Rose and Shane are having their cute little getting to know each other chat. The vibes are good, the conversation is flowing, and Shane hasn't thought about ilya in like ten minutes (thinking about how he's not thinking about Ilya doesn't actually count as thinking about him, right? It's a grey area). The lights are all warm and intimate, and this place is swanky enough that they've clearly got some kind of noise suppression going on so the conversations at the other tables sound all muffled and far away. It's like he and Rose are in their own private bubble.
"This looks cozy."
Once, Shane had to have a bucket of ice water poured over his head. It was for some charity thing the league had organised, Shane's fuzzy on the details now, but he knows there's a video out there somewhere of him soaked and spluttering, still shocked by the cold, even when he'd been braced for it.
Hearing Ilya's voice, cutting clear through the warm atmosphere, feels like that: like a sheet of ice water that Shane wasn't braced for.
Ilya's smile is all white teeth. "Hollander, you are not going to introduce me? I am hurt."
Shane feels paralyzed. Ilya's presence at his side feels gargantuan, impossible to ignore, like the suffuse heat radiating off a brick wall. But he can't turn his neck to look at him.
Distantly, Shane hears Rose introduce herself.
"Rose Landry, yes. I've seen your movie, the ah one with all the explosions. Ilya Rozanov."
"Oh, I know who you are."
Ilya has placed a casual hand on the back of Shane's seat. He's not touching him, but the small hairs on the back of Shane's neck stand up anyway. Shane becomes newly aware of his breathing, chest expanding in out in out. "Ah, I see. Hollander has already told you all about me. Only good things, yes?"
Rose's laughter is light. "No, I'm from a hockey town. Your name is anathema in my household."
Ilya cocks his head - Shane can just make out the movement in his peripherals. "But not Shane Hollander's? This is surprising, Rose - you do not look like a woman with bad taste. Hollander," and Shane almost jumps at being addressed, instinctively, stupidly turns to look up at Ilya who - who's getting closer, "move over, I need to ahh... Plead my case."
And suddenly Shane is in a booth, sitting across from a beautiful woman who he actually enjoys talking to, with Ilya Rozanov's body pressed up against his side, a constant burning brand; pretending to follow along with the conversation while his whole body is slowly being corroded by acid.
"So the rivalry thing," Rose says, because of course she'd bring it up of course. "You guys just play it up for the cameras, right?"
When Ilya speaks, sotto voiced and conspiratorial, Shane can feel his words reverberating through his body into his own. "Ahh, We give the press their sound bites, mess around on the ice sometimes, but it's all in good fun. Besides," and then Ilya is turning to look at Shane, and his eyes are burning burning burning, like he's on fire too, "I know Hollander loves me."
You know how Dick becomes Robin because Bruce can't keep this ball of fury from scaping home to try and take revenge on his parents murderer? So he decides is better to let him go out as Robin so he can at least supervise him while doing dangerous shit and let him canalize his anger?
Well, enter Danny. Bruce decide to try his luck with a Nanny, and hires Danny, a young adult with good reviews who claims to have a lot of experience with runaway kids. Danny manages to keep Dick in the house, and actually helps the kid process his anger and grief. Bruce of course watches Danny like a hawk the first few months, because he personally needs to make sure Danny isn't a danger to Dick.
Long story short. Robin was never formed. Somehow someway Bruce still gets all his kids, and Danny helps take care of each and everyone of them, and none of them enter the vigilantism lifestyle. Maybe would be good for a Spirit Halloween ship? Of course at some point Danny has to find out about Batman, and maybe the kids find out as well.
I think it would be funny if when sidekicks start appearing left and right, Bruce is part of the few that doesn't have one despite the sheer amount of kids he cares for. I think he still wouldn't exactly judge, he was about to give up before Danny came. It would be hilarious if he learned somehow that in every other universe where he didn't get Danny, all his kids became vigilantes.
pairing: mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader
category: mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, slight violence, quick scene of SH (nothing graphic!), foul language
word count: 6K
dividers: enchanthings
a/n: im starting a new series because i have a serious problem :3 im gonna be honest, im not the biggest fan of pink and the ultrafemme aesthetic just because my personal taste is def more androgynous goth, but after seeing these coquette images on pinterest (sponsor me pls) I just had a mental vomit for this fic series with my love Jason todd. i hope yall like it, enjoy reading <3
˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚/Next Chapter
The shop smells like oil and metal and something that might’ve died in the vents weeks ago. The neon RED LINE AUTO sign outside flickers like it’s having a nervous breakdown. Roy Harper sits on an upside-down bucket, waving a pink-glitter résumé in the air like he just found a treasure map.
“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”
Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”
Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”
Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.
-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink.
What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.
Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”
“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”
“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”
Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”
Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”
Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”
Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.
You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.
“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”
Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”
Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.
You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”
“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”
You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”
You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”
Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”
Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”
“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”
Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”
A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.
When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.
You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”
The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.
As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”
Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.
He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”
Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.
Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.
The door chime jingles.
He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”
You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.
“—late,” he finishes flatly.
“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”
Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.
Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”
“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”
He groans. “No.”
“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.
Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”
Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.
You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.
He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”
“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.
In neat cursive, you start filling columns—
Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs—
all in rose-colored ink.
Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”
“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”
Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.
Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.
Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”
“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.
Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.
Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”
“For ambience,” you say.
“It’s a garage.”
“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”
Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”
Roy perks up. “Beer?”
“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”
Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”
“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”
Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”
Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.
“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”
“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.
“That’s because it’s ugly.”
Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.
After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.
An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.
You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.
He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.
“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.
Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.
Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.
A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.
Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”
The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.
“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”
You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”
The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.
Roy mutters, “Here we go.”
You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom.
“I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”
You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart—
SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.
“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.
The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.
Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.
Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.
“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”
You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.
Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.
The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.
Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.
Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”
Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing.
The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”
Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.
And then the jocks show up.
The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.
You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”
One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”
You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”
They laugh—exactly the response you wanted.
You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”
Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.
As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”
You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.”
They swagger out, laughing.
The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.
Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.
“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.
You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”
He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”
“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.
You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”
Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”
You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.
Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”
Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”
You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.
Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”
Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”
Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”
“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”
Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”
You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”
Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”
Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.
You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”
He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.
“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”
That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.
Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.
“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”
You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.
He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”
“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”
Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.
Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.
Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”
Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”
“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”
Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.
You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.
Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”
“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.
“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”
Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”
Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”
Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”
For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.
Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.
“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.
He blinks once. “Yeah.”
“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”
He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”
You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”
Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.
The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The day feels longer than it should.
It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”
When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.
Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”
Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”
You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”
Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”
Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.
When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”
Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”
“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”
Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”
You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”
Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”
You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”
You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.
The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”
Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”
Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”
“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.
“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”
Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”
Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”
“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”
They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.
The bathroom door creaks open.
You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.
Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”
Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.
You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”
Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”
Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”
You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.
You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.
You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.
Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”
Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”
Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”
He’s not convinced.
You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.
Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.
When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.
He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”
You blink, confused. “Venturi?”
“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”
A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”
You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”
You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.
“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.
You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”
Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”
You tilt your head. “You?”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”
You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.
“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”
He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”
You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”
He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.
Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”
You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”
Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.
He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”
You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.
Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.
But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time.
He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.
He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.
You’re not alone.
Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.
Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.
He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance.
Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.
And then you move first.
You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.
He blinks. “What?”
Pssst.
The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.
Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”
He’s half-blind, reaching for you.
Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.
He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.
“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”
The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.
Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.
You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”
Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.
Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”
Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”
Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”
The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.
A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.
You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”
Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
You arch a brow. “On the bike?”
“On the bike.”
You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”
He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.
The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.
He’s in trouble. He knows it
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.
You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”
Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”
That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.
“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”
He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.
“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”
You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.
Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.
Jason Todd: That I’ll never be good enough for anyone.
Tim Drake: Everyone hates me and talks about me behind my back.
Dick Grayson: Vampires.
Jason Todd: ...
Tim Drake: ...
Dick Grayson: I got turned into one once and nearly killed peoples. It's a bloodlust, you never know when you'll be fully quenched and every non-vampire is a succulent vessel... But I'm not a vampire anymore and that is in my past.
Summary: James Moriarty x fe!Reader -> When you first meet James Moriarty, you're not a fan. Until Sherlock goes missing and things begin to simmer between you both.
Disclaimer: dislike to lovers, slight canon divergence from the show, reader works for the Holmes family, platonic!Sherlock, discussions of marriage, wounds, blood. Hurt/comfort, found family, flirting, language of flowers, probably a lot of historical inaccuracy, light swearing, kinda a long fic.
It was quite clear to anyone who had functioning eyesight, as well as hearing, that you did not like Sherlock Holmes’ new friend; James Moriarty.
You didn’t know why. Whenever Sherlock asked, you would simply shrug and say, “I have my reasons.”
Neither one of you would point out that you didn’t have anything concrete. Only just a feeling.
But that didn’t stop you from seeing the good he brought into Sherlock’s life.
He challenged him. Pushed him. And, held him back when necessary.
Things you were thankful for.
You just wished it wasn’t him.
“Now,” you recognised his Irish drawl. “What did that loaf of bread ever do to you?”
You’d been standing in the kitchen of the Holmes’ residence for just over three hours. Sherlock was on a case until six hours previous when you received word from his brother that Sherlock was, in fact, missing.
Unable to do anything to find him, you turned to the one thing you knew always seemed to calm you when almost nothing else worked; you baked.
Cakes, scones, cookies, bread; anything to help you with your frustration and fear.
When you didn’t answer, James spoke again.
“You’re beating the thing as if it owes you money.”
“Why are you here?” You asked, without looking up.
Not that you had to, to know how he was standing. Leaning against the frame of the open door, one foot crossed over the other with his hands crossed in front of him.
James paused for a slight second. “I was hungry and smelled a fresh loaf in the oven. Came to see if there was any available.”
You sighed. “By the counter.”
He nodded his head, pushing himself from the doorframe. “Thanking you kindly.”
You were that tense and wired, you couldn’t feel his eyes fixed on you as he walked across the kitchen. Nor could you see the way he was studying you – analysing you. The way you stood, the way you moved, the fact you weren’t yelling at him was his biggest worry.
Instead, you just kept kneading the bread over, and over, and over again.
Crossing the room once more, James stood beside you and laid a hand on your arm. You hesitated, but you stopped working the bread for a moment.
And a moment was all he needed.
“He’ll be okay.”
“How?” You asked, not tearing your eyes from the wooden counter top. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I know him.”
You sighed, closing your eyes.
“Knowing Sherlock,” James said. “He’s probably halfway to the docks to ask some poor, unsuspecting stranger a random question. Without context. And get him caught in a two hour lecture about…bees.”
That got a chuckle out of you, but rather than it being coarse and dry – like the usual sound of your laughter when you ‘laughed’ at something he said. Your laugh was…wet. Held together by the tears you were too stubborn to shred.
“He’ll be okay.”
“You should be out looking for him.” You said, your voice unarmed for the first time in his presence. “What if he’s hurt?”
“There’s nothing I haven’t taught him, that I already know. He’s prepared.” James nodded, before adding. “I just hope he listened.”
You nodded, trying to believe it yourself. But from the way you’d gone from pummelling the unbaked bread, to using whatever energy you had left to try and kneed, told James more than he needed to know.
For a second, he hesitated. “I-I’m gonna do something, now, but I need your word that you won’t try and stab with your bread knife.”
Swiping your hand across your cheek, quickly, you tried to steady your voice. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to hug you.”
Looking at James, the memory of your first meeting flipped through your mind as quickly as it took a few seconds to pass.
It had been around the time when Sherlock had thought of the bright idea to help his mother escape her asylum. Although you didn’t like her being in there in the first place, you would have thought he might have written to you to tell you before he came barreling into his home, sounding alarm bells in your head.
As Sherlock and James had searched a couple of the rooms, James had entered the one you were standing in. Rather than announce himself, however, he opted to lay a hand on your shoulder and proceeded to get flipped over you, his arm twisted and a bruise in his shoulder that was an identical match to the bottom of your heel.
Rather than flip him in the kitchen, you accepted the hug.
And when Sherlock came strolling in through the back door, the next afternoon, and found you and James Moriarty not only alone together in a room, but that room was also standing; it was safe to say he was more than shocked.
“Sherlock!”
Laying the hot try down on the counter, you ran over and hugged him as tight as you could.
“I see you’re alive,” James said, taking in the muddy image of his best friend.
“I can see you are, too.” Sherlock replied. “You bake?”
“My mother taught me,” James smiled, leaning on a tea towel and crossing one boot over the other. “Not to say Y/n hasn’t taught me a thing or two in the last day or so.”
Standing back from the hug, you hit Sherlock as hard as you could in the arm. “Where the hell were you?! What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”
He rubbed his arm, a little offended that it hurt him so much. “Ow!”
“I’d answer her if I were you, Sherlock.” James chimed in.
In the last twenty four hours alone, Sherlock had been kidnapped, made friends with his kidnappers, helped them solve their case, cash in on their favour for him, solved the majority of his current case and picked up a new one.
And out of it all, seeing you and James be…friendly? Was that really the best term? It was the strangest thing to happen to him.
“Forgive me,” Sherlock said, leaning across the table hours after his explanation of his day. “But…are you two friends? I go missing for several hours and you two decide to-”
“Decide to…move on quite quickly and find a new best friend?” James asked before nodding proudly. “Yes, I believe so.”
Then you hit his shoulder, hard.
“Ow.” Mostly, he laughed.
“We’re civil,” you corrected, before laying a tray of biscuits in front of Sherlock. “Eat up. There’s plenty more.”
Looking across the kitchen, Sherlock made a mental tally of the baked goods. More than likely, you’d be wrapping them up and handing them out to the people in the village.
“I’m sorry I worried you so much,” Sherlock said, sincerely. He wasn’t always the best at apologies, but looking around, he had no choice but to give you one.
You nodded. “Next time, send a telegram. Better yet, take James with you.”
Sherlock and James looked at each other with slightly knowing smiles. “I’ll be sure to do that,” Sherlock said just as James said, “He can survive without me.”
You didn’t notice, but a look crossed between the boys as you turned away. Sherlock knew what it meant and James wasn’t one bit embarrassed to be caught in his crush.
*~*~*~*~*
“Tell me something,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice quiet.
You’d fallen asleep on the sofa just over an hour into the whiskey filled conversation between the boys. James was sitting beside you, letting your feet rest against his thigh, whilst his hand absentmindedly fell to your ankle and traced against the soft skin.
“Do you like her because she’s the first woman to not flirt back? Or because you actually…like her?”
James looked at his friend, a tired smile on his face. “Can’t be giving away all my secrets, now.”
Sherlock’s face didn’t change. “She’s my friend, James. I won’t see her get hurt.”
“I think she can take care of herself, don’t you?”
“The sentiment still stands.”
James watched Sherlock for a quiet moment, but Sherlock was unwavering as usual.
“A bit of both,” James answered, honestly. “She’s beautiful, and smart. She can keep me on my toes, that’s for sure. I suppose she intrigued me…when she didn’t flirt back.”
“You mean when she told you to fuck off?”
James chuckled. “Yeah. That.”
During your first meeting, after asking who he was, he’d tried flirting with you a little just before Sherlock walked in and properly introduced you both. With his arm still twisted, you’d rolled your eyes at the fact the guy you were physically standing on still had the gall to try and flirt.
That had been when you’d told him to fuck off.
“But, truthfully, I can’t deny that having her argue with me…well,” James smiled. “It’s certainly a highlight of my day.”
Sherlock smiled, briefly, too. But watched as James’ eyes fell onto your sleeping frame. His friend didn’t have to ask his question out loud.
Sitting forward in his chair and laying down his empty glass, Sherlock let out a small breath. “It’ll take time. But- and this is only if you’re serious about your feelings for her. I suspect that somewhere behind all those walls that I’ve seen her build…she’s willing to lower them. For the right person.”
Sherlock bid his friend goodnight before leaving you in James’ hands, which became the physical embodiment of the truth.
After downing the rest of this drink, James stood and gently pulled the blanket from your frame.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”
It took him a try or two, to try and get his arms around and under you without jostling you too much and waking you up. But he succeeded and lifted you from the sofa, before carrying you up the main staircase and towards the general servants area of the house.
Mostly, it was out-of-date guest bedrooms that Cordelia had told you to stay in when she returned with Sherlock since she didn’t like the idea of the cold and dreary room you’d been sleeping in since she’d hired your parents to work in the kitchens and on the grounds.
“Sleep tight,” James told you, though he suspected you couldn’t hear him since you were lost in a dream.
Either way, once he’d closed your door with a soft click, he couldn’t help but hope that his friend was right. Would you be willing to lower your emotional barricades? Would you be willing to lower them for him?
It took six months, eight days and fourteen hours for James Moriarty to get his answer.
All because some stuffy, upper class gentleman who had been a long-time friend of the family’s decided to stick his nose into business where he wasn’t wanted.
He’d arrived one afternoon with Mycroft.
Considering he had nothing else to do that afternoon, a simple carriage ride out with his friend to see the people he cared for sounded like a lovely idea.
“Michael,” you had smiled, almost friendly, before accepting his hug.
“Oh, him you’ll hug,” James said, quietly, as you stood back again and stood just in front of him a little.
“Shush.”
As Mycroft introduced James to Michael, he got an uneasy feeling. Though he couldn’t be too sure it wasn’t because you’d hugged him, rather than flipped him and nearly broken his arm.
“Mrs Holmes,” Michael smiled, gracing the lady of the house.
She blushed, just a little. “Michael, darling. How are you? When Mycroft told me you were coming I was almost certain it was a practical joke! I thought you’d forgotten all about us.”
“Oh, I couldn’t forget about you Mrs Holmes.”
“Cordelia, please.”
He nodded, politely. “Cordelia.”
Raising your chin just a little, you cleared your throat. “Tea, Mrs Holmes?”
“That sounds delightful,” she smiled, warmly at you, before she took Michael by the arm.
“You will be joining us, won’t you, Y/n?” Michael asked.
Cordelia jumped in quickly, nodding her head. “Oh, yes, darling do!”
You smiled and nodded your head. “I’ll be right out.”
“Fantastic.”
Meanwhile, as you went to fetch the tea tray, Michael was led outside by Cordelia. But, rather than follow them, James followed you.
“Oh, Michael,” he said, mimicking your accent. “Michael, how much I have missed you.”
“Shut up,” you told him, hitting him in his diaphragm.
James just laughed. “Is he seriously the kind you’re mooning over? I thought you didn’t like the guy?”
You didn’t look at him. “What gave you that impression?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” James pretended to think. “The tight lipped smile you gave Cordelia when she told you he was coming, the way you stand back in the hallway rather than beside Sherlock like usual. Or how about-”
“Yes,” you said, clipped. “James. I think I get it.”
“So?” James asked, leaning against the counter in front of you.
“So…what?”
“Is it that sort you like?”
You looked at him longer than you usually did before tearing your gaze away and picking up the tray. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
James watched you as you walked away and for the first time…something didn’t make sense to him.
Outside in the garden, Sherlock could practically feel the heat radiating from his friend as he sat down beside him. And it all made sense once he started listening to the rather boring conversation that was taking place between his brother, mother, friend and Michael.
It was the most words, in a calm tone, that either Sherlock or James had heard you utter. And then came the inevitable question of romantic relationships.
Cordelia pressed Michael, against Mycroft’s wishes. Apparently he was yet to find a suitable woman whom he could love. But he was certainly on the market.
James watched as, within a split second, all the attention around the garden table turned to you.
And you hated it.
Surprisingly, you managed to sit incredibly still. James (and even Sherlock) were expecting you to at least fidget with your hands as you spoke. Well, rambled.
“Well, I–”
That was the second surprising thing. You were lost for words.
The third and final surprising thing was where you looked. Rather, who you looked at.
It was just a split second. Nothing more than that. But James saw the look in your eyes. And Sherlock saw the exchange.
“Darling, I was just speaking to your mother,” Cordelia smiled. “She was saying you’d only just spoken to her about this?”
If your eyebrows could have hit the sunshade above you, they would have. Awkwardly, you barked out a laugh. “Oh, um, well, yes!”
God, you wanted to die.
“You’re looking for a husband?” Michael asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Sherlock and James looked at one another rather quickly. They both knew how you felt about getting married so young.
“I’m not against it.”
“You’re just not for it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Is it marrying me? Is that the idea you’re not fond of?”
You groaned. “For the last time, we’re not getting married! And–” You groaned. “Neither of you would understand what being married actually means! It means giving up the very little part of me that isn’t owned by anyone else! Marriage, for centuries, has been nothing more than a business contract between families. Men have the ability to do as they see fit, even in marriage. But not women.”
“But I’m not asking you to give that up.” Sherlock clarified. “I’m just asking you to pose as a couple getting married. You don’t actually have to go through with it.”
The context of the conversation was something different, but even after Sherlock's case of The Missing Wedding Dresses, he’d asked you to expand on your views on marriage.
“Uh, well-”
“Well, I’m certain you are,” Michael announced. “Isn’t it what every young lady dreams of?”
“Not always, Michael,” Cordelia jumped in. “But it can be a rather big adventure. With the right person.”
With the right person.
As James cleared his throat, rubbing his temple and you stood up quickly. “How about some fresh tea?”
James watched your every movement. The lack of eye contact, the speed at which you cleared away the cups and saucers.
And the slight tremble in your hand as you did so.
Plastering on a fake smile, you excused yourself and started making your way back over towards the house.
Finally able to place the tray down and start a fresh pot of tea, James came carefully bounding through the backdoor.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded. “I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stop them when-”
You looked at him for the slightest moment, before looking away again. “You didn’t have to.”
“I should have. We both know you hate the spotlight being on you.”
“It’s fine, James.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Slamming down the teapot in the sink, you closed your eyes. “Please just-” You took a breath. “I’m fine. You should get back out there.”
Only, he didn’t.
Instead, he remained fixed in place between the table and the door, his gaze doing nothing but analysing you.
“Would you stop that?” You asked, noticing him. “What? What is it?”
“Women have confused me…for a long time,” he said. “But you…you are…”
“I am what?”
You continued moving around the kitchen. Pulling biscuits out of the oven, boiling the water, setting the tray back up – all of it done within a fraction of the time it normally took you.
“Utterly confounding.”
“Why, thank you,” you replied, dryly.
“I can’t tell if you like the fella, or if you want to see him dead.” James said. “All I know is that you’re holding something back. And since you didn’t know your mother spoke with Cordelia…there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
James nodded, moving around the kitchen towards you. “Fair point, you don’t. But I can read you.”
For the first time, you stopped moving and turned to look at him, placing one fist on your hip as you gripped the tea towel in your hand.
“You can read me?” You almost rolled your eyes. “Now I know you’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock.”
James nodded. “Probably, but it’s true. And I’m trying to work out if that’s because I’ve known you longer than I expected to. Longer than you expected to, I imagine.”
You nodded without feeling guilty.
“Or if it’s because…”
“Because of what?”
James, again, studied you before standing tall and keeping his hands in his pockets. “Or because you want me to. See, I’ve known you for, what? Almost a year? And in all of that time, you haven’t shown anything to anyone you haven’t wanted to. You don’t talk about things, and you’re hyper-aware of your actions.”
You nodded, just a little. “Well, I grew up with Sherlock. He could be quite the taddle-tale, if you weren’t careful with your secrets.”
“How come I know yours then?”
For a brief moment, you paused. You could admit the truth that had been growing inside of you – developing over the last few months you’d gotten to know James Moriarty. But you still weren’t convinced your answer to that question was correct.
Not yet at least.
So, rather than tell him (and probably satisfy his ego), you shook your head just a little.
“I don’t know.”
From the look in your eyes, James saw your truth; it wasn’t ready yet. You were still working it out. But something was clear.
You didn’t know. Not really.
“Darling, it’s starting to rain,” Cordelia said as she entered, followed by Mycroft who was carrying the sunshade. “So we’re going to take tea in the living room. Is there anything I can bring in to help?”
Before you could answer and tell her you had it handled, James turned around with his cheeky but charismatic smile. “It’s alright, Mrs Holmes. She’s already ordering me about.”
On instinct, you hit the back of your hand into James’ diaphragm. But he surprised you and caught it. And once the others had left and passed through the kitchen to the other door, he turned to you.
Lifting your hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to your palm.
“When you figure it out,” he said. “Tell me.”
You had a feeling by the time you figured it out, he’d already know.
Another few months passed and before you knew it, Sherlock was raising a toast to the year anniversary he and James had met and become friends.
Meanwhile, you were helping Cordelia set up a charity centre that would help children in and around Oxford and London an education, the ability to find apprenticeships easier, and hone their crafts.
“Knock, knock.” You heard the Irish tone say before the English followed.
“We’ve come to make sure you haven’t died.”
“I am very much alive,” you called out with a tired smile before seeing the pair open the door and walk inside. “I was just going over your mother’s diary. She’s got a busy week ahead of her.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Sherlock nodded before he took a tour around your office. “Mycroft told me you had been granted your own office.”
“Your point?”
“He wants to know how his brother knew before he did.”
“Ah,” you nodded, peeling your eyes from James to Sherlock. “Well, if you’d answered the telegraph your mother had sent you, you would have seen whose office it came from.”
Sherlock turned to you. “You know I never check my mail.”
“You should at least check it from your mother, Sherlock.” James told him.
He just hummed, continuing to pace and take in every inch of your new office. Meanwhile, James took a seat on your desk and started rifling through your notes.
“What are you doing?”
“Just checking.”
“What?”
James hummed. “Secret love notes, cipher keys to your beloved. The usual.”
“Ah, and who would this beloved be?”
“Well, I was hoping it would be me.”
You hummed, narrowing your gaze at him playfully, letting him continue. “But since I hear you’re such an independent woman these days– ah ha!”
“Ah ha?” Sherlock asked.
“There is a lover!”
Despite wanting to throttle the pair of them for prying, you couldn’t help but laugh as James took a turn around the room, reading out the supposed love letter.
James feigned a gasp. “Y/n, this is practically a scandal sheet! Oh- he wants to do what?”
“Who is this man? I must defend your honour!” Sherlock played along.
James turned around, laying a hand on his chest and shaking his head. “Not with your fighting skills, dear.”
“Ah, I suppose you're right. How about you, then?”
James shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
You chuckled. “Are you two quite finished?”
“We must make a plan.”
“Yes, a plan!”
Groaning a little, but hiding your laughter, you held your head in your hands but continued to watch the Shakespeare worthy performance in front of you.
As the pair discussed their ‘plan’ to send a fake letter to your lover, then move under the cover of darkness-
“How well does he know the court yard?”
“At the university?”
They both nodded.
“Like the back of his hand.”
“Drats.”
“Change of plan?”
“Perhaps we can blindfold him.”
When they’d finally finished their plan, you had tidied up your desk, put your coat on (with James’ help as he continued to plan with Sherlock), managed to get both of the boys out of the building and locked the building up behind you all.
“There’s just one solution left,” Sherlock said.
“We must take you away.”
“Away?”
They both nodded, letting you loop your arms around theirs as you walked between them both. “Somewhere far away. Far enough to help you and this Barnabus character forget all about each other.”
“Barnabus?”
Sherlock nodded. “We’ve renamed him.”
“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”
“If you think so,” you chuckled.
The story continued all the way back to Cordelia’s London home where it was recounted to Mrs Holmes in full detail over a warm meal and some tea.
“Come on, sleepyhead. I’m practically falling asleep watching you,” James said before he scooped you up in his arms.
You called his name but he barely flinched.
“Put me down! Where the hell are you taking me?”
He paused in the doorway, still holding you in a bridal carry. “To bed.”
From the grin on his face, his words landed exactly how he wanted them to. So, rolling your eyes, you hit his shoulder.
“You’re pathetic.”
“Only for you, dear.” Then he started walking again.
“I can walk by myself, you know.”
“And let you twist your ankle on the stairs? Or fall from being unable to lift your weary limbs.”
By the time he was finished listing the amount of unlikely accidents to happen, he dropped you down on your bed and bid you goodnight in a less gentle manner than he had done the first time he’d carried you to bed.
“Well, here we are.” Then he hummed. “I suppose you're right.”
“That’s a first, coming from you.”
And, despite the laughter from behind the door that had you rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel the faint burn against your palm.
A sensation that only seemed to happen when you were around James Moriarty.
*~*~*~*~*
“Do you ever plan on staying still?!”
Through the darkness of the discontinued factory, you looked at James as he finally joined you behind one of the barrels.
“They were shooting at us! What the hell did you want me to do?”
“Sherlock told me to look after you!”
“I don’t need looking after!”
Another bang from a gun sounded somewhere behind you both before a forgotten barrel on a shelf exploded.
“At least they’re a shit shot.”
“Doesn’t matter how bad they are if they’re close enough!”
Running again, James groaned and ran after you. No doubt Sherlock would scold him if he didn’t – not that he planned on leaving you behind. If he was being honest, he was rather hurt Sherlock thought he had to remind him.
Until he told him the reason why.
You both ran as quickly as your legs could carry you, through the building and out of the back, narrowly missing the flying bullets. But, aside from your lives remaining intact, all that mattered was that you were holding the evidence to prove a boss’ misdeeds against his employees who, no doubt, were probably in the same pickle with Sherlock.
They were just in the town square rather than by the docks.
Taking as many back streets as you both could, eventually you both made it to a street with a carriage. Hailing it down, you handed over the address and made sure the curtains were closed as the horses began trotting in the same direction you’d both ran from.
The men with the guns ran past the carriage, none the wiser.
Meanwhile, inside the carriage, you were still trying to catch your breath.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m…I’m-”
“You can’t breathe.”
“I just need a minute.”
In that moment, James fully understood what Sherlock had meant when he said it scared him.
In recent weeks, you’d begun to suffer with breathing difficulties. Mostly, they stemmed from anxiety or panic attacks.
Only, rather than fall down and back yourself into a corner, you worked through them. Rather, rammed through them. It was bad enough not having your own body know what it was going through; but the thought to have to sit with that feeling?
It churned your stomach.
“C’mere.”
A little panicked at where James was reaching, you stopped him. “What are you-”
“You need to breathe. That corset can’t be helping any.”
You were still struggling to catch your breath and, although you knew he was right, something in the back of your mind was panicking for a whole other reason.
You trusted him. You didn’t think he’d take advantage of you, or use your vulnerable moment against you.
But it was still a vulnerable moment.
“Turn around,” he told you, his voice calm.
You found yourself complying whilst he fiddled with the hooks on the back of your skirt, pulled up your blouse from the back and started pulling at the strings holding your corset together.
“Always thought these things were like torture chambers.”
You hummed. “They’re usually not so bad.”
“Better?”
For the first time, you managed to let out a full breath. “Yes. Thank you.”
You could feel his hand gently pressing against your back. “Just try and take some deep breaths, yeah?”
You nodded, bracing your hands against the frame of the carriage as it rattled over the potholes in the street. Meanwhile, you tried to focus on James’ calming voice as he focused on keeping your breathing.
“How long have you been like this?”
“A while,” you admitted as you finally caught your breath and he helped tie everything back up again, though not as tight. “I don’t know what started them.”
“Stress of the job?”
You shook your head. “It’s the only time I can feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what they are. They just…come out of nowhere.”
“Have you consulted a doctor?”
You laughed. “What? Just so they can tell me I’m being hysterical?”
“Fair point. Maybe you are.”
You hit him in his diaphragm.
“Joking. Joking. I’m just messing with you.”
“Better be.”
James nodded before continuing to hypothesise what could be causing your sudden inability to breathe at random moments. Though neither of you had much longer to talk since the carriage was coming to a stop.
“Not a word about this to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
And, to his credit, he didn’t. He didn’t tell anyone…who didn’t already know.
“How was she?” Sherlock asked as you headed to bed on Sherlock’s orders.
“Exactly as you said,” James replied. “Breathless. Constricted.”
“Constricted? I never said constricted.”
Rather than panic, he remained calm.
“What do you mean constricted?”
James let out a controlled breath. “She needed help. I helped her.”
“I’m aware you care for her, James. But you really need to be careful-”
“Sherlock, nothing untoward happened. You have my word on that.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” James nodded, his voice firm. “Have I really given you a reason to doubt me now?”
Sherlock studied him for a long time. “No. I suppose not.”
James nodded with a little thanks. “I’m gonna go check on her.”
“No, let her be.”
“Why?”
“She needs rest.” Sherlock said. “She’s been swept off her feet since coming to London. I highly doubt she’s had the same rest to balance it out.”
James sighed, pausing by the door. And, for the first time, Sherlock truly saw his friend in a vulnerable state. “I’m worried about her.”
“I know,” Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “So am I. But she’ll only get agitated if we hover.”
James knew his friend was right. He didn’t like that he was right. But he was right nonetheless.
Though it didn’t stop him from worrying about you.
Or checking on you when he woke up in need of a glass of water.
Your bedroom door was wide open, but you weren’t inside.
James found you sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, and far away in your own head.
“Are you alri-”
You nearly jumped out of your own skin. “James.”
He held up his hands as he stood by the door. “Sorry. How long have you been awake?”
“Oh,” your gaze narrowed on the mantle clock. “I don’t actually know.”
James looked around. “Want some company?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
Walking inside and taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, he shook his head.
“Too much excitement from the day.”
You let out a small chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”
For a while, James and yourself talked. He tried to keep the conversation away from the case or anything that would get your brain fully tuning in and working.
And, after a solid hour, it worked.
“Rest now,” he said, softly, running his hand through your hair as you laid your head down against his thigh.
And somewhere between the feeling of his hands running through your hair and the soft hum of his voice, you fell into the first deep sleep you’d had in weeks.
James woke up to a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. “James, darling.”
“Mrs Holmes,” he said, a little shocked. “Is everything-”
“Oh, yes, yes. Everything’s fine. A telegram has come for you, from Sherlock.” Cordelia held it out to him, keeping his voice in a hushed whisper. “It seems rather important.”
“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”
“Would you like me to wake her?”
James almost forgot what she was talking about until he looked down and saw you still fast asleep, his hand on your arm.
“Oh,” he shook his head. “No. Let her sleep.”
Cordelia smiled. “I thought that would be the answer. I just wanted to make sure. You go ahead. I’ll stay with her.”
James nodded, carefully moving you without waking you. And, just as Cordelia took his place, she turned to him as he stood at the door.
“James, dear.”
“Yes, Mrs Holmes?”
“Thank you for helping her sleep,” she said, her tone soft. “I knew she hadn't been resting as much, so this was a delightful sight to see.”
Laying a hand over his heart, he bowed a little. “It was my pleasure.”
You woke up a little over an hour later. At first, you were a little embarrassed. And then worried. But the reassuring smile and hug from Cordelia calmed you.
Your job wasn’t in jeopardy, and neither was your standing within her home.
By the time the boys returned, with Mycroft in tow, they were bleeding.
“Jesus,” you breathed, standing quickly from your place at the kitchen dining table. “What happened?”
“Sherlock! Oh, my- James!” Cordelia called out as she took in the sight of them both.
Mycroft was the only one unharmed.
As you were gathering spare, clean rags and some warm water, Mycroft and his mother helped the boys into their seats.
Apparently one of their suspects didn’t like the idea of getting followed. But, at the very least, they knew they were on the right track.
“Look at me,” you instructed as you turned James’ head to look at you. Not that you needed to force him all that much.
“You look well rested,” he told you.
You nodded, quickly. “And you look like you’ve just lost your first fight.”
“I’ll have you know, I won this one, actually.”
Sherlock nodded, trying to escape his brother’s attempts at cleaning his wounds. “He actually did. Saved my bacon, too.”
“Thank you, James.” Cordelia said, reaching over and squeezing his hand, briefly.
“At least someone has thanked me.”
“I had it under control.”
From the back of his head, Sherlock felt you hit him.
“Ow.”
“Thank him. God only knows you’re terrible at fighting.”
Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I do owe you thanks, James. So…thank you.”
“That’ll do.”
Holding Sherlock still, you placed a separate cloth against his wounds before handing him back to his brother. Meanwhile, you returned to James.
And you tried to ignore the way he was gently holding his hand against your thigh.
“And you should know,” James told you. “I lost my first fight ages ago.”
You hummed. “Really? When?”
“Against you.” He smiled. “Don’t you remember?”
“I just remember you being an arse.”
“Seems the only time I’ve actually lost a fight has been against you. Sadly, multiple times.”
“You don’t sound so beat up over that,” you said, because he didn’t.
He seemed happy. Amused, even.
Then you finally looked him in his eyes, and not at his wounds. And he was practically beaming.
“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”
Thankfully, Mycroft broke the tension that was growing quicker than usual between both yourself and James Moriarty.
“Would you stay still?”
With a heavy sigh, you rounded behind James and shoved Sherlock back into his seat.
“It hurts!”
“James?” You asked, looking at him.
He just nodded, placing both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring him into his seat. “Stay still.”
“I regret ever going missing now,” Sherlock announced. “If I hadn’t, you two wouldn’t have become friends.”
“Don’t feel too bad, Sherlock. I’m sure I’d still be holding you down to help her if we weren’t friends.”
“Did anyone ever tell you- Ow!”
You smiled, briefly, holding up the shard of glass that had lodged itself in Sherlock’s arm. “It’s out.”
“Now I’m bleeding.”
James leaned down. “You were already bleeding.”
“But, now, I’m bleeding more.”
“Stop complaining,” you told him.
James smiled. “Listen to the woman, Sherlock.”
“Are you well, James?”
“I’m less beat up than you – I’d say so. Why?”
Sherlock lifted his head to look at his friend. “Because you never agree with Y/n.”
You didn’t look at either of them as you cleaned out the bleeding wound. “He’s open to learning, unlike some people I know.”
“If you mean me, I am open to learning.”
James leaned down, again. “Ah, but do you listen? You might find you learn more, that way.”
“If us being friends bothers you so much, Sherlock,” you sighed. “Maybe you should have sent a wire to tell us where you were.”
“You still haven’t forgiven me about that?”
James stood tall, crossing one boot over the other. “Didn’t you know her grudges have an excellent shelf-life?”
“All done,” you announced.
James smiled, lifting his hands from his friends shoulders. “See! It wasn't so bad.”
“Ah, I believe it’s your turn, James.”
Sherlock stood, with a proud smile. Though James didn’t need any help being held down to stay still. He was rather pleased that, despite the pain, he got to stay within your vicinity – even if you did take to scolding him every once in a while.
“Don’t they give you a headache, mother?” Mycroft asked, leaning over.
“No more than you boys did growing up,” Cordelia smiled. “Besides, it reminds me of being at home. There’s never a quiet moment. I can’t stand the quiet anymore.”
Mycroft gave her a reassuring smile, taking her hand in his.
In the meantime, Sherlock ran over everything that had happened whilst working the case and you cleaned the cuts across James’ face, arms and hands.
That case was cleared up within the week.
Though it wasn’t long before Sherlock was sticking his nose in somebody else's business and dragging James with him. And, by proxy, yourself and eventually Mycroft.
*~*~*~*~*
“I’m home, dear!”
Without looking up, you continued writing out your letters that would be sent to every wealthy friend who couldn’t say ‘no’ to Cordelia Holmes.
“Is there a reason you’re bothering me in the middle of the day?”
“I thought I might check in on you,” James said, looking around your office, though his eyesight always landed back on you without fail. “Make sure you aren't overworking yourself.”
“As you can see I am perfectly fine,” you smiled, still not looking up. “But still rather busy.”
“Do you ever actually leave your office?”
“Yes,” you told him. “In fact, I’m due to meet Mrs Holmes at the Charity House. We have another shipment of sheets and general medical equipment coming in.”
You could hear the smile in his voice. “A baker, a maid, a secretary and now…a nurse?”
You chuckled. “Sherlock and yourself aren’t my only patients.”
“Don’t you have to be medically trained to help?”
“That’s why Mrs Holmes has hired a resident doctor,” you said. “We all help out where we can. Anything major gets an appointment at the hospital. You might think about volunteering at some point.”
“Oh, I might?”
You nodded, looking at him. “You might. It would keep you and Sherlock out of trouble.”
“Do you really think you can keep me and Sherlock out of trouble?” He asked, leaning forward against your desk.
You hummed. “Probably not. I figure by now it’s soaked into your bones.”
James hummed, too. “Souls, you might say.”
“That would figure you were born into it, would it not?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
You kept your gaze fixed on his. And whilst his eyes searched yours, a smirk started to develop on his face.
His voice dropped a little lower. “D’you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you like me,” James said, rather confidently, though quietly. “And I also think you want to see more of me.”
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “Yes, I believe it is.”
“So…going ahead with your theory…if I asked you to come with me to the House and help out…what would you say?”
He smiled, his eyes landing on the small vase of flowers by your desk. A small vase of cornflowers and baby’s breath.
Hope in Love. Purity and Innocence.
“I’d say…” James leaned over, plucking a single stem of baby’s breath and a simple bloom of cornflower, before leaning closer to you and tucking the small bunch behind your ear. “Anything for you, my dear.”
In the two afternoons a week he spent volunteering at the Charity House with you, helping entertain the children with stories, and helping hold patients steady as the doctor helped clean their wounds; you got to see his vulnerable moments.
And he got to see yours.
Whilst he simply collected visual evidence of something he already knew, you caught passing glimpses of his softer side.
“You’re good at this,” you smiled as yourself and James walked down the street and towards the carriage.
“Good at what?” He asked.
“Entertaining,” you clarified. “Teaching. Keeping people calm.”
“Ah,” he chuckled, lowering his gaze to his feet. “The art of distraction.”
“Call it what you want,” you said. “It works. Do you have siblings? I’ve never heard you mention any but the way you are with the kids…you’ve got a natural talent.”
James scratched the back of his head. “Just a brother. But my ma tended to a couple of the local families in the village. Believe me, I’ve cleaned more scraped knees and stopped fights than you could count.”
“And I suppose, taught them how to properly defend themselves, too?”
James chuckled. “I suppose. But if my mother ever asks, you don’t know that.”
You nodded. “Duly noted.”
Helping you into the carriage, quickly followed by Cordelia who had finally said goodnight to the doctor, James sat beside you.
And when the carriage shook from the pothole in the road, and James held out his arm to steady you, you weren’t quick to throw him away from your reach.
*~*~*~*~*
Later that evening, as Sherlock balanced the needle of the gramophone to his mother’s favourite song collection, James held his hand out to Mrs Holmes before leading her to the make-shift dance floor in the middle of the living room.
Somewhere between the laughter and slightly out of time dancing, as Sherlock tried his best to avoid stepping on your toes, Mrs Holmes whispered something to her own dance partner.
“I believe someone’s feet are in need of saving.”
It didn’t take much for James to catch on to what Cordelia was telling him. Stepping across, Cordelia pulled her son away and into her arms, laughing about how he used to dance as a boy.
Meanwhile, James held out his hand and, despite the pull you felt in your gut – that awkward, yet excited feeling that usually would have had you pulling your hand away and politely saying no – you went with it.
Taking his hand in yours, over the next thirty seconds, you came to realise just how much James Moriarty had been keeping from you.
Because he was rather an excellent dancer, despite the context. He didn’t step on your feet, led you rather than you leading him; all whilst being light on his own feet.
And you had never known.
But it was a relatively nice surprise.
“I shall bid you goodnight, my darlings,” Cordelia's soft voice smiled before she kissed each of you on the top of your heads.
The dancing had long been put to rest, but the conversation had followed far into the evening.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she told you. “And do try to stay out of trouble.”
“Of course, mother.”
Sherlock soon followed his mother, James saying he wouldn’t be long behind him. But, finally being left in silence together, yourself and James cleared away the glasses and half empty decanters.
“I have a question I’d like to ask you.” James said, breaking the silence.
“Should I be worried?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to him, finding him already looking at you.
“Maybe,” he answered with a grin. “Probably.”
“Then I await your question in trepidation.”
James chuckled, feeling the warmth of the dying fire. “There’s actually a few questions I’d like to ask you, but I’ll stick to one for now.”
You looked at him, and nodded. “Okay then.”
“Have you been sleeping? Well, I mean.”
Taking the short stroll from the window to the mantel, you nodded again, placing your hands behind you. “I have, if you must know.”
“Good.”
“I believe the reason for that is…down to you.”
“Down to me?”
You nodded. Again, you felt that pull inside of you. But rather than excusing yourself and locking yourself in your room for the rest of the evening, you decided to follow it.
“Whenever I can’t sleep…I think of you.”
“Oh…right.”
“Not in that way.”
James chuckled, a little nervous. “Right. No, I suppose not.”
“But certainly the memory of you,” you told him. “That night…in here…it was the first time I felt…” You took a breath, unable to break your gaze away from his. “Safe. At ease.”
James took a small step closer towards you. “That’s a lot…coming from you.”
“I suppose so.”
“What was it that you called me, when we first met?” James looked away and down at your waist before looking back to your eyes once more.
“A half-wit?”
“No.”
“A reckless one?”
“Closer.”
James took another small step towards you.
Then it hit you. “Ah, a reckless idiot?”
James nodded. “Actually, I think your specific words were ‘reckless, untrustworthy, idiot’. Have to say – you were pretty spot on with that insult.”
You bobbed your head. “Well, you did think the best course of action was to sneak up on a woman.”
“Well, I did learn my lesson.”
You chuckled. “You did.”
“What…what I’m trying to ask you…” Never in his life had he been this nervous to talk to a woman.
“Do you still believe that?”
“That you’re reckless? Or untrustworthy? Or an idiot?” You asked, quickly, with a confident tilt of your head. “Because I have a different answer for each.”
The feeling of James’ heart sinking in his chest when you asked him the specifics of his question, came to a grounding halt when you finished your sentence.
This time, you took a step closer towards him. Instinctively, his hand came to your waist, trying not to hold onto you for dear life but also trying to keep you tethered to him so he had at least one memory of holding you close; in case everything blew up in his face.
“I do think that you’re still reckless,” you told him. “But only when you have to be. I still do worry about you and Sherlock from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if one morning I’ll find your names printed in bold in the paper.”
Your hands pressed gently against his waistcoat and the sleeve of his shirt.
“In terms of you being an idiot, well, for as long as I live both you and Sherlock will both be idiots to me. Stupid? No. Well, unless we’re counting the time you two thought it was wise to pose as policemen to break into a jail.”
James chuckled a little. “Even I have to admit, it wasn’t exactly our brightest moment.”
You smiled gently, before making sure he looked you in the eye for what you were about to tell him.
“But if you’re asking if I think you’re untrustworthy?” You took a breath and shook your head. “No. I don’t think you’re untrustworthy. Not anymore. I’ve seen you with your friends, and with the people closest to you. I’ve seen how you’ve treated strangers in their lowest moments, and in their highest.”
Gently resting your palm against his cheek, you continued talking.
“But most of all…I have seen how you’ve treated the moments I’ve shared with you. I don’t trust easily, James. But rather than judge me for that…you listened. And you learned. And you…you made a safe space for me to be…me. Without judgement and without fear.”
“There have been plenty of times where you could have used something against me,” you continued. “Sadly, I’ve known people who would have. But you didn’t.”
“I’d never. Not for anyone I care for. Especially you.”
With his hands anchored at your hips, he pulled you closer to him before he lowered his head against yours.
“I know,” you smiled. “I know. And that is why I trust you, James.”
Closing his eyes, James breathed you in, solidifying a memory of you both that in his darkest moments, he would use as a lantern to guide him home.
You could feel his straining resistance as he tried not to ruin the moment. One of his hands anchored themselves at the base of your skull, under your hair; either to pull you in and kiss you, or to keep you away from him in case the reality of kissing you was more than his existence could handle.
But you trusted him.
Gently, you swiped your thumb back and forth against his cheek.
“I trust you, James,” you said, your voice soft and calm. “I trust you.”
Looking at you, his gaze flickered over yours, searching for a physical answer. So, you nodded a little and repeated yourself.
“I trust you.”
Finally, he kissed you.
He kissed you like it was the last thing he would ever be able to do in life. As if he was begging with God Almighty to let him live just a moment longer, just so he could kiss you.
Your hand circled to the back of his neck, in order to pull him down closer to you.
By the time morning rolled around, neither of you spoke about what had occurred the night before. You knew you would, eventually, when the room was safe from prying eyes and ears.
Ultimately, when the time did come for people to find out, the only one who didn’t seem surprised was Cordelia.
After all, she knew what it looked like when two people who had grown to love and care for each other. Even if you didn’t have the most conventional start with one another.
