#bad habit

[redemptive-truth]

Bad Habit | Jason Todd

Pairing: Jason Todd x Journalist!Reader Summary: Years ago, a teenage Robin saved her and inspired the article that launched her career. Now, a new vigilante in red stalks Park Row, and she’s determined to tell his story, whether he wants her to or not. Word Count: 13.6k Warnings: explicit language, canon-typical violence, past character death, age gap, jason is really not good with women Author’s Note: My first DCU and Jason Todd fic! This will be a three-part story. Took me far too long to write and went through at least four rewrites until I was happy with the final product. For the sake of this fic, let’s assume Bruce is a better father than the comics suggest. PART 2 | PART 3

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She'd had a dream once that she would do good for the world. Real, tangible good. She would shine light into the darkest corners, lift up the voices no one else wanted to hear, write about the things that mattered. She could fight for what was morally right, not what was convenient or profitable. She would build bridges, not walls. Unite, not divide.

Then she got into journalism.

The disillusionment came slowly at first, then all at once. Like watching a photograph develop in reverse, the image she'd held of her future fading to blank white nothing. People didn't care about what was right. They cared about money. Power. Status. Bylines that opened doors to better jobs, bigger platforms, more influence. The truth was secondary to the narrative, and the narrative was whatever sold.

It was disheartening at best. Soul-crushing at worst.

And yet she couldn't let it go entirely. Some stubborn, foolish part of her clung to that original dream like a lifeline, refusing to believe that everyone had sold out, that there wasn't still room for someone who gave a damn. Someone who would work for the people, not for themselves.

So when the acceptance letters came, full rides from prestigious universities scattered across the country coveted in prestige, she turned them all down. Every single one. She accepted the partial scholarship from Gotham University instead, a school most people only knew by reputation, and not a good one.

Her parents were horrified.

"It's senseless," her mother had said, pacing their recently renovated kitchen with the same restless energy she brought to cross-examinations, heels clicking against marble like a countdown. Her father, quieter but no less disappointed, had simply shaken his head, the gesture heavy with years of expectations collapsing. "Impractical. You're throwing away opportunities people would kill for."

They saw it as the reckless whim of a child with dreams too big for her own head, a naive girl who would learn the hard way that idealism didn't pay the bills.

She didn't care. She saw it as the only choice that mattered.

If she was going to make a difference, where better than the most crime-ridden, corrupt, power-hungry city in the country?

The internship at the Gotham Gazette wasn't handed to her. She fought for it tooth and nail, email after email, phone call after phone call until she was half-convinced they'd blocked her number. It wasn't until she won a university writing contest her sophomore year that they finally relented, offering her an unpaid position that mostly involved coffee runs and booking hotels.

She took it without hesitation.

Four months of grunt work followed. Filing papers, editing fluff pieces about charity galas and restaurant openings, staying late to proofread copy no one else wanted to touch eventually earned her a part-time spot. Hourly pay. Barely twenty hours a week. It wasn't much. But it was something. A foot in the door. 

All she needed was one good story. Just one.

And everyone knew Gotham was full of good stories.

The city was a living, breathing contradiction. Beautiful and broken, glittering with old money and rotting from the inside out. It was known for its criminal underworld, its seedy politicians, its yawning economic divide that swallowed whole neighborhoods. 

And of course, for him. The man who dressed like a bat and prowled the rooftops at night, hunting criminals in the dark.

The city was split down the middle about him. Half saw him as a villian, no better than the criminals he put behind bars. Maybe worse, because he operated outside the law and answered to no one. The other half worshiped him like a dark saint. The Dark Knight. Their protector. The only one who'd done more in a few years than the GCPD, itself rotted through with corruption, had managed in decades.

She didn't hate him. She didn't love him either. He did good for the city. That was enough for her.

She just wished she could write something significant about him. Something that would finally earn her that front-page byline she'd been chasing since day one.

Which is why, at exactly ten past eleven on a Tuesday night, she found herself purposefully looking for trouble in the middle of Crime Alley.

The neighborhood had earned its name easily enough. Even in a city as broken as Gotham, this place stood out, a festering wound that never healed, tucked away where the city's elite didn't have to look at it. 

The streetlights here were sparse, half of them shot out or simply dead from neglect. Those that still worked flickered weakly, casting sickly yellow pools that barely pushed back the darkness. The buildings leaned in close, their facades crumbling brick and rusted fire escapes, windows either boarded up or glowing with the dim light of lives lived in quiet desperation.

Trash gathered in corners, in doorways, swept there by wind that always seemed to smell like rust and something rotting. The pavement was cracked, sprouting weeds through the fissures. 

During the day, the Park Row was simply sad. A monument to urban decay and municipal indifference. At night, it transformed into something else entirely. Something hungry.

Most people avoided it after dark. The ones who didn't either lived here or were looking for things decent people didn't look for.

She'd spent the last hour wandering the streets with her phone's voice recorder running in her pocket, observing, taking mental notes. A story was forming in her mind, something about the people the city had abandoned. About what happened in the spaces between the law and lawlessness. 

It wasn't about Batman, not directly, but it was real. A territory of the city probably a consistent top visit on his list. She'd already interviewed three residents earlier in the week, gotten permission to record their stories. Tonight was about atmosphere, about understanding what this place felt like when darkness fell.

Her notebook was filling with details. The way voices carried differently here. Either too loud or whisper-quiet, nothing in between. The sound of glass breaking in the distance. A dog barking, then cutting off abruptly, the silence after more disturbing than the sound itself. The shuffle of footsteps that scattered when she got too close, people who didn't want to be seen. She documented the graffiti, some of it artistic, most of it territorial. Counted the number of working streetlights per block. Noted which buildings still had occupied apartments, marked by laundry hanging from fire escapes or the glow of television screens.

She was so focused on capturing it all, on translating the texture of this place into something readers would understand, that she almost missed it.

Voices. Sharp. Male. Coming from an alley branching off to her left.

She slowed, instinct warring with curiosity. Her hand moved to her phone, not to call for help, but to be ready to record.

A third voice. Female. Younger. Afraid.

"—told you, I don't have any cash—"

"Don't look broke to you, does she?" One of the male voices, cruel amusement threading through.

"Nah. That's a nice bag. Hand it over."

Her feet moved before her brain caught up. She rounded the corner into the narrow alley, and the scene crystallized under the weak light bleeding in from the street. Two young men, probably late twenties, blocking a girl against the grimy brick wall. The girl looked about her own age, maybe a year younger, clutching a purse to her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide, darting between her attackers, looking for an escape that wasn't there.

Every self-preservation instinct she possessed screamed at her to back away, to call 911, to not get involved.

But how long would it take for them to get there? In Crime Alley, of all places? The calls were always flooding in nonstop. And she was here now, able to be more than a bystander.

"Hey!" Her voice came out stronger than she felt, cutting through the tension like a slap. "Leave her alone."

Three heads snapped toward her. The girl's face flooded with desperate relief. The two men turned, sizing her up, and she watched their expressions shift. Surprise melting into something uglier.

It was an opportunity for them. She wasn't naive enough to miss what men like them saw in her. Tailored clothes, blown-out hair, a nice pair of earrings to complement a soft, youthful face. She didn't walk like someone who knew Crime Alley. She didn't look in the dark corners, avoiding trouble like most others would have in this situation. 

She wasn't from Gotham. She was an outsider. Well-off, too. An easy target.

"Well, look at that," the taller one said, taking a step toward her. His smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Two for one special."

"Walk away," the other one added, but he was smiling too. "Unless you want to share whatever's in your pockets."

She didn't walk away. Instead, she moved further into the alley, positioning herself so the men's attention pivoted fully toward her, their backs now partially to the girl. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands remained steady.

"Pretty stupid, coming down here alone at night," the tall one said, moving closer. He eyed her notebook, leering. "Journalist, huh? I can tell. You've got that look. Thinking you're gonna write some big story about the mean streets?"

She held her ground, pulse roaring in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl edge sideways along the wall.

"What I think," she said, keeping her voice level even as her mouth went dry, "is that two guys harassing women in an alley are exactly the kind of cowards who won't do anything if someone's watching."

The shorter one laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that echoed off the walls. "No one's watching, sweetheart. That's the point."

But the girl was moving now, faster, slipping past them while their focus was locked on her. Almost there. She locked eyes with her, jerking her head toward the entrance to the alley.

"Get out of here," she urged, putting steel in her voice.

The girl didn't need to be told twice. She bolted, flats slapping against pavement as she fled toward the mouth of the alley and disappeared into the street beyond.

Which left her alone with two very angry men.

The tall one's expression darkened. "That was stupid."

Yeah, she realized that now. But at least the girl had gotten away. 

Her heart hammered in her chest, blood rushing so loud in her ears it nearly drowned out the sound of their footsteps. She had thought that if someone confronted them, they would have backed off. Instead, both men were stalking toward her and she was out of options.

The tall one moved first.

She saw it coming—his arm drawing back, fist clenched—but knowing and being able to stop it were two different things. She twisted, managed to dodge the worst of it, his knuckles grazing her cheekbone instead of connecting solidly. The impact still sent stars bursting across her vision, white-hot pain radiating from the point of contact.

Training she didn't know she had kicked in. Pure instinct. Her father had insisted on self-defense classes when she'd told them she was moving to Gotham, one of the few practical things he'd done besides lecture her.

She channeled every ounce of fear and adrenaline into her right arm and swung.

Her fist connected with the shorter one's nose with a satisfying, sickening crunch. Cartilage gave way beneath her knuckles.

He staggered back, cursing, blood streaming between his fingers. "You bitch—"

She didn't have time to feel triumphant. The tall one grabbed her from behind, arms wrapping around her shoulders like steel bands, and yanked. She lost her footing, hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. The pavement was cold and unforgiving against her back, grit digging into her skin through her jacket. 

Her skull cracked against concrete and the world tilted sideways.

Before she could roll away, they were on her. The tall one dropped his knee onto her chest, pinning her down with his weight. She gasped, struggling to breathe, to move, but he was too heavy. The shorter one, still bleeding from his nose, drew back and hit her with a vicious backhand that snapped her head to the side. 

Pain exploded across her jaw, white and blinding. She tasted copper, felt warmth spreading across her tongue.

"Think you're tough?" he snarled, hitting her again. Her lip split. Something warm ran hot down her chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat.

Panic clawed up her throat like a living thing. She thrashed, bucked, but the tall one had her shoulders pinned, his knees pressing bruises sure to bloom deep into her chest. She couldn't breathe properly, couldn't get leverage—

Her hand found skin. Face. She didn't think, just acted.

Her fingers found the tall one's eye socket and she dug, nails scraping, pushing, grinding in as hard as she could. She felt the soft give of flesh, the wet heat of tears and blood.

He howled, an animal sound of pure agony. She watched him rear back, hands flying to his face in anguish. "Fuck, my eye! You fucking—"

She sucked in a desperate breath, tried to scramble backward, get her feet under her—

The kick caught her in the ribs before she could stand.

All the air left her lungs in a painful whoosh. White light burst behind her eyes. She curled instinctively around the pain, gasping. 

The shorter one was on her, shoving her flat on her back again. His weight settled on her hips, pinning her down, and his hands went to her clothes.

Grabbing, ripping. Buttons scattered across the pavement with small plastic clicks that sounded obscenely loud in the sudden stillness.

"No, no, get off—" She fought, clawing at his arms, his face, anything she could reach, but he caught her wrists, slammed them down above her head with one hand while the other tore at her shirt. Cold air hit her skin. Terror turned her blood to ice.

And then he was gone.

One second he was on top of her, and the next he was flying backward through the air like he weighed nothing, like something had plucked him up and thrown him like a ragdoll. He hit the alley wall with a crack that might have been brick or bone or both, and crumpled.

A blur of color, red and green that was moving too fast to track, descended on the taller man immediately. A fist, a kick, movements precise and brutal and efficient. The choreography of violence practiced to perfection. The thug went down hard, didn't get back up.

It happened in seconds. Maybe less.

She lay there on the ground, shaking. One hand clutched her torn shirt closed, the other pressed against her screaming ribs. Her vision swam, darkened at the edges like someone was slowly turning down the lights. 

She blinked hard, trying to focus, trying to understand what she was seeing.

A figure stood over the two unconscious men, silhouetted against the weak streetlight. Not as tall as she'd expected. Lean, athletic build. A cape, bright yellow on the inside,settled around shoulders clad in red and green. A mask covered the upper half of his face, but she could see his jaw was set, tight with barely contained anger.

Not the Batman. Someone else. Someone younger.

He turned toward her, and even through the mask, she could see the concern in his eyes as he checked for injuries. Cataloged the damage. He took a step closer, one hand extended like he was approaching a wounded animal.

"Are you alright?" His voice was surprisingly gentle, careful, like he was afraid she might shatter. "Can you stand?"

She stared up at him, brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened. The taste of  blood was on her lips and tears she hadn't realized she'd shed ran hot down her cheeks.

Somewhere in the depths of her brain, through the haze of fleeing adrenaline and oncoming pain, she felt recognition click into place. She had seen this boy before in countless news clips, in any blurry pictures that the Gazette could get their hands on.

"Robin," she muttered, more fact than question.

Up close, he was younger than she'd imagined. Not by much, maybe a few years younger, but still clearly a boy judging by the leanness of his frame and the fact that she had a few inches on him. Somehow the photos never quite captured it. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, sixteen at the absolute most.

The domino mask covered his eyes, stark white against the shadows, but she could see the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concern between his brows. Dark hair, slightly mussed from the fight. The costume was more vivid in person than in the grainy newspaper photos. A red tunic with a yellow 'R' emblazoned across his chest, green sleeves and gloves, a yellow cape that puddled bright against the grimy alley floor as he crouched down.

He was real. Not just some blurry figure caught mid-leap on a traffic camera, but real. And now he was crouching in front of her with an expression that was almost painfully earnest.

"Yeah," he confirmed. She caught the edge of relief in his voice, like he'd been worried she might be too incapacitated to speak. "That's me. Good job. And you're bleeding." He shifted his weight, moving closer but not touching, giving her space. "Can you sit up? Anything feel broken?"

She took inventory, cataloging injuries with detached precision. Split lip, bruised jaw, ribs screaming, but she still managed to lever herself up onto her elbows. Pain shot through her side and she winced, gasping.

"Easy," he said, and this time he did reach out, one gloved hand hovering near her shoulder, ready to steady her but waiting for permission. "Slow."

"I'm fine," she said automatically, which was such an obvious lie that he actually raised an eyebrow at her.

"Right. So you're the delirious kind of stupid." He glanced over his shoulder at the two crumpled figures, then back to her. "You took on two guys in Crime Alley. Alone. At night." A pause, weighted with meaning. "That was either incredibly brave or incredibly dumb."

"Both," she admitted, finally managing to sit up fully. The world tilted slightly but steadied. "Probably more dumb."

"Definitely more stupid than dumb." But there was no judgment in his voice, just something that sounded almost like respect. Wonder, even. "That girl you helped, she got away clean. So, you know. Stupid, but effective."

She touched her lip gingerly, felt the split there, the tackiness of drying blood. She eyed him curiously, taking in his appearance unabashedly. 

He was a teenager. His limbs were still in that awkward in-between phase of growing and not quite knowing when to stop. His face was clean, free of stubble, of any fuzz in general. And his voice was caught between the youthful pitch of young boys and the deep tenor of a man. He couldn’t be older than eighteen, at most.

She tilted her head, curious despite the pain. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

He stopped moving and blinked at her, clearly not expecting that. "What?"

"Robin. The Boy Wonder. The photos don't—" She gestured vaguely at him, then immediately regretted moving her arm that much. "You're just...you're like, what, fourteen?"

He gaped at her, momentarily stunned. "You got something to say after I saved your ass and all?" he said, a little defensive, and yeah, that confirmed it. Definitely mid-high school age. Maybe even an inner-city kid judging by his Gotham accent.

"No, I'm sorry. Just—" She attempted something like a smile, though the motion pulled painfully at her split lip. "Shouldn't you be in high school or something? Underage drinking? Questionable life choices that don't involve fighting crime?"

"Who says I'm not older?" He stood, offered his hand again, more insistent this time. "And if we're talking questionable life choices, you're the one who decided Crime Alley at midnight was a good place for... what, journalism?" His eyes flicked to the notebook that had fallen a few feet away, pages splayed open like broken wings.

"Research," she corrected, accepting his hand. He was lean, not very muscular, but his grip was strong. 

He pulled her up carefully, watching to make sure she wouldn't collapse. She didn't, but it was a near thing. Her ribs really didn't appreciate the movement.

"Right. Research. Of the scummiest place in all of Gotham. Great choice," He bent down, scooped up her notebook carefully and handed it to her. She noticed that he seemed to finally see the ruined state of her shirt with the act, as he flushed and ducked his head quickly.

She didn't have to look down to know that her shirt was mostly torn open. The chill on her skin from the night air was evidence enough. To his credit, he wasted no time in immediately shrugging off his cape, keeping his eyes downcast like a gentleman. 

Before she could protest, he draped it around her shoulders. The fabric was surprisingly soft, still warm from his body heat. "Here."

She clutched it closed with one hand, the other pressed against her aching ribs. It smelled of something pine, some sharp cologne that didn't belong to a young boy. And something utterly individual to him that she didn't know him well enough to name. "And they say chivalry isn't dead. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Robin's mouth quirked into something that might have been a smile, crooked and boyish. "Can't exactly have the girls I rescue strolling around undressed. Tends to lend to bad reviews."

She snorted despite herself. For a teenager, he was pretty bold. Cocky. Certainly too confident for his own good. "Good to know where you draw the line."

"I'm very principled." He studied her for a moment, and she saw the concern deepen in his brow, the way his lips pressed together. "You're hurt. You took a pretty solid hit or two to the ribs. You shouldn't be walking around alone right now."

"I'll be fine. I just need to—" She took a step and immediately swayed, the world tilting again like the ground had become liquid.

His hand shot out, caught her elbow with reflexes too fast to be unpracticed. "Yeah, no. Where do you live?"

"What?"

"Your apartment. House. Wherever." He was already moving, positioning himself at her side like a human crutch, taking some of her weight without making it obvious. "I'm walking you back. Non-negotiable. Good for reviews too."

She wanted to argue. She should argue. She shouldn't let some vigilante know where she lived, even if he was associated with Batman. But she was too hurt, too disappointed in her own poor judgment tonight to care. And something about the way he said it, matter-of-fact and gentle at the same time, made her believe he actually would just...walk her home. Like a normal person. Like this was perfectly normal.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to." He steered her toward the mouth of the alley, his movements careful, practiced. Like he knew exactly where he was going. "Besides, you just got your ass kicked saving someone. That's pretty badass for a girl, even if it was boneheaded. Least I can do is make sure you get home in one piece before you dive head-first into another bad idea."

"My ass didn't get kicked," she protested weakly, shooting a quick glare at him that had no real heat behind it. She was glaring at a borderline criminal, she thought to herself humorously. "I got a good hit in."

"You did," he agreed patiently, like he was speaking to a child, rather than vice versa. "Broke his nose. That was a solid right hook. Textbook form, actually."

She frowned down at him, pulling his cape closer around her shoulders. The weight of it was comforting somehow. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, I would never mock you. Not a pretty girl like you." His tone was light, teasing, but then it shifted into something more serious. "Well, maybe just a little. You did confront two guys in Crime Alley with zero weapons and I'm guessing minimal training."

They emerged from the alley onto the main street, and Robin kept close to her side, his presence strangely reassuring. The few people still out at this hour gave them a wide berth, whether out of fear or respect, she couldn't tell. 

She scoffed but didn't protest. He was right, wasn't he? She'd made a monumentally stupid decision and now she was paying the price. But that girl had gotten away. That had to count for something. Even if it had nearly gotten her killed.

"So. Address? Or are you going to make me guess?"

She told him, rattling off the street name of her apartment building about eight blocks north. Not a great neighborhood, but leagues better than Crime Alley. She'd lived on campus her freshman year to get the standard dorm experience but after landing the job at the Gazette, she'd decided to move into the city proper. Somewhere she could afford on her own meager salary, without help.

Her father hated it. He'd practically begged her to move into Gotham Heights, even offered to pay for a place himself. For something spacious and safe with a doorman and security cameras. She'd politely declined. The whole point of this, her self-determined mission, was to forge her own path. Living under her parents' shadow, accepting their money, using their connections would get her nothing but whispered accusations of nepotism and mistrust. She needed to do this on her own terms, even if it meant a fifth-floor walk-up in a building where the heat only worked half the time.

"Eight blocks," Robin repeated, utterly undeterred by the distance. "Yeah, we're definitely walking. You going to make it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no." But his voice was warm, almost teasing, and she could hear the smile in it. "Come on. Lean on me if you need to. I won't tell anyone the big bad journalist needed help from the Boy Wonder." He paused, glanced at her. "You are a journalist, right? I'm not totally off base here?"

"I'm not big anything," she muttered, but she did lean slightly, just enough to take the pressure off her screaming ribs. Every breath was sharp-edged and painful, like breathing through broken glass. "I'm a part-time assistant at best. Intern who does grunt work nobody else wants."

"Better than nothing." He adjusted his pace to match hers. Slow, patient. Like he had all the time in the world, like there weren't criminals to catch and wrongs to right. "You seem young too, though. You in high school? Taking some kind of early journalism program?"

She hesitated at first before reality settled in. He'd just saved her life. He probably saved countless people every week, swooping in at the last second like some kind of guardian angel in a cape. He'd drop her off at home, be on his merry way, and she'd never hear from him again. This was just...politeness. Maybe a little flirtation, but what teenage boy wasn't a flirt when given half a chance?

"I'm a student at Gotham U," she corrected him, unable to keep the slight defensiveness out of her voice. Pride, maybe. "Junior. And you essentially just gave yourself away, you know. What are you, seventeen? Can you even drive a car yet?"

Robin shot her a glare. She could see it even through the mask, the way his brow scrunched and his lips pressed into a tight line. "Very funny. Hilarious. You just won the award for most annoying person I've saved this week." He paused, tilted his head thoughtfully. "You got a name to go with that attitude, or should I just keep calling you ‘questionable life choices’?"

She rolled her eyes, shifting her weight into him a bit more. He was stronger than she'd expected for someone his age, taking her weight without so much as a grunt. He was almost eye-level with her, definitely strong and developing some real muscle, but still a bit too lean. Stringy. Like his body was filling out, like he'd never quite had enough to eat growing up and was only now catching up to where he should have been all along.

His accent caught her attention too, that distinct Gotham twang, the kind you heard in the Narrows or Crime Alley. The neighborhoods where people struggled just to survive. If he'd grown up in the inner-city, she could imagine what his childhood had been like. What kind of horrors he'd witnessed, what kind of hunger he'd known. Maybe that's why he did this. Maybe that's why a kid barely old enough to drive, if he even could, was out here risking his life every night.

She told him her name. One block down, seven to go.

"So you're a student and you work for the Gazette," he commented, filing away the information like he was building a profile. "And if I had to put money on it..." He glanced at her sideways, assessing with sharp eyes. "I'd say you're not from Gotham originally. Am I right?"

She peered at him in surprise, genuinely impressed. His only response was a cheeky grin. The domino mask hid half his face, but she was certain that kind of broad, cocky smile reached his eyes. "Looks like you'd lose all your lunch money then, Boy Wonder. But you're right, I came here for school. Grew up on the West Coast."

The grin vanished instantly, replaced by an exaggerated scowl that was more theatrical than genuine. "If that guy hadn't kicked you in the ribs, I'd be elbowing you right now for that lunch money comment. And not because you're some California hippie."

"Well, that would be terrible for your ratings, wouldn't it?" she teased, leaning down closer to him with a grin of her own, ignoring the way it pulled at her split lip again and made fresh blood well up. "I'd have to personally call Batman and let him know his sidekick harassed an injured woman. Right after saving her from harassment. The irony would be incredible."

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was fighting the urge to smile and losing badly. "Partner, not sidekick," he corrected, his voice firm but not unkind. "Write that down. It's important."

A flutter of excitement ran through her chest, completely inappropriate given the circumstances. She raised her eyebrows at him, hopeful despite herself, despite knowing better. "Is that an invitation for an interview?"

She had no idea why she asked that. Everyone knew Batman and Robin didn't give interviews. It was practically their defining characteristic, much to every reporter's eternal chagrin. They worked in the shadows, operated in near-total silence, communicated through action rather than words. 

Besides, Robin was clearly a minor. She wouldn't necessarily need parental consent for an interview, not that she even knew if he had parents or not, but interviewing a minor without permission was generally frowned upon. Though the Gazette, and Gotham society in general, would probably look past that given the mantle he wore. When it came to icons, most bets were off the table.

And an interview with Robin... she couldn't even imagine what she would do with that. Where it could take her career. What good she could do by profiling a boy the city saw as both hero and menace, savior and symptom.

Robin, meanwhile, was looking at her like she'd just suggested they rob a bank together. "Are you crazy? No way. Batman would kill me." He shook his head, muttering to himself with genuine frustration, like she'd just made his life infinitely more complicated. "Journalists, man. You guys are greedy as hell."

Two blocks down. Six to go.

She made a sound of disgust at his words, though she knew he didn't mean it maliciously. To his credit, he was right. Most journalists would twist his words, distort the truth, and do whatever they could to expose the worst parts of a story. Interviewing a vigilante would be disastrous for their public appeal, their carefully maintained mystique. "You really think that little of me? You don't even know me."

"I know enough about the Gazette to know you'd just write about how bad people like Batman and I are for the city," he said. There was real anger simmering beneath the surface now, hot and defensive. His grip on her arm tightened fractionally. "How we should just leave everything up to the cops. Which is complete bullshit. The cops don't do anything here. They won't do anything. Everyone's pockets are always open for the right price, and the people who can't pay just get left behind to rot."

He was right. For a kid, he was perceptive. Articulate. Though she supposed if he was working with Batman, a lot of Batman's ideals would bleed into his own worldview. They'd have to, wouldn't they? You couldn't fight alongside someone night after night without absorbing their beliefs and values.

"What if I agreed with you?" she asked carefully, testing the waters. "Would you be more open to talking then?"

Robin stopped walking for a moment, blinking up at her with genuine surprise. One beat passed. Two. She held her breath, hope fluttering dangerously in her chest like a caged bird. 

And then the moment was gone as quick as it came. His guarded expression snapped back into place, incredulity coloring his voice. "I'd say you're pulling my leg to get me to talk. Playing me."

She shook her head, tightening her grip on his arm in her eagerness, ignoring the fresh spike of pain from her ribs. "And I'd say you're generalizing. Not all journalists are the same. You think I don't see the problems with Gotham? The corruption, the inequality, the way this city eats people alive?" Her voice gained strength despite the pain, despite the exhaustion seeping into her bones. "Just because I work for a newspaper doesn't mean someone's bribing me. Doesn't mean I'm looking to tear you down. If I thought the worst of you, would I have told you my name? Would I let you walk me home?"

Robin stared at her for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing over her words, testing them for truth. Finally, he started walking again, pulling her gently along with him. "You're persistent, I'll give you that."

"Comes with the territory." She winced as they stepped off a curb to avoid a rather large hole in the sidewalk, the jolt sending fresh pain through her ribs. "So is that a yes?"

"That's a 'keep dreaming.'" But there was less bite in his voice now. Three blocks down. "You really think an interview with me would change anything? Make Gotham give a damn?"

"I think people need to hear your side of the story," she said carefully, measuring each word. "Right now, half the city thinks you and Batman are criminals. The other half thinks you're heroes. But nobody actually knows anything. They just...speculate. Make assumptions based on blurry photos and whatever the news runs that night."

"Maybe that's the point." His grip on her arm tightened slightly as they navigated around a heap of clutter in the street, glass crunching under their feet. "We're not doing this for recognition. We're doing it because someone has to."

"But why does it have to be you?" She wasn't trying to provoke him. She was genuinely curious, genuinely trying to understand. "You're what, fifteen? Sixteen? You should be worrying about college applications, and girls, and—"

"And what?" He cut her off, sharp as a blade. "Pretending everything's fine? Going to house parties while people get murdered three blocks away?" There was an edge to his voice now, something raw and angry. Something that sounded personal. "Someone's gotta actually do something. The cops sure as hell won't."

"You really believe that? That the system's completely broken?"

"I know it is." He said it with such certainty, such bone-deep conviction, that it made her chest ache. "I've seen it. Lived it. You grow up in Park Row, you learn real quick that nobody's coming to save you. The politicians don't care. The cops are either corrupt or too scared to make waves. And the people with money?" He laughed, bitter and hollow. "They're too busy in their penthouses to notice the city's rotting from the inside out."

Four blocks down. She absorbed his words, filed them away, her journalist's brain cataloging every inflection, every hint of the boy beneath the mask. "So vigilantism is the answer? Taking justice into your own hands?"

"You got a better idea?" He shot back, turning to look at her fully. "Because I'm all ears. Really. Tell me what else works when the law's a joke and the people enforcing it are bought and paid for."

"Reform," she said, though even as she said it, she knew how naive it sounded. How young and hopeful and stupid. "Working within the system to change it. Exposing corruption through journalism, pushing for accountability—"

"Yeah, because that's worked so well so far." The sarcasm was thick, cutting through the night air like smoke. "How many exposés has the Gazette run on dirty cops? Crooked politicians? And what's changed? Nothing. They pay a fine, make some public apology, and go right back to doing the same shit." He was getting worked up now, his voice rising slightly. "Meanwhile, people are dying. Getting robbed, beaten, worse. Someone's gotta actually put hands on these bastards. Make them scared to do what they do."

She could feel the violence simmering beneath his words, not directed at her, but at the injustice of it all. The frustration of a kid who'd seen too much too young, who'd been failed by every system designed to protect him. It was a familiar sentiment held by people in the city. "And you think fear is the answer?"

"I think fear's the only language some people understand." He said it flatly, matter-of-fact, like it was self-evident. "You can't reason with a guy who's about to kill someone. Can't file a complaint about the gangbanger who just shot a kid over territory. Sometimes you just gotta..." He made a sharp gesture with his free hand, a striking motion. "Put them down. Make sure they think twice before doing it again."

"That sounds like you're talking about more than just stopping crime," she observed quietly, carefully. "That sounds like punishment."

"Maybe it is." He didn't back down, didn't soften it with euphemisms or justifications. "Maybe some people deserve to be punished. You gonna tell me those guys back there—" He jerked his head back toward Crime Alley, back toward the violence. "—didn't deserve what they got? That they should just get a stern talking-to and a slap on the wrist? They hurt you and would have done worse. We're just gonna lock them up, give them a few years, and set them back out in the streets for the same cycle to repeat itself. What's the point of that?"

"No," she admitted, because he was right. "But where's the line? How do you decide who deserves what? What happens when you go too far?"

"We don't." But there was something uncertain in his voice now, something that suggested he'd asked himself that question before, late at night when the adrenaline wore off and he was just a kid again. "Batman has rules. Lines we don't cross."

"Like what?"

"Nice try." He shot her a look that was almost amused, almost impressed by her tenacity. "You really think I'm gonna lay out our whole operating procedure while you're mentally taking notes for your article?"

"I'm not writing an article right now." She shifted her weight, leaning more heavily on him as her ribs protested. Pain was making her dizzy. "I'm just... trying to understand."

"Why?"

"Because I think you're right." The words came out before she could stop them, raw and honest. "I think the system is broken. I think Gotham needs something more than what it's getting. I just..." 

She struggled to find the words, to articulate the thing that had been gnawing at her since she'd moved here. "I want to know if this is it. If two people in masks beating up criminals is really the best we can do."

Five blocks down. Robin was quiet for a moment, processing, the only sound their footsteps on pavement and the distant wail of sirens. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You think we like this? You think Batman wants to spend every night breaking bones and dodging bullets?" He shook his head, dark hair catching the streetlight. "This is a stopgap. A band-aid on a bullet wound. We're buying time, trying to keep people alive long enough for something better to come along."

"And if it doesn't? If nothing changes?" God, she was arguing with a teenager about systemic reform after getting beaten up by thugs for doing the right thing. The absurdity wasn't lost on her.

"Then I guess we keep doing what we're doing." He said it with grim determination. "Until someone stops us or we die trying."

The casualness with which he mentioned dying made her stomach clench. "You're a kid. You're so eager to die?"

"I'm almost sixteen, actually," He glanced at her, and there was something defiant in his expression, something that dared her to call him a kid again. "And before you start with the 'you're too young' speech, save it. I know what I signed up for. Nobody forced me into this."

"But someone let you," she pointed out, pressing the issue because she couldn't help herself. "Batman. He's older, right? An adult? He brought a kid into this."

"I don't regret any of it. He's done more for me than anyone has," Robin said sharply, defensively, his entire body tensing beside her. "With or without him, I want to do this. At least this way I've got training, backup. Someone who gives a damn if I make it home." His voice took on a harder edge, something raw. "Not everyone gets that."

There was a story there. She could feel it, could hear it in the way his voice tightened, in the way he held himself just a little too rigidly. But before she could probe further, he turned the tables on her.

"What about you?" He asked, his tone shifting, becoming almost conversational. "What's your deal? Rich girl from California slumming it in Gotham, trying to save the world with a notebook and a dream?" There was mockery in his tone, but it wasn't entirely malignant. More like he was testing her, seeing if she'd rise to the bait. "You could've gone anywhere. Could've taken that full ride to some fancy school on the coast, written bullshit pieces about tech startups and farmer's markets. Why here?"

"Because here is where it matters," she said simply, the truth distilled to its essence. "Because Gotham is where people are suffering. Where the stories need to be told. Isn't that the point of the job?"

"Noble." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but there was something in his voice that suggested respect. "Your parents must love that."

"They think I'm an idiot."

"I'm starting to think they're onto something, after the stunt you pulled tonight."

She laughed, then immediately regretted it as pain shot through her ribs like fire. She gasped, stumbling slightly, and his arm came around her waist immediately, steadying her with surprising gentleness.

"Easy," he murmured, concern bleeding through. "Don't make it worse."

"Probably. But at least I'm trying," she managed once she could breathe again.

"Yeah." Something in his voice softened fractionally, and became almost warm. "Yeah, you are."

Six blocks down. Her building was close now, just two more blocks. She could see the familiar corner store, its neon sign flickering weakly in the darkness, the bodega where she bought coffee every morning.

"So no interview then?" She tried one more time, unable to help herself.

"No interview," he confirmed. But there was something almost apologetic in his tone now. "But..." He hesitated, like he was weighing something. "What were you gonna write about? Before those guys jumped you?"

"Crime Alley," she said, seizing the opening. "The people who live there. What it's like to exist in a place the rest of the city's forgotten. I've been interviewing residents, getting their stories. Tonight was just... atmosphere. Context. Understanding what it feels like when the sun goes down and the city changes."

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "And you were gonna include us? Batman and me?"

"Not the focus," she admitted honestly. "But yeah. You're part of the ecosystem there. People mentioned you. Some grateful, some scared, some resentful." She paused, watching his profile in the dim light. "What do you think they should think of you?"

"I don't care what they think of me," he said, immediate and fierce, the words coming out almost angry. "I care that they're alive to think anything at all."

It was a good line. Maybe too good, too polished. Like he'd thought about it before, or someone had told it to him. But there was sincerity underneath it too, a bone-deep belief that made her think he actually meant it. 

He was just a kid, though. Idealistic, naive in his own way. Anything could change, so much could change, in just a few years of life for him.

"That's a good answer," she said quietly. Her heart clenched, aching for this boy who'd taken the weight of the city onto his own shoulders at such a young age. She hoped he kept believing in that.

"Of course it's a good answer. I know what I'm talking about." He was scanning the street now, alert, watching for threats even as they talked. Always working. No kid should have to worry about these things, to have to see danger in every shadow. "Your building's that one, right? The brick one with the blue door?"

"Yeah." Seven blocks down. Almost there. "You've got good eyes."

"Comes with the job." They crossed the final street, and he guided her up to the front steps of her building with careful precision. The light above the door was still out,  as it had been out for weeks. In the darkness the colors of Robin's costume seemed to blend into the shadows. "You gonna be okay getting upstairs?"

"I'll manage." She was reluctant to let go of his arm, reluctant for this strange night to end. There was something about him, something earnest and fierce, that made her want to keep talking. "Thank you. For everything."

"Don't mention it." He stepped back, giving her space. His eyes were still assessing, making sure she could stand on her own. "And hey, that article you're writing? About Crime Alley?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't pull your punches." His voice was serious, intense, the playfulness draining away. "People need to know how bad it really is. They need to see what we're up against. What you're up against, just walking around asking questions." He paused, and something shifted in his expression. "You're brave for doing that. Stupid, but brave."

"High praise from the sidekick."

"Partner," he corrected automatically, and she could hear the smile returning to his voice. "Get some ice on those ribs. And maybe consider carrying pepper spray or something next time you decide to play hero."

"I'll take it under advisement."

He turned to leave, the streetlight in the distance reflecting off his black waves from overhead. She watched him take two steps before his name fell out of her mouth without much thought to caution. 

"Robin?"

"Yeah?" He paused, turned back slightly, cape swirling around him.

"Can I ask you one more question?"

He sighed, but it sounded more amused than annoyed. "You're relentless, you know that?"

"It's not about an interview," she promised, though her heart was racing, pounding against her bruised ribs. "It's just...do you really think it's impossible? That journalism can't make a difference?"

He tilted his head, considering the question with more seriousness than she'd expected. "I think most journalism doesn't. Most of it's garbage. Clickbait, propaganda, whatever sells papers or gets clicks."

"But not all of it," she pressed, taking a step forward despite the pain. "What if... what if someone wrote about the real Gotham? Not the sensational stuff, not the Batman think pieces everyone's already tired of. But the actual people living in Crime Alley. The families trying to survive. The systemic failures that put them there." 

Her voice gained strength despite the pain, despite how exhausted she was, because this mattered. This was why she'd come here. "What if someone wrote about how the city's eating its own people alive and nobody with the power to change it gives a damn? What if someone made the people in Gotham Heights actually see what's happening ten blocks away?"

"I'm not trying to be Batman. I'm not trying to save people with my fists. But maybe…maybe I can save them by making their stories impossible to ignore. By forcing people to confront what they've been pretending doesn't exist. Isn't that worth something?"

Robin stared at her mutely. Even through the mask, she could feel the weight of his gaze, assessing, measuring. The silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility, thick with understanding.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "You really believe that? That you could actually make people care?"

"I have to try, at least," she said simply, the truth stripped bare. "Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"

Another beat of silence. Then something shifted in his posture. The tension in his shoulders eased. The defensive edge in his stance softened.

"Okay," he said quietly. There was something like respect in his voice. Something like hope. "Here's the deal. You can use what I told you tonight. About the system being broken, about why we do what we do, about Crime Alley and how nobody's coming to save people who live there." He held up a finger, pointing at her with emphasis. "But you don't mention me directly. No quotes attributed to Robin. You work it in, make it part of the bigger picture. Background, context, whatever. Just... no 'Robin says' headlines. Batman really would kill me."

She stared at him, stunned speechless. Of all the ways she'd expected this night to end, this wasn't one of them. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" But there was something soft in his expression. "You asked what could change things. Maybe you're right. Maybe someone needs to write the truth for once. Make people actually pay attention to what's happening in their own city." He shrugged. "Just... don't make me regret this."

"I won't." The words came out fierce. "I promise. I'll do it justice. I'll—" She broke off, overwhelmed by the weight of what he was giving her. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means."

"Yeah, well." He shuffled his feet slightly, and for a moment he looked every bit the kid he was. Bashful, shy. Uncertain. The bravado disappeared for a heartbeat. "You took a beating trying to help someone tonight. That counts for something. And you actually seem to give a damn about the right things." A pause, then quieter. "Plus, you broke that guy's nose. That was pretty badass."

She laughed, even though her ribs felt like they were on fire. "That's what it takes to impress the kids these days?"

"Not a kid," he corrected automatically, but he was smiling now. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the curve of his mouth. "I'm, what, four years younger than you? In a few years, I could be taking you out. Don't forget about that."

She rolled her eyes, amused despite everything. "I'll take it under advisement."

He turned to leave, two steps toward the shadows. Then, he paused again, glanced back over his shoulder with something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

"You know, most girls I rescue don't try to convince me to give them an interview while they're bleeding."

"I'm not most girls."

"Yeah." His voice was warm. "I noticed. It's kind of refreshing, actually. Annoying, but refreshing."

"Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head." But there was definite amusement in his tone now. "Listen, you ever need help again, and knowing you, you probably will — Crime Alley, midnight. Fridays and Saturdays. I patrol this area heavy those nights. You get in trouble, make noise. I'll hear you."

Her heart did something complicated in her chest, somersaulting over itself. "You're offering to be my personal vigilante bodyguard?"

"I'm offering to make sure you don't get yourself killed doing something noble and stupid." He was fully grinning now, she could tell. Young and cocky and impossibly confident. "Though I gotta say, you're probably gonna be a problem. I can already tell you're the type who's gonna keep finding trouble."

"Only the newsworthy kind," she promised, matching his smile with one of her own.

"Right. Because that makes it better." He shook his head, but there was a grin on his face. "Take care of yourself, princess. And when you write that article? Make it count."

"I will."

"Good." He took another step back. "And hey, next time I save your life, maybe you could at least pretend to swoon a little? Really bruises the ego when a girl tries to turn it into a business opportunity."

"You'll survive," she called after him, unable to keep the smile out of her voice.

His laugh echoed back from somewhere in the shadows, genuine and boyish. "See you around, sweetheart."

And then he was gone. Truly gone this time, leaving her standing on the front steps with his cape still draped around her shoulders, bruised and battered but more inspired than she'd been in months.

She looked down at the yellow fabric, traced her fingers along the edge, felt the softness of it. This had been real. And somehow, impossibly, she'd convinced one of Gotham's most notorious vigilantes to trust her with a story.

She felt something like hope blooming in her chest, pushing back against the pain.

She had work to do.

____

"You're never going to believe the call I just got."

Elliot Grant peered over the tops of his glasses at her from across his desk, hands clasped together in front of his chin like he was praying. 

She'd been doing exactly that when he'd called her into his office the moment she stepped through the door this morning: praying. Wondering if today was the day they finally decided she was more trouble than she was worth.

It was an irrational thought. Ever since she'd published her first bylined article on Crime Alley, weaving Robin's words throughout without directly quoting him, everything had changed. Overnight, practically. The article had resonated in ways she'd barely dared to hope for, drawing attention not just from the general public but from City Hall itself. 

The mayor had sent her a personal letter, congratulating her on such "progressive and vital work." The next day, she had her own desk at the Gazette. Not tucked in some corner with the interns, but a real desk on the main floor, positioned near a window where she could watch the city sprawl below her.

Grant had offered her a full-time position on the spot, promised to work around her class schedule at Gotham U. She'd accepted before he could change his mind, before the universe could correct what felt like an impossible stroke of luck.

Needless to say, there was no rational reason to think she was in jeopardy of losing her spot. And yet here she was, palms sweating against the leather portfolio clutched in her lap, heart racing. She was about to be fired, convinced this was it.

She knew she'd made enemies in the process. The resentment from her coworkers was palpable, a living thing that followed her through the office. It manifested in conversations that died when she approached, in cold shoulders and tight smiles. Older journalists with decades of experience watching a twenty-year-old college student leapfrog over them because of one article.

Grant had faced serious heat for promoting her, she'd heard the whispers through closed doors, seen the way certain board members looked at her like she was a gamble that might not pay off. A girl barely out of her teens with no degree yet, no real credentials beyond one viral piece.

But the numbers spoke for themselves, he'd told the board. Circulation was up twenty percent. People were reading again, engaging, arguing in coffee shops and comment sections about what the city owed its most vulnerable residents. Letters to the editor had tripled. Subscriptions were climbing for the first time in five years.

In the two months since publication, she'd been given her own column, a regular feature where she wrote about the people everyone else ignored. She'd profiled single mothers in the Narrows struggling to feed their kids on minimum wage, their faces lined with exhaustion and determination. Teenagers offered drugs and gang recruitment before they hit high school, kids who should have been worrying about algebra tests and homecoming dates. The impossible calculus of working for crime lords who promised a way out of poverty while ensuring you'd never actually escape, the way desperation made monsters of ordinary people. 

Real stories. The kind that made people uncomfortable, that made politicians squirm when reporters shouted questions about them during press conferences.

Two months since the article had been published. Two months of significantly better paychecks padding her meager savings. Two months of her parents calling with reluctant pride in their voices, admitting maybe she'd been onto something after all, that perhaps Gotham hadn't been the death sentence they'd feared. Two months of spotlights shining brighter on the systemic failures she'd exposed with unforgiving clarity.

Two months, and she'd heard nothing from Robin.

Not that she'd expected to. He'd made it clear he wasn't interested in recognition. She just hoped, quietly, in the small hours when she couldn't sleep and found herself staring at the yellow cape still folded in her closet—that if he'd read it, he'd approve. Most of it had been his words, his sentiments, after all. His anger at a broken system, his conviction that someone had to act when the institutions failed. His fierce belief that fear was sometimes the only language certain people understood. She'd woven it throughout like a thread of gold through dark fabric, given voice to what he couldn't say with his name attached.

She figured if he'd hated it, she would have heard about it. A note left on her fire escape, maybe, written in that sharp, confident hand she'd imagined him having. Or he simply would have stopped saving people long enough to tell her she'd betrayed his trust, that she'd taken his anger and twisted it into something unrecognizable. The silence felt like if not approval, then at least acceptance. Permission to keep going.

Still. Despite her recent success, despite the evidence that she was doing exactly what she'd come to Gotham to do, her first thought when Grant had called her in had been that she needed to start packing up her desk.

She tried not to shift nervously as she stood before him now, digging her nails into her palms behind her back to redirect the anxiety somewhere less visible. The pain helped, grounding her in the present moment. "Do you want me to start guessing, sir?"

"Mr. Wayne's office called this morning," Grant announced, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes were sharp as knives. "Apparently, he wants you to write an article."

The floor dropped out from under her.

Her mouth went dry like someone had filled it with cotton. She had to swallow twice before she could force words past the sudden tightness in her throat. "I'm sorry, sir, but...Mr. Wayne? As in Bruce Wayne?"

Grant looked at her like she'd just asked if water was wet. "Yes, Bruce Wayne. Is there another Mr. Wayne running around Gotham that I should know about?" His tone was acidic. "He wants an article written. He specifically requested us. Specifically requested you."

It was absurd. Impossible, even.

Bruce Wayne—the Prince of Gotham, Gotham's Last Son, whatever melodramatic title the society pages were using this week—was a recluse. He attended the occasional charity gala, smiled for the cameras with whatever supermodel was on his arm that month, wrote checks large enough to fund small countries. But he didn't talk to people. Didn't sit down for interviews. Didn't engage with the press beyond carefully crafted statements issued through his publicist or the Wayne Foundation's PR team, statements so polished and empty they could have been written by algorithm.

He had enough money to buy the city twice over, enough influence to make or break political careers with a single donation or whispered word at the right dinner party. And yet, unlike every other person with that kind of power in Gotham, he wasn't bought and didn't seem interested in buying others. At least not publicly. Most of his fortune went to legitimate charitable causes. Funding halfway houses, rehab clinics, youth programs, scholarships that had pulled countless kids out of Park Row and given them a chance at something better. The Wayne Foundation was responsible for half the safety nets keeping Gotham's most vulnerable from falling through the cracks entirely.

He was untouchable. Unreachable. The kind of man who didn't request interviews because he didn't need to. His name alone was worth more than anything a journalist could write about him.

And somehow, impossibly, he knew her name.

"And he requested... me?" The word came out small, uncertain. She desperately hoped that she'd misheard, that Grant would laugh and tell her he meant someone else, anyone else. Davis with his Pulitzer. Chen with her thirty years of experience.

"He specifically said your name," Grant confirmed, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face like there was something she wasn't telling him. "You want to tell me how the richest man in Gotham knows who you are?"

"I—I don't know him." The words tumbled out too fast, edged with panic she couldn't quite suppress, couldn't quite hide behind her professional mask. "I've never even met Bruce Wayne. Are you sure he asked for me? Because I really think one of the senior writers would be better suited for—"

"Kid." Grant's voice cut through her rambling. "He asked for you. Specifically. By name. Said he didn't want anyone else to do it." He paused, still watching her with that unsettling intensity, like he was trying to read her thoughts through her skull. "And if you really don't know him—" Another pause, more skeptical this time. "—maybe he just liked that Crime Alley piece. Half the city did. No reason to think the guy with the deepest pockets doesn't want another reason to find a cause to throw money at."

She said nothing. Couldn't, really. Her brain had short-circuited, gone to pure static in her continued state of shock. It didn't make sense. Why would Bruce Wayne read her article? Why would he care about the people Gotham's elite spent their entire lives pretending didn't exist? Those people were invisible to the wealthy, to the powerful. They were statistics, problems to be managed from a distance, never actually seen or heard or understood as human beings with names and dreams that mattered.

And more importantly, why now? What had happened to make Bruce Wayne, of all people, decide he needed to talk to the press? Was he running for office? Announcing some massive new initiative? Dying?

"Mr. Grant," she started, forcing her voice steady through sheer willpower, through years of learning to hide what she really felt. "I appreciate the opportunity, I really do, but I don't think there's any way he actually wants me to—"

"Oh no." Grant cut her off immediately, his impassive expression cracking to reveal something harder underneath. Impatience. Maybe even anger, simmering just below the surface. "No, no, no. You aren't turning this one down. Absolutely not. No way in hell."

She stopped mid-breath, taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, by the way his hands had flattened against his desk like he was physically holding himself back. "Sir, respectfully, another writer could take it. Someone with more experience. I've only been writing for a few months, I don't have the credentials to—"

"He specifically requested you," Grant repeated, each word deliberate, final, like a judge delivering a verdict. "Not Davis. Not Chen. Not anyone else on this floor with twenty years of experience." He leaned forward, and for the first time since she'd met him, she saw something almost desperate flicker across his face. "Bruce Wayne hasn't spoken to a news outlet—not a paper, not a magazine, not even a goddamn photographer—in years. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. For you, for this paper, for all of us. We are not turning it down."

"But I don't want—"

"I don't care." The words were flat, brutal. A door slamming shut on any protest she might offer. "I'm sorry if this isn't what you signed up for, but sometimes you take one for the team. That's how this works." His voice softened fractionally, but the steel remained underneath. "Besides, an article about Bruce Wayne with your byline? You'll be known globally. Every major outlet in the world will want to talk to you. Your career will be made."

The thought made her stomach turn violently, made bile rise in her throat.

She didn't want to be known globally. Didn't want her face on CNN, didn't want offers from the Times or the Post or whatever other prestigious publications would come calling with their fat paychecks and their comfortable distance from the people who actually needed help. She wanted to write about the people no one else cared about. She wanted to make a difference for the people who needed help, not write puff pieces about billionaires who already had more attention than they knew what to do with, whose every movement was documented and dissected ad nauseam.

But looking at Grant's face, at the set of his jaw, the finality in his eyes — she knew she didn't have a choice. Not really. This was her job. He was her boss. And turning down Bruce Wayne wasn't just professional suicide, it was institutional betrayal. The Gazette needed this. Grant needed this. Whether she wanted it or not was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She took a deep breath, trying to force back her rising frustration, the sick feeling spreading through her chest. Looked down at her feet because she couldn't bear to meet his eyes, couldn't let him see how much this bothered her. "Alright," she said quietly. Defeated. "Understood, sir. Did he... did he mention what he wants the article to address?"

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. The air in the room seemed to thicken, to press down on her shoulders like a physical weight.

When she looked up, Grant's expression had changed. The impatience was gone, replaced by something she'd never seen on his face before. Something somber. Almost... grief-stricken. His eyes had gone soft at the edges, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"It's not public information yet," he said slowly, carefully, like the words themselves were fragile. "But apparently one of his wards died a few days ago." He paused, and she watched the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. "A kid he'd taken in. Jason Todd."

___

The butler of Wayne Mansion, a kindly older gentleman who had greeted her when she knocked on the front door with a refined British accent, had shown her into the office with a smile that seemed too forced. 

It had struck her how utterly devastated he had appeared. His eyes had been rimmed red, his movements careful and deliberate, like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. Perhaps he had been close with this Jason Todd. 

The office was... not what she expected. Larger than Grant's by a factor of ten, but surprisingly understated for a man of Wayne's wealth. A dark wood desk sat in the center of the room, polished to a mirror shine. Those floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be a requirement for the wealthy, offering a view of the city that looked almost beautiful from this height, almost clean. Bookshelves lined with what looked like actual books rather than decorative spines. She could see worn bindings, creased pages, the evidence of things that had been read and read again. A sitting area with leather furniture that looked comfortable rather than showy.

It felt human, in a way that surprised her.

Bruce Wayne stood by the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city with his back to her. He was taller than she'd expected, broader too, though his perfectly tailored suit hid most of his build. Dark hair, graying slightly at the temples in a way that somehow made him look more distinguished. 

He turned as she entered, and she found herself meeting eyes that were a startling blue, sharp and assessing in a face that photographs never quite captured correctly.

He was handsome. Of course he was, the tabloids never shut up about it, but there was something else there too. Something harder underneath the polished exterior, something that suggested the playboy persona was exactly that: a persona. He looked worse than tired, she realized with a jolt. He looked haunted. 

His eyes were red, bloodshot. His face was ashen, the skin pulled tight over his cheekbones. There was a shadow of stubble on his jaw that suggested he hadn't shaved in days, that basic self-care had fallen away in the face of something more devastating.

She felt an internal pang of self-guilt for judging, for cataloging his appearance when he was clearly in pain. He had just lost someone close to him and here she was critiquing how tired he looked.

His voice was lower than she'd expected when he spoke, quiet and rough around the edges. He said her name first in a comfortable manner like he had said it before. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne." Her own voice came out steadier than she felt, steadier than she had any right to sound. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He nodded once, accepting the condolence without comment, though she hadn't expected much emotion out of him to begin with. His face remained carefully blank, professionally neutral. Considering his background as an orphan, she knew loss was a familiar foe to him. He'd buried his parents when he was eight years old. What was one more funeral?

He gestured to the sitting area with one hand, the movement precise. "Please. Sit."

She did, perching on the edge of a leather chair that probably cost more than her car. The leather was soft, broken in, and she had to resist the urge to sink into it, to let it swallow her whole. He took the seat across from her, not behind his desk. A deliberate choice, she noted. Trying to make this feel less formal, perhaps. Less like an interrogation, more like a conversation between equals even though they both knew they weren't.

He studied her for a moment silently. She had the uncomfortable sensation of being catalogued, assessed, filed away in some mental database. His eyes moved over her face like he was memorizing every detail. When he spoke, his words clipped, stripped of unnecessary decoration.

"I want to publish something for Jason. Something more than the standard death notice. Something that...captures who he was." A pause, and she saw something flicker across his face. Pain, quickly suppressed. "I'd like you to write it."

An obituary. She'd thought…she didn't know what she'd thought. An exposé, maybe. An in-depth profile, a feature piece exploring the life of Bruce Wayne's troubled ward. Something that would take weeks to research and write, something substantial that would justify Grant's excitement.

Not an obituary.

She kept her expression neutral, professional, even as disappointment curled in her stomach. Grant would hate to hear how benign the article would be. He'd expected more, wanted more. She could already imagine the disappointment on his face when she told him. 

Not that she particularly cared. "Of course. What would you like included?"

Bruce Wayne leaned back slightly, his gaze distant, like he was looking at something she couldn't see. A memory, maybe. "Jason was fifteen. Almost sixteen. He came to live with me when he was twelve. I found him in Crime Alley. He'd been surviving on his own for months, maybe longer. His mother had died, father was in and out of prison." His voice was matter-of-fact, reciting information rather than telling a story, like he was reading from a report. "He was smart. Incredibly smart. Resourceful in ways that would break your heart if you thought about it too long. He had a temper—" 

A pause, something flickering across his face too quickly to identify, there and gone like lightning. "—but he cared deeply about justice. About protecting people who couldn't protect themselves."

She wrote it all down, her hand moving mechanically across her notepad even as her chest grew tighter with each word, even as something cold and heavy settled in her stomach. She had tried to research a bit about Jason Todd beforehand, but there was little information on him in general besides a few pictures of a dark-haired boy with sharp features and some basic facts. Bruce Wayne notoriously kept his personal life close to the chest.

"He loved literature," Wayne continued, and for the first time there was something softer in his voice, something almost warm. "Classic novels, poetry. He could quote Shakespeare from memory, would correct you if you got a line wrong. He was... he had this way of seeing through people. Calling things what they were, cutting through bullshit with a single sentence." Another pause, longer this time. "He didn't suffer fools. But he'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it."

The words kept coming, short and clipped, each one carefully chosen like he was rationing them out. Jason liked motorcycles, loved the feel of speed and freedom. Jason was good with his hands, could fix almost anything mechanical—cars, bikes, even the toaster that had been broken for months. Jason had wanted to go to college, maybe study social work or education. Something where he could help kids like him, kids who'd been failed by every system designed to protect them.

Jason was dead, and they were reducing his entire existence to bullet points for an obituary..

Finally, Wayne stopped talking. The silence stretched between them, heavy and expectant, thick with things left unsaid.

"Is that everything you'd like included, Mr. Wayne?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral, stripped of the emotion churning in her gut.

"Yes." He nodded once, sharp and final. "I'll need it by Friday. My assistant will send you the details about funeral arrangements, dates, that sort of thing."

Friday. Three days. Three days to write an obituary for a boy she'd never met, a child who was now dead. That most of the city didn't even know existed. Had existed.

She should have stood up. Should have thanked him for his time, promised to deliver something appropriate and respectful. Should have left with her notebook and her professionalism intact.

Instead, she heard herself ask: "Can I ask you something, Mr. Wayne?"

He raised an eyebrow, curious. The first real expression she'd seen from him beyond grief-stricken blankness. "Go ahead."

"Why me?" The question came out more blunt than she'd intended. "You could have anyone write this. Someone with more experience, better credentials, a name people actually recognize. Why specifically request me?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. Just looked at her with those sharp blue eyes, like he was deciding how much truth to give her. How much he wanted to say. 

"I read your article," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "The one about Crime Alley.”

"I—" She blinked, genuinely surprised. "You did?"

"I read everything written about Gotham's most vulnerable neighborhoods." His voice was still quiet, but there was an edge of something intenser underneath now. "Most of it's garbage. Poverty porn, or journalists playing at understanding what they'll never actually experience. Writing about people like they're statistics instead of human beings." He paused, and his eyes locked onto hers with sudden focus. "Yours was different."

She didn't know what to say to that. Her throat had gone tight again, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Jason grew up in Park Row," Wayne continued. She could hear the grief in his voice again beneath the professional veneer. Subtle, but there. She had seen it this whole time, in the way his eyes flickered when Jason's name was said, how his voice wavered on his name. "I want people to understand what that means. What he survived just to make it to twelve years old. What that kind of neglect does to kids."

He paused, and she saw his jaw tightened almost imperceptively. "I want you to shed light on his upbringing in the obituary. On the reality of what happens to children in this city when every system designed to protect them fails."

Her throat was tight. Too tight. She swallowed hard, forced words past the lump that had formed there. So, she had been wrong. He wanted to shed more light on Jason than she realized. It was just masked behind grief, maybe even guilt. The kind of guilt that came from loving someone and watching them die anyway.

She nodded, kicking herself internally for judging Bruce Wayne too harshly, for assuming he was just another rich man trying to assuage his conscience with charitable donations and empty gestures. "I'll do my best to honor that, Mr. Wayne. And I'm... I'm truly sorry for your loss. He sounds like he was an incredible boy."

"He was." The words were quiet, final. "Thank you."

She stood, gathering her notebook with hands that wanted to shake, preparing to leave. She had her hand on the door handle before his voice stopped her.

"A moment please."

She turned back, hoping she didn’t look too nervous. 

Wayne was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something that made her feel exposed and vulnerable. "That article of yours, the Crime Alley piece. You had quotes. Perspective from someone who clearly understood the reality of vigilantism in this city. Someone who'd thought deeply about why people like Batman exist." A pause. "Where did you source that information?"

Her heart stopped.

She kept her expression carefully neutral, even as panic clawed up her throat like a living thing. "I met a source in Crime Alley. Someone who wanted to remain anonymous. I promised not to reveal their identity."

"I see." Wayne nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth ticked up in something that might have been a smile. It was grim, somehow both kind and devastating at once. Like he had expected that answer. "I only ask because... the words sounded familiar to me. The way they were phrased."

She just stared, keeping her face relaxed through sheer force of will, despite the way her pulse was hammering in her throat. He sounded like he knew more than he was letting on. Why had he asked her about her source? How would he even know she had spoken to Robin? 

No. That was impossible.

"Jason read a lot," Wayne continued quietly, and something in his voice had shifted, had become softer again. "He had...strong opinions about the city. About the systems that failed him. About the necessity of taking action when institutions won't." Another pause, and she saw genuine grief flash across his face now, unguarded for just a moment. "He would have appreciated what you wrote. I think he would have wanted his story told by someone who understood. Who listened."

Her panic melted into something softer, warmer. She relaxed fractionally, seeking Wayne's eyes out with her own. 

That must have been why he requested her specifically. The proximity of what she chose to profile to Jason's life. It was a bold decision, yet somehow touching, that he cared enough to think of these things, to want his ward's story told by someone who might actually profile his home accurately. 

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll have the obituary to you by Friday."

He just nodded in return. The mask of impassiveness had slipped back into place, professional and distant once again.

It was only after she left, after she had started to drive away down the long, winding driveway, that she realized he had never mentioned how Jason died. And she wondered why she hadn't pushed him to tell.

[lilithliria2]

Home alone?...

Habit x fem!reader

You thought you had some time, habit was out and finally left you alone in his house..You decided to take care of yourself for once but.. you didn't hear him come back

For once you were alone in the house, the house was quiet, calm you finally could relax..you

decided to go take a hot shower, and relax watching TV in your room, that's when you thought about it... How long has it been? You can't remember... Well you are alone now, so you decided to take care of yourself for once after all this was going to be a once in a lifetime oportunity

You close your eyes, imagining what you want...what you need, habit... touching and making you feel...your hand starts to softly wonder down your body until you find the place that was already aching to be touched, you let your voice be free still a bit shy about it you continue to touch and imagine the scene

You haven't noticed habit standing in the door looking at you through a crack of the door that you left open his clothes all bloody. He found it rather amusing, you look so vulnerable, so attractive... he opened the door making your eyes shut open as you cover yourself with the blanket of the bed even though you had clothes on.

"Oh don't be shy now rabbit... I saw it all" he said with that stupid smirk he always had, but something in his eyes told you that for once that smirk wasn't because of his arrogance "Why not ask for the real thing huh?" He said crossing his arms

You swallow, not knowing what to do. Habit comes into the room, his shoes making the floor creak a bit "Go on... open your legs" he said, standing at the edge of the bed, in front of you.

"Habit just-""Oh no no, I'm not asking rabbit... It's an order" you sigh, you knew you had to obey him, not that you didn't want to the whole scene made you so...hot all of a sudden. You softly take the blanket off. "Take your shorts off will ya?" He said and you obeyed, taking your shorts off you opened your legs softly for him to see. He left a soft groan at the sight "Go on, show me what you were just doing" he said you blush looking away as your hand goes down again, beginning to take care of yourself again, you bit your lip to try and not make sounds "Tsk, don't hold those sounds rabbit" You swallow again and let them out softly, god you felt so exposed you closed your eyes and after a bit of seeing you all pretty spread out for him he got into bed with you going between your legs and on top of you "those sounds you were making?

Calling my name and all" he said looking down at you " me teach you you place, rabbit"You whined looking away "Look at you, all alone, defenseless at the mercy of a big bad wolf" he teased, pressing himself against you. You whine again finally some contact, god you were so desperate. He smirked at your reaction grabing your chin for you to look at him, he leaned close to your face, so that you cocild feel his warm breath against your skin. "Now you're acting all shy and embarrassed...how adorable, but i do perfer you all whinny and needy" he said, his hand leaving your chin to hold your hip

"Habit please-""Oh? Please what?" He purred, tilting his head mockingly. "Use that pretty little mouth off yours, tell me what you need bunnie...Or do i have t'make ya?" He said leaning in again. You whined "Habit please just- touch me-...please-?"

A cruel smirk formed on his lips as he took inmense pleasure in the way you begged "Oh?

So the little bunny wants me to touch her, huh?" He purred, his hand slowly trailing up your side and under your shirt. "And just how badly do you want it, huh? Beg for it. I want to hear you whine" you sigh blushing hard at his words "You're cruel-" you mumble "Cruel, am I? Oh, darling.. You haven't seen cruel yet." He said as he gripped your hip tighter, pulling you closer to him so that there was no space betweenyou two, his touch feeling electric on your skin.

"Now, I asked you to beg. I could easily just leave you here, all needy and desperate for me.. without giving you what you so desperately want.." He smirked again, your head snaps back to look at him "Wait no habit- please-? I-il be good- just please-"He raised an eyebrow at your desperation, clearly enjoying your begging.

He traced his fingers along your jawline, tilting your head up to meet his eyes "You'll be good, huh? You want me so badly that you'll even play nice like a good little bunny?" Hes hand moved lower "I suppose I could give you what you want, if you're willing to be obedient.." You nodded quickly. He chuckles "That's what I like to hear.. little bunny." He brought his hand down to the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it up and exposing more of your bare skin to his gaze "You're so pretty like this, all flustered and eager for my touch. It's quite.. arousing, you know.." he said with a smirk as he began to bite and such on your chest and neck, his hand going down to keep touching in the place you needed him the most. You let a soft whine she chuckles against your skin "Fuck you are wet doll, all of this because of me? You are such a desperate bunnie huh?" He said as he keeped touching you, you whined and moaned "Mmm how about you beg for it huh?" you blush again "Please

Habit- fuck me please-""Yeah? fuck fine-" He began to unbuckle his belt, he took his pants shirt and boxers off, and he got on top of you again, he looked so.. handsome like that, breathing heavy

He hissed as his cock made soft slaps on your cunt "fuck look at that" he said with a smirk before he aline himself with your entrance and buried himself deep inside you, you gasp, as moans leave your mouth "god you sound like sin doll" he chuckles as he began to breath heavy, he began to move his hips, not fast bur hard, hard and slow. He look hot like this, on top of you all sweaty breathing heavy. He seem to noticed that "fuck- Like the view doll? because shit- you are squeezing me s'tight" he said before he went faster his hips going faster and faster, you moan got louder "fuck thats it baby, scream my fucking name" "Habit-! please-im- close-" you whined as you felt a tight knot in your abdomen, habit groaned "go on doll, come for me, come on my dick" he said with a groan and you did, you came, hard, your back arched and your breathing was heavy after he help you ride your orgams he came too, pulling off before cuming on your abdomen, you eyes were closed, you mind blurry. Then you felt the blanket cover your body before habit moved you close to him "dont get use to this" he he said refering at the fact that you two were close and for once he was just.. being nice..letting you cuddle him..

Hi my loves! I'm still moving houses but this is I think the only full work I have saved.. but here it is in case you haven't read it yet!

Remember to drink water and eat your meals!! Take care of yourself!

[abloodiedbutcher]

EW WHATS THAT? CUTESY ART? SURELY NOT.

HOW MUCH SHOULD ONE OF THESE RUN YA? AND SHOULD I CONSIDER KEYCHAINS OF SLENDERVERSE CREWS LIKE THIS?

[feralratmax]

Hes just in a silly goofy mood :P

No filter + silly little guys ⬇️⬇️

Honestly this work gave me so much trouble. The pose sketch came easy. the flat colours was simple enough. The shading: hell.

No matter what pallet or style i did, nothing matched. It wasn’t visually interesting enough. The pose was dynamic, but that alone wasn’t enough. There was too much extra space on my canvas, and god forbid i do a background.

Anyways. I don’t know what i did to fix the issue. I guess i just kept going and hoped? I don’t remember. I never do. (I enter a trance when i draw i swear to god)

[7trials0f-t0by]

Can we hop on that Habit x Reader fanfic writing but also make it mlm? Thank you. Send

[the-stars-in-your-gaze]

reaching out to touch him to find empty space where he should be

[statiunitidomenica]

I bite my tongue nails as a bad habit

For some reason I always end up studying in absolute darkness (as proved by the pictures 😅) until I realize I can't read anymore because it's way too dark 🙃

I'm still adjusting to the new fall/winter weather and light time. I love fall season but honestly I also loved having so many light hours in summer 🥹

Dividers by: @pixopix