jason's jacket, clasped between your hands. Jason walks over to your other side, taking the offered jacket.
"Thanks," he nods at you, as he walks over to the balcony Dick entered from. He puts the helmet on before turning to Dick, "Well?"
Dick turns to you once again, "See you around." He walks away from you and over to the balcony. He doesn't break eye contact as he walks over to the ledge. You follow behind them, keeping a bit of distance, watching as Dick hops gracefully onto the ledge of the balcony. The action is so extra, so him, that you can't help the laughter that emerges from your chest. At your laughter, he brightens up.
"You're so extra." You roll your eyes.
"It's part of the charm." He smirks, almost bowing slightly, before flipping off the balcony and onto the building next to your apartment.
You lean against the ledge, watching as Jason and Dick grow smaller the farther they get. Just as you think they'll vanish, Dick turns around and waves. You snort, mirroring the action before he vanishes into the night.
–
Dick rolls onto a roof to cushion his jump, and he props his foot up on a ledge of it, getting a wide view of the street below. Jason follows closely behind him. "What was that?" Jason asks, walking up to Dick's side, looking down at the street.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Dick smiles, still keeping his eyes on the street below, his leg bouncing up and down.
"Nightwing." Jason attempts to catch Dick's attention, moving slightly to try to cover his view of the street.
"We couldn't stay there all night." Dick turns to the opposite direction of Jason, balancing on the ledge casually.
Jason rolls his eyes, knowing that Dick can't see the action, "Obviously, but–"
"Great, glad we agree." Dick smiles before hopping down the building's exterior stairs, maneuvering through them with ease.
"Dick." Jason chases him, with far less grace, but just as efficiently. Below them, there are two groups pitted against each other. Dick doesn't hesitate before diving in. Rushing in, he grabs the shoulders of one of the members, using them to propel himself upward, before dragging him up with him and slamming him onto his buddy.
Jason quickly joins in, shooting the gun out of one of the men's hands before punching him to the ground. The two guys next to him attempt to make a run for it, but Jason trips one of them. Kicking him in the jaw, Jason knocks him out before turning to the last guy.
Just as he's about to attack, Dick jumps down from above, immobilizing the man.
"So we're just gonna pretend that nothing happened." Jason twirls his gun before holstering them.
"Nothing did happen." Dick flourishes his escrima sticks before placing them behind his back.
"Convincing." Jason snorts. Dick climbs back up the roof they were on earlier, expertly scaling the fire escape stairs. "So you have nothing to say?"
"What is there to say? You were injured, she patched you up." Dick sits down on the ledge, propping a knee up, letting one leg hang over the ledge.
Jason props his knee up next to Dick, looking down at him. "And you're cool with that?" He rolls his shoulder.
Dick doesn't look up at him, "Yes."
Jason places his hands on his hips, "Sure doesn't feel like it."
Dick scoffs, "What do you want me to say?" He faces Jason, tense. "That I'm upset that you two were hanging out?" He places an arm lazily on top of his propped-up leg.
Jason tilts his head slightly, crossing his arms.
"Well, I'm not."
Jason grunts, turning away from Dick. Dick elbows Jason's leg, causing him to tilt his head at the action. "What was that for?"
"You don't believe me."
Jason snorts, "Okay, you are not upset." He states, holding his hands up in surrender.
Dick groans, "Now you're mocking me."
"It's too easy not to." Jason smirks, sitting down next to Dick. The two of them look down at the city in silence. "Y'know she told me you two aren't besties."
Dick looks over at Jason, affronted. "She did not."
Jason nods solemnly, "Yep. Think her words were: 'We've never referred to each other as besties.'"
Dick purses his lips, his nails digging into his palms. "No, I guess we didn't."
Jason takes off his helmet, relying on the domino underneath, resting the equipment next to him. "Do you love her?" He asks, the two of them watching the blinding lights of the city below.
Dick opens his mouth, but then closes it. He absentmindedly taps his finger on his knee, not taking his eyes off the city below. "I… think so."
Jason snorts, "You don't know?"
Dick scoffs, "I…" he lets his propped-up leg hang over the edge, placing his hands flat on the ledge, "It's complicated."
Jason hums, "Well, you'd better figure it out fast."
Dick slowly turns to Jason, "What does that mean?" He asks calmly.
"She's not just going to wait for you to come to a decision. If you don't take the opportunity…" Jason trails off, ignoring Dick's pointed stare.
"Are you saying you will?" Dick stiffens as he watches Jason absentmindedly tap his helmet with his index finger.
"I'm saying somebody might if you don't do anything."
Dick stands up, looking down at Jason, who languidly turns to face him, a smirk on his face. "Are you saying that somebody is you?"
Jason shrugs, wincing slightly at the sting of pain in his shoulder, "Not necessarily. Just in general."
"She wouldn't." Dick jumps away from the ledge, back onto the rooftop, facing away from Jason.
Jason turns around to face him, "How could you even know? She didn't even tell you she was back."
Dick turns around, his chest feels like it was pierced by a blade at Jason's words, "Oh, did she tell you that too?"
Jason shrugs, "She told me a lot of things."
"I'm sure she did." Dick glares down at Jason, his disinterest only fueling his frustration.
"Why are you upset? You aren't even sure if you like her." Jason leans over, his elbows resting on his knees, looking up at Dick.
Dick clenches his teeth, trying to find the words to say, but Jason cuts him off before he gets to say anything.
"She's moved on, Dick. You lost your opportunity."
Dick huffs, pointing a finger at Jason's chest, "You do not get to comment about us. You don't know what our relationship was like. If she 'moved on' I want to hear it from her, not from a telephoned message from you."
Jason tilts his head, "But I'm not the first one to say it, am I?" Dick narrows his eyes at Jason, his breath hitching as his words. "Fine, prove me wrong then." Jason stands up, and Dick matches his stare, looking up at his brother.
"I will." Dick resolves.
–
"Come on, it's like a rite of passage, you gotta do it." Tim shakes his head at you, seated in front of the Batcomputer.
"It's a charity gala. Why on Earth do I need to go? It's not like Bruce has adopted me or something. I'm just a random person in the eyes of the public." You wave your hand dismissively.
"Okay, but like you're involved with us often enough, so you gotta do it. Bat rules." Tim shrugs, as if saying "What can you do about it?"
"That's not a thing." You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes suspiciously at Tim.
"It is." Tim nods, reassuringly.
"No, it's not. You aren't gonna convince me." You spin around in your chair, away from him. To your surprise, you see two people walk over.
"It…" you checked the time on your phone, "hasn't even been 24 hours. You two coming in pairs now? No longer sold separately?" You laugh at your own joke, sitting up straighter in the seat as you watch Dick and Jason approach.
"Didn't realize there was a cooldown for when we could approach you." Dick grins at you, walking over to rest his arm on the headrest, looking down at you.
You roll your eyes, but a smile grows on your face, "Well, now you know."
Dick chuckles, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before turning to Tim, "What were you two talking about anyway?"
"Oh my–" You look at Dick, ready to justify yourself, but somebody cuts you off.
"–It's her turn to go to a gala." Tim gestures to you. "She's been here too long without going to one." Tim cuts in helpfully. You, Dick, and Jason turn towards him.
"...He's kind of right," Jason adds.
You turn to him, betrayed, "After everything last night? You will betray me like this?" Tim's eyes widen at your comment towards Jason.
Jason rolls his eyes, "All I did was agree." Tim stares blatantly at Dick, who obstinately refuses to look at him.
"Betrayal." You hiss at Jason. "Come on, Dick, you're on my side, right?" You look at Dick hopefully.
He blinks down at you, still leaning on the headrest of your chair. "Uh…" He looks up to meet Tim and Jason's expectant stare before returning his gaze to you.
Wait…
"How about you go with me? That way you aren't alone the whole time." Dick proposes, offering a small smile to you.
Your eyes widen at Dick, and you open your mouth, sputtering. He was supposed to be on your side, not encouraging you to go. Jason crosses his arms in the back, and Tim purses his lips thoughtfully.
"But I'm not equipped for that kind of scene. I don't even know how to handle myself at such an event." You look up at Dick.
"Then I'll teach you." Dick shrugs, "Just come with me, it'll be like old times."
"What kind of old times are you talking about? I don't remember you ever making me attend one of the Wayne events." You furrow your eyebrows, covering your mouth with your hand in concentration, trying to remember an occurrence.
Dick snorts, "I don't think I ever did. I meant that it'd be us. Just us." He grins, resting his arms over the chair's headrest, before propping his head on top of it.
Tim and Jason share a quick glance, "Are you sure?" You ask cautiously. "I think I remember you complaining about them as a kid."
Dick tilts his head, still resting it on the headrest, "Well, now we'll be able to bond over mutual hatred. It'll be great!"
You sigh, turning your attention to Tim, "See what you've done?"
Tim smiles, "No regrets."
Rolling your eyes, you turn to Dick, "Alright, I guess I'll meet you at the Manor tomorrow."
Dick shakes his head, "I can pick you up. Think you can be ready by 6:30?"
"In the morning?!" You hold a hand against your chest before raising it to your lips in a thoughtful manner. "I dunno, that's a bit early."
Dick exhales, amused, before flicking your head lightly. "Mm, yeah sure, better make sure your alarm is set."
Rolling your eyes, you rub the spot he flicked, "Of course, of course."
—
The next day comes quicker than you thought it would, so now you're staring at your closet. While you've never been to a charity event, you know that they're definitely formal.
After eliminating all the dresses deemed "too casual" or "not good enough for a Wayne event," you are left with one option.
You are left with a dark blue dress that fits your figure nicely. You'd used this dress in the past for some previous work events, but you figured it'd work well for a charity event. You select a pair of heels that suits the dress nicely before doing your makeup for the night. You didn't want to do too much, so you settled for something cute, yet classy.
Once you finish up, you anxiously await Dick's message. The longer he takes, the more anxious you feel. Will they be able to tell that you don't fit in? What if you fuck up and do something stupid?
Thankfully, Dick doesn't take long, knocking on your door on time. "Coming!" You head over to the door and open it.
"Hey," you shuffle the clutch in your hand to your non-dominant one.
Dick blinks, his eyes darting down your figure, "Hey,"
You smile at him, walking out of your apartment, before closing the door. All of this happens while Dick just stares at you.
"Is… something wrong..?" You shift uncomfortably, smoothing the dress down your body.
"You're beautiful," Dick responds softly. You wonder if you even heard the words correctly.
You raise an eyebrow, "Was I not supposed to be?"
Frantically, Dick shakes his head, "No! I just meant that you look gorgeous. You didn't have to do all of this for one of Bruce's charity events."
You frown, "Well, what if I wanted an excuse to dress up?"
Dick straightens up, mouth pursing, "Then I'd ask Bruce to host as many events as he wanted just so you could." He gives you a small smile.
You both stare at each other before you burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Jason was wrong."
Dick tenses up, "What was he wrong about?"
"You are funny." You pat his chest reassuringly. The action causes Dick to look down at your hand.
"Did he tell you I wasn't?" Dick frowns, grabbing your hand and slowly removing it from his chest.
"Hey, I'll have you know I tried defending you." You smirk at him, your hand still in his grasp.
"Oh," he smirks, "what an honor."
You chuckle, "Quite the honor indeed." You look up from your clasped hand to his face.
To your surprise, Dick is already looking down at your eyes, "I… got something for you." He reveals his other hand, presenting you with a dark blue cornflower corsage.
You slowly blink at the bundle of flowers as he smiles gently. He looks down at your hand, silently asking permission. "I… I didn't get you anything." You feel a pit form in your stomach. He offers to help you around the gala, and you didn't even think to get anything? Great, now you feel horrible.
His smile grows, "Hey— No, it's alright. I got something for myself so we could match. The container is in the car. I wanted to do it."
Oh geez, he knew you wouldn't even think to get him something, so he bought himself a boutonnière.
"Hey, none of that." He slides the corsage onto your wrist with care. His hands are soft as they brush against your arm, his touch is light. "Lighten up, I thought it'd make you happy. I can see the guilt on your face."
Scoffing, you look down at your wrist. The flowers are a lighter shade of blue than your dress. "How did you know I'd be wearing blue?"
He grins, "I didn't."
The two of you walk to the car, and you take note of the boutonnière in the passenger seat. You grab it, and just as he is about to start the car, you open it. "You're gonna have to face me for this." You open the container, carefully handling the flower.
"Oh," he inhales, holding his breath unknowingly, "you don't have to…"
You look up to him, "You didn't have to buy us matching flowers, but you did anyway. At least let me pin it onto you."
He looks like he's about to argue, but he sighs, "Alright," he sighs.
Grinning, you carefully grab the flower before gesturing for him to move closer. Stiffly, Dick leans over the center console of the car. You gently grab the lapel of his suit jacket, pinning the flower to him. He remains still the entire time. When you finish, you smooth out any wrinkles, patting the fabric to signal you're done.
Dick lets out a deep breath when you're done, adjusting his collar. "Thanks," he speaks softly before turning towards you, smiling, "you ready?" His voice is a lot brighter.
"As I'll ever be." You grin, prepared for the night.
—
"Thank you for coming!" Bruce puts his arm around you, squeezing you tightly as you exhale what little air is left in your lungs.
"I think you're constricting her…" Dick frowns, crossing his arms as Bruce pats your shoulder.
"Ah, my bad!" Bruce makes a show of acting surprised before using his hand to guide you back to Dick. "She's all yours." Bruce winks before taking a glass of champagne and downing it.
The two of you watch as he walks away, loudly laughing at a joke some guest says.
"That is so weird…" You watch as Bruce walks away. Dick snorts at your side.
"You'll get used to it. Come on, let me show you around."
"Dick, I've been here before."
"But it's been so long since it's been just us. Humor me." He grabs your hand, walking backwards as he pulls you slowly to try and get you to follow him.
You sigh, "You act like you've been deprived or something." You chuckle at the thought.
Dick clutched his hand to his chest, "Have I not? I haven't seen you in ages, let me have this."
You laugh, and his eyes light up at the action, a grin breaking out onto his face. "Alright, I suppose."
Dick grins, grabbing your arm before dragging you away. You can't help the laughter that escapes you. He grins as the two of you run up a set of stairs, passing by a few guests. You had to admit, catching up with Dick was really fun. Being with him made you forget the worries you had before the event.
"You didn't actually swing on the chandeliers, right?" You lean against the railing of the balcony.
Dick smiles in response.
"Of course you did," you sigh. "I don't even know why I asked."
"You make it sound like a bad thing." Dick grins, moving to your left, leaning on the railing next to you.
Smirking, you tilt your head toward him, "It's certainly a you thing."
"The best kind of things." Dick adjusts his suit, brushing off imaginary dust, matching your smirk.
You snort, "Definitely unique. I wouldn't expect it from anybody else."
Dick holds his hands out grandly, "You could say I'm one of a kind."
Rolling your eyes, you're about to make a retort, but you hear the string quartet in the background swell. You turn your attention to the music, watching as the musicians cue each other in for the next piece.
Dick looks at you, then toward the quartet, then back to you. "Come on," he pushes himself off the railing. You raise an eyebrow at him. He grins, "Let's dance,"
You look over to the couples slow dancing on the tiled marble before turning to face Dick, disbelieving. "Seriously?" You cross your arms, suspiciously, "You want to dance?"
Dick smirks, "Well," he looks back towards the crowd of people slowly moving to the piece the quartet plays. "It's your choice, sweetheart. However, I'd appreciate it if you'd do me the honor?" He holds his hand out for you to grab.
You can't help the laugh that escapes your mouth at his words. "Well, I suppose, sweetheart." You smirk, emphasizing the pet name.
Dick somehow brightens even more at your words before pulling you to the dance floor. The music crescendos as the two of you step in coordination along the dance floor. Dick expertly maneuvers you around the crowded dance floor, his eyes on you the entire time. You can't help but smile at him. He mirrors your action softly as the two of you move in sync.
Eventually, the music quiets down to a soft piano, "I wasn't aware you'd be this good. You're making me feel like an amateur."
You smile at him, your hand brushing his chest, "I didn't spend the last couple of months sitting around waiting for you to come back. Steph and Cass have been very thorough in teaching me."
Dick lets out a chuckle, his smile falling slightly, "No… I suppose you didn't." His words were quieter than the soft chords of the strings, but you heard him clearer than ever. They carried a certain weight.
Your mouth parts, feeling compelled to speak, but you aren't sure what to say. Dick smiles at you, reassuringly. "I… I didn't mean not to tell you. It's just…" you look toward his hopeful eyes, "complicated."
He seems to deflate at your words. Perhaps he expected something else. "I know." He responds, matching your whisper. "I know what you meant by it…"
You shake your head, "No… I don't think you do."
Dick purses his lips, as if holding back something. "Right… I don't,"
The two of you move, unspeaking, the music's slower tempo leading your steps. It slowly starts to fade out, and Dick's eyes flicker down to your lips. You stare at his eyes, almost glassy in their state, as the music dissipates, the sound of whispered chattering growing. You inhale, momentarily forgetting to breathe, his hand resting on your chest. Your throat feels dry, your heart unwillingly picks up in pace, your breath shudders as you exhale, and your eyes helplessly flicker over Dick.
Dick leans closer as if sensing your growing apprehension, his hands rub your back gently. His touch is a feather upon your skin, only causing you to hold back a shiver. Frozen in your spot, you barely even notice if you're moving at this point. He leans closer, and now you can see the rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his exhale. Meeting your eyes, he blinks at you, swallowing as he gazes at your features.
The music stops, and so do you.
"Thanks, Dick." You pull away from him. His hold takes a bit of effort to squirm out of. By the time you're out of his grasp, all that's left is your hand resting on his.
He stares at you, unblinking, eyes heavy with something. "Of course," he whispers. He slowly retracts his hand, and you lower your own.
You take a deep breath, the tension is thick, it hangs in the air, clinging onto every spoken word. The two of you stare at each other for a brief moment. You barely even notice the bodies meandering around the two of you. All you can focus on is his weighted, almost pleading gaze. What does he need to plead for?
Exhaling, you grab his forearm, "Come on, let's go back out to the balcony. I'm suffocating here. It's so crowded. How does Bruce even know this many people?" You ramble as you drag Dick along. He doesn't give input, he doesn't say anything, but gives you that same thoughtful expression.
You aren't even sure who you're trying to distract. Smiling, you glance at Dick, attempting to shove down the memory of his touch, his gaze, everything about him. You couldn't be angry about it. You know Dick. Even after years apart, you know him. You can't get mad that things have fallen back into the way they used to be. After all, that's why you never said anything, right? To keep things as they were.
You sure as hell aren't letting all that restraint go to waste now. Not when you finally moved on.
"I gotta respect the fact that you attended these 'cause I probably would've started swinging on chandeliers too if I had to deal with that many people with no one to depend upon. Well, I guess there's Bruce, but I don't feel like that's much better." You drag him out to the balcony, leaning against it, the frigid night breeze cooling you.
Dick snorts, but he smiles, "Don't let him hear you say that." You withhold a grin as you watch the tension leave his shoulders.
You smirk, "Yeah, just like you didn't tell him I knew you were Robin."
Dick furrows his eyebrows, standing up straighter, "Hey— I thought you said I was off the hook for that. I never even told him!" He throws his hands up.
You trace your fingers against the smooth metal of the railing, "Mhm,"
Dick frowns, taken aback, "Did you just 'Mhm' me?" He narrows his eyes at you, leaning next to you.
You turn toward him, smirking.
"Don't—"
"Mhm,"
Dick sighs, exasperated. "You are impossible."
"I know, truly nobody could compare." You joke, smirking at Dick. You toss him a smug glance from the corner of your eye.
"Of course, of course. How could I presume such a thing?" Dick smirks back at you.
You click your tongue, "Common mistake. Don't worry, one day you might be able to reach my level."
Dick barks out a surprised laugh, "Wow, okay. I see how it is."
You are about to make a retort, but a middle-aged lady comes over to you two. Her hair is up in an elegant updo, and her dress appears to fit her perfectly, likely tailored. The emerald green fabric catches the warm lights of the Manor radiantly. You don't recognize her, but judging by the way Dick moves slightly closer to you, he does.
"Richard! I haven't seen you at one of these in a minute." She greets him, she's holding a glass of champagne in her hand.
Dick offers her a small, polite smile. "Mrs. Carrington," he nods, "I hope you're doing well."
She waves her free hand at him casually, "Oh, please, call me Meredith. I've known you since you were little." She laughs, and Dick awkwardly joins in. She looks you up and down, and you feel proud that you don't shrink under her judgment. "Who's this? New girl?"
Both you and Dick stiffen, "Oh… Uh—" He starts, but is quickly cut off.
"The other one you introduced me to… Barbara was it? She was quite nice. You two made a good pair." She sips on her champagne. "Didn't hear that you two broke up."
Dick shifts, trying to assess your reaction, but you don't offer it to him. "Yeah," he smacks his lips, "earlier this year."
She hums, "Hmm, shame." You fight the sting of pain threatening to pierce your chest at that moment. You will not fall into that rabbit hole. You told yourself. "Who's the new girl, though?"
"Just a fri—" You fight the rising heat. Embarrassment? Anger? You start talking, but you are never able to finish your statement.
Dick slings his arms around your shoulder, pulling you closer. You stumble on your feet, surprised by the unexpected pull. You look at him, startled, but he doesn't look at you. Instead, he offers your name to Meredith.
"Aw, she's gorgeous!" Meredith fawns over you, and despite your bewilderment at the situation, you instinctively shift closer to Dick. He rubs a hand on your shoulder,
"Isn't she?" You subtly elbow him at his words. What is he doing? Just tell the woman that you aren't dating. It is not this difficult.
"How long have you two been going out for?" She asks, clearly not wanting to leave.
"A couple months. She actually just recently graduated from university." He grins proudly.
"Ah!" Meredith turns to actually face you for the first time. "Smart girl, huh?"
Dick grins, "The smartest." He looks towards you, a soft smile on his face. You mirror the action to him passive-aggressively. You'd actually argue maybe Babs or something, but clearly Dick has decided he's going to do all the talking for this conversation.
"Aw, how'd you two meet?" She asks, her cheeks are flushed, but more importantly, her words are loud. You can see a few people turn their attention to the three of you.
"Haaaa… Funny story," Dick looks down for you, as if prompting you to speak it. You meet his gaze. He made his grave; he will lie in it. You smile at him innocently, and after a long moment of you two staring at each other, he realizes that you aren't going to be helpful.
"She stumbled into me by chance. Complete chance accident." He turns toward you, and you smirk at him, "She had— uh— been having a bad day." Real descriptive. "I caught her alone in one of the storage rooms of a library, and I couldn't let a beautiful lady like herself mope alone. I offered to take her out." Dick rubs your shoulder again, and you raise an eyebrow at him. Why did you have to sound so miserable? Why couldn't it have been him?
"Actually, honey, I'm pretty sure it was you who was moping. You gave me such convincing puppy dog eyes that I just couldn't say no." You interrupt, causing Dick and Meredith to turn to you. "Isn't that right?" You turn towards Dick, smiling.
Dick laughs loudly, but doesn't hesitate, "Oh, you got me. She knows me too well." He rubs the back of his neck, grabbing your hand and clasping it into his own.
Meredith looks amused at the two of you, laughing. "Aw, true love." She gushes.
"The truest." You nod, smiling. Dick glances at you from the corner of his eye, and you make a point not to meet his glance.
"Well," she nods at the two of you, "I best be on my way. It was a pleasure as always, Richard," she smiles at Dick before turning to you and addressing you. You nod back at her with a polite smile as she walks away.
The moment she is gone, you slowly turn towards Dick. You make sure nobody is looking before glaring at him, "What the hell do you think you're—"
"Richard." Damian appears out of thin air.
Dick immediately turns to his younger brother. Meanwhile, you're still staring at him. "Dick." You spit his name out.
"Damian!" Dick grins, ignoring your piercing glare. "I didn't think any of you guys were gonna show up at the gala?"
"I came to address the allegations that have been circling." Damian adjusts his tie.
"Did you?" Dick's grin looks a lot more strained now.
Damian raises an eyebrow at him before turning to him. You cross your arms, "Don't look at me. He's the one who lied to that poor woman."
Dick chuckles softly, his eyes shifting between you and Damian nervously "I wouldn't describe her as 'poor.'"
You and Damian both glare at him, "How'd you even hear about it this fast?" You turn to Damian.
"He danced with you and publicly revealed your 'relationship' to the public." Damian eyes you, unimpressed.
"Okay, to be fair, there were dozens of people dancing, and we only talked to one person." Dick holds his hands up thoughtfully.
Damian scoffs, "One person might as well be the entire planet. Do you know what kind of people are here?" He crosses his arms.
You stare at the ground for a moment as Damian and Dick go back and forth. At a certain point, you aren't even sure what they're arguing about. They are both so distracted by themselves that they don't even notice you walk out of the balcony.
It's easy to slip away from the party, for nobody seems to take note of you as you make your way through the Manor. Eventually, you find your way to the grandfather clock, making your way down to the cave.
Upon entering, you notice that the cave is surprisingly empty, a rare occurrence on nights like these. You find a chair to sit down on, throwing the heels off your aching feet, sighing.
The soft hum of the computer isn't enough to distract you from your thoughts, nor are the quiet squeaks of the bats. Dick had been acting odd recently, but you assumed that was just a result of not seeing each other for years.
Perhaps he figured it out.
Did he figure out you liked him back then? Is this his way of humiliating you? It didn't seem like something he'd do, but perhaps he has changed. What else could've been the purpose of that stunt he pulled?
You sigh again as you lean back in the chair. God, he couldn't leave you be, could he? You were so convinced you were over him after spending years apart. All it took was one grin thrown at you and a spin on the dance floor, and suddenly, you're back in high school, attempting to hide your feelings for Robin, your Robin. He must know. Why else would he be trying so hard to spend every moment with you? Hell, he even offered to be your "date" to this event, bought matching flowers.
Damian was right, you were— are an absolute fool.
Your name echoes across the cave, and you instantly recognize his voice. Dick comes running over, concern evident in his tone, "You had me worried. One second I'm there with Damian, and the next you've vanished." He approaches you with his jacket draped over his arm.
You look up from the ground, up to his troubled eyes. He says your name softly before approaching you, "Was it too much? That's fine. I'll tell Damian off later for that. He shouldn't have confronted us then, especially after the stunt he pulled against you earlier. He and I will talk about privacy." He chuckles, attempting to fill the silence. "We don't have to go back if you don't want to, we can just stay here," he says as he sits in the chair next to you, raising his hand to place it on your lap, "together—"
"Am I a joke to you?" Your voice is quieter than you expected. Nonetheless, the words echo around the cave.
Dick pauses, taking his hand back, "What..?" He hesitates, unsure whether or not to place his hand on you. "What… A joke?" He repeats the words, as if not understanding the concept.
You look up to him, "Yes, Dick, do you think this is funny?"
His lips part, his eyes clouded with that concern, and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. Do you hate it? Love it? "I… don't—" He sputters.
"Don't play dumb with me. I know you know what I'm talking about." You sit up straighter, and he leans back away from you. He slowly stands up.
"I…" He says your name, "I really don't know."
"Oh, so you don't know that I used to like you? I find that hard to believe." Your chest shudders, and you look down, unwilling to meet his gaze.
Dick inhales sharply, and that's all the answer you needed. "You did know." You state. It's not a question, and he knows that.
His voice is pleading once again. He whispers your name, "I didn't know until recently."
"'Cause that makes it so much better. You find out that I liked you and decide that you can't live with me not being head over heels for you—"
Dick's head snaps up, "—Don't put words in my mouth." He cuts you off. "I have never once thought that or said anything like that."
"Really? So you didn't have an ulterior motive for taking me out for this tonight?" You glare at him, struggling to meet his eyes.
Dick inhales deeply, and you scoff, turning away. "God, this is why I didn't contact you."
Dick furrows his eyebrows, "What's that supposed to mean?"
You stand up, "Dick, I didn't just like you. I loved you. I cherished any moment we had together. I longed for you to say something, anything."
Dick looked at you as if you slapped him, "I didn't know."
You nod slowly, smiling humorlessly, "I know, and I don't fault you for that, but years after pining uselessly made me realize I have to move on." You stare at him, absently noting that his clothes are disheveled. The once perfectly ironed suit looks like it went through a tornado. "I spent years away, and I used that time to move on, or at least…" You trail off, shaking your head, looking at Dick.
Clearing your throat, you sit back down, "I couldn't contact you when I got back. I couldn't contact you because I'd be proving that I had made no progress. I didn't 'get over you.'" You do air quotes. "All I'd be proving was that getting over you was impossible. If years apart couldn't do it, what could?"
Dick's lip trembled, but his eyes were unreadable. "You avoided me for years to try and get over some— some crush?"
You huff, "I didn't 'avoid you for years—'"
"No," Dick cuts you off, "Don't sugarcoat it. You were avoiding me."
"I was trying to get over you."
"So you decided to— what— ditch me?"
You shake your head, "You weren't short of company." You almost regret your words at the shaky inhale from Dick. You open your mouth, then close it. "I… didn't mean it like that." You mutter softly.
Dick scoffs, running a hand through his hair, loosening the gelled strands. "How did you mean it then?"
You look to Dick, "I— Look, does it matter? We can just move on. Pretend this didn't happen."
Dick stills, "Pretend?" The word drops in his stomach.
"Dick, I knew you'd never like me." You smile painfully, your lips trembling, you look up at him from your chair, "I'm okay with it. I learned to make peace with it."
Dick looks down at you, fist clenched, his eyes darting over you in disbelief. "You're serious?" You nod. "You want to pretend that this conversation never happened? You want to pretend that I didn't wait by your apartment just to catch a glimpse of you? You want to pretend that I didn't make up some excuse to take you out here tonight? You want to pretend that the dance we shared meant nothing?"
You hold back any tearful emotions that threaten to arise. "Dick, it doesn't mean nothing." You take a deep breath, calming your breathing. "It's just… It's not like that. It's never been like that. Believe me, I wanted it to be."
"'Not like that?'" His eyes are wide, as if he can't believe your words. "I almost kissed you, and it's 'not like that'?" He doesn't bother to mask the hurt.
You shake your head, "I thought the same thing, the same thing, Dick. I thought that having a moment like that would be the start of something new, but it wasn't. I thought that maybe after the day I finally got introduced to your life, your real life, that things would change."
Dick remains silent for a moment, you think that maybe he'll let this conversation go, but he decides to ask one question: "What if they can change now?"
His words make you freeze, but your hands tremble. "Are you serious?" Your voice audibly wavers.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
You can't help the appalled scoff that escapes you, "You can't just decide to love me back, Dick. That isn't how it works. You can't just decide to love me after not loving me for years. Genuinely, did you hear the idea of me loving you and idealize what we could've been? Do you actually 'love me back' or are you only saying this because you're confused?
"No! It's not like that." Dick's voice is smaller.
You laugh, your eyes beginning to water against your will, but you refuse to let the tears fall. "Forgive me, but I don't believe you."
Dick stares down at you, seated in the chair next to the computer. He places the jacket onto the desk before turning back to you, "How can I prove it?"
You blink, looking up to face him, "What?"
"That I've loved you."
"Dick," you sigh, you're so tired, "don't—"
"Do you need me to tell you?" He walks closer to you. "Show you?" He persists.
"Dick…" You whisper shakily, turning away from Dick in your swivel chair. Dick grabs the armrest, preventing you from turning away. Your breath hitches, looking him up and down as he looms over you, his eyes desperate. At your assessment, he kneels at your feet, grabbing your hand and gently caressing it.
Horrified, you look down at him from your seated position, "What are you doing?" You ask, anger momentarily forgotten.
"Telling you." He nods resolutely, the words quiet, but strong. "Back then," he starts breathlessly, "Back then, I couldn't figure you out. You matched me in a way that no one had before, I remember—" he chuckles, the action rushed, "I remember thinking that something was different about our friendship. I wasn't sure what it was…" He relaxes once he realizes he has your attention. "I just remember attempting to find a way to get you to react. I wanted something from you, I just wasn't sure what."
You blink down at him, and he looks up at you. "It was stupid. I remember saying such stupid shit to get you to react. I didn't know what type of reaction I wanted. I just kept trying for something." He pauses. "I didn't realize it immediately at the time, but I remember now, the first time it had happened." He looks down at the ground, thoughtfully. "That day you met Bruce, before I went down the subway." Your breath hitched. "I remember you were right there in front of me. I could see how you tensed expectantly, your breath shuddering. I remember looking into your eyes, and for a moment, I couldn't think. I didn't even remember that there was a bomb down in that subway. All I could focus on was you."
Dick looks up from the ground, meeting your eyes. "I didn't know it at the time, but that was what I was looking for. The way you looked at me that day before I went down there."
You frown, closing your eyes and shaking your head. "Dick, you don't—"
"I didn't know at the time, I hadn't figured out what it was that I wanted. However, after that day, something had changed. I couldn't help but look at you differently. I noticed things I previously threw aside. I would catch myself observing you, and I didn't stop. I don't think I could've. It had just become something that I did, a habit."
He exhales deeply. "When you were gone for college, I felt like something was different."
You scoff, the action coming out softer than you intended, "You can just say you missed me."
Dick swallows, blinking up at you, "I missed you." He whispers without hesitation. You have to look away from his eyes to escape the honesty of his words.
"I missed you so much. I thought about you every day. It wasn't like how it was when we were in school together. No." He laughs quietly, "I couldn't stop thinking about you. I thought that I had just wanted you to return, but then it started to hurt. Absence makes the heart grow fonder or something…" He runs his free hand through his hair, his shoulders tense, "When I heard you had returned…" He trails off.
Sighing, you slowly grab his hand, prompting him to continue. "I… I almost wondered if I had hallucinated your voice. I couldn't— wouldn't believe you'd have returned and not tell me."
You wince at the jab, intentional or not. "I'm sorry…"
He offers you a small, melancholic smile, "I realized something when you returned. You had fallen out of love. You'd fallen out of love before I ever got the chance to tell you I had fallen in love." He huffs, shaking his head.
You mirror his action, "Dick…"
"Please," he slowly stands up, pulling you up from the chair. "I will prove it. Show you I'm not confused." You stare at him, looking at his eyes. You let him pull you closer as he brings his hand up to gently hold your chin. Your lips part in surprise. Holding your breath, you meet his eyes. "Please. Let me show you I mean this."
You are unsure how long the two of you stand there in each other's hold. Slowly, you place your hands over his shoulders, causing his tense shoulders to relax under your touch. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, but he doesn't ever divert his attention from your eyes.
"I waited for a long time." You whisper, the words barely audible.
"I know." His voice breaks slightly.
"I didn't think you'd ever reciprocate." You break eye contact with him, looking down at his chest.
He holds you tighter, "I know." He mutters softly. "I'm sorry."
You shift your downcast gaze to him, meeting his eyes. Slowly leaning forward, you close your eyes as you softly kiss his lips. You didn't draw it out, and Dick remained frozen even after you pulled back. You can't help the small smile on your face when you pull back, his pupils dilated. "I'm tired of waiting." You whisper to him.
Dick continues to stare into your eyes, dazed. You reach your hand up, hesitant to touch his face. At your hesitation, Dick grabs your hand, guiding it to his face. "I'm sorry you had to." He whispers back to you, leaning into your hand.
You hum, amused. The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, "Don't—"
"Oh my— in the cave, really?" Tim interrupts you both, causing you to flinch. Dick immediately turns to him, noting that Damian is standing next to him. "You could go literally anywhere in the manor, and you decide to do this here?"
"How long have you both been standing there?" You ask, subtly shifting away from Dick.
Tim raises an eyebrow, looking between you two. "Not too long."
Damian stares at the two of you, frowning, "I was under the impression that you and Todd had been in cohorts."
You raise your hands in surrender. Well, that moment was ruined. At Damian's words, Dick immediately whips around to you. "Don't listen to him, he misunderstood what I told him." You shake your head at Dick.
Damian narrows his eyes, "He 'bought her a croissant.'" He points at you as if it's your fault.
"Why did you say it like that?" Tim blinks wearily at Damian's odd inflection.
Damian scoffs, turning to Tim on his left, "Don't you understand the implications of such an act?"
Tim blinks down at him, "She was… hungry?"
Damian gives Tim an exasperated look before walking over to you and Dick. "Just because you're dating Richard does not mean I will forget the past." He narrows his eyes at you before turning around and walking off. Tim watches him storm off before sighing and following behind him.
You slowly turn to Dick, "He's exaggerating. Wild imagination."
Dick snorts, "I'm sure."
You grimace at the memory, "He thinks that something was going on between Jason and me."
Dick's smile falls slightly. "Was there?" He almost looks afraid of the answer.
You roll your eyes, "No. After everything we talked about, you still doubt me?" You grab his hand, pulling him towards the exit. You hear him exhale in relief, and you tilt your head. "Wait, that was an actual worry?"
Dick smiles awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with you.
"Oh my goodness, that's why you were being so weird at my apartment. You were jealous."
Dick rolls his eyes as you slowly pull him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
You toss him a smug, knowing glance. "Mhm," You hum, walking on his side. "Wait— where are my heels?" You turn around, momentarily forgetting you took them off in anger earlier.
Dick holds them up casually, you raise an eyebrow, "When'd you grab them?" You thank him before offering him your clutch to hold as you put the heels on.
"You were distracted." He shrugs, watching as you put them on.
You roll your eyes affectionately, "Distracted." You huff, "I'm never distracted." You take your clutch back before looking into Dick's eyes, watching you with just pure adoration. Wait a minute… You recognize that look.
"Dick,"
He tilts his head, "Yeah?"
"Were you distracted that night at the subway?" You slowly turn to him.
He huffs, amused, "I did say all I could focus on was you. Why?"
You feel your smile fall as you part your mouth in horror. "Are you saying I distracted you from the bomb, thus causing you to get caught in the explosion?"
Dick purses his lips before clicking his tongue, his eyes darting around the cave, guiltily. "…It's been a long day."
"Are you saying that I caused you to almost die?!" You furrow your eyebrows in horror.
"Let's go back out there, we've been down here long enough—"
"Dick—"
"Sweetheart?"
"No— No, you can't do that."
"Actually, I think I can, boyfriend rules." He shrugs, smirking unapologetically, planting a quick kiss on your cheek. He grabs your hand before you even get a chance to retort, guiding you up the staircase back to the Manor. You don't bother to fight the small smile growing on your face, Dick's blinding grin mirroring your own.
Perhaps you can get used to this.
> Jason’s ending
A/N: Heyyy, it's me. For those who stuck around to support the first part I love you so much. Every single comment fueled me to get this MONSTER of a fic done. I did NOT think I'd be posting an, essentially, 30k word fic on TUMBLR but here we are I guess.
Okay, now to business. I was ASTOUNDED by the amount of people who loved Jason's scene in the previous chapter. I hope that I did him justice in this one. While this is the end of the story for the Reader and Dick, I will throw the idea of writing an alternate ending out there.
Basically the entire first chapter would be the same, EXCEPT, the reader would get with Jason instead and everything in this chapter would be different cause it'd be reader and Jason's story, not reader and Dick's. The reader would ACTUALLY move on, rather than lie to herself for 18k words. So yeah, I'm gonna want some feedback for that because I do want to try and make it at least somewhat standalone (as in you don't need the context of chapter 1 but it still applies to the story). I know it will be LONG, so it will take me weeks to write. So let me know if you wanna see that!
Thanks for all the support on the last chapter though! I love each like, comment, and reblog I receive. I will update this post/my blog if I decide to write that, but y'all would have to be patient with me. Thanks for all the support :D
Quick update: Yeah okay you all can get the Jason ending oh my 😭😭 Thanks for the support. I know some of you were wanting her to get with him DON’T WORRY I THOUGHT THE SAMEEE THING THATS WHY I PROPOSED THE IDEA. If you want to be on the taglist let me know. I will be taking this taglist and using it for that fic (when it comes out) so if you don’t wanna be tagged for that anymore just lmk I won’t be upset!
: ̗̀➛ Summary: The chances of befriending a Wayne online are low, but never zero. You honestly thought somebody was trying to catfish you, you don't just believe anybody who tells you that they're Tim Drake online.
When you actually meet him, you realize that somehow you beat that impossibly low statistic and actually befriended Tim Drake. However, there is something strange going on with the Wayne family. You weren’t sure what it was.
Until Red Robin saved you.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 14.5k
Warnings/Tags: Online friends to friends to lovers, texting, LOTS of texting, they're literally online friends idk what you'd expect, Tim does photography as a hobby, reader is a uni student, reader and Tim deserve each other <3, secret identity reveal, very fluffy fic
: ̗̀➛ A/N: First Tim Drake fic! Hope you guys enjoy :)! Thank you @r-4-y-v-3-n for this request! This prompt was a lot of fun <3! I hope I delivered :D!
Masterlist
“Yes, I'll have the files emailed as soon as possible.” You place your phone onto your desk, pulling up your drive on your laptop. The moment you place your phone down, it buzzes. The vibration echoes loudly on your wooden table.
“Thank you,” your boss responds on speaker. “Could you have them sent to IT as well?” He asks, and you hear some rustling on his side of the call.
You nod, forgetting that he can't see you. “Of course.” Buzz. “I am sending them right now.” Buzz. “Did you want it sent to your assistant as well?” Buzz.
“If you could.” Buzz. “I'd appreciate it.” Buzz.
You grit your teeth, “Great.” Buzz.
You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.
Buzz.
You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. “Alright, I just sent them.”
“Thank you,” your boss says your name. “I'll be in touch.”
You nod, “Let me know if anything else is needed.” Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.
Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me 😔
Tim: i KNOW you're home right now
Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho
You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.
hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed
He instantly responds.
Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro 🥀
I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro 🥀
Tim: are you calling me chronically online?
Tim: how do you think we met???
Tim: it's a two way street 😭
yeah but like
Tim: 🤨🤨
ok fair enough, but I was working 😭 what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS
Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((
Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time
Tim: and it worked soooo….
get to the point
Tim: so consider
Tim: dinner
You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.
Tim: at the manor
Oh… That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.
again??
Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone 💔
won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?
Tim: can you just be there pls
no
Tim: please?
i'm busy
Tim: doing what
i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy 🤨
Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??
You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.
that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address 😔
Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine
yeah huh
Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???
no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed
Tim: no I would've
then why'd you ask me if I did?
Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt
I didn't steal anything though??
Tim: that's what a LIAR would say
oh my goodness
you're on your own for dinner
Tim: WAIT PLEASE
Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM
Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING
Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM
damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner 😭
Tim: please be there i beg of you 🙏
mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough
Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that
Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could
lmao what's stopping you?
Tim: my dignity
😔
Tim: u being fr rn?
the mental image is very funny
Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you
THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING
Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME 🙏
Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT
That makes you pause.
you will? 🤨
Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP
mmm okay
gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid
Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal
You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what “abnormal” would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.
what does that even mean??
Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier
oh so I'm bait 💀
Tim: nononono not like that
Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise
relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally 🫡 (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)
Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now
Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.
after this I better be, I'll see you later then
Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five
perfect, see you then
Tim: see you
You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly “invite” you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the “offer,” but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.
The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.
What changed?
It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: “if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.”
Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.
Normal.
What defines normalcy?
Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.
They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.
Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.
You're going to figure it out.
Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.
Instead, you met him on a thread online.
You didn't even know it was him.
It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the users— TimTam— had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.
Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.
Who was this guy?
Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.
You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.
Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.
Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.
Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.
TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.
You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.
TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?
TimTam: account*
You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.
Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.
There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.
TimTam: Like right now?
You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.
I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.
TimTam: Right, right, of course
You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.
TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.
You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.
For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)
You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.
Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.
A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.
You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.
Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.
Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.
Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.
Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.
Then you saw it.
You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.
You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.
Then you saw the notification.
The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.
TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.
Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
Which one do you think looks better?
Sent now
You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.
Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?
Then again… He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.
Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.
The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.
It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.
Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.
Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.
Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.
You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.
The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.
The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.
Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.
You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?
Wait that's it?
Now he's borderline unreal.
Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide
Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.
Who even is this guy?
You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN
and you can't choose which photo looks better???
Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.
He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.
That's fair.
Should I even ask how you got these photos?
Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking
Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways
You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.
Are you planning on selling them?
There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.
Tim_Tam: What?
Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.
I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.
Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that
Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.
Are those the only ones you have?
There's a long pause.
Tim_Tam: At the moment.
I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but like…
These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.
There's another long pause.
Tim_Tam: You think?
100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.
Tim_Tam: Hm
Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.
That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.
If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.
???
Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???
GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD
HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE
Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess
Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?
Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?
I suppose
Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay
My bad 😭 didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan
Tim_Tam: No no it's fine
Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you
At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.
Tim_Tam: He's finr
Tim_Tam: fine*
He paused.
Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could
You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.
Maybe stick to your day job
Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me 🤨
Nonono
Just like
I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up
There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.
Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him
You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.
Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything
And that translates to his fighting ability??
Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out
Tim_Tam: he's only human
you sure of that? 🤨🤨
Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot
Well then, I await the day I see the headline
“photographer takes out Red Robin with a single hit”
Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline
Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself
Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??
Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??
do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(
Tim_Tam: mhm
I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better
Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked “cooler” and “felt more personal”
I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far
also
Tim_Tam: ?
You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.
I was just curious— feel free to not answer— but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?
Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.
Tim_Tam: No
Tim_Tam: I can't
Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.
Ah okay
The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mind—
Bzzt!
Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.
However, curiosity did kill the cat.
You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.
Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong
Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it
Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.
No need to justify yourself, I get it
I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though
TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.
Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit
You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!
Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?
Tim_Tam: So
Tim_Tam: How do I say this
The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.
Shoudl I be concerned??
should*
Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin
like you took more photos of him??
Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him
He did what?
Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public
hypothetically did you agree??
Tim_Tam: kinda??
oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?
Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing 💀
you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??
Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts
…my guy this is on you why would you TELL them??
praying for you 🙏
Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??
I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are
if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you
probably dox you or something idk
Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point
Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though
Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?
It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.
Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes
Or not… What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?
What'd he say?
Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool
You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.
He thought it was cool??
Tim_Tam: Yep
and that's it..?
Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember
did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??
Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much
You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said “cool” and then left??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.
Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos
Finally, something.
Are you going to try and catch him again?
I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes
Tim_Tam: uhhhh
???
Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]
Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again
You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.
Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???
Tim_Tam: …why would you ask that??
Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??
You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.
IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???
Tim_Tam: What???
There is a pause for a moment.
Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol
“Didn't even see him lol.” You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.
you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???
Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??
dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo
There was a momentary pause.
Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me
sure we'll go with that
You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.
Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me
Tim_Tam: I'll try again
You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.
You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.
Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.
After a year, you’d think that you’d know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if he’s been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.
Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.
Still doesn’t stop the growing desire to know who he is.
Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.
The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.
did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?
Tim_Tam: “see” would be an understatement, closer to felt
Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.
oh shit, are you okay??
Tim_Tam: i’m fineeee
Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch
Tim_Tam: or burn
You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.
Is he one of them?
You weren’t sure what he looked like. He’d been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you weren’t any more explicit.
you’re here?
The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?
Tim_Tam: wait you're here??
Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?
Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even if— at the time— you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.
Tim_Tam: are you okay?
Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?
Tim_Tam: are you still here?
You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.
not for much longer, I’m planning on leaving soon
“I’m free to go, right?” You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.
“You were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?” They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, “Yeah, I feel fine.” You weren’t lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.
The paramedic sighed, “Alright, just make sure to rest. It’s been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, I’d go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.” They pasued for a moment. “If anything, I’d recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.” They shined a light into the boy’s eye, “Sketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.”
You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. “Thanks,” you nodded slowly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” You waited there for an extra beat to see if they’d respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.
Braving the crowds of cameras it is.
Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.
Then you felt it.
You’re no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, it’s a universal experience for every Gothamite. You’d heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.
The sensation of somebody always there.
Somebody always in the shadows.
Somebody watching.
Usually, you’d describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.
However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you weren’t a target, you’d never be a target. That fear that’s instilled by Batman wasn’t meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.
This, though, is different.
There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fear…
It doesn’t come.
Now, you’ve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts aren’t perfect, but you’d say they’re pretty damn good.
So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. It’s an assertion most people would agree with.
However.
With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.
You huffed, a small smile on your face.
In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While it’s hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.
You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.
Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.
You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.
For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something you’ve heard they’re notorious for).
Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.
You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if he’s embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).
You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.
Tim won’t believe this.
Tim did, in fact, believe you.
Truthfully, he was… not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.
Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated 💀
I’m sorry I don’t walk around with a professional camera around my neck???
Also what happened to “man that was really scary” and “I hope you’re okay”
Tim_Tam: man that was really scary
Tim_Tam: I hope you’re okay
Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)
damn I’m sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with
I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot
you know he WAVED at me
thought he’d ignore me
Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??
idk maybe he’s like “eugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loser”
Tim paused for a moment.
Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??
oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist
Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration
is it though??
Tim_Tam: very much so yes
if you say so
You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, you’d actually sleep well tonight, and—
The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didn’t help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.
You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking to—
The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if you’re not facing the source.
Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. That’s when you saw the messages:
Tim_Tam
Would you want to meet in person?
Sent 3m ago
Tim_Tam
Sorry that was really abrupt
Sent 1m ago
Tim_Tam
Just ignore that lol
Sent now
You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and that’s including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.
Tim wants to what?
You haven’t even called the guy before.
Wait you can’t just drop that on me and leave
Tim_Tam: sorry?
Where would you want to meet?
Tim_Tam: Wait you’re saying yes?
Tim_Tam: What if I’m like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?
You paused.
Are you?
Tim_Tam: No but like
Tim_Tam: how would you know I’m NOT?
I can’t tell if you’re trying to defend yourself
I’m like 99% sure you’re not a killer though?
Tim_Tam: Okay but like
Tim_Tam: 99% isn’t 100%
Tim_Tam: chances are not 0
Tim
Tim_Tam: yeah?
If you want to meet, where would it be?
Tim_Tam: uhh
Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?
Yeah I can probably head there after my classes
I’ll be done around 11
Tim_Tam: Alright cool
Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.
Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?
Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav
Tim_Tam: haha you’re SO funny
I know :)
The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:
Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.
Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.
Okay done with my classes, omw
You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. It’d probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.
Like… Do you need to worry about first impressions?
Is this a first impression?
You're technically meeting him for the first time, but it’s not like he’s a stranger.
It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.
Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet
Tim_Tam: It’s a little important
uh oh, you’re not actually a killer right?
Tim_Tam: no, no, no
Tim_Tam: Nothing like that
Tim_Tam: but uh
Tim_Tam: My name
Tim_Tam: it’s Tim Drake
You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?
That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now he’s a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but you’ve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.
woah that’s crazy
I didn’t wan tot tell you but I’m actually Bruce Wayne
want to*
Tim_Tam: I’m not joking I swear
nor am I
Tim_Tam: You don’t believe me
I believe you when you say you aren’t a killer
idk about the Tim Drake thing though
Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?
Probably
Is this like a new catfishing tactic
There was a long pause.
Tim_Tam: I’m sorry what??
You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.
oh you know
Tim_Tam: I don’t actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??
no
hence why I ask what’s with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic
Tim_Tam: I really hope it’s NOT a thing? How would it even work??
idk probably something like “Hey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?”
Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that
Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, we’re literally meeting in like five minutes
Tim_Tam: I promise I’m here, just meet me around the gardens
Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?
Absolutely.
Did you do it anyway?
Absolutely.
It wasn’t long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you don’t die.
Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.
Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didn’t it?
Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.
Holy shit.
You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what you’ve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.
However, the way he carries himself?
When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children weren’t nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.
In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.
On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own it’s a miracle you even crossed paths with him.
However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.
“Oh…” You commented eloquently.
He furrowed his eyebrows, “That’s— That’s it? Just ‘oh?’”
You nodded slowly, “I mean— I… You know I had like zero faith in you.” That’s a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that you’ll tell him that.
“That’s reassuring. Thank you for that.” Tim replied dryly.
“You know the whole photographing vigilante’s thing makes so much sense now.” You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.
He tilted his head, “How so?”
“Only rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.” You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.
“Okay, but my main thing isn’t even photographing vigilantes. I don’t even post those, and you know that.” He raised a finger indignantly. “And they aren’t even intentional anyway! I’m just lucky.”
“Luckiest guy I’ve ever met then.” You smirked, “Save some for the rest of us.”
He chuckled, “Of course, it’s my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.”
“At least you acknowledge it.” You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.
He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim you’ve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.
You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, “You know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.”
He groaned, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to catfish you, I’d have gone about this way different.” He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."
“That’s reassuring.” You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.
“It should be.” He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. “Did you really not suspect anything?”
You blink, “About you being…” you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, “Not until you said anything, no. You don’t give ‘Tim Drake vibes’ when we text.” You did air quotes.
He let out a surprised laugh, “What— What are ‘Tim Drake vibes?’” He looked amused at the prospect.
You shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just, when I text you, I don’t think ‘wow this guy seems like Tim Drake.’”
He nodded as if that made sense, “I’m going to take that as a good thing?”
You shrugged, “I mean it’s certainly a thing. Your call about whether it’s good or bad.”
He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. “Y’know now that I actually know you’re you, I’m surprised you actually showed up.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise, “Why would I not? I asked you?”
“You had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?” You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but you’re heading back in the direction of Gotham University.
“Been there.” By his tone alone, you believed him. “And trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.”
You raised an eyebrow, “If you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?”
He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.
“I… Those were extenuating circumstances.” He scoffed.
“Mhm, real extenuating.” Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.
“And I feel like you’re mocking me.” He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t have been able to escape the thugs too.” You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
“That’s not—” At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.
The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.
Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayne’s charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasn’t inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?
It certainly didn’t help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted you’d have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.
You had— not subtly— asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you “Don’t need to worry about that” and that “They should be the last people judging.” Both of his “reassurances” did little to truly ease your worries.
Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gotham’s elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading “Get a load of this guy.”
It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circle’s in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?
It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.
Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that he’ll like you. You didn’t share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.
Cause that’d be stupid.
It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didn’t miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didn’t feel the need to bring it up.
By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, and— like Bruce— they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying “See? You lived!”
After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didn’t expect to start seeing them regularly.
It felt strange at first, like visiting someone’s house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.
It was that but tenfold.
Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.
It quickly became routine. At least once a week, you’d come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes it’d be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girl’s night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.
You were happy.
It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.
Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.
You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.
Not ideal.
You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that you’re going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didn’t want to make any risks that could lead to failure.
The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.
Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.
You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.
Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didn’t see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.
You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and you’d have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.
“You think we lost em?” One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.
“Scream and we put a bullet through you.” Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.
They don’t separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.
“We can’t just let her go! She’s gonna run out and yell for someone!” One of them whispers to his friend.
“So what're we gonna do?” He whispers back.
“We can kill her?” Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.
“No, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.” A different one responds.
“So what? We just knock her out?” One of them gestures to you with his gun.
“Probably the best idea. We’re taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.” The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they won’t kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?
“Alright, I can do it.” One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. He’s about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.
“Who the hell?!” A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize he’s not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.
Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?
You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.
You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. He’s attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. “Please man! Let me go!”
“Not a chance.” Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.
“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.
Huh, you didn’t expect him to sound like that. You weren’t sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.
If anything, you’d say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod, “Thanks.” You smile at him.
He returns the nod, “Yeah, of course.” He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.
Well, this is going great.
“He didn't hit you too hard, right?” You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.
“Oh, that,” he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. “Nothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.” He waves off your concern.
You nod, accepting that answer. “Were you the one who was chasing those guys?” You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.
“Hm? Oh,” he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, “yeah that was me.” He confirms. “They mention me?”
“Not by name. They just said they were being chased.” You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.
“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, “yeah that was me.” He’s not really facing you, but you can tell he’s smiling.
You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isn’t looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. It’s one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.
Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. You’re surprised at first. It’s heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, it’d have to have some weight for something so small.
“You want to keep it?”
You jump as Red Robin’s voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No worries.” You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. “Don’t you guys need these things?” You wave it up.
He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. “Batarangs?” Huh, that’s what they’re called. He waves a casual hand at you, “We have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.”
Your mouth parts, and you’re about to open your mouth when he adds on. “Consider it a souvenir.” He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.
You freeze.
Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.
He chuckles at your appalled expression. “I mean you don’t—” he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.
His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesn’t notice. He mouths a quiet “Sorry” before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.
You aren’t sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but you’re hit with what may be the most insane conclusion you’ve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).
You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. He’s restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that he’d rather be pacing at the moment.
There’s no way your hypothesis is correct.
Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.
It’d make sense though.
You’re willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, that’s normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes you’ve ever seen?
That’s a little more suspicious.
Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that he’s conversed with Robin in the past?
Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you can’t even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.
The reason he couldn’t post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.
The reason he could take the photos wasn’t because he had insane luck.
You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.
Holy shit.
You don’t a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.
He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. “Ahhh, I get it now.” Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. “Real important stuff to handle, huh?”
“Can you not—” You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. “I did handle stuff.” He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.”
Nightwing nods, “Yuh-huh,” he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. “I’m sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?” Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.
If you didn’t know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.
“I am not bothering her! I just sav—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. “Let her speak for herself.” Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.
Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, “He wasn’t a bother. He saved me from these guys. In fact—” you raise the Batarang up, “—he gave me a souvenir.” You grin at Dick.
He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter “Oh my God.”
“Aw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?” Dick teases Tim.
Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. “I’m leaving.” He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.
You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. “You are actually okay though, right?” He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.
You smile at Dick, nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
He nods, “Well, get home safely. I’ll handle these guys.” He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. “You might wanna stay down, bud.” He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.
You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.
How the hell are you going to tell Tim?
The day of the dinner arrives sooner than you’d like.
You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.
You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. It’s not even dinner you’re worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that can’t be too difficult? Just don’t think about it. It’s not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? That’s not really a dinner table topic.
Yeah.
You’ll be fine.
Just act normal—
Tim: I’m here
You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.
“Thank you again for doing this.” Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.
Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robin—
You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, “Yeah, no problem."
He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. “Don’t be nervous. It’s relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.”
You smile at the thought, “How’d you convince him to do that?”
Tim smacks his lips, “Let’s just say that my dignity isn’t in tact anymore.”
You raise an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t have much of that?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, “I mean you practically had to beg me to show up with you—”
“Woah, okay.” His eyebrows shoot up, “First off, that wasn’t begging—”
You pull out your phone, “— ‘I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could’” You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. “Sound familiar to you?”
He remains silent for a bit. “I— Uh— Well, no. I never heard that before.”
“Mhm, sure.” You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin also—
Nope. Do not think about your best friend’s alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.
The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. It’s not long before you both pull up. “Master Tim.” Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. “A little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.” Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.
Oh. Bird puns.
Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.
“Aw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesn’t react and you wonder if he’s even breathing. “Right, birdie?” You lightly nudge Tim again.
“Yeah, uh— mhm?” You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. “Sorry, just uh— dinner, you know? Got me stressed?”
You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “Right,” you turn back to Alfred, “Thanks again, Alfred.” You grin at him.
“My pleasure, Miss.” He inclines his head to you, “Now, if you’re ready to greet the others.” He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.
“Look who finally showed his face— Oh,” Steph abruptly cuts herself off.
“Hello to you too.” You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.
Steph grins at you, “Hello!” She greet you before glaring at Tim. “You know what you’re doing.”
“Yep.” Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.
“And you know we can’t do anything about it.” She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.
You nod solemnly, “I was informed that I was bait.”
Dick chokes on his water, “You told her that?”
“I did not tell her that.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. “She reached that conclusion on her own.”
“Is that all you told her?” Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.
“Yes.” Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying “Not one more word.” He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, “Is Bruce here, yet?”
“You’re attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.” Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.
Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, “No… He had some last minute business to take care of. He’ll be a little late.”
“Perfect.” Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. “It’s getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. I— Uh— Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?” Tim turns to you.
You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?
“Sure?” Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. “Isn’t this rude?” You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.
“Not with them. That kind of rude doesn’t count.” Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.
You release an amused huff, “For you. What if they think I’m rude or something?”
Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. “They’ll just blame it on me.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.” He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you he’s used to this.
You furrow your eyebrows in concern, “If you say so…” You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. You’ve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.
Tim appears at your side, “You okay?” He asks, following your gaze to the paper.
You nod, turning to him, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something you’ve done a million times before.
He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He must’ve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. “I… Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?” He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.
You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. “No, no, it’s fine.” You shake your head, “It’s not something I haven’t done before.” You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.
Tim’s frown doesn’t change. “You don’t actually have to do this if you don’t want to… I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if there’s something—”
“Tim, there’s nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?” You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?
He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. “I… You just seem—” his eyes look off at something off to the side, “—distracted, is all.” Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. “You don’t have to say anything. This isn’t me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.” He rambles, shaking his head.
You heave a sigh, “It’s— I don’t think you want to know, Tim.”
Perhaps that’s the wrong thing to say to a detective because Tim— despite his attempts to be sympathetic— also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you don’t, he hesitantly responds: “If— and again, this is not me pressuring you— If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.”
You swallow, looking toward Tim, “That’s… Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.” He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. “Are you sure you want to hear what I want to say?” You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.
He blinks, “If that’s what you wish,” he changes his focus from your hand to your face, “then yes.” He gives you a disarming smile.
Your smile grows, “This is your last chance, Tim.”
His eyes lighten up, “Well,” he chuckles, “I’m not planning on changing my mind.”
You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.
“Do you remember the other night?” You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for him— and him alone.
Tim’s eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, “What?” His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.
“I just… I appreciate you helping me out.” You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.
“Yeah…” He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, that… It’s no issue it all. I…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that you’re watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. “Yeah...” he trails off, “Could you remind me exactly what I helped you with?”
You chuckle at his attempts to play it off— and failing. “Oh, come on, Tim.” You tilt your head at him, “You remember. You gave me the souvenir.”
You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.
He doesn’t instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasn’t the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You aren’t even sure if he’s breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.
“What?” His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.
Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You don’t get a chance to respond because he continues. “I… I haven’t given you anything— I think I’d remember if I gave you a souvenir.” He laughs, slightly hysterical. “You might be thinking of somebody else?”
You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesn’t stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.
“That’s,” he swallows, “That’s uh— I fell off my skateboard.” He doesn’t attempt to move your hands away from his face.
“Mhm,” you hum disbelievingly, “in the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?” You tease lightly.
“Well, I—” he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you don’t try to stop him. “I… think?” He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.
You frown, amusement evident in your tone. “You don’t know?”
He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. “I… You know, maybe you were right that I didn’t want to know.”
You let out an startled puff of air, “Oh,” you begin slowly, “now you heed my warnings?”
He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. “Okay, fine, but how did you figure it out?” He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.
“You share mannerisms with Red Robin.” He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.
His jaw drops. “There’s no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!” He whisper-yells.
You nod, “Well, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.” You watch as Tim mouths the words “Oh my God.” You smile sympathetically at Tim, “Yeah, I don’t know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesn’t put two and two together.”
“So what you’re saying is that it’s Dick’s fault.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands aren’t covering his face anymore.
You frown, “You sent me photos of yourself.” Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. “Uh— I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.” You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.
“Okay,” he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. “I did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.” He grumbles.
You nod, “Modeling, apparently.” You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. “I kept the Batarang by the way. It’s sitting in my room.” His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. “I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, “That wasn’t my worry. It never was.” He whispers back.
You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, “Then what is?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. “I didn’t want you involved in this.” He begins. “I… I don’t want you getting hurt because you know me.”
You let out a long exhale, “Tim,” you start, reaching for his hand, “if I didn’t want to be involved, I would’ve stopped the moment you started ‘chasing after vigilantes’ for photos.” You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. “I like being around you, Tim. That doesn’t change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.”
He swallows, squeezing your hand, “I… I like you—” He hastily cuts himself off, “—I like being around you too.” He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. “I… You’re not mad or anything right?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “That you like me?”
Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, “No! I meant the—” at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. “You know what I meant.” He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.
You chuckle, smiling at him, “I’m not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Oh— Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.” You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. “And your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.”
He smacks his lips, “Okay, but I have an excuse. You—” he lightly points an accusing finger at you, “— do not.”
You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, “Oh, really—”
“Father is here. He requests your presence—” Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobody’s surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.
“Damian, can’t you knock?” Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.
Damian’s eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Tim’s. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. “I did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works… like at all.” Tim stands up, and you follow suit.
Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.
“We… We better get down there. He’s going to tell everybody.” Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.
“Lead the way, Birdie.” You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.
“You’re lucky I don’t have time to address that.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smirk on his face.
“Aw, I knew you like me.” You grin, nudging your hand against his own.
He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. “Yeah,” he swallows, “I do.” He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.
A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of “civilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out he’s a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.” We’re going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope.
Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then I’m FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and it’s definitely an idea I wouldn’t mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)!
Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they aren’t very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!
Tim Drake Taglist: @sebstancevanss @gaychaosgremlin @koibleufish
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Want to be added to one of my taglists? Fill out the form here or leave a comment asking to be added under my DC Masterlist post :)!
before someone comments, “you’re doing it right now”, it’s for an educational purpose.
it is so annoying to scroll through a tag and only see memes or corny people trying to be relatable about fanfiction. everything you’re saying is a regurgitated joke that someone has said years ago. if your post hasn’t made on someone’s feed, too fucking bad. no one cares that you love jason todd so much or how you hate how y/n acts the way she does.
same with x oc fics. because no one is interested in your lousy ass work about the most generic plot ever doesn’t mean you have to push your fic in everyone’s face in a tag that your fic doesn’t belong in. i promise you, someone is gonna look at it and like it.
the tag is “x reader”. so post “x reader” shit. this isn’t rocket science, people.
Summary: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Pretense was part of the uniform, one of the many accessories that came with being married to Bruce Wayne. There was the public smile, the attentive nod, the light laugh at jokes that were more networking than humor. There was the practiced patience of standing beside Gotham’s favorite billionaire philanthropist while donors praised his generosity and reporters angled for the most flattering shot.
Central City was no different.
The exhibition hall glittered with glass, an architectural marvel overlooking the bay. Artifacts rotated slowly under museum lights, historical pieces saved from war zones, sculptures donated by impossibly wealthy patrons. All of it in the name of charity. All of it surrounded by security that looked impressive enough to reassure civilians, but flimsy enough that you felt Bruce’s hand rest a fraction more firmly at the small of your back as you walked.
You leaned slightly toward him. “You look tense.”
Bruce’s smile didn’t falter. His eyes, however, tracked the exits, the balconies, the structural beams overhead. “Occupational hazard.”
“You’re not on duty tonight,” you murmured. “You’re allowed to relax.”
His mouth curved, barely. “I’ll try.”
He looked unfairly handsome in his tailored black suit, hair brushed back, cufflinks catching the light. The tabloids had long since moved on from calling him Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. A couple of years married, and the narrative had softened. Settled. Reformed. Lucky.
They were not wrong about the lucky part.
You accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and turned to watch a small knot of people arguing amiably near a display case.
Bruce squeezed your hand once, quick and grounding, before letting go as someone approached to greet him. You listened to the polite exchange with half an ear, already cataloging the room the way Bruce had taught you, without ever meaning to. Old habit.
You were reaching for another sip of champagne when the lights went out.
For half a heartbeat, there was only confusion. A collective intake of breath. Then the alarms screamed to life, harsh and metallic, and the floor shuddered beneath your feet as something heavy struck the far end of the hall.
People began to panic.
“Bruce...” you started, already turning toward him.
He was gone.
Not vanished in a puff of smoke or a blur of motion but absent nonetheless. The space beside you where he had been was suddenly empty, and your pulse spiked with a familiar mix of irritation and resignation.
Of course.
You didn’t have time to dwell on it. The display cases along the walls shattered as masked figures dropped in from the ceiling, weapons humming with energy you very much did not want to be near. Someone screamed. Security scattered like startled birds.
You set your champagne down carefully on a nearby table and straightened your spine.
Fine. Showtime.
You moved the way Bruce had taught you, calm and efficient, guiding people toward the exits, keeping your voice low and steady. “This way. No running. Watch your step.”
The air crackled, and suddenly there was a red blur tearing through the hall, lightning snapping at his heels.
“Okay!” Barry Allen’s voice echoed, far too cheerful for the circumstances. “Everyone stay calm, we’ve got this under control...whoa!”
A green construct slammed into the floor, blocking a blast aimed at a cluster of civilians. Hal Jordan hovered above them, jaw set. “You guys pick the worst places to rob.”
The villains snarled back, emboldened but clearly unprepared for two members of the Justice League.
You allowed yourself a brief exhale. Good. Backup.
Then the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
It wasn’t literal. It was presence.
A shadow detached itself from the far wall, resolving into something tall and armored and unmistakable. The cape unfurled like a living thing, and suddenly Batman was there, moving through the chaos with terrifying precision.
Barry skidded to a stop mid-run. “Uh. Hi?”
Hal’s eyes widened. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Batman didn’t answer. He never did, not when it wasn’t strictly necessary. He disarmed one attacker with brutal efficiency, sending them sprawling, then pivoted seamlessly to shield a group of fleeing civilians.
Your heart did a small, treacherous flip.
There he was. In his other skin. Cold, unyielding, myth made flesh.
And then his head turned, and the white slits of his cowl locked onto you.
Everything else receded.
He crossed the distance between you in seconds. He stopped just close enough that you could see the faint scuff marks on his armor, the subtle rise and fall of his chest.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
The voice was different. Deeper. Filtered. But you heard what lay beneath it all the same.
Concern.
You shook your head. “I’m fine.”
He scanned you anyway, gaze flicking over you with a thoroughness that would have looked invasive if anyone else had been watching closely enough. His gloved hand hovered near your elbow—not touching, not quite, but ready.
Behind him, you could practically feel Barry and Hal’s eyes widen.
Batman nodded once. “Stay behind me.”
“As if I wouldn’t,” you murmured, just for him.
Something in his posture eased. Just a fraction.
He guided you toward the nearest secure exit, positioning himself so that his body blocked you from the worst of the chaos. A blast went off somewhere to your left, and he shifted instinctively, cape flaring to shield you.
Barry’s jaw dropped. “Is...is he…being gentle?”
Hal squinted. “Is that Bruce Wayne’s wife?”
Barry blinked. “Yeah?”
Batman stopped at the edge of the hall, where emergency lighting cast everything in stark red shadows. He turned to face you fully.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll clear the rest.”
You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his armored forearm. The contact was brief, easily missed, but his hand closed over yours for a heartbeat.
“Be careful,” you said softly.
His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, hidden from view. “Always.”
Then he was gone again, swallowed by smoke, vengeance personified as he tore back into the fray.
You leaned against the wall and let yourself breathe.
From your vantage point, you watched Barry and Hal regroup, their expressions oscillating between focus and bafflement as they fought alongside Gotham’s Dark Knight. The villains were subdued quickly after that, no one was stupid enough to stick around once Batman had joined the party.
Within minutes, the hall was secure.
Emergency responders flooded in. Civilians were escorted out. The adrenaline drained from your system, leaving you pleasantly tired.
Batman reappeared at your side as if summoned by the thought alone.
“Still all right?” he asked.
You smiled. “Told you. Hard to scare me.”
A huff of something like amusement escaped him before he could stop it.
Barry stared.
Hal stared harder.
Batman inclined his head to you. “You should rejoin your husband.” Then he straightened, already retreating behind the mask. “Excuse me.”
He disappeared into the night as efficiently as he’d arrived.
The moment he was gone, Barry rounded on Hal, eyes bright with excitement. “Did you see that?”
Hal crossed his arms. “Oh, I saw it.”
“You think...”
“I think,” Hal said slowly, “that Batman has a thing for Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Barry made a face. “No way. He’s not...he wouldn’t...she’s married.”
“So?” Hal shot back. “Since when does having principles mean you don’t have feelings? Did you hear his voice? He sounded like he was one bad day away from writing poetry.”
Barry snorted despite himself. “Batman doesn’t write poetry.”
“In the Batcave,” Hal said darkly. “Crying. Surrounded by bats.”
Barry hesitated. “He does always get weird when Bruce Wayne comes up.”
“Exactly!” Hal jabbed a finger in the air. “Brooding vigilante hates billionaire playboy who somehow landed a smart, self-made woman and settled down. Classic.”
Barry glanced toward you, then back at Hal. “You think he’s been pining?”
“I think he sees her face on billboards and charity galas and tells himself it’s fine,” Hal said. “It’s not fine. Look how miserable he is all the time. I've always wondered what's wrong with him.”
Barry winced. “That’s…kind of sad.”
“Juicy, though.”
You returned to Bruce Wayne not long after, finding him emerging from a different corridor, tie loosened, expression carefully arranged into concern.
The night ended the way these things always did: with sirens fading into the distance, reporters swarming like carrion birds, and Bruce Wayne reappearing at your side with a perfectly calibrated expression of concern.
You took his arm as cameras flashed.
“Mr. Wayne,” someone called, breathless with excitement. “Can you tell us how it felt to have Batman personally assist in evacuating your wife?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His hand rested warm and steady over yours.
“We’re grateful no one was seriously injured,” he said smoothly. “That’s all that matters.”
You smiled on cue, letting the attention roll off you. Somewhere behind the press barricade, you caught a glimpse of red and green disappearing into the night.
You didn’t see the looks they exchanged.
Barry Allen had replayed the footage in his head at least a dozen times by the time he and Hal Jordan regrouped on the Watchtower.
Not the fight. Not the villains.
The way Batman had moved toward you.
“Tell me you noticed it too,” Barry said, pacing. “Because I feel like I hallucinated that.”
Hal leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I noticed.”
“He didn’t even hesitate.”
“Nope.”
“And the voice...”
“Way too soft.”
Barry grimaced. “It was…intimate.”
Hal scoffed. “Don’t say intimate.”
“I’m saying intimate.”
Hal’s jaw clenched. “He had his hand on her elbow like...like he was afraid she’d disappear.”
Barry stopped pacing. “Okay, now you’re making me sad.”
“I’m making me angry,” Hal shot back. “He’s always lecturing us about boundaries and civilians and keeping emotion out of the job, and then he pulls that?”
“Maybe it was just...” Barry hesitated. “Concern?”
Hal stared at him. “For one specific civilian. Who happens to be Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Barry rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean…Batman doesn’t exactly like Bruce Wayne.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Hal said. “Every time Bruce Wayne’s name comes up, he shuts down like someone insulted his mother.”
Hal leaned forward. “He hates him.”
“Because...”
“Because Bruce Wayne has everything he can’t,” Hal said flatly. “Charm. A public life. A wife who looks at him like that.”
Barry swallowed. “You really think he’s in love with her.”
Hal didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “I think he’s been in love with her for a long time.”
They decided, very reasonably, they thought, to investigate.
Not in a creepy way.
In a professional way.
Batman didn’t appreciate it.
They found him in the Batcave satellite hub on the Watchtower, reviewing holographic schematics with his usual grim focus.
“Hey, Bats,” Barry said brightly. “Got a minute?”
Batman didn’t look up. “Make it quick.”
Hal exchanged a glance with Barry. Showtime.
“We were just curious,” Hal began, casual to the point of falsehood, “about why you were in Central City.”
Batman’s fingers paused over the controls. Just for a fraction of a second. “Unrelated investigation.”
“Right,” Barry said. “Totally. Makes sense.”
Silence stretched.
Barry pressed on, gently. “So, uh…Bruce Wayne.”
Batman’s shoulders went rigid.
“What about him?” Batman asked, voice cool.
“You’ve worked with him before,” Barry said. “Charity stuff. Gotham initiatives. Just wondered what you think of him.”
Batman turned slowly, cape whispering against the floor.
“Why.”
It wasn’t a question.
Hal raised his hands. “No reason. Just small talk.”
Batman’s gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing. For one awful moment, he wondered if this was it, if Superman had finally said something, if the walls were closing in.
“Bruce Wayne is irrelevant,” he said briskly. “And his personal life is none of my concern.”
Barry blinked.
Hal’s mouth twitched.
“Got it,” Barry said quickly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“Then don’t,” Batman snapped. “Focus on the mission.”
He turned back to his work, dismissing them.
They left.
The moment the doors sealed behind them, Hal let out a low whistle.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “He hates Bruce Wayne.”
Barry winced. “Or he’s jealous.”
Hal shot him a look. “That’s worse.”
The final nail went in a week later.
Batman was supposed to be reviewing mission reports, metahuman sightings, arms trafficking, things that mattered.
Instead, when Barry breezed by unannounced, he found Batman standing utterly still in front of a floating screen.
On it: you.
You were mid-interview, seated elegantly at a Gotham charity luncheon, hands folded in your lap as you spoke about education reform and community rebuilding. You smiled when the interviewer laughed, eyes bright, posture composed.
Batman hadn’t realized anyone was behind him.
Barry followed his line of sight, then froze.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Batman shut the screen down instantly. “This is not what it looks like.”
Barry didn’t move. “You were watching Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Batman’s jaw tightened. “I was monitoring public coverage.”
“Of…her?”
“She is frequently present at high-risk events,” Batman said, defensive now. “Awareness is prudent.”
Barry’s voice softened. “You don’t watch anyone else like that.”
Batman said nothing.
Barry left without another word.
That night, he found Hal.
“He watches her interviews,” Barry said.
Hal’s eyes went dark. “Of course he does.”
Barry sank onto the couch. “That’s…that’s really rough, man.”
“Rough?” Hal scoffed. “It’s inappropriate.”
Barry frowned. “I think it’s just sad.”
Hal rounded on him. “He’s Batman. He’s always on us about professionalism. And now he’s pining over a married civilian?”
“Unrequited love isn’t a crime.”
“It’s a scandal waiting to happen,” Hal snapped. “Bruce Wayne’s wife? You know what the media would do if they even suspected something?”
Barry hesitated. “He’d never act on it.”
Hal crossed his arms. “You sure about that?”
Barry looked down. “I just think…being Batman in Gotham is already hell. Loving someone you can never have on top of that?”
Hal didn’t soften. “He doesn’t get a pass just because he’s miserable.”
They cornered Red Robin a few days later.
Tim Drake landed lightly on the Watchtower platform, mask still on, clearly expecting a briefing, not an interrogation.
“Hey,” Barry said, trying to sound friendly. “Got a question for you.”
Tim stiffened immediately. “About what?”
Hal smiled in a way that made Tim’s instincts scream. “Bruce Wayne’s wife.”
Tim’s head snapped up. “What about her?”
Barry raised his hands. “Easy. We were just wondering...have you ever met her?”
Tim’s spine went rigid.
You flashed through his mind instantly: the way you’d insisted he eat more, the way you’d sat with him after nightmares, the hand on his shoulder that had felt safe when nothing else did.
“She’s a great woman,” Tim said sharply.
Hal’s brows shot up. “So you do know her.”
Tim realized his mistake too late. “I mean...I don’t know her well.”
Barry tilted his head. “But Batman does.”
Tim hesitated.
Batman’s orders rang loud and clear in his head.
Protect the mission. Protect the secret.
“I’m still pretty young,” Tim said finally, carefully. “Batman…knows her better than I do.”
Hal’s eyes gleamed.
Barry’s mouth fell open. “He talks about her to you?”
Tim bristled. “That’s not what I said.”
But it was too late.
Hal laughed, sharp and triumphant. “Oh, he pines.”
Barry groaned. “Oh my god, he pines so hard he’s briefing his sidekick about her.”
Tim stared at them, baffled and increasingly alarmed. “You’re reading way too much into this.”
Hal clapped him on the shoulder. “Kid, you’ll understand when you’re older.”
Tim watched them walk away, unease curling in his stomach.
Somehow, impossibly, they had come closer to the truth, and still missed it entirely.
Back in Gotham, you poured Bruce a cup of tea and kissed his temple as he passed you, already slipping into shadow.
“You look tense,” you murmured.
“Just work,” he said.
You smiled, unaware that half the Justice League was currently convinced your husband spent his nights in the Batcave, brooding over you from afar: a tragic, noble fool in love with Bruce Wayne’s wife.
The universe had an impeccable sense of timing.
On the one day the Justice League was away, negotiating a fragile ceasefire on a red-skied planet whose sun hummed wrong in human bones, you were scheduled to speak in Metropolis.
Bruce hadn’t argued. That alone should have warned you.
“You’ll be fine,” he’d said, calm in the way that always meant he was anything but. “Metropolis is one of the safest cities on the planet.”
You’d smiled, adjusted his tie, kissed him. “I’ll be surrounded by reporters and security. What could possibly happen?”
He hadn’t smiled back.
Lex Luthor struck fifteen minutes into your panel.
It started with the lights.
They dimmed, not out, just low enough to make people uneasy. The massive screen behind you flickered, your face fracturing into static before resolving into a familiar, smug expression.
Lex’s.
The audience gasped. Security surged forward.
You didn’t move.
“Good evening, Metropolis,” Lex purred, his voice amplified and everywhere at once. “And good evening to Gotham’s most beloved philanthropist by marriage.”
Your jaw tightened.
Somewhere across the galaxy, Bruce Wayne felt his blood turn to ice when he received a distress message.
Batman didn’t hesitate.
Protocols shattered. Priorities reordered with brutal clarity.
He fired off encrypted signals faster than conscious thought.
On my way.
Already en route.
I’m five minutes out.
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
By the time a jet tore through Metropolis airspace, the city was already in chaos. Lex’s private security, augmented, armored, overconfident, had locked down the perimeter around the conference center.
Nightwing dropped in from above, escrima sticks flashing. Batgirl disabled the building’s internal systems. Red Robin coordinated evac routes, his voice steady even as his eyes scanned for you.
For one suspended second, the world narrowed to the sight of you standing there: unhurt, furious, very much alive.
His shoulders sagged, just barely.
“You all right?” he asked.
You nodded. “Lex talks too much.”
Lex was apprehended within the hour.
The aftermath, however, was messier.
Hal Jordan arrived late.
Too late to be useful. Too late to feel anything but sidelined.
Lex was cuffed, the civilians safe, and Gotham’s vigilante family standing shoulder to shoulder like they’d planned this for weeks.
Hal hovered above the scene, incandescent with irritation.
“Oh, come on,” he snapped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He called the League so they could watch it live.
Batman didn’t look at him, only at the footage.
“…Okay,” Barry said slowly. “That feels excessive.”
Hal descended, fists clenched. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Batman finally stepped into the camera's view. “If you have something to say...”
“You called your entire crew,” Hal cut in. “For one civilian.”
Barry frowned. “A very important civilian.”
Hal shot him a look. “She’s not League. She’s not military. She’s not even in Gotham.”
Batman’s voice went cold. “Watch your tone.”
“Oh, so now you care about tone?” Hal snapped. “You’re always lecturing us about professionalism, about emotional distance. And then you pull this? This is getting out of hand.”
Batman didn’t argue.
That only made it worse.
They didn’t confront him that night.
They started following him instead.
Hal didn’t even feel bad about it.
Batman thought he was alone, back in the Watchtower’s auxiliary hangar, exhaustion finally settling into his bones.
He activated a secure line.
Hal slowed his breathing. Barry stilled time just enough to listen.
Batman’s voice, unguarded and low, carried easily.
“I just needed to hear your voice.”
Barry could not believe his ears.
“I know it’s late. I won’t keep you.”
A pause. Softer.
“I wish I could see you.”
Hal’s jaw clenched.
Another pause. A faint exhale.
“Who cares about that. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Barry swallowed. “Oh no.”
Batman closed his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “I just…missed you.”
The line disconnected.
Silence slammed down.
Barry stared at Hal, horrified. “That’s…that’s really bad, right?”
Hal’s face was thunderous. “He’s trying to seduce her.”
Barry’s voice wobbled. “What if she doesn’t know?”
“Then it’s worse.”
They argued until morning.
The intervention was a disaster.
They cornered Batman in the briefing room the next day, both of them grim, resolved, utterly convinced of their moral high ground.
“This stops now,” Hal said without preamble.
Batman stared. “Excuse me?”
Barry folded his arms, clearly uncomfortable. “We heard the call.”
Batman froze.
The blood drained from his face so fast Hal nearly missed it.
“You were listening,” Batman said carefully.
Hal took that as confirmation. “So you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you’re emotionally compromised,” Hal snapped. “That you’re pursuing a married civilian.”
Batman stared at them.
Actually stared.
“…Are you insane?”
Barry winced. “He’s not denying it.”
Batman’s voice dropped to something lethal. “Explain. Slowly.”
Hal launched into it: every look, every moment, the call, the words. The imagined affair. The impending scandal.
Batman listened in silence.
Then he laughed.
Once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“You think,” he said slowly, “that I’m trying to get Bruce Wayne’s wife to cheat on him.”
Hal crossed his arms. “You said ‘I miss you’.”
“I did say that.”
Barry’s eyes widened. “You...”
Batman pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because she’s my wife.”
Summary: Hands tied. Surroundings unknown. No way out. Will Marc be quick enough to save you?
A.N: Ahhhhh I recently watched the rookie and was inspired to write a kidnapped!reader fic. this fic is inspired by the rosalynd dyers abductions in the series.
(English isnt my first language. Please pardon any grammatical/spelling mistakes. Gifs not mine. Divider by @firefly-graphics.)
You're not sure what day it is.
Time doesn't move here — it loops. Stretches. Contracts. Collapses.
You remember light, at one point. You remember the morning sun over Marc’s shoulder as he brewed your shitty instant coffee. You remember the warmth on your face as the sun shone softly through the kitchen window, and the soft way his hand rested on your back as he kissed your temple in passing.
Now there’s only darkness and buzz.
The room is small and compact. Just wide enough for you to stretch your legs, but never both arms at once. The floor is damp in the corners, like the room itself is sweating. There’s a vent above you, humming low and steady, just loud enough to keep you from falling asleep. Just soft enough that every minute feels like it lasts hours.
They don’t talk to you unless they want something. You haven’t seen their faces — only boots, gloves and a voice over a speaker that plays every few hours like a goddamn lullaby.
And then there’s the camera.
The red light blinks at you constantly. Mocking. Waiting.
They make you talk into it.
“Say his name,” they told you the first time.
You didn’t. Not for three days. Maybe longer. Having your eyes and mouth tied up made you loose track of your surroundings.
You bit your lip until it bled and kept your eyes down and refused to let the camera see how afraid you were. You didn’t give them anything. Not a name, not a single word.
So they did what they knew best.
It started small. A slice of the knife over your cheek, a punch to your ribs.
Not deep. Not dangerous. Just enough.
You thought maybe, just maybe they'd get tired of torturing you. But that night, he visited you. Harrow. And that’s when the real torture started — because that night, they played it back for you. Your voice, ragged and broken,
"Marc."
You hadn’t realized you'd said it. You knew he would be devastated. You wished you had kept quiet, but fate wasn't in your favour anymore.
Harrow circled you like a prey before removing the fabric that covered your senses. The squinted, trying to guage your surroundings after being in the dark for so long.
"Well, my dear. How are you feeling?"
You flinched at his sound, your body leering away as far as posible with the restraints.
Harrow bent over to you, whispering "All of this can be over right now. You just gotta call Marc to us. Put on a show even. No one will hurt you anymore, I promise"
You felt a shiver run down your spine. His gaze seemingly put you frozen in place. It was only when his hands grazed your face did you snapped out of it.
"Fuck. You"
Harrow laughed. Like a jackal who had cornered its prey. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him, his face inches from yours. You could feel the evil spreading from him.
"You think you have a choice. You see my dear, if you don't do it on your own will, I'll simply hurt it out of you."
You gritted your teeth and knocked your head ahead, a crack echoing through the walls. Harrow stumbled onto his back, nose seeping with red liquid.
"You bitch. Your dead body would also be motive enough to get him here. You just killed both of yourselves. Death will come for both of you."
His men scrambled inside, tying you up again. You thrashed around, trying your best to break free. One of them grabbed your hair and yanked you backwards, making you fall with the chair. Your hands bruised at the awkward angle.
You screamed. Loud enough to lose your voice. Loud enough that they turned off the speaker just to shut you up.
You collapsed, body wracked with sobs you hadn’t even felt forming. You don’t remember crying. You remember choking. Gasping like you were drowning in your own chest. You dropped your head to your chest and whispered to the air, over and over again, like a prayer.
“Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t let them find you.”
Because this place? It’s not about you. Not really.
It’s about breaking him.
You can feel it in everything — in the pacing, in the way they recorded a message with your voice cracked and wet from tears.
When the door opened the next time, you dared to hope that that was the end of it. That Marc had killed the bastards and had come for you. That you could finally go home. But when Harrow walked in, blood splattered on his face, you knew it was different. It got colder, as if the air was sucked from the room. He looked livid.
"I gave him a chance to turn himself over. And yet he wants to be the hero so bad. Guess what? I'll give him a proper chance to become just that."
He untied you from the chair and pulled you roughly towards the deep end of the seemingly rundown building. You heard gunshots being fired in the distance, your heart racing at the prospect of escaping this hellhole.
That hope was shortlived however, when you felt yourself being pushed roughly. The ground beneath you suddenly gave off as you fell onto a metallic surface. Your legs gave out beneath you, sprained from the angle of impact.
You were still tied up. eyes covered. It felt ominous. You couldn't feel anything. You were scared.
"Enjoy." Harrow said as you heard the sound of metal doors closing.
You were trapped. But where? What were you trapped in? Would Marc be able to save you this time?
"Marc"
His knees buckled. He slid to the floor, hands in his hair, head bowed so low you thought he might break in half. Steven tried to come forward, to try to calm the body down, think rationally. But then Marc came back. Cold. Sharp.
The video showed you bruised and bloody. Tied up lile meat for slaughter. Marc went silent for a long time.
No voice. No tape. No movement.
Just you. And the screen. And his own unraveling.
When he got the next message from Harrow, asking to give himself up, he was determined. He'd do anything to save you.
You sat up and managed to get the fabric to fall from your eyes.
It’s a steel container. The contraption you’re in, it’s cylindrical — akin to a barrel. Tall enough for you to stand, wide enough for you to try to wriggle your arms free, with the top welded shut. A glass section allowed you to peer into the darkness, rays of light escaping from under a door too far away for anyone to hear you.
You're not even sure if anyone would hear you from the metal tube. But you scream. Scream for Marc.
You try to break the glass. Slam your shoulder into it. Kick with your bare foot, teeth gritted, wrists aching behind you.
Suddenly, the lights turn on. They hum like a predator waking up.
You blink against the harsh fluorescence and look through the glass again — and that’s when you see it.
The room is no longer empty.
A pressure-activated rig is mounted to the ceiling above the door. Wires snake toward the latch. And perched right beside it — sharp, polished, and ready — is a mounted rifle.
Pointed straight ahead.
You gasp against the cloth gag. Try to shake your head. Try to shout.
Through the barrel’s glass, you can see a faint red laser line stretching from the weapon to the exact spot anyone would stand if they walked in.
And then — a voice.
“MARC!” you scream, or try to, but the sound is muffled, strangled, swallowed by the gag.
You bang your shoulder against the wall again. Your knee. Anything. Panic claws its way up your throat. You shout louder. Louder.
And then you hear him.
“I'm here! Just hang on — I’m right outside!”
NO. No no no—
You throw yourself forward, slamming your bound hands into the side of the barrel. The metal sings under the pressure.
“MARC, DON'T—”
The handle turns.
You scream, guttural and violent, but he can’t hear you through the thick walls.
Then the door opens.
Bang.
Time stops. You see it, the spark, the snap of pressure, the rifle’s kickback. Then Marc stumbles through the doorway.
He jerks back — a flash of blood across his shoulder as he hits the floor, hard.
“Marc!”
You scream, but your voice is still lost. Your mouth burns under the cloth, soaked with spit and desperation. You thrash, fingers twisted, wrists bleeding now from the friction of the ropes. You scream again.
He’s crawling. Arm dragging. One hand pressed to the wound.
You shake your head violently. No. No. He’s still alive but—
Then you feel it.
The sudden hiss beneath you. Something shifting in the floor.
And cold.
Water.
Your bare legs are soaked up to your shins.
You twist, breath catching. The bottom of the barrel is now flooding. A sharp intake of water from a small port below — quiet, methodical, deadly.
It keeps rising. You scream again, tears pricking the edges of your vision.
Outside the glass, Marc is trying to stand. His body sways. He sees you now. The barrel. The panic in your eyes. The water rising.
His face crumples in horror. He rushes forward but you slam yourself against the glass, over and over again, trying to stop him.
Don’t come closer. Please. What if this is a trap too?.
He presses his shivering hand to the glass.
“I’m going to get you out,” he says, voice hoarse.
You shake your head violently, scream through the gag, but it’s too late.
The water is at your chest now. Freezing. Heavy. Your breaths come faster. You feel yourself losing control.
Marc fumbles for something — a crowbar? A knife? You can barely see anymore through the water rising and the tears clouding your eyes.
You try to keep your head above the line. You’re shivering, teeth chattering behind the gag.
"I’m sorry,” Marc says. “I’m so sorry, baby, please, just hang on. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” You try to say his name. Try to tell him you love him. That you’re not angry. That this isn’t his fault.
But all that escapes is a sob. Then the water hits your neck. Then your chin. Then your mouth. You hold your breath as long as you can, eyes wide, lungs screaming.
Marc screams your name. He punches the glass with his bare fists. Blood smears across the surface. But you’re already slipping under.
Everything burns. Cold wraps around you like rope. Your lungs ache, screaming for air. You twist, pull, slam your shoulder again, but the metal holds fast. There’s no escape.
Then…
Nothing.
Your body goes still.
Black.
But something stirs in the dark. Not water. Not pain.
A voice. Ancient. Cold as the desert night.
“You are not hers to take.”
The air shatters like glass. Light explodes behind your eyes.
And then — a cracking sound.
The barrel splinters open, shards of glass flying across the floor like razors. You fall forward into his arms. Safe.
Marc catches you — barely conscious, your body limp, soaked and freezing, wrists still bound.
“Baby—hey. HEY. Look at me. Come on, please, look at me.”
Your eyes flutter open for a second. He’s crying. Blood smeared across his face. His shoulder soaked red. But he’s here.
You whisper something, but your voice is barely a whisper.
He pulls the gag down from your mouth. Cradles your face like you’ll vanish if he lets go.
“I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You blink. “You got shot,” you whisper, barely audible.
He smiles, shaking. “Just a scratch.”
Liar.
You reach up with the little strength you have and touch his face. Fingers trembling.
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I’d die first,” he whispers. “I would’ve torn the world down.”
You start to cry. Silent, shaking sobs that press into his chest. His grip tightens around you.
But you can feel it, even now, the weight of what just happened. The gun. The trap. The water. His blood on your hands. Yours on his shirt.
You’re alive.
But not whole.
Not yet.
And as he carries you out, broken glass crunching beneath his feet, you look back at the ruined barrel.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — You have an argument with Jason Todd and things don't go your way. There's something slipping out of your fingers, and it might just be him.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: angst :)) possible fluff for a possible pt.ii?
Your feet ache, ankles throbbing in pain with each step you take. You’ve lost count of all the street signs you’ve passed, the chipped white lettering barely giving you an inkling of where you are anyway. All you know is that there’s something clawing inside of your chest, and the alleyways are slowly darkening. Graffiti streaks across red brick walls. Trash flutters out from parked cars.
I don’t need your help!
Jason’s words echo, ringing inside your head like a bell. Your temples feel tense, as if bracing for each thunderous shout of those simple words. A lump forms like a sharp pebble in your throat.
“Okay, Jason,” you whisper, choking on the small utterance like it might cleave you in half. You didn’t get to tell him that—didn’t get to say anything at all. The door had slammed shut behind you once he’d said enough, and you hadn’t bothered to wait and see if he’d come racing after you.
He’s never shouted at you before—the most heated your arguments get is a little bit of bite in your tone, but never your voices raising to shake the frame of your psyche.
I don’t need you.
He’d said that in a much quieter voice—something muttered beneath his breath like an afterthought. You heard that and knew you wouldn’t be able to say anymore without breaking down, and that was the last thing you wanted to do. You wouldn’t let him see you like that. You could barely afford to see yourself in such a state. It was demeaning—overwhelming, too.
A shout skewers through your haze of grief-stricken thoughts, and you glance away from your shoes to scan the street. Long shadows stretch across the cracked asphalt as street lamps tower over you like sentinels, bathing a group of teenage boys in sickly yellow light. They skip and prance like zealous predators, voices dipped in the usual ‘bad boy’ drawl, shouting or laughing at jokes you weren’t privy to. Clouds of smoke puffed from many of them, cigarettes tucked between two fingers like modern weapons.
You usually wouldn’t be too bothered if it was one or two, but you could count five easily, and felt caution settle in your stomach like lead.
Smoothly turning into an alleyway littered with overflowing dumpsters and leftover cardboard boxes, you cut through two buildings to reach the next street. The teenagers fade into the background, leaving you behind. Sucking in a breath, you find that your chest is trembling.
“It’s fine,” you say to yourself, breathing out.
That’s all I am! Okay? I’m fine. I don’t need you constantly pestering me about it.
All you’d been was worried. Afraid, even. He’d been coming over less, and you’d sleep through the night without any interruptions. No living room window sliding open, or boots thudding softly onto the ground. At first, Jason left behind notes on the fire escape, taping the yellow square of paper to the metal bars for you to find when you opened the window for the sharp morning air.
They were cute, with handwriting that was overly neat.
Got caught up with something — wanted to let you sleep. Love you.
Though there was the dull ache of disappointment, it made you smile, imagining him taking the time out of his night (early morning) to do that for you. Him, sleepy from work, leaning against the fire escape while he scribbled the note down, before taping it down for you—that was more than what most men are ever willing to do.
But the notes changed, getting shorter in length. Sometimes you gripped the wind-bent paper and felt that he’d done it out of obligation, rather than consideration. It opened up a chasm in your chest, one where your worries began to fall into, slowly taking up space. It made breathing hard, and your days even harder. Then, the notes stopped entirely.
You went a whole month without hearing anything from him, and tonight was the first night that he finally showed up. No note, but his face cast in moonlight as he rapped on the frame of your window, waiting with shifting feet.
You weren’t expecting the hot feeling inside your chest. A molten ache of loneliness that made itself present when he climbed into your apartment, flashing a white grin that would usually have your knees weak. No, you were surprised when tears already burned at the back of your eyes, though you refused to let them fall.
“Hey, doll,” Jason murmured, stepping towards you to wrap an arm around your neck, pulling your face into him. Gunpowder and leather overwhelmed your senses, and the usual warmth pouring out from him felt suffocating. You wrapped your arms around his waist, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hold on tight.
Jason pressed his lips to your scalp. “How ‘ave you been?”
“Fine,” you answered quietly, grateful that you could hide your face from him. You knew that what you were saying silently would be obvious in the way your brows were bunched together, and how you were chewing on the inside of your cheek.
“Jus’ fine?”
“Yeah—I was actually making dinner.”
“Ah,” Jason pulled away, his arm slipping from you. It felt cold suddenly, like icy teeth were nibbling on your skin. You smiled wanly, watching as he glanced at the kitchen—at the stovetop where vegetables were simmering in an oil-slick pan.
It was strange. Where was your enthusiasm? Where was the joy that bubbled inside you like liquid sunlight? And why were his eyes so bloodshot?
You know for a fact that you didn’t mean to be overbearing. All you asked was if he was okay. What had he been up to? Why hadn’t he called? Texted? Why did the notes stop?
Had you done something without even realising?
Maybe you should have realised he was already fraying around the edges.
Maybe you should have realised that he wasn’t ready to come face to face with something that ached to love him when he’d spent a whole month fighting people who didn’t.
“Jason, come on. I can tell that you’re more than tired,” you stressed, hands falling to your sides. You watched as he scrubbed a harsh hand down his face. He didn’t know it, but the lines beneath his eyes seemed to deepen just as the chasm split through you.
“Doll,” he said quietly, with something dancing along the edge of viscous. “I promise you, nothing is wrong. I am fine.”
“Then why’d you disappear on me?”
“I was busy!”
“You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks for that, doll. Really sweet of you.”
“I’m just worried.”
“Yeah, sure you are.”
It spiralled and you weren’t able to stop it. Each new word said was worse than the last—bitter with something neither of you had tried to acknowledge. Since when were you so distant from each other?
Sirens whoop in the distance, and a cold front of wind pushes against you. If only it could seep inside of you and reach for the heat settled between your lungs. If only it could freeze whatever ugly, wailing mess was lingering just beneath the surface of the calm you’d forced on yourself when you walked out of the apartment.
Feeling like a pair of eyes are digging holes into your back, you speed up your pace. A crossroad up ahead is lit with headlights, streaks of light burning through the air as cars zip by, while others are kept at a standstill behind changing traffic lights. You walk up to the pedestrian crossing, glancing up at the little red walking man.
“Lovely,” you mutter, and you wait with the tips of your shoes hanging over the edge of the curb. Swallowing thickly, you look over your shoulder. There’s no one walking up the street. No cloaked figure or rowdy teenage boys. In fact, it looks empty. The only thing keeping the quiet buildings company being the cars sitting dormant and dark in front of thin strips of grass and concrete steps leading into homes. It’s just you and the rush of light traffic, and the little red walking man.
And it hits you like a car—you’re alone, and so is Jason. You left and he let you leave. Is he still at your apartment? What happens when you go back?
“We’re gonna ruin this,” you say softly, breathlessly—like it’s a confession. It’s most certainly the truth.
Frantically, you look around. Lights glaring from cars has your head throbbing with pain, but you find what you’re looking for. A phone booth sits at the edge of the opposite street, and your heart jumps like a bird catching flight. You don’t bother checking for upcoming traffic or whether or not the little red walking man has turned green. You dash across the street, feeling your throat seize with panic and despair and desperation all at once.
You don’t even hear the screeching tires and the horn blaring at you.
Rushing into the booth, the smell of urine and cigarette smoke nearly has you gagging, but you reach for the phone anyway. With it balanced between your ear and your shoulder, you fish around in your pocket from your wallet (something you’d learned to bring with you everywhere in case of emergencies like these). With shaking fingers, you manage to find a couple of quarters and you feed it into the machine. Punching the numbers, you call your apartment's landline.
As you wait, hearing the ring vibrate against your ear, the outside world feels muted. Dull in comparison to the tempest raging inside of you.
You’re worried, but you’re also angry. You're panicking, but you’re also bitter. You want Jason, but his words still sting. You’re a walking juxtaposition and it’s setting your teeth on edge. Maybe all you need is to hear his voice and the pieces will fall into place and you’ll realise what exactly you need to say.
But Jason doesn’t answer, and the phone rings another two times before falling silent with a resolute ping.
You scare yourself when you slam the phone back into place with a hissed curse, though it doesn’t latch on properly and falls, dangling by its springy chord. You rush out into the open, sucking in fresh air into your aching chest.
“Damn it, Jason…” you whisper, and your vision swims as tears blur the endless sweep of pale light from traffic, and the bird in your chest begins to brutally beat itself to death. If he wasn’t picking up the phone, that means he’s not there anymore.
Why are you both leaving? Why are you two—people meant to love each other—both walking out of the same apartment without searching for the other? Without waiting. Without so much as a goodbye.
Shaking, you bring your fist to your mouth as a choked sob breaks inside of you, spilling out in a harsh heave for air.
"Oh, gosh—” you sputter, and the world feels like it’s spinning. Engines are roaring and it’s too loud inside your ears, droning like airplanes sweeping right above you. The lights are too bright and the little red walking man is stuck. He won’t turn green.
✶ ᶻz .ᐟ DAD MODE ?! — pranking the bat-boys with a fake pregnancy test.
‧˚꒰ৎ୭ 🗒️ — fluff, a bit SUGGESTIVE in dick’s part. i had so so much fun making these. they just wanna be dads !! plus, i’m spreading girl dad jason propaganda w this one. EDIT EDIT i dedicate this to of course the one who requested it and plus my one and only @ramzuni6 !!!!
Hi thereeee!! Love your Kusuriuri. You write him SO WELL.
Saw your requests were open and couldn’t stop myself from sending one for the Medicine Seller (whichever version you want).
Maybe something where reader and him are in an relationship, she follows him in his quests. Reader speaks of marriage, asking if he’d be interested… and you can decide how that goes!
(Sending this request a second time as I would rather it being anon if you do use the idea, kinda forgot when sending HAHA <33)
Guessing Game
Content: gender-neutral reader, reader travels with Kusuriuri, slight confession of feelings, talks of marriage, Kusuriuri's thoughts on marriage, slight spiced themes, flirty Kusuriuri, based off Mononoke 2024
Word Count: 1.4K
A/N: SOBBING!! Thank you for saying that omg!! This was so interesting to think/write about! I hope I did it justice and that you enjoy!!
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“Tell me,” You gave a physical start at Kusuriuri’s silky voice snapping you back into focus. Started again when you found he was no longer traveling before you but right by your side, yellow-gold eyes shining in mirth at the fact you had been so distracted. “What are you thinking about?”
You felt your body heat and your palms begin to sweat in the sharp panic that pierced through your chest.
The way he was looking at you--could he tell what you had been lost in thought about? Could he tell you had been unable to get that ceremony out of your mind? A ceremony between a lovely couple who had looked at each other like they were the sole reason they still drew breath?
He couldn’t tell that’s what you were thinking of…no…no way--
The corner of his half-painted lips tugged upward. His blue-painted eyelids grew slightly hooded, making him look all too devious.
“What?” You bit in mock irritation to try and cover your bubbling nerves. “I’m hardly thinking of anything.”
“Lier.” He purred, leaning in closer to show you the utter delight this budding conversation was bringing him.
“Hardly.” You gruffed, turning your attention back onto the dirt path you two were following to get to the next town. If you didn’t look at him, maybe, just maybe, he would leave it be…but you knew you were foolish in such a hope.
“Shall I make a game of guessing?” He asked, tilting his head in just the right way for you to be able to see his growing grin out of the corner of your eye. To see that white and red-tipped hair flow around his face in a way that got all that thinking you were trying to avoid starting back up.
“There is no game to be had because I am thinking nothing of subsistence.”
“Ah…I see.” He gave a small nod of his head and you felt yourself relax the slightest bit. Maybe you hadn’t been all that foolish.
“Yes. Thank--”
“Something absolutely filthy then.” He spoke on velvet-dripped tones. Your body tensed up all over again. Tensed up so tight you thought something might snap under the sudden pressure. His words had you coming to a shocked standstill, head snapping around to gaze upon him fully.
All he did was smirk all too happily your way, a honeyed chuckle sounding from his chest.
“Did I guess correctly?” He took one long stride forward which brought him right back into your orbit. “You know,” He smoothed, eyes drinking you in and making you feel like you could catch fire at any moment. “I am more than happy to make any daydreams of yours a reality--”
“I was not thinking about that!” Your voice came out all too flustered for your own good because it only seemed to solidify his guess as right. “I was thinking what you thought about--” You almost choked on your own words in your attempt to keep from spilling them.
One of his circular, blue and red-painted brow rose in question. “What I thought about…?” He let the words glide slowly over his tongue. You watched him angle his head slightly to the side like some overly curious cat--overly curious fox.
“The sun is setting and we have yet to make it even halfway to the next town.” You rushed, starting back over the path.
“Come now,” Kusuriuri called after you. “Since when have I known you to be so timid around me?” His voice sounded next to you once more, as if he hadn’t fallen once out of step with you.
“I am not timid.” You again kept your eyes trained on the road ahead. On how there were a few large rocks on the side of it, some trees of the brightest green, and most definitely not on your former thoughts.
“Exactly.” He spoke in too much excitement. Excitement that had you casting a sharp glace filled with mock irritation his way. “Never. You let it known your opinions and thoughts regardless of who you are speaking them to. Least of all me.”
He was right. Very right. You were steadfast in your beliefs. In speaking your mind and letting it be known to all they could not change it. You didn’t care what anyone thought of you in turn but…that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it?
You found you cared about what his response would be. What his thoughts would be.
It frustrated you more than anything you’d ever been frustrated with before.
The brush of knuckles over your had you blinking away your worries and frustrations. Knuckles that guided your hand into his, which he held firm. His touch had you looking into those eyes of liquid gold. Eyes you could get lost in--could always find such comfort in.
“That wedding…it’s got me playing my own guessing game.” Kusuriuri kept still except for that of his elegant strides down the path. You had his full attention undivided attention. “The topic of which is what your thoughts on such things are.” He gave you a small nod, a hum on his lips as he mulled the topic over.
“It was a nice ceremony.” You nodded in agreement. “I see no problem with them. Though, I have seen one too many marriages end in the birth of a mononoke.”
“Oh…yes.” Your words came out soft despite your want to keep them even.
Of course, you thought, he wouldn’t want that.
Kusuriuri tugged on your hand lightly, bringing your attention once more away from your thoughts.
“Something tells me that is not the true topic. Only part of it.” You watched him closely…saw no judgment shining in his eyes at this line of conversion. At the notion that there was more to your thoughts.
“Have you thought about it? Marriage?” You started, fingers tightening the smallest bit around his. “About getting married yourself?”
“Marriage is not something I was brought into this world for.” You felt yourself grow--disappointed. You knew you shouldn’t have let him egg you to voice your thoughts. Knew you should have tried to keep such thoughts far from your mind. “I was meant to be alone. Forever. My purpose is tied to the will of the sword I carry.”
“I see.” You murmured, forcing a small, toothless smile to your lips.
And Kusuriuri--he smirked. Like he was amused by your dulled mood. You almost snapped your hand away from his just for looking as such when he leaned forward.
“Though, I am hardly alone now, am I?” You--blinked at him, not quite sure where he was going with this. “I have done many things I was not meant to do.” He continued, “The hands I hold were only ever meant to guide. The skin I touch only meant to be felt in the protection of its master. The secrets shared with me only meant to release the sword that guides my being.”
He stopped walking then, pulling you to a stop with him. His eyes were steady as they looked into your racing ones. Fingertips brushed over the round of your cheek…danced lower so that they could feel the delicate skin of your lips. Touched that sent your skin on fire.
“I was never meant to taste such sweet lips. To feel such warmth in my chest anytime I gazed upon another.” Your heart spiked at his words, sending a tingling jolt through your body. “You’ve changed things for me.”
“I have?” He gave a small nod.
“Greatly.” The smile that pulled at your lips was hardly that of a forced one. It was one sprung to life by the very joy rocketing through your soul. “I have many new things to discover thanks to you--with you, and if marriage is one of them, then I would gladly take that vow.”
You thought your heart might explode right out of your chest then and there. Thought you might melt into a giddy puddle on the ground if you kept staring into those warm eyes of his--kept listening to him go on about you in such a way.
“You are--madding.” You breathed, pulling yourself quickly away from the peddler you had come to adore to try and calm yourself.
“You’ve told me many times over.” He chuckled as you started down the path all over again. You risked a glance back at him, finding he was following after you. Finding that all too soft warmth in his eyes still shining bright as he watched you back.
“And I’ll gladly tell you a thousand more times over.”
Hi! Loved your Mononoke fics! Was wondering if I could request fluff of Kusuriuri (either Ri or Kon, love them both) proposing to reader or accepting a proposal from reader? That &/or maybe a who fell first/harder? Totally up to you! Have a good day/night & take care of yourself!
Such Aggravating Emotions
Content: gender-neutral reader, proposal, first kiss, confession of feelings, reader travels with Kusuriuri, one-bed trope, reader can ward Mononoke off, marriage proposal, Kusuriuri struggles with knowing what he feels a bit (but he def knows what he wants), slight talk of murder, Mononoke hunting, based off the Mononoke tv show
Word Count: 2.0K
A/N: sooo.....lol I did both. What can I say, I love Kusuriuri and these prompts were great. Also thank you so much for reading my fics!! It means so much to me!! Sending love your way and I hope you enjoy!!
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You had a sunny laugh.
It was the first thing Kusuriuri ever took note of from you. He’d heard many laughs, but yours, for whatever reason, grabbed his attention.
You stayed calm when everyone else screamed and squawked about in their fear of the Mononoke haunting the inn you had been staying at. You stayed nearly as calm as he did. A feat not so easy to master.
You knew how to handle yourself against a mononoke. You didn’t just know silly facts on how to keep a spirit at bay, you helped keep it at bay.
When you asked Kusuriuri if you could follow him--learn more from him--he didn’t have to think too long or too hard before agreeing.
There was no harm in allowing you to follow him…
No harm, yes, but the realization that he had come to harbor feelings for you was utter torment.
It tugged at his heart and soul day in and day out. Tugged and tugged so that he couldn't help but leave lingering touches on your hands and shoulders. Couldn’t help but buy you small trinkets and joke with you just so that he might catch a small glimpse of your smile--to hear that laugh that had initially drawn him in.
You were startled when you came to the realization that this always-so-poised medicine seller might have feelings for you. Feelings you also harbored for him. Ones you had held from the moment your eyes had fallen upon his pale, painted face. Feelings you had let grow out of your control the longer you stayed by his side.
Though, you were never too sure. Always toying the line of being too obvious--too touchy. He never seemed to reciprocate but sometimes…sometimes you were steadfast in your assumptions. Times when he would stick close to you, never letting his shoulder waver from your own. Times when he would gift you small things you had been eyeing at market and times when his compliment, oh so sweet, made you feel like flying.
But then he would go right back to being that tranquil, mischievous mystery that he was and your doubts would come crashing right back over you.
Though, all doubts came to a halt after a particularly ruthless mononoke exorcism. You two had stopped for the night in a non-mononoke haunted inn, a room purchased and a single bed shared between the two of you.
It was always easiest to pretend to be a traveling married couple. There was less judgment--less questions, that way.
You’d tried to get used to sharing a bed with Kusuriuri--to not let it trick your heart and mind into being something other than practical but this night was different. Different because the peddler could not seem to find rest. Seemed so utterly unsettled. Like his mind wouldn’t let him rest.
You propped yourself up on your elbow so that you could gaze upon his face more easily, his blue eyes wide open. Eyes clouded in that same restlessness his body exuded.
“Antsy, are we?” You questioned, unable to keep from teasing the typically at-ease peddler. Blue eyes found yours and something like irritation filtered through them.
“You bring out such--” He moved then, propping himself up on his own elbow so he could look right back at you. So that he could tower over you in the way he always did. “Aggravating emotions in me.” You’re stomach twisted in your belly.
You brought emotions out in him?
Emotions?
You?
“I don’t--what do you mean?” You asked, voice coming out more soft than you had wished it.
Your breath hitched near painfully in your throat when he leaned closer to you, those eyes of his scanning over every feature your face had to offer.
“I struggle to know the true words but,” He brought his hand full of purple-painted fingernails to feel over the warming skin of your cheeks. “I wish to do this often. And,” His fingers danced lower. Nails grazed over the outline of your top lip. “Taste these.” Your lips gasped apart at what he was telling you.
Were you--were you right in thinking he felt the same?
No--no this was…a dream. Surely, it was just a dream.
“Oh,” You breathed as he pulled closer. The air in your lungs growing heavier against the racing beating of your heart. “Do you?”
“Yes.” He purred. A purr that sent your body trembling despite yourself. “Do you?” He asked, thumb brushing over your parted lips as he held your chin steady.
“Yes.” Kusuriuri grazed his nose lightly over yours as if to test the waters. Waters you all but plunged straight into as you pressed your nose closer in answer, chin raising so that you might try to find his lips.
Half-hooded blue eyes did one last frustrating look into your own before his lips were claiming yours. Lips just as soft as you had dreamed. Lips that tasted of the very same spices he smelled of. Lips that moved slowly against yours--deeply. As if he wanted to eat you whole. You wanted him to devour you whole. Wanted him to devour you body, mind, and soul.
They were lips you were gifted over and over again as you continued to travel with him. Your tentative relationship with the peddler only grew more powerful the longer you two indulged in each other.
He shared secrets with you that had never seen the light of day before. Secrets of his past and his very purpose on this earth.
You had done the same. Had shared your hopes and dreams and how you’d even come to successfully learn to ward spirits off.
There was nothing you two hadn’t explored and shared together and you found you never wanted it to end.
Another mononoke haunt began some years later. A battle Kusuriuri himself was struggling to win, the frog spirit having slashed into his thigh much to his annoyance.
You had been by his side in moments, having already surrounded those being haunted by the Mononoke in a ring of salt. Though he had been by your side for many years now, he was still entranced with your ability to keep such mononoke away.
“Are you hurt?” You called over the croaking of the spirit before you. One that lashed and clawed and kicked at the invisible barrier you had managed to create.
As Kusuriuri watched you, he couldn’t help but think of how lucky he was to have you by his side. How lucky he was to belong to you…belong…he wanted to be bound to you for as long as this life would allow.
“Marry me.” He spoke, his voice keeping that same even tone despite the weight of emotions raging within him.
You whipped your head around to stare bug-eyed at him. To look at him like he’d gone crazy.
It was a great shock to say the least. One that had allowed the Mononoke to gain an inch on you. You tried to refocus yourself but--
He had never once mentioned marriage. Any and all marriages you both had witnessed had been practically scoffed at by the peddler.
“You--you’ve hit your head.” As you glanced at the peddler still sprawled out on the ground behind you. He was looking in a way that made your heart begin to race. Race like how it’d raced when you two first started this strange relationship of yours.
He looked serious. Very serious.
“I have not.” He said your name slowly. Your heart only gave a fluttering twist. “Marry me.”
“I--why now? You don’t--since when do you care about that? It is a purely human invention.”
“You make me…” He gave a pause, taking note of the way your arms were beginning to strain against the effort of keeping the wild spirit back. “Wish to partake in such human inventions.” He saw your eyes, eyes he could spend hours staring into, begin to bubble with tears at his words.
“You’re serious?” You’re voice came out tight as if still not believing him.
The Mononoke broke through your barrier, then with a roared ribbit. You’re eyes pulled from Kusuriuri and his seemingly impossible question as webbed claws came swiping for your face.
You’re world blurred as strong hands grabbed you up into equally as strong arms, wind whirling around you as you were rushed away. You grabbed hold of Kusuriuri’s colorful kimono for support as he moved with fluid grace through the hauntee’s home.
“Deathy.” He purred, lips brushing over the shell of your ear in a way that made your skin explode with goosebumps.
Your feet had hardly found the ground before he was reaching into the expanse of his outfit to grab a handful of triangle-folded bits of white paper. Kusuriuri threw them in a curving motion, the bits of paper springing into their rectangular shape as they found a temporary home along the floor before you, the walls on either side, and on the ceiling. They flashed a bright red eye as the Mononke rammed itself into yet another invisible barrier.
The masters of the house you had left to stand in a circle of salt gave frightful screams at the sight of it, but neither you nor Kusuriuri paid them too much mind.
“You feel for me that deeply?” You questioned, another ribbit shaking the very ground you all stood on. “To be bound to me in that way for as long as I might live?” Kusuriuri crossed the small distance that lay between you both, thin fingers lacing between your own.
“Yes,” He spoke so surely. “And then some. I wish to be bound to you in this life and the next.” His face grew closer, eyes never once leaving yours. Never once stopped showing you such emotion he so very rarely let run this wild. “Till the skies fall and nothing but dust remains, I wish to belong to you.” You held onto his hand like a lifeline.
“Oh--only for that long?” You couldn’t help the slight tease. Not when you were feeling so--so loved. A love no one had ever shared with you before. A love you only ever wished to be blessed with by him.
Kusuriuri cracked a wide grin, the tips of his fanged canines flashing at you.
“Till the next world is upon us, I wish to love you.” His hand gave yours a squeeze. “Marry me?” He questioned once more.
Your eyes began to burn all over again in your utter joy. Joy you let spur you forward into his awaiting arms. Joy you let guide your lips against his. A joy you wished to express to him in the passion of the kiss you gave him. A kiss Kusuriuri was quick to give back. A joy he was quick to express back.
“Yes.” You murmured against his lips. “I wish all that too. I wish to be bound to you. I wish to love you with my every breath. I wish to love you after the breath has ceased to flow through my lungs.” You grinned so bright it began to sting at your cheeks. “Yes. Yes I will marry you.” Kusuriuri kissed you once more. Kissed you so deeply you almost forgot about the Mononoke ribbiting in bloodthirst your way.
“What are you doing!” The lady of the house screeched. “Proposals?! Now! Get away from each other and kill that thing!”
“Oh, we shouldn’t have thrown her into that bog.” The lord of the house moaned weakly. “We shouldn’t have tossed our little girl into that bog.” A sharp smack sounded as the lady tried to shut her husband up.
“She was a freak!” Kusuriuri smirked against your lips, blue eyes opening only by the smallest amount to share his sparkling amusement with you.
“Truth.” He whispered against your lips. You smirked back as the sword tucked safely in his wooden crate gave a click then a bang against its confines.
“She was five! Such a precious gem.” The lord cried, sobs shaking through his body as the sword gave yet another clicking bang in beg for freedom.
“Humm…it’s shape?” You whispered in question to the peddler you were ecstatic to forever stay with.
“It’s shape.” He agreed, turning his face away from you only to watch the wrathful spirit rage.
“Shall we ask them all the reason?” You again questioned, letting your hand linger in his for a moment longer.
summary: When Harumasa asks for an unexpected favor, you accept, against your better judgement. The last thing you expected was to have to pretend to be his spouse at a doctor’s appointment.
notes: 4.5k words, author's notes, fake marriage, fake dating, ambiguous relationship/feelings, fluff with some light introspective sadness
“I need you to do me a favor.”
When Asaba Harumasa whispers those words to you across your shared desks at the Section Six office, hand cupped around his mouth for emphasis, eyes glittering with mischief, you can’t help but brace yourself for whatever ensuing trouble he’s going to drag you into.
“What’s the favor?” you respond evenly. “If it’s to convince Yanagi to accept your request for time off, I’m not going to do that.”
“It’s not that!” Harumasa insists. “But it’s about something that’s important for the well-being of Section Six.”
You glance around the room; Soukaku is doodling with crayons on some confidential reports, Miyabi has left for a meeting with the rest of the section chiefs (and you can guarantee that she isn’t paying any attention), and Yanagi is steadfastly working through a towering stack of papers on her desk, so high that you can barely make out the top of her head. No one is paying attention to the two of you.
“Well, what is it then?” you say, and Harumasa casts a furtive glance at Yanagi before leaning closer to you, bracing his elbow on your desk. He’s enjoying himself a little too much, you can’t help but feel, what with how his smile curls like a satisfied cat.
“We need to meet up on our day off, preferably in the morning and somewhere near Lumina Square,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s too risky to pull off here. But it’s important, partner, so make sure you’re not late.”
“If it’s something that’s important for Section Six,” you whisper, tilting your own head closer to the shell of his ear, “Maybe it’s something that we should bring up to the others. What is it? Some illicit venture into a Hollow? Should I call Phaenton, too?”
“There’s no need for all of that,” Harumasa says hastily. “You only need to bring yourself. Maybe a disguise,” he adds, “to avoid public notice. This is a confidential mission. I’m relying on you.”
You let out a small sigh. Visions of curling up on your couch tomorrow, browsing through books with a mug of warm, sweet tea vanish in front of your eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there. But you owe me for dragging me out on our only day off.”
“I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.” Harumasa has the audacity to wink at you, like you’ve agreed to some ridiculous, under-the-table deal.
Maybe you have. It certainly feels like it when you drag yourself out of bed the next morning, donning sunglasses, a long, caramel-colored coat buttoned up to your neck, and pulling a hat low over your head to complete the look. You’re out the door and on the train to Lumina Square before ten minutes have passed.
You’re set to meet Harumasa at some nondescript corner of the square, an alley boxed in by towering buildings and mostly hidden from view. What does he have in store for you? Despite the playful attitude he had yesterday when asking you for help, there was also something serious underpinning his words, even as he tried to pass it off as a flight of fancy. Harumasa would never ask you for help unless it was something important.
You’re certain that you’ll have to wait for Harumasa to show up a few minutes late, making some slap-fash excuse. To your surprise, he’s already waiting for you. You almost can’t recognize him at first. He’s forgone his usual headband; instead, he’s wearing a hoodie, a cap, and a facemask, slouching against the wall, staring aimlessly at the sky.
“Harumasa?” you say.
At your voice, Harumasa immediately straightens, lifting himself off the wall. You can hear the smile in his voice, even if you can’t see it. “There you are!”
“You’re early,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”
Harumasa slings a casual arm around your shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to miss our date. But don’t let Yanagi know that I’m capable of showing up on time, okay?”
“It’s not a date,” you say, lowering your sunglasses to give him an unimpressed stare, “It’s a mission. Or so you claim.”
“It is,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll show you our place of operations.”
Harumasa still has his arm around your shoulders, but you don’t shake him off as he leads you confidently through alleys and down back roads, avoiding the bustle of crowds in the main section of the city. The breeze is cool, the sunlight warm on your face againsr the winter’s chill.
Eventually, the two of you stop in front of a hospital, a towering construction of shining metal and glass reflecting squares of blue sky. People bustle in and out of the sliding front doors, letting out gusts of sharp, chemically scented air.
Harumasa is silent as he stares up at the building, his hat shading his eyes. You can’t make out his expression, but you lean your head on his shoulder, a brief, reassuring touch.
He seems to come back to himself, then, and Harumasa’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he resumes talking in a clear, casual voice, “So, this is where our mission is taking place. Here’s the gist of it: I need you to pretend to be my spouse.”
“What?”
“Come on,” he wheedles. “I’ve been avoiding coming here for a while, but they’re not taking my excuses anymore. And they wanted me to bring a family member over to verify some things.”
“You could have just said so from the beginning,” you say. “I was beginning to think you wanted us to infiltrate somewhere.”
“If you think about it, we technically are,” Harumasa muses. “Besides, isn’t it more fun if I tell you we’re on a mission, instead of just giving everything away? Also, this is necessary to Section Six; what are they going to do without their star Executive Officer?”
The arm around your shoulder is shaking imperceptibly; sometime during his words, his grip has tightened, just slightly, as if he’s clinging to you to keep from sliding down a cliff. The unspoken truths hover in the air: that you’re the only one in Section Six who knows about his Ether Regression Aptitude Syndrome, and that he can’t ask anyone else to help him for this.
“Why your spouse, though?” you say instead. “Why not just say I’m a distant relation? You could also just not specify what our relationship is.”
“Because it’s more fun for me,” Harumasa replies. Typical.
Within the next few minutes, the two are checking in at the front desk after a brief wait, Harumasa wading through tedious paperwork and bureaucracy and health insurance forms with clipboards and pens that click more than necessary.
“Make sure to tell the doctor I’m here with my spouse,” Harumasa emphasizes, tapping the clipboard with his pen. He slides his arm around you, drawing you closer to him, and you try to resist the urge to pull away and keep your face schooled in a neutral, pleasant expression.
“All right, Mr. Asaba,” the receptionist chirps. “He’ll be out to see you in a bit!”
The waiting room is filled with rows of yellow and white plastic chairs, carpeting worn by the tread of countless anxious patients, and stacks of old magazines on tables and televisions mounted on the walls playing a cheesy blockbuster with the voices muted. A bored child plays with the hospital’s block toys on the floor, his mother talks quietly into her phone in front of him, and an elderly man flips through a magazine, his cane resting on his lap.
You and Harumasa settle into your seats, side by side. In the space between, where your hands dangle, his knuckles brush against the back of your hand before he draws your hand into his. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow become his stress ball, something he needs to touch to ground himself.
“Still holding up alright?” Harumasa whispers. “You cleared the first hurdle.”
“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you whisper back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m used to it.” At times like this, you wish you could see Harumasa’s mouth, because his eyes betray nothing.
Still, when the receptionist finally calls out, “Asaba Harumasa, the doctor’s here to see you,” you don’t let go of Harumasa’s hand. The doctor is stocky and short, with tired, drooping eyes, and he frowns when he sees Harumasa.
The three of you start walking down the hall, the doctor setting a rapid pace as he lectures Harumasa. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for the past week. Do you know how hard it is to get in contact with you? Proper medical care requires consistency!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Harumasa says without sounding sorry at all, but he seems more focused on swinging your joined hands together like a child on a swing set.
In the doctor’s office, the two of you are finally separated as Harumasa perches on the examination table. You’re sitting in a guest chair lined up against the wall across from him. The doctor moves through standard physical procedures with a deft, practiced hand. Harumasa follows along easily, thoughtlessly, as if these processes are second nature: the lights shining in his eyes, the blood pressure cuff around his arm, the routine questions.
However, whenever the doctor is distracted recording results or marking down Harumasa’s answers, Harumasa will pull down his mask and make faces at you, to which you’ll respond with a roll of your eyes or your own exaggerated expressions of annoyance.
“Have you been resting well?” the doctor asks sternly, turning back around just as the two of you quickly settle into more typical expressions. “You’re not pushing yourself at work, I hope?”
“I haven’t,” Harumasa says, with wide eyes.
“Hmpth.” The doctor turns to you. “Well? Is he being truthful? As his spouse, I trust you’ll be honest for the sake of his health.” Behind the doctor’s back, Harumasa strikes you with an expression of mock disbelief, raising his eyebrows dramatically. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, but you control the tremor of your lips.
“He hasn’t been pushing himself hard at all,” you say smoothly. “If anything, I think my husband has been resting a little too well.”
“All right. And your medications, Mr. Asaba? Have you been taking them properly?”
“Right as instructed, every morning and night,” Harumasa says. “My lovely spouse would know. They’ve seen me dutifully take all of them.”
“He has,” you verify. From what you know, anyways, Harumasa never misses a dosage.
The doctor peppers Harumasa with more health-related questions and logs down all his answers. It’s over before you know it, and Harumasa leaps off the table as soon as the doctor puts away his clipboard.
“I’ve missed you, cutie,” he says, throwing his arms around you like you haven’t seen him in months, snuggling up to you as the doctor watches with a weary expression.
“The two of you get along well,” he says stoically.
“Oh, we do,” Harumasa chirps.
“Make sure to make a follow-up appointment, Mr. Asaba. Your health appears stable, and your symptoms haven’t worsened.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” you supply, shooting a quick, withering glance at Harumasa, who only gives you a pleading expression in return. “He won’t be late to the next appointment.”
“I appreciate that, Mx…?” the doctor trails off questioningly.
“Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa interjects. “That’s their name.”
“That’s right,” you say. “Thank you for your time today.”
Harumasa wraps his arm around your waist, giving the doctor a lazy wave, and then the two of you are through the door, down the hall, and out of the hospital. Once you’re a street away, Harumasa finally speaks.
“You were excellent there, Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa says.
“Of course I was. Though you don’t need to call me that.”
“Why? I think it has a nice ring to it,” he muses. “Mx. Asaba and Mr. Asaba.”
“I was serious about what I said back there, you know,” you say. “You need to make your follow-up appointment soon. And you should try to show up to it on time.”
“You’re so strict. What if I need you to come with me again to feel better?”
“Then just tell me when, and where,” you say. “If you need me there, then I’ll be there, no matter what.”
A brief flicker of surprise lights across his face, before it smooths out into his usual relaxed smile. “You’re soooo good to me, Mx. Asaba. Since you went out of your way today to help me with such a confidential mission, let me treat you to some food!”
“I suppose that’s what a good spouse should do,” you say.
Harumasa’s arm is still around your waist, but you can’t bring yourself to shake it off as he enthusiastically guides you to whatever restaurant he has in mind. His grip is casual, loose enough that you could shrug it off if you really want to. But if you do, then he’d never pull close to you like again.
Harumasa is attentive in that way. If you set a line, then he would never cross it. All his jokes feel like a casual calculation of the distance between the two of you. How far is he allowed to go? How much are you willing to put up with? What’s the boundary of your relationship?
It’s like he’s waiting for rejection, offering you the chance to push away from him in a way that would make it easier for both of you. The way he touches you is akin to possession, but from a man who’s afraid to say he deserves to call you his.
Yet, if you push a little too close, more than he’s comfortable with, then he’ll run away like a skittish cat, afraid your affection will turn to boredom or cruelty. You’ve been with him long enough to understand this. So you’ll play along with his jokes, his little white little lies and deceptions, if it’s the only way he’ll let you stay close to him.
It’s a date, or a confidential mission, or whatever excuse Harumasa wants to use. What a complicated, beloved partner you have.
“We’re here,” Harumasa says. You’re at a ramen shop, with low stalls pulled up the counter, the simmering heat and steam from the kitchen feeling like a miniature summer. Thankfully, it’s empty, but your disguises ensure that neither your nor Harumasa’s fans will bother you for pictures and autographs in either case.
“Order whatever you want,” he says, and you pick up the laminated menu, browsing through the various options. “Oh, wait. Pose for a second.”
Harumasa pulls out his phone, opening the camera, and aims it in your direction. You make a quick peace sign, menu held aloft in your other hand, and the shutter snaps. “What’s that for?”
“You looked nice,” he says. “I’ll send it to you later.”
“I didn’t realize you liked photography.”
“It’s a good way to preserve things that are fleeting, but important to you,” he says. “Moments that won’t last, people that might leave. Things like that.”
“Are you planning on divorcing me already?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand, peering at him over the top of your sunglasses.
Harumasa places a hand over his heart. “Me? Never.”
The two of you place an order for ramen, and it doesn’t take long for the noodles to arrive. It’s simple, but delicious: hearty, flavorful broth, bamboo shoots, seaweed, fish cakes, slices of charred, fatty pork, and an egg with a jammy yolk.
Neither of you talk as you sit in silence, slurping noodles and drinking spoonfuls of broth. It’s been a while since you’ve gone out for a meal like this, and even longer since you did so with someone that wasn’t some sort of business partner or official whose good graces you need to stay in.
You glance up with a mouthful of noodles to find Harumasa watching you, chopsticks in hand, a small smile on his face, as if he’s never seen anything so charming, his own ramen forgotten. Your face burns for reasons you don’t want to identify; you’re only thankful he doesn’t ask for another picture.
Harumasa lets out a sigh of appreciation when he’s done, placing his chopsticks neatly over his finished bowl. “Soukaku once cleared out almost all the noodles in this place, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to go ever since she told me.”
“Did it match your expectations?”
“I don’t normally like heavy food, but this time, I didn’t mind it,” he says. “Or maybe it’s because you looked like you enjoyed it a lot. It made me appreciate this bowl more.”
“Smooth-talker,” you say. “If you’re done, should we head back–”
“Wait, there’s somewhere else we should go,” Harumasa interrupts, holding up a hand. “We need dessert after a meal, don’t you think?”
“Really? A dessert? What are you thinking of getting?” you ask.
“There’s a popular drink shop around here. They serve milk tea in these cute little Bangboo shaped cups,” Harumasa begins. “I thought it might be fun to check it out.”
“I thought you hated sweet things,” you supply. The two of you stand, and you smooth down your coat as Harumasa adjusts his facemask. You’re ambling down the street again, but this time, you loop your arm through his, pulling him close. It’s an effortless gesture, and it’s startling how easy it is to press so close to him.
“Well, you don’t,” he returns. “And it’s a popular date spot too. Can’t I take my lovely spouse out some more?”
You bump him with your hip. There’s no need to keep up your pretense anymore. There’s no one else here to listen to your lies. Both of you know this, but you can’t bring yourself to state the obvious. If you point out the script, then the curtain will fall and the play will end, your fragile happiness disappearing as the actors take a final bow. “Sure, if you keep paying.”
The two of you end up in front of an inconspicuous milk tea shop. There’s no outdoor or indoor seating, but there is a counter and a blackboard with the menu chalked in, alongside doodles of smiling Bangboo holding milk tea on the side. A tired salesgirl stands in front, her expression at odds with her bubblegum pink uniform. There’s a few teenagers milling nearby, hands cupped around their milk tea and conversing in giggles.
Harumasa tilts his head as he looks at the menu, hanging above the two of you. “They sell iced coffee here,” he muses. “I thought this was a milk tea place.”
“They probably want to offer a variety of drinks for people who might not like milk tea,” you supply.
“What are you getting?”
“The Bangboo special milk tea,” you say immediately. “It’s their speciality, and it comes with a Bangboo shaped cup. If it’s cute, I might take it home and wash it so I can reuse it”
He eyes you with amusement as the two of you approach the counter, where Harumasa slides his card across the counter. You make a note to treat him out to dinner at some point; as much as you tease, it wouldn’t sit right with you if you didn’t return the favor. “One iced espresso and a Bangboo special milk tea for me and my spouse, please.”
“Got it.” The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eye as Harumasa leans against you, his eyes crinkling at the corners like a pleased cat.
It doesn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. Your milk tea is in the shape of a Bangboo’s head, and topped with a pile of jellies over delicately set tiers of differing flavors. You take a sip, and you’re flooded with a creamy, milky sweetness.
Harumasa, who hasn’t even taken a sip of his espresso yet, looks amused as he watches you. “Let me try some of yours.”
“You won’t like it,” you protest, but Harumasa is already pulling down his face mask and leaning towards you. You raise your drink to let him take a quick sip.
He licks his top lip in thoughtful contemplation. “Way too sweet.”
“I told you. Now give me some of yours,” you say. “It’s only fair.”
He obliges without protest, tilting his straw towards you. You take a quick sip, but it’s cold and bitter. You wrinkle your nose; you’re no stranger to coffee, especially when shifts run late into the night, but you still like to add creamer and sugar to take the edge off.
“Coffee is an acquired taste for true adults,” Harumasa says when he sees your expression. “Maybe I’m just a bit more mature than you.”
“Sweetness is also an acquired taste,” you quip. “It’s good to learn to enjoy the sweet things in life.”
“Maybe it is. Oh, wait. Before you finish your drink. Let’s take another picture.” Harumasa pulls out his phone again, and you don’t protest as he raises it and angles it down towards the two of you. You raise your cup, and Harumasa lopes his arm around yours, locking the two of you together.
With a few press of his thumb, he’s done, and lowers the phone for your inspection. You examine yourself the same way a stranger might; the two of you huddled up together, Harumasa’s cheeks red from the cold, your lips drawn into a smile, looking almost like the married couple you’re pretending to be.
“You look cute as usual,” Harumasa comments. “But it makes me look bad. I’ve got to stop taking pictures with you.”
“That’s not my fault,” you protest.
“Of course it isn’t. You can’t help being the cutest person in the world.”
You’re saved from thinking up a response that won’t betray your own embarrassment by the curious giggles of the teenagers across from you. They keep glancing furtively from you to Harumasa, hands cupped over their mouths. You can hear whispers of “Section Six” and “celebrities” which doesn’t bode well for your current anonymity.
Swiftly, you grab Harumasa’s hand and start pulling him away from the cafe, down the streets of Lumina Square. The winter sun has started to droop in the sky, painting the world in a vivid, melting, yolky light. Laughter drifts around you from people lost in their own worlds.
You’re not sure where you’re going, only certain on heading away from anyone who can recognize you. Harumasa follows along gamely, your willing accomplice.
You fly up a flight of stairs and you’re suddenly on the walkway above the streets, the city stretching out below you, buildings stacked like decadent cakes, people little figurines trotting carelessly by.
You’re far away from everyone else now, cocooned in your own world. Harumasa’s fingers squeezes yours playfully, and suddenly you’re aware of how his hand feels in yours, warm skin and calluses from his bow and reassuringly slender fingers wrapped around your own.
You drop his hand, finally, and take a sip of your own drink, which is sweet, so sweet, as Harumasa walks up to the railing and braces his elbow against the metal.
“You’ve been taking a lot of pictures of me today,” you say.
“I want to treasure every moment we have together,” Harumasa says, without turning. A cool breeze stirs, sending his hair fluttering, his clothes rippling.
He’s unfair when he talks like this, the tenderness in his voice making your heart ache over the inevitable future, a predetermined ending. Like he’ll slip through your fingers as easily as water at any moment.
You pull out your phone, swipe to your camera, and raise it to frame Harumasa in the center, backlit by the glow of the sun and the tart light from the windows of buildings around you.
“Look over here,” you call, and Harumasa turns. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. “Strike a pose.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one taking a picture?” he asks.
“I want to remember you,” you say. “Forever.”
Harumasa tilts his head back. “Me?”
“You’re not the only one who wants to cherish every moment we spend together.”
Harumasa slowly pulls down his face mask, and you can finally see his smile, more brilliant than the sun behind him, flooding through your nerves and filling every part of you with a warm light.
You press your phone’s camera shutter, once, twice, immortalizing Harumasa for as long as you can. You lower your phone, and join him at the railing, looking down below at the peace you’ve both fought so hard to protect.
The world is filled with such endless cruelty and stunning beauty in equal measure. And yet, it’s the only world you have. You tap your fingers against the railing, a nonsensical song.
“For your next appointment, maybe we should try a different restaurant when you’re done,” you say. “And we can walk around and take more pictures. There’s a few art installations around.”
“You sure you want to come back with me? You’ll have to pretend to be Mx. Asaba again, you know.”
“I don’t mind,” you murmur. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“If you talk like that, you’ll make me want to make it official…. Of course, I’m kidding,” he adds before the words can linger for too long.
“Have you thought about getting married?” you ask.
“I couldn’t do that to someone,” he responds lightly. “Besides, it’d be bad for PR. You know how intense our fan clubs can get.”
Of course, you understand. Marriage is an alien thought for a job where you risk your life everyday fighting against Ethereals and venturing into Hollows. You barely have enough time for yourself after long shifts and overtime and late nights, ready to be called into action at the slightest emergency. Could you bear to leave behind someone you love under the circumstances? Could they bear waiting and worrying for you? You would never be able to provide them any form of normalcy.
“Leaving someone behind like that… I don’t think I could do it. Or ask them to understand why I can’t give them an ordinary life,” you say.
“Right, right. I wouldn’t want to make my partner cry,” he says. “I knew you would get it.”
His eyes gleam, two precious pieces of gold. Of course. Neither of you are capable of an ordinary relationship. Whatever the two of you have right now, whatever form you let it take, can’t be named. Something will break if you try.
Carefully, delicately, you lean your head against his shoulder. He stiffens only momentarily before relaxing, a silent affirmation of your presence. Below, cars rush by, the misty glow of streetlights winking into life as the sky darkens.
“I’ll let you know when I have my next appointment,” he says, voice carrying like the wind.
“All right. I’ll be sure to make the time for you, Mr. Asaba.”
He laughs, a low, soft sound. “Thank you, Mx. Asaba. I knew I could rely on you.”
And it’s nice, like this. For just a while longer, you can forget anything that’s happened before, or anything that might happen in the future. Right now, it’s just you, and him, together.
summary: You've made an unofficial deal with Harumasa: you'll stay by his side, and help him sleep peacefully every night. You'll always make good on your promise, even if he takes on a form you no longer recognize.
notes: 4.9k words, author's notes, spoilers for harumasa's backstory, sleeping side by side, ambiguous relationship/feelings, major character death, fluff at the beginning, hurt/no comfort at the end
It’s the sunlight that first pulls you from sleep: unfamiliar, buttery light falling across your face through half-opened blinds, coloring an apartment that isn’t yours.
You blink, struggling to orient yourself in this unknown location: simple, spartan furniture with clean edges and neat lines which is in direct contrast to the wrinkled clothing and scattered papers and books littering every possible surface. There’s medicine bottles scattered across the nightstand next to you, fallen ones rolling on the floor and hiding, half-shadowed, under the bed.
You struggle to sit up in a bed with several different blankets and pillows tossed about like lost sailors in a storm. An arm slung across your torso, casual and possessive fingers gripping your hip, tightens.
With the arm preventing you from fully rising, you have no option but to slump back into bed, following the curve of the arm and a pale neck to Asaba Harumasa’s face, inky hair falling across his forehead, his eyes still closed.
Your mouth parts in shock at seeing your coworker fast asleep next to you, holding onto you with an unconsciously tight grip, before the pieces of last night click in.
Sometimes, and only sometimes, when you get off work late and you’ve missed the late night train back to your apartment, you crash at Harumasa’s place. He lives closer than you do to HSO’s head building, and sometimes you’re not in the mood to deal with sleeping on spare couches, shitty corporate coffee, and lukewarm shower stalls.
“You really can’t get enough of me,” he teased the first time you agreed to stay at his place. “Coming over like this so easily… what am I supposed to think?”
In response, you gritted your teeth, sleep deprivation and a library of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow causing your patience to wane, and say, “Not another word, Harumasa, if you want to live to see tomorrow.”
You’d started off simply with crashing on the couch, but you could never catch a single wink of sleep, not when the slightest noise would startle you, and Harumasa was prone to nightmares and shuffling around in the early hours of the morning in his kitchen or bathroom to clear his head.
At first, to help him rest easier, you only settled with chatting with him throughout the night, brewing him floral tea that was supposed to aid with sleep and trying not to fall asleep at his kitchen counter. Later, you’d tried calming music, or holding his hand until he could ease into a more peaceful rest. After that, though, you’d settled on a different compromise, because you were starting to fall asleep at your desk during work: you’d sleep in his bed with him instead, if only because a warm body seemed to ease him more than anything else.
“This is purely for… medical reasons,” you told him crisply. “Nothing else. All right?”
“Of course,” he said, but you couldn’t trust the grin creeping across his face, which you couldn’t describe as anything but “goofy” and “untrustworthy.”
And that leads you to your current predicament. Of course his apartment looks unfamiliar in the daylight; you’ve only ever stumbled in during the late nights, and left before the sun rose in order to get to work early (that, and to avoid any rumors if the two of you arrived at the office at the same time). You should be used to waking up next to Harumasa, but it still startles you every time to see him so close.
However, the color and depth of the sunlight, and the fact your alarm isn’t the reason you woke up causes unease trickles through your veins.
“Harumasa,” you hiss. “Harumasa!”
He still doesn’t stir, and you shake his shoulder until he blearily blinks his eyes. “Hm… Wha…”
It’s at this point you can shake off his relentless grip, lunging for the night stand to pick up your phone and to see, with growing horror, the bright “11:24 AM” on your screen, along with several texts and a missed call from Yanagi.
“We’re late. Oh my god. We’re late!” you say, finally leaping out of Harumasa’s bed. Where are your clothes? Scattered on the floor alongside Harumasa’s. You’re in nothing but a tank top and athletic shorts, and you pick up your white dress shirt, now unbearably creased. You’ll need to get it ironed later, but you have more pressing issues to worry about as you slip one arm through the sleeve.
“Oh. Is that all?” Harumasa says lazily.
“Is that all? Come on! We’re three hours late for work!”
“It’s fine. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Come on, get up!” you say, swiftly buttoning your shirt closed, reaching over to his supine body and giving his shoulder a light smack. “Yanagi’s going to give you overtime if you keep sleeping.”
At your words, Harumasa finally sits bolt upright in bed, eyes widening. “My pants are over there! Throw them over, quick!”
You reach down and toss him a pair of wrinkled black slacks. The two of you rush to get ready in the next ten minutes, taking turns running in and out of the bathroom and throwing together some bland, packaged food for breakfast from Harumasa’s kitchen cabinets.
You pull on your coat, teal and crisp and a mandatory part of the official HSO uniform, but it’s wrinklier than you remember. But there’s no time to worry about your outfit, so you pin your ID to the front and slip on your loafers, tapping the front of each toe lightly on the floor.
Harumasa pauses, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom as he watches you. There’s an expression that’s strangely tender on his face.
“What?” you ask. “Something on my face?”
“No. I just think you look nice,” he says. You wait for a joke to follow his words, but nothing does.
“Thanks. You look nice, too,” you add. Might as well pay him his compliment back. “Now, let’s go!”
There’s no time to deal with the caprices of public transport, the afternoon rush or the inefficient wait times, so you take off at a brisk jog down the streets instead, Harumasa following at his own lackadaisical pace.
“I can’t believe I slept past my alarms,” you lament.
“That might have been my fault,” Harumasa says. “I think I pressed snooze on all of them.”
“What? Why?”
“I wanted to sleep in,” he says.
You purse your lips. “Well, I didn’t!”
“I also thought you looked cute so I didn’t want you to wake up,” he says conversationally. “Sorry.”
The image of Harumasa, propped up on one elbow, watching you sleep with a smile playing on his mouth, rises to mind, unbidden. You push it away; there’s no point in letting yourself wander down that path.
Harumasa is a smooth-talker, carefree and light, like a dandelion puff that’ll blow whichever way the wind will carry it. He’s your coworker, someone who you trust and tease in equal measure. You care about him, more than is safe, but despite the fact you sleep in his bed, there’s so much you don’t know about him.
Where do his nightmares come from? What condition requires him to take so many pills? Why does he let you in his arms, but not his heart? He never explains, so you never ask.
If he had tried to touch you any of those nights together, you wouldn’t have pushed him away. But there’s a line he never crosses with you. He holds you tightly, desperately, as if he doesn’t want you to leave, but he never reaches out first.
His desires are contradictory and confusing, and so hard for you to piece together. Harumasa is like a skittish animal, keeping inches away from your outstretched hands, yet unable to keep his hungry gaze away from you.
“Oh, please. You’ve seen me sleep a hundred times before,” you say, tone teasing. “I don’t know why today is so different. You’ll see it a hundred times in the future, too.”
You no longer hear Harumasa’s footsteps behind you, so you turn. He’s stopped in the middle of the sea of people rushing by, like water around rocks. You’re suddenly displaced from the stream of crowds around you, all with their lives, their goals, their dreams, so unknown and alien to you.
What does Harumasa want to say to you? There’s something trapped in his gaze, his throat, the way he worries at the edge of his lip with his teeth, as if biting back some ugly truth. The same things he’s always hidden from you, from Section Six, from the rest of the world.
“I haven’t had any nightmares lately. I haven’t properly thanked you for that,” Harumasa says. He’s only a few feet away, but it feels like there’s miles between the two of you, oceans and canyons that you can’t traverse to reach wherever he’s speaking from.
“You can thank me after work,” you say. “Take me out to eat, if you feel bad.”
“Sure. We’ll go somewhere nice. You can choose.”
“Maybe we can bring the others along,” you add. “Soukaku will feel left out if we get something tasty without her, and Miyabi and Yanagi have been working hard these past few weeks.”
“Now you’re adding people without asking me? Do you want me to go bankrupt?”
He’s the same as he always is, with his carefree attitude and casual jokes, the way he keeps the mood light. Why, then, do you still feel so distant from Harumasa? Like he’ll be swept off into this crowd of people and you’ll never see him again?
“Harumasa.” You stride forward and circle his wrist with your hand, an anchor to keep him moored to your side. “I’ll be here for you, you know that, right? I’ll stay with you every night for as long as you need. I want to support you. You can tell me anything.”
Harumasa smiles ruthfully. “You’re too good to me. What if I take advantage of that?”
“I’ll let you,” you say quietly.
His breath hitches, his eyes dropping, as if searching for the right answer on the pavement beneath him. “The only thing I’ll ask you to do is to keep staying with me every night. Just help me sleep.”
“All right.”
He wiggles his hand free from your grasp until he can ghost his fingers along your palm, slowly intertwining your fingers together. His touch is as tentative as a butterfly’s kiss. You’re afraid to move, as if he’ll vanish if you do. “And I trust you. I know there’s a lot you’re curious about, but I need some time. There’s some unfinished business I need to deal with, first.”
“Take your time,” you say. “I’ll be waiting.”
Harumasa squeezes your hand briefly before letting go. “Also, this doesn’t bother me, but you do realize we’re still late to work, right?”
Shit. You glance at your phone, and the bright number makes you want to faint. “Let’s hurry! We’ll talk after work, all right? You still owe me that meal!”
The two of you race down the street (well, you run and Harumasa languidly follows a step behind), and you swear you can hear Harumasa’s quiet laughter all the way to the office.
You don’t stop your frantic pace even as you check into the Hollow Special Operatives building, scanning your ID and bursting into the elevator, riding it all the way to your floor, where the doors pop open to a scowling Yanagi.
“I’m so sorry!” you cry, explanations and apologies bubbling from your mouth. “Yanagi, this was extremely unprofessional of me, and I promise I’ll never be this late without prior notice again. If—”
“It’s okay,” Yanagi says, cutting in with a sigh. “You’re not normally this late. I was worried something happened to you.”
“Tsukishiro, you’re so kind to us,” Harumasa says, grinning.
“Asaba! This is your sixth time arriving late–” Abruptly, Yanagi stops her scolding, looking at Harumasa with a confused expression, before her eyes drift back to you. You can see something click in her thoughts as a mixture of recognition, shock, and weary acceptance play across her face in rapid measure. “I hope the two of you remember HR protocol for office relationships,” she says finally. “I have no feelings on your personal relationship outside of work, as long as… you don’t let it affect your performance.”
“What?” you say. Yanagi’s lips are pursed, and Harumasa’s expression is smugly pleased, like a cat with a particularly juicy piece of fish. Your eyes naturally drift from Harumasa, whose jacket isn’t as baggy and oversized as usual and instead looks strangely familiar, all the way to your own body, where you see that it’s not your jacket, but Harumasa’s jacket, hanging off your shoulders.
Shit. In the morning rush, you’d probably grabbed the wrong coat off the floor. That’s most likely why Harumasa had looked at you so oddly, too.
Harumasa must notice the dawning horror on your face, because he adds, in a voice that makes you want to kick him, “Don’t worry, Tsukishiro. We’d never act so unprofessional in the workplace.”
“Yanagi, this isn’t… We’re not… There’s a perfectly good explanation for…” Any excuses that come to mind fall flat. What could you say without making the situation worse? Throw Harumasa under the bus and explain that you sleep with him to help with his nightmares? Or that you stay at his apartment when you’re too exhausted to return to your own? Both of those sounded like a professional nightmare in their own right.
“Yes?” Yanagi says patiently.
“I’ll… be careful,” you finally say.
“All right. If you need anything, let me know,” she says, patting you on the shoulder.
“Tsukishiro, this is obvious favoritism!” Harumasa protests lightly.
“Favoritism? I’ve been fighting to get all of your sick leave requests approved, even though you’ve exceeded your limit for the month.”
“Point taken.”
“Now, since the two of you are here… If you’re ready to head out, I need one of you to head out to Hollow Zero,” Yanagi says. “Section Four has requested back-up, and since Soukaku and Chief Miyabi are checking out a different disturbance, I haven’t been able to go since I’m handling business here.”
“When did they request help?” you say. “If we’ve been keeping them waiting…”
“Don’t worry,” Yanagi says. “The request only came a few minutes ago. I was considering leaving to handle it, but then the two of you showed up.”
“Of course. Then I’ll–”
“I’ll go,” Harumasa announces, interrupting you with a cheeky wave of his hand. “I owe it to my, ah, coworker, don’t I, for causing so much trouble?”
“You want to volunteer for additional work?” you ask dubiously.
“Well, consider this a repayment for everything you’ve done for me. Would that suffice? Oh, and not to worry–I’ll still treat you to a good meal after, even if I have to drag my poor, bruised body to the restaurant.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” you say.
“I’m sure.” Harumasa raises his hand, as if he means to touch you in some way, but it simply hovers in the air before he gives you a quick pat on the shoulder, the same as Yanagi had done. It’s both relieving and disappointing. “So start thinking about what you want to eat. Oh, Tsukishiro, you and the rest are invited, too.”
“You’re treating us to dinner? Are you going to pull something ridiculous later?” Yanagi asks, with the same disbelief you had.
“Not at all! Think of it as some good old gratitude. I owe everyone here a lot. So look forward to it.” He spins on his heel to press the elevator button again. “All right, time to head out!”
There’s so much you want to say to Harumasa, and so much you can’t. But he has promised you the truth, eventually, so you won’t push him further. You can only take this quiet snapshot of him in your head, his loose posture, his rumpled clothes, the way your jacket is tied low on his waist.
It comforts you that he’ll have this piece of you with him, like a lucky charm. If he won’t ask for his jacket back, then you won’t ask for yours.
“Come back soon,” you say. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“I’ll be back.” Harumasa smiles briefly before the doors slide shut and separate the two of you.
The majority of the day passes in a blur of menial office tasks, paperwork and reports, with cheap, filtered coffee carrying you through it all. You drink yours bitterly black, and think of Harumasa. A few hours later, Soukaku and Miyabi return, covered in light scrapes and bruises that will fade within the day.
“Welcome back,” you tell them, standing to greet them near the entrance.
Soukaku bounds up to wrap her arms around your waist in a tight hug, and you ruffle her hair. “Where’s Harumasa?” she asks.
“Out providing support to Section Four,” you say. “He’ll probably be back before the end of the day. How was your mission?”
“Fine. There wasn’t much trouble,” Miyabi says.
“By the way, Harumasa is going to treat us to dinner tonight,” you add, fiddling with the ends of Harumasa’s jacket sleeve.
“Yay!” Soukaku says. “Let’s get meat!”
“Grilled meat,” you supply. “The best kind.”
“Premium cut…” Miyabi muses.
“Don’t ask too much from him,” Yanagi adds, looking up briefly from her desk to address the three of you.
“You don’t want premium grade meat, Yanagi?”
“Well…”
“Take the time to think about it,” you tease.
The rest of the time pours away in a sluggish trickle. As the sky reddens to a color like pooling blood, Harumasa still hasn’t returned. It’s taking more time than you expected. All you can do is tug at the ends of Harumasa’s jacket sleeves in nervous habit, watching the teal fabric fall over your hands. It hasn’t lost his scent yet.
Perhaps the others have sensed your unease, because the mood is more sombre than usual. Even Soukaku is quietly fidgeting at her desk, the entire office enveloped in a fragile, waiting silence.
Harumasa likes to act lackadaisical, but you know from firsthand experience that he’s competent. Besides, he’s promised to come back and tell you the things he’s been hiding. And he still has to take you and the rest of Section Six to dinner.
This is a simple back-up mission, you remind yourself. Yanagi hadn’t mentioned any complications. It would be fine. Harumasa would come back late with some excuse, you would tease him, the entire office would have dinner together, and then you would go to his apartment and curl up in his bed, and maybe hold him a little tighter than usual tonight. It would almost be as if you and Harumasa are the lovers Yanagi thought you two were.
The elevator dings, and you hear rapid footsteps on the carpet. Your head whips up as someone stumbles into the office—it’s not Harumasa, and your heart tightens with disappointment. Instead, it’s a person with tattered clothing whose Section Four ID is, oddly enough, still pinned to their chest, caked in a layer of blood, dust, and sweat, familiar bow in their hands, dry mouth gasping as if they’ve run all the way over without stopping, “There’s been an accident. The operative you’ve sent… Asaba Harumasa… turned into an Ethereal.”
Blood roars in your ears, a sudden, swelling ocean overtaking you. Harumasa? An Ethereal? It’s not a very funny joke, but the Section Four officer is blinking away tears. You’re standing–when did you get up?–and Yanagi and Miyabi are urgently pelting the person with questions.
All you can see is the dulled blades of Harumasa’s weapon, glinting coolly in the person’s hands. There’s a coating of grime over the metal, and the handles have been dirtied. It needs to be cleaned and returned to Harumasa. You want nothing more than to yank it out of the person’s hands.
The operative sees your expression, and holds out the weapon. Their voice is still hoarse and shaking as they say, “It’s all we could retrieve. I’m sorry.”
You grip the bow in your hands. The weight of it is comfortable if heavier than you expected, like holding a piece of Harumasa himself. Pieces of the conversation drift to you, but you can’t quite make out what they mean. Something about the Hollow fluctuating and their carrot being useless, getting lost and overwhelmed by Ethereals, and Harumasa using himself as a distraction. Doubling back when someone was separated from the team. Staying behind, finally, to ensure everyone could get out safely, until his own body betrayed him and he changed into an Ethereal, so rapidly no one could do anything.
There are other words, too, but they don’t make sense. You don’t want to hear them from a stranger, and not from Harumasa himself. Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome. High likelihood of mutation in a Hollow. A fatally terminal illness.
It’s wrong, you want to say. Harumasa has promised to take you to dinner. He likes to mess around, but he’s a good person. He’s not cruel. He wouldn’t lie to you. He wouldn’t leave you behind like this.
Something cool touches your numb body. It’s Miyabi, and she’s put a hand on the back of your neck, guiding you to look at her. It’s a clear, gentle cold, somehow comforting, as she watches you intently.
“We have to go,” she says quietly. “The Ethereal has been designated a high-level threat. We’ve been assigned to dispatch it.”
“It’s Harumasa,” you tell her, your voice clumsy and whiny, even to your own ears.
Her expression doesn’t change. “I know. But these people need us. And he needs you.”
You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to run away. But all you can think about is Harumasa. His golden eyes luminous in the late night as he whispers to you. The way blue dawn light cradles his face, peaceful and unguarded in sleep. His smile, always so teasing, always so gentle, always shining down on you like the sun.
There’s so much you still don’t understand. About him. About your relationship. Why he keeps a certain distance from you, but never draws away when you approach him. Why he opens his arms to you every night, like it’s the only place you belong. Why you count the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breaths when he slumbers, reassuring yourself that he’s still there. Now, the only one who can answer these questions is gone.
And you know. Miyabi is right. You must go. There is no other choice but this.
On the way there, you move like you’re in a dream. Your preparations are swift, and you’re out the door and driving to Hollow Zero before you can make sense of it. During the car ride, you clutch Harumasa’s bow like a lifeline. Soukaku sniffles, and Yanagi puts an arm around her. Miyabi is only looking at the Hollow stretching out in front of you. Once you step out of the car, with one gesture from her, the four of you venture in.
It’s a painfully quiet trek amidst crumbling debris and corrupted growth. The four of you move swiftly, in sync as always, but there’s something missing: Harumasa, his absence like a black hole in your formation. There’s no jokes, no quips, no teasing. Only grim silence as you approach the location in your carrot.
You hear Harumasa before you see him: the scrape of blade against the resisting ground, an endless, dull roaring, like the distant echo of the ocean. He lurks beautifully in the distance, a core like the night sky nestled against twisted neon yellow and white flesh. He circles around in a tight, restless loop, as if, even in this form, he can’t be bothered to venture far.
For a second, the four of you can only watch him quietly, hidden by a pile of stacked, blocky concrete that shields you from his notice. A flicker of teal catches your eye, buried in the rubble near Harumasa. It’s your jacket. You look away.
“I’ll draw his attention,” Yanagi begins. “Then, the rest of you can–”
“Let me do it,” you interrupt her.
“You want to be the distraction?”
“No,” you say levelly. “There’s only one thing I can do for him right now.”
Yanagi’s eyes widen as your meaning sinks in. “It’s dangerous,” she protests. “It’s safer if we approach this as a team.”
“Will you be able to deal the blow?” Miyabi says. She’s watching you intently again, and there’s something sad in her gaze.
You’ve watched Harumasa assemble his weapon countless times, but you don’t have his practiced ease as you unsheathe his blades and clumsily combine them into a bow. It’s not your preferred weapon choice, even if you’ve been trained in it, but it’s his, so you can use nothing else.
“I have to,” you say.
Miyabi nods. “Then I leave you with this decision.”
“If you’re sure,” Yanagi says softly. “It’ll be difficult, but I believe in you.”
“Harumasa sounds sad. You’ve gotta help him,” Soukaku says. It’s one of the first things she’s said during the mission, and you can see the drying tears on her face. It makes your heart ache.
“I’ll be there for him,” you tell her. “Don’t worry.”
With one final breath and a last glance at Section Six, you step out into the open, exposing yourself to Harumasa. An unknown bow can be finicky, but Harumasa’s weapon responds easily to your demands, bending with a grace and swiftness as you notch an arrow. You remember his movements, the assured, flowing gestures of his fighting style. You spread your feet apart, as he would have done, searching for the perfect location to strike.
You need to hit him before he notices you, but Harumasa turns. You tense, bracing to enter combat, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he stills, as if he’s finally found what he’s been looking for.
There’s no way he knows it’s you. There’s not even a face anymore for him to watch you, not a single part of him that’s familiar. The curve of his back, the dip of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat: it’s all gone. So why isn’t he moving?
Your fingers shake as you draw the string back, careful not to take your eyes off of him.
It’s the most ridiculous moment for it, but you still remember the first time you started sleeping by his side. You’d both been sitting on the edge of his bed, draped in velvet shadows, unsure of the time. Neither of you were able to sleep. You could have, but you didn’t feel comfortable snoring away on Harumasa’s couch while he stared aimlessly at his own ceiling.
“How about this? I’ll sleep next to you,” you finally said.
He lets out a small, surprised laugh. “Why?”
“Because I want you to sleep well,” you said. “I’ll stay by your side until you can.”
And it’s just like you once promised Harumasa. You would stay by his side until the end so he wouldn’t be alone, even if this time you can’t follow him where he’s going. After all, you want him to sleep peacefully.
Harumasa—No. It’s no longer him. The Ethereal is still watching you, as if it’s waiting for your decision. It raises its arms, slowly, but no blow comes. They only hover in the air, outstretched like a supplication.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice ragged with tears. You fire. Your arrow strikes swift and true.
What happens next is a blur. The Ethereal crumples in one blow, melting away like a sigh. Yanagi, Soukaku, and Miyabi appear, hugging you and whispering reassurances that fall on you like warm rain. You’re led out of the Hollow, still gripping Harumasa’s bow like you’ll fall to pieces without it.
It’s confusing to be back at the office. Yanagi disappears to file reports, bringing Soukaku with her. Tomorrow, you’ll need to clear Harumasa’s desk, and prepare for his funeral. But it all feels so distant, so unreal. As if he could still walk through the door, and protest at your hasty decisions.
Miyabi hands you a tattered pile of dirty rags—Harumasa’s clothing, or what’s left of it. There’s his (your) jacket, barely clinging together, his headband, grimy at the ends, and his choker, the metal dented.
“It’s what I could find for now,” she says quietly. “I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” you say in a hoarse voice, not trusting yourself to say any more.
After that, Yanagi calls you a taxi, and when the driver asks where you’re headed, you give them Harumasa’s address.
His apartment is just as you left it. Still warm with the lingering scent of sunshine, the blinds open and the city lights glittering like stars. Empty dishes and glasses in the sink. A full trash can, which needs to be taken out. His blankets askew, unmade, left with nothing but a cool indent of where he once slept by your side.
You curl up on his bed, snuggling into his blankets, still wearing his jacket, too exhausted to do much more than hug his tattered clothes to you. You can still smell his scent, refreshing and slightly bitter, sunk into the pillows.
There will be no body to bury. There will be no answers. There will be no one to return to anymore.
You close your eyes. You dream. And if you hug his clothes tightly enough, you can pretend that it’s Harumasa by your side, arm around your waist. In the morning, you’ll see the light spill across his face, and smile.
summary: There's an old story from your childhood where if you make a hundred paper stars, then you're granted a single wish. However, it's not you, but your infuriating partner in Section Six whose wish you want to come true instead.
It’s during a drowsy, sunshine-drenched afternoon, a brief moment of respite where there isn’t any paperwork to file or field missions to carry out, that Yanagi appears at your desk, giving you no time to hide what you’ve been fiddling with during your break.
Though there’s no reason to feel guilty, it’s still slightly embarrassing for Yanagi to catch the rainbow strips of paper littering your desk, interspersed with fruit-flavored candy that Soukaku left earlier that morning as a present. In the center of it all, there’s a jar brimming with paper stars, the results of two weeks’ worth of progress made whenever you have a snippet of free time.
However, Yanagi doesn’t pause to acknowledge the way your hands are trapped in the middle of folding a half-finished origami star. Lips pursed in familiar frustration, she asks, “Have you seen Asaba anywhere?”
“Not since this morning, when we were doing reconnaissance in a Hollow,” you reply.
She sighs. “He’s supposed to have finished his break half an hour ago.”
“Do you need him for something?”
“I need you two to follow up on the work you did this morning. The ether readings have changed, and they wanted someone to check it out,” Yanagi says. “If you could find him and get him to come with you…”
“I get the gist. I’ll head out as soon as I find him,” you say, folding the ends of the paper expertly and tossing a newly formed red star into the jar.
“Thank you. I’ll make it up to you for cutting your break short,” she says apologetically. “Since you’re his partner, Asaba tends to listen to you a little more.”
“He barely listens to me at all,” you grumble. You pat the daggers tucked snuggly near your thighs, and Yanagi’s eyes drift to the mess on your desk.
“I was wondering where Soukaku got all those pieces of paper,” she says thoughtfully. “Did you bring them into the office?”
“Yeah. She thought the stars were candy, so I had to stop her from eating them. I taught her how to fold them, and in exchange, she gave me these.” You gesture at the hard candies littering your desk.
“It’s nice to do some crafts to relax.”
“There’s also something special about these stars. If you fold a hundred of them,” you say, “you get a wish. It was a popular story back in my elementary school. The local convenience store used to sell origami paper, and I would buy them with my allowance. I never did make it to a hundred, though.”
“Then there must be something you really want to fold a hundred now. I hope your wish comes true,” Yanagi says.
“I hope so, too,” you murmur.
A few minutes later, you’re cutting down the halls and up the stairways of your workplace, climbing until you reach the entrance to the roof. Barricade tape and warning signs block the landing, but with practiced precision, you duck under the tape without slowing and nudge open the door with your shoulder, which gives way without a fuss.
Cool wind whips at your face, and you scan the rooftop, nothing but a broad expanse of concrete and whirring, blocky machines, caged in by a metal fence. You jog down the length until you find who you’re looking for, lounging on the floor like a cat soaking up the golden afternoon sun, limbs askew and eyes closed.
Harumasa looks like he’s asleep as you approach him with silent steps. You crouch over him, your shadow cutting across his face, and he still doesn’t stir. For a few seconds, you watch him quietly. His headband flutters in the wind like a loose sliver of sunlight. His face is pale, splotches of dark ink forming under his eyes. Maybe he isn’t sleeping well.
“Admiring the view, partner?” Harumasa says without opening his eyes.
“Hardly,” you say. “I was just thinking about the best way to wake you up.”
“All you need to do is call my name and I’ll respond.”
“Right. Just like how the last few times I tried to do that, you kept pretending to be asleep until I used physical force.” You emphasize the last few words and Harumasa groans as he cracks open an eye, propping himself lazily up with his elbows.
“Come on. We’ve been working together forever at this point, and you still can’t be a little nicer to me?”
“I’m only nice to those who deserve it,” you say.
“Right, right. I bet Yanagi sent you up here.”
“How did you know?”
“You usually let me slack off otherwise,” he says easily. “It’s only when there’s something important that you bother me. Huh. If you think about it, that’s pretty nice of you. Isn’t there a word for someone who acts abrasive to hide how much they care about someone else? Ts–”
“Keep talking and I’ll tell Yanagi just where exactly you like to hide during break,” you threaten.
“Aw, don’t do that!” Harumasa gives you an exaggerated pout, and you roll your eyes. “Come here, partner.”
“Why?”
“Come on. Come closer,” he wheedles, and you reluctantly lower yourself until you’re sitting next to him, face to face, legs folded under you.
Once you do, Harumasa drops his head against your shoulder, leaning all the warm weight of his upper body against your side like he’ll fall apart without your support.
“What’s this about?” you grumble, but you don’t move away. It’s become a familiar routine at this point: he teases, you complain, but you still gravitate towards each other. Maybe it’s because you’ve been paired with Harumasa on so many missions that you’ve developed a habit of putting up with all of his mischief.
“I’m not feeling well,” he says. “Lend me your shoulder.”
“It’s a little too late to ask when you’ve already done it.”
“You know what they say. Ask for forgiveness, not permission.”
“I’m sure you know all about that,” you say dryly.
“Now. now. I’m just being pragmatic.”
You usually don’t come to the roof at all, not unless you’re looking for Harumasa. But when you do come here, the air feels refreshing and cool, the sunlight more gentle. Though you pride yourself on being efficient and responsible, the first one to file your reports and to take notes during meetings, you can understand why Harumasa likes to nap here.
It’s comfortable. Or maybe it’s Harumasa that makes the place so comfortable. It feels like your own private corner of the world, one where it’s just you and him. Not that you could ever tell him that, of course, or it’ll make him insufferable.
“Yanagi needs us to follow up on the Hollow we investigated this morning,” you say.
“Again? We just got back.”
“The ether readings have changed. They want us to investigate.”
“Hm… but I’m on break…”
“Your break was over half an hour ago.”
“You’re on break!” he protests.
“So? I’ll be reimbursed for it.”
Harumasa groans. “You’re way too serious. You need to learn to take it easy. I’m not feeling well, you know.”
“Is that so? Well, if you want to nap the day away, I can investigate by myself–”
“Wait.” Harumasa’s weight shifts off your shoulder, and now you’re face to face with him again, close enough to see the way his smile slips off his face, the intensity of his liquid gold gaze. “I’ll come with you. Don’t do it by yourself.”
“You don’t think I’m capable, Harumasa?” you try to tease, but his lazy smile doesn’t return.
“You’re capable,” he says quietly. “You’re more than capable. But I want to be there to back you up.” He’s the first to look away, and you feel cheated, even though you don’t know what you would have said in response. “So, let’s get going. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can clock out of work.”
“Of course,” you say, a smidge too quickly. “I’ll need to file reports for Yanagi when we’re done.”
At least the awkwardness of the moment on the rooftop blows over quickly as you prepare for departure. Working with Harumasa feels like being a part of a well-oiled machine, every movement in efficient, coordinated sync, the consequence of a well-established partnership. You fall into a routine as familiar as meetings or paperwork as you prepare to enter the Hollow: checking your weapons, gathering your supplies, escorting your Bangboo guide, and then striding into the Hollow at the designated entry point.
Within the Hollow, you and Harumasa alternate who takes the lead as you follow your Bangboo, slipping through half-hidden pathways and narrow crevices, all the while avoiding lurking Ethereals. There’s little need for words with Harumasa when all you need to do is read the tension of his body, like a bow pulled taut, and simply follow what it tells you. You have your own private language of body gestures, flicks of the hand or turns of the head, refined over years.
It’s not as if you always worked this well together, of course. The first time you were paired together with Harumasa on a mission, both of you were fresh recruits to Section Six. You couldn’t stop arguing with him. His lax manner and sloppy dress infuriated you, but what was worse was how he always delivered results with minimal effort when you never did anything less than your best. In turn, he made fun of you for being a stick-in-the-mud and being unable to relax.
“You’re going to go grey if you keep stressing yourself,” he would tease, looking much too pleased with himself, as if he enjoyed your little spats.
Harumasa touches your elbow lightly, and you’re drawn from your thoughts. “Did something happen?” you murmur. The Hollow stretches before you, twisted metal and broken concrete buildings stitched together with corruption that shimmers like an oil spill, but there’s no sign of anything unusual.
“Nope. I’m just bored,” he says. “We’re not any closer to finding the disturbance Yanagi told us about. We might have to head back soon if we still don’t find anything usual.”
“We haven’t even gone that deep in the Hollow yet,” you say. “We should at least cover all our bases. What, scared of doing overtime?”
“Yes,” he says seriously. “Maybe a workaholic like you wouldn’t get it, but overtime is the public enemy of every government employee out there. So, what were you thinking about?”
“About… the past,” you say, relenting. “And how we used to fight all the time.”
“Oh? Thinking about me?”
“Only about how annoying you used to be.”
“Rude. Is this how you talk about your precious partner?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s too late to find someone else. You’re stuck with me,” Harumasa says cheerfully.
“I never said I would find another partner. You’re the only one I want.” You try to keep your voice casual, just like Harumasa, but something honest creeps in, something a little raw and unfiltered, like light through an unsealed crack.
And maybe he senses it, too, your inability to play the blithe role as well as he does, because he doesn’t jump in right away with another joke. The silence lingers, throwing the rhythm of your banter off-balance.
“The only one, huh…” From the way his hair shades his eyes, you can’t make out his expression or read his tone.
“Harumasa,” you begin, but a sudden beep cuts off your words. You glance at each other, all awkwardness vanishing as Harumasa glances at a device in one of his pockets.
Your Bangboo guide jerks to a sudden stop. This is the end of its automated guidance, as far as its data will take you. The two of you have reached the top floor of what must have once been a tower, a spiderweb of uneven, rusted metal and crumbling walls exposed to the low, grey sky. The floor slopes down to a sharp drop, leading to nothing but open air.
“Ether spike,” Harumasa says. His hand is already drifting to his bow. “But I don’t see anything. Where…”
It happens in a split second. Your body reacts before your mind can, years of training ingraining in you the necessary reflex to spring back as an Ethereal drops down from above, crashing like a meteor where you and Harumasa once stood.
Your daggers are already in hand, and you leap forward as an arrow flies from above, distracting the creature long enough for you to slash along one of its appendages. It roars, and you’re already darting behind it, Harumasa running along its other side.
It’s an Ethereal like none you’ve seen before. A Thanatos? A Duhallan? No, none of the existing classifications match. It’s eerily beautiful, its core pulsing with multi-colored light, corrupted growth framing it like a star, delicate, vine-like appendages darting out momentarily to propel the Ethereal away from your reach. This must be the source of the disturbance Yanagi told you about.
Harumasa calls your name, and on instinct, you fall back as he lunges forward with a dizzying series of slashes with his blades. You’ve faced worse than an unclassified Ethereal of unknown strength. Even if neither of you have expected to engage an enemy, that doesn’t mean you aren’t prepared to.
The battle continues back and forth, a waltz of sharp steel and split-second communication between you and Harumasa as you implement all the maneuvers you learned in training. It seems like there’s no end in sight, but you’re tiring the Ethereal, slowly but surely. It’s only a matter of time before you find an opening to destroy its core.
And then, Harumasa stumbles. It’s only a brief moment, his body dipping as something like a cough shudders through him before he steadies, but it’s enough time for the Ethereal to lash out several appendages like a bolt of lightning. You’re helpless to do anything but watch as Harumasa flies backwards, his body bent like a doll discarded by a careless child.
Before you can think, you’re running, propelled by some instinct deeper than habit at the sight of your partner on the ground, throwing your daggers with wild precision as the Ethereal howls like a wounded animal. There’s not enough time to do anything except to throw your body in front of Harumasa before the Ethereal lashes out again in a brutal, sweeping arc.
Your body explodes with pain. Then, you’re weightless. The Ethereal has sent you flying, and briefly, it’s like you’re back on the roof, Harumasa leaning against your shoulder, the wind in your face, before you’re tumbling over the edge of the tower.
In the field of your vision, something gold flashes. Harumasa’s headband. It’s all you can see, the afterimage of it burned into your eyes like the sun as everything goes dark.
—
From your earliest memories as a child, you had always been lonely. Maybe that’s why you were drawn to things that reminded you of the sun, searching for anything to give you stability or warmth.
Your story wasn’t particularly unique: your parents were killed in an accident in a Hollow. You were shunted from relative to relative who never knew what to do with you. You clung to academics and books to prove yourself because you had nothing else.
You had a decently high Ether aptitude, so when you got the opportunity to join an elite academy on a scholarship, why wouldn’t you take away your chance to escape away from relatives who never cared for you? At the time, you had been living with one of your mother’s older brothers–what was his name? You’d long since forgotten, and he hadn’t bothered to keep in contact once you left.
Either way, you graduated with honors and a flawless academic record. When Miyabi selected you to join Section Six, despite your lack of experience, you were excited.
“I believe you’ll deliver results,” Miyabi told you simply, that very first day. “That’s why I chose you.”
A flush of pride made your face glow. “I won’t disappoint you!”
It was so nice to be relied on. To find a place that needed you, where you were valued. You were tied to Section Six through more pragmatic things than fragile family ties that easily dissolved.
You did your best, but it was hard when you weren’t the only new member–Asaba Harumasa was assigned to Section Six at the same time as you. From the very start, your work ethics, lifestyles, and attitudes couldn’t be more different.
“Could you try to finish your paperwork on time? When you don’t, it slows the entire process down,” you would tell Harumasa.
“It gets done, though. Does it really matter when I do it?” he would reply.
Frustratingly enough, even then, the two of you did so well on missions together that you were always assigned to be each other’s partner. Maybe his work on the field earned him a little respect in your eyes; it was the one thing you couldn’t really criticize him on. But at the same time, it was infuriating that you had to put so much time and effort into delivering flawless results, and Harumasa always skated by with minimal effort.
One particular fall, the two of you were assigned to a mission to investigate high-level Ethereals in a local Hollow. Soon enough, you and Harumasa were surrounded. As skilled as you were, parrying several different Ethereals meant one could easily slip into your blind spot and strike. Too late, you only noticed when it was already moving, and you could only grit your teeth, bracing for impact–until its limbs met a flash of steel. Harumasa had leapt in front of you, pushing the Ethereal back and giving you enough time to strike its core.
“Harumasa–” you began to say.
“On your left!”
And then you were flung into the heat of battle, with no time to process what just happened until the threats were neutralized.
It was only then you saw the gash running along Harumasa’s arm, blood soaking into his rolled up sleeves. Without a word, you took out your medical kit, and started applying disinfectant. Harumasa didn’t even wince as you dabbed away the blood with cotton balls. You knew, from the location alone, he had got it while protecting you.
“I’m sorry,” you told him, wrapping bandages around the wound. “This is my fault.”
“What are you talking about? I did this on my own.”
“But if I hadn’t been so careless–”
“You’re my partner. I’ll always have your back,” Harumasa said. His tone was as blithe as always, but there was a strange, tenderness underlying it.
His face was coated in dust and drying blood from battle, and yet, his eyes were still a startlingly pure gold, vibrant and warm. When he looked at you, it was like he was seeing you, all of you, warming you like the sun. He didn’t avoid your gaze or look past you, like your relatives had.
After that, you settled into Section Six, not because you were needed, but because you were wanted. Your arguments with Harumasa melted into something softer, something more playful. He was your partner, and you no longer grumbled about taking the same missions as him.
One day, when you were sent to fetch Harumasa for some mission or meeting (a favorite errand of everyone’s to send you on because you had developed an uncanny sense of knowing where he liked to hide), you found him hunched him over in an empty office, knuckles white against a table as he coughed wetly, the force of it shuddering through his entire body.
Harumasa, who had always looked for any excuse to slack off, who slept on the job, who acted like nothing could bother him, looked more vulnerable than you had seen before.
You knew he had a medical condition, but he never talked about it. Even when he did, he always made it seem so trivial. A minor inconvenience, and nothing more.
“You need to go to the infirmary,” you said, rushing over. “Or the doctor. I’ll call someone right now. I’ll–”
“Don’t,” Harumasa rasped. He grabbed your arm with more desperate force than you expected. “It’s fine.”
“You’re–”
“It’ll pass. Just let me… lean on you for a little.” Half-crouched on the ground, he collapsed his weight against you, and you both sank to the floor. You wrapped your arms around him and he leaned his head against your collarbone. You rubbed circles along his back, a meager offering to soothe him until the coughing subsided.
Harumasa’s breathing was shallow, and you wondered if he could hear the racing of your heart, the fear making it pound uncontrollably. His illness was more serious than he had ever let on.
“Are you okay?” you asked quietly.
“I’m fine. It’s just all the pollen and dust, you know,” he said. There’s that familiar carefree, teasing edge to his tone, but it’s strained by his recent coughing.
“You don’t have to joke with me. I’m your partner. If there’s something I can do for you, you can let me know.”
There’s a moment of silence before Harumasa sighed, a soft, resigned sound. “I just don’t want the others to know.”
“I won’t tell them,” you promised.
He took a few more shallow breaths before speaking, voice cheerful, deceptively light and hollow, like a bird’s bone. “I have Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome. It manifests primarily in my heart and lungs, but in exchange, I have high Ether aptitude. It’s the reason my parents… left me, a long time ago. A doctor took me in, but… Well. I was recruited to an academy, graduated, and ended up here. But you know about that part.”
You’ve known Harumasa long enough by now to know that he was only giving you carefully curated bits and pieces of his past. There was something he wasn’t not telling you, but that didn’t change the fact he had decided to place his trust in you, regardless.
You understood what it was like to be left behind, to have nothing but yourself to cling to. Sympathy and pity weren’t what he wanted. No generic condolence could change his past or his fate.
Instead, you drew him closer to you. Harumasa let out a small, strangled gasp as you sheltered him in your arms. “I’ll be here for you, so thank you for trusting me.”
Sometimes, words were cheap. The only response you needed was Harumasa’s arms wrapping around you in return, a tentative promise.
It’s only a few weeks after that, when you were passing by a convenience store on the way home from work, that you saw the origami paper strips lining the shelves at a discounted price and remembered the elementary school pastimes of your classmates.
As a child, you had wanted to make a hundred stars so you could make a wish for your parents to come back. But now, there was something else you wanted: not to make someone come back, but to make someone stay with you.
—
Your body aches. It’s all you’re aware of at first, a throbbing pain, spreading through your body in waves.
Your vision is blurry, the Hollow wavering in front of you like smeared paint, black protrusions and metal platforms blending together, a nightmarish portrait.
You drag your arm in front of your face, flex your fingers slowly until the world stops spinning.
You’re alive. Against all odds, you’re alive, but you have no idea where you are or how much time has passed. You’d probably fallen into a distortion.
With any luck, Harumasa has already left and called for back-up. You could survive in a Hollow longer than most ordinary people could, but you didn’t want to test your limits. For now, you would have to do your best to survive. With agonizingly slow movements, like you’re dragging your body through water, you check your daggers and equipment, and survey the area around you. It’s full of twisted metal structures corrupted with black growth, platforms and stairs jutting from rocky walls, like a building that’s been swallowed by a cliff, with no particularly distinguishing feature.
It then takes even longer to convince your legs to support your weight, and to take a few steps without leaning against the wall.
Something clatters in the distance, heavy limbs dragging on the floor. Ethereals. This part of the Hollow is infested with them, a mutated sea of green and pearlescent black cores, though you’re temporarily sheltered in the area where you fell. As long as you avoid them, you should be fine; you’re no longer in any condition for prolonged combat.
All you can do is slowly drag yourself around, daggers at the ready, sneaking past any Ethereal you see. It’s agonizing work to be so careful, especially when you’re occasionally hit by waves of dizziness and your injuries make your reflexes slow.
Is Harumasa safe? Did he escape? Did he destroy the Ethereal? Or did something worse happen to him? There’s no point thinking like this and driving yourself insane, but your thoughts scatter like a flight of migrating birds, and no matter where they go, they always end up drifting in Harumasa’s direction.
Maybe you can blame Harumasa for distracting you when an Ethereal catches sight of you before you can fully conceal yourself. You can do nothing but mumble curses under your breath as more Ethereals are drawn to the noise and you’re forced to draw your weapon.
It’s harder to fight without Harumasa to cover your back. You’ve gotten too used to having him at your back. Several times, you open your mouth to call his name, but he’s not there to answer. It’s just you, clumsily dodging blows and aiming weak strikes at Ethereals you normally would have been able to dispatch with ease.
You might die here. The thought comes, unbidden. You’re weakened, surrounded, when an Ethereal looms over you. You twist your body around trying to dodge, but your body refuses to move as fast as you need it to as the Ethereal prepares to strike–only to still, stagger a few steps, and then collapse onto the ground, a spray of arrows protruding from its back.
Your breath catches in your throat, and you whip your head up in the direction the arrows came from. It can’t be, but it is. It’s him. Your partner, his mouth set in a grim, furious line as he draws his bow back. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look so angry.
In what feels like no time at all, the remaining Ethereals fall and your body feels light as you fight with renewed energy. Hardly any of them could get near you before Harumasa has shot them down with enough force that their bodies slam into the floor with a shattering crack. As soon as the last threat is neutralized, you’re running to Harumasa, but he’s faster than you.
“Harumasa—” Your words are muffled as Harumasa pulls you into a hug. His fingers dig into your shoulders, his grip tight. There’s something possessive and desperate about his touch, as if he might never hold you again and he has to memorize the shape of your body while he still has the chance.
His skin gleams with sweat, his white shirt sticking to his torso. Has he been running around this whole time, looking for you, without resting? You press your ear to his chest, where his heart rabbits in his chest in a frightened run.
“I thought you died,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
“I…”
“I thought I lost you. And I couldn’t stop until I found your body, and I would have to tell the others that you… because of me, you…”
“Harumasa, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to hear that.”
You tentatively bring your arms around him, and a shudder wracks through his body at your touch. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“Then don’t do something so reckless again! If you die… If you die, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”
“I can’t promise that. You’re my partner. I told you I would have your back. If I see you in trouble, I can’t just run away.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I want you to live,” you murmur. “I want you to live, no matter what.”
“Then you have to live with me.” Harumasa pulls back abruptly, bringing his hands to your cheeks, and pinching.
You attempt to reply, but you can only make a garbled noise of affirmation. It’s hard to talk when Harumasa is pulling your cheeks like taffy, but maybe he isn’t ready to hear your response.
You place your hands over his, and Harumasa stills, your touch a soothing balm. He lets out a breath. “Let’s get out of here. You need to get your injuries looked at.”
For the rest of the time until you leave the Hollow, Harumasa clings persistently to your side, refusing to move a step unless you have as well. You would call his pace leisurely if not for the tense way he holds his body, poised for threats from any direction. You’re half-tempted to ask if he would feel more at ease holding your hand, but you have a feeling he would never let you go again if you did.
Harumasa doesn’t relax even when you’re back at your workplace, where he escorts you directly to the infirmary and paces outside the entire time, causing the nurse’s eyebrows to crease in irritation at the sound of his rapid footsteps.
“I’m fine,” you announce the second you step out of the infirmary. “Okay? The nurse said I had no major injuries, though I’m not supposed to be on the field for a week. And I have to do a few more check-ins.”
It’s only at your words that Harumasa finally relaxes. “This is probably the first sick day you’re going to take,” Harumasa says, but his teasing doesn’t quite match his eyes, which keep roaming your body for stray injuries which the nurse might have missed.
In the office, you’re immediately assailed by Yanagi, Miyabi, and Soukaku, who fuss over your bruises, the bandages peeking under your clothes, and the patches on your face.
“I’m glad you two are okay! I was so worried when I heard what happened. I know you’re capable, but you shouldn’t be so reckless,” Yanagi scolds lightly.
“Take the time to rest and recover completely,” Miyabi says. “Section Six needs you, and we can’t function well if you’re not around.”
“Take these snacks! They’re tasty, and they’ll help you feel better!” Soukaku says earnestly, shoving an armful of packaged chips at you.
It’s been a long time since anyone has worried over you like this. It’s a little embarrassing how everyone’s attention is focused solely on you, and you can’t keep a small smile from creeping onto your face. “Everyone… I promise I’m fine! You don’t have to fuss over me like this.”
“Don’t forget to go back for your checkup,” Yanagi interjects. “All right? I don’t want to see you on the field until you’re cleared. And you, Harumasa! You need to take care of yourself, too.”
“Yanagi is right,” Miyabi says. “Maybe you should get a check-up as well.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Harumasa says, holding his hands out placatingly. “My injuries aren’t as bad as theirs. In fact, I’ll be a good partner and take care of them, promise.”
“That’s a first,” you interject, “Since when you were so excited about doing work?”
“I’m only excited when you’re involved,” he says, and you don’t know what to say to that.
The rest of the day passes by pleasantly once Section Six is satisfied that you’re doing well, though they keep making excuses to stop by your desk and leave you drinks from the vending machine or little treats. You fill your time with paperwork and organizing files, and when those are done, crafting paper stars at your desk.
“What are you gonna wish for when you have a hundred stars?” Soukaku says, sprawling across your desk and picking up a strip of paper to fold with clumsy, childish joy.
“I’m actually not going to wish for anything. I’m going to give my wish to someone else.”
“What? You can do that? Then I wanna give wishes to you and Nagi and Miyabi and Harumasa!”
“Thank you, Soukaku.”
“Who’re you going to give your wish to?” Soukaku asks as you hand her more origami paper strips.
“Hm…” You survey the star you’ve just finished folding. “It’s for someone important. It’s a little embarrassing to talk about it out loud, though.”
“Why? I think whoever it is will be happy that you’re thinking about them!”
“Do you think so?”
“Yeah!” Soukaku says. “I would be happy if you gave me a wish!”
“Then should I make you a hundred paper stars, Soukaku?”
“Really? Yay!”
By the end of the work shift, you’ve finally filled your glass jar with the necessary number of stars. You should feel happy, but what you didn’t tell Soukaku is that you wonder if it’s too presumptuous to give this to Harumasa. After all, you still remember what it’s like to be rejected by people who were supposed to love you and take care of you.
You cradle the jar in your hands, the product of all your meticulous work over the past two weeks. It’s heavy with the weight of your feelings and your ridiculous wish.
“Hey, partner.” Harumasa’s sudden voice makes you stiffen and whirl around, keeping the jar hidden behind your back.
“Harumasa.” You take a breath. There’s no point in being embarrassed. “Do you have time right now?”
“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What a coincidence. I was just about to ask you that, too.”
“I assume we’re both free, then. Come over to my place,” you tell him bluntly.
“Your place?”
“Yes.”
Harumasa tilts his head like an inquisitive bird, considering. “Sure, but I didn’t realize you were that excited to see me after work.”
“Oh, don’t get full of yourself.”
The two of you are back to your usual banter, but it’s devoid of its usual lightness. The events from the Hollow still linger over you, and Harumasa sucks in a breath before giving a casual smile. You respond with a roll of your eyes, but it feels wooden, everything unsaid thickening the air like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.
The journey back to your apartment is peaceful. You take the train, watching the familiar strips of buildings and city lights streaking past, soft smudges against the glowing sun, sinking like a pat of butter in a red, syrupy sky.
You live in a relatively nice building, the salary from your job affording you a lobby as well as a doorman and a fast elevator. At your apartment door, you fumble with your keys, fingers heavy and clumsy as you’re aware of Harumasa’s presence behind you, waiting.
The door clicks open and you step into your apartment, a one bedroom, one bathroom affair with sturdy, comfortable furniture, books and knick-knacks lining the shelves of the joint living room and kitchen. More books are stacked precariously on the single table you use for both work and meals, situated in the center.
You slip off your shoes and into your house slippers, offering a pair to Harumasa, who after putting them on promptly walks over to one of the shelves in the living room and pokes at a little Bangboo statue. There’s a whole forest of them lining the shelf, all in different outfits and poses.
“I didn’t realize you were such a fan. Hey, do you get the public security ones to help you cross the street?”
“Don’t touch it. It’s a collectible and I’m trying to get the last one in the series,” you say crisply. “And of course I do. It makes the ones patrolling the streets happy to help.”
“Wait, really?”
“They’re adorable, Harumasa. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“It’s not a bad thing! I just think you have a surprisingly cute side, that’s all.”
“Thanks,” you say, trying to keep your face schooled in a neutral expression, before gesturing to the table in the living room. “Take a seat. I’ll make some tea.”
You brew a pot of bitter green tea, taking out a plate of crumbly packaged cookies to snack on. They’re the least sweet snack you have in the house which Harumasa would be happy to eat.
For a few minutes, there’s only the clink of your cups and the crunch of cookies, a pleasant way to spend your time after work. Neither of you talk, the food giving you an excuse not to. It’s ridiculous how such a small gift could make you feel so nervous. You need to do it now. Otherwise, what would the point be of inviting him over?
You run your finger along the rim of your teacup, pressing hard enough to feel the edge of smooth porcelain dig into skin. “There’s something I want to give to you.”
“A present? For me?”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing fancy,” you say, before standing to retrieve the jar of stars, which you had shoved into your work bag.
You hold it behind your back until you’re in front of Harumasa, at which point you place the jar on the table and slide it over to him.
A hundred stars for one wish. You explain the story to him as Harumasa cups his hands around the jar, peering intently as if he could see the hours you spent painstakingly crafting each individual star.
“I know it’s a little silly,” you say quietly. “But I want whatever you wish for to come true, no matter what.”
Harumasa’s eyes when he looks at you are just like stars, warm, bright gold, that you would trust to guide you no matter what path you tread.
“I want you to be happy,” you say, the words falling from your mouth like a wish of your own.
“Happy, huh?” Harumasa closes his eyes briefly, stars winking out of existence.
“I’m sorry if that’s presumptuous. You don’t have take this gift if you don’t want–”
“Whoa! This is mine now. You can’t have it back now that you’ve given it to me. It’s just… there are some things about my illness I haven’t told you.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you say.
“I want to tell you, though. People with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome don’t typically live long lives. The illness is terminal. The oldest-recorded person lived only to be 26.” Harumasa says it matter-of-factly, the numbers rolling out of him like he’s simply reciting information from a medical brochure. “In late stages, the body breaks down. And if someone with Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome is in a Hollow when their body breaks down, then they’ll turn into an Ethereal.”
This is the knowledge Harumasa has been carrying with him all this time and hiding from everyone in Section Six. It must have weighed him down like stones, knowing that if things take a turn for the worse in a mission within the Hollow, he’ll become one of the monsters you and Section Six have to put down. How long has he carried this by himself?
No matter how you try to hide your feelings, Harumasa knows how to read you just as much as you know how to read him, because he raises a hand and lazily waves it through the air. “Don’t look so worried. It doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I’m your partner. Of course I’m going to be worried about you,” you say quietly. “I told you, didn’t I? I want you to be happy.”
Harumasa gazes down at the table, away from you and the jar of stars in front of him. “You are, huh? Can I trust you with something else, then?”
“What is it?”
“If anything happens to me,” he says, “and I turn into an Ethereal, you have to promise that you’ll kill me.”
There’s no other answer for you, not when he looks at you like that. “I promise. I won’t let anyone else do it.”
“Then I’m all yours, partner.”
“But…” You reach for Harumasa’s hand across the table, slowly and reverentially sliding your fingers under his, feeling the press of each callous on his slender fingers. These beautiful hands, which you have saved and which have saved you again and again. “I gave you a wish, you know? So you can have anything you want.”
“Eh? Didn’t I tell you what I wanted?”
“It doesn’t count,” you persist. “If it helps, I’ll tell you what I want.”
“All right, what is it?”
“I want you to live forever.”
“That’s way too long,” Harumasa protests.
“Then live for a hundred years at the very least,” you say. “I wanted you to be happy for a long, long time. I made you a hundred stars, so each star is worth one year of happiness.”
It’s ridiculous, you know. It’s not pragmatic at all. And maybe it’s cruel, too, to ask Harumasa something like this. But if he’s going to be selfish, then you’re going to be just as selfish.
“A hundred years? Then you need to live that long, too.” Harumasa shifts his hand and hooks your pinky lightly with his own. “It’s not fair if I have to live that long without you. That’s going to be my wish.”
“Then I’ll make it come true,” you say. “I told you, didn’t I? We’re partners. Where you go, I’ll go.”
In the window across from you, ink-blue shadows flood the world. The sun had set while the two of you were talking, and the city lights wink like scattered gemstones across dark velvet.
“If you talk like that, then I’m not going to want to leave,” he says quietly. “You make me want to act selfishly.”
“Then act selfishly. I’ll forgive you.”
He lets out a sigh, squeezing your pinky. “You’re not fair at all.”
“Good,” you say archly. “Stay the night, Harumasa.”
Harumasa stills at your words, and you can feel the faint tremor of his hand. “I have nightmares. It’s not going to be a good time for you.”
“That’s all right,” you say. “I’ll take care of you.”
It’s easy having Harumasa in your apartment, where he fits seamlessly into your normal routine, the same way he does at work. You lend him towels, and baggy pajamas, and then the two of you take turns using the bathroom. You order cheap takeout from a local restaurant, which you eat in front of the glow of your television, watching the news. As you wash up the dishes, Harumasa perches on the counter, cracking jokes that make you roll your eyes or smile.
Harumasa, framed in the soft glow of kitchen lights like a halo behind him, hair askew, wrinkling his borrowed clothes, makes your heart ache. It would be nice to have him around like this, all the time. You’ve forgotten the warmth of having someone in your home until now.
You should bring out the futon you keep for guests, but you don’t mention it, and Harumasa doesn’t ask. So he follows you to your bedroom, knees bumping against the side of the metal frame as you pull out an extra pillow for him.
Harumasa dutifully takes out his rows of medicine, orange bottles lined up your nightstand, brightly colored pills falling down his throat with each sip of water from the glass you’ve brought him. He folds his golden headband neatly next to the bottles, and finally places the jar of stars to stand guard over everything. It makes you feel ticklish that he wants to keep your gift so close.
Your bed is too small for two people, but neither of you complain as your legs tangle together, Harumasa resting his forehead against yours. In the dark, you grope for his hand, entangling your fingers with his, where they belong.
“Good night, partner,” he whispers. He’s so close his breath tickles your face.
“Good night.”
“It’s too late to turn back now,” he murmurs, but you can’t tell if he’s saying it to you or himself.
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t,” you say, tracing nonsensical letters on his back with the fingertips of your free hand, a message he can’t read.
“I know. I guess we’re stuck together.”
“I told you. We’re partners. I’m yours forever,” you say.
Harumasa squeezes your hand. “And I’m yours, so let’s take good care of each other.”
If you strain your head, you can see a faint strip of moonlight from your parted curtains illuminating your nightstand where a hundred paper stars glow. Like a promise, a wish, of a hundred years of happiness.
