Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:
Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.
You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.
When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.
A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)
Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)
The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.
Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.
Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.
Tim obviously grew up going to galas and he has to do them to represent Wayne industries, so he goes the most, because of that though he is really unbelievable good at leaving before it’s over without being noticed and disturbing people enough to stop talking to him, Bruce genuinely struggles to get him to stay in the building since he either leaves or gets asked to leave
__
Tim, being yapped at by a socialite:
Bruce, glaring at him across the room: don’t.
Tim: >:/
Bruce: Timothy. Don’t you dare
Tim:
Tim: hey did you know that spinal fluid tastes like battery acid?
Socialite: … sorry?
Bruce: oh for the love of-
__
Bruce: oh and here’s my wonderful son-
Bruce, turns around: -who isn’t here apparently
Tim, downstairs bribing a security guard into letting him out: I will give you like.. 3 million to leave
Guard: Jesus I don’t get paid enough for this..
__
Tim, appearing from nowhere: Lucius.
Lucius, incredibly tired: go bother your dad.
Tim: nope, do you wanna get ice cream?
Lucius: do you just want me to drive you into the city?
Tim: please.
Lucius: I’m a CEO why on earth am I doing this.
__
Tim, shoving a hoodie over his suit: this is so easy
Bruce: has anyone seen my son??
Tim, Doing the brandon Rodger’s voice: he’s about this tall, clearly gay but we haven’t had the talk
Bruce, yelling into a empty room: TIMMY ARE YOU IN THERE
Tim, losing his shit: pft-
__
Tim, calling Kon: ok so if I get on the roof, can you come get me?
Kon: that depends is the big bat there?
Tim, looking over at Bruce:
Bruce, gossiping with a swarm of old ladies:
Tim: I don’t think that’ll be a issue he’s distracted
__
Socialite: how are the sales going?
Tim, lying out his ass: awful, I sold my assistants dick and still can’t pay off the 400 lines I took.
Socialite: I- wait want your assistant a woman?
Tim: she is now
__
Tim, scaling a wall: can you see him?
Duke, perched on top of the wall with binoculars: no I think we’re still clear
Tim: I forgot how hard climbing in a suit is
Duke: yeah it’s honestly probably why B makes us wear them
Tim: yeah you’re right
Bruce, also standing on the wall, no indication of how he got there: you are.
Tim:
Duke:
Tim, throws himself of the wall and run:
Duke, turns invisible:
Bruce, sighing: why do I try.
__
Tim, fucking with the security cameras on his phone:
Bruce: stop it.
Tim: stop what?
Bruce: you know what
Tim, fakest innocent eyes ever: what ever do you mean?
Bruce, gestures vaguely at the rotating security cameras:
Tim:
Tim: you can’t prove that’s me
Bruce: yes tf I can
__
Tim, walking next to Bruce: that was a good party
Bruce, hasn’t seen him since they got there, thought he left: ??
Tim: what?
Bruce: you were still there??
Tim: I figured after the dr freeze attack you would’ve noticed if I left since you’ve been on high alert
Bruce: honestly? I thought you left hours ago
Tim:
Tim: so the one time one time I could’ve left I didn’t.
Bruce: apparently
Tim, deep inhale:
__
Tim, draped over the backseats of the car: b I don’t know why they asked us to leave
Bruce: …
Bruce: Timothy you described the best ways to cook and prepare human meat to a 80 year old veteran.
Tim:
Tim: listen I’m just saying the hands feet and chest are considered the best cut of meat from the human body-
Carpophorus was dressed up all fancy, a bag of goldfish and a juice box were packed for him in the baby carrier pockets. He was ready to go. He banged against the front door of the hangar, looking back at Kilroy. He was very excited.
“lala time?”
@babyfromwhere
*He chuckled and walked over to the boy while knotting his own tie. He checked his watch. It was an hour earlier than they planned to get ready, but sure! What harm did being early do?*
“Yeah? You excited for the gala? Did Hermes get you ready?”
More about Rena's job she works for Vicky Vale and Edits her papers and other assistant stuff, Vicky occasionally makes Rena go to Galas with her to lure people towards her (it's shitty), tho Rena does get paid extra when she does agree to go.
Rena also absolutely hates Bruce as a billionaire, as a father to Jason, she mostly suspected Jason as Robin but never found out till after his death and a new Robin showed up.(edit: Bruce doesn't remember her or that she dated Jason)
A Gala is also where Jason and Rena first see each other and the ensuing conversation
C.W.: missions, galas, Spain, banter, pre-FATWS, no usage of Y/N, tried to keep Reader as vague as possible (might change in the future), Reader is Widow-trained but mostly uses training for combat training and espionage, dives a little into Black Widow plot, somewhat bilingual (2nd half is set in Spain, tw: Spaniards), no smut yet but will have (so MINORS DNI), smidge of exhibitionism (for the mission, right?)
A/N: If fleshed out how I want it to be, this should be a 4-part story: the Prologue I & II (pre-FATWS) and the Epilogue I & II (during FATWS or CA:BNW). Please, please, please, if anyone wants to proofread future stories, please lmk.
Pairings: Lt. Joaquin Torres x WidowTrained!Reader
Joaquín met her when they were both just starting out in the Air Force—young, restless, and burning off the weight of training with cheap drinks and too-loud laughter in some forgettable dive bar. She was adaptable, mostly quiet, and knew when to get rowdy to keep the vibes going. She wasn’t in his cohort, just another face in the sea of military friendships that came and went. He’d be lying if he didn’t try to get to know her a little in the beginning, but something in her eyes or tone said she wasn’t interested - he’s been met with rejection multiple times to know that tone - and left it at that.
Over time, though, their paths kept crossing. Base assignments, joint training sessions, overlapping missions—until familiarity turned into something steadier. As they climbed the ranks in their respective fields, their work intersected often. But while Joaquín’s role was clear, hers always felt… murkier. She never volunteered details, and he never asked. Still, he noticed things—the way she disappeared without explanation, the way her conversations died the second anyone entered a room. Whatever she did, it wasn’t standard military work.
"Remind me what you’re working on these days," he said, securing the wraps around his knuckles as he eyed the punching bag. He had just arrived at the gym as she was gearing up to leave.
She hummed, filling the environment with a light-hearted air. He knew better, she thought, so she shrugged, “Stuff.”
He chuckled back, shaking his head. “Always so secretive, swear to God,” he muttered, and continued wrapping the other hand. He looked up at her for a moment, and found her smiling at him. She shrugged again in an “oh well’ manner, and went for the exit.
Joaquín felt his chest swell after she left, the flirty look she gave him engraved in his brain - and soon doubting himself if it was something he thought he’d imagined. He wished she’d stay a little longer to get to know her more.
She wasn’t like that. Or at least, had never seen her be flirty.
Deep down, she had to admit—he was cute. Not in an obvious, heart-stopping way, but in that boy-next-door kind of charm. Annoying at times, sure, but somehow still endearing.
"Hey!”
They were in the hallway now, the door clicking shut behind them as Joaquín lingered, still gripping the handle. She arched a brow, waiting. Seconds stretched. His lips parted slightly, as if a thought had almost formed, then—nothing. Joaquín, who always had a sharp remark, a clever comeback—something—found himself choking on silence.
Her brow furrowed. “No, yeah, good talk,” raising her thumb after a few long seconds.
“No wait,” he sighed, jogging toward her. “Listen, listen. This is… weird… to say,” he started, “and I acknowledge that, but I really don’t know anything about you, and…”
“Yeah….”
He sighed, “I’m not trying to come off wrong, but I’d really like to know you more, what you do – here, at least, you know? I’m just generally interested in your… line of work.” He swayed side to side in his words, trying to find the correct wording to things.
She considered his words. Trying to figure him out, understand what he can or can’t keep up with. He was smiling sheepishly, hoping she would open up a little by his nervous smile. But he was just irritating to look at, at this point, and turned away to walk towards her room, ignoring his protests.
Poor Joaquín Torres didn’t know what he was up against if she took up his request.
-
But of course, that wasn’t up to her, because if there’s something he’d do, is find a way.
“I guess I’ll be joining you and the others for this one, huh?” He walked alongside her, too distracted by his own achievement of joining the woman next to him on the mission she’s leading, to notice her fuming. “I mean, it’s nice, and seems pretty straightforward, and–” in an instant of a moment, she grabbed his arm and shoved him in the nearest supply closet and debated locking him in before stepping in herself and setting things straight.
“Listen to me carefully,” she whispered inches from his face, a finger on his chest keeping him in place. This was the closest in proximity she’s ever been to him, her closeness putting him at unease. “You will hear my orders; you’ll follow my lead. Do I make myself clear?”
He looked down at her, the proximity intoxicating him, stilling him. Her face was lethally calm, collected, and serious. He wondered how she could express so much in her voice, while remaining cool and in charge. Something about this was new territory for him, but a new high was building; an excitement that was new to him. He wasn’t sure if it was her pointed finger giving this effect, but he felt his chest clench.
“Do I make myself clear?” she repeated, emphasizing each word. She dug deeper into his chest through his uniform, snapping him out from her trance.
He nodded stupidly. “No, yea-yeah, yes ma’am.”
She held his gaze and groaned after a while, resting her hand on her waist while the other ran through her hair, a headache already taking place. “Jesus.”
She took a moment to think ahead and plan the debriefs, the strategies, the roles her teams were going to have to play in this mission, and how Joaquín could be an active player in all of this…. from a distance.
“I think you should have a little faith in me,” Joaquín said, his voice light but laced with sincerity. She studied him for a moment, taking in the way his expression softened just slightly—earnest, hopeful. He was an eager guy. She’d give him that. “I’m just trying to learn, that’s all. I think it’ll be good to be a sort of jack-of-all-trades type, you know? Kick ass,” a karate chop, “be the ‘computer guy’,” fingers feigning typing; that earned him a scoff, “do spy stuff–”
“‘Computer guy’?”
“Yeah, the-the guy with the comms and stuff in the mission and the-” he snapped his fingers trying to find better words.
“Yeah I don’t know….”
“You do know,” he said, exasperated.
She blew raspberries, “You mean like a Communications Specialist?”
“Well, sure, and–”
She smirked. “Ok well, you have to get better at communicating,” she chuckled
The corner of his mouth twitched at her teasing, but something about the way she laughed, effortless and a little self-satisfied, made something twist in his chest. He tried to ignore it. Instead, he exhaled sharply and cocked his head. “Oh, you think you’re funny?”
“Yeah, hilarious, actually,” she stated matter-of-factly. She bobbed her head side to side, “It’s a burden, really. A gift and a curse.”
Joaquín let a beat pass before he gave her a lazy, knowing smirk. “Yeah?” His voice was lower this time, something smug and amused settling into the word. Something about that Yeah sent an inexplicable shiver up her spine. “More like a curse, I’d say.”
She clutched her chest, feigning hurt. “Woah, that was almost as sharp as my wit.”
“Yours is as sharp as a butter knife. Dull and mildly annoying.”
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh please Joaquín, that’s all you.”
He mirrored her stance, crossing his arms right back, eyes twinkling. “And yet, here you are. Must be captivated,” he grinned.
She rolled her eyes, and started towards the door, “Whatever, more like suffering through it with grace.”
“Ah!” He nodded his head with a gotcha look, “so you admit I have a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Yeah… ‘je’ no sé why I’m still talking to you,” she waved him off and started walking out of the supply closet. "Just, follow my lead when we get to Spain." Joaquín rocked back on his heels, smiling curiously to himself.
“Wait! So, when do we go into the details?” he called after a distance.
She didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around—just threw up a lazy wave over her shoulder.
-
It was during this mission that Joaquín started to understand her a little more. Before, she’d always been a bit of a mystery—never offering much about herself, never filling in the gaps. She never liked talking about herself. Maybe it was habit, maybe it was survival, but letting people in had never been something she did. Information was a liability. It could be twisted, used against her, turned into a weakness. And yet, here she was—sharing pieces of her past over frozen yogurt on a quiet evening in Madrid.
“I’ve heard about the Red Room, thought it was just a conspiracy,” he mused, spooning another bite of frozen yogurt into his mouth.
“Nope, was the real deal,” she nodded.
They had just wrapped up an infiltration, posing as CIA informants to dismantle an underground operation. Joaquín had handled himself well, but tonight, for the first time, he seemed to really see her. Not just as a teammate, or someone filling in the gaps between departments, but as a whole person—one with a history, one with ghosts.
“So why the Air Force?” he asked after a beat. His voice was casual, but there was something beneath it—genuine curiosity. “I mean, with everything you know, why not just—” he gestured vaguely, “S.H.I.E.L.D. or something?”
She considered that, tapping her spoon against the rim of her cup. “Oh, I am,” she admitted with a chuckle. “That’s probably why you barely see me.”
Joaquín blinked, then leaned back in his chair, nodding as realization settled in.
“What Dreykov did, it was rough. All of the Red Room thing in its entirety. But I learned to fly planes, it was my specialty, or trained mostly on. I figured the Air Force was the most straightforward choice. I just needed approval to join since ‘immigration’ and whatnot,” she yawned.
Joaquín hummed in understanding. He respected that. No probing, no need to drag out things she wasn’t willing to elaborate on.
He scraped the last of his frozen yogurt from the cup and grinned. “Alright, last question.”
She deadpanned. “It’s never the last question with you.”
“Promise, this time it is.” He held up two fingers in mock oath before leaning in slightly, eyes glinting. “Did you ever meet Natasha Romanoff? Like, the Avenger?”
She gave him a long, unimpressed look.
Joaquín just grinned wider.
She chuckled. “Nah.” She tried recalling back to her time while training, and heard about the infamous redhead that escaped Dreykov’s reach. She was the reason the Widows became chemically rewired to follow his orders–not that she blames her or anything. She mostly remembers the scientist one, Melina; she’d show up on base from time to time. “Anyways, I’m tired, and we have an early plane to catch tomorrow.”
As expected, his “last question” was never really a last. Walking to the hotel, he kept asking about her past, what she remembers about her childhood, questions about the chemical that had the Widows under Dreykov’s spell. A lot of them she didn’t really care to answer, others were just too personal to share. It was getting really exhausting, until she told him to shut up.
“How’d you learn Spanish?” he finally asked. It was like she told him something from one ear and out the other.
“Huh?”
“Don’t think I heard that little ‘no sé’ lingo in there from last week,” he shimmied. “Even here, hearing you speak Spanish, it’s perfect Spanish.”
“Honestly Joaquín, you’re like a nonstop yapper, how do you have the energy after all this time?”
“Wha–I’m just curious!” he grinned.
“Yeah good night.” She stepped into her hotel room, adjacent to Joaquin’s own room. The rest of the team had their own rooms as well, sprawled out across the hotel, all possibly in their bed asleep, or working on their briefs or reports. Others probably out partying. Whatever the case, she was just glad to be heading home soon. She sighed.
There was just one last thing to do before she could call it a night.
The night's mission wasn’t complicated—no intel to extract, no targets to eliminate. A simple side job. Something she could handle in a few hours, then return like nothing had happened.
She slipped into a black cocktail dress, the fabric sleek against her skin, something that would help her effortlessly blending in with the right crowd. She pinned her hair up with a clip-on fringe for a 90s updo, a few strands framing her face just right. The disguise wasn’t elaborate, but it didn’t need to be. The right outfit, the right posture, and people only saw what they wanted to see—a woman heading out for the night, nothing more.
She made her way down, weaving through the soft hum of conversation in the lobby, heels clicking against polished marble. She didn’t notice Joaquín sitting at the bar, sharing drinks and laughter with a few others from earlier.
But he noticed her.
At first, he barely registered her—a pretty stranger dressed to kill, a woman disappearing into the night. But then something tugged at his subconscious. The frame of her shoulders. The way she carried herself, poised yet alert. He frowned, lips parting slightly.
She had told him she was exhausted, ready to crash. But the moment she stepped under the golden glow of the chandeliers, something in the way she moved confirmed it. It’s her.
Joaquín straightened, setting down his glass. She looked different—glamorous, effortless, like a damn movie star. The strapless dress hugged her in a way that made it impossible not to stare. But beyond that, beyond how good she looked, something didn’t sit right.
He excused himself from the group without explanation, watching as she slipped through the lobby doors. His mouth opened to call her name, but he stopped himself. Instead, he followed, keeping his distance.
She didn’t hesitate at the curb, stepping into a black car with the ease of someone who had planned every second of her evening. As the car pulled away, the neon lights from the street flickered across her face, and for the briefest moment, her side profile was unmistakable.
Joaquín’s jaw clenched.
Something in his gut twisted. Whatever she was up to—it wasn’t just a night out.
And he wasn’t about to let it go.
“Follow that car,” he ordered the taxi driver, pointing out to the sleek car ahead of him. It’s not that he didn’t trust her, but he didn’t trust that she’d all of a sudden decided to get up, get pretty, and go clubbing. If she had, then this would be one big misunderstanding, and there was more to her he didn’t know. But what if this version of her is an evil clone and the real one was back at the hotel, injured? Guess he’d have to find out later.
He pulled up to a museum, an event taking place with lots of seemingly important people dressed up to the nines. He looked at his attire after stepping out of the car, and looked like he was ready to wander the wilderness or play pool, not waltz into high society.
Amongst the crowd, he spotted her messy updo, by some stranger’s arm, laughing. Given the fake bangs, making flirty eyes at this balding guy, and laughing, he deduced she was possibly on a mission. He frowned, something had to give.
He made his way to the back entrance, where the staff was most likely entering from. His palms were sweaty, not sure if this little rendezvous was worth the risk. He never really thought things through, just ran with his first thought, until he realized he needed to think things through more.
The museum kitchen was a controlled explosive environment. Expletives being yelled out in Spanish. Servers coming in and out of doors with equal enthusiasm with their own expletives. But everyone knew their place, and if he didn’t move past, people would catch on he wasn’t from there. But God the smell of the food getting prepped was incredible.
He moved past the kitchen towards what he thought were the lockers, and couldn’t believe his luck when he got his hands on an extra all black attire someone had left, likely what the servers were wearing for the evening, and one of someone who was most likely late. It was a little tight, but nothing he didn’t feel uncomfortable with.
“¡Cava! ¡Vamos, vamos chicos! ¡Que no tenemos toda la noche!” someone had started to yell to get the champagne out.
Joaquin walked out without anything in hand trying to find her-- that was a mistake.
“Oye, ¡tio! Pero que os haces? Aqui, valé. En andar.” The same man gave Joaquin his tray of Spanish champagne flutes to present to the guests and hurried him along. He muttered a quick “valé” to blend and started walking around, looking for his target.
The museum was grand. Artwork displayed for everyone, the guests looked wealthy - more than he would make in his lifetime. He would stop to occasionally look at a piece, and continue to play his part in pretending to be the flute guy, eyes in search of her.
He spent a good 10 minutes until he spotted the messy updo walk up a set of stairs with a different guy, smiling and laughing, making conversation and entering a secluded wing of the museum. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think. This wasn’t his mission, but his gut told him to keep watching. He needed to move without drawing attention, so he grabbed a new tray of champagne flutes from the bar, slipping into the role of an event server. The disguise wasn’t perfect, but in a place like this, people only paid attention if you gave them a reason to.
Balancing the tray in one hand, he made his way toward the wing—only to catch sight of her again, walking in the opposite direction across an overhead walkway, headed for the upstairs terrace. What the hell is she up to?
Joaquín hesitated for half a second before following. He had no plan beyond figure out what’s going on, but he’d deal with that part once he got there.
Stepping onto the terrace, he set the tray down, scanning the area. A breeze rustled through the cypress trees lining the edge, their dense branches concealing an exit. He was just about to check when—
A sharp yank at his collar dragged him backward.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Torres.”
Oh she’s pissed.
“Hey! Oh hey, I…” he started. He tapped his thighs, thinking of something to say. There was no use lying, she earlier mentioned she has a good bullshit detector, making him hyper-aware of every nervous tell he might have. He wasn’t a good liar, either way.
“Torres,” she pressed. “Go back to the hotel.”
“Why are you here? I thought you were too tired to go out,” Joaquín shot back.
“Confidential,” she curtly spit. She didn’t like that he was really prying now.
He frowned, “I don’t like this, we’re supposed to be a team–all of us. Why are you on a side mission? On your own?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to know the truth, or how much she could tell him before he pressed for more. Or how much he could contribute to the mission now that he was here.
Joaquín took a step back, studying her. His gaze flickered up to her hair, and his expression shifted.
“And what's up with your hair?” He narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Actually, this Pamela Anderson vibe you got going on? Real sexy, not gonna lie.”
She scoffed, taken aback, “What's up with your wardrobe, why are you dressed as a server? Are you spying on me?”
“No,” he shook his head, his high pitch tone giving him away.
“Santa María, madre de Dios…” she groaned, pacing back and forth. “Listen, I really don’t have time for this, just go back to the hotel, or be my ride for the night but just, keep yourself busy, I’m working here.”
“And another thing! That.” Joaquín pointed at her. “That’s what I mean, how do you know Spanish? That isn’t just textbook level Spanish you learn through fucking–Duolingo!” he gestured wildly.
Her patience snapped. “Joaquín, por favor, que te parto la madre. Hazte.”
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He knew when to quit—mostly because he was sure she could and would kick his ass if he didn’t. He stepped aside, silently letting her pass.
On the way towards the entrance, she stopped before going in, he watched as she hovered there, shoulders tense, debating something. Then, finally, she turned back to face him.. “I… I have to do this thing later. If you want to make yourself useful, guard the door when I ask you to. And if you see anything, don’t… question it.”
He frowned at her curiously, and nodded.
She huffed, like she’d just given something away she hadn’t meant to, then slipped inside.
-
As if they had rehearsed this numerous times, she found Joaquín to make an excellent improv partner. As he was serving more flutes, and later hors d'oeuvres, she was schmoozing with the elites. He never really understood what she was doing. To him, it looked like she was networking, talking with peers. Flirting with men because she was bored. And damn she’s a natural. He wondered why he never saw this side of her. Whatever the case, she looked good.
But to her, this was part of the job. She didn’t mind the small talk, the ditzy persona. It was fun to play pretend, and flirt with the men and women available. This would end up leading to the main guy she was in search of.
“<<Yeah, Ivan and I go way back,>>” one of the drunk men slurred, leaning in close. “<<the guy’s great, I bet he’d like to meet your pretty face.>>”
“Ah, ¿si?” she grinned.
The man nodded eagerly, his eyes a little too glazed to be fully present. “<<He has a weakness for pretty girls, I can’t blame him. The dude can spot dimes from a mile away. You’re his type for sure. Maybe we can have a good evening together? And bring a friend for a good time all four of us.>>”
She bit her lower lip, feigning interest. “<<Don’t tempt me with a good time.>>”
“¿Croquetas de pollo?” Joaquín interjected with a plate of Spanish tapas, his eyebrow quirked in that teasing way he knew would annoy her.
The male just shook his hand, eyes not paying attention to Joaquín.
She followed his lead, shaking her hand to shoo him off. God, he was so annoying.
“¿Qué te parece si vemos ‘ese tipo Iván, hm?” she purred, letting her voice dip into something more seductive.
The male’s eyes lit, a type of hunger scanning her, thinking of the different ways he’d like to have her in. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but the smile never left her lips. This was the part she hated—this look they gave her—but it was all part of the dance. Keep it light, keep it playful, and lead them exactly where she needed them to go. “Vamos,” he said as he pulled her hand between his, caressing her.
Just before he strung her along further, she stopped in front of Joaquín to grab a piece of croqueta and held it up to thank him for it, silently telling him to standby. It was communication through the eyes, one where she was actually thanking him for sticking by, and not for the stupid piece of chicken meat he was offering her. He dipped his chin in understanding, barely mouthing a go.
Whatever this thing she was doing, it was one that he knew she could handle by herself, but he figured it was nice to have a partner in this. He watched her go up the stairs into the wing once more, and didn’t see her again. He wondered what she’d be doing, and felt sick if these were the types of missions she’d gone through during her years as a Widow.
He forced himself back into his fake role, serving tapas, keeping his hands busy, trying to anchor himself in the mundane. But his mind wouldn’t stay put. It kept drifting—to the slit of her dress, the way her long legs moved effortlessly through the crowd. The velvety fabric that clung to her, the shimmer at her collarbone catching the soft light.
To him, ella era la luna personificada.
Her lips—shining, plush. How they might feel against his own. How they might taste.
Joaquín exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Focus. He had croquetas de pollo to serve, champagne to pour. Not this.
This was Red Room training, he reasoned. The art of seduction. The carefully crafted illusion of a siren—luring men in with a glance, a smile, a whisper in the dark. And when the time called, strike at a moment’s notice.
He let out a breath. If she was anything like the person she was during the morning’s mission, he knew she’d be okay. He’d seen how she maneuvered, how she struck with precision. That woman didn’t need saving. She didn’t even need backup. The more he thought about her skill, the sharper his confidence in her became.
As he walked around carrying a round of, now champagne, for the guests, he was met with a hand on his back, making its way down his arm. He felt a chill go down his spine, and saw her, a little frazzled, but composed.
“Me parece que querrán más tapas y cava,” she murmured, smooth, practiced.
Joaquín smirked, inclining his head in mock obedience. “En seguida.”
And then, just like that—a wink. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, and made her way to the women’s bathroom.
Joaquín wasn’t sure what was really going on now, but he was just glad to be a part of it. With a tray of Spanish champagne at hand, he made his way up the stairs with her, into the right wing of the museum. This side of the museum was dimly lit, and he started feeling unsure of himself. But she was leading him to a room, confidently walking with grace, as if she owned the place. He liked this about her. She was confident about everything. Never faltering to new things. She led with caution certain times, but confident nonetheless.
“You look real good,” his words escaped him. He mentally kicked himself.
She looked back, studying him for a moment if the champagne had gotten to him, but no. Figured this was the real Joaquín speaking. A little brash, or with little thought process, but still him. “Thanks,” she chirped over her shoulder.
“Now,” she began, stopping behind some big doors, “remember what I told you–if you see something, stay quiet.”
He nodded, unsure, “yeah, sure.”
On the other side of the doors, two bodies were over a couch, one on top of the other, half-naked. Joaquín’s eyes grew, and looked at her incredulously. She was making her way towards a desk, leaning forward to focus on what was on the display screen. He figured he'd ask about that later. “Get on watchdog duty; let me know if you hear steps nearby.”
He fake saluted and made his way out, leaving the flutes near the desk. “So what exactly are you doing?” he asked.
“Joaquín, hush,” she sang absentmindedly, and he closed the door.
The small USB drive she carried in her garter was taken out and inserted into the hard drive.
She thought she wasn’t going to need to extract information or execute anyone for the night. At least one of them is true. She was supposed to be pure arm candy and eavesdrop on a few conversations. But as soon as she got a hold of this Ivan guy, she knew she couldn’t miss out on this opportunity.
This wasn’t an overall SHIELD operation, but it was one she knew the information would be useful to pass along. She’d leave everything untouched after she was done, no proof that she was ever near the computer. As for the men on the couch? They were simply…asleep. Halfway through their ravenous evening, they were met with a strong desire for sleep, and she left them at that. In the morning, or if someone found them, they’d just think they had 1 too many drinks and that things led from one thing to another between them. She’d done her research on them to know it was a possible outcome.
She looked at the monitor, only 85% of the extraction was downloaded. It was a lot slower than usual, but there were a lot of orgs, addresses, and key clients to take down.
“Hey,” Joaquín stepped in, nodding towards the hallway, “footsteps.”
Fuck, she saw 87% on the screen.
She glanced at Joaquín, already knowing what she had to do. If this went sideways, he could not be caught up in it.
“Take the tray of flutes,” she whispered, nodding toward the passed-out men on the couch. “Put it on the side table near them. Then leave through those doors.” She flicked her eyes to the set opposite the main hallway. “They lead to a corridor of lecture rooms. Find the exit.”
Joaquín hesitated, eyes flicking to the doors. He hadn’t expected them to lead anywhere but another room.
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
He didn’t trust that she’d get this done in time, the footsteps were fairly close, but he needed to take the plunge. She was capable and he trusted that. He exhaled sharply and slipped through the doors.
Darkness.
Dimly lit artwork lined the corridor. For a split second, he thought he’d made a mistake and doubled back into the main hallway. He needed to find the lecture rooms. The exit. Fast.
Joaquín picked a direction and sprinted left. At the end of the hall, he skidded to a stop, swearing under his breath. No lecture rooms. No exit sign, just more hallways with artwork.
"Fuck… fucking—" He clenched his jaw. Why couldn’t she give clear instructions?
He heard the doors open of the room he’d just left, and quickly pressed himself against the wall, breath held. Heels clicked against the floor—sharp, steady. He risked a glance.
She moved fast, slipping through the opposite direction, already working to kick off her heels. Smart. In a matter of seconds, she was gone—disappearing around the left corner at the far end of the hallway.
The doors opened again, and this time, security. Joaquín stilled. One of them stepped out, scanning for movement. A pause. Then, they retreated back inside.
He figured it was now or never, and sprinted towards the opposite side of the hallway, hoping he wouldn’t get caught, and quickly turned to the left. He stopped to find a big lecture hall in front of him, and cursed her. Now where was that stupid exit?
The doors opened behind him again, “<<Yeah, I’m gonna check it out.>>” the security spoke, alerting their teammates.
Joaquín’s pulse spiked. He scanned his surroundings—options, options— there.
Joaquín spotted an empty conference room near the lecture hall and shoved the door open. Frosted glass walls—semi-private, good enough.
He caught a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, the movement a second too late, barely deflecting the knife with a high kick, twisting just enough to shield his ribs.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeated, incredulous, steadying himself.
“It’s a wonder how you moved in that tight-ass suit.”
“Yeah, we’ll talk about that later—someone’s coming.” He adjusted his pants, glancing toward the door. Heavy footsteps. Too close.
She exhaled sharply, brain working fast. A stupid idea surfaced, ridiculous but effective. Her lips parted in amusement before she said it.
“Kiss me.”
Joaquín blinked. “What?”
She stepped closer, urgency in her gaze. “Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable. If we look like drunk guests sneaking away for some ‘alone time,’ they won’t question it.”
Joaquín hesitated, searching her face like he wasn’t sure if this was just part of the job, or if she was messing with him.
Trust me, her eyes seemed to say. And finally, he did.
His hand found her waist, the other tilting her chin up. A split second of hesitation, then—
Her breath hitched as his lips met hers, soft but firm, tasting of heat and something unspoken. It started slow, deliberate, but the second she parted her lips, it shifted into something else. Something dangerous.
Joaquín followed her lead, and she let him. His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against him, and—fuck—he was a fast learner.
To him, she tasted like something sweet and dangerous, like champagne and trouble, lips parted just enough to draw him in. Her fingers curled into his hair, and just like that, he lost the thread of where performance ended and something real began.
She pulled him in, deeper, fingers threading into his curls. The table pressed against the backs of her thighs, and she let herself be lifted onto it, legs bracketing him.
From the hallway, voices neared. Slowed.
She knew better than to react, but Joaquín turned slightly, just enough to see their shadows lingering. Watching. He tightened his grip, selling the performance.
For them. For the cover.
That’s what she told herself, at least.
But to him, the way she responded—the way she kissed back—made him forget, just for a second, that this was an act at all.
She made a small sound against his lips—something like a sigh, something like surrender——and any rational thought disappeared. His hand skimmed up her thigh, gripping firm, thumb pressing into soft skin, feeling the heat of her beneath the dress. She leaned into it. Into him. Joaquín deepened the kiss, angling it, molding her closer.
Was it still an act? Because the way she kissed him back—the way she melted against him—made his chest tighten, his stomach coil.
His thumb dragged across her jaw, slow, almost reverent—possessive—and he felt her shiver.
Fuck.
His hips rocked forward before he could stop himself, chasing some kind of relief from the tension knotting between them. Her breath stuttered, nails digging into his shoulders, and—
A muttered curse. The sound of footsteps retreating.
The second the coast was clear, she pulled back. Blinking. As if shaking off something thick and consuming.
For a beat, neither of them moved. The air between them felt thick. Charged.
Her lips were swollen. So were his.
Joaquín looked at her—really looked at her—like he was trying to untangle something he hadn’t expected to feel.
She cleared her throat, her voice almost steady. “Nice work,” she murmured. She meant it.
But she also meant, we’re not talking about this.
Joaquín didn’t answer right away.
He just looked at her. Like he was trying to solve something he hadn’t expected to want an answer to. And he wasn’t sure if the moment had ended.
I always pictured Danny as liking galas. Not cause he enjoys the atmosphere but because he can cause subtle chaos. Then one time it’s not subtle at all.
Jack forces Danny to go events with Vlad. Danny just makes subtle remarks to Vlads peers about his bad practices.
Hinting towards how his wealth was massed odly and suddenly. Pointing out things that just went missing and suddenly one day Vlad just had. Overall each event he goes to Vlad looks worse and worse.
Danny has hinted to him being forced to be at event. That he doesn’t like being called little badger. He’s also getting the inside scope on new tech and ideas by playing dumb. Tucker is taking advantage of the inside info.
So there is a huge gala going to happen in Gotham. The masons and vlad are both going to be in attendance. Obviously this means Danny is getting forced into it same as Sam.
Now sam openly causes problems at the gala. Like standing on a table screaming about animal rights or something. She’s an activist she would so do it. Just imagine Damian joining in. He doesn’t like the galas either after all.
Both sam and danny snuck in reporters. Danny did it to ensure sam would never have to go to another gala. He could use them for his fun as well.
Dick is on a chandelier now to add more chaos. Jason is having the time of his life watching it all unfold.
So Danny just “unknowingly” talking to the reporters about vlad. He also starts talking about the masons. Vlad got distracted talking to another rich person he was planning to rob.
Tim assumes Danny doesn’t know he’s talking bad mouthing ti reporters and goes up to him. Danny is just like dude let me trash talk the fruitloop. When Tim subtle pulls him off to the side.
Danny “accidentally” reveals that vlad is trying to kill his father, marry his mom and adopt him. He is so used to people not believing him why would this rando.
So on top of making a gala a madhouse now the bats are investigating Vlad. Not that Danny realizes until the bats show up in amity.
