Everything Is Romantic 2
ꨄ Stalker Tim Drake x Civilian Reader
ꨄ Summary: You’re fired from your job and end up in a meet-cute situation with a cute stranger
ꨄ Word Count: 3.3k
ꨄ a/n | i really wasn’t expecting the first part to even get as much attention as it did, but here’s the second part. i hope it lives up to expectations
“Fired?!”
Your boss takes a lengthy step back at the way your shrill voice bounces through the air. But you’re too upset to care.
“You’re refusing to return to work. What am I supposed to do with an employee who refuses to work?” He sneers back, his hand waving in that uncaring, dismissive way.
You gawk at him. “I’m not refusing to return to work,” you argue, your voice trembling with emotion as you try to not shout, “all I’m asking for is a couple days off so I can wrap my head around the whole ‘being held hostage’ ordeal. Surely that’s not unreasonable?”
Apparently it is unreasonable. It’s all you can do but stare in disbelief as your boss rounds the serving counter and begins tapping at the register screen, as if to busy his hands while debating your mental health rights to recovery. The shame that fills you is unfair and outright wrong, but your recognition of that fact doesn’t stop the tears from filling your eyes and your entire face heating up.
“You either show up for your shift tonight or I’m terminating your contract,” he passively answers, his shoulder shrugging. The way he dismisses you is cruel and wrong; how is it possible for a person to be so uncaring?
You blink rapidly through the tears and clench your fists at your side to try and ease the shaking of your limbs. Your throat burns with the intensity of how much you want to burst into tears, from the humiliation of this whole situation being played out in the public space of the main store floor where anyone can see. It’s your coworker who stands in the end aisle, an open box in one arm and the consumable product in her hand as she stacks the shelves, head deliberately turned away to feign ignorance to the conversation.
There’s no dignity to any of this, and that angers you more than the fact that you’re being fired for putting yourself first. Nevermind the fact that your other coworker was murdered last night by the same psychopath who held you hostage because he was drugged up and hallucinating demons.
You suck in a breath and blink through the initial sting of tears. “Terminate my contract. I’ll go find a job elsewhere with a boss who is actually human,” you spit out, wanting to match his inhumanity. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were half a decent person.”
There’s no answer from your, now, ex-boss. He simply continues to tap away at the register screen with the same indifference as always. From your experience, you can only guess that he’s adding new products to the register or looking at the sales page for guidance on what prices to set his consumables at. Despite being such an asshole, he knows exactly what prices to set to make them sell without making losses or coming across as extortionate.
You scowl at yourself for even thinking of the praise. And with that, you spin on your heel and storm out the main entrance of the shop. The overhead bell on the door sounds like a mocking goodbye, and you’re furious at the fact that the door has that slow-automatic effect on it that means it won’t slam shut. What you wouldn’t give to slam it and potentially crack the glass.
You return home faster than expected, so much so that the journey back is just a blur of fast-paced walking and angry incoherent mumbles. But immediately you sink onto the worn couch and open your laptop to begin job hunting. Your CV, thankfully, is pretty up to date and only needs minor tweaking to make it ‘polished’, but other than that it’s good enough to send out and hopefully be eye-catching.
The days that follow are extremely repetitive. Wake up, apply for jobs, read rejection emails—or groan at the fact that you’ve been ghosted by companies that aren’t even that good—, watch a couple of shitty television programmes, check for updates one final time on the job situation, and go to bed.
Being desperate to not fall behind on rent— because even though your landlord is nicer than most of Gotham, that doesn’t mean his patience is thick—you make yourself presentable and head down to the job centre for some advice.
Honestly, the job centre is exactly as you had imagined it. With rows of questionable individuals sitting in the waiting area, all of them looking like they’re suffering from withdrawals or something, and a handful of open desks with very stern employees sat behind a computer monitor. You beeline for the receptionist desk and introduce yourself, explain why you’re there (even though the reason is pretty damn obvious), and then you’re directed to the seating area to wait your turn.
You have a choice of sitting next to a pale, twitchy man with eyes that are bulging out of his head, or an elderly woman that looks like she’s going to smack someone with her cane. Considering the situation where you were held hostage by a shifty, pale man only a few days ago, it’s only natural that you take your chances with the mean old lady instead.
Once seated, you muster up the courage to flash the old woman a friendly smile, only to be met with a nasty scowl and her tapping her cane like a threat into the limoneum floor. You retreat back and look away, suddenly wary of the fact that she might actually hit you.
You’re suffering from the trauma of shifty-looking men, you’d rather not add to that by being frightened of old women with walking aids.
It feels like the minutes drag into hours as people are called one-by-one to the many not-so-private desks to discuss their situations. The old woman falls asleep by the hour mark, her snores making you feel far more relaxed in knowing that you aren’t at risk of assault—though you can’t help but wonder if a sudden noise will startle her awake and cause her to lash out.
But you never find that possibility out as your name is called from a man at another open-desk. You practically jump to your feet from relief and the eagerness to escape the seating area of questionables. You smooth your hands down your black trousers and adjust the flower-patterned blouse that balloons majestically at the sleeves, then make a hasty walk over.
You smile and hope it looks polite and not at all desperate, even though that’s exactly how you feel, and then you plop down into the chair opposite the desk.
“Hello,” you greet, teeth flashing for a moment. You then inwardly cringe and start second guessing the way you had greeted the man. Was it too sing-song-like? If there was ever a way to take back words, you’d definitely use it at that moment to retry your own greeting and not sound like a weirdo.
“[_____], correct?” The man asks, sounding bored and not at all impressed. His eyes are hidden behind thick framed glasses, and you immediately can tell he has a strong prescription due to the way his eyes are magnified.
You swallow nervously and confirm your own name.
He continues to reel off some other basic information that you’d helpfully submitted at the reception desk, and once he’s certain that you are exactly who you say you are, he begins the process.
“So, please tell me why you’re here today,” he prompts, his eyes dragging away from the screen to connect with yours. The eye contact feels contractual and like an obligation for his job, but you try not to feel scrutinised under his state despite the urge to reel back and sink into the floor.
Your hands twist in your lap. “A few days ago I was held hostage at my job by someone high off of drugs,” you start almost too quickly, the memory fresh and too hostile to feel comfortable with recalling. Goosebumps line your arms instantly, and you’re suddenly thankful that you chose this long sleeved blouse to wear. “I got into a disagreement with my boss about taking a few days to recover from the experience, and he fired me for not wanting to return to work immediately.”
The man tilts his head once into a nod. His hands fly across the keyboard with a motion that feels robotic, like he’s done this far too many times to count. “It says here that you have applied for several jobs around Gotham already. If you’ve applied for jobs, why are you here?”
“Uh, well, yes—“ you can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks from embarrassment. “My applications were ignored or rejected by the places I applied to, so I was hoping to get some jobseekers advice or some help with applying.”
There’s a pause before the clicking of keys returns to the unprivate space. The desk across from yours has a young man loudly retelling the woes of endless job hunting and the fact that all of the recommendations he’s been given haven’t suited his employment needs. This feels impersonal and not at all ideal, like it’s a humiliation ritual rather than a place of help. Because nothing screams compassion than having to air your dirty laundry and employment issues out loud to a room filled with other people.
“And what type of job are you searching for?”
You snap your attention back to the goggle-eyed man. “Honestly anything. I’m pretty flexible with taking on new jobs, I just need to pay my rent.” You thoughtlessly readjust the collar of your blouse, not liking the way the material is tickling your neck. Then, you stupidly add on, “Heck, I’ll even group in with one of those criminal gangs that work for Two-Face if it means I can pay the bills.”
It’s meant as a joke, something to make you feel more at ease and to hopefully break the uncomfortable tension of the room, but it doesn’t land the way you wanted it to. Instead, the man abruptly stops typing and fixes you with a look of utter contempt. It’s enough to make you shrink into your seat and wish you could snatch the words out of the air and stuff them back down your throat.
“Ma’am, this establishment does not encourage criminal activity. As an organisation dedicated to steering the general public away from turning to a life of crime, I can offer for you to speak with an advisory over at GCPD to discourage your desperation.” His fingers return to tapping at the keyboard.
You gawk at him.
“No, no,” you squeak out, your entire body feeling uncomfortably hot. “That’s really not necessary. I was just making a joke.”
The man stops typing and lifts his gaze to yours, his mouth twisting into a frown. “Making light of crime is not a joke, ma’am.”
Wow, this feels exactly like being told off by a parent or teacher. How embarrassing. The words “I’m not angry, just disappointed” spring to mind, and once again you’re left with the desire to have the ground swallow you whole.
“Yeah, I got that,” you breathe out, “I’m sorry.”
The meeting drags on for another fifteen minutes, with the advisor asking further questions and tearing apart your talents, personality, and hobbies all for the sake of finding a job role that will essentially suit you best. The process is demeaning and unnerving, and you’re left wondering if this whole thing is just to make jobless individuals feel worse about themselves.
Thankfully the end is in sight, and you almost cheer in relief when the advisor concludes the meeting with a promise that suitable jobs will be sent to your email inbox for you to apply for. You take the liberty to thank the advisor, apologise a couple times extra for the unfunny joke you made, then hightail it out of the gloomy building.
Before heading home however, you spot a cute coffee shop at the end of the street. Against Gotham's grey palette, it looks painfully out of place. But maybe that’s what draws you towards it, because it feels hopeful against the gloom of the city. Plus, there’s dark rain clouds looming overhead, and considering it’s a twenty minute walk back to your apartment, you decide shelter is important if you’re to dodge the risk of getting wet.
You slip inside the coffee shop and are immediately greeted by a short-statuted woman. A frilly apron hangs around her waist, with coffee stains and milk splats down the front. And despite the cheerful exterior and interior decorations, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Hi, please can I have a vanilla latte?” You ask once you’re at the counter. The woman just nods and taps at the register. Her jaw moves in a chewing motion, and then she gestures sharply to the display counter of pastries and baked goods.
“D’you want anything else?” She asks, sounding utterly miserable and painfully bored. “We have a discount deal for hot drinks and pastries.”
You manage to smile despite the hostile conditions. “A job opening would be ideal,” you say with a forced laugh. The regret is immediate, because the short woman looks completely unamused by your attempt at a joke.
“We’re not hiring. D’you want a pastry or not?”
Gotham really does lack humour.
Your eyes flick towards a delicious-looking chocolate twist. You really shouldn’t be wasting money like this, but after the unnerving day you’ve had, you think you deserve it.
“I’ll take a chocolate twist, please.”
The woman tells you your total and you pay without question or another word spoken—because god forbid you make another joke and have the entire of the city want to lynch you for it. You start to wonder if maybe you’re not as funny as you initially thought you were to be, or maybe the people you’re encountering just have a constant stick up their ass. Considering the constant stream of bad luck you’re having at the moment, you wouldn’t be surprised if you just keep bumping into the wrong people.
You thank the woman for the pastry and coffee and turn to leave—
Only for you to collide face-first into someone standing up from their chair.
Foam from the cup shoots out the top of the drinking hole, and you accidentally squeeze the paper packet containing your delicious chocolate pastry. You squeal in surprise and crane your head up, eyes flying open in surprise just as the strange man shoots his arms out to grip your shoulders and steady you.
“I’m so sorry!” You shout out, face turning into a flaming pool of embarrassment and defeat.
Yeah, you were definitely experiencing the worst case of bad luck anybody could ever have the joy of experiencing.
The stranger retracts his hands from your shoulders and wipes them against the front of his shirt. You want to take offence at the action because you shower nightly and smell good—and that’s not you tooting your own horn, because your care routine is intricate in the sense that you own the best body scents and moisturisers a girl can have—but you’re slapped in the face with instant realisation that the coffee from your cup had sloshed out and stained the front of his white shirt.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan, eyes almost rolling back.
It’s not even bad luck anymore. At this point, your luck just doesn’t even exist.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Honestly, I spill coffee down myself all the time, don’t worry about it.” You drag your eyes up from the stain and stop at the man’s face— a very soft, cute looking face.
And now your face feels hot for all the wrong reasons. Trust you to crash into a hot stranger and throw your coffee down his pristine white shirt.
“Um, this is going to sound weird, but…”
Your heart skips a beat.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you asking the barista for a job. Are you—um, sorry—are you looking for a job right now?” He asks, his blue eyes shifting towards the pastry counter and then back to your face. The paleness of his skin makes the blue shine brighter, and you can’t help but marvel at the fact that they look like gemstones.
You blink a few times before registering the question. “Oh! Yes. Yes—looking for a job, I mean. Not that the question was weird. Well—no, yeah, it wasn’t weird. I’m on the market—“ His eyes visibly widen. God you really need to stop talking “—for a job. I’m on the market for a job.”
His long fingers rake through his hair, his lips twitching up into a smile. “Good, good. The company I work for has an opening position in the buyers department. That’s… well, that’s if you’re interested in office-based work.”
If not for the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public space, with a very judgemental barista standing behind the counter, you could have screamed with joy. Thankfully, you have some self restraint and you’re able to calm yourself before responding.
“Oh my goodness, really? I’ll literally take anything right now,” you admit.
He looks relieved. His shoulders drop a fraction, and he smiles down at you with a softness that doesn’t feel real. “Perfect. It’s a trial position, so there’s no contract binding you to the company if you don’t like the role,” he explains, his hand shoving into the pocket of his trousers and pulling out a phone.
You barely register the fact that it’s a damn expensive model before he’s reeling off more information.
“It’s 9-5 work, and once the trial period is up the minimum pay is a salary of $32,000 yearly. There’s chances for department promotions and pay rises, plus a lot of benefits that other companies don’t give. It’s hybrid work too once the trial period is over.” The way he rambles and lists off the details is mesmerising, and you can’t help but stare in genuine awe at his face as he talks. Even his voice is cute with that deep rumble.
He continues to talk about commute times, company discounts and benefits, as well as team building exercises that each department organise between themselves, but there’s a need to know question on the tip of your tongue.
“What’s your name?” You interrupt.
He pauses and blinks almost owlishly at you. Then his hand rises to rub the back of his neck. “Tim. My name is Tim. And you are…?”
You introduce yourself, shoulders rising towards your ears in a bashful shrug. “How do I go about applying for the trial position?”
Tim beams down at you. “I can sort out the application process. The position is all yours if you want it— I can text over the details if that helps?” He holds his phone out to you, and you don’t hesitate to take his phone to type in your contact details.
Once you hand his phone back, he looks down at the screen before shoving his phone back into his pocket. His smile doesn’t fade. “Well, it was really nice bumping into you,” he says, “and honestly I’ll even say the coffee stain was worth it. I’ve got to head off, I’m kind of running late for something, but I’ll text you this evening with the starting date details.”
You nod almost too enthusiastically. You don’t have time to correct yourself and feign nonchalance though, because Tim is already turning away and waving goodbye.
It’s only when he’s leaving do you realise how dumb it was to accept a job position from a stranger, and give your details to him just because he’s cute.
It’s honestly a wonder how you’ve ever navigated life as long as you have without dying.
