Summary: Three months into your relationship, your boyfriend Jason Todd finds your Red Hood poster. You're mortified. But Jason? Well, you've got his face in your room and your lips on his... truth be told, Jason maybe likes it a little too much that you're a super fan of his.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 5.4k
Warnings/tags: bf!jason, you find jason and RH hot and that crosses some wires. jason takes advantage of your crush (in a hot way), competency kink, cocky jason, identity porn, minor violence, motorcycles, reader has a crush on RH but doesn't know jason is RH so it's a little complicated but NO cheating!! implied sexual content but NO explicit smut.
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Tonight, you're staying at Jason's place. You've only been dating three months, but it's going well enough that you're comfortable enough to stay over. Jason has hinted more than once that you can leave clothes at his place, but you insist on keeping all of your stuff at your apartment, just in case things go south. What's that rule? Six months and you’ll know whether he’s the one? Three months to go, then.
Call you crazy, but you think you might already know. Jason is fantastic and you’re sure you’re in love with him. Not that you're going to tell him that any time soon. But you know enough not to put all of your stock into a three-month relationship. Who knows what secrets Jason Todd might be hiding.
"How come you never invite me to your place?" Jason asks as he pulls up in front of your building. He'd offered to drive you both to his apartment on his motorcycle, and it's officially weird if you refuse him. He might think you're hiding something. And you are. Something mortifying.
"Because you're gonna try to install your special security measures," you say as he locks his bike.
Jason thinks about it, then nods. "Yeah, that's probably true. No, but it's your place. I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't know about."
"I know," you say, going inside and holding the door for him. "But my apartment is smaller than yours.”
"That doesn't matter to me, baby."
When did he get it into his head that he needs to be in your apartment? You go up the stairs with Jason behind you, thinking about how you can excuse not inviting him inside. Except, it’s suspicious if you make him wait outside. Even for Jason, who's about as cagey as they come. He seems to trust you fine, but you have no idea what freak raised him because he's eternally wary of people and unfamiliar places. He also insists on sitting close to the door when you go out to eat. But even he's invited you to his place. Many times now. Maybe you can extend the same favor.
"Fine. You get a quick tour," you say against your better judgment as you get to your door, unlocking it.
"I'm honored, truly." Jason follows you inside. He clicks his tongue, pointing to the lock. "No deadbolt?"
"Jason..."
"I mean, what a beautiful lock on your door," he says sweetly, kissing your cheek. "Y'know what would make it even more beautiful?"
"You being less paranoid?"
"Seventy percent of Gotham break-ins are in residences that have only one lock. Sixty-five percent of them are on—"
You turn around and put your arms around Jason. He automatically puts his arms around your waist and stops talking. His beauty still stuns you: his aquiline nose, his freckles, those bright teal eyes. You get shy at times, flustered and delighted at the fact that this hunk of a man likes you so much.
"I'm extremely attracted to you, despite your raccoon demeanor," you say.
"You'd be the first," Jason says, gaze terribly fond. "I'll shut up now 'bout the statistics."
"No, statistics are hot. Just not when they're about home invasions."
"Point taken. How 'bout stats on Gotham's exports?"
You throw your head back, gasping. "Oh! You fiend. No more, please. I may just ravish you here on the floor!"
Jason bends you back a little, his hand fitting in the center of your back to ease you over. He doesn't do that very often, use his strength and wield you the way he wants, but when he does, you lose your breath. Your pulse quickens as Jason nuzzles your neck.
"This okay?" he asks. You hum an airy yes.
"'M in no rush," he says in your ear. "We can linger. Haven't finished your tour. 'S your room next?"
You straighten so fast, you nearly knock Jason in the teeth. It's only because of his quick reflexes that you don't.
"You can't see my room," you rush out, looking at him with wide eyes.
Jason squints, hands dropping to your sides. "What? Why?"
"Um... because... because my room is a mess."
"So? I don't care. My room looks like a solitary confinement cell."
You raise an eyebrow. Jason clears his throat.
"Well, I mean, it used to. It's better now that I have plants and shit."
"Lack of decor is nowhere near as embarrassing as my room, Jason. Mine is beyond messy. It's filled with half-eaten pizza crusts. And rats. And... slime?"
"Slime, huh? Well, good thing I wore my Doc Martens. I can withstand a little slime."
You sag. "You don't believe me."
Jason smiles and kisses your forehead. "Not particularly, baby. What's the issue, huh? You hiding nudie mags or something?"
You roll your eyes. "Who calls it that, Jay? You sound like Tony Soprano. Just say porn."
"Gracefully choosing to ignore that comment. Look, if y'do have porn, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should feel safe to express and explore your sexuality however you—"
"Oh my God, it's not porn." You cover your face. "Jesus. It's—okay, just come in. If you're gonna break up with me over this, we might as well face it now."
"I'm not gonna break up with you," he says as you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. "Nothing you show me could—"
You swing open the door. Jason trails off as he follows you in, his eyes landing on your 4x6 poster of the Red Hood that's smack middle in the room, taped over your bed.
And then, obviously, one can't miss the Red Hood towel on your computer chair, or the Red Hood mug. And the limited edition Red Hood Bat Burger bobblehead, which was quickly discontinued after some public backlash.
"Wow," Jason says.
You groan and bury your face in your hands. "It's fine. I know it's weird. Just go."
You don’t know how it happened, this accumulation of Red Hood merch. It's not like people aren’t fans of heroes. Plenty of local heroes are revered across the world. You have an online friend from Brazil who has literally all of the Superman collectibles. But Superman is reasonable. Batman is reasonable. Nightwing is common and basically a Gotham staple—you've seen women in Nightwing bikinis.
But Red Hood fans are far and few. Plenty of people think he's a criminal and a borderline villain. Some people, working-class people mostly, adore him. You've heard plenty of wonderful things he's done to turn neighborhoods around, keep people safe, fight The Man. Hell, last week there was a video of him carrying an old woman to the hospital after she fell in the road.
Plus, you get the feeling he's really handsome under that helmet. You're sure he's physically overwhelming, at the very least. You've seen clips of him fighting. Oh boy, can he hold his own.
But if you told the average person on the street that your favorite hero is Red Hood, they'd definitely give you a side eye. You brace yourself for one now.
"Huh," Jason says. "Didn't think you'd be a fan of his. Not really a hero, is he?"
You huff, squaring your shoulders. "He's helped a lot of people. No one actually cares about protecting us except for vigilantes. Red Hood protects innocents. If that takes a little bit of a heavier hand, so be it."
Jason raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you played fast with morality like that, honey."
"You don't agree?" If this is where your relationship ends, you'd rather it happen sooner than later. "He's implemented a lot of fundamental structures that even Batman hasn't. He's more big-picture than the Bats. So, whatever, okay? If you think I'm nutty for liking Red Hood, then just go now."
You cross your arms and turn away from Jason. It's quiet for a long moment. You're sure it's done; you've just ruined the first relationship you really wanted to make work. But you've been on dates and let it slip that you admire Hood, and plenty of men let you know what an idiot you are to do so. You thought Jason would understand. Maybe not.
But then you feel arms around your stomach. Jason kisses your cheek.
"C'mon," he says chidingly, voice low and sweet in your ear. "Y'think it's that easy to scare me off? We live in Gotham, sweetheart. The only way I'd be worried is if you had someone's head sitting in your fridge. And even then, I'd hear ya out on whose head it is."
You lean into Jason's solid warmth, rubbing your cheek against his scruff like a cat. "I'd have my reasons if I did that."
"Mm, I know it."
You slip out of his grip enough to turn around. Jason's got a coy, little grin on, and you can't figure out why. But you suppose that's better than him leaving because of your local celebrity crush.
"You're really not annoyed?" you ask. "Because if you are, we should hash it out now."
"No, baby, 'm not annoyed." Jason glances at the Red Hood bobblehead. His grin widens, tongue resting between his teeth as he looks at you. You feel hunted, but the glint in Jason’s eye quickly disappears. "I think he does what needs to be done."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Just surprised, is all. He doesn't seem like your type."
You blink, heart beating faster. "My type? Well, I-I just think he contributes a lot to the city. It's not... I appreciate what he does for Gotham."
"Wait." He tilts his head like he's genuinely trying to figure something out. "D'you have a crush on Hood or something?"
You hesitate, flustered at how quickly Jason picked up on that. How does he do that? "I don't—I mean, I admire him—he's—but I don't even know what he looks like, so—"
Jason's eyes light up, and you know you've made a mistake, just not the one you thought you would. He cups the back of your neck, which always makes you hot and squirmy.
"Oh, you do like him like that. Huh. Didn't know the helmet did it for you. Very interesting news, sweetheart. He doesn't scare ya?"
"No," you say, the word coming out weak. Wires are being crossed in your head between the image of the Red Hood and your boyfriend crowding you in your room and pressing his lips to your neck.
"That's very good to hear," Jason says, and you give in, tugging him over to your bed. He laughs. "Why didn't you want me to know?"
"It's embarrassing," you whine. "The poster was from a friend."
You let Jason climb atop you, permeating your senses with his bulk and his citrusy scent. He carefully keeps his weight off of you, but you wish he'd hold you down. This is exactly why you didn't want to bring Jason over; you don't need your old fantasies of Red Hood getting mixed up with your boyfriend.
"I don't think it's embarrassing," he says, gently taking your leg and crooking it over his hip. "You picturing him right now?"
"Jason!" You thwack his shoulder. You feel it more than he does, probably. He cackles.
"Teasin'," he says, soothing you with a kiss. "But I can get a helmet if you want me to."
You kick him off the bed. "No more tours for you!"
Work runs late a week later, so you're still out by the time eight o'clock rolls around. It's summer time, so it's not the worst thing ever, but you know what Jason would say. Your last message is still unread because Jason works most nights. You’ve chosen not to worry him by telling him you're also working tonight, instead texting him funny Gotham memes.
"Evening."
…Maybe you should've let him know.
You flinch, the voice startling you hard. Red Hood is leaning against the fence surrounding the park you pass by on your way to the bus stop. His arms are crossed, and his biceps bulge underneath his tight black t-shirt. You can't tell from here, but you're sure he must tower over you.
"Oh." Briefly, you wonder if you summoned him somehow after revealing your room to Jason last week. You've lived in Gotham your whole life and you've never run into Hood. The only vigilante you've met is Red Robin, and he's not a talker.
"Hi," you say, a little nervous, a little starstruck.
"Hi," Hood says, letting his arms drop. His posture is easy, but you know better. You know he's here for a reason. "Working tonight?"
You nod. "I just finished. I'm just going to the bus now."
"Pretty late for the bus."
"It's June."
"It's Gotham."
You open your mouth, then close it. Then you open it again. "Um... it's okay. I've done it plenty of times before."
"Plenty of times? Without letting anyone know?"
You wince. "Well, not plenty—"
"Nobody to pick you up?"
You shrug. "No."
"No? Think hard." There's the tiniest edge to his tone.
"I mean, my boyfriend could, hypothetically, but he works nights, so—"
"And you think his job is more important than making sure you're safe? It'd devastate him if something happened to you."
You blink. "I don't—I guess I didn't think of it that way."
Hood shakes his head. Then he pushes himself off of the fence and approaches you. Immediately, your heart rate increases. To be this close to the Red Hood, to have him worry about little old you, scold you for not calling Jason, it's causing a confusing mix of emotions to swirl inside you.
You've thought about how you'd act if you met Red Hood. Maybe ask for an autograph if the opportunity arises. You can't fathom asking him for anything now. He's intimidating. Maybe you are a little afraid, but it's intertwined with other feelings.
You can't see his face but you feel like he doesn't believe you. "Sure?"
You wonder if he can see all of your vitals. Can he see how warm you feel? "Yes, I'm sure. It's just... I'm sort of a fan of you. So it's... it's an experience."
Hood laughs. "Fan? Don't think I have any fans."
You shake your head. "That's not true. I know a few people who like you."
He hums and approaches you slowly. You let him until he's close enough for you to take in his physicality completely. He's a couple inches taller than Jason. Not that it matters. Just an observation.
"'M flattered," he says softly. "But if you're jus' sayin' that 'cause you're a little scared, please don't."
"No, I'm not scared. I trust you, Red Hood."
He folds his arms, stretching his neck to his right shoulder. You catch a sliver of tanned, scarred skin. "So soon?"
"Uh-huh."
"Kinda crazy of ya."
You shrug. "Maybe."
"Hmm. We goin' home?"
"You want to take me home?" you ask, eyes wide.
"Not-not like that. I mean, I can't let ya go home alone."
"No, I know, I just... I didn't think Red Hood made home visits."
"Sometimes." He makes an aborted gesture to touch your cheek with his finger and you swallow hard. Your ears are very hot. You might choke on your spit.
"I didn't know Red Hood would care that much if I went home."
"'Course I do," he says softly. "Your safety is my priority."
"My-?"
"Civilians, I mean," Hood says quickly. "'S why I'm out here patrolling."
"But surely there's people who need you more than me. I'm just some nobody going home from work, I—"
"You're not a nobody. Don't say that," Hood says with so much force, it renders you silent. "Got it?"
You nod. "Okay. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry 'bout. C'mon, I'll take you home, okay?"
You really don't want to bother Jason at this hour. Besides, as far as vigilante escorts go, Hood really isn't the worst choice. Another person might be afraid. A sane person would refuse.
"Yes, I'm okay with that," you say, smiling. "Thank you."
"Sure. My bike is parked down the block."
He walks a little behind you, close enough for you to turn and talk to him, but angled so that nothing can sneak up on you. It's the way Jason walks with you sometimes. You wonder if it's a Gotham thing.
Hood's bike is a cherry red. He lets you type in your address into his GPS. Then he gives you a helmet.
"Safety first," he says. It's the same helmet that Jason wears for his motorcycle. For a second, you swear you can smell his aftershave. Orange blossoms.
Hood gestures for you to get on. He holds the bike steady and it seems like he's going to hold your back to help you onto the bike. But he doesn't touch you, not like Jason does.
"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks when you're on.
"My boyfriend's."
He hums, throwing a leg over and straddling the bike. You blink at the sudden wall of bulk in front of you. "He treat you right, that boyfriend?"
You nod. "He's amazing. I love him."
Hood is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. "Good. Lady like you deserves to be treated like a princess."
You laugh. "You barely know me. I'm no princess."
"I got a good sense about people. Hold onto me."
You wrap your arms around his waist. He tuts at you.
"Gotta hold me tighter than that. Don't want you flying off. You know better."
You tighten your hold, flustered and speechless. Hood pats your hand.
"There we go. Good listener," he says. "Everything okay back there? You're quiet."
For a second, it sounds like he's teasing you, and your stomach jumps like when Jason teases you. But the Red Hood isn't playful like that, right?
"I'm okay," you say.
"Nervous?"
You shake your head. "No."
"No? Glad you've got so much faith in me."
"I do."
Hood turns on his bike, revving the engine. You squeeze him tighter as he flicks the kickstand up with his foot, pushing off and balancing. He does so effortlessly. Wow.
Hood gets you home quickly. He follows all the traffic laws and doesn't speed. He drives efficiently, like Jason, but he takes it slow on the leans... like Jason. Maybe he can feel how you get nervous on motorcycles.
"This is it?" he asks, slowing down next to your building.
"Yes. Thank you." You wait as Hood stops and gets off first. You take his gloved hand, and he helps you off like it's nothing, bearing most of your weight.
"No more secretly working nights," he tells you. "I'll know."
You don't question it. "Okay. I won't."
"Good. Have a good night."
He starts to mount his bike. You step off the curb, in front of him. Hood stops.
"What's up?" he asks, nodding at you. He addresses you so casually... so familiar.
"Um, I was... do you mind if I ask for your autograph?"
Hood looks at you for a long moment. You lose your nerve and turn around.
"Never mind! Sorry. Good night."
"Hang on."
You turn around. Hood beckons you over with two fingers. You go, eyes widening as he takes off his gloves. He gives them to you. You catch a glimpse of more scars and maybe a silver ring. Jason sometimes wears a silver chain around his neck. It dangles over you when he’s—
"Oh no! Oh my God, you don't have to—"
"Got a bunch." It sounds like he's smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan. Any trouble with that boyfriend, let me know."
You're not sure if you respond, you're so dazed. Hood pulls away from the curb like a bat out of hell, waving at you as he goes.
You're already in bed by the time Jason comes home from work. He comes home earlier than usual, and you're still awake when he crawls into your bed next to you. You've taken down the Red Hood poster, too embarrassed from last week. Jason insists he's going to get you an even bigger poster. You beg him not to.
"How'd you know I was at my place?" you ask, yawning.
"My apartment alarm didn't report anybody entering."
"Still think it's weird that you track who enters your apartment," you say.
"Safety first. You usually don't go to your place unless you're coming home from work. You wouldn't happen to have worked a shift tonight without telling me, would you?"
"Okay, yes, but please don't be mad. I didn't take the bus." You pause before finishing. "Red Hood actually gave me a ride home tonight."
You reach sleepily for Jason's arm. He tucks himself into place behind you, wrapping an arm and a leg around you. He smells like your shampoo.
"Yeah, don't think we aren't done with the conversation about you taking the bus home at night, by the way. Red Hood, huh? Should I be doubly worried then?"
You roll your eyes. "Not on my part. But I was definitely getting a vibe."
"A vibe? Red Hood's got the hots for my girl?"
Jason slips a hand under your shirt to rest on your stomach. His hands always run a little cool and they feel good on warm nights like tonight. He doesn't mean anything by it, but desire creeps onto you, slow and thick. You think of the gloves in your dresser.
"It kinda felt like that," you say, a little embarrassed to even admit it. "He, uh, gave me his gloves."
"His gloves?" Jason sounds sleepy. "That's basically a proposal."
You'd never cheat on Jason, obviously, but you've had a crush on the Red Hood since he came to Gotham. Riding on his motorcycle tonight was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, you don't want this to be a thing. Another guy would probably get upset.
But Jason's tone doesn't change. He's still sleepy and peaceful. "'M not. Might have to kick his ass, though."
You laugh at the thought. Jason kneads the soft fat of your stomach. "Something funny?" he asks. "Y'think I can't take him?"
"I know you could," you say, and you mean it, even though you're not sure how well your boyfriend can dodge bullets. "But, I mean, you're too nice for him, Jay. Hood fights dirty when he needs to. You fight fair."
"Wow. So you don't think I could beat Red Hood in a fight. Way to bruise a man's ego, baby." Jason buries his face in the back of your neck in retaliation. You squeal at the tickles.
"I didn't say that!" you say, giggling. "It's a compliment. You're too nice to scrap with him. Ah! Jason, mercy, mercy!"
"So you're saying he's mean?" Jason asks, showing mercy and easing off. He returns to just holding you, leg over yours.
"Not... not to civilians. Not to me. He's just a little rough overall, I think. But he seemed nice."
"Oh my God, you loved it," Jason says, no longer sounding so sleepy. "You loved being on his bike. You loved him being a little rough. This was a dream come true."
"No! No, Jason, it wasn't like that."
"You got the hots for Hood," he sing-songs. "Hood hots, Hood hots!"
"I don't, I don't," you say, shoving your face into your pillow. "Stop. You know you're the only one for me."
Jason hums, pushing himself up so he's on top of you without putting his weight on you. He pets your hip. "Yeah, baby, I know. Don't worry. Not mad. I think it's cute. You got a little flustered around him. No biggie. I trust ya."
You sigh, turning your face to the side. "He was professional."
Jason snorts. "Yeah, he better have been. Pretty lady like you holding onto him."
"I'm sure he helps way prettier ladies in a night," you mumble.
Jason easily rolls you over, so you're facing each other. He tucks you into his chest, an arm and a leg returning to their places around you.
"I seriously doubt it," he says. You can feel his voice vibrate through his chest. "Everyone knows you're the prettiest princess in Gotham, baby."
You hesitate, thinking about Hood. "Princess?"
"Yeah. That okay?"
"Oh. Yeah, that's fine."
Jason makes a noise like he knows something you don't.
Every so often, you really hate living in Gotham. It's usually around a time like this: Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham, and he's causing serious damage. Everyone has been warned to stay inside, and the sky is hazy with fear gas.
You're mostly worried about Jason. He went out a few hours ago and he hasn't texted you since. You asked where he was and called him a dozen times but he didn't respond. You're freaking out.
You're about to go out and look for him, Scarecrow be damned, when suddenly Red Hood is on the balcony of your boyfriend's apartment. How did he avoid tripping the alarm? You go to open the window but he opens it himself.
Shit. Is Hood breaking into Jason's apartment? Who the hell do you call in this situation?
"Hey," he says, voice tight. "Get your bag. We gotta go. Scarecrow and Ivy teamed up and it's bad."
"What? Okay. Oh my God." You jump into action, running into Jason's room to get your stuff. You come back, about to climb out the window, but you stop. He waves you over urgently. You shake your head and take a step back.
"No, I can't go without Jason," you say. "He was supposed to be back by now. What if he's gassed? He hasn't called me."
Hood fidgets, his whole body restless. He looks around, then looks back at you. "I'm sure he's fine. You can call him again when you're—"
"No," you say, staring those glowing white eyes down. "I don't care what authority you might hold, Hood. I'm not leaving Jason. He might come back here and he'll worry if I'm not here. I was going to go look for him."
"Don't do that," he says firmly. "Jesus." He looks at you, rolls his shoulders, then sighs. He shakes his head and grabs his helmet.
"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I didn't wanna do it this way. Shit. Okay."
The latches of his helmet click. And suddenly you have your boyfriend in front of you, dressed like the Red Hood. He drops his helmet on the floor.
Your mouth falls open. "Wh—Jason? What? Are you–you were him the whole time? Are you fucking ser—"
"I know, I'm sorry." He takes your hands. "I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't gonna tell you this way but you're so stubborn, worrying about me and shit. I promise you can yell at me as much as you want after. You can throw stuff, hit me, break up with me, anything you want, just—"
You squeeze his hands. Jason stops his senseless ramble.
"I would never do any of those things," you say. "You don't know me at all if you think I would, Jay. I'm just, y'know, caught off-guard. Apparently, I've had a crush on my boyfriend since he before he became my boyfriend."
He cracks a smile. You roll your eyes.
"And you've been a smug asshole about it this whole time!"
"Kinda," he admits, looking away, and you see how pleased he's been about the whole thing. "I'll make it up to ya."
"Yeah, you better. Where are we going?"
Jason's shoulders slump with relief. You see it in his eyes too.
"You'll go with me?"
"Always," you say.
He takes his helmet, shifting from your boyfriend back to Red Hood. Wow. "Okay. Down the fire escape. We're taking my bike."
Jason puts his helmet back on. You follow him down the fire escape and to where his—Hood's—bike is parked.
"Your bike, huh?" you ask.
"My other bike."
"Uh-huh."
Hood gives you a rebreather and you take off, headed toward the Diamond District. He goes down a ramp and through some pretty fancy gates. Where...?
Concrete walls slide open and Jason pulls into what looks like a lair. Holy shit. He helps you off and you take off your helmet, staring up at a cave ceiling that seems to go on forever.
"Hood," someone growls, startling your gaze back down. Batman is glaring at you. "Why is there a civilian here?"
Jason takes off his helmet. "Yeah, so, this is my girlfriend. She's staying here, and if you try to kick her out, I'm gonna blow up the Batmobile. Cool? Cool."
"Since when do you have a girlf—" begins Red Robin.
"No questions," Jason snaps. "Not one word. Be nice to her or I'll kill you all."
You gasp. Jason turns to you, pulling you closer.
"No, sorry, I wouldn't do that. No deaths. They would recover from my maiming," he says to you, petting your shoulder.
"Not better," you hiss.
He shrugs, smiling. "'M a man of habit. Gonna try to change me now?" He kisses your cheek and you melt like you always do under his affection. Jason leans in and whispers the last part: "You could. I'd let ya."
"Wow," says Spoiler. Is the entire Gotham vigilante taskforce here? "So it's true what they say about married life."
"We aren't married," you say, confused. Jason grunts in annoyance, cradling the small of your back.
"With how he's acting? You might as well be," she says.
"This is so awesome," Nightwing says, full of glee. "Oh, you'll never hear the end of this, Jason."
"Listen, Dickbag—"
"Focus," Batman says. "She can't be here. Take her upstairs and come right back."
Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. C'mon, baby."
Robin is glaring at you, which kind of makes you want to throw up. But then Black Bat and Spoiler wave at you, and that makes you feel better. You wave back.
"Batman's really mad," you say as Jason leads you upstairs.
"Yeah, that's his default setting. He's been mad for about twenty-five years. He'll get over it. You're gonna meet Alfred next. He's the best."
"Alfred?"
You get to the top of the stairs and step into what looks like a mansion. Wait a minute. You've seen this mansion before. In a magazine...
"Is this Wayne Manor? What the hell, Jason? Am I meeting the Queen of Denmark next?"
"Again, not how I wanted you to find out," he says.
"I'm–I'm not dressed to be in Wayne Manor!"
"Bruce dresses up as a bat every night. Rest assured that you are the most normal person in this house, and none of those freaks downstairs can ever take that away from you."
You frown. "Still..."
"Don't y'trust me?" Jason asks, tapping under your chin. He towers over you, and now you notice that his Red Hood boots are taller than his normal ones. Clever.
"Yeah, I trust you, but—" You stop as Jason herds you against the wall, helmet dangling from his hand. He looks very official with his guns and armored clothing. His black cargo pants are pulled taut around his thighs, outlining how thick they are. It's just now occurring to you how deadly competent your boyfriend is, now that you've learned that the Red Hood was never that far away. Maybe you should be scared but, well, the wires were crossed a while ago.
"I didn't even suspect anything," you say, blinking at him. "You had me completely."
Jason shrugs, eyes half-lidded. You're not mad. He knows it. "Made sure you wouldn't find out. Wanted to find the right time, see how you felt about Hood. And then imagine my surprise when I learn that you've got his face on your wall, and his gloves in your dresser."
"You liked it," you say, lifting your chin, challenging.
Jason leans in, cupping the back of your neck, lips going to your ear. He wedges a knee between yours. "How could I not? You're so pretty, so nice t'me. Y'like me that much? Want me even like that? Tellin' Hood you love me, God—"
Something beeps, loud and shrill, and you jump. Jason just sighs exasperatedly, pulling out his phone and denying the alert.
"You have to go," you say, suddenly guilty you've kept Jason for so long.
"I—" Jason grimaces. "Yeah. I'll be back. We're not done."
You bite the inside of your lip. "I hope not."
Jason kisses you, hot and hard, and then he seems to steel himself, shifting into whatever Gotham needs him to be. He puts his helmet on and brushes your cheek, then disappears down the stairs to the Cave. You lean against the wall, catching your breath.
yippee yahoo!!!!!!! thanks for sending one in sanne 💛
prompt from here
35. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
The cowl dangles off the edge of his desk.
Bruce has already whisked off to the shower, barely uttering a word to you along since coming in from patrol, thoughts still lingering on work.
But the truth of the matter is Bruce's thoughts are on work more often than not, and you deserve a hello at the very least.
By the time Bruce steps out of the shower, you're perched atop the desk, cowl atop your head. It doesn't fit quite right, not tailored to your skull the way it is his, leaving you to adjust it every few minutes. Bruce looks peeved.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
You cross one leg over the other, leaning back. "Waiting for you," you reply simply.
"You shouldn't be wearing that," he says sternly, breezing by before beginning to type furiously.
You hum as if you're debating it. "But I pull it off so well."
The line of Bruce's shoulders tenses. You feel the reward of beginning to get under his skin. Usually you aren't afforded such a luxury as reading him. But he doesn't like to mix work and pleasure. So he says, at least. Doesn't stop him from flirting with you in costume in the cave when his mind spares him.
You hop down from the desk, holding onto the cape to watch the way it moves as you play with it.
"Take it off," he orders. You glance at him in the corner of your eye. He still hasn't looked away from the computer screen.
"How much does this weigh?" you ask as if he's said nothing.
"You heard me." Bruce finally turns towards you. He looks at you sternly, cold blue eyes staring you down. "Take. It. Off."
You smile mischievously. The cape falls down your shoulder as you tilt your head as much as the cowl allows. "Or what, Batman?" you ask. You know he can't see the eyes you're giving him, but you're certain he can feel them just from the way your voice goes syrupy.
You've caught his attention. You hear it in the slight levity of his voice. "Or I'll make you."
"Wouldn't that be a shame…" You continue to twirl the cape around, your smile only growing more devious. "But you would have to catch me first."
You begin running in the other direction, tripping over the long hem of the cape almost immediately. The second you spend trying to catch yourself feels as if it lasts an eternity, but you begin your descent before you can save yourself. You barely have time to fall, however, before your body is snatched by sturdy arms.
how about steddie and “that’s more roses than i’ve ever seen in my life" !!
part 1
they're just tipsy enough that everything is funny.
the fire they made to go along with their picnic on the beach earlier is puffing out tendrils of smoke from where eddie had dampened it, the ocean is roaring faintly in the background, far enough away from the city that there isn't any ambient traffic noise to ruin the tranquility, and the moon is the only light to lead them through the unfinished beach house. everything smells of sawdust and paint, the smoke that clings to their clothes and the champagne on their breath.
"we definitely aren't supposed to be here," steve giggles out at eddie's side as he clings to him to maintain his balance. they're stepping over nails halfway sticking up from the subfloor and avoiding piles of lumber that lay in the hallways.
"shh," eddie laughs back, finger pressed over his lips as he pulls steve closer to him. "we won't get caught if you keep your voice down, i promise."
he uses it as an excuse to press his lips to steve's, shutting him up smile to smile, crowding him against the marble-topped island in the almost done kitchen. steve hums against his lips and lets himself melt against his fiancé, trusting the counter and eddie to hold him up.
"we're technically breaking and entering, you know that right?" steve mumbles against eddie's lips, his hands traveling down from around his neck to his waist and teasing at further before settling back at his hips. one, two, three more soft kisses. "we could get in some serious trouble for this, munson."
"no one lives here yet, it's fine." eddie puts a hand in steve's back pocket, pulls him close for another kiss before taking his hand in his own. he drags a still giggling steve to the staircase with the steps exposed and probably dangerous but the champagne in their veins lets them ignore that.
it's their last valentine's until the big day. they'll be married soon enough, just a few more months until they say i do with their closest friends and family around to help celebrate. it feels like the last chapter in a book where everything settles into place before they start to write the sequel. out of all the valentine's dates eddie's been on, he thinks this one might be his best orchestrated yet.
"where are we going?" steve whines. it's fake and laced with a laugh and it has eddie spinning him into his arms to smother his cheeks with kisses.
"so impatient," he mutters against steve's soft skin as he pulls him into a dark room. the windows have been covered with tarps so the moon can't shine in to guide their way. "wait here. and no peeking."
eddie stands in front of steve in the doorway, makes sure he has his eyes fully shut with a hand over top of his face and trusts that he'll listen. quickly, and ever so quietly, he maneuvers his way through the darkness to light the candles he has strategically placed around. just as quickly and just as quietly, he stands in front of steve, presses a gentle kiss the back of his hand that's still magically covering his eyes.
"okay, open."
the gasp steve lets out makes the trouble of setting everything up worth it. the walls and floor are bare, exposed wood everywhere, except-
"that's more roses than i've ever seen in my life," steve breathes out, and yeah, eddie's pretty proud of himself for that. bundles of roses cover the floor, candle votives placed precariously between them to cast a warm glow through out the room. in the center, there's a table, covered in more roses and more candles and a single piece of paper.
steve steps towards the table when eddie nudges at the small of his back, champagne-laced giggle as he trips slightly over his feet, and reads over the letter in silence. eddie watches from the doorway, sees the light click in steve's head as he turns around quickly with a smile growing over his beautiful, perfect face.
"it's ours?" he says, breathy and disbelieving, key on a chain dangling from is fingers.
eddie walks forward slowly, deliberately, and picks up a rose. he twirls it between his fingers for a second and then hands it to steve so he can put his arms round his waist. presses a kiss the side of his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his lips, only to pull back and whisper in his ear.
"welcome home, mr. munson."
valentine's day prompts: accepting through february 14th!
Artist: Sanne @sanguineterrain [AO3]for the @shrunkyclunksbang
Fic Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark
Word Count: 54K
Main Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Shrunkyclunks Big Bang 2022, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Top Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, Explicit Sexual Content, Injury Recovery, Physical Therapy, Philosophy, Eugenics, Ethics, Kidfic, Happy Ending
Excerpt:
Bucky gestured to the empty street with outstretched arms. The soft skin on the inside of his bicep ignited a powerful emotion inside Steve. "Out here in public? In this role, carrying that shield? You're so hard on yourself, trying to be something else. Trying to fit into a certain mold."
Bucky's hand touched Steve's cheek, thumb stroking the rough beard that had grown. Touch he hadn't felt in so long.
"But when you're with me, you're just you. Steve Rogers. Full of joy and empathy, free to do and say and feel normal human emotions. If you can't see that for yourself, why were you given a second chance at life?"
A second chance. The serum had pulled him back from the dead, preserving him for the future. For this moment.
Summary: below the cut
Ethics Professor!Bucky is barely holding it together, taking over an equine-assisted rehabilitation facility after his partner died, while working on a second doctorate. Cap!Steve, suffering from PTSD and flashbacks, is considering retirement, especially after the latest mission that left him temporarily paralyzed with a spinal injury. It doesn’t take long for the two men, affection starved and hurting, to find love in spite of both harboring a huge secret.
READ THE ENTIRE WORK ON AO3!
Major kudos to the mods for a really well organized event. This bang was a ton of fun, and I’ll definitely be participating in the next one! ❤️
im so bad at making new friends but i made one this semester!!! we were in two classes together and are taking a couple more together in the spring and we’re getting to go to a film festival in january together and she’s super nice and i’m just very glad to finally have a friend on campus 🫶🏻
18. a memorable meal this year?
the dinner we (my family) had at california adventure this summer LMAOO i was literally starving and tired and my mom and i got the sandwich from flo’s cafe and i swear to god it was the best thing i’d eaten the entire trip i still think about it
Hi Earthly, ily and I really hope you feel better soon. Do some self care, drink water, eat something if you haven't. Unfortunately sometimes the sad feels just hit out of nowhere :( but it'll be okay. All things must pass, and this will too. ❤
Hi!
You're very sweet! Thank you so much for your kind words! Today wasn't a very good day for me, but tomorrow will be better! Wishing you all the very best! :) ♡
Summary: One year after you crashed your Christmas work party with the Red Hood, you seem to be caught up with yet another evil CEO: Tim Drake. You and Hood are on the case. But why does it feel like you're missing something?
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 11.6k
Warnings/tags: christmas/holiday special! anxious reader (but she's in therapy! huzzah!), sweet jason who acts like a crow with a crush, more silly vigilante antics, a healthy suspicion of tim drake, romance, fluff, galas.
happy new year!! first fic of 2026 :)
the divider
“Do you know how to make salt dough?”
You look up from your computer. Jessie is in front of your desk, somehow in a chair even though you have no spares. She has Pinterest pulled up on her phone.
“Huh?” is all you can say.
She’s scrolling through what looks like Christmas crafts. “My nephew Ben is three and I want to do crafts with him but I have to make sure they’re toddler-safe. He puts everything in his mouth.”
“Why don’t you make cookies?” You type some code and test it. Fail. You curse and delete the section, then retype.
“That’s what I said! But apparently her MIL is a total bitch.” She says MIL like ‘mill.’ “She’s making gingerbread with him, so if I also make cookies with Ben, she will somehow know and give my sister shit for it. How crazy is that?”
You nod, eyes glued to the screen. “Pretty crazy.”
Jessie sighs. “I told her to marry an orphan. In-laws are almost never worth it. Now look where we are.”
Jessie Bromlin is a marketing analyst who works on your floor. She’s the second friend you made at Wayne Enterprises since you started working here almost a year ago. She’s pleasant, chatty, and has been here long enough to show you the ropes.
She also is almost never at her desk. You have no idea how she gets her own work done.
Fail! says your computer. You frown. “That should’ve worked.”
“What should’ve?” Jessie asks.
“Just some code. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
“You should take a break. Let’s go to Penny’s. They’re doing special roast sandwiches for Christmas. Ooh! Are you going to the gala in two weeks?”
“There’s a gala?”
“Of course! It’s Bruce Wayne. All the WE employees get in free. It’s a lot of fun. Good food and music. And alcohol.”
You grimace. “I don’t really do Christmas work parties.”
“No, trust me, this one rocks. You’ll have fun. Oh my God! We need a Santa. I have to go find one. You wouldn’t happen to know a Santa, would you?”
You smile, glancing up from your screen for a second to look at Jessie. “No, sorry.”
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing. I’ll catch up with you at Penny’s.”
“‘Kay. Peace.”
You try the code again. This time, there’s an error message you’ve never seen before and the monitor flickers. Weird. You google the error message, but there’s no results. You send it to the IT group chat.
You: hey, anyone know what this means?
[img_5.png]
Sasha: doesn’t look familiar
Toby: did you google?
Mikey: idk. run it again with a different input and see if you get the same msg
You ignore Toby, because Toby never has anything helpful to contribute, only the glaring obvious. You’re new to back-end work; at Emerson Corp, you mostly did front-end design stuff concerning the user interface. But this position at WE has given you a chance to practice more back-end work, and you work extra long and hard on projects as a result, trying to prove yourself. You do Mikey’s suggestion and run the test again with a different input. This time, the program automatically quits, the window closing. You smack your desk in frustration.
Maybe Jessie’s right. You need a break. So you turn off your screen and grab your wallet and coat, heading to the elevator. You pull out your phone.
Unknown Number
You: hi. can you meet tonight? after work
?: What’s up?
You hesitate. This is probably just your paranoia from last year’s situation with Emerson. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You scroll; the last message you sent is from five months ago, when there was a news report about a fire by the docks, caused by Black Mask.
[August 24th, 2025]
You: oh my god I just saw the news are you okay??
[August 25th, 2025]
?: Hey. I’m okay.
You start to type I think there’s something weird happening with the work computers when you see shoes in your peripheral vision. You freeze and barely avoid colliding with a security guard. He turns around and smiles. You smile back.
“Hi, Peter,” you say, pocketing your phone.
“Hey,” he says. “Y’okay? Did I swipe ya?”
You shake your head. “All good. I haven’t seen you in so long!”
Peter adjusts his shades, grimacing. You’ve never seen him without his nondescript, red baseball cap or his shades. They’re black. You can’t even see if his eyes are light or dark.
“Yeah, been on the late night shift more often than not,” he says. “How’s it goin’?”
Peter is tall, and big. You’ve only seen him a few times with his sleeves rolled up, but you can tell he’s muscular. Which makes sense, considering he’s a security guard, but you’ve never seen one who looks like they bench press cars on their lunch break. Peter was your first friend—first anything, really—at Wayne Enterprises, when you started in January. He’d carried your box of stuff to your new desk and had shown you where the restrooms and vending machines were, all without you asking. It’s like he’d sensed your anxiety. When he first approached you, you feared the worst, wondering if maybe you’d brought in a gun without knowing. But he’d merely introduced himself, and asked if he could help you get to the floor you needed to go.
Peter’s not always around, because the security assignment changes, according to him. But somehow you bump into each other when he’s on your floor.
“It’s okay.” You sound mopey to your ears. You know Peter will pick up on it.
“Rough day?”
You shrug. “Just some code I was fiddling with. It’s been giving me a hard time. Almost like it’s—”
You stop, catching yourself. You like Peter, but this isn’t a conversation for him. You don’t trust him like that.
“Like…?” he prompts.
“Nothing. Anyway, do you know about some Christmas gala? Jessie was telling me about it, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”
Peter leans against the wall, sending a waft of his cologne in your direction. You can’t place where you’ve smelled it before, but it’s nice. Spicy and woody. He smells like a man, and if you weren’t such a nailbiter, you’d probably shoot your shot. As it is, you don’t want the reason you leave this job to be because you had a falling out with a security guard.
“Sure. Pretty spectacular, if you’re into that. The big boss and his kids attend. There’s food, drink, dancing. He doesn’t spare any expense.” Peter snorts. “Not when it comes to work, anyway.”
Your eyes widen. Peter has, for the most part, never had a bad thing to say about the company, or Bruce Wayne, who you’ve only seen once at work.
“Is that derision I hear?” you ask.
Peter smiles a little. “Maybe. I just hate parties. Bruce makes such a to-do out of ‘em.”
You nod. “I hear you. Jessie said it would be fun, but I’m not so sure. I think I’d rather stay home. Too much excitement for me.”
“Well, no one would fault y’for it, if you did. This isn’t that kinda company.”
You blink, surprised. “Oh. Good to know.”
He looks at his watch. “You should eat something. ‘S way past lunchtime.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re worse than Jessie. I’m going, alright? She said there’s Christmas special roast sandwiches at Penny’s. Want me to bring you one?”
He smiles. “Nah, that’s okay. I ate. Thanks, though.”
“We should eat lunch together sometime,” you say, pulling out your phone and opening your messages. You start to type again. I think someone is hacking the… but you delete it. You have no idea if any hacking is going on. You can hear his voice in your head. Gotta ease those nerves.
You look up, realizing how rude you’re being. “Sorry. Did you say something?”
“I said sure,” Peter says. “Y’seem glued to your phone today. Got a hot date?”
You make a face. “Not at all. Sorry. Work is distracting me. I’ll catch up with you later?”
He nods. “Count on it.”
You continue your trek to Penny’s, stepping onto the elevator. Employees get a monthly lunch allowance, which can be used at the company cafeteria or at neighboring restaurants. You’ve never worked for a company that cares so much for its workers. Wayne Enterprises provides full healthcare coverage, including mental health services that you don’t have to pay a dime for. Emerson barely provided healthcare and dental. He couldn’t have cared less about his employees.
Why he’s in jail, you think, putting your coat on and bracing yourself against the cold air as you sweep through the revolving doors and onto the pavement. Gray slushy snow is clustered around the curb, and you sidestep it neatly as you cross the street to Penny’s, a local cafe. You open the door, the bell overhead ringing. Penny’s has been around for decades, according to the locals. It mostly attracts nearby workers at lunchtime, and plenty of WE employees can be found here throughout the day. You wait on line, scanning the cafe for Jessie. She’s sitting with some people from her department. You still aren’t keen on sitting with people you don’t know at work. It’s part of every job, but at Emerson Corp, you would alternate between eating at your desk or on a bench across the street when it was warm.
The little sign that says Christmas Sandwich Special has an empty row behind it. The woman in front of you asks about the sandwiches.
“Sorry, no more today,” the chef says. “We’ll have more tomorrow. We didn’t know there’d be such a high demand.”
So you order a tuna fish sandwich instead and a cinnamon roll. Sweet treats are an important part of your work day. You wonder if Peter likes cinnamon rolls. You purchase another, on impulse, to bring him.
“Hey!” Jessie waves at you, calling your name. “Come sit with us!”
Well. Here you go.
You sit next to Jessie, who scoots over to make room for you. She goes around the table and introduces you to the five other people. Three work in Marketing, one works in Finance, and one works in PR for the company, Marisol. You say hi and keep your coat on due to how often the door opens and heat rushes out.
“Marisol was just telling us about the conference she covered with Tim Drake last week,” Jessie says.
You raise your eyebrows. “Wow. Tim Drake. How’s he?”
“Not bad, actually,” Marisol says. “And I’ve worked with a lot of CEOs. You’d think he’d be unbearable because he grew up with Jack Drake and then immediately was invited to the Wayne fortune, but he’s actually decent. He never misses a Xanax dose, which helps.”
Dennis, one of the Marketing people, nods soberly. “Sometimes my anti-depressants are the only thing that gets me through the day.”
“Marisol soft-launched Tim and his boyfriend last year,” Jessie says proudly. “Best press I’ve ever seen.”
“We were worried about that one,” Marisol admits. “Not everyone’s as forward thinking, even in Gotham. But, um…” She leans in, and gestures for you all to do the same. “Okay, you obviously can’t tell anyone. It’ll probably come out soon, but I don’t want it to come from here. I… I think Tim might be cheating.”
Jessie, a great lover of theatrics, gasps. “No!”
“I’m not surprised,” says Bianca, the finance worker. “He’s lived with Bruce Wayne since he was fifteen. What do you suppose a boy learns being around him all the time? No morals, that’s for sure. I’m sure all of his kids are screwed up in some way or another.”
Marisol rolls her eyes. “Bruce Wayne would have to be in a relationship longer than a day to get a chance to cheat.”
“I still think all his flings are a cover for his long-term relationship with Batman,” says Dennis.
“No one wants to hear your crackpot theories, Denny,” Bianca says. “Anyone with eyes can see that Batman’s with Catwoman.”
“My throuple theory! Batman, the cold, stern lover. Bruce, the—”
Bianca holds up a hand. “Please, spare me.”
“Anyway,” Marisol says, and delicately sips her ginger ale. “Back to my gossip. Tim Drake disappeared from his hotel like five times. He wouldn’t tell anyone where he went. In my experience, that’s classic affair behavior. And he’s been doing this for about three months, you know, dipping from meetings, working later, having long lunches and not putting them on the company credit card so no one can see what restaurant he was at. It’s definitely suspicious.”
“I hope he’s not cheating,” Jessie says. “They’re such a cute couple. And when they settle down and have kids? Adorable! Although, I don’t agree with nepotism. I support class consciousness.”
“If you caught him, are you sworn to secrecy?” you ask.
Marisol shrugs. “Probably. I mean, he wouldn’t want an Instagram post about it, that’s for sure. My own morals aside, this is the job, you know? It sucks but it is what it is.”
You shiver, biting your sandwich. You wouldn’t want to be on either side of that. Secrets stress you out. Doubly so if you’re keeping them for someone else.
A glob of tuna suddenly plops onto your coat collar. Another lands on a button. A third on a pocket.
“Shit,” you say, putting the sandwich down with too much force. Jessie instantly passes you a wad of napkins, and you try to dab the mess up as best as you can. But you can already tell your coat will smell like tuna, onions, and pickles for the rest of the day.
“Poorly constructed sandwich if you ask me,” Marisol says.
“Well, at least tomorrow’s laundry day.” You shrug off your coat. You abandon your sandwich for the cinnamon roll. Jessie pats your shoulder consolingly.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure no one on the train will notice the smell. It already smells so bad!”
You snort. “Thanks, Jessie.”
****
There’s no way the train will mask the smell.
You stare at your coat, debating. It was a mistake to keep it under your desk; you’re pretty sure the heat from the computer has made the smell a hundred times worse. A janitor was kind enough to give you a recycling bag for it so no one rioted over the smell. But still. You’re hesitant to take it out of the bag now. You don’t know if you can handle dirty looks for a forty-minute train ride. And you don’t want your other clothes to smell.
What’s worse? Peter left early, so you can’t give him his cinnamon roll.
You go outside. It’s cold, especially now that it gets dark at practically noon. But if you walk fast, it’ll be fine, right? You pull your scarf tighter around your neck.
“What are you wearing?”
You spin around, clutching your chest. Red Hood is leaning against a streetlamp, arms crossed. Half of him is shrouded in shadows, which would freak you the fuck out if you weren’t more irritated than anything.
“Don’t do that!” you say. “Jesus Christ.”
“What did I say about that Lexapro, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “You said Xanax. And I’m in therapy, okay? She wants me to try this before committing to meds. Have a little faith in me.”
“Oh, I’ve always had faith in ya. Except now, ‘cause you’re not wearing a coat when it’s fuckin’ thirty-three degrees out.”
“I spilled tuna on it. Tuna, onions, pickles… the tuna essence has seeped in.”
“Tuna essence is better than pneumonia.”
“Nag,” you mumble.
“What was that?”
You look up wearily. “Nothing. I didn't know you were coming. I never texted you back.”
Hood takes off his brown bomber jacket and takes your coat bag and purse. He puts his jacket on you, holding it steady while you dazedly stick your arms through the sleeves. Then he zips it up to your chin. What the fuck.
“Tell me now,” he says.
“Hood, you’re cold!”
“Talk fast.”
“Dude.”
“Oh, you don’t have anything to tell me? Alright, then I’ll just head out.”
“Wait!” You shimmy your hands through his ginormous sleeves. “Okay. I think something shady’s happening at work.”
Hood crosses his arms. You’d think that he’d look less intimidating with your yellow purse over his shoulder and a recycling bag with your coat in his opposite hand but, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. His gray tac suit is skin-tight, outlining every curve of muscle and fat. His pecs look obscene.
Oh no. No, don’t look at that. Think of something else. Toby’s hyena laugh. Tuna juice smell. Santa Claus… Hood as Santa Cl—no! Nope.
Hood seems to take your silence as anxiety. “Okay, I know we’re gettin’ close to when the stuff happened with Emerson last year, but—”
“Come on,” you say exasperatedly. “Do you think I’d want to ruin such a great job?”
“No, but I think the mind’s a funny thing and you get nervy sometimes.”
“This isn’t that. Can I tell you my evidence?”
He holds a hand out. “Go ‘head.”
“Okay, so I’ve been working on this piece of code for, like, months, and it won’t let me finish this program. And I’ve worked on difficult code before, so that’s not the problem, but it’s like now there’s a firewall installed that’s preventing me from accessing stuff. And it only happens when I work on the security part of it, but no one else is experiencing this problem. Today, I tried again and it closed me out of the program! Just shut off! That’s not normal.”
Hood sighs. “Look—”
“Wait! Another thing is that when I returned to my computer after lunch and tried to work on the program again, I saw that Tim Drake had edited some of my code. The CEO, Hood! That’s totally weird. And…” You take a deep breath. “This woman from PR told me about how Tim keeps disappearing from meetings and stuff and how she thinks he’s cheating, but what if it’s something more nefarious? What if he’s messing with the company’s security system?”
“If Tim Drake was doing some shit like that, there’s no way Bruce wouldn’t know about it,” Hood says.
“How do you know? Bruce Wayne doesn’t really seem all there.” You point to your head.
Hood snorts. “Looks can be really deceiving, trust me. I checked him out. He’d know.”
“But—”
“Hey,” he says softly. “I think it’s fantastic you’re so alert about this stuff, but everything’s fine. I wouldn’t have suggested you work here if it was dirty.”
“You aren’t listening to me!” you say, balling your fists. “Hood, I really think there’s something happening. Why don’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then why won’t you even poke around? You love to poke.” And shoot, but you hope he won’t go there.
“I’m not gonna break into Wayne’s company just ‘cause of some weird code. That’s not enough. And maybe Timbo really is cheating. That’s a moral failing but it’s not a crime.” He rubs the chin of his helmet. “‘Course, his boyfriend would kick his ass if he knew…”
You scowl. “It isn’t a coincidence. There’s no such thing as coincidences.”
“You sound like me.”
“Someone has to!” you say, throwing your hands up. “Apparently, Red Hood no longer operates on a reasonable amount of suspicion and paranoia.”
“Alright, alright. How ‘bout this: we’ll do a stakeout tomorrow night. I’ll set up cameras and everything. But if nothing’s out of the ordinary, you drop it. Capisce?”
“Yes,” you say, spirits lifting. “Yes, that's very good. Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure. How’s work, besides that?”
“It’s good.” You smile, thinking of Peter. “Security’s nice.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You look up, remembering yourself. You and Hood do not have that kind of relationship. You’re not sure what relationship you have, but it’s not that.
“Yeah. A-anyway… do you like cinnamon rolls?”
If you could see Hood’s face, you imagine he’d be raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Cinnamon rolls,” you repeat, going to your purse, which is still over Hood’s shoulder. He obediently holds it while you take out the box from Penny’s. You hold it out to him.
“What’re you—”
“It was for my friend, Peter,” you say. “But he left early, I guess. He didn’t tell me he would, I don’t know why he wouldn’t but…” You shake your head. “Anyway. Do you want it?”
“You have it,” Hood says gently.
“I already had one. It was my reward for enduring tuna essence. Please take it, Hood, I want you to have it.”
So he takes it. You smile.
“They’re best warm. You have an oven, right?”
He snorts. “What, y’think I’m some miscreant who squats in abandoned warehouses?”
“No! No, I just… I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you cook. Most guys your age don’t.”
“I cook,” Hood says. “Quite a bit, actually. I make a mean lasagna.”
You grin. “Really?”
“Sure. Peer-reviewed. I’ll make ya one sometime.”
That flusters you, and you clear your throat, fidgeting to take your purse from Hood. He takes it off and puts it over your shoulder.
“I should go,” you say. “Um… oh! Your jacket—”
“‘S a long walk to the train,” he says, backing up, holding your coat. “Just keep it. You can give it to me when we meet for the stakeout.”
“Hood, I’m not gonna take your jacket,” you say, beginning to take it off.
“Seriously. ‘M fine. I got Pit water in me. Helps insulate.”
You try to hand it back, but Hood’s faster. He dodges you, darting away before you can throw his jacket at him.
“See ya tomorrow!” he says, and disappears around the corner. With your coat.
“You have my coat, man!”
Nothing. You huff, shoving your arms back through the sleeves. Vigilantes. There’s no reasoning with them.
…His jacket really is warm. You wonder what the lining is made of. It’s so soft.
****
“Where’d you get that jacket?”
Jessie is already at your desk when you walk in. You look up, frightened. Your heartbeat slows as you realize Jessie’s genuinely curious. She slides around your cubicle and touches your sleeve. The leather is taken care of. You don’t know much about clothing that’s not made of cotton or polyester blend, but from what you understand, real leather jackets require upkeep. It’s clear that Hood does that. It’s obviously worn—aside from the fact that it smells like man cologne, there are scratches and patches from God knows what. Probably bullets and knives. But it’s soft, warm. Well-loved.
“I think this is real leather!” Jessie says, impressed. “What’s it lined with? Wow. I didn’t know you wore that. Pri-cey.”
“I don’t,” you say quickly. “It’s from my—” What? It belongs to a crime lord you’re sort of friends with? You grimace. “Uh, I found it thrifting.”
“Oh, I love thrifting!” Jessie gushes. “Do you think Ben would like thrifting?”
You unravel your scarf. “I don’t think three-year-olds care much about clothes. Like, at all.”
“True. Ugh! I have no ideas on what to do with him. They’re coming this weekend.” She rubs her temples. “And her husband has, like, very high expectations. High expectations? Fuck him! Did he push Ben out of his fucking va—”
“Jessie,” you say, widening your eyes. “Why don’t you take Ben to the community theater’s showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”
She claps her hands, pointing at you. “You’re a genius. That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”
You watch her sprint away, presumably to do anything but her work. You glance behind you, where Toby and another coworker is trying to see how much balled up paper they can land in the wastebasket. You roll your eyes.
Well. You can do your job.
You type your login and wait for it to load. You take off your—Hood’s—jacket. This is terrible. Where could he have possibly taken your coat?
You pull out your phone. You’ve considered changing his contact name, but it feels weird having Red Hood as a contact. My close, personal friend Red Hood. You don’t want to call him Todd, because that’s probably not his name. And anyway, it’s too normie for a guy who wears a helmet and shoots people on the daily.
Maybe not on the daily. Weekly, at most.
You: can i have my coat back today?
?: I would never hold your coat hostage. :)
You: could’ve fooled me. don’t be surprised if yours has tuna juice on it.
?: Ho-ho, ha-ha, comedy! Your coat isn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Be grateful.
You won’t win that argument, so you don’t try.
You: sooo grateful. are we watching pineapple tonight?
?: Tf is pineapple?
You: that’s you know who’s code name… aren’t u supposed to be a super experienced vigilante?
?: Pineapple is a terrible code word. You’re supposed to replace the whole action, like “I’m taking out the trash.”
You: okay man whatever. are we taking out the TRASH tonight?
?: Yes. 7pm. Parking garage across the street. I’ll call you.
You put your phone in your bag, exhaling. This isn’t even that good of a jacket. Yes, it’s warm, and soft, and smells good but… your coat has character! And not the ballistics kind. You’re pretty sure that the mended hole on Hood’s jacket sleeve isn’t because he snagged it on a fence.
You open the program you’ve been working on for months. The screen freezes, the code glitching. The cursor moves on its own, flicking around the screen. Your eyes bug out of your head. You perform an emergency override, something you were taught when you first started working for Emerson. When you work with sensitive information, being able to pull the plug is crucial.
You force-quit the program. The screen goes dark.
Well. Shit.
****
“Have a good weekend!” Jessie calls after you. You flinch, not realizing anyone was behind you.
You tuck your scarf tighter, smiling. “You too.”
“I got the tickets for Charlie Brown,” she says happily. “I dare that prickly mother-in-law to top that!”
“You’ll be his favorite aunt for sure.”
Jessie reaches to give you a half-hug. “Thanks. Have you given any more thought to the gala? You can bring a plus-one for free!”
Like you have anyone to bring. “Well…”
“We can go together. The party favors are so good, too.”
“Maybe,” you say. “I… I’ll think about it.”
Jessie shrugs. “Okay. See you Monday!”
She heads off in the direction of the company parking lot. You wait until she’s out of sight before you cross the street. Your phone rings. You answer.
“Fourth floor,” comes Hood’s voice. “Left side. Black Jeep.”
“Isn’t a black Jeep kind of an obvious stakeout car?” you ask, following his directions. You step onto the elevator and press four. “Isn’t that what the FBI drive?”
“You watch a couple of cop movies and suddenly you’re an expert, huh?”
The elevator doors open. You walk down the parking lot. You’d be terrified if you weren’t on the phone with Hood. “There must be some truth to those, right?”
“Ha, not really. ‘Cept the fact that they make cops a lot smarter in the movies than they really are.”
“The police are stupid in Die Hard,” you say, opening the passenger-side door of the black Jeep. There are no other cars on this floor.
Hood hangs up, watching you as you get in and close the door. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. “Die Hard is unrealistic for other reasons. Who could take out twelve guys barefoot?”
You could, you don’t say. You decide not to mention that John McClane was also shirtless and barefoot for the last third of the movie, making his kill count extra impressive. Hood could probably take out thirty men barefoot and shirtless. Hmm…
“Your coat’s back there,” he says, pointing to the backseat. “Had it dry-cleaned.”
“Oh.” You blink. “It doesn’t need to be.”
“Helps it last longer,” Hood says. “Preserves the insulation.” He tilts his head, presumably eyeing his jacket on you. “Y’don’t have another coat? Yours is wearin’ thin.”
“What’s next? Eating steak five times a week? I don’t have money for two coats, Mr. Moneybags.”
He hums, resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the back of your seat. He lifts his hips to sit more comfortably. You look straight, focusing on a lit window across the street. Your cheeks are hot.
“I’ll getcha another coat for Christmas,” he says casually, and it wouldn’t fluster you so much if you didn’t think he actually meant it.
“You don’t have t—”
He holds up his hand on the steering wheel. “Can’t let my best informant freeze.”
“I’m your informant?”
Hood looks at you, helmet eyes glowing. “No.” He pauses. “You’re my… I dunno what.” He clears his throat. “The cinnamon roll was good.”
You smile. “Yeah? It was from Penny’s.”
He hums. “Never been. I’ll have to try. You cold?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. Your jacket is really warm. My friend Jessie asked what it was lined with.”
“Alpaca. I got it on a job in the Andes.”
“With Roy?”
“Wow, you remember that. Yeah, actually, with Roy. He was the friend I had to break out of prison.”
“Does he also do…” You gesture. “This?”
“He does more international jobs these days, but yeah. Great guy. Better than me.”
“I think you’re good,” you say quietly.
“Mm. Most people wouldn’t agree.”
“Then most people would be wrong.”
Hood doesn’t say anything. He reaches behind him and pulls out a set of binoculars. He gives them to you.
“You’re in charge of those, ‘kay?”
“Okay.” You put them to your eyes, finding the WE building. Some of the windows are lit, which isn’t weird. Some floors work later than you. “When I was working on the program today, I couldn’t even get on. It crashed and logged me out.”
Hood’s quiet. You pull the binoculars away and look at him.
“What?” you ask.
“That’s strange, I gotta admit.”
You perk up. “So something could be going on?”
“Don’t get excited. Let’s just see.”
You wiggle in your seat. “Vindication!”
“‘F I didn’t know better, I’d think you want a corrupt CEO.”
“It’s our Christmas tradition,” you say, grinning.
Hood laughs. “Jesus, I hope not.”
You put the binoculars back to your eyes. You pan up, up to the thirtieth floor, and…
“Hood!” You put down the binoculars. “The light is on in Tim Drake’s office. I saw him leave! And I asked his receptionist if he was available to make sure, and he said Tim had a business dinner.” You unlock your door.
“You did all that?” Hood asks. “Hey, hang on!”
“It’s smart, right?” you say excitedly, happy that your suspicions seem to be confirmed. “I’m terrible at lying, though. When his receptionist asked me why I wanted to speak to Tim, I got so flustered I blurted out that I had a personal surgery for him to green-light.” You thump your head. “Stupid.”
“Takes practice, lyin’ on your feet,” says Hood. “Try exhaling as you say the lie. Your voice levels, your breathing regulates.”
You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Sometimes I think, ‘what would Hood do?’ And I knew you would’ve questioned the receptionist first.”
“I dunno if I should be flattered or worried that you’re thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d do.”
“What do you mean? You have good advice sometimes.”
You wait for him to get out. Hood closes his door and locks it.
“Just sometimes?” he asks.
“Other times, your advice is scary. And illegal.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
You start to walk to the exit.
“Hey, slow your roll,” Hood says, catching up to you. “What exactly are you gonna do?”
“If Tim’s up there after hours and he lied about leaving, then surely he’s doing sketchy stuff, right?”
He sighs, glancing at the WE building, then at you. “I want you t’be careful. I mean it.”
“I’m always careful, Hood. More than you, remember?”
“Well, lately, you’re like a fuckin’ Black Widow, so I feel like y’need a reminder.”
“Have you met a Black Widow?”
Hood nods. “Once. Nice lady. Scary as hell. And she was careful.”
You preen at the comparison. If she scared Hood, she must be one hell of a woman.
Reluctantly, Hood leads you out of the garage. He makes you stay three steps behind him the whole time. You enter Wayne Enterprises through the back entrance with your key card. Hood promises that he’ll erase the log, at your insistence. You take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor, then walk up the extra flight to the thirtieth, so that the elevator sound won’t alert Tim Drake. That’s your idea. Hood is impressed.
You sneak to the hallway of offices. Sure enough, light peeks out underneath the door. But what can you do? It’s not like you can just kick the door down.
“Let’s get closer,” you whisper.
“Let’s not,” Hood says, holding you back by the collar of his jacket. “Stakeouts take patience. You gotta wait for an opportunity.”
The door opens, light spilling out into the hallway. Tim walks out, away from you and Hood. You run. You don’t think about it. If you did, you’d probably better digest what a fantastically dumb idea it is to run into Tim Drake’s office alone.
“Wait!” Hood hisses. “Stop! Son of a—”
You quietly open desk drawers, flick through files, anything you can. Nothing. Tim’s desk is unusually clean. And then it hits you. Duh. A CEO in their twenties is going to be digital. So you move the mouse and override Tim’s login. You go straight to the program you’ve been struggling with for months, and sure enough, you’re able to get on. The edit history shows that Tim was indeed the one who removed your and others’ access to the program.
Your phone buzzes.
?: Hide.
Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you log out and turn off the screen. Frantically, you search for a place to hide. There’s only the tiny closet. You run in, pulling the door shut. A coat in a plastic dry cleaning cover hangs on the end, and you have to bend your head to stand without bumping your head. The door has Venetian blinds cut into the wood, and you peer through the slats. Tim walks in, followed by two men. One you recognize as state senator Brian Osborne, who’s trying to run for governor this year. His face is plastered all over the conservative towns in New Jersey. He’s in his thirties, and housewives of right-wing voters adore him. You don’t trust anyone with perfectly white teeth. Or someone who’s too orange. The other man seems to be a bodyguard, which is smart. Why doesn’t Tim Drake have a bodyguard?
“Please sit,” Tim says. He looks perfect even though it’s nearly nine o’clock at night. You’ve never seen him not look perfect and put-together. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
Your chest hurts.
“I have to say, I didn’t expect your call,” Osborne says, sitting across Tim’s desk. “Considering who your father is.”
“Bruce doesn’t represent me,” Tim says coolly. “Anyway, I know a good deal when I see one.”
“Fantastic. So where will the exchange happen?”
“Wayne Enterprises is having a Christmas gala next week, at the Gotham Gallery. I have a private collection room where no one will bother us.”
You shift, your shoulders stiff with pain from how you’re hunched over. Your movement causes the coat on the hanger to rattle. Shit.
Osborne turns his head, looking at the doorway. “Is someone else here on the floor?”
Tim Drake looks in your direction, and you swear he locks eyes with you through the slats in the door. Your heart stops.
Something clatters down the hallway, much louder than you were. Tim gets up, following Osborne out the door. “There shouldn’t be anyone else. I checked.”
They leave his office and you listen for their fading footsteps before you slip out of the closet. Your hands are clammy with adrenaline. Blindly, you go the same way you came, eyes peeled for Hood’s helmet. Someone grabs your wrist and you open your mouth to yell. It’s quickly covered by a gloved hand. You thrash, but another hand pats your waist, and you relax, relief nearly making your knees buckle.
“Un-fuckin’-believable,” Hood hisses in your ear. “Was I speakin’ in tongues when I told you to wait?”
He drags you backwards, pushing the stairwell door open. He lets go of you when the door clicks behind you, and you turn around.
“That was so scary,” you say, breathless.
“Oh, yeah? I couldn’t tell with the way you charged in like a bull! What the hell has gotten into you?”
“I knew you’d cover me,” you say.
“Don’t ever do that again. I’m so fuckin’ serious. That could’ve gone so wrong and—”
“He’s working with Brian Osborne!” you blurt.
That blessedly makes Hood stop ranting about your safety.
“Are you sure?”
You scoff. “No, Hood, it was some other orange conservative freak with sink porcelain teeth. I thought you said you trusted me!”
“I do, I do, ‘s just…” He groans. “Shit. What else did ya find out?”
“They’re going to meet and do the final exchange at the Wayne gala next week. Something about security technology, I’m not really sure. That must be why I couldn’t log on today!” Your mouth forms an O, gears in your mind turning. “Hood! You have to come to the gala. Then you can take down Tim Drake and Osborne in one go. It’s perfect!”
“Oh, is it? I’m so glad you got my Friday night plans all set. Wayne’s gala is extremely high-profile. ‘S not like Emerson’s Christmas party. I can’t sneak in as Santa this time.”
“I can be your eyes,” you say. “And you’ll just stay in the shadows until you can catch them in the act.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ so close to them. Tonight almost went to shit. Osborne’s no joke. His PR is so good ‘cause he’s so damn bad. He’s been on my list for a long time.”
“Well, this is your chance to get him,” you say. “And it’s not like I’d gun him down. As soon as I find out when he and Tim are meeting, I'll text you, and you’ll do the rest.”
“You get a new job and all of a sudden you’re Butch Cassidy,” Hood mutters.
“Isn’t this the best way to take down Osborne? Catching him in the act?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Yeah, it is, but…”
“But what?”
Hood shakes his head. “Nothin’. You’re right. If you’re really sure about this, then fine, we’ll do it. Or… I could go alone.”
“I can do it, Hood, honestly. My anxiety is a lot better.”
He hums. “‘S not what I meant, sweet. I know y’can do it, I just… this stuff is dangerous. Seriously.”
“I helped you last year,” you say.
“Yeah, and y’did a great job. But that was under dire circumstances, y’know? I pretty much peer-pressured you into it.”
“I wanted you to dress up as Santa.” And be my fake-boyfriend, you don’t add.
He groans. “I remember. That beard shed everywhere.”
You laugh, then turn, suddenly remembering where you are. “Shit. Will they find us?”
“Nah, they left. I saw ‘em get on the elevator before I found you.”
You sag in relief, then tense again. “What about the cameras?”
“I put ‘em on a loop. What kinda operation you think I’m runnin’ here?”
You smile. “A good one. Obviously.”
He lightly taps your shoulder with two fingers. “C’mon. Think that’s enough spycraft for one night, yeah?”
You go to the elevators and go out the side exit this time, on the opposite corner. As you wait for the light, you point at a billboard advertising The Mighty Crabjoys.
“I love them!” you say.
Hood follows your finger. “Yeah?”
You nod. “I tried to get tickets for their concert next month but they sold out in, like, fifteen seconds. Same thing happened to me with Hozier.”
“Hozier’s cool. I like him.”
You cross the street to the garage. “You do?”
“Well, sure. It’s Hozier. I dunno much about Mighty Crabjoys, though.”
“Their music is fun.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
You ride the elevator up in silence. Tonight was scary, but not nearly as much as last year’s events. You’re getting good at this!
“My therapist suggested doing things that scare me, to help with my therapy,” you say as you get into Hood’s car. “She said she thinks exposure will help me the most.”
“Doubt she meant this stuff.”
You shrug. “I dunno. I think I’m getting better at facing my fears.”
Hood turns the key in the ignition. “‘M such a bad influence.”
“You’re not,” you say, but you don’t expand. You don’t point out that before last year, you were terrified of Red Hood, of what he stood for, but now you understand that he’s more on your side than any grubby-handed politician who swears to stand for you. For all of his hard violence, Hood is fair, and kind, and really fills out those pants. You’ve had the occasional dream since last year’s party, where Hood is still your Santa boyfriend, but not because you’re chasing a criminal. And all you see are those blue-green eyes, boring into you like he knows your heart races when you’re around him, and it’s not because of any anxiety attack.
The drive home is quiet. You gave Hood the address and it’s been silent for minutes. No music. You wonder what kind of music Hood listens to. You wonder all sorts of things about him.
“Thanks for believing in me,” you say, while you wait at a light.
Hood nods. “Yeah, well, you called it ‘bout Drake, so—”
“No, I mean…” You flatten your palms over your pants. “For helping me with WE.”
“You helped yourself.”
You shake your head. “You helped me and you didn’t have to. You were really nice, Hood. No one’s ever been so nice to me before. I think… I think meeting you was the best part of my year.”
“Yikes,” he says, maybe trying to release some of the tension. It’s not a bad tension, but it’s heavy nonetheless. Like Hood doesn’t know what to do with your honesty.
You laugh, watching downtown Gotham pass you by. “I guess getting my new job was pretty good too.”
“Well, I’d hope so.”
You fold your hands in your lap. This feels like a moment you’re going to replay over and over in your head tonight. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Thank you too,” he says. “Not just for helpin’ me take down one dirty CEO at a time. But thanks for, uh, bein’ a friend.”
You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road.
“We’re friends?”
He shrugs. “‘F y’don’t mind bein’ friends with the bastard Red Hood.”
You smile and think of your coat in the backseat. “No. I don’t mind at all.”
****
Friday, gala night, comes sooner than you expect. Miraculously, the program at work doesn’t give you any more trouble. But you worry about working on it, conscious that it might be part of a dirty deal and Brian Osborne’s campaign for election. So you twiddle your thumbs and call out sick once, which you never do. You let Jessie distract you with pictures of her nephew. And above all, you do not contact Hood.
Not that he told you not to, or anything. It’s just a personal rule you’ve set for yourself. You felt jittery when you got out of his car last week, your dry-cleaned coat in your arms. You thought about it all the way up to your apartment, and then you stared at it while you made dinner and watched Die Hard.
Maybe this will be the last time you meet up with Hood. At least for a year. A part of you is sad that soon, you won’t see or speak to him regularly, after he nabs Tim Drake and Brian Osborne, and the fact that you’re disappointed terrifies you.
“Hey.”
Peter’s standing in front of your desk. He has a bag with Penny’s logo on it. He sets it on your desk. You look up at him.
“Hi,” you say, staring at those black, black shades. “Happy holidays!”
“Happy holidays,” he says. “D’you like cinnamon rolls? They had a special this morning. Two for one.”
You laugh. “Oh my God. I actually was gonna bring you a cinnamon roll last week.”
He grins. “Yeah? We must be psychically linked.”
“Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“‘M sure.” He watches you pull out the cinnamon roll. There’s a plastic fork and knife in the bag too. How nice.
“You got a fork,” you say, opening the container. “How’d you know I hate getting icing on my fingers?”
He shrugs. “Intuition. Psychic connection. Take your pick.”
“Thanks,” you say. “Seriously. I needed this.”
He nods. “I figured. I saw your name on the list for tonight. Changed your mind?”
“Oh.” You lick icing off your lip and swallow hard, pretending to chew for longer than you need to. “Yes, actually. Jessie wore me down. And I thought, why not? You’re working security, right?”
“Yeah, probably, but you might not see me. I’m s’posed to stick close to the Wayne heirs all night. Timmy and Dickie.”
“Dick Grayson will be there?”
Peter nods. “Yeah. Pretty much the whole family. Bruce takes his galas very seriously. This one is the biggest one of the year.”
Maybe you should text Hood that he’ll need to be wary of all those Wayne kids. You don’t need Hood’s involvement—or yours—splashed across page one on the Gotham Gazette next week.
“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” you ask.
Peter shakes his head. “Not really. I’m not a believer or celebrator of much.”
You blink, pursing your lips. Peter tilts his head.
“What?” he asks.
“No, nothing, just…” You laugh. “I don’t know, I feel like someone’s said that to me before. Deja vu.”
“Huh. Maybe I got that from a movie or somethin’.”
You smile. “Like Die Hard.”
“They say that in Die Hard?”
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something a friend said. So, no plans? Are you working?”
“Pretty much all break,” says Peter. “Actually, ‘s kinda unfortunate. I got tickets to see The Mighty Crabjoys next month, but I can’t go ‘cause of work. Been tryna unload ‘em so they don’t go to waste, but no luck.”
“Really?” You sit up in your desk chair. “I love them, actually. I wanted to see them.”
“Did ya? Shit, that’s perfect. I’ll email ‘em to ya.”
“Are you sure you don’t want them?” you ask. “You could make a crazy resale profit.”
“Oh, don’t cha know? They pay me the big bucks to protect Wayne’s secrets.” Peter grins. “‘M retirin’ in a month.”
You laugh. “Did you find out you’re a secret Wayne heir, or something?”
Peter runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Mm. Somethin’ like that. Nah, don’t worry ‘bout the money. Think of it as a one-year celebration of your survival at WE.”
“Ah, well.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly bashful. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Peter.”
He clicks his tongue. “Now that’s not true. You made your own way.”
You smile, small and proud. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Chatter from the hallway draws your attention. Tim Drake walks onto the floor, flanked by three people you don’t know, and Dick Grayson. Peter clears his throat.
“I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, gently tapping your shoulder. “Break’s over.”
“Oh, okay. Happy new year if I don’t see you.”
“Happy new year,” he says. “Y’deserve a good one.”
Peter leaves through the stairwell door on the opposite side. You stand when Tim walks to Toby’s desk, which is three desks down from yours. You don’t know why you stand, but you feel like you should. You notice he’s wearing the coat you bumped into last night in his closet. Your heartbeat ratchets.
Tim says something to Toby, who looks terrified. Good. You hope he said something along the lines of do your fucking job.
But then Tim looks at you. And so does Dick Grayson. You nearly swallow your tongue.
They walk to you. Tim shoos everyone but his brother away, instructing them to “find something constructive to do.” They scatter.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Tim asks.
“W-what? You mean Peter?”
“Peter,” Dick echoes. He’s smiling, but it makes you nervous. He’s studying your face like he’s trying to pick you out of a lineup. “Do you know Peter very well?”
“He’s—I mean, we’re friends. He’s a security guard.”
Dick nods, no longer looking so intense. “Hmm. Okay.” He sticks out his hand. “Dick Grayson.”
You wipe your hand in what you hope is a discreet fashion so you don’t rub sweat on Dick Grayson’s palm. “Nice to meet you.” You say your name.
“You too,” Dick says. “Finally.”
When they don’t say anything else, you start to fidget. Your gaze darts between them. “I’m sorry, am I in trouble or something?”
“No trouble,” Tim says. His eyes narrow at you. Shit. Shit! “Everything’s fine. There were some bugs in the program your team’s been working on, but Toby figured it out.”
You highly doubt Toby has ever figured out anything of importance: code, the female body, normal responses to a funeral announcement. And the way Tim and Dick are staring at you feels like an interrogation.
“Oh, great,” you say, taking a deep breath and exhaling as you speak, like Hood taught you. “I hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been working on the program for months. Mostly front-end work.”
Tim’s smile is polite but frosty. “I appreciate it. I know you all work extremely hard.”
“A company would be nothing without I.T.,” Dick chirps.
You laugh nervously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”
He smiles knowingly. Dick Grayson is reported to be wholly pleasant and friendly. Right now, you feel like you’re being hunted for sport.
Tim checks his watch and nods crisply. “I have a meeting.” He sweeps a glance across the office. “Keep up the good work!”
They leave. Air fills your lungs once more. You sink into your chair. Then you pull out your phone.
You: oh my god oh my god
You: hood
You: hood
You: please
?: What’s up? I’m working.
You: TIM DRAKE IS ONTO ME
You: are you SURE he can’t tell i was taking out the trash?
?: Excellent use of code. Yeah, I’m sure. Take a breath. What do you mean he’s onto you?
You: okay well he fucking came to my floor and he asked if i knew this security guard which isn’t part of it but he had this LOOK hood. and dick grayson was there too and his smile was so freaky, it’s like he knew exactly what i was thinking
? is typing…
You watch the speech bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again.
?: He asked if you knew a security guard? Who?
You: peter. he’s my friend. hood i think my cover’s been blown
?: You don’t have a cover. Your identity is literally a programmer at Wayne Enterprises.
You: oh my god even worse!!!!
?: Please try to relax. None of that means anything. I’ll check on Drake when I finish what I’m doing.
You: THIS COULD BE LIFE OR DEATH
?: Warhead
You’ve been gnawing on a fingernail this whole time. The text annoys the shit out of you, but you obediently open your drawer and take out a Warhead from a party-size bag and pop it into your mouth. You’ve been on the hunt for a candy that’s even more sour for the bigger panic attacks, but the Warhead works today.
You: maybe i shouldn’t go to the gala
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Wait. If you don’t go, you’ll be home. You’ll be unaccounted for. That’s exactly how people go missing. No, it’s better to be at the gala, close to Hood. Tim Drake can’t assassinate you if you’re at the same event as him on the night of his exchange with Osborne.
You: nvm that’s how ppl die. i’ll go
?: Are you eating the Warhead?
You: yeah
?: Eat another one.
You do.
****
You: does this look okay?
You: [img._6]
Jessie: you look great!! I love that color :) dark red is perf for xmas
You look at your reflection, smoothing down your dress. You wanted something glamorous, and you sifted through three different discount sections at three different Macy’s. You lucked out with this dress: dark red, long-sleeved, long skirt but not too long that you’ll be tripping all night. And you can run, if need be. Not that you think you will. But still.
You: i’ll be in a red dress btw
?: Okay. How do you feel?
You: fine. Are u already there?
?: Almost. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.
You pocket your phone and grab your purse, heading out the door. It’s luckily not snowing, or you’d take a taxi. But the walk to the train isn’t too bad. You’re back to wearing your coat, which is good, because it goes better with your dress than Hood’s would. But you kind of wish you could’ve worn his. It’s admittedly warmer.
The gala is held at the Gotham Art Gallery this year. Bruce Wayne had made a statement that all of the proceeds from tonight’s event would be donated to the local orphanage. He’s Gotham’s biggest philanthropist. You don’t have any particularly strong opinions on him. He seems decent enough, for a billionaire. His son, however…
Well, whatever. That’ll be over soon enough. You have the utmost faith in Hood tonight.
The gallery is hosting the party in its main hall. The roof is made entirely of class, so clear it looks like the night sky is bearing down on you all. The moon is an inky dot of cream above you, almost but not quite full. Waiters circulate with appetizers and alcohol. You take a flute of champagne when it’s offered, but you only take a few sips. You need to be sharp to help Hood.
Bruce and Dick go on stage to talk about the gala, but you’re not listening. You look around. You don’t expect to see Hood, of course, but your eyes are peeled for Peter. He said he’d stick close to Dick, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
…Then again, neither is Tim. Huh.
You take out your phone.
You: have you found the trash?
?: Lol. Not yet. Stay put. Relax. I’ll let you know when I take care of it.
You take a deep breath and try to do as Hood says. It feels weird to not be directly involved. Your phone buzzes.
?: Pretty dress.
Your face immediately goes aflame. What do you say? If you were being honest, you’d say that you didn’t wear red just because it’s Christmas. But you feel that that’s too bold. Bolder than you’re willing to be.
You pocket your phone, too alarmed to say anything. You gulp more champagne, forgoing your rule. Hood told you to relax, right?
The night goes on. Jessie lures you to the dance floor. She introduces you to more people at the company.
And then you spill champagne on your dress.
You sigh. “Great.”
Jessie is sympathetic. “No! Oh no, not again. Want any help cleaning up?”
“No, it’s fine.” You wave her away, a little uncoordinated from the alcohol. “Be right back.”
You start your hunt for the bathroom. It’s only a little champagne, but it’s right on your neckline, and it’s uncomfortable. At least you won’t smell like tuna.
You pull out your phone.
You: spilled champagne :P
You finally find the bathroom and carefully dab the champagne with a wet paper towel. Then you check your phone again. Your message remains unread and unreplied to.
A cold, sinking feeling pools in your stomach. You tap Hood’s contact, about to call. You pause. What if he can’t answer the phone?
This is just your anxiety talking. That’s why you avoid drinking; your anxiety always gets worse. But maybe you have a right to be worried now. Hood always responds quickly. If not in depth, then a simple yes. Why wouldn’t he respond now?
You throw away the paper towels and leave the bathroom. What did Tim say? His private collection room.
There are some staff, but they clearly don’t give a shit about wandering guests, too busy catering to demanding one percenters. You’re not the next 007, but it’s easy enough to find the private collection room. The door has been left slightly ajar, and you carefully pull it open. There are wooden crates piled everywhere, so you duck behind the nearest stack.
There’s a pause. You cringe. Did you make too much noise?
“I didn’t hear anything,” Tim says.
You crawl on your hands and knees, shuffling so you can peer around the crates. Osborne has his bodyguard from last night, as well as three other men. Tim is alone except for—
Oh God. Peter?
Your lips part in shock as you take in the sight of your formerly favorite security guard. Your mind races. Is this why he was so evasive about his schedule? Why he didn’t care about selling the tickets? Yes, you’re sure that being a massive jerk-off and helping billionaires commit crimes is very lucrative.
You scowl. He can’t see you from this angle, but you sort of wish he would, even though you can very clearly see his holstered gun. Would he even care, seeing you? Or would you be another body to dispose of?
You lean back against the crates. Your reaction time is a little slow from the champagne. You pull out your phone and text Hood again.
You: security guards suck ASS
You put it away and watch Tim take out a briefcase. He opens it for Osborne. You can’t see what’s inside. Osborne opens his own briefcase, and those contents you can see. Stacks of cash.
“Committing election fraud has never been easier,” Tim says airily.
Osborne laughs. “Fantastic. You’re my inspiration, Mr. Drake.”
Maybe you should be recording this. You open the camera app and press record, trying to be steady as you zoom in. Peter is on his phone.
Ding!
?: Where are you?
“Shit,” you whisper, trying to mute your phone.
Peter looks up and sees you. You shoot him what you hope is your meanest face.
“What the fuck is this?” Osborne asks, snapping his fingers. One of his goons wastes no time in going and hauling you up by your arm.
“Let go of me!” you shout, swatting at him. He holds you firmly.
Tim looks at you icily, blue eyes wide. You fear he’s going to order Peter to kill you right then.
“Who are you working for?” Osborne asks you.
You lift your chin, feeling more confident than you feel. Damn champagne. “The Red Hood. And he’s gonna kick your ass.”
Tim glances at Peter, chewing his lip. He nods at you. “Take care of her.”
“No,” Osborne says. “Let’s see if this Red Hood character does show. He’ll be looking for his partner, no doubt.”
His confidence makes you queasy. Did Osborne already get to Hood?
You find it hard to believe. Hood can handle himself, no doubt. But he had to sneak around tonight, didn’t he? If he is somewhere, like a basement or shoved into a dusty sarcophagus, no one will be looking for him.
“I can handle her, sir, honestly,” Peter says, and you hiss at him.
“Traitor,” you snap. He ignores you.
But Osborne doesn’t. He squints at you, then Tim, then Peter.
“Do you know her?” he asks.
“Of course not,” Tim says. “Let him take her into a back room so we can get on with this.”
Osborne shakes his head, closing his own briefcase. "No, this is fishy. Red Hood’s partner happens to stumble onto our deal? …You almost got me that night at the office, explaining away the noise. Well, not tonight. I smell a rat. And I take care of rats immediately. Finish it."
The guard pulls out a gun and cocks it against your temple. But you’ve barely felt the press of cold metal before it’s gone, your arms free. He's on the ground, blood gushing from both legs. Peter’s gun smokes.
Gunfire erupts. Peter dives for you, dragging you behind crates. You fight him all the way.
"You asshole," you snap. “You fucking asshole! How can you do this? Tim Drake is—”
"Stay here," he says, angrier than you've ever seen him. "Un-fuckin’-believable."
You peer around the crates. Tim is wrestling with one of Osborne’s goons who has a gun. Peter goes for the other two. They fire and you duck back behind the crates.
“Should’ve known not to trust a Wayne!” Osborne shouts. “Especially one who beds men! Just like your filthy father!”
“You fuck men too, Brian,” Tim says, heaving the guard over his shoulder in a very impressive takedown. Since when does Tim Drake know MMA? “Does your fanbase know that?”
Peter fires and Tim snaps, “Don’t shoot, dumbass! The art is on loan!”
“I’m the dumbass? Meeting here was your bright idea!” Peter snarls, and that voice sounds very familiar…
Osborne’s bodyguard punches Peter and cracks his shades, which fly off his face. Peter instantly knocks him out cold. Seafoam eyes, such an unusual col—holy shit. Holy shit.
“Hood?” you blurt, so surprised, you forget to hide.
This time, Osborne fires at you. Hood shoots at Osborne, who flees. He wastes no time in grabbing you, swinging you back behind the crates. You peek over and see Tim follow Osborne out, with the remaining two goons at his heels.
You whip your head to look at Hood. Peter. “What the f—”
“Shush.” He scoops you up, hoisting you over his shoulders like you're a sack of potatoes. You writhe in protest.
"What the hell! Put me down, Neanderthal!"
“You’re unbelievable, y’know that?” he says, carrying you out of the collection room and down the hallway.
“I’m unbelievable? Exactly how many identities do you have, Peter Todd Red Hood?”
Hood sighs and sets you down. You’re in the main part of the gallery, which is currently closed to guests, but you doubt Hood gives a shit about that. It’s empty, and that’s what matters. He holsters his gun and rests his hands on his head, like he just ran a marathon.
“Guess you want an explanation,” he says.
You put your hands on your hips. “That would be nice, yes.”
Hood smiles a little. You frown.
“What?” you ask, aggravated.
“I dunno. You used to be so skittish ‘round me. Now you’re, like, hm. My friend, I guess.”
You drop your arms, startled. “I…” You look away. “You’re working for Tim Drake. You’re no better than Osborne.”
Hood scoffs. “Even if I was dirty, you wouldn’t catch me dead working for Timbelina. No, sweet, ‘m not. I’m the same Red Hood you’ve always known. Still after the bad guys. But Tim Drake…” He pauses. You look at him. “Is Red Robin.”
“What?”
He raises his right hand. “Swear it. And, uh, my name is Jason. Jason Todd.”
Your mouth falls open. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s s—”
“Ward,” Jason cuts you off. “Yeah. But trust me, I wouldn’t be here willingly. See, uh, you’re actually a spectacular spy. Like, better than the FBI.”
“I am?”
“Sure. Tim’s not really a corrupt CEO. He was just playin’ the part to lure Osborne. We’ve been after him for a while. No one was supposed to detect anything ‘cause nothing’s public, to protect Tim’s image, but…”
“I’m really good at my job,” you say breathlessly.
Jason grins. “Y’sure are. I couldn’t deter you, and I couldn’t tell you the truth. Didn’t wanna endanger you. I tried to make y’drop it, but you wouldn’t quit. Could go into the detective business, honest.”
“Wow.” You lean against a pillar. “Sorry.”
Jason shrugs. “‘S okay. Was fun.”
He edges a little closer. He probably thinks you won’t notice but you’re a detective.
“So you were Peter this whole time. You were… watching over me?”
Jason licks his lip, mouth forming shapes. “I mean, officially, I was makin’ my identity legit so Osborne wouldn’t get suspicious. I saw you when you came in, and I guess I couldn’t help but say hi. I thought you’d recognize me, but those shades were worth their money.”
“I remember those eyes,” you say quietly.
He clears his throat. “Right. So, um, I guess I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. And then we kept talkin’ and, I dunno. Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything, I guess. For enterin’ your life and stayin’ in it. I get it if y’want me to leave you alone.”
“No.” You take Jason’s hands, so his fingers rest on the insides of your wrists. “Hood—sorry, Jason. You make me less nervous. And I’m relieved that your alter ego isn’t a bootlicker.”
Jason’s face is disgusted. “No way in hell.”
“Can I make a confession?”
“Oh, well, I’ve already made about three, so evening it up would be great, yeah.”
You swallow. "Okay. Well, last year when you pretended to be my Santa boyfriend, I kept thinking about what if it had been real."
Jason's pupils are enormous. "Yeah?" he whispers. "Was it a good thought?"
You nod. "I felt so conflicted, thinking about you and also thinking about Peter. And now…"
“Mmhm?”
You look at Jason’s lips. He has a scar that cuts through his Cupid’s bow, but it’s quite pretty. The Red Hood has a pretty mouth. Huh.
“Is my pulse steady?” you ask, looking at him through your lashes. You lift your wrists slightly.
Jason’s eyebrows lift in realization. “Yeah. Not one lie told.”
“I wish you’d kiss me.”
He leans in, and you meet him halfway. He’s taken off his gloves, so when he cups your neck, hot, rough skin sears you. Oh, you like him. Lightning shoots down your chest and back. He’s a shy kisser, and that pleases you even more. There’s something thrilling about the fact that you can make him moan first. Just from a kiss.
Footsteps echo on the marble, and you pull back, fearing Osborne and his men. But it’s much worse: Tim Drake is ten feet away, holding a bo staff.
"Really?" he asks, annoyed. "This is why you couldn't follow us?" He nods at you. "Hey."
"Hi," you say, utterly mortified. "I am so sorry. Please don't fire me."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "What, for sucking face? Please. Bruce will be thrilled to know that Jason isn't nearly as maladjusted as he thought."
"Fuck off," Jason says, pulling you closer by your waist, almost subconsciously.
"Crowbar victim."
Jason’s gaze is steely. "Ninety-nine. Failed. Clone attempts."
Tim looks impressed. "Wow. Dug deep for that one."
"I've been reading B's files to fill the gaps."
"There’s some fucked-up shit in there."
"Seriously." He looks at you, and it’s like his entire expression changes. You wonder if he’s been looking at you like that the whole time. He turns to Tim. “Gimme a minute.”
"Fine, whatever. I'm gonna track down his bodyguard. I think one of them hacked my computer last week.”
“Actually, that was me,” you say. “I overrode your firewall.”
Tim's eyes widen slightly as he looks at you. "For real?"
"Yeah, I was looking for your edit history on the project. When I, you know, thought you were on Osborne’s side.”
Tim doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that you thought he was evil for several months. "Wow. Wanna come work for me privately?"
Jason grunts. "Back off."
Tim grins with all of his teeth. "Okay, I'll spare you. Hurry up.”
Jason flips him off. You turn to him after Tim's gone. "So he’s your brother?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But… legally?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately. And the one you met a few days ago, Dick? That one’s mine too. Legally. He’s on different meds, though.”
“Oh.” Your eyebrows rise. “Oh. So when Dick asked today if I knew Peter very well…”
“He did not mean in the coworker way, no. They all think we’ve been secretly dating for a year.”
You frown. “But we haven’t.”
Jason throws his arms up. “Tell me ‘bout it! World’s greatest fuckin’ detectives. Psh. I told them to butt out, for the record. Told them they didn’t know what was goin’ on. And do they listen? Does anyone listen to me in this godforsaken family? Nope!”
“I listen,” you say.
Jason immediately softens. “Yeah, you do.”
“I think you should probably go help Tim, though.”
He waves a hand lazily. “In a minute. He’s fine. Tryin’ to figure something out first.”
“What?”
“Whether I believe in Christmas miracles or not.” Jason pushes his tongue under his lip, smiling. He leans in to kiss you again. You meet him in earnest.
