Dear Daddy Long Legs

by AthenaGC94

Summary:

“I’m looking for an application for a scholarship.”
“You didn’t have to hack our systems to apply for a scholarship,” Tim deadpanned, “I wasn’t aware you could go to college if you’re legally dead.”
His eye twitched. “I’m looking for an applicant,” he amended, “She already applied.”
Tim finally looked at him. “She?”
_____
Inspired by the novel Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster. Jason Todd saves you from getting mugged one night and ends up being your mysterious benefactor, funding your college experience. Featuring awkward "zero rizz" Jason Todd and several members of the Bat Family.
Jason Todd x Fem!Reader - does not use y/n

Chapter 1

Taking the subway had to be the most mundane thing a person could do, and after the night he just had, Jason needed mundane.

He traded his uniform and helmet for a well-worn hoodie and a Wonder Woman cap that hid the streak in his hair. He sat with his shoulders hunched to make himself smaller, less imposing, but no amount of hunching could hide the broad planes of his chest. The stench of blood and gunpowder clung to him despite rinsing off before he left the Outlaw safehouse.

It would have been wiser to stay behind and regroup. Everything that could go wrong with their assignment did, but he didn’t want to sit and stew in all the ways they failed—in all the ways he failed. Bizzaro let him go without much fuss. Artemis had more to say.

“You can’t run from your failures like a coward.”

Leave it to her to keep him humble.

Their latest job took them halfway across the globe, and after facing metahumans, myths come to life, and sorcerers, Jason missed the psychopaths of home. This wasn’t the first time he’d been away. A month was nothing compared to five years, but he yearned for the familiarity of Gotham.

Nostalgia was a bitch.

Being back brought a well of complicated emotions with it. Anger, regret, but there was something else, something that tightened his chest and left his stomach soupy. He tried to ignore it, knowing he wouldn’t like what he found if he sat with it too long.

So, subway.

Mundane.

Human—he just wanted to feel human.

His knee bounced as lights rushed past, casting harsh shadows across the rubber floor. It was quiet, save for the slow grind of steel on steel as the car raced down its track. It was empty save for him.

Well, him and you.

He might have missed you entirely if not for the bright yellow jacket thrown over your button up and slacks. Unless your name was Robin or Signal, yellow was a bold choice for Gotham—especially this late at night. You chewed on the plastic end of the drawstring as you pored over the book in your lap.

Jason, despite every instinct telling him not to, craned his neck to identify the book. It might have been an effective strategy if you weren’t halfway across the car and facing him. You seemed to sense the weight of his stare and looked up. The string fell from your mouth as it tightened with the guarded look in your eyes.

An embarrassed flush burned his ears as he looked away. It was easier to pretend he knew how to socialize when compared to people like Bizarro and Artemis, who were far from the paragons of conversation. Charm was learned, and his was a little rusty.

But now that he had your attention, he might as well ask. “What’re you reading?”

Your eyes narrowed a fraction as you gave him a once over. When you found whatever, you were trying to ascertain, you lifted the book to show him the cover. The edges were frayed; its spine well-worn, but the words ‘Wuthering Heights’ popped against the discolored taupe cloth.

Jason sat a little straighter. “First time reading it?”

You rubbed the page between your thumb and forefinger as a thoughtful deliberation creased your brow. “Second time. I read it in high school, but I didn’t fully appreciate it. Now that I’ve dipped my toes into a few more classics, I thought it was worth revisiting.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

You were two-thirds finished, which was more than enough time to form an opinion. Jason had thoughts, but he wanted to hear from you first.

You considered him again, almost conflicted. “I appreciate it more than I did back then. I understand why people consider it a cult classic. It’s complex, and I like complex. Heathcliff is deeply flawed, Catherine too, but that’s what makes them compelling characters.”

He smiled. “I’ve never read a more complex, mutually destructive love story like Wuthering Heights in years. I mean, like, full-body chills every time I read it. There’s something thrilling about it.”

“Right,” you exclaimed, a passion igniting in your eyes.

“Now, Darcy, that’s the real paragon of romance.”

The car slowed, coming to a stop at an empty platform. The doors opened with a soft hiss as the automated voice announced the stop. Your gaze flicked to the door, then back to him. He half-expected you to make a run for it, but you stayed planted in your seat. He blinked.

Or maybe you expected him to leave instead?

He settled back in his chair to make himself comfortable. The doors closed once more, and the subway continued down its track.

You relaxed a little. “Well, Mr. Darcy, if you know so much about the classics, what do you recommend I read next?”

He choked on his laugh.

Jason was no leading man despite how often he dreamed of being transported into a regency-era romance novel. Throw him in a silk waist coat with a messily knotted cravat and call him a rake because he’d make the fictional women swoon.

Reality, however, was much darker and hung over his head like a thick smog that threatened to suffocate him. He didn’t exist on this earth to sweep ladies off their feet or duel for their honor. That, and he wasn’t nearly as suave as he pretended to be.

“And for the record, I’ve already read Pride and Prejudice.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, boy. How long do you have?”

A small smile curved your lips. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Discussing books came easily to him—probably because he had a lot of opinions and not a lot of people to share them with. Artemis didn't read, Bizarro preferred movies, and Roy—well, Jason was still reeling about their last book-related discussion where Roy tried to convince him that movie was always better than the book. For both their sakes, Jason made a conscious choice to not discuss books with him after that.

You listened as he rambled, going off about his favorite authors, Austen and Dumas. He should have been embarrassed by how much he was talking, but the quiet intensity in your gaze spurred him to keep going.

His chest tightened with every stop, believing the next would be the point where you two parted ways for good. From the way your gaze kept darting to the door at each stop, he had an inkling that the feeling was mutual. He decided not to ask, lest it break whatever spell had fallen between you two.

But all good things must come to an end. When the door slid open on the Park Row exit, Jason stood, albeit reluctantly. You did the same, slinging a plain canvas bag over your shoulder.

He curbed his surprise. “Park Row, eh?”

“The lifeblood of Gotham,” you said humorlessly.

Jason laughed. You did not. It died on a grunt as he tried to appear more sympathetic.

You exited the car with him, zipping the front of your hoodie as the unseasonably cool air pebbled his skin. He stuffed his hands in his jogger pockets and followed you up the stairs that led out onto the street. It was dark, darker than usual given the city had yet to replace the shattered streetlamp on the corner. It might have been his doing, errant bullets were a hazard of the job, but he was mildly irritated to find it was still broken.

Calm washed over him as he breathed. It was good to be home, even with all the complicated emotions that came with that sentiment.

“You live nearby?”

Your dubious look made him cringe. That sounded creepy coming from him, a random guy you barely knew. Sometimes it was difficult to separate Jason from Red Hood, not that he believed for a second that Red Hood would change your reaction. If you lived here, which he assumed you did because no Gothamite in their right mind would willingly follow him onto the street lovingly dubbed Crime Alley, the name Red Hood held weight. For all the good he did for the citizens, there was plenty of bad stack against him. He didn’t expect you to trust him with or without the helmet.

“Forget I asked,” he said.

You stared at him a second longer before walking away. “Stay safe, Mr. Darcy.”

Your tone carried an edge of finality, like you never expected to see him again. Despite the disappointment purling in his chest, he agreed that was probably for the best. A brief conversation with you was a warmer welcome than he anticipated, but he wasn’t about to push his luck by asking for more.

He lifted his hand to wave, though you had already disappeared around the corner. “You too.”

Chapter 2

Eat the rich.

Seriously.

But what about Bruce Wayne? He does so much good for Gotham. He’s so handsome and tall. His philanthropy has… Shut up. Bruce Wayne didn’t get a free pass just because he was pretty. He was still a billionaire who needed a healthy dose of reality before you even considered calling him a good guy. Rich people were fucking weird, and you were a true victim of the elite and those weird habits.

Sure, their lavish parties paid your bills, if just barely, but that didn’t mean you had to like being a pawn in their game. This party lasted later than you wanted it to. They always did.

Ice sculptures weren’t cheap. Usually, they cost a quarter million to make depending on the time of year and whether Mr. Freeze had recently wrought havoc on Gotham. You counted eight in total as you wove through the crowds with a silver platter laden with aged beef sprinkled with edible gold leaf. It didn’t even taste good, but they were a hit.

One couldn’t account for good taste in these circles.

You still smelled vaguely of expensive hors d’oeuvres as you trudged up the stairs that emptied onto Park Row. A still quiet greeted you on the street. You were alone. No oddly built young men with an affinity for classic literature and Amazonian superheroes nipping at your heels like an eager puppy. While not the most unpleasant encounter you’ve had on the Gotham subway, you learned quickly it was better to be wary and take the kindness of strangers with a grain of salt.

A midsummer breeze rustled your hair as you drew the hood of your yellow jacket. Yellow was a bold choice for this side of town, but it also diminished your chances of getting taken out by a speeding vehicle on your walk home. Safety and preservation at all costs—that’s what you’d been taught.

Puddles rippled under your feet, pooling between the cracks and potholes that littered the street. A storm passed during the party, leaving the sky clear and a half-moon to light your way.

Silver linings. You could have been caught in the rain.

Hugging your bag closer to your person, you ducked down a side street. Darkness enveloped you like a shroud. You might have disappeared entirely if not for your obnoxious hoodie. The narrow alley had just enough room for you to walk, brick and mortar scraping your palms as you pressed past a dumpster.

You wouldn’t usually take a shortcut this late at night. Keeping to the main arteries of Park Row were safer, if just barely, but you were also anxious to get home to finish your—

“Drop the bag.”

Something solid pressed against your spine. A gun? A knife? It was hard to tell through your jacket, and it was the unknown that tightened your chest and throat. Given the narrow alley, you were more likely to get hurt if you fought back, and if he had a gun, it was over anyway. You could scream, but no one would come. You weren’t completely helpless, but you also knew when to cut your losses. It’s not like you had much on you anyway.

Lifting your hands in defeat, you slid the bag off your shoulder and set it on the ground.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Nice and easy.”

A shiver crept up your spine, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see you shudder. You waited, hoping he would take the bag and bolt, but you were never that lucky. He pressed the object more firmly against your back as he snatched the bag. Not a knife, you decided, given that it didn’t feel all that sharp.

Your mind raced as you considered your next move. Muggers didn’t usually stick around unless they had an ulterior motive beyond theft. Dread bloomed heavy in your chest. You were a woman, alone at night, walking in a dangerous neighborhood.

It was bound to attract some attention because men like this one sucked. People would say it was your fault for taking a shortcut, your fault for wearing yellow, your fault for deigning to be a woman trying to live her life. You, alone, would bear the consequences and the blame. It wasn’t fair, but it was how society treated its victims.

You swallowed your vitriol and said, “I don’t have anything else on me.” The waver in your voice betrayed your fear, and you hated yourself for it. “Just take my bag and go.”

“Woah, sweetheart, what’s your rush? I thought you and I could have a little fun before we called it a n—”

Bang.

Your ears rang as the bullet sent bits of brick raining down over your heads. The pressure on your back disappeared. You felt no pain, but you patted yourself down anyway. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, after all. When you concluded there were no extra holes to concern yourself with, you whipped around to face the man. It would have been smarter to run, but you’d be damned if you left without your bag.

A young man with gaunt cheeks and sandy blonde hair gripped your bag in one hand and a rusty lug wrench in the other. His attention settled on something over your head. You shoved aware your embarrassment as you followed the line of his gaze.

Red Hood stopped on the edge of the roof with a gun held aloft in one hand. He whistled sharply, the noise distorted by a modulator in his helmet. “Drop the bag. If you want to fuck around, I promise my next shot won’t miss.”

You blinked up at him in disbelief. Most dubbed Red Hood the hero of Park Row—at least to those that needed it. He was more of a thorn in the side of the crime syndicates that operated out of here. You were convinced he didn’t really exist. You’d never seen him, only the evidence of his work, but there were enough vigilantes traipsing about to make you question his existence.

The leather jacket over his plated uniform was a choice, but who were you to question the fashion of the man holding the gun.

Hood whistled again. “Last chance.”

With gritted teeth, the man tossed your bag and sprinted off. Its contents scattered across a nearby puddle. Your catering apron, a beaten wallet, and some loose-leaf paper. Your heart leapt into your throat.

Your paper!

You dropped to your knees to salvage what you could as a pair of heavy boots hit the ground behind you. Misery swirled in your chest as you wiped away the muddy water with the sleeve of your hoodie. To think, you’d been swindled by a coward with a lug wrench.

“You should be more careful.”

You licked your teeth as the ink bled before your eyes. Not only was the paper ruined, but Red Hood saw fit to lecture you. Could this night get any worse?

“Maybe that guy should learn not to mug people.” You turned to face him, undaunted, even when he towered over you like a titan loomed over mortal men.

He hesitated, his expression hidden with his helmet, but you saw the way his shoulders tightened under your scrutiny. His broad frame blotted out the moonlight. You mirrored him, clinging to a shred of self-preservation in the face of a very real threat. Hood wasn’t good. He wasn’t bad. He just was. He might have saved you this time, but that didn’t mean you would stay in his good graces.

A beat of silence passed between you two before he knelt beside you to pick up the last of the sodden pages. There was no saving them. With a heavy sigh, you set them aside.

“Fuck.”

He took the pages and scanned their contents, not even trying to play it coy. You swallowed your protests in favor of a displeased glare. No one said vigilantes were well-socialized. If they were, they wouldn’t be parading the streets in costume.

“Is this… homework?” His modulator grated on your ears, but he sounded genuinely curious.

You didn’t expect follow up questions. From the sharp breath that crackled through his modulator, he didn’t know either. Knowing that his question caught him off guard amused you, so you decided to humor him with an answer.

“It’s an essay for a scholarship,” you explained, “Gotham University has one of the best writing programs in the city. I know I can get accepted, but I can’t enroll unless I have a scholarship to pay for it.”

“That’s shit luck.” He sounded upset, angry even. You might have been too if you weren’t still processing the situation. “Does that mean you have to rewrite it?”

“Next year, I guess.” You stuffed the rest of the things in your bag, shouldered it, and headed toward your apartment. You didn’t expect him to follow you, much like you didn’t expect him to have questions. It shouldn’t have surprised you when he did, still clutching your ruined essay in his gloved hands. Even standing, he felt like an indominable presence.

“Next year?”

“The deadline is tomorrow morning, and I don’t have time to rewrite it.”

“Couldn’t you submit it online?”

“Can’t. Electrocutioner zapped the foundation office last week and online systems are down until further notice. They refused to extend the deadline, so we’re forced to submit by mail or in person.” You decided to write yours by hand to stand out from the other applicants, a decision that you were now kicking yourself for.

Hood scoffed. “That’s stupid.”

“That’s Gotham,” you deadpanned, “Our city can’t shut down every time there’s an incident between Batman and the villain of the month. This was my last-ditch effort to secure money before the start of the new semester. I’ve tried the usual avenues with little success, even Wayne Enterprises despite being fundamentally against him and the expectations set by his foundations.”

Most came with an unpaid internship within a branch of the company. The experience alone would launch most student’s careers, but unpaid work did more harm than good for someone like you. Besides, you had no interest in business or medical research. Honestly, you should have never applied in the first place, but desperation drove people to do stupid things.

“I’ll try again next year,” you finished with another disinterest shrug. You prayed it looked convincing. “The writing program isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t need it to make it in the industry.”

Your stomach lurched. That program, Gotham University, could open doors you could only dream of knocking on—especially when it came to making connections. This industry was about who you knew rather than what.

You stopped and Hood stopped with you. He didn’t need to join you in your pity party. Your apartment sat around the corner. The fact that he had followed you this far should have unsettled you, but you felt oddly empty as you turned to face him.

Your eyes locked, even with the helmet shielding his, you could tell. You wished to see his expression. Or know what his face looked like underneath. Were his eyes blue or brown, his hair light or dark? You didn’t even know what his voice sounded like without the modulation. Did it matter? He saved you. He empathized with your situation. It was more than you ever expected.

“I can make it from here,” you assured him, “I live around the corner and if someone jumps me between now and then, well, I know you’ll hear me scream.” You laughed, trying to make light of a situation that weighed heavily on your chest.

“Thanks for saving me,” you added when he failed to respond.

He offered the papers and the weight on your chest increased tenfold. “Are you sure you don’t want them? You could copy the part you can still read.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going to sweat it.”

But you would cry over it, probably into a bag of chips or a pint of ice cream while Bridgerton played in the background, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Sometimes these things aren’t meant to be.”

Hood inclined his head as if he wanted to say something more. You waited, more curious than anything. Another beat passed before his hands fell back to his side. “Try to stay out of trouble. I won’t always be around to save you.”

But he was tonight and that was all that mattered. You were about to tell him as much, but he had already turned to walk away. You watched him go until the shadows swallowed him, and only then did you turn to go home.

Notes:

I'm also posting this work on my Tumblr at: tumblr.com/athenagc94

This is my first time ever attempting an "x Reader" fic so, I apologize in advance but this idea has been sitting with me for a while and I decided Jason Todd was the character I wanted to use to achieve it.

Chapter 3

The themes explored in Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster take on a new meaning each time I pick it up. I first read the novel in middle school, where I immediately saw pieces of myself in Jerusha Abbott.

While the mysterious benefactor, Jervis Pendleton, offers her an opportunity to experience a world beyond the orphanage, I don’t believe he’s the hero of this story. A door is opened thanks to his financial aid, but the hard work and dedication from Jerusha Abbott allows her to achieve success and independence.

This storyline resonated with me and still does. As new chapters of my life unfold, I find myself returning to Jerusha Abbot, wondering what I might accomplish if given the chance.

In this essay, I will cover...

 

His fingers drummed the surface of his helmet as Jason scanned your essay, the pages spread out across his scuffed kitchen table. Most of its content was ruined, streaks of mud and ink staining the page, but what remained was good—better than good.

It had been years since he read Daddy Long Legs or even thought about it. Jason remembered the basic plot—a benefactor paying a young woman’s way through college—your essay made him yearn to pick it up again, to see what you did in its message and themes.

You deserved a full ride with writing this good, but Crime Alley had a nasty habit of snuffing out dreams. Jason picked up the first page and reread your opening paragraphs once more. Regret coated his tongue like ash.

He should have shot that bastard dead. If he had, this wouldn’t have happened.

His anger simmered, flushing his skin. He sank back in his chair, willing it to recede. You never asked for his anger, nor could he explain why he felt it at all. Bad things happened—worse than a ruined essay and a crushed dream—but this was the second time he’d crossed paths with you this week. He should have guessed it was you when he saw that yellow hoodie.

And the way you looked at him... Did you always look at people with such blatant distrust? Or did he just have that kind of effect on people?

Jason scrubbed his face, chiding himself. This fixation with your paper, with you, couldn’t be healthy. It was late. He needed to sleep so he could do the same thing all over again. Patrol, eat, sleep. The monotony was grounding, therapeutic even, at least that’s what he tried to tell himself.

He gathered the pages and dumped them in the trash before he lost himself. You said you weren’t going to sweat it, so why should he?

A heavy silence settled over his apartment as he shrugged off his jacket. He had yet to turn on the lights, already accustomed to navigating in the dark, so why bother? He undid the buckles and zippers that fitted him into his uniform as he steeled himself for another restless night. Sleep never came easy, regardless of the time.

Despite his best efforts to ignore the temptation, his gaze drifted back toward the trash bin.

I find myself returning to Jerusha Abbot, wondering what I might accomplish if given the chance.

Jason was no hero, not that he had claimed to be one since taking up the mantle of Red Hood. There was always a new villain trying to know the hero off their pedestal. Sometimes the hero won, sometimes they lost, but the battle was never truly over. They gave more than they got, and the public didn’t always appreciate their efforts. Being a morally ambiguous vigilante was only slightly better without a moral compass to weigh him down, but he digressed.

You had a shot he never had, and he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try to make things right.

“Fuck,” he grumbled as he fitted himself back into his uniform.

 

***

 

Breaking into Wayne Tower was easy.

Stupidly so.

Honestly, Jason should have taken that as a bad sign, but he was too focused on the task at hand.

He proceeded with caution down the hall toward the foundations department. The mission was simple. Find your application and approve it. The foundation's board blew through money faster than Batman blew through batarangs. What was one more recipient added to the pool? They probably wouldn’t even notice.

The office didn’t require a badge and opened with a soft click. Two desks sat facing each other, each outfitted with their own computer. His lip curled as he took in the blank white walls and a window that looked out onto nothing. Talk about depressing.

He sank behind one of the computers and got to work. Passing the initial lock screen was easy, but the information he sought was heavily encoded and buried behind other security measures. Unless all he wanted was to play a quick game of solitaire, he needed to put a little more work into this. He expected as much given how paranoid Bruce was about his digital information. It would take more than a few passwords to hack this system.

It would have been easier to simply ask Bruce for a favor, but he’d rather stick his dick into a live socket than be in his debt.

His screen flickered once, twice, before it went black. He swore under his breath. He clicked a few keys before checking the back of his monitor. It came back to life when he jiggled the connection, but when he saw what was awaiting him, he swore more overtly.

“Fuck me.”

Tim glanced off screen, the harsh light from the monitor casting ominous shadows across his pale face. Jason squinted at the screen to try to discern the muddled shapes behind him. Not the cave, nor his bedroom, so he could only assume he was somewhere in the building too.

“Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” Jason wheezed, “Why are you here?”

“I do work here.”

Jason sneered. Sure, Bruce named Tim a majority shareholder once upon a time. But it didn’t come with a job. Lucius managed most of the day-to-day operations in Bruce’s stead, leaving Tim to do Tim things. It still didn’t explain why he was still here, well after midnight when he was welcome to come and go as he pleased during the day. At least, Jason had a valid reason for sneaking around.

“How did you know I was here?”

Tim flicked a strand of black hair from his eyes. “Lucius had new cameras installed after Bane tried to infiltrate the building last month. You would have known that if you hadn’t disappeared with your band of misfits.” His fingers flew across the keyboard, the clack of the keys biting into the audio in a way that set his teeth on edge. “Now, answer my question. Why are you here?”

Of any Wayne or Wayne-associated person he could run into, Tim was the best option. They might not always agree on which methods to employ to get the job done, but he was the best suited to help him with this particular problem. He was also clearly distracted by something else, which helped his case.

“I’m looking for a scholarship application.”

“Our applications are available on our website. You didn’t have to break in and hack our systems.” Tim paused, his lips pursing. “But I don’t think you can get a scholarship if you’re still legally dead.”

His eye twitched. Tim was a shit, and from the subtle curve of his lips, he knew it too. Jason forced himself to breathe through the irritation and clarified, “I’m looking for a specific applicant. She already applied.”

Tim finally looked at him. “She?”

“I saved a woman from getting mugged, but they tossed her bag in a puddle. He scholarship essay was ruined and I—”

He tried to play it cool, but from the slow furrow of Tim's brow, Jason missed the mark. Going to college had been a dream of his long before Bruce found him in that alley. He loved books. They saved him when he had nothing, and the knowledge that came with reading was just as deadly as his guns, but there were limits to self-education. Higher education seemed like an unattainable thing until he stepped foot in Wayne Manor for the first time. Suddenly, that dream felt more like a promise.

And then he died.

Dead kids didn’t get to go to college.

Hell, they didn’t even get to finish high school.

Even after the League brought him back, his dreams dimmed like embers on a fire, little more than a whisper of the time he lost. He never shared his dream with anyone, but if someone was going to connect the dots, it was Tim. Ironic, seeing as Tim never wanted for anything.

Jason licked his teeth. “I feel bad about it, alright? She mentioned she also applied for a scholarship with Wayne Enterprises, so I thought I could help her out.”

“Hm.”

Tim appeared unmoved. Jason expected that. Unless the problem immediately concerned him or whatever case he’d fixated on at the time, he couldn’t be bothered to expend the emotional effort to care. His lack of empathy bordered on psychopathy at times, but Jason wasn’t about to call him on it. Seemed hypocritical for the pot to call the kettle black while he was currently in the kettle’s domain.

“Forget it,” Jason said as he stood, “I’ll try again la—”

“What’s her name?”

He hesitated. “What?”

“Her name. I can look her up for you.”

Jason knew the way your mouth pinched when you were upset, or that you chewed on the strings of that stupid yellow hooding, but that wasn’t what he asked. “Right, her name. Her name is...”

Tim stared at him. “You don’t know her name.”

“Shut up.” He threw up his hands. “There wasn’t a lot of time for formal introductions. I scared off the mugger and made sure she made it home.”

“Fine. Do you remember where she lives?”

That he could answer with a little more confidence. He gave a rough estimation based on where you had parted ways. There were two complexes on that block, but that seemed to be enough information for Tim to work with. His hands flew across the keyboard, staring unblinkingly at the screen. That had to be a strain on the eyes.

“Want to try blinking?”

Tim did, though it looked painful to do so. “Happy?” He turned his attention back to the screen, eyes wide and unblinking once more. Jason suppressed a shudder.

“Found her. Sending her application now.”

A new window appeared on his screen with your information laid out for him. Your name, address, among other personal details. He had no way of knowing it was you until he reached the essay portion. You had a distinct written voice. One that he clocked immediately.

With the wave of relief came a poignant shame that hollowed his chest. Genuine intentions aside, this felt a little too close to stalking for his liking. He minimized the screen to avoid temptation.

“Why didn’t she get the scholarship?”

“We give scholarships to students from the university’s business or science schools, and it looks like she planned to go to school for...” Tim skimmed your application. “Classics and writing.”

The unimpressed look he received was unwarranted.

“You’re a sap and painfully predictable.”

So, was that.

Jason chewed on his response. The fact that you wanted to be a writer and study the classics had little to do with his motivations to help you, but it did look pretty damning that they coincided with his special interests. He just wanted to see someone succeed. If it couldn’t be him, he wanted it to be you.

And if he lived vicariously through you as a result, well, that was just two birds with one stone.

“Can’t Bruce, I don’t know, sponsor a new scholarship?”

“The board doesn’t pull scholarships out of their asses,” Tim chided, “There’s protocol and paperwork for these things. Not to mention the screening process for applicants and we’re already wrapped for the year.”

Jason curled his fists. “Can you do it or not?”

Tim paused, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“Answer the damn question. You're supposed to be the smart one here.”

He sniffed and tapped a key. The screen went dark.

“W-Wait, no! Don’t I—” Jason gripped the screen and shook as if it were a magic eight ball that would bring Tim back. A growl ripped from his throat as he sank back into his chair. Well, so much for that plan.

He shut down the computer and made sure the office was how he found it before heading for the door. It swung open before he could grip the knob. Tim stood a head shorter than him, but his presence held a sharp intensity that had Jason stepping back in surprise.

“Jesus. Can you not?”

Tim spun on his heel and motioned for him to follow down the hall. “I have something to show you.”

They walked past his (often grossly underutilized) office and toward Bruce’s at the end of the hall. The lights were off, the only light coming from the curved monitor on his desk. A blanket and pillow sat discarded in the corner, recently used.

Jason stared at the Tim-made nest before shifting his attention to the perfectly acceptable couch that overlooked the Gotham skyline. “Are you sleeping on the floor?”

“I was sleeping on the floor before you tripped the cameras,” he said as he settled behind the desk, “I’m awake now and sitting in a chair. Try to keep up.”

His fingers twitched as he resisted the overwhelming urge to wring his neck. “What did you want to show me?”

Tim stiffened. “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

That was reassuring.

“Or maybe you will, I don’t know, but I found this a few months back.” He angled his screen toward Jason, who bent down to squint against the harsh light from his monitor. Who the fuck worked with their monitor on full bright—

His thoughts guttered as the words on the screen finally sank in.

 

The Jason Todd Memorial Foundation

 

Jason recoiled. It would have been less painful for Bruce to kick him in the fucking teeth. Physical pain was fleeting, easier to stomach, but this... he had no idea what to do with the kind of pain that dug beneath his skin and festered like an infection.

He tried to make peace with Bruce, and the hard truth that his death had meant very little in the grand scheme of things. Villains like the Joker continued to wreak havoc on the streets. He refused to go against his morals, and so nothing got better.

It was a tough pill to swallow, but he managed to move forward and carve out a place for himself that wasn’t wholly fueled by anger and spite. His methods weren’t good or pure, some might argue he was just as bad as Black Mask, but no one could say they didn’t yield results. Drug trafficking to minors was cut in half overnight, and he kept dealings tightly contained within Park Row. While Jason couldn’t stop the distribution that plagued Gotham, he could minimize it.

Red Hood could be the change that Jason Todd never was.

But seeing this now… knowing Bruce had…

He shoved away the complicated feelings that twined around his heart as he continued to read. The foundation would fund scholarships for low-income students seeking higher education in honor of Bruce Wayne’s late son. That included a full ride to Gotham University, an opportunity that Jason would never have.

A lump lodged in his throat as he choked out a strangled, “Why?”

“Bruce tries his best. He’s far from perfect, yeah, but he does try to make up for his shortcomings in his own way. From what I can tell, this never went live, not to the public at least. I have my guesses as to why that happened given his mental state after…” Tim let the statement die there. They both knew what after meant without having to rehash the gritty details. “I asked Lucius and the money is there. It’s been there, waiting for someone to do something with it.”

His throat constricted around the lump until it threatened to burst. He looked away to blink away the sting in his eyes. How was this supposed to make him feel? Good, bad, a nauseating combination of the two?

“I would argue the money is yours, seeing as your name is attached to it. This is a need-based foundation, and it sounds like your girl needs it. You can tweak the parameters to suit your needs. I really don’t care.”

His computer pinged, signaling the end of a download. Tim bent down to grab a thumb drive and stuffed it in his pocket.

“What was that?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

In other words, Bat business.

Jason let the matter die without much fuss.

Tim sighed and said, “Look, I know this is messy given your tepid relationship with Bruce.”

Tepid was an understatement.

“You don’t have to use the money or the foundation, but if you want to help her, this is your best option. It’s exactly what you asked for.”

He exhaled sharply. Tim made a valid point. Bruce created this for a reason, even if he never had the balls to make it live. It was time the ghost of Jason Todd finally did some good. “What do I have to do?”

“I’ll get you in touch with Lucius.”

Notes:

While this is an x Reader fic, I am also very interested to explore Jason's complicated dynamics with other people. So... enter my version of a slightly unhinged Tim Drake who has done nothing but unsettle Jason since the Tower incident.

Also posting on Tumblr here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 4

The Board of Foundation at Wayne Enterprises is pleased to inform you that you have been awarded the ‘Jason Todd Memorial’ scholarship that provides full tuition for four years at Gotham University.

 

You stared at the acceptance letter, hands trembling as you tried to process the news. There was never a question as to whether you could get into Gotham University. You took the tests, wrote the essays, and nailed the interviews. They loved you, but not enough to waive the egregious tuition to attend their school.

You thumbed the paper. It was nice, hefty and stamped with black ink that displayed the Wayne Enterprises letterhead. You flipped it over to hold it against the sickly yellow light in your living room like a cashier would do with a counterfeit bill. This was too good to be true, but some small part of yourself wanted it to be real.

This scholarship hadn’t been listed when you applied, but it was possible they didn’t advertise it to the public.

The Jason Todd Memorial Foundation...

Who was Jason Todd?

You opened your phone to do a quick search. Jason Todd, once a young boy living in Park Row, was adopted by Bruce Wayne. He had nothing, and suddenly found himself under the care of one of the richest men in Gotham. It would have been a touching story about the American Dream and the opportunities that presented themself when you were good but given that the scholarship came from a memorial foundation, you assumed it didn’t have a happy ending. You returned to the search to do some more digging.

And… there it was.

The headline of the next article read: Wayne Son Killed in Terrorist Attack Abroad. Two years after he was adopted. “Shit,” you breathed as you swiped out of the article before you made yourself too sad. A beloved son killed too soon. A scholarship in his honor. It seemed legit, but you were still skeptical. Why wouldn’t they list it on their website? You turned your attention back to the letter.

 

By accepting this scholarship, you will agree to send written letters regarding your studies on a bi-weekly basis to Bruce Wayne, founder and owner of Wayne Enterprises, so that he may monitor your progress. Failure to comply will result in…

 

You chewed the inside of your cheek. That was a lot to process. It was hard to believe that the Bruce Wayne gave a shit about my education. He had better things to do like whoring around galas or adopting poor kids off the street… apparently. Someone had to be fucking with you, and you didn’t appreciate it.

The letter had a number to contact their offices at the bottom, so you did just that. Your phone rang twice before it flipped to an automated message.

“Hello and thank you for calling the Wayne Enterprises Foundation office. We’re happy to answer any question you might have regarding your scholarship or any donations you might be—”

You hung up before the cheery voice could finish, heart thundering against your ribcage. So, they used the real extension for the office. That didn’t mean anything. Anyone could have knabbed it. If you had stayed on the line a little longer, someone could have confirmed what you already suspected.

And yet, you hung up.

Because you didn’t want it to be confirmed. You wanted to sit with the delusion a while longer before reality came crashing back down.

You glanced back at your bookshelf where a small collection of second-hand novels filled the shelves. Among them was a well-worn copy of Daddy Long Legs, its green hard-bound cover fraying at the edges. You had read it so many times that the spine nearly split in two.

A rich philanthropist funding a poor girl’s education… The irony wrote itself, but it failed to sweeten the bitter taste in your mouth.

 You read the letter once more, hoping to glean something more from its contents, but you had exhausted its usefulness. Wayne wanted you to write letters. They even included an address to send them to. Emails would have been easier. Or a paper at the end of each semester. Or…

God, help you.

Trying to find logic in a rich person’s motives was exhausting.

The longer you sat with the letter, the easier it was to stomach. Rich people were weird. They made odd choices all the time. You could handle a few letters over the next four years. Besides, there was a stark difference between you and Jerusha Abbott. She fell in love with her benefactor. You would not.

You laughed at the prospect. No—you would never fall in love with a man like Bruce Wayne. While he was never rude to you or your coworkers, you suspected it was an act. Masks weren’t just for the vigilantes. They could be honed of flesh. Wayne had crafted a near-perfect representation of what society expected of him.

He fooled the masses, but you noticed things others liked to ignore. It was the only way someone survived in this city. You were wary of him, of his generosity, but desperation snagged on your resolve.

An opportunity presented itself. If you turned it down, who knows when the next opportunity would present itself.

With Bruce Wayne funding your education, there was no allure, no mystery. No chance for love. A business exchange, nothing more. You could live with that, even if accepting his money made your skin crawl.

You redialed the number for the foundations office and followed the instructions until a more human voice greeted you. “Hello, thank you for calling the Wayne Enterprises Foundation, this is Rudy. How can I help you?”

“Hello, I just received a letter about my receipt of the Jason Todd Memorial Foundation. I was wondering what my next steps were?”

Notes:

I'm also posting this work on my Tumblr at: tumblr.com/athenagc94

A shorter chapter, but I wanted to get something out. I just came back from a conference and haven't had too much time to write. Hopefully will get some writing done this weekend!

Chapter 5

Tim thought the letters were a stupid idea.

And maybe he had a point, not that Jason asked for his opinion. It was his memorial foundation. He died for the right to set stupid parameters for his scholarships. Besides, it wasn’t like you were the only one to receive a scholarship. He picked two other students from the pool of applicants.

One wanted to be a doctor and work at the Martha and Thomas Wayne clinic in Park Row where she grew up. Another wanted to study law so they could provide pro-bono representation for people who couldn’t afford it. Three scholarships didn’t seem like nearly enough, but it was a step in the right direction. Maybe he’ll expand it to five next year. There was plenty of money in the foundation.

You were the only one he asked for letters from—not because he didn’t want to hear from the other two—he just figured you’d appreciate the parallel to your favorite novel more than they did. Irony was delicious, and it seemed more fitting for a writer.

Or at least, he thought that would be the case.

The new semester started that week, and Jason might have been excited to hear from you. Giddy was a better word, but he had a reputation to consider. He checked the PO box daily in anticipation of your first letter.

The first week passed.

Nothing.

He texted Tim. You’re sure she accepted the scholarship?

His response: Srsly? Get a life.

Rude, but whatever. Tim already confirmed you accepted—several times now. Jason even saw the finished paperwork with your signature (only because Tim wanted him off his back). Asking again wasn’t going to change his answer.

Jason shrugged off his initial disappointment. You would write to him, er, Bruce Wayne next week.

No one paid him any mind as he approached the PO box the following week. He wore street clothes, another variation of joggers and sweatshirts because it was too much effort to figure out his aesthetic as Stephanie had told him. Seriously, he had no idea what the fuck lunarcore was. Unlocking the box, a frustrated growl rumbled in his chest, earning him some startled looks from the postal workers behind the counter.

Empty.

Again.

Maybe he overestimated your appreciation for poetic irony. Or Tim had lied to him about you accepting the scholarship. He always expected Tim to get back at him for the Tower incident one day. Psychological warfare seemed more his speed.

If all of this—you, the Jason Todd Memorial foundation and scholarship—had been a cruel joke, it might be enough to break him.

He grabbed his phone to text him. Halfway through, a notification appeared at the bottom of the text box.

Tiny Tim Drake has notifications silenced.

Jason gritted his teeth and slammed the ‘notify anyway’ button before sending three more texts in quick succession—just to spite him. By the third text, he was notified that it couldn’t be delivered. Jason swore under his breath. The bastard blocked him.

He slammed the door closed, rattling the middle-aged worker who sorted mail in the corner. His fingers curled and uncurled as he breathed through the irritation welling in his chest. Irritation could quickly turn to anger and anger was… well, destructive.

At one point, anger was all he knew. It burned at the center of his chest, hot and bright. He spent so long feeding the flames, and for what? Acting on his violent urges rarely left him satisfied when the smoke cleared.

But there wasn’t always anger. Frustration, certainly. He had been frustrated with the hand he was dealt. Park Row was unkind but he managed to look past the shit and chose happiness instead. Smiling wasn’t a chore. Robin gave him magic—before it was ripped away from him.

If he chose happiness once, Jason believed he could do it again. He just wasn’t sure how.

Jason stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, other passerby parting around him like water around a boulder. These letters. They were supposed to make him happy. He needed to speak with you.

But how?

And as who?

Jason Todd was supposed to be dead—killed abroad in a terrorist attack. A tragic hero in the story Bruce fabricated to hide the truth. A ghost. Nothing more.

The nameless man you met in passing on the subway didn’t know your name, let alone where to find you.

But you knew Red Hood. He knew about the writing program, just not that it had panned out for you.

You even shared the general location of where you lived…

He shook his head to dislodge the plan slowly forming in his head. Getting involved was a bad idea. You didn’t need him meddling any more than he already had.

Jason was intelligent—certainly. One didn’t spend their life tucked between the pages of a book or working for the Batman and not learn a little common sense. He recognized all the different ways this could blow up in his face, and yet…

One last time, he promised himself as he continued toward his apartment. Once he spoke with you, he could move on with his life.

But first, he needed to change.

 

***

 

The air cooled significantly with the setting sun, enough to sting his skin as he navigated the rooftops of Park Row. For someone like Jason, who always ran a few degrees hot, it was a welcome change. His footfalls stayed surprisingly light for a man of his stature, not that anyone was around to appreciate it (nor would they have heard him coming until it was too late).

As he closed in on your complex, he counted the windows to find your apartment. His efforts were moot because, well, there you sat on your fire escape with a notebook balanced on your knees. No yellow hoodie this time.

Jason slowed his stride, assessing how best to make his presence known without startling you.

Your gaze shifted up as he reached the edge of the adjacent roof, pinpointing where he hid amid the shadows. He froze. How did you…? You squinted; another hard expression tinged with what he could only describe as morbid amusement.

“Stalking isn’t a good look for you.”

He hopped down to join her on the escape, the iron groaning under his heavy boots. “I’m just checking in to make sure you haven’t gotten into any more trouble.” Even Jason heard how lame that excuse was, especially given you hadn’t been the one to seek out trouble in the first place.

You, of course, called him on it. “Bullshit.”

“Standard protocol,” he insisted, though he sounded less certain.

“I wasn’t aware the Red Hood followed protocol. Doesn’t really seem like your style.” You tapped your pen thoughtfully on your notebook before adding, “You track down every person that you save, weeks after the incident occurred?”

“I happened to see you,” he tried again, grateful that his modulator hid the desperation in his tone, “So, I decided to see how you were doing with the…” He threw up his hands in defeat. “How are you?”

Not even the Red Hood alias saved him from his painfully awkward attempts at small talk. His fingers flexed at his side. He had a nasty habit of fidgeting under pressure, and your discerning gaze stressed him out. You already clocked him as a liar. What was stopping you from connecting the dots between this and everything else?

When you failed to respond in favor of staring at him, he asked, “Do you look at everyone like this?”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like the world is out to get you.”

“You saved me from getting mugged the first time we met.”

False. You were trapped with him on a subway while he rambled about books for ten minutes the first time you two crossed paths, but he caught his tongue between his teeth before he admitted it.

“I think I’m allowed to be wary of people, especially when they wear masks and track me down at my home to check in.”

A flush crept down his neck. “Noted. This is weird, isn’t it.”

“A little weird,” you agreed.

“If it counts for anything, I’m aware that I'm not very good at this,” he admitted.

Your expression softened. “Or maybe I’m being a little harsh. I’m sorry. I’m just—I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”

“Why?”

“For starters, the semester started two weeks ago?”

Jason jumped at the opportunity to talk about your classes. “Does that mean you got a scholarship?”

“That’s the other part. I did. It’s a Wayne Foundation scholarship. Real niche, I guess. It wasn’t even listed on their website when I applied. Now it is, so maybe I just missed it, but…” You sighed. “Now they expect me to write letters to Bruce Wayne every two weeks.”

“And you don’t want to?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“It’s not that,” you insisted, “I don’t mind it, I guess, but writing them seems a little old-fashioned. It would be easier to send an email instead.”

“Maybe he finds emails impersonal,” Jason muttered before he could stop himself. Emails would also require Jason to have a business email, and that was a little too corporate for his blood.

“I get it. He’s old, but I didn’t think he was that old.”

Jason flinched. People, mostly adults, called him an old soul. He used to preen under their attention, believing it was a compliment, but being called old outright—by you—didn’t feel as good.

“But there’s something romantic int the art of writing letters,” he insisted.

You shot him a dubious look—a favorite in your arsenal of guarded mistrust, it seemed. “Romantic?”

“I-I mean, not in the context of romance, but through the lens of an idealized reality. Picturesque, idyllic, pick your favorite synonym. I’ve always been partial to quixotic myself. Not enough words starting with the letter q.” More blood rushed to his face. This was going south and fast if he was talking about his favorite synonyms. He should have left well-enough alone and gotten a life as Tim suggested.

You exhaled sharply. It was almost a laugh, but not quite. “No one said he’d ever write me back. Honestly, I doubt he’ll even read my letters. Who has the time to read about what I’m learning in French?”

Jason perked up. “You’re taking French?”

“I want to read Victor Hugo in its original language.”

He curled and uncurled his fingers—excitement this time. Bruce might not care about your schooling, but he wanted to know everything. Your thoughts and opinions, which classes were your favorite, and whether you joined any extracurriculars. It allowed him to close his eyes and act like he was there too. Some might call it selfish, but he could live with that.

You sighed and uncapped your pen. “Technically, I needed to send a letter last week, but I’m not sure what to write. I want to make a good first impression, just in case he does read them. What if he decides I’m not the right fit for the scholarship and rescinds the offer?”

His heart sank. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“I want to be witty and charming, but everything sounds wrong as soon as I get it on paper.”

If that was all you were worried about, Jason felt infinitely better. He didn’t want you to pretend for his—er, for Bruce’s sake. “I think you should write what feels good to you. The foundation picked you for a reason, so I think he’d know if you’re pretending to be something you’re not.”

You eyed him curiously. “Is it standard protocol to give unsolicited advice?”

He shrugged. “I’m a man of depth and multitudes.”

You laughed at that, and his heart swelled. It was a nice laugh.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Your eyes sparkled. “It’s everything I ever wanted and more.”

“I bet it is.” Jason curbed the whisper of jealousy that curled in his chest and focused on the good he was doing instead. You looked happy, and that was all that mattered. “I’m glad someone took a chance on you.”

Before you could respond, his comm beeped with an incoming message. He swore under his breath. “One second.” He popped onto the roof to put some distance between you and him before answering. “What?”

“Have you sufficiently wallowed in your failure?” Artemis asked coolly.

Her voice, while not unwelcome, left him a little disoriented. They hadn’t really spoken since he dipped a few weeks ago. It usually fell to him to keep the channels open, and he’d been a little distracted, so hearing from her without his reaching out first was a little unexpected.

“Maybe.”

She clicked her tongue. “We have a new bid from a new client. We await our fearless leader before we proceed, but only if he pulls his head out of his ass first.”

Jason ground his teeth. “When?”

“In a month, so wipe your tears and try not to be late. I am happy to step in as leader in your stead. Or we could call Nightwing to replace you. Or the one called Orphan? I hear the Gotham lot are interchangeable.”

It was hard not to take everything she said as a personal attack, but he was used to her blunt tone. It was her way of knocking some sense into him. He usually deserved to be bullied, and this time wasn’t any different. The Outlaws needed him. They weren’t always on a job, but this was the longest stretch of time he’d gone without reaching out since they decided to work together. Another job might be exactly what he needed to get over… whatever this was with you.

“Message received.” He chuckled a little. Loud and fucking clear. “Send me the details. I’ll be there. You still as the safehouse?”

“Yes.” The line went dead.

Artemis also wasn’t that big on goodbyes.

Jason sighed and hopped down to join you once more. You peered at him over the edge of your notebook. “Duty calls?”

“Uh, yeah, I have to—” He left it there. The less you knew about his work, the better. Some clients were more unsavory than others, and he didn’t know fuck all about this one. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your classes. Good luck with your first semester.”

You shot him a mock salute. “See you around, Hood.”

He hoped not. Seeing you again gave him the closure he needed, but indulging himself could easily turn into a slippery slope, one he wasn’t too keen to take. From here on out, it would be the letters, and that’s it.

Notes:

I stand on business. Jason Todd gets no bitches and is awkward as fuck when it comes to talking to women. (And maybe a little demisexual, but that's a treat for me).

Also posting on tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 6

You dropped your letter off the following morning before heading to your first class of the day. The first two weeks at Gotham University passed in a blur as you tried to orient yourself. You liked school when you were a kid. It distracted you from the harsh realities of the world. College was a different beast entirely, especially one as prestigious as this.

It was hard not to feel othered here. Other students came from old families, ones with money and prestige. You recognized some of their faces from interviews or social media. It was their seats that went vacant in class. They had nothing to prove. There were no consequences when you had money to throw at a problem.

You settled in your seat of your history class. From Goddesses to Witches: An Overview of Women’s History. With a title like that, how could you not sign up for it? There were a lot of cool classes here, and you wanted to take them all, but there were only so many hours in the day.

The blonde who usually sat on your right had already arrived. Her purple hoodie was branded with the University logo, though you don’t recall the school store selling purple apparel. She offered a friendly smile as you sat. You failed to return it as you sifted through your bag.

Sure, you wanted to make friends. It would be nice to find like-minded people who liked to discuss classic literature and the relevance of the oxford comma, but you weren’t entirely sure where to start.

Returning a smile might have been a smart move, but the moment had passed. Your table mate shifted her attention to her phone, so you decided to do the same.

A text awaited you from your manager: Rosa quit last night. I need you to come in tomorrow night to cover a party.

You suppressed a groan. Seriously? Rosa had wanted to quit for a while, but now it fell to you to pick up the slack. You shot back a quick text though you knew it wouldn’t make a difference: I have a night class.

Bubbles appeared instantly.

Shit.

His response was exactly what you expected: I wouldn’t be asking if we had options. I hired two new waiters that need a veteran to show them the ropes. You’re the best I have.

Flattery would get him nowhere, but you’d be stupid to turn down an extra shift—especially as an event lead. That role usually went to Rosa who had a kid to consider. Now, the title would shift to you, and the boost to your salary would reflect it.

With a defeated sigh, you replied: I’ll be there.

I’ll send you the details tonight. You’re a lifesaver, he shot back.

Hardly, but you weren’t about to argue. This decision was entirely selfish on your part. If you did this, you’d have a valid argument to ask for Christmas off in a few months.

Your professor arrived and class began. As she talked about your assigned reading, which you’d already finished and annotated the night prior, your mind wandered as you considered your options. Skipping one class wasn’t the end of the world. It was a philosophy class that didn’t count toward your major, but allowing this set a dangerous precedent. Your boss got what he wanted this time. What would stop him from trying again?

Some students might get away with skipping class, but you weren’t one of them.

Glancing back at the blonde, you noticed meticulous notes she’d started in glittery purple ink. She was also in your philosophy class, though you didn’t sit next to each other.

In hindsight, maybe you should have returned that smile.

Your fingers drummed the table. It’s not like you were asking for a lot if she was already taking notes. She might be cool to talk to, to hang out with. Friendships had blossomed for less.

Or maybe you were asking for too much?

Ask for notes and leave things there. After years of doing things for yourself, it felt like cheating to rely on the kindness of a stranger like this. Not to mention, you were a little rusty at making new friends. The ones you had came from work and the shared trauma of working in catering.

Do you even know how to make friends?

You warred with your pride until the professor dismissed you. The blonde hopped out of her chair, swung her bag over her shoulder in one fluid motion, and hurried out before you mustered the courage to speak. You were moving before you realized it, abandoning your bag to hurry after her.

“Hey! You in the purple. Wait up.”

It wasn’t the best identifier, but she stopped anyway, peering over her shoulder. Her surprise gave way to something friendlier as she grinned. “That’s me.”

You approached, your heart pounding. “So, I hate to ask this, but I got called into work tomorrow night. Since you’re in my philosophy class, I was wondering if you could take notes for me?”

“Yeah, no problem,” she said as she pulled out her phone, “What’s your number? I can text you a picture of them once class let’s out tomorrow night.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can just grab them when I see—”

“Don’t sweat it. Professor Edwin is an ass. He failed me last year because I slept through our final exam and refused to let me retake it for partial credit. Like, come on man, it’s not my fault I overslept. I’m not going to let anyone fall victim to his shit if I can help it.”

How did that make him an ass? You almost asked, but she shoved her phone in your face and continued, “I’m Steph, by the way. Pre-med.”

You introduced yourself as you punched your number into her phone. “Writing and Classics,” you offered as you handed her phone back.

“Radical.” She gave you a quick once over. “I’m thinking red.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what color I’ll write the notes in. Something about your aura just screams it, ya know?”

You did not. “Black ink is fine too.”

Steph looked at you like you had just suggested slaughtering a small child instead. “Absolutely not. Why would I do that when the world is such a colorful place? I know we live in Gotham, but that doesn’t mean we have to abstain from happiness.” Her phone beeped in her hand, and she gasped. “Crap, I gotta get to class, but I’ll send you a text later.” She hurried off, leaving you to stare after her in disbelief.

Huh.

Maybe making friends was easier than you thought.

 

***

 

Your manager failed to mention the party was at Wayne Manor.

Deep down, you knew it didn’t matter. You had catered dozens of his parties over the years, but that was before you accepted his money like a sellout. How working for him was any different, well, you weren’t exactly sure—it just was.

Anxiety bubbled in your belly as you lit the food warmers on the banquet table along the far wall of the sitting room. Every so often, you’d glance over your shoulder like you expected Bruce Wayne to step out of the shadows and yell at you for skipping class.

This was stupid. Bruce Wayne had no idea who you were beyond a name on an application. He didn’t care that you skipped class. Students skipped all the time. Hell, your first letter probably hadn’t even reached his desk.

Still, a small part of you disliked the power he had over you.

“Excuse me.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as you whipped around to face the elderly butler who’d let you in that evening to set up. He quirked a wispy eyebrow, almost amused.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Master Wayne asked me to check in with your team to ensure you have everything you require.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks as you tucked your lighter away. “I’m good on the food end, but I should check with our bartender to make sure. How many guests are we expecting again?”

“Fifty, ma’am.”

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

This was a more intimate affair than what you were used to, but intimate usually meant easy.

You tasked the new hires with preparing platters of hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen. They arrived in ill-fitting uniforms and messily knotted hair. They also seemed more interested in their phones than listening to you. If they made it through tonight, you’d be impressed.

Catering was lucrative, especially when the owner never turned a job down. Not a single one, even if the client was far from reputable. Staff turnover was unreal because of it, but you didn’t mind if you got paid at the end of the night (and the mob paid very well for discretion). You had a rule. Keep your head down and do your job. People largely ignored you as long as you did.

It was the same here, among the Gotham elite. No one looked at your face or bothered to learn your name.

You ducked inside the kitchen where Mark, the bartender, sorted through a crate of liquor. Several platters of half-finished hors d’oeuvres sat on the counter, but the new hires had disappeared.

Your eye twitched. “Where are they?”

Mark looked up from his crate. A few strands of strawberry blonde hair fell into his eyes. He ran his fingers through his hair and held the pose to show off the carve of his bicep. It was a well-practiced motion that made the ladies swoon. You have been one of those ladies before you learned he used that move on everyone.

“They mentioned a smoke break and left out the back.”

You scoffed. “Great.”

“Starting to feel a little sympathy for Rose, aren’t ya?”

“Shut up.” You crossed the room to lay out the platters yourself. “Do you need anything? The butler asked.”

Mark whistled softly. “I wish I was rich enough to have a butler.”

“Who knows? You might finally get a sugar momma if you play your cards right.”

“That’s the goal. You could find yourself a sugar daddy if you tried.”

“Hard pass.” You’d accepted enough charity in your life. No one but the Red Hood knew about the scholarship, and you wanted to keep it that way. Accepting handouts went against your morals, and you didn’t want people calling you a hypocrite—even that was exactly what you were.

“I should go track those assholes down,” you grumbled as you finished one of the platters, “I don’t think they’ll last an hour.”

Mark snorted. “Have a little more faith. I bet they can make it to the end of the night.”

You wiped your palms off on the front of your apron. “I don’t bet on anything.”

“Lame.”

You left out the back door to search for your servers. What were their names again? Brian and Jon? That sounded right, but if it was wrong, you weren’t going to feel bad about it. They had spoken less than a dozen words to you since arriving at the manor. You rounded the corner to find one of them with a burning cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Where the other one?”

Jon/Brian (you couldn’t be pressed to tell them apart) glanced up from his phone, his blatant disregard for the job palpable. “Brendan took a lap to stretch his legs.”

Brendan. Fine. Brendan and Jon.

“He’ll have a chance to stretch his legs once the party begins. Find him and get your asses back inside.”

“Bitch,” he grunted as he flicked his cigarette at her feet. He stalked off to find Brendan.

Men, you seethed to yourself as you stomped out his cigarette.

At least Rosa was fun to talk to. That and she made sopaipillas for your birthday. Shame she had to go and quit on you.

You returned to the kitchen as the butler stepped inside. He noted the half-finished platters with an unimpressed sniff. “Would you like some help? Our guests are due to arrive any minute.”

Your shoulders sagged. “Yeah, that would be great.”

 

An hour later, the party was in full swing, and you were counting down the hours before you could go home and work on your readings for class. You wove through the guests with a full platter of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts balanced in one hand. Some people grabbed them before you had a chance to offer, while others waited for you to present them with a vacant smile and a pleasant, “Would you like one?”

It was automatic at this point. You didn’t think. Jon and Brendan on the other hand…

You searched for them in the crowd, but it was difficult with all the bodies crammed in one room. Fifty people were just shy of too many people for the spacious sitting room, but no one else seemed to mind. You shared a look with Mark, who mixed drinks at the bar in the corner.

You motioned to the crowd, and he shrugged, already guessing your question. He hadn’t seen them either.

Perfect.

Your boss would have hell to pay in the morning because this was ridiculous.

A man knocked into your shoulder as he passed, nearly spilling your platter in the process. You swore as dove to save it. As you did, your attention snagged on familiar tattoo that painted the guest’s knuckles a deep crimson. You’d seen it before, but only ever on the east side and when you did, you knew it was time to run the other way.

A member of the Blood Knuckles—here at Wayne Manor.

Your mind raced as you made a beeline for the bar. Mark passed a glass of red wine to a woman with flushed cheeks. She giggled at nothing as she dropped a crisp twenty in his tip jar.

When she stumbled off to join her partner, you set your platter down and said, “Head back to the kitchen.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Just do it. I can explain everything later. I need to find the—”

A shot went off behind you. Screams rippled through the crowd as you hit the ground. The Blood Knuckle stood with his back to you. He raised his gun to the ceiling, shards of crystal raining down from the chandelier. Three more men removed guns from their waistbands, each donning the brand of their gang.

 Bruce Wayne stood near the fireplace, a trembling hand raised as if he were soothing a wild beast. He wore his usual black on black, his jaw set with a severe expression as he stared the gun down its barrel. “Woah there,” he said as he tucked a younger boy behind his back, “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Neither do we. Well, not with most of you anyway.” He turned his attention to but an aging man in the corner with thinning hair. “Oscar Franz, our boss has business with you.”

Oscar staggered back, the color leeching from his face. “W-Who sent you?”

“Oh, I don’t kill and tell.” He leveled the gun at him. “But we have a few questions first.”

Your ears rang as you scanned the room, weighing your options. If only you’d noticed sooner, you might have gotten Mark and you out of the room before the Blood Knuckles revealed themselves. They usually kept to their territory, so seeing them this far outside of East Gotham unsettled you. They weren’t usually hitmen, and you weren’t too keen to watch a man die before your eyes tonight.

Slowly, you got to your feet and used one hand to flip your platter. It clattered noisily to the ground, drawing the attention away from the target. The hitman locked eyes with you, and you recognized him instantly.

Brendan—now dressed in a tuxedo to blend in with the guests. How had you missed the tattoo before? Did you even get a good look at his hands?

Your manager would hire gang members by accident. To think, you could have been having a deep philosophical discussion about morality and the error of humanity instead. Now, you had to face the reality of your morality as he trained the gun on you.

A laugh bubbled in your throat as you lifted your hands, feigning innocence. And here you thought he was just a shitty server. This made a lot more s—

You sensed someone behind, but it was too late. Jon cracked the butt of his gun on the back of your head and the world went dark.

Notes:

Another member of the Batfam joins our cast. I'm trying to do it in a way that makes sense for the story, so more to come!

Also posting on Tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 7

Dear Mr. Wayne.

Or should I just call you Bruce?

I might not address you at all. Hopefully, that doesn’t bother you. I know some people are weird about that kind of stuff. Have you read Daddy Long Legs? I can only assume you have if you want me to write letters, but I might be wrong. For all I know, you just want people to thank you profusely for your generosity. That sounds more likely.

But I digress.

You wanted to know about my studies.

Classes are going well.

You probably expected more, but it’s only week two. I’m still getting my bearings. I promise to share more with you next time, but I was already late getting this first letter to you. Sorry. I’m not great at talking about myself, so this is hard for me.

I think I should start with why this scholarship is so important to me. Writing isn’t the most lucrative business, nor do writers change the world the doctors and scientists. You could have thrown my application away, but you didn’t, which must mean we understand the same thing.

Writers wield a special kind of magic.

When I have a pen in my hand, I feel invincible, and the stories I plan to write will offer people a reprieve from the harsh realities of the world.

As someone who strives to do good, I figured you’d understand.

I was hesitant to accept this scholarship. The kindness of strangers makes me wary, but I’m starting to see that might be my cynicism talking. Kindness doesn’t have to have an ulterior motive.

Thank you for taking a chance on me.

I promise I won’t disappoint you.

 

Jason sat on the edge of a parapet that overlooked Crime Alley, your letter resting on his thigh. His helmet sat off to the side, leaving him in his domino mask instead. He wanted more, obviously, but seeing how nervous writing this letter made you; he was just grateful to receive something.

It was surprisingly vulnerable. He never imagined tender words hiding behind those dubious stares. At the end of the day, you just wanted to bring a little magic to the world. It was an admirable thing, even if you considered it small by comparison.

He smiled to himself as he tucked the letter in the inner pocket of his jacket, satisfied with himself.

And Tim thought the letters were stupid.

His comm beeped with an incoming call. He tapped it and said, “Go ahead.”

“Hood.”

“Oracle.” He sat a little straighter, ready to bolt, not that running did him any good. She likely already had tabs on him. “If this has anything to do with the raid on Black Mask and the ensuing property damage, I plead the fifth.”

“If I did know anything about it, the evidence I’ve compiled wouldn’t require a confession.”

She knew. Babs knew everything.

“But that’s not why I’m calling,” she continued, “We have a hostage situation that could go south and fast if we don’t act quickly.”

Jason sagged. “Yeah, I don’t really do—”

“It’s at Wayne Manor.”

His protests died on a wheeze. “And you called me?”

“Bruce and Damian are inside, but Robin managed to slip away. He needs back up, and you’re the closest to Gotham Heights.”

“What about Orphan?”

“Recon for the Birds of Prey.”

“Spoiler?”

“She has a night class.”

Jason gnawed at the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Exhausting the growing list of Gotham vigilantes wouldn’t help him here. As if sensing his thoughts, Babs said, “I wouldn’t have called on you if I didn’t have to. You know that.”

He sighed as he reached for his helmet. “You owe me.”

“Consider the property damage forgotten until the next time you irritate me.”

“So, next week?”

Her snort crackled in his ear. “I’m assuming you know where to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m heading that way now. ETA is about ten minutes.”

“Can you make it in eight?”

“Is that permission to speed?”

“That never stopped any of you before.” He chuckled as he grappled down, landing with a soft thud near his motorcycle. “I’ll link you with Robin when he’s online. Shouldn’t be more than a minute. He has a better idea of the situation than I do.”

“Yeah, about that,” Jason said as he kicked up the stand of his bike and sped off toward Wayne Manor, “Dear, old Robin may or may not have me blocked.”

Babs waited for a beat before she asked, “Why?”

“No idea. I’m a fucking delight to talk to.”

“Uh huh.” Her indifference stung more than he cared to admit. For all the contacts in his phone, his phone stayed silent most days.

It didn’t bother him.

Why would it bother him?

“That won’t be a problem. I could also unblock you.”

“Ignore him, Oracle. He knows exactly why he’s blocked.”

“Tiny Tim!”

“Codenames,” Babs warned.

“Robin!” he corrected without missing a beat. He took a sharp left, his body shifting with his bike. “Managed to evade a hostage situation this go around? There’s a first time for everything, I guess. This is why I’m not a fan of parties.”

“You get invited to parties?”

Jason clenched his teeth. “Fuck off.”

“Aw, did I hurt the big, bad Hood’s feelings?”

“Boys,” Babs chided, “Can we keep the bickering to a minimum? I haven’t had nearly enough coffee, and there are lives on the line. Hostages, men with guns. Whatever beef you have right now can wait.”

“Right,” Tim said more seriously, “We’ve got Blood Knuckles at the manor.”

“I’m sorry. Blood Knuckles? Are you shitting me?” Jason grunted as he took another sharp turn, “What is a Crime Alley gang doing in Gotham Heights?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Here’s what we’re working with.”

“Tell me everything. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

 

Three minutes later, Jason found Tim stooped outside the window that looked onto the sitting room. Its familiarity knotted his stomach. Jason used to spend hours reading on those leather couches while a roaring fire crackled on the hearth. He shoved away the nostalgia and tried to focus on the present.

Bits of plaster and crystal littered the floor. Guests huddled in small clusters throughout the room as four armed men circled the room. Bruce stood near a middle-aged man who clutched his arm. Blood oozed through his fingers as Bruce addressed the man looming over them. He held a gun aloft in his hand, his knuckles marked with a telltale red.

“That’s Oscar Franz,” Tim provided, “He’s CEO of a pharmaceutical company based in Star City. Oracle, what can you tell us about him?”

“Not as clean as people believe,” she said, “It looks like he’s been smuggling experimental narcotics into Gotham for distribution.”

“Not anymore,” Jason cut in, “I intercepted his line a few weeks ago and haven’t allowed anything since.” Experimental drugs and unchecked suppliers made his operation messy. He didn’t have time for messy when he expected things to run without his constant supervision. “He supplied for a few dealers in my territory, so I’m not sure who paid for a hit on him.”

“We can figure that out after we save the hostages,” Babs assured him.

“We have one injured already.”

“Two,” Tim corrected as he motioned to the body that lay crumpled near the bar, “A server dropped their platter. It distracted out targets, giving me a chance to slip out, but it looks like she paid the price.”

“Is she breathing?”

“I hope so.”

That was reassuring.

“Four guys, armed,” Jason continued, “You could have taken them without me.”

“In tight quarters like this, we don’t want anyone else getting hurt. Two people will ensure that doesn’t happen.” Tim reached for his belt. “I’ll create a distraction, so Bruce and Damian can duck out. Can you take out the gunmen?”

“Piece of cake.”

“We really do appreciate you doing this,” Babs said in earnest.

Jason tried to avoid Bat business where he could. If they called on him, it was usually as a last resort like this. He always stepped up because, well, old habits die hard. He was still a Robin—somewhere deep down, even if no one else believed it.

If he managed to escape without speaking to Bruce, he’d consider it a successful night. They were going on three months without speaking, and he’d hate to break the streak tonight.

“Wait for my signal.”

“Wait. What sign—”

Tim had already vanished.

Jason grumbled and turned back to the window. “I hate when he does that.”

Babs chuckled. “Not a trait you picked up from B?”

“No.”

He peered through the glass and waited for the signal. Tim always had something up his sleeve, though he rarely saw fit to share it. Minutes passed—too many minutes given the gravity of the situation.

His fingers curled around the grip of his gun. “Robin.”

Silence.

A growl ripped from his throat. “Robin. Respond.”

Nothing.

He was a half-second away from breaking the glass to handle the situation himself when he heard a pop, followed by three more in rapid succession. Hairline fractures webbed along the ceiling.

“You know, I always hated this chandelier,” Tim finally said.

The crystal monstrosity at the center of the room shuddered before it plummeted to the ground, scattering crystal and glass across the expensive carpet. People dove to avoid it, including the Knuckle speaking with Bruce.

“FYI. That was your signal.”

Jason shouldered through the glass with one gun drawn, catching the closest Knuckle off-guard. His arm locked around his throat as the pair slid across the floor. He kicked the air as Jason applied a bit of pressure on his windpipe. A vein bulged along his forehead as he choked on a whimper. No matter how tough they looked, they always went down whimpering.

If he had more time, he would have waited for him to pass out, but alas. With a swift blow to the temple, the first guy was down for the count.

Two more went down just as quickly as the first. Jason turned to face their leader. Bruce had vanished, leaving Damian to tend to Oscar. Displeasure curled his lip as he applied pressure to Oscar’s wound. His face had gone from pale to ghostly in the span of a few minutes.

“A little far from your turf, eh, buddy?”

He trained his gun on Jason. “Oh, you know. A chance to expand into a new market presented itself and we couldn't say no to a decent payout. I figured an opportunist like yourself would appreciate that. You and I, we’re not so different.”

“You’re right,” he agreed as he raised his gun to mirror him, “I’m not, but unlike you, I’m not afraid to finish the job.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me. Not in front of all these people.”

He flipped his safety off. “Try me.”

“Hood. Stand down,” Babs hissed in his ear.

Jason tapped his comm off as he fingered the trigger. Every instinct told him to shoot the bastard dead. To be done with it and get the hell out of dodge. He strove to be better. Not good per se, but better.

Blood already stained his hands. What was a little more if it meant there was one less criminal plaguing the streets?

No one expected Red Hood to make the good choice, but he would make the right one. He was right. This was right.

Do it, the anger whispered, Be the difference you want to see in the world.

His hand trembled as he willed himself to pull the trigger.

A batarang clipped the man’s hand and he dropped his gun. He saw the cowl, a flutter of black, the reverent gasps as the Caped Crusader came to save the day.

His knees buckled. A hand fell over his, lowering the gun for him. “Easy there,” Tim said gently, “It’s over.”

Jason shrugged him off. “I’m fine.”

“Are you? Because you were about to—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped.

Tim held up his hands to concede. “I believe you.”

It didn’t sound that way. Jason flipped the safety back and shoved it in its holster.

Tim took a step towards him. He matched with one of his own to keep the distance between them. They stared at each other, the tension between them palpable. A siren blared in the distance.

Tim retreated and said, “You should get out of here before the first responders get here. B will be preoccupied for a while so you can slip out without him noticing.”

Several guests stared at him with fear in their eyes. His anger flared as he turned his back on them. Red Hood was a spectacle here—and not the good kind.

He would never be a hero.

Not really.

“Hey, hey. Come on. Wake up. We’re safe.”

A man with strawberry blonde hair knelt beside the downed server, speaking in a panicked whisper. His hands shook as he smoothed the hair from her face. His heart sank. Not just any face—yours.

Jason moved before he fully realized what he was doing. He sank to his knees, searching for bullet holes or blood. Your pulse fluttered beneath his fingers, and his shoulders sagged with relief. At least you were breathing.

“What happened?”

“She took a gun to the back of the head. It knocked her out co—”

The man stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape wide enough to catch flies. Jason rolled his eyes as he brushed his fingers over the back of your head. No lumps or blood, but you were in for a killer headache when you finally came to.

“A concussion probably. Does she have any family?”

“N-No family in the area. Not that I know of. She prefers to keep to herself.”

Yeah. Jason gathered that much about you.

If the paramedics got ahold of you, they’d take you in for overnight monitoring. The cost of an ambulance alone would cripple you, let alone the hospital bill. Sure, Bruce would pay for it like he paid for everything, but another charitable handout might rub you the wrong way.

Another stupid idea took shape in his mind. He’d likely regret it, but he needed a win. Nothing about tonight felt good, but there was still hope. “I’ll make sure the paramedics get a good look at her. Go and wait with the rest of the guests. The GCPD will want your statement.”

He stood, albeit reluctantly, and left to join the rest of the people congregating near the fireplace.

Your eyelids fluttered as Jason gathered you in his arms. He exited through the window he came in before anyone noticed. “You’ll thank me for this later.”

Probably.

Hopefully.

Notes:

It's all fun and games until the angst settles in, ya know?

Also posting on Tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 8

The scrape of steel on steel jolted you awake. Immediately followed by a dull, throbbing at the base of your neck that sent a shock down your spine. You fell back with a small grunt as you closed your eyes once more. Starbursts painted the back of your eyelids. A train passed outside, rattling the framed pictures on the walls. It was a familiar sound that lulled you to sleep every night.

You would have remembered coming home. Right?

Carefully, you pushed yourself onto your elbows and tried again. The light on your nightstand was offensively bright. A searing prong shoved through both eyes would have been less painful than whatever this was.

“Too bright?” A voice modulator crackled. “Sorry. I’ll turn it off.”

Jesus Christ. This couldn’t be happening.

You opened your eyes despite the pain. It took a second to adjust to the darkness, but when you did, you saw him. Red Hood crouched by your head; his shoulders curled to appear less imposing which only worked insofar that he didn’t look like he wanted to kill you. It was still unnerving, having him this close. The scent of old leather and motor oil clung to his collar. You wrinkled your nose, overwhelmed.

He shifted back onto his knees, the gesture oddly shy. “Uh, hey.”

“Why are you in my apartment?”

“There was a hostage situation at Wayne Manor. You took a hit to the back of the head. I decided to bring you back here.”

His words took a second to fully sink in, but when they did, you ghosted your fingers along the soft patch of skin at the nape of your neck. It was tender to the touch—bruised for sure—but as far as injuries went, it could have been far worse.

Several memories resurfaced and slotted together like pieces in a puzzle. Mark flirting with you over a crate of booze, a knuckle tattoo, the crack of a gun, and fucking Brendan.

“I’m an idiot.”

Hood lifted his hand as if he might touch you, but he hesitated just before he made contact. You both stared at his outstretched hand, a heavy silence between you. His fingers curled as he let his hand fall. He cleared his throat. “None of this was your fault.”

“No, part of it was definitely my fault,” you admitted, “I wouldn’t have taken a blow to the head if I hadn’t drawn the shooters attention away from the target. I tried to play hero, and it backfired.”

“You did that on purpose.” His modulator pitched.

You doubled over, gripping your head in your hands. “Ugh.”

“Sorry.” He softened his voice for your sake. It only helped insofar that he wasn’t causing active distress anymore. “Why would you do that on purpose?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really think. I just acted.” You groaned and fell back against your pillow. “Funny thing is, I should have been in class, but my boss called me in to train the new recruits.”

Recruits who ended up being members of a notorious gang. What had your life become?

“I should have told him to pound sand.”

“You skipped cl—” He stopped himself before he caused another pitch in his modulator. Instead, he fumed quietly, each breath sharper than the last as he curled and uncurled fists.

While this wasn’t your first lecture from him, his reaction surprised you. Hood didn’t strike you as the scholarly type—not that you claimed to know anything about him. For all you know, he could have a PhD in political science or medicine. Most of the supervillains in Gotham were well-known academics. The same could apply to morally gray vigilantes.

Finally, he said, “Why would you skip class? Couldn’t someone else take your shift instead?”

“Our veteran server quit, so it had to be me,” you countered sharply, “I’m also not in a position where I can turn down an extra shift.” With a quick wave, you motioned to your shitty studio. It wasn’t much, but you tried. He glanced around as if he were seeing it for the first time. You supposed there were more pressing things to focus on than your tastes in thrifted décor.

“Why would you bring me home? I should have stayed at the manor until the paramedics arrived?”

He fiddled with his gloved fingers. You clocked the bad habit soon after meeting him. Watching someone as comically large as Red Hood get nervous was oddly endearing, not that you were ever going to tell him that. He’d either die of embarrassment or shoot you for pointing it out.

“Your, uh, coworker mentioned you didn’t have family in the area, so I assumed you didn’t want to pay for an ambulance ride and an overnight stay at the hospital. And you’d probably hate it even more if Bruce Wayne paid for it given you…” He made a vague, flourishing gesture with his hands. “Well, considering the conversations we’ve had.”

He caught on faster than you expected. You never imagined the person who understood you was also the one who spent his nights dual-wielding guns whilst parading around Gotham. A bitter laugh crept into your throat, but you smothered the urge, knowing the effort would make your headache worse.

“Alright, you were right to make that assumption.”

“I bet you’re regretting skipping class, huh?”

You shot him with a narrow look that told him to drop it. “No need to rub it in. I didn’t want to skip.”

From the tension curling in his shoulders, you sensed he had more to say on the matter. The air fizzled and sparked between you as you waited for him to speak, but he resisted the urge. Good. You weren’t in the mood for another lecture, and he seemed to sense that.

“Besides, I think I’m already paying the price. This was a one-time thing and now, I’ll have to miss a few more days while I recover. I don’t want to fall behind on my readings and coursework, but here we are.”

Your temples throbbed, despite the reprieve of darkness. Focusing too long on any one thing made the room spin. It was nauseating. As much as you wanted to escape in a book, that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

“What are you reading?” he asked after a moment.

You motioned toward the stack on your kitchen table. Most of the books had been thrifted from the shop down the street. Your scholarship didn’t cover reading materials, and you balked at the prices at the school store.

“The Red Tent for my women’s history class and The Odyssey for my English class.”

“Which translation of The Odyssey?”

“Robert Fitzgerald.”

He made a small noise of disgust, amplified by the modulator. “He translated it well, I guess, but I prefer Emily Wilson’s take on the epic. It’s creative, but there’s a certain musicality to her prose that I admire.”

You… didn’t know how to respond to that.

Red Hood was the last person you expected to have an opinion on classical literature. Sure, it kind of made sense the longer you talked with him, but the vibes of tortured poet and rugged vigilante didn’t quite mesh in your mind. In fact, you were fairly certain this was all a concussion-induced dream. It just happened to include Red Hood.

And if this was a dream, like you assumed it was, there was no harm in playing along.

“You’ve read multiple translations of the Odyssey?”

“Duh. At least three in English, another in Spanish, and one in German. Hasn’t everyone?” He shoved off your bed and walked toward your kitchen table. “Comparison is a crucial element when it comes to translated works. People interpret language differently and it’s fun to read those different interpretations.”

He grabbed the book from your pile and flipped through it gingerly, almost reverent in the way he handled it. “Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all way of contending, the wanderer, harried for years on end, after he plundered the stronghold of the proud height of—”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you with your readings. Take it from me, reading with a concussion fucking sucks.”

“Oh.”

Oh—that was the best response you could come up with?

You stared at your hands so he wouldn’t see your blush. An offer like that was, well, it toed a line. Which line? You couldn’t exactly say, but there had to be one given the Red Hood had offered to read to you so casually. The man was a walking contradiction of himself with the broad frame that barely concealed the raw awkwardness that lay beneath. It felt familiar, but your mind was too foggy to draw a connection.

This had to be a dream. You refused to believe anything else. There wasn’t a reality where Red Hood, or anyone for that matter, offered to read The Odyssey outside your dreams.

Fuck it.

Might as well test the bounds of your dreams.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s kind of hard to listen with your…” You motioned toward his helmet. “The modulator is a little hard on the ears.”

He gave you a long look. It was moments like this you wished you could see the expression beneath. Maybe this was the line. Asking him to remove his helmet wasn’t just a risk to him, but to you as well. Anonymity to a certain degree protected you. You understood that, and yet you asked anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you started, “Forget I asked.”

A lot of things could have happened next. You shuffled through all of them in the span of a few seconds, none of which were all that pleasant. Him ducking behind the couch and laying flat on the floor was not one of the scenarios you pictured.

You sat a little straighter, only able to see his heavy combat boots sticking out from one end. “Uh… Hood?”

Several seconds passed before he said, “Is this better?”

There was no modulator this time. His words weren’t even muffled. His natural voice settled low in his chest, punching on the vowels and softened the consonants. A pleasant zing rippled through your blood.

The man had a prominent Jersey accent. While not uncommon for the area, confirming it thrilled you more than you expected. Another piece to the puzzle that was Red Hood.

The realization hit you harder than the gun had. You muffled a gasp in your palm. He removed his helmet... for you. You had no intention of seeing the man hidden beneath the mask. Knowing that he trusted you at all made you a little light-headed.

“Much better.”

“Right. Okay.” He paused. “Can I—not that I don’t, but can I trust you not to—”

“I promise not to look,” you assured him.

What went unsaid hung thick in the air and threatened to smother you. You settled on your side, pointedly ignoring the fact that Red Hood was laying on your apartment floor. As far as dreams went, this one was bizarre, but the thought of waking up and being forced to face reality hit harder than you expected.

Selfishly, you didn’t want it to end, and that frightened you.

“Now, where were we.” You heard the shuffle pages before he said, “Here we go. He saw the townlands and learned the minds of many distant men, and weathered...”

You closed your eyes to focus on the mental pictures he painted with words alone. His lilting voice read with the confidence of someone who’d read these passages a hundred times over. And maybe he had. It was easy to get lost in the story—in n the inviting warmth of his honeyed words. It wasn’t long before you succumbed to them like a siren’s song.

 

It was unclear when exactly you drifted off, but when you startled awake a few hours later, your apartment existed in the stillness of dawn. Thin strips of sunlight filtered through your blinds. You blinked blearily, a headache pressing down on your temples as you sat up.

As you peered around your apartment, deciding where the dream ended and reality began, you settled on the book left on your nightstand. The Odyssey. You grabbed it, flipping open to the spot that someone had marked with a crumpled Bat Burger receipt. It certainly wasn’t yours.

You flipped it over to find a hastily scrawled note on the back in red ink. Take it easy. Rest. Drink water. Pain meds as needed—just don’t overdo it. I left off on page 29, line 317. –RH

RH.

Red Hood.

Not a dream then...

All of it was real. He brought you home and watched over you until you woke up. He read books and had opinions on classic literature. He took off his helmet for you. Your flush bled down your neck and settled in your chest. That meant his damn accent was real too.

Fucked. That’s what you were.

Burying your face in your book, you flopped back on the bed. The knot at the nape of your neck twinged, but it failed to put you out of your misery.

If Hood knew what was good for him, he’d stay away. If you knew what was good for you, you’d do the same. So, you did what you always do with problems you didn’t want to deal with. It went in a box, and you tucked away in the far recesses of your mind to deal with on another day.

Notes:

I have been most excited to share this chapter. This was one of the original scenes I came up with while drafting this story. Also, Jersey accent Jason. That is all.

Also... yeah, had to include one more hyper-fixation. So, enjoy me talking about the Odyssey (re: Epic the Musical).

I'm also posting this story on my Tumblr here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 9

Dear Daddy Long Legs  

That was stupid. Please ignore me.  

First, to address the elephant in the room, yes, I skipped several days of class while I recovered from a concussion. It was the usual Gotham bullshit. You know how it is. I hated every second of my self-isolation, well most of it, at least.  

My professors were gracious and gave me extensions on my work. All except my philosophy professor who is, in fact, a raging asshole with a superiority complex. He told me I should have considered the hazards of living in Gotham and planned for the inevitable accordingly. Seriously. Those were his exact words. I have the email chain to prove it. Luckily, there’s a girl in my class who offered to take notes for me. I should be back up to speed in no time.  

We’re reading the Robert Fitzgerald translation of the Odyssey in my English class. He does a good job, but my friend suggested I give the Emily Wilson translation a try.  

Bruce.   

Bruce.    

Or however you want me to address you.  

It’s phenomenal. The lilting prose, the use of iambic pentameter to create a rhythm. Compared to Fitzgerald, it feels accessible and modern. I tried to bring it up in my class discussion and my professor stopped me. He said Wilson’s translation was fanciful fluff.  

Excuse me? Last I checked, he wasn’t an expert in Ancient Greek. As my friend said, we should study multiple translations to fully understand the intent of the source…  

 

Jason hid a smile with his palm as he read your letter. You spent the next few pages outlining why your professor’s opinion was objectively wrong. It was fascinating the difference one letter could make, and he half-expected to find an annotated bibliography at the end of your long rant.  

You wrote without inhibition now that you’d scaled the hurdle of the first letter. He could spend hours analyzing your argument and crafting his fictitious counterargument, but his attention snagged on one sentence.  

 

A friend suggested I give the Emily Wilson translation a try.  

 

You called him a friend.  

He tried not to read into it. That was the simplest way to describe your relationship with him, even if the term didn’t quite fit. You were never going to tell Bruce Wayne that you took a book recommendation from Red Hood (though it would have been hilarious if you had).  

Bruce Wayne’s heart would have stopped. He, on the other hand, was having a difficult time controlling his.  

Friend, friend, friend…  

Selfishly, he wanted it to be true. If you two were friends, he could have these conversations with you like a normal person. Two letters weren’t nearly enough. He probably had another waiting, but he didn’t have time to check before he left with the Outlaws. Patience had never been one of his strong points, and he was paying for it dearly now.  

“ Jason. ”  

Artemis snatched the pages from his hands. He caught himself on the far arm of her seat, narrowly avoiding falling onto her lap. She held the pages over her head and his seatbelt kept him pinned in place.  

“You are distracted,” she said.   

“I was totally listening.”  

“Then what did I say?”  

He pursed his lips, still holding himself up with one hand and the other outstretched toward her. She arched a brow in a silent challenge, and Jason was too stubborn to back down.  

“Trick question. You didn’t say anything.”  

Bizarro shook his head from his seat across the row. One earbud hung free so he could hear the conversation. “Right move.”  

“Shut up, Biz.”  

Artemis shoved his head away. It was surprisingly gently given he knew she could launch him across the cabin if she wanted to. “If we are to succeed, we need your full attention. I do not take kindly to half-assed effort, especially for something as ornery as…” She scanned the letter, her frown deepening. “What the fuck is this? Why did they call you daddy ?”  

Heat bloomed across his cheeks as he reached for the pages again. “Nothing!”  

Bizarro perked up with a grin. “It looks like nothing.”  

Jason snarled, “ Shut up .”  

“The truth, Jason.”   

She handed the pages back to him. He tucked them away in his coat. “She’s just a —” He refused to feed the delusion and call you a friend. “Let’s call her a pen pal and leave it there.”  

Artemis squinted. “And you are making your pal call you daddy?”  

He choked on air. “She didn’t—”  

Well, technically you did .  

“I swear, it’s not like that.”  

“You fool everyone, my enemy,” Bizarro muttered under his breath. His attention fell back to the movie playing on his phone.  

“Seriously. It’s not. Just let me explain.”  

He spent the next thirty minutes relaying the events that transpired thus far—no details spared. Maybe that was his mistake. Some details, he realized, could have remained unsaid. Namely the fact that he’d spent the better part of an hour on your floor so you wouldn’t see his face as he read to you. There were probably better ways to do it, but he panicked and that was the result.  

When he finished, he settled back and waited for one of them to speak. Bizarro and Artemis shared a long look, their faces confirming what he already knew. He crossed his arms, fingers bunching the leather of his sleeves.  

“Say something. Please.”  

Artemis spoke first, “So, you are stalking this woman?”  

Jason blanched. “W-What? No.”  

“This no sound like a good horror movie,” Bizarro agreed, his brow pitched in veritable confusion, “You no act like Batman.”  

“Bizarro has a point. I would expect his bullshit from Batman or one of your brothers, but not you. It’s a little creepy, keeping tabs on her like you would a charge.”  

“That’s not—I’m not…”  

He struggled to catch his breath. No matter how he spun it, this looked bad. It might seem normal for someone like Bruce or Tim whose love language included constant surveillance and extensive profiling, but Jason didn’t want to be compared to them. “Fuck. Does this make me a creep?”  

“Yes,” Artemis said flatly, “But I hear that spending too much time in Gotham can do that to a person. I have always said you are better off making a life for yourself elsewhere.”  

She had. Several times now. It was one of the many reasons why things didn’t pan out between them. Try as he might, Jason couldn’t quit Gotham, even when it turned its back on him.  

“You no be yourself,” Bizarro insisted, “No one likes real Jay.”  

Jason tugged his helmet on to hide the embarrassed flush that bled into the crown of his head. Yeah, he could live without the who be yourself spiel, especially from the man created to say the exact opposite of what he meant. Even if he knew what Bizarro really meant, it hurt to hear the very words that kept him awake at night spoke aloud.  

“Can we not? Let’s just focus on the job we were hired to do.”  

“Finally,” Artemis sighed, “Praise Ra. If I knew embarrassment was the way to get you focused, I would have done so sooner. You fluster quite easily.”  

He flipped her off.  

She moved on as if he hadn’t reacted at all. “We are close to our destination. I think we are ready now that the distractions have been laid to rest.”  

“I am confused,” Bizarro agreed with a shrug.  

The job was straightforward. Break into several facilities along the west coast, sabotage the product, and get out before they’re caught. As far as missions went, this one was standard. Or at least, it would have been if the client didn’t offer more than twice what they usually charged for a hit like this.  

Jason was wary, but not enough to turn down the job. “Should be simple. I’m not too worried.”  

 

***  

 

Famous last words.  

Jason slid across the floor, narrowly avoiding being flattened by flying debris. He gritted his teeth as he readjusted his grip on his guns and sent a well-aimed shot through the head of the sentient bot looming over him. The bullet ricocheted off the glass that guarded the delicate tech that lay beneath.  

Two more shots and that glass shattered. Sparks went flying, and the bot folded in on itself. He shoved himself off the ground. One down, at least a dozen more to go.  

The client failed to mention the tech they were sent to fuck with was sentient, but the payout suddenly made a lot more sense.  

Simple his ass.  

Bots swarmed Bizarro like flies to honey, but he held his own as he tore through them with his bare hands. Artemis cleaved two in half with a clean arc of her axe, scattering bits of steel and wire across the floor of the warehouse.  

“This is annoying,” she remarked with a huff.  

“Look on the bright side. We know what to expect from the other six facilities. Might even have time to grab some lunch before we hit the next one,” he said as he shot another robot between the proverbial eyes, “I hear Cali has great sushi.”  

“Bizarro hates sushi,” he grunted as he tossed twitching remains across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a resounding crack, fracturing the concrete.  

Jason grinned as another bot went down. It was oddly freeing, settling back into his routine with the Outlaws. Here, with them, there were no expectations beyond getting paid and trying not to die. He found solace amid his band of imperfect misfits. It was good to be back.  

He would return to Gotham.  

He always did.  

But for now, he was here, and he planned to make the most of his time with the misfits.  

“Jason, behind you!”  

He whipped around, a thermal beam striking him in the chest. He flew across the room, colliding with a line of shipping containers. He swore on a groan as he peeled himself off the ground. The blast left a smoldering hole in his coat. He shrugged it off and stomped out the cinders. He sifted through the inner pocket to ensure your letter was still intact.  

“Idiot!” Artemis lunged in front of him to deflect another blast aimed at his back. She pinned him with a withering glare. “Focus. Next time I will let them burn you to cinders.”  

He nodded tightly. “Understood.”  

The final robot hit the floor twenty minutes later. Sweat soaked the back of his suit, and he could feel the bruise on his spine, but he’d had far worse. He released the empty magazines and holstered his guns.  

“So, we still want sushi?”  

“Not me!” Bizarro said as he landed beside him. Jason clapped him on the back as the pair headed for the door. “Bizarro hates the Dynamite roll.”  

“You and me both, big guy.”  

“Jason, a word.”  

He flinched as he turned to face Artemis. She hung back by the shipping containers with a grave expression. That wasn’t a good sign.  

Bizarro removed his hand from his shoulder and ducked out before Jason could beg him to intervene. Traitor , he thought as he doubled back to join Artemis. Whatever she had to say, he knew it would be brutal.   

“Look, I know I was distracted today but—”  

“I do not regret breaking up with you.”  

He bit off the rest of his statement, nearly swallowing his tongue in the process. Artemis had never been a romantic. He knew this when they started dating. He hoped time would soften her heart. Time passed and she remained hard and unwavering. It was one of the many things he admired about her.   

When they broke up, it was clean. For her. It hurt Jason, probably more than he cared to admit, but he’d come to accept that they were better off as friends.  

It also helped that they also never talked about it.  

Until now.  

Jason wondered if it was too late to trigger another round of robots so he could avoid this conversation.  

“Thanks.”  

“I am not saying this to be mean,” she insisted as she tossed his jacket to him, “I say this because I know you yearn for a deeper connection, even when you feel you do not deserve it. If Odysseus could return to his Penelope after all the atrocities he committed on his journey and still be worthy of love, so can you.”  

Her words tugged at an old wound he thought he’d gotten over. For the most part, he had. Once upon a time, he would have killed for the kind of romantic allegory from her, but his bond with Artemis was born of shared trauma and bitter rejection. It worked for a while, but it wasn’t the sturdiest foundation to build their relationship.  

He hugged the jacket to his chest and mumbled, “No idea what you’re talking about?”  

Her laugh sounded more like a bark. “I am sorry I could not be the romantic partner you needed, but I think one exists, and they may be a lot closer than you think.”  

His shoulders curled. She assumed he had a crush on you, but that wasn’t the case. He just admired your mind. He liked how passionate you were, and how you didn’t hide those pieces of yourself. He saw himself in you. He wanted to see what those pieces became when given the chance to flourish.  

Sure, he muddied the lines the last time he saw you, but he refused to make the same mistake twice. Avoiding you was the smart thing to do for both of your sakes. No more poor decision wrapped in good intentions.  

“Is that all?”  

A muscle in her jaw tightened. “Yes.”  

Thank God . “Right. Let’s get out of here.”  

Notes:

Practicing writing some more action scenes in this chapter. Also, like, whoever writes Bizarro dialogue regularly should get an award, because that was harder than I expected.

Also posting on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 10

“He really is an asshole,” you grumbled as you followed Steph out of your philosophy class, “I wasn’t aware I could define personal happiness incorrectly.”  

“I know, right?” Steph snorted, “He’s such a nihilist. Did you know he has glowing reviews on ‘rate my professor’? And some students think he’s hot too.” She gagged. “I was about ready to check myself into Arkham before I met you. Thank you for confirming I’m not the weird one here.”  

“No, definitely not. He’s the worst.”  

Your relationship with her progressed rapidly after initial contact. Steph was the type of person who hurdled over the friendly acquaintance phase and went straight for ' I would kill everyone in this room and then myself if anything happened to you' level of friendship.   

She moved seats to sit next to you in philosophy and went so far as to buy you a pack of colored gel pens to bring some color to your life . You had yet to open them but carried them in your bag just in case.  

It was nice to have someone to talk to who wasn’t a coworker or a literately inclined vigilante—not that you’d seen Hood since the incident at Wayne Manor. Several weeks had passed, not that you were keeping track or anything. You would have thought his absence was intentional, but that would be a delusional take.   Avoidance implied tension, and there was certainly none of that. It’s not like you had spent the last few nights sitting on your fire escape, hoping to catch a glimpse of him patrolling Park Row.  

He was probably busy.  

You were busy too.  

Busy trying to make friends.  

“Hey,” you started as you descended the stairs with her, “I don’t know if you have plans tonight, but I need to get out more and I thought we could…”

Your words dissipated on a puff of air. Did you just admit that you needed a hobby? That was desperate, even for you.  

“Oh my god, are you asking to hang out?” She paused, the sparkle in her eyes dimming as she seemed to remember something. “I would love to. Really, I would, but I teach self-defense classes on Wednesday night at the rec center.”  

You curbed your disappointment with a smile. “That’s fine.”  

“Unless you wanted to come with me?” She gasped and took your hand in both of hers. “You should come! Not only are you learning some handy skills, but it’s a great way to let off some steam. Trust me.”  

You’d taken several self-defense classes over the years. Living on Park Row demanded it, and it was the smart move given how often you worked late shifts at your job. You doubted there was much she could teach you, but her genuine excitement softened your resolve.  

“Sure, why not?”  

She squealed. “You won’t regret it. My friend Cass is coming tonight to help me demonstrate some advanced techniques. You’ll love her. She’s a riot.”  

 

Steph drove. Her playlist consisted of Chappell Roan, Taylor Swift, and Black Canary which felt right for some reason. She sang off-key, but she made up for her lack of talent with plenty of enthusiasm.  

Once the car was parked, she grabbed her duffel bag and ushered you inside. Several people had already arrived, and she greeted each of them by name, her smile wide. She made being personable look effortless, and you couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.  

“Cass!”  

A young woman standing at the front of the room turned over her shoulder. Her black hair ended in a blunt cut at her jaw, her eyes sharp and discerning. She inclined her head curiously toward Steph as she dragged you up to the front of the room.  

“This is the friend I was telling you about. She hates Edwin too. I told you it wasn’t just me.”  

Amusement pinched her brow as she held out her hand.  

You took it and introduced yourself. “Cass, right?”  

She nodded.  

Her silence intimidated you, but you tried not to let it show. “How do you know Steph?”  

They shared a quick look. You tried to decipher it, but Cass had already turned back to you. “We met doing community service.” Her mouth quirked as if she told a joke, but it wasn’t one you were privy to.  

“And we continue that community service with this class,” Steph said as she motioned for you to sit near the wall of mirrors at the front of the room, “You can just sit and watch for today if this is too much.”  

“Why would I just sit and watch?” you countered, your voice firm but not unkind.  

Her smile broadened as she motioned for you to join the rest of the group. There were about ten people including yourself. You settled at the back of the group as Steph took her place at the front.  

“Welcome back, everyone. We have a few new faces in the crowd, so for those who are joining us for the first time, we’re happy to have you.” Steph shot you a quick wink before continuing, “Over the last few weeks, I’ve given you the techniques that end a fight as quickly and effectively as possible, but what happens when a quick getaway isn’t possible?”  

“We stand our ground and fight,” a smaller girl piped up.  

Her expression softened. “The hope is that you can run to safety, but this Gotham, and we can’t get too comfortable. I’d like to introduce my good friend Cass.”  

Cass waved with a sweet smile.  

“She’s here today to help me demonstrate some basic techniques in hand-to-hand combat. I hope you never have to resort to this, but I want you folks to have as many tools at your disposal.” She sighed dramatically. “It’ll help me sleep better at night.”  

That earned her a few chuckles.  

“We’ll do a quick demonstration. After that, we’ll slow it down and I’ll walk everyone through each of the techniques I used.”  

The pair faced each other, their expression hardening as they sank back onto their heels. The next time you blinked, Cass was little more than a blur as she assaulted Steph with a series of expertly aimed kicks and punches. Her movements flowed like water, one blurring seamlessly into the next with the fine-tuned grace of a dancer. There was a musicality to it. You could count the beats, and see the choreography as they moved across the floor.

Steph held her own, but it was clear that Cass was holding back. She could have moved faster and hit a little harder, but she wasn’t trying to hurt Steph. She could if she wanted to.  

Minutes passed before Steph finally gained the upper hand. She swiped her leg, knocking Cass off balance long enough to pin her to the ground. Steph raised her fists triumphantly, almost as if she had forgotten her audience.  

She finally dragged her attention from Cass to address the group, “I might have gotten a little carried away, but you’ll never walk away saying this class isn’t entertaining. Let’s take it a few steps back and walk through the basics, yeah?”  

The rest of the group cooed and applauded. You, however, were still trying to pick your jaw up off the ground. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from this class after all.  

 

***  

 

You returned the next week.  

And the week after that.  

And again, after that.  

A month passed in the blink of an eye, and with it came the shift of the seasons. Heavy snowflakes fell from the sky, accumulating along the edge of the windows outside. You waited for Steph and Cass to clean up following another grueling class. Your joints ached and bruises dotted your shins, but you felt stronger—more prepared.  

Your notebook lay flat across your thighs, several failed attempts at a letter started and subsequently crossed off. After weeks of writing these letters, you weren’t sure what to say that hadn’t already been said. It was much of the same and you didn’t want to bore Bruce with monotony.  

“Whatcha doing?” Steph plopped down beside you and rested her chin on your shoulder. She smelled vaguely of sweat and blue Gatorade, but so did you. “You look conflicted.”  

You flipped your notebook closed. “Just working on a letter.”  

“Why? Is your husband off fighting in the war?”  

Cass smacked her arm.  

She inhaled sharply as she gripped her bicep. “Sorry. Go off, queen. You do you.”  

“It’s not so different from journaling.”  

That’s how you treated them at this point. They were a means to lay out your thoughts and feelings. You had convinced yourself that Bruce was not reading these letters. If he was, he would have already pulled your scholarship. You’d criticized him and the institution. Not to mention all the ridiculous ways you addressed him in your letters. If calling him any version of daddy hadn’t resulted in a cease and desist, you were probably safe.  

“Well, good on you for keeping the art alive,” Steph said, “If I had to write letters, I’d personally use purple ink so that the person could feel my essence.”  

You were convinced Steph saw the world in shades of purple.  

“Good work today,” Cass said, “You’ve improved.”  

Her compliment struck a chord. Cass rarely spoke, and when she did praise was even rarer. “Thank you.”  

She squeezed your shoulder before turning back to her bag.  

Steph slung an arm around your front and said, “So, I’m going to the club with some friends tonight. Do you want to come? They’re cool. Not as cool as Cass, of course, but close enough.”  

“I don’t think anyone is as cool as Cass.”  

She smiled to herself but didn’t comment.  

“Does that mean Cass isn’t going?”  

“I have work.”  

You made a face. “Rough. I know that life. Night shift sucks.”  

“You have no idea.” She took a long sip from her water bottle. It sounded like another inside joke. One day, you hoped to be invited into her circle of secret humor, but you smiled all the same.  

“What do you say?” Steph pressed, “It’ll be fun.”  

You tried to remember the last time you had a night out. You worked parties all the time, but that wasn’t quite the same thing. This was the most social you’d been in months. Did you even have club attire?  

“Are you assuming I’m old enough to get into the club?”  

“That doesn’t matter. It’s Gotham. My friend has connections.”  

Only slightly concerning. You had meant it as a joke, but now you were curious to meet her friends. Steph could probably make friends with anyone if she tried hard enough.  

What was the harm in letting loose—just this once.  

“Will I have time to shower and change?”  

Her eyes sparkled. “Obviously. Do you need to borrow something. I have a—”  

“No, I’m good.” After giving it some thought, you knew exactly what you were going to wear.  

Notes:

Cass enters the ring.

I tried to keep the reader's age a little vague. She is over eighteen (obviously), but you can decide whether she's old enough to get into the club or not.

I'm really looking forward to the next chapter. You're in for a treat :)

Also posting on Tumblr: www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 11

Dear Weird Mr. Rich Man—  

Sorry. Tell me if I’ve gone too far with these.  

I’ve made friends! I know that has nothing to do with my studies, but We can both agree that socialization has its benefits. It’s an important piece of one’s college experience. I’m sure you have a few stories from your wild college days…  

Maybe you could tell me about them sometime?  

Or not.  

Probably not.  

But it’s nice, feeling like I finally have a foothold in this strange new world. At first, I felt out of place, but I think I’m finally getting the hang of this. It only took a few months.  

 

Colored lights flashed in time with the heavy bass pouring through the speakers over Jason’s head. It was only slightly louder than the shouts and clink of glasses happening around them. He teetered on the cusp of a sensory nightmare, but he shoved the discomfort aside to focus on what Roy was saying.  

He rarely went to clubs. The noise, the lights, the sheer number of people packed into a confined place spelled trouble for him, but it was Roy’s turn to pick their hangout spot. Even though he stopped drinking a year ago, he liked to surround himself with the noise and bustle of the club. Jason couldn’t relate, but it had been months since they’d had a chance to get away from their busy lives and catch up. He could suck it up for his sake.  

It wasn’t the ideal place to talk, but Roy managed it just fine. “Lian lost another tooth this week.” He angled his phone toward Jason.  

He leaned forward, squinting at the offensively bright screen.  

“Put on your glasses,” Roy said before muttering a soft, “Stubborn fuck,” under his breath.  

Jason scoffed as he grabbed the glasses that hung off his collar. He avoided wearing them when he could. Not only did it not help the nerd allegations, but glasses weren’t the most practical for his line of work. “I wear them to block blue light.”  

“Uh huh.”  

A dunk in the Lazarus Pit fixed a lot of things, but his penchant for splitting migraines was not one of them. He also had a bad habit of reading without an overhead light, but correlation did not equal causation in this scenario. He slid the glasses up his nose with a soft huff and he could finally focus on the photo on Roy’s phone.  

Lian smiled back at him, showing off several gaps in her teeth. He could see Roy the slightly crooked smile and the wrinkle of mischief around her eyes.  

“She’s getting so big.”  

“Tell me about it.” Roy sighed wistfully as he straightened his frayed ball cap. “I fear the day she starts calling me dad instead of daddy . Or God forbid she switches to father like that little demon spawn does with Bruce.”  

“How will you ever survive,” Jason teased as he sipped his soda.  

Roy smirked. Ah, there was that wrinkle of mischief. “I heard through the grapevine that I’m not the only one getting called daddy these days.”  

Jason sputtered, the carbonated fizz burning his nostrils. He wiped his mouth and sneered. So, this was his plan all along. An ambush. It was suspicious for Roy to call him out of the blue. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy hanging out with him, but it was odd that it happened to coincide perfectly with his return to Gotham.  

“I told Artemis it wasn’t like that.”  

“Hey, man, I’m the last person to judge. I like to be called—” He stopped himself, much to Jason’s relief. That was information he could live without. Roy settled on a light punch to the arm instead. “Do you want to talk about it?”  

“No.”  

He downed his drink, despite the unpleasant roil in his belly. The song filtering through the speakers switched to something more upbeat. A cheer ripped through the crowd, and he flinched.  

“But if I did, what would you say? Hypothetically, of course.”  

“Hypothetically, I would say that I’m glad to hear you’re putting yourself out there again. I know you’d never admit it, but the breakup with Artemis hit you hard. This is good…” He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Though the execution seems a little eh, but I’m not as romantic as you are, so what the fuck do I know? It wouldn’t hurt to try your luck with a civilian partner. Heroes have their perks, but so do civilians.”  

Jason chewed his lip. “I never said I wanted to date her.”  

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”  

Jason thought things would get easier once he distanced himself but not seeing you for nearly two months left him feeling oddly empty. He thought distracting himself with the Outlaws or Park Row patrols, but his mind always wandered back to you. He tried to pinpoint when exactly this crush developed, but he couldn’t settle on a singular moment. It just kind of snuck up on him.  

Still, he stayed away. You never asked for his attention, even if he to sit on your floor and read to you until you fell asleep, to touch—  

Roy waved a hand in front of his face, dragging him back. He forced himself to refocus. “What?”  

“I lost ya there for a second. Care to tell me where you went?”  

Not particularly, but Jason tried anyway. “My life is dangerous. It’s inconsistent, and I have a habit of disappearing when things get tough. I can’t put a civilian’s life needlessly in danger like that. It’s not f—”  

“Shot time!”  

Jason looked up as you passed their table, dragged by none other than Stephanie fucking Brown, in all her sparkly purple glory. And you—  

His eyes widened.  

He’d never seen you wear anything except that ill-fitting button up and slacks. He now realized that was a small mercy granted by the heavens because hot damn . You wore a pair of torn black jeans and a tight red shirt that showed off the contours of your body. It was the jacket though, beaten brown leather, two sizes too large, and obviously thrifted, that dried his throat.  

You looked like…  

He muffled the pathetic whine that pressed through his lips. You and Step stopped at the bar, the latter muttering low in your ear with a twinkle in her eye. You threw your head back and laughed. Jealousy reared its ugly head as Jason stared.  

Since when were you two friends?  

“Jay?” He tore his eyes away from you to look at Roy. Concern furrowed his brow. “Are you sure you’re alright? If this is too much, we can go somewhere el—”  

Over his shoulder, you and Step clinked glasses before knocking back a shot.  

“No!”  

His expression grew more severe. “No?”  

Jason splayed his hands flat on the sticky table. “I mean, we just got here. Next round is one me. Club soda with a twist of lime, right?”  

Roy looked conflicted, but only for a moment. “Yes.”  

He shoved out of his chair. “Be right back.”  

Sweaty bodies pressed in from all side as he aimed for the bar. Your back was to him as you spoke with the bartender. God, you looked great. Casual, but effortlessly so. You didn’t have to do much to turn heads, and you had certainly garnered the bartender's attention.  

You can do this , he told himself. Make it look natural. Jason could strategize and plot with the best of them. Talking to you wasn’t nearly as complicated as infiltrating Black Mask’s base or apprehending a—  

“Babe, get down before you hurt you—”  

Before Jason could react, he hit the ground. Beer dripped from his curls and soaked the front of his shirt. He straightened his glasses as he turned his ire on the dumbass that had fallen on top of him. “What the fuck, man?”  

Tim stared at him with flushed cheeks.  

He stared back.  

“How’d you get in?” Tim muffled a hiccup as he stumbled to his feet. Jason jumped up to catch him before he fell back onto his face, though it would have been objectively hilarious to see. “You don’t have a valid ID.”  

“This is front for one of my dealers. I’m technically their boss, so they couldn’t turn me away if they wanted to.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re underage. How’d you get in?”  

“I’m Timothy Drake.” Jason could smell the mix of hard liquor and beer on his breath. “Do you really think they’re going to kick me and my friends out?”  

God, the entitlement.  

“Friends?” Jason seethed, “How many people did you smuggle in with you?”  

“Bernard and Steph. She brought a friend too. Whatever. The more the merrier. I don’t usually take the night off, so Bart came in from Central, and Kon flew down from Metropolis…”   

He counted them off on his fingers, but he quickly lost the plot and trailed off. He went a little cross-eyed as he tried to find his train of thought again. Jason crossed his arms and waited. He wiggled his fingers as if it were the most fascinating thing.  

“Tim,” Jason pressed.  

He finally refocused. “A few others too. I’m not going to list them off. It would take too long. I know that’s not something you’re used to.”  

His nostrils flared. “I have friends. I’m here with a friend now.”  

“So, Roy.”  

He searched for the right answer. There wasn’t one.  

“Did someone say shots!” Steph pushed through the crowd with two more glasses. She shoved one into Tim’s hands before throwing her shot back. Her expression puckered before she opened her eyes, zeroing in on Jason. Her smile turned feline. “Well, well. This is a surprise.”  

His attention shifted over her shoulder to where you hung back. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. You met his gaze with a narrow look. God, he missed your blatant distrust.  

Steph clocked the tension between you immediately and decided to help by introducing you. “And this is Ja—”  

“Jacob,” he cut in quickly, “My name is Jacob.”  

His heart raced. While objectively the smart move, he’d just dug himself a bigger hole by giving you a fake name. Steph would never let him live this down, and Tim—Jason dreaded to think what Tim had to say about all this. He willed the ground to swallow him whole.  

“Have we met before?”  

He struggled to catch his breath. “Don’t think so. I just have one of those faces, I guess.”  

“Right.” You nudged Steph. “I’ll go wait for our drinks.”  

“Don’t forget to put it on my tab,” Tim insisted as you turned away. His knowing smile rankled Jason. He curled and uncurled his fists. A quick punch to the throat. That was all it would take to wipe that smug look off his face.  

“You knew it was her.”  

Tim shrugged as he downed his shot, confirming nothing, but this was Tim. Of course, he knew who you were.  

“Um, hello, am I missing something?” Steph flicked a damp curl over her shoulder. “Why are we using fake names? Unless that’s what you want to be called now? If so, I’m totally in support of your journey, though Jacob is a little basic. You look more like a—”  

Tim mercifully cut her off, “He can’t let her know his real name.”  

She blinked. “Why?”  

“Drop it.” Jason craned his neck to keep an eye on you. “It’s not important.”  

“If we’re changing our names, it’s gotta be somewhat important.”  

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Tim assured her.  

“Is it juicy?”  

“If by juicy, you mean kind of pathetic, then yeah.”  

Steph bounced giddily on the balls of her feet. “Oh my god.”  

Jason tuned them out as he settled solely on you. God, that jacket looked amazing on you. For a second, he imagined it was his instead. If it was, that bartender would stop looking at you with those heavy bedroom eyes. He was tall, but Jason was much taller. His skin was smooth and unblemished.  

Did you like that kind of thing?  

He glanced down at the discolored knicks and scars that marred the back of his hands. They didn’t bother him as much anymore. Each mark told his story. At least, that’s what Talia tried to instill on him when he lived in Nanda Parbat. You liked a good story.  

Fuck it , he thought as he abandoned them to head toward the bar. It was too late to pretend he never saw you, and there was no way he was letting this moment slip through his fingers. You did a double take as he sat next to you, effectively startling the bartender who had leaned across the bar to flirt with you.  

“A club soda with lime and a Coke.”  

He cleared his throat and moved to make Jason’s drinks.  

You studied him for a second, your expression unreadable. “Not drinking?”  

Jason forced himself to look at you. It had been easier with the helmet, but tonight, there was nothing to protect him from the full brunt of your gaze.  

“My friend doesn’t drink, so I don’t either when we hang out.”  

“I’m sure they appreciate that.”  

It wasn’t a direct compliment, but his heart swelled all the same. “Nah, it’s not a big deal. Drinking by myself isn’t all that fun.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I would know.”  

“I never assumed that you did.”  

He forced himself to laugh. It effectively killed the mood, and you turned back to the bar, seemingly content to have things end there. Jason was not, but he struggled to come up with something to say. His gaze fell to your jacket once more.  

“So, leather?”  

“Leather?” you echoed as you bit back a smile.  

“I mean, your jacket. It’s leather.”  

You feigned shock. “Really? I had no idea.”  

He choked on another laugh. Fuck, this was going a lot worse than he pictured it in his head, but he pressed on anyway, “I have one too.”  

“Yeah?”  

“I mean, I think it looks—” His head spun. “You look—”  

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. “And here I thought you left me high and dry.”  

Jason sagged with relief as Roy settled next to him, sparing him from the embarrassment of finishing that thought. His relief faded when Roy’s gaze shifted to you, his easy smile turning rueful.  

“Is he bothering you, sweetheart?”  

“Not at all,” you said as the bartender dropped off your drinks. Two in front of you, and two in front of him.   

It barely registered, his beef with the bartender forgotten now that he was faced with the terrifying realization that every conversation with you ended in him acting like a bumbling fool. His mouth worked, but no words came out.  

“But I think he might be short-circuiting.”  

Roy chuckled. “Yeah, he gets a little shy around a pretty face.”  

You smirked as you sipped your drink. “Flirting on his behalf. Now, that’s a good friend.”  

Jason shoved him away, gritting his teeth. “Ignore him. We were just leaving. Sorry to both—”  

“Please. No need to stop on my account,” Roy insisted, ever the helpful one. Jason resisted the urge to smack him. “I think you were about to compliment her jacket, right?”  

“He was,” you agreed, “But I’ll spare him from doing so in front of you.” Your hand fell to his shoulder as you leaned in. Tequila sharpened your breath, fanning across his skin. If he turned his head just a fraction, you’d be nose to nose, your lips sinfully close. He stayed still as stone, shoving that mental image from his mind.   

You whispered in his ear, “If you want to try again, you know who I came with. I’ll even pretend this isn’t our first time meeting, Mr. Darcy.”  

Ice coated his veins.   

“A pair of glasses isn’t enough to fool me, though I’d be lying if I said you didn’t look good.” You squeezed his shoulder and walked away.  

He stayed facing the bar, too stunned to move, to speak, hell, he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing any more.  

“That her?”  

A low whine wrenched from his throat.  

Roy took a long sip from his drink. “Everything makes sense now. Your lifestyle has nothing to do with why you’re against dating. You suck at flirting.”  

“That’s not true.”  

“Did you hear yourself before?”  

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, fine, but that’s only part of it. I know all this stuff about her, but I can’t tell her that without looking like a weirdo. I want to do this right, but I don’t know how to begin. What do I do?”  

Insane that he was turning to Roy of all people for dating advice. He loved the guy, but his track record with women was not the best.  

“You could ask her to dance?”  

If Jason had pearls, he would have clutched them. “Have you lost your mind?”  

“Dude.” He flicked him between the eyes. “I know you haven’t had a whole lot of experience with flirting, but that —” He pointed to where you disappeared in the crowd. “That was a clear invitation to follow her. And if you play your cards right, you could end the night like them.”  

Roy then pointed to where Tim balanced precariously on another table. He dragged Bernard up with him this time, his mouth sealed over his in a sloppy kiss. Bernard held a beer in one hand as he grabbed his ass with the other.  

Jason averted his gaze. “Yeah, okay, let me try making it through a conversation without looking like a dumbass first.”  

“Whatever floats your boat, man, but this your shot. Take it.”  

He wiped his sticky palms on his jeans. “I thought you wanted to hang out with me.”  

“I can survive,” he insisted, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll call Dick so we can watch the shit show together.”  

“Dickie is too busy being Bludhaven’s golden boy to care about my non-existent love life.” Jason hadn’t heard from his brother in months, which was probably for the best. Things were easier when they didn’t talk. Reminded him of the days before he bit the dust.  

“I think he’d make an exception for this,” Roy countered with a sharp smile, “This is the best entertainment I've had in years. Now, I need to know how you bagged a baddie like Artemis. I thought you had hidden charm, but that’s clearly not the case.”  

Jason clamped down on his irritation. “Are you done?”  

“Almost.” Roy considered him thoughtfully. “Is it the curly hair? It must be, right? I can’t think of anything else that would—”  

“Roy.”  

He waved him off. “Alright, fine. I’m done now. Are you going to ask her to dance or what?”  

Continuing his relationship with you as Jacob wasn’t the worst decision he’s made where you were concerned. It was closest he’d ever get to being himself around you. No more skirting around under the guise of protocol or chance meetings on fire escapes. He could finally meet you halfway, on equal footing.   

He stood with hardened resolve.  

Roy clapped him on the back. “Atta boy. Go get her.”  

Anxiety prickled his skin as he headed into the crowd to find you. All the while, he tried to convince himself that this was an invitation and that you wouldn’t laugh in his face when he asked you to dance. He didn’t dance, but he would do it for you.   

Jason could picture it now. His hands dipping under that jacket to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his body as you moved to the music. Your breath mingling with his as he pressed his forehead to yours. Words had betrayed him tonight, but he could make his actions count.  

He caught a blur of red hair, then blonde hair, then the outline of a man who was undoubtedly half-Kryptonian. He found Tim’s entourage, so that meant you had to be—  

Someone laughed.   

It grated on his ears, warping until it bordered on hysterical.  

Something snapped inside him.  

It couldn’t be his laugh, he tried to rationalize.  

He was rotting in Arkham.  

He closed his eyes, starbursts painting the back of his eyelids. They looked an awful lot like explosions. His breath shallowed as he pressed his palms over his eyes in a vain attempt to shove the image from his mind.  

No.  

No.  

No .  

Not here.  

Not now.  

He staggered back as a familiar panic twined through his chest.  

It was suddenly too loud, too bright, too warm—like fire. Flames. He smelled smoke. He tugged desperately at his collar, but it failed to alleviate the tension in his throat.  

Suddenly, he was moving.  

A chill it into his skin as he exited the club. Where he went, he had no idea, but he needed to get away. Somewhere quieter, somewhere darker, somewhere that didn’t remind him of that night.  

Eventually, he sank to his knees, slush and snow soaking through his jeans as he willed his head to stop spinning. He focused on the ground, the feel of the rough asphalt under his palms. He counted his breaths. One, two, three —all the way to ten . His fists tightened as he held his breath, then released the tension on the exhale.  

His vision felt too sharp, too real, but his mind finally slowed as he slowly regained control of his body. He released another shaky breath, tears in his eyes.  

Jason hadn’t had an episode this bad in a while.  

Small things could trigger him—like forcing himself into a packed club with all that stimulation. God, he was an idiot to push himself like that. He should have left when Roy suggested it.   

Roy.  

He abandoned him.  

Fuck .  

On top of everything, he was a shit friend too.  

Anger twined with his shame and fear. He punched the ground. And again. Over and over until his knuckles bled. His next breath broke on a sob as he folded in half, his forehead pressed to the concrete.  

To think, he almost fooled himself into believing he had a chance at something normal—something good. Things would never pan out between you two. You deserved someone better. Someone less fucked in the head. He distanced himself for a reason. This was why.  

Notes:

Ha ha. That was fun until it wasn't.

I'm also posting on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Happy WFA day for those who indulge in domestic Batman fluff.

Chapter 12

The rest of the night passed in a blur. A lot of names, a lot of faces, a lot of alcohol. It was impossible to remember them all, especially once the drinks finally hit your system. As you stumbled into Steph’s apartment sometime after two in the morning, you concluded that friendship was just thinly veiled peer pressure that encouraged stupid choices. Not that you minded, this was the most fun you had in months.  

Steph passed out immediately, not even bothering to change out of her clothes as she cocooned herself in her comforter. You shrugged your coat off and flopped onto the couch, ready to sleep off what was possibly going to be the worst hangover in recent memory.  

“So, leather?”  

Your eyes snapped open.  

Jacob.  

You never expected to see him after that night. Chance meetings on the subway might lead to true love in books, but you knew better than to believe what you read. Fate and love were not hopelessly intertwined like thread on a loom. It wouldn’t keep shoving you together until you inevitably fell in love with him.

At least that’s what you believed before tonight.  

Flirting was harmless. Jacob was, by all accounts, very attractive. His broad frame, the subtle curve of his shoulders that betrayed shyness, those dark curls offset with a shock of white. He was exactly your type—especially with those round wire-framed glasses that softened the sharp cut of his jaw.  

Even as you thought about Jacob, your attention drifted toward the window, guilt twisting your mouth. Hood was the last person you should want to see tonight. You hadn’t seen him in two months. Chances were and God permitting, you would never cross paths with him again.  

Yet, you wore his colors tonight.  

And for what?  

What did you want to prove by doing that?  

You felt torn, conflicted. There was a perfectly suitable man who clearly showed interest in you—or at least you thought he did. He also never came to find you despite the clear invitation to follow you. It was possible you'd pushed too far. He was already embarrassed without you feeding the flames.

Jacob was the logical choice.   

A safe choice.   

Red Hood was an enigma. A puzzle you had yet to solve and likely never would. You didn’t know anything about him or even how to go about looking for him.  

Alright, maybe there was some harm in flirting because now you felt bad for feeling attracted to Jacob. It felt like cheating, even though it wasn’t. These odd sentiments you held for Red Hood lingered, and no matter how much time passed, you couldn’t shake them.  

Groaning, you buried your face in your knees. Sleep, it seemed, was not something you’d find as quickly as Steph.  

Pulling your notebook and the pack of gel pens from your bag, you settled into the corner of the couch. Writing calmed your mind when you couldn’t sleep in the past, so it was worth a shot now. You considered the various colors in the pack before settling on a rich burgundy.  

Desperation cloyed at your resolve as you brought pen to paper. The words flowed easily with liquid courage thrumming in your veins. You had no idea if your thoughts made sense, but you also didn’t care. So many thoughts, so many contradictions, and you couldn’t share them with anyone. Well, there was one person you could share them with. The last three months felt like you were writing into the void. What was the harm in one more letter, one more piece of yourself shared with a man who’d never write back?  

Time passed quickly, just you and the soft scratch of your pen. You poured everything on the page, multiple pages to be exact, until there was nothing left to say. Exhaustion and alcohol softened your memory, leaving some instances in sharper focus than others, but sleep eventually took you by force.  

Looking back, if only you knew the consequences that awaited you when your mind wasn’t a slush of tequila and party mix, but until then, you basked in blissful ignorance. Tonight was a night for stupid decisions.  

 

***  

   

Steph insisted you join her, Tim, and Bernard for breakfast at a diner down the street when you finally rustled awake in the morning. You agreed though both morning and breakfast seemed inaccurate now that it was pushing noon. Normally, you would have your history class, but thankfully your professor canceled class for the day.  

Small victories.  

You now had a few hours to pull yourself together before you left for your English lecture.  

The other two had already grabbed a table inside the quaint diner. It had worn leather booths and lots of potted plants lining shelves with mismatched decor. A pleasant mix of coffee and potting soil filled the air. Bernard raised his hand to wave them over, his hair damp from a shower and dressed in fresh clothes. Looking at him, no one would have guessed that he ended his night retching in the back alley as Tim rubbed soothing circles on his back.  

Tim, on the other hand, stood with one foot in the grave as he stared off into the middle distance. Dark circles marred the near-translucent skin under his eyes as he white-knuckled a ceramic mug with little flowers on it. It contained not one, not two, but three tea bags.  

“Morning!” Bernard chirped as you and Steph sat across from him, “Glad to see we didn’t scare you off last night. Tim doesn’t let loose often, but when he does, he likes to make it everyone else’s problem.”  

Tim made no attempt to defend himself, in fact, he looked as if he hadn’t heard him at all. Bernard slung an arm across the back of his chair, his thumb tracing the bulb of his shoulder. The small contact did a better job of getting his attention. He sat a little straighter.  

“It was nice to let loose,” you admitted, “I don’t usually go out, but I might have overdone it.”  

“Clearly. You slept through three alarms and nearly gave me a heart attack.” Like Bernard, Steph was her usual cheery self despite drinking more than you had. Life wasn’t fair sometimes. “I thought we killed you.”  

“You tried,” you countered as you sipped your water, “But it’ll take more than a few tequila shots to take me out. I just couldn’t fall asleep last night, so I stayed up writing instead.”  

She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Another letter for your super-secret admirer?”  

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not a super-secret.”  

“Right, then who is he?”  

A few weeks ago, you would have never disclosed this to her, but that was before you spent ten minutes holding her hair while she puked in the bathrooms at the club. That kind of intimate bond warranted some level of trust.   

“I’m writing letters to Bruce Wayne.”  

A stunned silence settled over them. Bernard and Steph shared a long, disbelieving look while Tim sipped his over-steeped tea. His nose wrinkled in disgust, but that didn’t stop him from going in for another sip.  

Steph chuckled, the noise punching from her chest like a drum. “No, seriously. Who are you writing to?”  

“Bruce Wayne,” you insisted.  

“That can’t be—”  

“She’s telling the truth,” Tim said, “She’s the recipient of the Jason Todd Memorial scholarship through Wayne Foundations. She has to write letters every two weeks as part of the deal.”  

He said it as if that was common knowledge. It wasn’t—especially given the shell-shocked look on Steph’s face. Her gaze darted between you and Tim, her eyes widening a fraction. Whatever she seemed to realize, she kept it to herself.  

But how did Tim know?  

Your mind raced as you tried to recall your conversations from the night before. It was possible that you told him about it, but you couldn’t remember. Maybe there was a bigger gap in your memory than you initially thought. What else had you forgotten?  

“That’s right…”  

“You didn’t tell me,” Tim assured you, “I already knew.”  

It took a second for the pieces to fit in a way that made sense. There was something familiar about Tim, but now that you’d had a good look at him in broad daylight, you knew why. His face had been all over the news a few years ago. “Tim Drake.”  

Adopted son of Bruce Wayne.  

You sank back in the booth, sitting with that revelation for a second. This was a degree of separation you never expected. This wasn’t your first time crossing paths with Tim, but the man you knew as Tim Drake was cool and collected. He dressed well, dominating the gala floor with the grace of a boy who’d grown up with a silver spoon pressed firmly between his teeth.  

He didn’t make out with his boyfriend on sticky bar tables or sing off-key to pop songs with Steph. Nor did he sit hunched over a cup of bitter leaf water like he was now.  

But perhaps, this version of Tim was the most dangerous. He made himself small and unassuming as he waited for the right moment to strike. You were his target all along, and he wasn’t so out of it as you were initially led to believe.  

“Well, I’ll be damned.”  

“How are those going?” He tried to keep his tone conversational, but you could tell he was probing for something. You held his gaze. He met it in a quiet challenge that left you shivering.  

“Fine.”  

“Just fine?”  

You shrugged, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance despite the pit forming in your stomach. “I don’t hear from him. I’m convinced he doesn’t read my letters.”  

Tim stayed suspiciously quiet on that.  

“Oh no,” Bernard muttered under his breath.  

Steph buried her face in her hands. “He’s doing it again.”  

“Tim.”  

“Hm?”  

“Can you confirm that no one is reading my letters?”  

He muffled a yawn as he set his mug aside. “I can’t do that.”  

“I don’t like that answer.”  

Tim grunted as he rested his head on Bernard’s shoulder, his eyes flitting closed. Not even a second later, he was asleep, soft snores filling the air. You stared at him. He couldn’t just fall asleep on you. How was that even possible?  

“Is he always like this?”  

“Yes,” Steph and Bernard said in unison.  

“He can’t just leave it there,” you insisted, “That was so fucking cryptic.”  

Bernard rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, about that. Once he’s out, there’s no waking him. I expected him to crash at some point, though the timing is unfortunate. This isn’t his first time dropping insane lore right before passing out. My favorite cryptid is always an overtired Tim Drake seconds before he passes out.” He chuckled, trying to make light of the situation, but you struggled to find the humor in the situation.  

Steph placed a hand on your shoulder. It was probably meant to be comforting, but it only succeeded in setting you on edge. “I’m sure it’s fine. Even if someone is reading your letters, it’s not like you’ve written anything bad, right?”  

Her question unsettled you, more than it probably should. Your penchant for calling Bruce Wayne ridiculous names aside, you recalled fragments from the night before. Writing to a man you assumed would never give you the time of day.   

Numbly, you reached into your bag and pulled out your notebook. A page had been torn out. Several, in fact, with indents that suggested you’d had an intense writing session with splotches of red ink bleeding onto the next page. Your heart stuttered as you checked the sheet of stamps tucked in the back of your notebook.  

One was missing.  

Oh.  

Oh no.  

Someone read your letters. No one except Tim could confirm that it was Bruce Wayne, but that didn’t matter right now. You had no idea what you wrote last night, but you assumed it pertained to your feelings for... You passed a post box outside Steph’s apartment this morning.   

It was possible…  

This was bad. Detrimental. If Wayne Foundation questioned your legitimacy as a scholarship candidate before, they would now if they got a hold of your late-night ramblings.  

Steph said your name. “Is everything alright?”  

You stood abruptly. “I need to go.”  

“What? But we haven’t even ordered.”  

“I’m sorry.” You meant that, but you heard the panicked clip in your words. “There’s something I need to take care of before class. I completely forgot.”  

It was a lie. A bad one at that, but it was the best you could come up with in the moment. You weren’t sure how to retrieve your letter. It was probably halfway to the post office by now, but you had to check to be sure. Your mind refused to focus on anything else.  

God.  

What did you write?  

Even if Bruce Wayne wasn’t reading the letters, chances were high you mentioned Red Hood. Your circumstantial relationship with him had been a guarded secret, one you weren’t too keen to share with anyone, not even him. You shouldered your bag and ducked out of the diner before anyone could stop you.  

Notes:

Tim Drake is also my favorite cryptid—for the record.

Also posting on Tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 13

No guns.

Not tonight.

Jason savored the way his fist connected with another man’s jaw. A second thug grabbed him from behind. He grunted as a knife dug into the padding of his uniform, narrowly avoiding a pierced kidney. His team teased him for the added bulk in his uniform. He wasn’t as nimble, but he wasn’t blessed with skin harder than steel or Amazonian strength. At the very least, he wouldn't need stitches every other week.

Knocking the blade from his hand, Jason had the thug laid out flat in under ten seconds. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his basest instincts taking over. Punch, dodge, kick, punch, block. He didn’t have to think. His body just moved.

Tonight should have ended differently. He planned a stake out at this abandoned warehouse to gather intel on a new cartel that popped up under Black Mask’s purview. Sionis had been notably quiet since Jason returned to Gotham, but he was making moves again. This new cartel wasn’t a real threat, nothing to do with Black Mask was, but pending what he learned tonight, he might have tried to bring them under his purview instead. That idea went out the door the second he got caught snooping around their wares.

It was a stupid mistake.

A misstep.

He’d been having more of those as of late.

Several weeks later, he’d yet to fully recover from his episode at the club. He edged the darkness that threatened to consume him, lost time, a few hazy memories to string one moment into the next. The itch of his more volatile emotions lingered at the back of his mind, wanting to step in and take the reins. Sometimes it was sadness, other times desperation or hopelessness, but tonight, anger burned in his veins.

Jason kept it in check, if just barely, but the trouble with control is that his was finite.

He should be resting. Taking proper care and time to recover, but the thought of sitting at home with his thoughts made him restless. This was the alternative. Child’s play, all things considered, but he knew it was a far cry from productive.

His comm beeped before automatically connecting. “Hood.”

Babs.

Jason gritted his teeth. “Kinda busy here.”

“Your vitals are spiking. Do you need assistance?”

“No.” He knocked another thug off his feet, their temple cracking on the corner of a steel crate. His chest heaved as he whipped around, searching for more. His vision narrowed, the edges going a little fuzzy.

“Your heart rate is—”

“I’m fi—”

A bullet grazed his helmet. Jason dove behind the crate, breathing ragged. It took a second for his vision to refocus. He was fine. Of course, he was fine. His helmet protected him from these things, but that was a little too close to home for his liking.

“Hood? Was that a gunshot? Shit. I’m sending backup. Stand by.”

The line went dead before he could argue. Learning that she had a read on his vitals shouldn’t have surprised him. This was Babs, but he felt the prickle of irritation raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Who was she to treat him like a full-fledged member of the big, happy family. Jason was an estranged uncle at best.

He snarled, “Damn it.”

Now, he had a time limit. Finish this and get out before a member of the Bat-brigade showed up to lecture him. He reached for the gun on his hip. So much for no guns.

“Who the hell said you could bring a gun to a fist fight?”

A final thug stood on the far side of the warehouse. He held a gun in one hand, a tremor betraying how out of his depth he seemed. Straw colored hair fell limp around his face, baby fat rounding out his cheeks.

Jason hesitated.

“Put the gun down before you hurt yourself,” he said roughly.

“D-Don’t move. I’ll shoot.” He widened his stance as if that would help him here. He gripped the gun all wrong. His grip tightened around it, barely concealing the flinch of pain. Yeah, Jason expected that. He must have hurt himself on the kick back.

Jason lifted his hands. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why the fuck would I believe you?” He waved his gun toward the unconscious bodies littering the floor. Jason took in the scene before him with a clearer head. Okay. Not a great look if he was trying to diffuse the situation. “I could shoot you and be done with it.”

“Then shoot.”

“I—” His brow furrowed. “What?”

Jason closed the distance between them, pressing his helmet to the barrel. Bold to some, idiotic to others, but Jason had already shaken hands with the god of death and clawed his way out of the grave. His life was a joke, and besides, he knew how this would end.

On cue, the kid’s expression fell as his joints locked. When faced with the reality of killing a man, he couldn’t do it, just as Jason expected.

“Let me guess?” Jason said, his soft softer than before, “Times are hard, and you needed to make ends meet. They offered you a number that you couldn’t refuse.”

Slowly, he lowered the gun with a defeated frown. “I was told we were moving cargo. I didn’t know the cargo was drugs until I showed up. It was too late to back out.”

“What’s your name?”

“Evan.”

“And how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

Fuck. Jason was grateful for the helmet, so Evan couldn’t see the way he grimaced. He really was a kid. “You still in school?”

“No.”

His chest tightened. “Do you want to be?”

It was a stupid question. Evan seemed to agree and scoffed as he tucked the gun in his waistband. Jason swallowed the urge to reprimand him. “It wouldn’t make a difference if I did. I’ll still be stuck on Park Row when I graduate. Might as well get a head start on the life that awaits me when I get out.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. You could work for me instead. I’ll pay you double. Triple.”

“How is that better than working for the cartel? Or Black Mask?”

Jason had a soft spot for a street kid with desperation in their eyes and few options. Evan wasn’t that much older than he was when Bruce picked him off the street. If he hadn’t gotten out, this would have been his fate too. Jason wanted to help, but he didn’t know how. He wasn’t Bruce Wayne with his trust funds and mansion with too many bedrooms.

In the end, Jason could only shrug. His solution wasn’t any better. It would still leave Evan a criminal. It would still get him hurt.

“I never asked for this.”

“Then walk away.”

“It’s too late,” Evan insisted.

“No,” he insisted, “It’s not too late to choose something else, to choose something better.” It was for Jason, but Evan had a shot at turning his life around.

“There’s nothing better out there.” Evan stepped toward the door. “Can I really go?”

He waved him off. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Not needing to be told twice, Evan bolted, the door shutting firmly behind him. Jason skimmed his fingers over the mark on his helmet. That was a lucky shot by a lucky kid who was fortunate to have run into him. If it had been Batman or someone else, that could have ended differently.

“Are you wallowing?”

“Ya gotta be kidding me,” Jason mumbled as he looked up.

Spoiler balanced effortlessly on a beam. Despite the mask that covered her mouth, he could sense the smile curving her lips.

“How long have you been there?”

“Just got here.”

“Good, then scram. Park Row is my turf.”

Steph was infamously bad at following instructions, so he wasn’t surprised when she ignored him, hopping down using a series of complex flips and twists. She barely reached his shoulder, but her general aura made his teeth itch as he moved on to clean his handiwork.

“Been a while since you and I crossed paths in the field.”

He would have preferred if it had stayed that way. While Steph was infinitely better than some of the other options, he didn’t know what to make of her. “No one else wanted to come?”

“I volunteered.”

Of course, she did.

“Babs was going to send Damian.”

Jason merely grunted as he dragged one of the thugs toward the door. He’d torch the goods before he left, but now that he had a vaguely bat-shaped babysitter, he’d have to do so with a little more care. Still, a controlled explosion fixed about 80% of his problems these days. She caught on and jumped at the chance to help him. They worked in silence, and he believed, foolishly, that he’d be spared the classic Steph Brown chatter.

“What were you doing?”

Evidently not. “Crime lord stuff.”

Steph paused, taking in the scene more closely. “And was this... successful?”

“No.”

Steph guffawed as she grabbed another thug under the armpits. “Oh, thank God, because if you act pissy when something goes right, I’d hate to see how you act when something goes wrong.”

His fingers twitched at his side. “No one asked you to stay.”

“Oh, I know.” She clasped her hands sweetly under her chin. “But I was feeling charitable.”

Something in her tone raised his defenses.

Abort. Abort.

“I don’t need—”

“I hear you’ve been feeling charitable too.”

“Fuck this.” Jason dropped his thug halfway out the door and left, content to leave the drugs and cartel mostly intact if it meant escaping. He refused to have this conversation again.

“Don’t be like that,” she said as she jogged to catch up with him.

Jason had avoided thinking about you thus far. He crammed every complicated emotion to the far depths of his psyche behind walls honed of steel. If he didn’t think about you, they remained unbreakable.

“Tim told her.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, that ember in his chest flaring as he turned to face her. Steph clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

“He did what?”

He was going to kill that fucker.

Hunt him down.

Make it slow and intricate.

There wouldn’t be any mouthy quips this time because he’d slice his tongue out. That’d teach him. For all his cryptic bullshit and lectures on privacy, he seemed quick to spill another man’s secrets.

As if sensing his intent, Steph amended, “He didn’t tell her that it was you specifically.”

Jason forced himself to breathe. “What did he tell her?”

A moment of hesitation was all she required to share everything. “That someone was, in fact, reading her letters. He never confirmed who. It spooked her, I think. She’s been off because of it. She won’t text me back. She moved seats in the classes we share. I don’t know what to do. Usually, I’m good at this kind of stuff, but...”

“Out with it.”

She sighed. “Have you noticed anything? I bet she’s still writing to you. You’d be able to tell if something was wrong.”

His shoulders pinched. Your letters sat in a neat pile on his table, untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to open them, tempting as it was to hear from you. The walls keeping his complicated feelings at bay weren’t that sturdy.

“No,” he said, “I haven’t noticed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Nothing at all.”

“Nope.”

She planted her hands on her hips, disgusted with him. Jason was a little disgusted with himself, if he were being honest. If she was telling the truth, and why would she lie about this, you were struggling, and he’d had no idea.

“I don’t know why I even bothered coming here.”

“Yeah, me either.”

His pathetic attempts at deflection seemed to work because she reached for her grappling gun. His shoulders sagged with relief, but Steph was never going to let him have the last word. She closed the distance between them, barely cresting the underside of his chin, but she glared at him as if she towered over him.

“Whatever your end goal is with this; I want you to take a hard look at yourself and decide whether you’re willing to play games with her life like you did with yours tonight.”

He stilled.

“Yeah, I saw the stunt you pulled with that kid. I’m not usually one to lecture, but come on, man. What were you thinking?”

“It’s not like that. I would never—”

He would never hurt you.

“You’re playing games with her life with that scholarship. It might not kill her, but there’s a power dynamic that you’re too dense to realize. Money is power in this city. If B has taught us anything, it’s that. How will you wield yours?” With that final blow, Steph shot off into the night.

He wanted to be irritated, but he couldn’t find it. She was also a good friend—not to him, but she genuinely cared about you. At least you had someone looking out for you, because he’d done fuck all these last few weeks.

His walls shifted, the barest hint of those complicated feelings oozing through the gap to fill the hollow pit in his chest. He recognized the shame and anxiety, but something new bubbled to the surface.

Yearning.

He read enough books to understand the concept of yearning. The male hero always felt some matter of it, be it for his home or for a partner he left behind. Some described it like a bruise over the heart or a bone that refused to heal, but for him it was more like in itch he couldn’t reach. If he focused on it, he could feel precisely where it sat under his skin, demanding his attention.

Jason buried his face in his palm and swore as he hurried off into the night—cartel and drugs forgotten.

 

***

 

Your letters sat on his kitchen table amid a mess of receipts and crumpled Bat Burger wrappers. Despite sitting, ever-present in his line of sight, he pointedly ignored them when he deigned to return to his pitiful apartment. Homemaking had never been his strong suit, especially when the concept of home had always been a fleeting tease.

Tonight, he wasn’t strong enough to resist temptation, not after his conversation with Steph. After removing his helmet, he sank into the folding chair at the head of the table and picked up the first on the pile.

 

Dear Mr. Wayne,

I would like to humbly apologize for my previous letter.

It was a mistake. One I regret, though I will also admit that I do not remember what I wrote. I had been drinking and somehow my private writings made it into your hands.

Please know that it will never happen again.

I am serious about my degree. I would never take this opportunity for granted. I let my social life get in the way of my studies, but no more.

As a token of my dedication to my studies, I want to share this with you. My advisor suggested I submit a short story for a writing competition happening through the Gotham Gazette. The winner will be published in an upcoming periodical. I plan to submit something, though I doubt I will win. I have included a small excerpt with this letter.

Please. Do not think poorly of me. Throw my last letter away and pretend I never sent it. I promise I will be serious from here on out. I was too comfortable, and I now realize that was a mistake.

 

Jason vocalized his confusion with an audible, “Huh?”

Scanning the other letters, he found each more formal than the last as you outlined your studies like Bruce outlined mission details. Not a single contraction, stilted sentences, a general lack of your usual bite or passion. You sounded so unlike yourself that he stopped reading halfway through your third letter. Even the excerpt you shared with him seemed flat and disinterested.

What the hell did he miss?

Clearly, he missed something.

He searched through the mess on his kitchen table before falling to his knees in search of this fabled letter that warranted a sudden shift in your tone. Coming up empty, he sank back on his heels with a defeated sigh. Had he read your letters sooner, he would have noticed the change without Steph’s intervention, but this whole situation left him with more questions than answers.

What did you write about?

Where had the mystery letter gone if not to him?

Why did Tim tell you someone was reading his letters?

What the hell did you write about?

He dragged his fingers down his face. As much as he wanted to blame Tim for causing this, this was a bigger issue. A Jason issue. It also didn’t matter what you wrote. What did matter is that he needed to fix this before he lost the one good thing that he had with you.

This warranted a response. He just couldn’t decide what would be most appropriate. Keep it simple, keep it believable. Jason would write a lengthy letter back to assure you that he liked your candor and fire, but this was Bruce Wayne.

Knowing him, he’d throw money at the problem until it went away. You would hate that, but maybe he could meet this issue somewhere in the middle.

A little bit of Jason, a little bit of Bruce.

Some truth to alleviate the lie he’d trapped himself in.

It was worth a shot because he couldn’t bear another three years of formalities until you graduated. This had to work.

Notes:

Plot twist.

Also I did not expect Steph to have this big of a role, but she keeps bullying her way into chapters so here we are.

I'm not mad about it.

Also posting on tumblr along with the occasional silly meme about my fic: tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 14

You hurried up the stairs of your complex, a dark cloud swirling overhead. The elevator stopped working that morning, meaning you had to scale seven flights to get to your apartment. Class wrapped for the day, but your philosophy professor wanted to be a bigger ass than usual and threw a pop quiz in your face. You were sure you failed, which was the last thing you needed this close to the end of the semester. You couldn’t even share a harried look with Steph because you stopped talking to her to focus on your studies. A decision you were now beginning to regret, but you tried to hold firm.

In conclusion, you were going through it, and you wanted nothing more than to sink into your couch and binge-watch Bridgerton for the umpteenth time.

As you reached the landing on your floor, you paused, noting the package that awaited you outside your door—a small, unassuming brown box.

Huh.

You didn’t order anything.

Upon closer inspection, it seemed legitimate with the appropriate shipping labels and all that jazz, but you didn’t survive this city without being at least a little wary of pleasant surprises.

It was heavier than you expected. Something you took mental note of as you tucked it under your arm and headed inside. While it could be an explosive or trap sent by a gang or super villain, you hoped they had bigger fish to fry than a college student on the cusp of a mental breakdown.

And at this point, a small part of you welcomed the sweet release of death if it meant you didn’t have to take your finals next week.

You settled cross-legged on your couch, turning the package over in your hands as you tried to guess what it contained. Its contents shifted slightly, and you still had all your limbs intact, so you took that as a good sign.

Sparing yourself the suspense, you ripped it open. A leather book tied with a cord sat on top, unmarked saved for the braided border etched on its cover. Next to it sat an ebony fountain pen with vials of ink. A small smile flitted across your face as you removed the journal, flipping through its pages to appreciate the rough texture of the pages. It was almost too nice to write in.

Beneath it, sat two more books. On Writing by Stephen King, and a collector’s edition of Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. You appreciated the first as a good resource for your upcoming submission, but your attention snagged on the latter. Its deep blue cover looked expensive with gold-pressed fleurs dis lis along its border. You flipped it open to the first page, noting that it was written in French. Somehow, you knew it would be.

A handwritten note sat at the bottom of the empty box.

 

You’re doing well. I chose you for a reason. Don’t pretend to be someone you’re not for my sake. Take a break from the letters and enjoy the holidays. You’ve earned it.

—Your Dear Daddy Long Legs

 

Your skin pebbled with the twist in your gut, simultaneously too cold and too hot. You laughed, because you couldn't decide what else to do in that moment. Gifts were one thing, expected even from a man who had plenty of money to spare, but a few words of encouragement and the joining of an inside joke... that was priceless and exactly what you needed right now.

Writing letters had quickly lost its appeal once you started double and triple guessing every word that went onto the page. Life had gotten in the way, so you distanced yourself from your new friends to focus on your studies. You assumed you made the right choice, but it only succeeded in making you feel more isolated. With the end of your first semester looming, you wondered if you’d made a terrible mistake by taking his money.

Bruce Wayne clearly didn’t care about you or your struggles, especially after never receiving a response to your frantic letter apologizing for your misstep.

But maybe you’d been a little too quick to judge.

Your laughter died on a wheeze as tears gathered in your eyes, hot and searing, relieved you hadn’t fucked this up. It wasn’t often the actions of billionaires brought you to tears, and happy tears at that. Hah. You wanted to laugh and sob and scream. Perhaps, an ugly combination of all three. A weight you’d carried over the last few weeks lifted, and you could finally breathe a little easier.

He wanted you to be yourself.

Your paranoia could settle, and you could finally enjoy life instead of sitting around and waiting for him to pull the plug on your academic pursuits.

Grabbing your new journal, you headed for the window. Ice and gray-flecked snow gathered on the grate outside. You sat on the small bench inside your apartment and cracked the window, relishing the chilly Gotham night. As you considered how best to christen your new journal, you heard the pop and drag of a grappling gun. Everyone from Gotham had come to recognize the call of an incoming vigilante.

Your gaze snapped toward the sky, searching the rooftops for the telltale smear of red on the black canvas of night.

Several seconds passed, the air thick with tension before you saw him. A speck of red landed on a roof two blocks down. Red Hood bolted, swallowed by the shadows before you fully realized you’d spotted him. You squashed the urge to call out to him.

Catching a glimpse of him every now and again was enough, you tried to reason with yourself. Knowing that if you ever ran into trouble again, Hood might be the one to save you was enough.

You almost believed yourself this time too.

To avoid the temptation of watching the sky, you retreated further inside with your journal. You sat cross-legged on your couch, anticipation buzzing through your veins as you tried to focus on the blank page. Much to your chagrin, words were harder to come by with your attention drifting back to the window every few seconds.

A distraction—that’s what you needed.

You turned on the TV, resuming where you left off in your rewatch of Bridgerton. It wasn’t long before you caught your attention straying toward the window once more. You groaned and laid out flat on the couch so you couldn’t see the window at all.

When he decided to grace you with his presence was outside your control. You knew that. The only logical step was to focus on something you could control. Pulling out your phone, you scrolled through a slew of unread texts. Your thumb hovered over the picture Steph had uploaded. One of her posing with Cass after one of their self-defense classes.

She tried texting.

She tried calling.

You never answered.

She had every right to ignore you now if she wanted to, but it was worth a shot. You clicked the ‘call’ button and raised the phone to your ear. At the very least, you could leave a voicemail. Steph deserved an apology, even if she never wanted to speak to you again.

The call connected after two rings. “My horoscope has never led me wrong. It told me to expect an unexpected call today.”

You struggled to contain your smile. At least you could count on Steph to remain consistent in these trying times. “If you expected it, can it be unexpected?”

“Psh. Begone with your logic. So, does this call mean you want to be my friend again?”

You had the decency to act sheepish. “I know it was shitty of me, to disappear. I just...” There was no real justification for your actions, and you didn’t try to explain yourself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have cut you out like that. I was in my head, and if you want to tell me to pound sand, be my guest. But, if you’re amendable to an alternative, I would like to grab lunch tomorrow and catch up.”

Her phone crackled as she readjusted her phone, quiet save for a small hum of contemplation. You held your breath as you waited.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am,” you answered honestly, “I got the pep talk I needed.”

You could hear the smile in her voice as she said, “Good. Though, for the record, I’ve been known to give a pretty stellar pep talk myself. You could have come to me. I love telling people how great they are.”

She also loved devastating people with a single, well-aimed slight. You’d seen it for yourself on several occasion but thankfully had never been on the receiving end. Steph truly was a woman of multitudes.

You laughed despite yourself. “I’m getting used to friends. Sad, I know, but I panicked and this was the result. I am sorry. I’d like to make it up to you. Lunch is on me.”

“Ew, keep your money. I just want to hang out and talk shit about Dr. Edwin. I mean, can you believe he had the gall to throw a pop quiz at us? It's a philosophy class for fuck's sake? I wasn't even aware there were tests," she groaned before quickly adding, "You can also tell me about this life-changing pep talk while we’re at it.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. If she knew it came from Bruce Wayne, you’d never live it down. “Just a friend.”

“I thought you didn’t have friends?”

“Do you want to hang out or not?”

“Hm, suspicious,” she said with a sniff, “I’ll drop it for now, but we will talk about this tomorrow. Can I invite Cass? She missed you too.”

“Yeah, that sounds gr—”

Several things happened in that moment.

You heard the pop of a grappling gun.

Something large hit your fire escape.

A voice, warped by modulation, groaned.

Your heart lurched.

It couldn’t be...

“Hey? You still there?” Steph’s voice dragged you back.

“I—yeah, I’m here. Someone—I gotta go. I’ll text your tomorrow.” You hung up before Steph could respond and sat up.

Red Hood ambled to his feet, outlined by the flickering streetlamp outside. He rolled his shoulder experimentally, another round of colorful curses crackling from his mask.

“Hood?”

He froze.

Slowly, his attention shifted to where you perched on the couch, then toward the TV. You followed his gaze. Daphne Bridgerton hung off a ladder as Simon's hands disappeared beneath her dress. He pressed searing, open-mouthed kisses to her exposed throat, their moans heavy and loud in the silence that stretched on.

Your eyes widened as you hurried to turn down the volume, to turn it off, anything to spare you from the mortification of explaining the plot of Bridgerton to him.

The screen went black, and you whipped around to face him. “I—”

“I preferred Anthony’s season.”

Your brain turned a little fuzzy. “You’ve... you’ve seen it?”

“Out of morbid curiosity. Nothing more.”

The lie was far from convincing, but he stared back, daring you to call him on his bluff. You let it go because you had yet to fully accept that he was here, talking to you. He crouched to speak with you through your window. It was a sight to behold, his shoulders comically wide for the frame.

You stepped toward him, fearing moving too quickly might scare him off. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s been a while.”

That much was obvious. “It has.”

His fingers flexed around your windowsill, his leather gloves squeaking softly. Neither spoke. You waited, but he seemed reluctant to say anything more. That meant it fell to you to fill the empty air.

“Did you want to come in?”

It was smarter not to let him in. This was more than enough. No need to be selfish. And yet, you offered anyway.

He nodded and said, “Sure.”

Shoving the window up, he managed to squeeze inside, grunting softly as he rolled his shoulder again. You stepped forward to meet him halfway, nearly touching him now, but not quite closing the distance.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I, uh...” He stood a little straighter. “I fell just now.”

Another silence wrought with tension settled. You glanced around your apartment, wishing you’d known he would appear so you could have tidied up a bit. His attention, however, didn’t stray from you. It sat like a weight on your chest, pressing the air from your lungs.

After months of nothing, his presence shouldn’t have affected you the way it did, but your body fizzled with anticipation. Your hand fell back to your side. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I wanted to see you.”

He recoiled, and you imagined that was something he meant to keep to himself. Still, his confession hung in the air between you, waiting for you to do something with it. He stayed rooted to the floor, not even the crackle of his breaths passing through his modulator.

You broke away from him as you considered your next move. You imagined what this meeting would be like. What you would say? How he would respond? Reality was far more daunting. Hesitantly, you turned to the small collection of books organized at the foot of your bed.

One chance.

You had to make this count.

Pulling three from the lowest shelf, you turned to face him once more. “I realize I don’t know anything about you.”

He didn’t correct you.

You pressed on, “I also realize that it’s probably safer that way considering who you are and the life you lead.”

Again, nothing.

Closing the distance once more, you offered him the stack. He reached for them, though you couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate choice or simply reactional. He released a shuddering breath that rippled through his modulator—the only indication that his brain hadn’t completely shut off.

Before you lost the nerve, you continued, “I read the Emily Wilson translation of The Odyssey. I know that feels like a lifetime ago, but I think it helped me understand the man who hides behind the mask a little better.” You looked at him in earnest as you fiddled with the strings on your yellow hoodie. “Our favorite books can say a lot about a person’s character. I wanted to share a few of my favorites with you too. Maybe this is how we can get to know each other without sharing too much.”

You waited for him to say something.

Anything.

Seconds passed, each more constricting than the last. This was the most vulnerable you’d been in a while. You’d hoped for a little more of a reaction, though it was difficult to know what was happening under that damn helmet. Your fingers twitched at your side as the silence stretch on between you.

You cracked first. “I’m sorry if this is weird, I just thought—”

He handed the books back to you, effectively shutting you up. You knew outright rejection was a possibility but experiencing said rejection was much worse. Your throat tightened as you fought back whatever knee jerk reaction clawed at your chest.

Once more, you were caught staring at each other, the space between you cavernous and achingly cold. Your grip tightened around the books, half-tempted to chuck them at his head.

How dare he come here.

How dare he toy with your emotions.

He could have stayed away.

He stepped toward the window. “I need to go.”

You didn’t stop him when he ducked through the window and shot into the night. Numbness quickly settled in his wake, soothing the sting of rejection as you set the books on your table and drifted listlessly back to your couch.

Notes:

I promise some real comfort is coming eventually...

But also, let me take a second to thank everyone who's taken the time to read, leave kudos, and comment. It really makes my day when I get a notification and get to read your kind words. I was super nervous to branch into a larger fandom like Batman (and write my first x Reader fic) but everyone has been so encouraging. So, thank you again! I hope you enjoy the ride.

Also posting on tumblr: www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 15

Jason swore he was dying.

Not in the same abrupt, explosive fashion he had the first time. No. This was slow. Agonizing. His head spun with each breath that sawed from his chest in quick, punctuated bursts as he grappled across the city.

This was a mistake.

He never planned to see or speak with you, but after his third loop past your complex, he folded like the sucker he was and decided to take a quick peek. Just to make sure you were alright. It pained him to come to the realization that he wasn’t any better than Bruce or Tim. The inclination to lurk and monitor the people he cared about had been impressed upon him from a young age.

Why try to fight it?

In and out. You’d never know he was there.

Then his boot hit a patch of ice on the landing.

His shoulder twinged as the grappling hook pulled taut, reminding him of his miscalculation. Being big had its downsides, namely how hard he hit your fire escape. Your neighbors on the first floor likely heard it. Like a bag of bricks hitting asphalt. If the pain wasn’t enough, you witnessed his blunder.

Embarrassment and anxiety made for a bad combination already, but your stare alone broke clear through his defenses. His feelings for you awoke, leaving him shivering and vulnerable in your apartment. Jason froze, unable to speak or act like a human being. Just once, he wanted to act normally in your presence.

You started talking. So many words. Too quick for him to fully grasp their meaning until you shoved the books into his hands. He saw the title on top of the stack. Daddy Long Legs. It was enough to bring a guy to his knees. Sharing the books you cherished most was more intimate than the overt attempts to flirt with him at the club. His brain turned cloudy as he tried to respond, but it all felt wrong. He'd been woefully unprepared for this meeting.

In his panic, he did the only thing that made sense. He ran.

He realized how stupid that sounded. It didn’t make his feelings go away. They closed in from behind, threatening to take him by force.

His heart tried to beat straight out of his chest as he hit the street outside one of several safehouses in the city. Left ankle buckling, he narrowly avoided eating asphalt as he broke into a dead sprint.

As if he could outrun these feelings for you.

He couldn’t.

Case in point, he tore through his safe house in search of a book to share with you. He had several in various collections scattered at bases throughout the city, but this was the closest. He hoped there was one here to represent him.

Did you want to know about Jason Todd?

Red Hood?

Was there a difference?

Initially, he created Red Hood to separate his misgivings from the ghost of a kid who’d done nothing to deserve the fallout of his crimes. But that sentiment had gone out the windows the second he revealed himself to Bruce. He was still Jason Todd. The Hood moniker didn’t absolve Jason of his sins. The line had blurred, one identity indistinguishable from the other. If you wanted to know the real him, you had to take the good and the bad.

Unable to choose just one book to represent the dichotomy within him, he frantically stuffed two in his pockets and hurried off.

He would regret this, but regret wasn’t enough to stop him any more.

Hopefully, you’d give him another chance.

When he touched down on your fire escape fifteen minutes later, he found your window shut tight and the blinds drawn. He knocked on the glass.

Please, please, please.

Seconds passed and still nothing. He cursed himself for running... again. It hadn’t done him any favors. He came back. Jason always came back to you.

The blinds slid open, revealing the familiar knit in your brow as you peered up at him through the water-stained glass. He motioned for you to open the window. It screamed desperate, but that was precisely what he was? If you demanded he grovel at your feet for forgiveness, Jason would do so in a heartbeat.

You obliged without such demands, much to his relief, but you stayed firmly planted in front of it.

“You’re back.”

“I am. Can I—”

“No.”

Jason flinched. “Right. Sorry.”

You crossed your arms, unimpressed.

You were going to need a lot more than a half-hearted apology. He closed his eyes and said, “Green.”

“What?”

His eyes opened once more. “My favorite color is green.”

Your lips parted softly, betraying your surprise. “I assumed it would be—”

“Red? Yeah, that’s a fair assumption, but it’s green.”

A dip in the Lazarus Pit didn’t change his personality. Green had always been his favorite color. He picked red to symbolize his anger and resentment. An ode to the man who killed him and to terrorize Bruce, but he had no real connection to the color beyond that. Everyone assumed he liked red, and he never corrected them, but he wanted to make it very clear to you that red didn’t define him.

He was more than a color.

More than his anger.

You sat with that information, nibbling your thumbnail. Finally, you said, “What else?”

He had plenty of fun facts. Arbitrary details that didn’t incriminate him, like how he liked Neapolitan ice cream and liked motorcycles, but you craved more than shallow conversations starters. He pulled the books from his pockets and handed them to you.

“I couldn’t pick just one.” In one hand, The Count of Monte Cristo, one of the greatest stories of revenge he’d read to date, and in the other, Frankenstein. He had a morbid sense of humor, and he hoped you’d look back on this moment and laugh when you finally learned the truth. There were so many other books that could define him, but he decided to start with the harsher persona of Red Hood. Softer parts of Jason Todd could come later if you decided you liked the monster.

You held off despite the twitch of your fingers. He could see the gears turning as you tried to discern why and how they defined him. He would love to hear your thoughts, but he caught his tongue between his teeth and waited.

“If I take these, are you going to run away again?”

“No, I’ve gotten that out of my system, I think.”

You stepped away from the window, leaving it open for him. A silent invitation, but an invitation, nonetheless. He squeezed inside. Your apartment was far more inviting than his with little trinkets decorating every available surface. There were plants, some real and some fake, adding a touch of green to the space that loosened the knots of tension in his shoulders. His gaze settled on the stack of books you tried to give him earlier.

He motioned to them, “May I?”

“Please.”

Picking up Daddy Long Legs, he briefly glanced at the other two. He’d heard of them but had never read them himself. He would get to them eventually, but he wanted to start with this one. “Can I stay to—”

“Yes!”

Your teeth snapped as you shut your mouth, a fervid heat flushing your skin. It was nice to see you flustered for a change. Your enthusiasm spurred him on.

“I thought we could read together?”

You hugged The Count of Monte Cristo to your chest. “Yes.”

Together, you settled on the couch, a respectable cushion-length distance between yourself and him. He stayed planted on his end of the couch, not trusting himself to move closer when his body prickled with starbursts under his skin. You worried your lower lip between your teeth as you seemed to war with some internal conflict.

He waited.

“Did you need to take off your helmet?”

His belly tightened with another burst.

“I can look away.”

While he couldn’t fathom closing the distance, he also couldn’t fathom seeing you make it larger. It was easier to read without the helmet, but he could endure the discomfort.

Unless...

“Do you mind sitting on the floor?”

Stupid.

You squinted. “Why?”

“On the floor between my legs,” he amended, though that hardly sounded better. It didn’t answer your question either. “I want to have you nearby.”

Your expression softened. “I have a better idea.” You turned your back on him and crossed your legs. His protest died on his lips when he realized what you were doing. “We can sit back-to-back like this. I’ll still be close, but you can take your helmet off without compromising your identity.”

Yeah.

Okay.

Jason could work with this.

He swung around, removing his helmet as he did. His sweat-slick curls coiled against his forehead as he tucked his helmet between his legs. Feeling a little self-conscious, he dipped his nose discreetly toward his pit and sniffed. Not the worst, but he smelled a little musky after his jaunt through the city. Hopefully, you didn’t notice.

Your heartbeat thrummed between his shoulder blades as you squirmed in placed, readjusting before you head fell against his back. The gentle pressure created a heat that permeated through several layers of leather and padding to scorch his skin. He willed himself to relax as he opened the book in his lap and started to read.

Stories tended to sweep him away, until he was only vaguely aware of his partner’s presence. It made them feel ignored whenever he did, so he rarely indulged before tonight. He understood why they felt the way they did, but they didn’t understand when he tried to explain himself. Tandem reading was more intimate than sex. It was when he was most vulnerable, and knowing you were near, going through the same journey with your book left him warm and tingly.

You pressed more firmly against his back, dragging him from the depths of the story. With the illusion shaken, he was left to sit with the potential that laid before him. He knew it would be easy—turning around in some great reveal that would bring some of his secrets to light. Red Hood was the man you knew as Jacob and vice versa. A partial truth at least.

But if you reacted poorly, where did that leave him?

Shivering in the cold probably.

You deserved to know. You’d find out eventually if this continued, but this thing between you had barely gotten off the ground. He couldn’t decide if it was better to wait or tell you now.

He said your name. From the stutter against his back, it startled you.

“Sorry. It’s just, well, I have something to—”

“Not yet.”

“You don't even know what I was going to say.”

“You want to show me your face.”

He blanched. Maybe you did know what he was going to say.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it.” You turned your head, pressing your cheek to his shoulder blade. It was the kind of gesture that left him struggling to catch his breath. “But I’m still trying to understand the puzzle that is Red Hood. Your identity will come with that, but I don’t want you to feel pressured to show your hand before you’re ready. It’s safer for both of us until then. I—”

Your back expanded with a deep inhale.

“I just want to spend time with you.”

His throat tightened. “Thank you.”

Jason disliked moving quickly. His anger made him impulsive, and he hated himself for it. When he wanted to do something right, he would sit and plan and plan some more before he finally set things into motion. He wanted to do this right with you.

He angled his hand toward you, trying to discern the best way to show you how much that consideration meant to him, but it was nearly impossible to touch you without turning around. An irritable huff pressed through his lips as his hand dropped to his side.

You made a soft noise of amusement as you dropped your hand, meeting with his halfway. Your knuckles brushed against his, sending a shiver racing up his arm. He watched, mesmerized as your fingers danced with his—probing and curious, seeking permission. His pinkie curled around yours, the singular action enough to leave him sweating.

That was bold of him, much too bold.

Your heartbeat quickened, nearly as fast as his as you pulled away. An apology pressed against his teeth, but you cut him off, “This is enough for me if it is for you.”

It was enough.

For now.

Jason realized he toed a dangerous line, allowing himself to stay here with you. He stopped running, but there would come a time when all the secrets would catch up with him. You recognized that, but were you prepared to learn all the ways he’d deceived you to get to this point.

His stomach churned when your hand disappeared to hold your book once more. He forced himself to the do the same. His concerns were poignant, but a problem for future Jason. Tonight, he could indulge in this moment with you.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “This is enough for me.”

Notes:

We have an *almost* hand hold -- I repeat, an *almost* hand hold.
And here you all probably thought I wasn't going to give any comfort to the hurt?

Also... I'm catching up on my reserve of chapters. I plan to hopefully hunker down and get some writing done this weekend, but these next three months are my busiest time at work and I'm drowning. I'm a little tired lol.

But I do know where this story is going, so I will definitely be finishing it, there just may come a time where there's a slightly larger break between chapters. Thanks for those who have read thus far. I really appreciate it.

Also posting on Tumblr: www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 16

Red Hood returned the following night.

And twice more the week after.

By week three, he materialized outside your window no less than three times with a new book in hand every time. Never mind you had yet to finish The Count of Monte Cristo, but the sheepish tilt of his head made it difficult to say no. You saw a TikTok once where a crow brought its favorite human shiny pebbles to show its affection. Red Hood reminded you of that crow, except those pebbles were cherished books in his collection. You kept them near your window in a neat stack, right next to the one you set aside for him. He preened any time he saw them, standing a little straighter and puffing out his chest.

Most of your time was spent reading. Having him nearby, feeling the shallow rise and fall of his breaths on your back, was more than you could have ever hoped for. It should have been enough for you. Especially at the end of the night when you set your books aside and he replaced his helmet so you could face each other and discuss what transpired in your respective books.

Hood was passionate.

Almost too passionate.

Almost.

After every reading session, Hood gushed over whichever of your books he decided to pick up that evening. He already finished three books to your one—an impressive feat considering he left the books at your place. You got the impression that he didn’t have a lot of people to talk books with, but the feeling was mutual. You listened intently because when it was your turn to share, he hung on your every word.

That evening, he sat cross-legged like an eager child, his hands splayed on his knees as he leaned forward. You mirrored him, albeit more subdued. His fingers nearly brushed yours in his excitement.

It was where the perfect picture started to fracture.

The almost touches.

Save for when your back pressed firmly against his, Hood never touched you. It was as if doing so would break this tenuous spell that kept him coming back night after night. Every time his finger twitched like he might instigate contact or his breath came out a touch sharper when you ventured too close, you made a mental note and nudged the line.

An ‘accidental’ brush of the knuckles, a look that lasted longer than reasonably should. His resolve frayed like the cheap thread that kept your bed sheets together but forcing him into something before he was ready would have him retreating into himself again.

“I think the ending could have been more complex,” you told him as the topic shifted to The Count of Monte Cristo. You had finished it that evening, much to his delight.

“Right!” Hood slapped his knees to punctuate the word. “There should have been a bigger fallout after he reveals himself to his enemies, but there isn’t. He just leaves and all is forgotten as if it were that simple. Revenge is rarely clean. It leaves lasting scars and...”

He trailed off, his downcast gaze betraying the faintest whiff of vulnerability. It sounded like that came from personal experience, but you chose not to pry as he moved on as if he’d said nothing at all. Another piece to the ever-growing puzzle, but still so many questions.

The evening came and went, and with it went the rapidly shrinking space that separated you from him. His fingers nearly grazed your bare knees. You waited with bated breath for him to close the distance, but there it remained, frustratingly close, and yet so far away. You struggled to focus on anything else.

A laugh bubbled from his throat, likely in reaction to a joke you didn’t hear. You almost felt bad until his knees bumped yours. Leather gloves to bare skin, but it was enough to make you jolt. His laugh broke on a hiss as he retreated, several inches now between you and him.

You swallowed the sharp fuck that threatened to spill from your lips. It would probably take another three weeks to reach that point again. Patience would sow its rewards, you knew that, but this proverbial edging left you taut.

He seemed to sense the tension and shifted further into the corner of the couch. “It’s getting late. I should probably head out.”

That was probably for the best. Your skin felt too tight, too hot.

Despite his declaration, he stayed rooted in place, clenching and unclenching his fists as he was known to do when he had something on his mind. “So, uh, New Year’s Eve is coming up.”

Was that right? Time passed in a blink, your first semester ended, leaving you a brief reprieve from coursework and letters before the next semester started. You passed, but the new semester brought you one step closer to your core classes. The ones that really mattered.

You were nervous about what awaited you in the spring, but you tried not to think about it just yet.

He clenched his fists tight and held it. “Did you have plans?”

Your nerves fizzled out as you sat a little straighter. Was he…? Oh, this was happening. You curbed your excitement before it got away from you. He hadn’t really asked anything of you yet. “I—”

That excitement puttered off.

“I have to work a party on New Year’s Eve.”

You got Christmas off, as you expected, but asking for New Year’s Eve too would result in a flat no so you didn’t bother trying.

“Right. That makes sense. It’s a big night for the service industry. I forgot.” His laugh punched from his chest in a way that sounded painful. He averted his gaze. “Never mind. It was stupid anyway.”

“No!”

His head snapped back. “No?”

“I mean…”

Nudge the line. Inch by inch.

You braced yourself for the worst and said, “Well, I usually get done with work around one or two. I could always text you when I get home.”

His fists tightened until they shook.

You held your breath. That was less a nudge, and more of a firm shove, but you’d already put it out into the universe. If he said no, you would respect his hard line and back off, but you’d never know unless you asked. Just as your lungs started to burn, he held out his hand.

“Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

He curled his fingers insistently. “Do you want my number or not?”

You scrambled to pass off your phone, stunned that simply asking had worked. As he punched in his number, he continued, “This isn’t an invitation to call me all the time or anything. Just, ya know, text me when you get off that night and I’ll come over.”

Hood handed the phone back and shoved off the couch. You stared at the screen, committing the number to memory. It had a Gotham area code. Not shocking, all things considered, but you’d take whatever crumbs he offered.

You hopped up to join him near the window where he’d already set his book back. He shrugged on his jacket with his back to you. Tapping your phone eagerly against your thigh, you asked, “Completely unrelated, but what would you have done if I was available on New Year’s Eve?”

His shoulders pinched; his collar flipped beneath his fingers. “I—most people have plans on New Year’s Eve and I didn’t…” He stopped again to fix his collar, still unwilling to face you.

“You didn’t…?”

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

You stepped toward him, maintaining a few inches. He sensed you, his spine visibly straightening as if tugged by an invisible string. “And what about you? Do you have plans for New Year’s Eve?”

That invisible string snapped, his shoulders curling once more. “I’ll find some way to fill my time until you get off.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

He turned to face you, and again, you caught yourself picturing the expression of a faceless man. Something sheepish, something squishable, you hoped. As for his eyes? Today, you imagined a lovely olive green that gave way to a rich amber around the pupils.

“Even if I did have plans, I’d cancel them in a heartbeat to spend the night with you.”

His confession cleaved through you, leaving you a little weak in the knees.

 Oh, that was…

He said the quiet part out loud. It had gone unsaid for so long as you danced around the subject, but there it was, spoken into existence by him.

“You mean that?”

He whipped around once more, clearly flustered. “No. I mean, yes, but also—ugh, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. I-I’ll see you in a few days.” He didn’t wait for a response and slipped through the window.

You struggled to contain your smile. “See you.”

 

***

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop by for a shot of three before work tomorrow night?” Steph asked as she balanced precariously on the hind legs of her chair.

“I hate my job, but I don’t hate it that much.”

Cass grabbed the back of Steph’s chair and forced all four legs back onto the ground before she biffed it in the middle of the Bat Burger a short jaunt from her apartment. Steph shot her with a wounded look, a single crinkle-cut fry poking between her lips.

Cass ignored her as she sipped her chocolate shake. “Unfortunate that you work.”

“Trust me. I’m not happy about it either, but I also like being able to afford rent,” you said as you played with the straw in your drink, “I’ve missed you guys.”

Given the nature of your degrees, you wouldn’t have any classes with Steph this spring. Sucky, but that wouldn’t stop you from hanging out. Steph had already made sure of it. She planned a standing lunch date every week, and added you to a group chat with her, Cass, Tim, and Bernard. For double dates, she told you, which was an odd thing to say when there were five of you and you were almost positive that Cass and Steph weren’t dating. You never thought to ask, and now you were too afraid to.

You bit down on your straw and mumbled, “It’ll suck when the new semester starts, and we can’t bond over our mutual hate for Dr. Edwin.”

“I can still complain about my professors whether we share the class or not. Cass hears me rant all the time.”

She shot you a long-suffering look over her shake. “Often.”

Steph grasped her shoulder and shook. “Shut up. I’m a delight.”

“Agony,” Cass continued as she rocked in her chair, maintaining her usual toneless inflection.

“My heart weeps for this unjust cruelty,” Steph collapsed back in her chair. Cass rolled her eyes despite the smile curving her lips. Realizing her theatrics weren’t working, she slumped forward again and continued, “Fine. You can’t come before the party before work, but you could always stop by the party after you get off. Knowing Tim, he’ll want to keep going after the ball drops.”

“Can’t. I have plans.”

Cass inclined her head curiously. “Oh?”

Steph leaned in. “With whom?”

“You don’t know him.”

They inhaled sharply and said in unison, “Him?”

“You date?” Cass asked.

Your nose crinkled. “It’s not a date... exactly.”

“Is it Jacob?” Steph tapped her hands excitedly on either side of her tray, shaking the table and causing a ruckus. It garnered the attention of the small family sitting nearby. The parents shot her with a dirty look when their kids started mimicking her. It went ignored, her attention focused squarely on you. “Please tell me it’s Jacob.”

You hadn’t heard that name in weeks. Steph had a lot of friends. People popped in and out of her life constantly. You rarely saw the same combination of people twice, but Jacob had yet to join the rotation despite Steph clearly knowing him.

It was possible they weren’t close, but Steph didn’t have casual acquaintances. Once your presence was known, she dubbed you friend. End of discussion. Unless, of course, you were an enemy. You really hoped Jacob wasn’t an enemy.

You tried to play it cool and asked, “Why would it be Jacob?”

Cass elbowed Steph sharply, a near-imperceptible look hardening her features before it smoothed out again. “Ignore her. She is nosy.”

“That’s not true!” Steph insisted as she swiped a fry from your tray and popped it in her mouth. She had her own fries to eat, but you let it slide because you were still trying to wrap your head around why she thought you were seeing Jacob.

“I haven’t seen him since the club. He was cute, but…” You lifted a shoulder, unwilling to elaborate further. Jacob was as much a mystery to you as Red Hood was until recently. A part of you was afraid to learn more about him, given her habit of befriending people with ties to Bruce Wayne.

Turned out, Cass was also an adopted child of Bruce Wayne like Tim, not that she flaunted this information. It only came up because the New Year’s Eve party was at Wayne Manor—where Cass currently resided, and the pair were planning their sleeping arrangements the other night. Honestly, they could tell you Jacob was Bruce Wayne’s younger brother, and you’d believe them.

You cleared your throat. “Why? Do you know something?”

“Nah, Jacob doesn’t come around all that often,” Steph said with a dismissive wave. As if she hadn’t been the one to bring him up in the first place. “He’s not sociable to begin with. Honestly, I was a little surprised to see him out that night.” She pursed her lips like she might say something else but decided against it. “Whatever. It’s not him, it’s not him. But I still want to know about this mystery guy.”

“I’ll let you know more after tomorrow.”

“Oo,” Steph drawled, “You’re blushing. That’s adorable.”

“Stop teasing,” Cass said, mercifully, “You have envelope?”

“Yes!” Steph grabbed her purse and sifted through its contents. “I was cleaning under my couch cushions the other day. Disgusting, in case you were wondering, and I found this. It had your handwriting all over it.” She pulled a crumpled envelope from her purse and handed it to you. “And I mean all over it.”

Your eyes widened.

It couldn’t be…

You took it, noting the messily scrawled address in burgundy ink on its front. And it’s back… and the doodles that covered the rest of it. Most prominent was the heart with your initials and RH. You winced at how juvenile it appeared. A stamp covered half the address on the front, but it was undoubtedly the PO box for Bruce Wayne.

Yeah, this was exactly what you expected.

Easing the lip open, you removed the letter to assess the damage:

 

Dear Daddy Bruce Mr. Daddy Wayne,

I am conflicted. Incredibly conflicted. Ire Irrivo VERY conflicted. I went out with friends. That’s not why I’m conflicted. Drank a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. Might be drunk. Def drunk. But there was this boy. He was cute. Tall with these glasses that were just mmm—ya know? He likes books. I like books too. He’s awkward, but in that endearing way that makes you want to smush his cheeks and kiss him silly. He tried to flirt with me, but I walked away, and he walked away and

I feel bad because I like this other guy too. He’s cute. At least, I think he is. He’s tall and wears this leather jacket. I wore a leather jacket tonight so I could look like him. Is that embarrassing? That is embarrassing. He’s also kinda awkward, but I can’t smush his cheeks. The helmet won’t let me. And—

 

You stopped reading after that because the embarrassment was starting to cause visceral pain, but you assumed the next three pages were much of the same rambling nonsense—maybe even worse. You were too afraid to delve further. Even if Bruce said he liked your candor, knowing this never made it into his hands made you feel infinitely better. You tucked it back in its envelope and stuffed it in your canvas bag, content to never let it see the light of day again.

“Oh, what’s with that face? Did you write something steamy to Mr. Wayne?” Steph snorted as if that wasn’t exactly what you’d done. It might not be about him, but still… it was the equivalent of sending a drunk text to a stranger. Or worse… your dad.

Cass seemed to agree, and elbowed Steph. “Gross. Not my dad.”

“Yeah, okay, that was a little weird. My bad,” Steph conceded, “Still, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look that flustered. Was it that bad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you admitted, “Let’s just say this has answered a question that has been weighing on my mind for a while and leave it there. I can finally move on.”

You could live with looking a little unhinged in an apology letter that was never needed. When the new semester began in a few weeks, you and Bruce could pick up where you left off before you made things weird.

You just had to make it through tomorrow’s event, and things would finally start looking up.

Notes:

Realistically, I could not fathom the letter ending up anywhere else but the cushions of Steph's couch.

These next few chapters will be part of a smaller New Year's Eve shenanigan arc within the story, so I needed to marinate on them a little longer, hence why I only posted once this week. Might do that for the next few weeks while I work on some more chapters. It's less pressure on myself as I try to stay afloat at work and in life :)

Thanks so much for reading.

Chapter 17

Two hours to midnight.

Two hours and nine minutes to be exact, but who was counting?

Certainly not Jason.

That left at least three hours until he saw you.

Jason knew he didn’t have to fill that time with crime or vigilante work, but the thought of sitting at one of his safehouses—alone—with his thoughts sounded as appealing as chewing on glass.

So, work it was.

He arrived outside the well-maintained townhome located east of Gotham Heights fashionably late. The homes on this block weren’t quite Wayne-level with their extensive grounds and sculpture gardens, but pretty damn close. He felt like a regular Nick Carraway rolling up to a Gatsby party which he hadn’t felt since living with Bruce.  

Inside, a New Year’s Eve party was already in full swing. It made slipping inside unnoticed easier now that champagne and liquor had softened the senses. He grabbed a flute from the tray placed near the door and wove through the partygoers, each of them dressed in similar shades of beige and white. The symbolism wrote itself. He clocked every face and gun-shaped lump hidden beneath their suit coats.

Most of the guests were members of prominent mob families from across Gotham. Of course, they’d be armed to the teeth. He expected this and planned accordingly with his guns hidden beneath his ratty sports coat. No one even looked his way.

He spent the last three weeks memorizing the layout of the Riviera home for this moment. Every exit for quick getaways and every alcove for hiding. He took two laps around the first floor to ensure he had it right. A lot of planning went into the night. A lot of patience too. All that work would finally come to fruition if things ran smoothly.

Normally, he wouldn’t give two shits about the Rivieras who for the most part kept to themselves. Their dirty money came from rigging casinos to play in their favor, so Red Hood ignored them. Or at least that was the case until he learned they had intimate ties to Roman Sionis. His contacts pointed him toward the family because they apparently knew where he was and why he’d gone underground.

With the sudden rise in unsanctioned drugs on his streets, Jason had his hands full. He would prefer to be off with the Outlaws, but he had to settle things in Gotham first if he wanted a business to come back to in a few months. It was easy enough to bully Sionis into submission, but he needed to find him first.

Jason decided to drop by the party and see what he could glean off its guests. Alcohol loosened lips. Secrets were bound to come to light as the night wore on, but he knew his best chances lay with Aldo Riviera’s eldest son, Luca.

The Riviera family owned several casinos on Park Row. Hanging at Luca’s usual haunts put Jason on his radar. He took a page from Bruce’s book and played it dumb and docile at the poker table. Jason, who loved a good game of poker and was pretty good at it, had to swallow his pride and throw his hands until Luca took notice. He was the type of guy who needed to surround himself with losers to feel good about himself.

Shocker.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to pull off the pretty boy schtick like Dick or Damian, but with his slightly crooked glasses and the awkward hunch of his shoulders, Jason played the part of non-threatening lackey to perfection. Luca made nice with him and that’s how he found himself invited tonight which was… the only party he’d been invited to. Not that he didn’t have friends. They were just busy or off-world or—

Whatever.

Jason didn’t have to explain himself to anyone.

Parties were boring anyway.

He just had to make it an hour or two before Luca got too shit-faced to have a filter. It happened often enough when they hung out. Luca liked to hear himself talk. With a few pointed questions, he’d have him rambling about Sionis in no time.

“Jacob!”

Jason sighed. It would have been smarter to give Luca a different name than the one he gave you, but he already teetered on the cusp of an identity crisis without adding another fake name to his roster.

So, Jacob, it was.

He donned a timid smile and turned toward Luca. His brown hair swooped down like a stroke of ink, falling just above his eyebrows where an old scar bisected the left one. Handsome, Jason supposed, if not for his rancid personality and a smarmy smile. He sat with three other men in leather armchairs near fire in the sitting room. A pretty, young woman sat on the arm of his chair with a vacant smile that didn’t reach her eyes, his hand resting on her bare thigh.

Luca waved him over with the hand holding a flute of champagne. Jason obliged and settled in the chair closest to him. He nodded to the other three, their faces vaguely familiar, but not their names.

“Bout time you showed up. I was wonderin’ if ya would come or not.” Inebriation made his Jersey accent more pronounced.

Good, Jason thought. That would make this easier.

He let his accent deepen and said, “And miss out on all the fun? Not a chance.”

“If ya wanted real fun, we shoulda met at the casino instead. I’m itchin’ for a few games of poker to ring in the new year. My old man likes to pretend he’s distinguished with the bubblies and fancy canapes that make you hungrier than you were before ya ate them.” His lip curled as he downed his champagne like a shot. “What I’d give for a little fun. I just got back from my holiday in Spain and let me tell ya—”

And he was off.

Jason settled back in his seat while Luca went on and on about his trip and how much he didn’t want to be back in Gotham. Yeah, well, Gotham would probably be better off without him anyway.

His date stayed perched on the arm of his chair, not that Luca acknowledged her beyond that ever-present hand on her thigh. Jason stared at the Persian rug under his boots to avoid looking at them.

It wasn’t the first time Luca had used a woman as a prop, but it boiled his blood every time. Jason couldn’t wait until this was over so he could punch him into the next county for deigning to lay his hands on a woman.

Every so often, Jason pressed his flute to his lips and pretended to drink his champagne. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank for real, but now wasn’t the time to start.

Jason knew plenty of yappers. Steph was one of them, but her inane chatter was regrettably endearing and personable. Surprisingly, Damian was another, but at least his predisposition to monologue like a Bond villain was somewhat entertaining. Luca was neither endearing nor entertaining. His anecdotes quickly spiraled until they lost the plot. Jason was forced to sit back and listen as if he was some great weaver of tales.

A glass of gin quickly replaced Luca’s empty glass. When that was gone, another glass quickly replaced followed thanks to his lackeys.

His mind wandered while Luca talked. Mostly to you. Exclusively to you. Asking about your plans tonight had been spur of the moment. He figured you already had plans with Steph, and he could pretend that he wasn’t the loser with nothing going on.

But his innocent question led him to leaving you apartment with your number. You texted him an hour after he left—just to make sure it was legit. It seemed rude not to text back despite his insistence to use his number sparingly. And maybe that text turned into a handful scattered over the next few days.

Damn it. He couldn’t even follow his own rules.

Allowing himself to see you regularly should have made this wanton ache in his chest go away.

That’s what he kept telling himself, isn’t it?

First it was the letters. When the letters grew stale it was catching a glimpse of you in the crowd. Now that merely existing in your presence wasn’t scratching the itch anymore, Jason was afraid to learn what came next.

Deep down, he knew what came next. You two had already toed the line with increasingly frequent touches that left him tingly and hot, but he was hesitant to take the plunge into absolutes. You enticed him. Your feel, your smell, your taste. Jason could easily lose himself in you and that frightened him.

What happened if—when that stopped being enough too.

What you had was fine, he tried to reason with himself.

It had to fine. Jason didn’t want to rush things simply because he was too pitifully touch-starved to control himself. But that didn’t stop his mind from imagining what could be if he threw caution to the wind and went for it.

Your fingers combing through his hair, knotting in his curls.

How your lips would feel peppering along his jaw and down his neck until you reached the pulse-point and just—

His groin tightened.

Shit.

Nothing more than a slight stirring between the belt line, but it had him sitting a little straighter. Jason shifted his legs to hide whatever the fuck was going on down there, shoving thoughts of you from his mind as he tried to refocus on Luca.

Focus, he told himself, Get the information and leave.

“I can’t wait for somethin’ interestin’ to happen,” Luca continued as he swirled the contents of his glass, “Things have been quiet since I got back, and quiet ain’t cuttin’ it anymore. My old man said to be patient. Things will be gettin’ interestin’ once the new year starts.”

Jason curbed his anticipation. “Oh?”

“An old friend is makin’ a big comeback.”

Finally.

“Cobblepot?” one of his friends provided, looking quite proud of himself.

“No, dumbass. Cobblepot ain’t no friend of my old man’s,” Luca snapped. His fingers dug into his date’s thigh. She hid her discomfort with another placid smile. Jason fisted his glass, resisting the urge to break it over Luca’s head. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Sionis is planning his comeback. What with Hood bullyin’ him all the time, he decided to work from the shadows for a few months, offerin’ a breadcrumb here or there to keep the fucker off his track.”

Jason chewed the inside of his cheek. “Did he?”

“Yeah, and the sucker fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker.” Luca took a sip of his gin with a triumphant smile. He acted as if he’d been the one to best Red Hood. If only he knew the company kept, he might not look so smug.

The warehouse, the cartel, the threads that all seemed to lead to dead ends had been purposeful. Jason had been pulling his hair out trying to connect them to something relevant, and now he knew why nothing made sense.

Black Mask was fucking with him.

Pretty ballsy for a man who wasn’t immune to bullet holes.

“Hood’s going to find out,” another guy said, clearly put off by the prospect of getting on his shit list.

“And when he does, he’ll be pissed. No offense but Sionis gets his ass handed to him when Hood decides to—”

Luca threw his gin on the ground, silencing the contrarians with shattered glass and the stink of liquor. The others sank back in their seats, quaking while Jason stared at his feet with a frown.

“Hood can’t be everywhere at once. Not even his connections can help him here. Hell, I don’t even think the Bats know what he has up his sleeve. He’ll be the terror that sweeps through Crime Alley, through all of Gotham.”

Jason snorted.

“Somethin’ funny ‘bout that, Jacob?”

He quickly masked it with a cough. “N-Not at all.”

“Didn’t think so.” His attention fell to the shattered remains of his glass. “Look what you fuckers made me do. Now, I need another drink.”

So, close, and yet so far.

Black Mask was on the move, but Jason needed more than that before he could plan. If Sionis wanted to play games, he was more than happy to do the same. Jason loved a good game, especially if it meant he could be petty. Spite was the only thing that kept him going some days.

Jason shoved out of his chair before he ripped off the hand that remained steadfast on his date's thigh. He’d like to see Luca try to use a woman with bloody stumps for hands.

“I’ll grab you something. Gotta piss anyway.”

There was a bathroom down the hall, second door on the right. He blew past it, flexing his fingers to expel the pent-up rage that simmered beneath his skin. This was why he hated going undercover. It was easier to point a gun in someone’s face until they pissed themselves with fear.

No one noticed as he slipped into the drawing room where Aldo Riviera entertained more prominent members of Gotham’s underbelly near the large bay window that overlooked the street. Luca resembled the patriarch with his square jaw and hooded eyes, albeit a lot younger and without the potbelly hanging over the waist of his jeans. Aldo puffed on a cigar, filling the room with a smoky haze that softened his vision.

Jason decided to take a lap or two to see if someone else knew something before he headed back for another round of meandering story time.

“...operation ruined thanks to the Bat...”

“...the one with the sword...clean off...”

“...fuckers are out during the day now too...”

He ground his teeth and moved on. So much for that plan. He left the drawing room and ducked between two large curio cabinets in the narrow corridor to steel himself for another chance at teasing information from Luca.

Midnight could not come soon enough.

From the corner of his eye, he registered a figure as they passed, paused, and doubled back. A platter of delicately crafted canapes came into his line of sight “Did you want one?”

He startled, rattling the items in the cabinet. he managed to catch to steady it before something broke.

That voice.

It couldn’t be...

You said you had to work.

Oh, God, you were a server for a catering company.

His stomach flipped as he looked up to meet your gaze. The faint quirk to your lips betrayed what he already suspected.

“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Darcy.”

Notes:

Let the chaos begin!

I hit 50K on my draft the other day which makes this the longest fic that will be posted on here. Thanks to all who have been commenting and recommending this fic to others. It brightens my day to hear people are enjoying it.

Also posting updates and silly memes on Tumblr: www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Chapter 18

You ducked through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. Evan, the new hire, looked up from where he laid bits of toast on serving platters. He wore the button up and slacks, but you knew better than to shove the kid on the floor his first day—even if that meant extra work for you in the long run.

“How’re you holding up, kiddo?” you asked for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, “If this is getting annoying, just tell me and I’ll back off.”

He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone man a kitchen solo, but your boss needed bodies, even when that body had a beard that consisted of three stubborn hairs on his chin. He should be in school, but you had a sneaking suspicion school wasn’t his top priority.

Evan reminded you of yourself when you started, a little wide-eyed and overwhelmed, so you decided to keep an eye on him, especially given the client that evening.

He forced a smile, revealing a missing incisor. He seemed eager which was a noticeable improvement compared to the Blood Knuckles a few months back. “No, you’re fine. It’s just—it’s a lot. Do we usually work parties for...” Evan scanned the kitchen despite being the only two there and lowered his voice to finish, “For the mob?”

“We work for whoever pays us,” you said as you swiped one of the finished platters of toasted bread smothered with brie and prosciutto, “It just so happens that the people with the means to pay us also serve the seedy underbelly of Gotham. Believe it or not, they’re usually the best clients to work for if you keep your head down and your ears open.”

Evan gave you an incredulous look. “Are you serious? I counted four guns alone just going to the bathroom.”

“Head down, ears open,” you reiterated, “While it seems unlikely to happen tonight, at the first sign of trouble, drop everything and get the hell out of dodge.”

Crazy things happened often enough that your company had a written clause that allowed servers to drop whatever they were working on and run when things got dicey. No job was worth a blast of fear toxin or a stray bullet or whatever flavor of torture the villain of the month had cooked up.

“Make sure you know where your exits are.”

He nodded, looking more like the child he was. You softened with his uncertainty and set your platter down once more. “Are you sure you’re hanging in there?”

“I’m alright, just—thanks for watching out for me. I know I’m a little clumsy and I dropped a platter of canapes earlier after burning the first batch of toast, but I need this job. Could you, maybe, not tell the boss that I—”

“I don’t snitch. Nothing will happen to you if I have anything to say about it. If it makes you feel better about being the newbie, I dropped a tray of champagne on Vicki Vale during my first party. It ruined her dress and her fancy recorder. She threatened to sue.”

“No way.”

“Yep,” you said with a snort, “Don’t sweat it. You’re doing fine.”

From the way Evan bloomed like a flower in the sun, your words had the desired effect. You never expected becoming senior server would turn you into a doting mother hen, but it seemed inevitable.

His smile looked a little more genuine as he said, “I appreciate that.”

“Anytime, kiddo.” You winked as you shouldered the platter once more. “If you run into any trouble, you know where to find me.”

With that, you ducked through the doors and headed toward the drawing room. Much like you collected trinkets and random bobs, Aldo Riviera was a collector in his own right. Granted, his collection was cooler than the random things you picked up at thrift stores. Paintings mounted in gold frames lined the walls, giving the impression of an art gallery instead of a family home. He’d collected more since last year.

This wasn’t your first time serving at one of his parties. The New Year’s Eve party was a staple among his circle, and you worked it every year. That meant you were intimately familiar with the Riviera family and the people they associated with.

That’s how you knew to avoid his eldest son—Luca.

His personality was flimsy like wet paper. The kind that stained your table when you finally got around to cleaning it up, so any time you saw the stain after the fact, you wrinkled your nose and wished you’d handled it sooner. He also had sticky hand that liked to pinch your ass when you passed. You ignored it in years past, but if he tried something tonight, you couldn’t guarantee he’d still have a hand.

Steph and Cass wouldn’t put up with being touched without their consent, so why should you?

He arrived late, like he usually did, stumbling with his arm slung around his date who hid her boredom with a vacant smile. You wondered how much he was paying her to dote on him.

Not nearly enough, you decided.

He claimed the sitting room near the fire, and you’d avoided him like the plague, but you’d have to face him eventually.

Just... not yet.

After another pass of the drawing room, you could move onto the sitting room. You held your tray aloft with your head held high and a well-rehearsed smile. As you exited the drawing room, you noticed someone tucked between two large curio cabinets who hadn’t been there before.

Not just anyone.

Someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

Jacob wore his hair pushed away from his face to make the white streak less noticeable, though a few stubborn curls had started to fall from his over-gelled hairstyle (and really he hadn't done that good of a job at hiding the streak anyway). His glasses balanced on the tip of his nose as he stared blankly at the wall, clearly overwhelmed from the slightly manic look in his eye. You slowed your stride and backtracked, just to make sure you weren’t seeing things.

He didn’t appear to notice, but it was undoubtedly him.

Well, your night just got infinitely more interesting.

You angled the platter toward him and asked, “Did you want one?”

He jerked around, nearly knocking the cabinet on his right as he turned to face you. His glasses failed to hide the horror etched onto his face.

You bit back a smirk. “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Darcy.”

His jaw worked as he slid out from his little alcove, trying to put as much distance between you and him despite the crammed hall. The only word that managed to eke out was a barely audible, “You.”

He ran.

Well, ran wasn’t the right word. It was more of a brisk walk that he tried to play off as completely normal.

You sighed.

Why did all the men in your life run away from you?

Setting your platter aside, you followed because he couldn’t have a reaction like that and vanish again for however long it would take fate to shove you together again.

At the very least, you wanted to figure out where he was running off to. He seemed to know the layout of the home, but not the various displays and tables that made traversing the hallway difficult. He slowed down considerably to avoid knocking anything off the shelves, making it quite easy to catch up with him.

“Gotcha.”

Your fingers closed around his bicep, effectively stopping him in his tracks. His muscles tensed up, pulling the fabric taut over the bulge of his bicep. You might as well have been gripping solid stone. Your throat dried considerably.

He kept his back to you. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

What a wild thing to say to someone he hasn’t seen in weeks.

“I beg your finest pardon?”

He groaned. “No. Wait. That’s not what I meant. It’s not like I’m not thrilled to see you, but—”

“Jacob, I thought you were grabbing a drink? Where’s my drink?”

You craned your neck to look over his shoulder, but Jacob reacted quickly. He whipped around, pressing you flat between two cabinets, and effectively trapping you. Their contents rattled with the ragged gasp that jostled in your chest.

“What the hell are you—”

He pressed a finger to your lips with this frantic twinkle in his eye. “Just stay quiet until he leaves, I beg of you.”

With that, he turned around just as Luca pulled up, visible through the glass sides of the cabinet. “You would not believe the line at the bar. I was just ‘bout to go back and try again.”

Luca pursed his lips, unimpressed. “Whatever. I’ll get it myself after I...” He trailed off as his gaze drifted over the display and settled on you. If you could see him, he could definitely see you. A saccharine smile curled his lip, downright diabolical through that warped glass.

“You dog. Are ya havin’ fun without me?”

“No, I just ran—”

He shoved Jacob aside. An impressive feat considering Jacob was nearly a head taller.

You pressed yourself flatter against the wall as he leaned in to get a better look. Luca and Jacob knew each other. Of course, they did. Disappointment curled in your chest. You hoped Jacob was better than the scum that fed off the underbelly of Gotham, but that was on you for assuming the best in someone. At the end of the day, you knew nothing about him, and this situation proved that.

Luca reeked of gin and cigarettes as his nose nearly grazed yours. You hoped you looked more irritated than intimidated, but between Jacob and him, the odds of getting out this left your insides a little gooey. Steph said you could easily take someone twice your size, but two?

Let’s be realistic here.

“She’s cute. I can see why ya picked her. If ya want, I could find ya someplace private to have your fun if you’re too shy to fuck her in one of the bathrooms.” His finger curled under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. Your fist clenched. “Hell, we could even tag—”

You punched up.

A sickening crack followed, though whether it was your hand, or his jaw was anyone’s guess. Luca crumpled, held aloft in Jacob’s closed fist where he gripped him by the collar. You watched him suspiciously, shaking out your hand. It prickled faintly, indicating that you should feel something, but you were too high on adrenaline to feel much beyond the rush.

He stared back, stunned and blocking your escape.

Before he could recover, you shoved the nearest display toward him. It teetered precariously.

“Wait. It's not—”

With a grunt, you shoved again, cracking the glass. The door swung open as it fell onto Jacob, shattering delicate plates and blown-glass figurines at his feet. It wasn't large enough to take him out, but it gave you the opportunity to make your escape. Splintered glass dug into your palm as you hopped over the curio cabinet and made a beeline for the kitchen.

Your mind raced.

You just punched Luca Riviera.

Then you just shoved a cabinet of antiques on one of his goons. Antiques that probably cost more money than you’d ever see in your pitifully short lifetime. Aldo Riviera knew your name. He knew where you worked. It was only a matter of time before he sent someone after you.

You’d have to quit your job,

You’d have to leave Gotham.

And quit school.

And… and…

Fuck, you’d be lucky if you made it that far. Once they found the mess and an unconscious Luca, they’d hunt you down. You should have knocked Jacob out too.

You shoved through the door, startling Evan who sat in front of a new platter of canapes. His gaze lowered, his expression falling. “Your hand…”

You looked down, noticing the blood that dripped from the cuts on your palm and the split knuckles. You grimaced.

And now they could trace it back to you.

“I have to get this looked at,” you lied as you wrapped a clean rag around your hand, “You should go before—”

A shot rang from the hall.

You swore under your breath.

“Before that. Grab your stuff and go. Don’t bother cleaning up.” It killed you to abandon him like this. It was his first day. And his first shoot out on the job, no less. Rosa had taken you out for drinks the first time something fucked up happened on the job, but it was more dangerous for you to stay and run the risk of getting caught with him.

“Let me go with you. I can—”

“No, get yourself somewhere safe. If anyone asks, it’s your first day, you don’t know me, and you didn’t see me leave.” You squeezed him lightly on the shoulder before you took your coat and bag.

You left through the back door where it emptied onto a private alley with barely enough room to move. Crawling over trash cans, you stumbled out onto the street and tried to look inconspicuous. Or as inconspicuous as one could look while bleeding through a dish rag.

As your wave of adrenaline waned, the pain in your hand got harder to ignore. Bits of glass jostled in the cuts, a deep burn creeping up your arm. You paused under the light of the streetlamp. With some distance between you and the estate, you peeled back the rag to assess the damage. Blood coated your palm, making it difficult to discern how deep the cuts went. You held your breath as you pulled a few of the larger chunks from your hand, tossing them into the grass.

“I expected you to be halfway home by now.”

Your fingers curled instinctively into another fist as you turned around to face Jacob. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, a little harried, but otherwise unharmed. The display case hurt you more than it hurt him. That irked you more than you cared to admit.

“Are you following me?”

“I saw the trail of blood,” he said, “It wasn’t that hard.”

Your palm stung, but you refused to stand down now that you were alone. “You’ve come to make good on Luca’s promise for fun?”

He held up his hands and stepped away. “No! I wanted to check on you. There’s glass in your—”

“Spare me your concern. I saw the way you stepped aside for your buddy. You let him touch me.” Jacob flinched as if you had struck him. It was almost as satisfying as landing a punch on Luca. You should have punched the bastard sooner. You doubted you’d get lucky twice if you tried to land a hit on Jacob, though from his slightly hunched posture, he didn't appear all that threatening.

“So, let’s try this again. Why are you here?”

“Well, first off, Luca is not my buddy.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I am sorry about what happened,” he insisted, “I shouldn’t have let him—I didn’t know he would—But then he touched you like he touches every other girl, and I saw red. You reacted faster than I—” He combed his fingers through his hair, mussing the curls until they fell from their sleek coiffure. “I wasn’t at the party because I like Luca. I was there because his family knows where Roman Sionis is. He was this close to telling me too.”

You stared at him. “What do you want with Roman Sionis?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s a thorn in my side and it’s beginning to effect business.”

It suddenly felt a lot colder. “Were you undercover?”

“Yes.”

Your surprise quickly turned to skepticism as you gave him a quick once over. “Looking exactly like yourself and using your real name?”

His teeth clenched. That seemed to have struck a nerve. “I never said I was—ya know what, yeah, that’s fair. I’m not great at this kind of work, but I didn’t think I’d run into someone who knew me outside of—” He knotted his fingers in his hair and tugged. “I knew I shoulda bought a wig or dyed the skunk strip.”

His accent harshened to a more pronounced Jersey that struck you as painfully familiar now that he wasn’t stumbling over his words. It was a voice you’d heard before. You basked in its twang as he reread passages with your backs pressed together and no modulator to soften it.

The final piece finally clicked into place and left you in freefall.

Your hand fell back to your side. “Hood?”

His eyes went wide. “Wha—no. Why would you…”

“You were undercover,” you reiterated slowly as the picture became clearer, “You wanted to learn the whereabouts of Roman Sionis, or Black Mask as he’s better known in our part of the city. A known archnemesis of Red Hood.”

“I would hardly call him an archnemesis. He’s more a victim of bullying if I'm being honest.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He quickly backpedaled. “Maybe I work for Red Hood. Ever think ‘bout that, huh? He has plenty of goons. I could be one of them. I mean, look at me.” You might have believed that five minutes ago, but the desperation in his voice betrayed him. He scanned the street, chest heaving. You knew the signs of a man about to run, and you were having none of that.

“Stay,” you snapped.

He stiffened; mouth set in a hard line that tightened the muscles in his neck. When you were sure he wouldn’t bolt, you continued, “Jacob likes classic literature, so does Hood. You both have strong opinions too. Hood gave me two books by his favorite authors, Austen and Dumas. Maybe you’ve heard of them?”

“Those are two very popular authors of very popular books. Who wouldn’t suggest you read them?”

He wasn’t helping his case.

Jacob seemed to realize it too and hid his hands behind his back, but not before you noticed the way he flexed his fingers. A notably Red Hood trait that looked natural on him.

Your eyes narrowed.

The evidence was there, plain as day, but there was one way to know for sure. With your good hand, you pulled your phone from your pocket. His pleading look went ignored as you scrolled through your contacts. You hit the call button and raised it to your ear.

He threw a hand up and sputtered, “W-Wait.”

His phone started ringing.

You licked your teeth. “Answer it.”

“Is that really—”

“I said answer it.”

Slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and did exactly that. The call connected a second later.

“Are you happy now?”

His voice fed into your ear, creating an eerie overlap that raised the hair on your arms. The cold from before left you numb.

Jacob was Red Hood.

And you were… an idiot.

You hung up the phone and stepped toward him. He stepped away, maintaining that ever-present distance. It felt more cavernous now than it had before. Here. Now. You stood on the precipice of something, but it fell to you to bridge the gap. It wasn’t your identity that hung in the balance with your revelation. The only thing you had to lose stood right in front of you.

“Please.”

You weren’t entirely sure what you wanted from him, but you held out your arms anyway, hoping he might understand what you needed and give it to you.

Trepidation made him stall as he peered between your open arms and the clear escape that lay behind him. If he ran, that would be the end of it. The end for Jacob, for Red Hood, for any possibility that something could flourish between you and him. He seemed to come to the same realization and stepped toward you. It didn’t bridge the gap, but you took it as permission to do it instead.

You grasped his face firmly between your hands, ignoring the sting in your palm as your thumb traced the more prominent scars on his cheeks. It was your first time getting a good look at him, here under the light of the streetlamp.

One stretched across the bridge of his nose, narrowly missing the corner of his eye. Another started at his mouth and curved roughly into the shape of J. His breathing stuttered when the pad of your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth.

His shoulders curved as he tried to retreat into himself, but you held fast. Not this time. You finally had the full picture of Red Hood, here pressed between your palms, and you intended to study it thoroughly. You leaned in, committing every nick and mole to memory.

How did you miss the scars?

“This whole time?”

His glasses sat crooked on his nose. Behind them, steely blue eyes—he had blue eyes—shone like gun metal as they darted across your face with the same quiet intensity. His hand twitched up to settle on your hip, fingers curling in the excess fabric of your shirt as he drew you in.

You pressed your forehead to his, nearly bridging the gap in a very different sense, but you maintained a shred of self-control despite every instinct telling you to just go for it. His glasses fogged as your breath mingled with his. It was so hot that it threatened to sear your skin.

He whispered your name, caught somewhere between a question and a reverent prayer.

Your hands moved from his face to wrap around his neck, leaving a smear of blood in its wake as you sat trapped somewhere between this moment and what to do next. You would regret it if you gave into this desire that pulled taut like strings on marionette. His other hand joined the first, eclipsing you as he seemed to wrangle with a similar quandary.

If you did this…

If you allowed yourself to…

You shoved away from him.

He choked on a protest, the reluctant drag of his fingers betraying how desperately he craved this—craved you. His absence left you aching. It was unlike anything you felt before, and it took all your willpower to stay put. His hands shook as he hid them behind his back.

“I’m upset,” you said firmly.

He averted his gaze, his glasses still a little hazy. “I figured.”

You tried to ignore how hot you were. “Mostly I’m mad at myself for not making the connection sooner. You’re literally the same person. I mean, ugh, you know what I mean.”

“Are you disappointed?”

His question barely crested a whisper, but it hit you like a brick.

“Why would I be disappointed?”

He shrugged, which wasn’t a real answer, but it was the only one you got from him. The similarities between him and Red Hood were painfully obvious now that you’d made the connection. It really pissed you off that you had gone this long without realizing it.

And now, he thought you were disappointed.

He was an idiot too.

You reached into your bag, knowing you’d regret what came next, but in your defense, he left you with very few options. It was easier to blame him as you pulled the cursed letter out. You didn’t have the heart to toss it, and now you understood why you had kept it.

Fate was a funny thing.

This letter would make you look like a fool, but it might knock some sense into him.

“Here.”

You shoved the letter into his hands and went back to picking bits of glass from your palm, unwilling to watch the way his face changed as he read your drunken ramblings. He deserved to know exactly how you felt about him—both parts of him, you supposed. Knowing Jacob and Hood were one and the same came as a small relief.

You didn’t have to choose.

Or maybe you did?

This was only the tip of the iceberg. The first secret, but certainly not the last he kept close to his chest. The anonymity of Red Hood gave you a rose-tinted perspective, but now that you knew the face behind the mask, that made this real. That made him real.

Red Hood was not good.

Jacob was not good.

Red Hood was not bad.

Jacob was not bad.

Red Hood just was.

Jacob just was.

Jacob was supposed to be a safe option, but now the line had blurred and there was no safe option. Being with him meant existing in a world painted with shades of gray. You had to be okay with that.

Were you okay with that?

“When did you write this?”

You startled, realizing Jacob was now looking at you. It was hard to tell if he was upset or happy, but his eyes looked oddly wet in the light. You hugged your hand to your chest and said, “After we saw each other at the club.”

A beat of silence.

“Oh.”

If not for the blood rushing to your hand, you might have blushed. He turned back to the letter, eyes darting across the page.

“Do you still think I’m disappointed?”

“No.”

“So, maybe, we could move past this old song and dance once and for all. We’ve been there, done that. I’m surprised, yeah, but I also get why you wanted to keep Jacob—”

He winced.

“—and Hood separate. But now that I know the truth. Maybe we can move forward with…” You made a vague gesture. “With whatever you call this thing between us, I guess. It’s New Year’s Eve and my hand hurts like hell, but in a surprising turn of events, I now have the rest of the night off if you wanted to make the most of it.”

He tucked the letter in his pocket. You allowed it. If anyone could find comfort in your ramblings, it was him.

He held out his hand. “Let me see.” You offered your injured hand, and he took a second to assess the cuts on your palm. He whistled softly. “This looks painful?”

“I hardly feel a thing,” you deadpanned.

He had the decency to look a little sheepish as he straightened his glasses. “I don’t think you need stitches, but I’ll have to clean you up to know for sure. I have a safe house a short walk from here. Can I take you there?”

You smiled through the pain. “Not a hospital?”

“I’m not making you pay a hospital fee for something I can do just as well for free.”

Shades of gray, you reminded yourself.

“Alright, lead the way.”

Notes:

Two chapters in four days?
I thought you were drowning AthenaGC94?
Yes. Kinda. Things are getting better, but also this story is the only thing keeping me going amid the insanity at work. I also wanted to change my upload day to Sundays. And instead of force you guys to wait longer, I thought I would reward you instead.

Chapter 19

Well, this wasn’t how he expected his night to go.

Your little stunt caused a scene. Shoving a curio cabinet over would do that. By the time people filtered out into the hall, you were long gone, leaving Jason as the prime suspect with Luca hanging limp from his closed fist and a mess of priceless antiques broken at his feet.

It looked pretty damning, even to him.

The night was already a bust, but this sealed the deal. Had anyone else ruined his plans, Jason might have been a lot more upset, but in this case, he was relieved the guests had found him instead of you. Jason could handle being a wanted man, and like the misogynistic prick he was, Luca would rather die than admit a woman—nay—the help knocked him out.

He had a contingency plan for a situation like this. Mind you, not this exact situation because nothing could have prepared him to run into you. Fortunately, relationships between the different mob families hung by a tenuous thread. Simply uttering another family’s name as he reached for his gun had them turning on each other.

If someone asked him who shot first, the answer would be yes. He used the chaos that ensued to slip out and find you.

You were bound to be a little jumpy after your run-in with Luca. He blamed himself.

Luca surprised him.

Some innate Bat-trained part of his brain wanted him to maintain the charade. Focus. You’re on a mission, it practically barked—sounding a lot like a stone-faced Bat he’d rather not think about. That battled with the more empathetic part of his brain that wanted to keep you as far from Luca as humanly possible.

Which resulted in a complete mental shutdown.

Blue screen.

Not a thought behind his eyes as he tried to figure out how he was going to explain the situation to you.

Then Luca laid his fucking hands on you.

You beat him to the punch. Quite literally, which was probably for the best. If it had been him, Jason couldn’t have promised Luca would still be breathing.

He was still reeling. You landed a clean punch with enough power behind it to knock him out cold. Where did you learn to punch like that?

He’d have to ask.

Later.

After he processed everything else.

Like the fact that you'd made the connection between Red Hood and Jacob. He planned to tell you eventually, clearly, but this wasn’t how he wanted it to happen. You were too smart for your own good and he’d gotten careless with all these loose threads that led back to him. It was a wonder you hadn’t figured it out sooner.

A single beam of harsh light came from the naked bulb overhead as he plucked bits of glass from your palm. The soft plink of shards hitting the metal tray at his feet filled the air. His glasses slipped down his nose as he peered closely at the cuts.

As far as safehouses went, this was his worst. The garage, more of a glorified storage shed really, had a few boxes with tarps thrown over them to mimic furniture. It smelled of mildew from a leak in the roof that he hadn’t gotten around to patching. Standing water pooled in the corner near the dented sink. He didn’t come here often, but it had running water, a first aid kit, and was a convenient ten-minute walk from the Riviera estate, so it worked.

Jason was only slightly embarrassed that this would be your first real impression of his life outside of the time he spent with you.

You hissed as he dabbed one of the larger cuts with antiseptic.

His fingers tightened around your wrist to keep it steady. “Sorry. I know it hurts, but I gotta make sure it’s clean before I bandage you, but you won’t need stitches. Lucky you.”

“Is that what we’re calling this?” you grumbled as you stared off into the darkness, eyes narrowing. The day your eyes didn’t narrow with suspicion would be the day he feared for his life, but for now, they were a familiar sight that eased the tension locking his jaw.

“Are all your safehouses this depressing?”

A distinct heat bloomed under his collar. “No, my other places are better.” Not an outright lie. At least the other safehouses had furniture. Granted, none of them were ideal for bringing a girl home, but that wasn’t their purpose. He didn’t want to impress you. He wanted to make sure you didn’t get an infection.

“I don’t stay here unless I’ve had a rough night.”

Namely, it was his fallback whenever he found himself working with a member of the Bat-brigade. He slept there if his work required him to be within spitting distance of the Batcave.

“Would you consider tonight rough?”

“I’ve had worse nights.”

You hummed, your expression shifting to something thoughtful as you pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He went a little cross-eyed to track the motion. As you drew back, you trailed down the curved length. His eyelashes fluttered as he refocused on your face.

“Thanks.”

“Mhm.”

He set the tweezers aside and grabbed a roll of bandages from his kit, content to work in silence if it meant pushing off the interrogation that was sure to come next. You probably had questions. A lot of them, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get into the nitty-gritty of his tragic™ backstory tonight.

Silence was a small mercy until the bandages were snug, and he had nothing to keep his mind and hands busy. You flexed your fingers to test his work, a small wince betraying your discomfort.

“Too tight?”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“Good,” he said as he started to clean up, “You’ll want to change them in the morning.”

Your hand fell back to your lap. He half-expected that interrogation, but you stood instead. He swallowed thickly as he gazed up. It wasn’t too often he looked up at people. He was always looking down at the world, be it from a rooftop or due to his general height, but the sudden shift your dynamic made his stomach bubble like soda fizz.

Before he could dwell on the sensation too long, you headed over to the dented sink. Dampening a clean cloth, you returned a second later and knelt in front of him. He shivered when it touched his skin, rough and cold, but your strokes were gentle as you brushed the cloth over his cheek.

“I got blood on your face earlier,” you said.

“I didn’t notice.”

You didn’t respond, focusing instead on cleaning the blood from his face. Jason held his breath as you leaned in, trying and failing not to remember how nice it had felt to grip your hips and draw you in. You had been so close to—

He stopped that thought before it flirted too close with a painful truth. He read your letter, after all.

In amongst the drunken ramblings that made his insides fill with butterflies, somewhere between the third and fourth page, you wrote a sobering declaration that stomped those butterflies dead.

 

This is silly. Stupid. Stupidly silly. I can’t remember the last time I had a crush. Let alone two at the same time, but that’s all they’ll ever be... crushes. Nothing will ever come of them.

I have too much to worry about between school and ensuring my bills are paid to add dating into the mix. It would complicate things, and my life is complicated enough. I don’t even know how dating would work with Red Hood. Are vigilantes allowed to date? That seems illegal. Why would he choose a civilian like me? That’s like Batman choosing to date Vicki Vale.

Scratch that. At least Vicki Vale is a household name.

I’m literally no one.

Whatever I feel, be it for Red Hood or Jacob, it doesn’t matter. It can never matter. I would never let my personal feelings get in the way of this opportunity.

 

Talk about a clear fucking message.

By some miracle, you liked both sides of him. The first half of your letter confirmed that, but you never act on those feelings, especially now that you knew Red Hood and Jas—Jacob were one and the same. You didn’t need the distraction.

Jason respected that.

But…

He wasn’t quite sure how to handle all the touching. Equally scary and exhilarating, he didn’t want you to stop. God, not at all, but if you didn’t stop soon, he would convince himself that your declaration had been a fluke and that something could come of this.

You paused in your ministrations to trace the scar near his mouth. He caught himself before he pressed his cheek in your palm.

Sensing that you wanted to say something, he said, “The J doesn’t stand for Jacob if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s usually the first thing out of someone’s mouth.”

Your expression remained thoughtful as you ventured higher to trace the pale scar on his cheekbone. “Since the day we crossed paths.” Your face scrunched cutely, and you amended, “Since the day Hood and I crossed paths, I wondered what you might look like under the helmet. Now that I know, it’s a little surreal.” You pushed his glasses up to settle on top of his head. “I don’t know why, but I couldn’t ever settle on what color your eyes were. I supposed blue makes sense but so does green or hazel.”

Your touch left him wanting, wishing, hoping for more. Anything that might fill this yawning pit in his chest. It was selfish to want, and yet, he did so earnestly. It caught on his resolve like a drug, the worst kind. Being without it wouldn’t kill him outright and the symptoms of withdrawal were fabrications made up in his mind, but he yearned for it.

“You’re so—” You stopped yourself.

“So?” he breathed.

You retreated. “Forget it. I’m rambling.”

A soft whine crept into his throat, but he squashed the noise before he vocalized it. “I think I’ve rambled enough that you’re allowed few roving thoughts to compensate.” He forced himself to laugh, to smile, to pretend that he didn’t want to press his forehead to yours and inhale your scent until his head spun. “I can take you home.”

“That’s not necessary. I can take the subway.”

“I want to take you home,” he emphasized though it killed him how desperate it made him sound. He wanted to spend a little more time with you. It seemed unlikely that you would want to spend the night with him as you processed everything. He didn’t blame you, but he hoped you would grant him this small indulgence.

“I wouldn’t say no to the company.”

He loosed a sigh of relief. “Let me change quick.”

Jason shrugged off his ill-fitting sports coat before fiddling with the buttons on the front of his shirt. You watched carefully from your spot on the floor with that familiar quiet intensity. It made him feel oddly exposed as he peeled his shirt off to reveal the plain white shirt underneath.

He tossed the clothes off to the side and walked over to his stash of miscellaneous weapons and supplies. As he sifted through the mess, he made a mental note to tidy this place up. This wasn’t the best look, and he didn’t want you to think he was a lazy slob. A minimalist and a bachelor, absolutely, but never a slob.

He found an old leather jacket and his Red Hood helmet. It wasn’t the same quality as the one he currently wore, this one older and more prone to glitches due to crack on its shell but it would work for a quick ride across the city.

When you saw the helmet, you frowned. “You don’t have to wear that now that I know, do you?”

“I only have one other helmet here and that’ll be for you.”

You joined him by his stash. “Why would I need a helmet.”

“We’re taking my motorcycle.”

Your expression shuttered, several emotions playing on your face before you settled on something appropriately neutral. “Right. I heard that Hood drives a motorcycle.”

“I drive a motorcycle. Period. No need for the distinction between us anymore.” He pulled a standard helmet out and handed it to you. “If we leave now, we can make it back before midnight. There shouldn’t be too much traffic at this…”

He trailed off when he noticed you weren’t listening. You stared at the reflective surface of the helmet, your expression growing less neutral the longer you gazed at it.

“Everything good?”

“Is your motorcycle like other vigilante…” You pursed your lips. “Is it safe?”

Ah, that was a fair question. “This is a regular motorcycle. No big red buttons to accidentally push or hidden explosives if that’s what you’re worried about.” His gaze fell to your bandaged hand before he added, “And I promise to take it slow, especially with your hand.”

His assurances seemed to put you at ease. “Perfect.”

He removed his glasses and slipped his helmet on before heading over to where his motorcycle sat in the opposite corner, hidden beneath a tarp to protect it from the dust and mildew. Jason tugged it off, releasing a small cloud of dust that made you sneeze.

Okay, now he was sufficiently embarrassed.

The motorcycle was a vintage cruiser with a black shell. He usually preferred a sportier bike, but this had been a gift… from Bruce. It appeared one day outside one of his safehouses last year around his birthday. Jason hated to see a beauty like this one out in the cold, and took it in. It didn’t count as accepting the gift if he didn’t use it and he hadn’t before today, but these were extenuating circumstances.

He threw a leg over the seat and settled lower to the ground than he was used to on his other bikes. It felt like his knees were tucked around his ears. He readjusted before motioning for you to join him. You slipped into place behind him, the subtle curve of the seat forcing your hips to sit flush against his back. His fingers flexed around the handlebars, trying to play it cool.

He couldn’t be normal about anything, it seemed, so he wasn’t sure why he bothered pretending now.

“Comfortable?” he managed through clenched teeth. Jason was grateful this helmet came with a modulator to hide the tension in his voice.

“All good.” Your voice fed into his ear through his comm.

“Great, awesome, cool.”

There had to be a better word for the situation. Great and every subsequent synonym didn’t seem to cut it, but that was what kept spilling from his mouth. He wasn’t about to exhaust a thesaurus for the rest of the drive and caught his tongue between his teeth as he flipped the control for the garage door.

Once it lifted enough to let him through, the engine roaring as he peeled off down the street.

The first leg of the drive passed uneventfully as he whizzed down the side streets he had memorized like the scars on the back of his hands. Despite the winter chill, he burned hotter than a furnace.

Every hitched breath and gasp fed straight into his ear, clear as day. Your thighs tightened around his hips, anchoring you in place whenever he took a turn a little too sharply. But it was your hands that—oh, hey now—where were they going?

Your hands tightened around his middle, shifting under the hem of his shirt as it rode up past his beltline. Alarm bells went off in his head as your palms flattened over the soft planes of his stomach. You didn’t seem to notice the way he froze, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Soft hair covered his stomach, and he wasn’t as toned as he liked with a thin layer of fat cushioning the hard muscles beneath, and of course, there were the scars that created rough patches of skin just above his—

“My hands are cold. You’re warm.”

His doubts evaporated like morning mist over the harbor. If not for his comm, he wouldn’t have heard your quiet admission over the growl of the engine, but it did a better job at quieting the voices that tried to tell him he was a disgusting monster.

Your thumb stroked a soothing line down his incision scar, nearly coaxing a groan from him. “Should I stop?”

“It’s fine,” he grunted as he turned onto Park Row.

Another swipe of your thumb. “You sure?”

He wasn’t sure what game you were playing, but it wasn’t going to work. He had more self-control than that. “We’re almost to your place.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Fucking hell, he was trying to respect the boundaries you set in your letter. Why did you have to make this harder for him? “I like it.”

He swore he heard your smile as you said, “Was that so hard?”

Painfully so. Your palms were like ice against his skin, but he burned so hot that it hardly registered. He decided it was safer not to say anything about the situation as he stopped under the fire escape that led to your apartment. A normal person would have taken you to the front door, but normal people didn’t wear vigilante masks with a civilian on the back of their bike. Nothing about this was normal.

“We’re here.”

You stayed where you were, fingers roaming idly over his stomach. He shuddered.

“Do you want to come inside?”

“I don’t know if that’s—”

Your fingers dug into his sides with enough force to smother his opposition. “Let me rephrase that,” you said more firmly, voice dripping in his ear like syrup, “Come inside. Please. There’s still time before midnight.”

“What happens at midnight?” he asked breathlessly.

“Well, aside from the obvious start of the new year, I think I’ll wake up and realize this was all a dream.”

He laughed despite how weak he felt. “I guess I can stay for a bit.”

“Good, I would have hated to see you run from me again.” Your arms unwound from his middle, and you hopped off.

Shedding your helmets and stowing the motorcycle behind the dumpsters, you led him around to the front door. Entering like a real person rather than through a window shouldn’t have been as thrilling as it felt, but honestly, Jason never thought he’d make it this far.

Once inside, the glow of several table lamps bathing the space in a soft yellow light, he came to his senses. What did you do now? You couldn’t go back to the way things were before.

“I—”

“Did you want to read a few chapters before we call it a night?” you asked before he could make things weird, “I wanted to start Frankenstein next.”

He wiped his palms on his pants. “I guess.”

You smiled as you put your bag and phone on the kitchen table. “On the bright side, we don’t have to read back-to-back anymore. Do you want something to drink? I don’t know if have much, but I should have a few cans of—”

“Are we really going to pretend like nothing changed?”

You hesitated, rolling your lower lip between your teeth. “No.”

“It feels like we’re pretending everything is fine. I’m sure you have questions. Why aren’t you asking questions? I’ve been waiting and you haven’t—” His voice rose the octave, cracking. If that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he could feel the lump swell in his throat. Crying was the last thing he wanted to do right now, but he was a bundle of frayed nerves between the identity reveal and all the touching.

Your expression softened to something more sympathetic. “I had no idea—I’m sorry. Obviously, I have questions, but I’m not going to force you to answer them. I already took away how you shared your identity with me.”

He released a shuddering breath. “I mean, you can ask questions. I owe you that much.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll ask two questions.”

“Two questions,” he agreed, bracing himself.

“I’m going to change first,” you said gently, “It’ll give me a second to decide where I want to start. Is that alright?”

The knot in his throat loosened enough for him to speak. “Yeah.”

“Make yourself comfortable.”

You grabbed the clothes at the foot of your bed and ducked into the bathroom, leaving him to do the exact opposite. He shrugged off his coat, draping it on the back of your kitchen chair and paced.

If you had a lower neighbor, they likely heard his heavy footfalls because he couldn’t be bothered to care about stealth right now.

Two questions could blow up in his face.

Hell, a single question could unravel his carefully crafted lies like a spool of thread. He didn’t have to do this now. You didn’t want to pry, but he couldn’t fathom sitting with you tonight whilst pretending everything was fine.

When the door to the bathroom opened, he stopped his pacing. You wore the yellow hoodie, the plastic on the strings chewed to the nubs. “I said get comfortable, not wear a hole in my ground.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d rather stand for this.”

“Alright,” you conceded as you sank into one of your rickety chairs, “Question one: Say you get sick one night, could you ask Batman to cover your patrol for you or are we civilians just shit out of luck?”

You lobbed the softest of balls at him and he still fumbled. “I, uh, what?”

“What part confused you?”

“No, it’s just, that’s your first question?”

Your gaze sharpened. “Would you rather I ask what drove a twenty-something book nerd to become a gunslinging vigilante slash crime lord, because that’s on the list too, I just thought I’d start with a silly question to take the edge off. An emotional chaser, if you will.”

He choked on a laugh. “First question it is.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Park Row is my territory. I don’t allow other vigilantes onto my turf.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s mine,” he said plainly, “I grew up here. I know how this place works, and I don’t trust anyone else to do it right. The others, they’re too analytical. They’re looking for the most efficient way to—”

God, he sounded like Bruce.

He tore his nail to the quick. The sting hardly registered. “To answer your question, no, I don’t have a rolodex of people to pick from if I’m down for the count. I have underlings as a crime lord, but they’re not exactly the ones I turn to for stopping crime.”

You nodded, your expression painfully dispassionate. “Fair enough and good to know. I’ll be sure to get mugged when you’re on the clock.”

“What else?”

“I already asked two questions. That explains why I don’t see other vigilantes out here. I thought they just hated us.” You laughed despite how depressing that sounded. “Consider my curiosity sated for now.”

“Bullshit.” He settled in the chair opposite you. “That last part didn’t count. I’ll let you have one more.”

“Fine.” You shifted your chair closer so that your knee bumped his. To his credit, he kept an even demeanor despite his nerves crackling like sparklers on the Fourth of July. “Are your other safehouses really any better than the one I saw tonight?”

He should have known. “No, they all have barebone essentials.”

“A minimalist. My place must drive you batshit then.”

“I like it here. It’s very…” He glanced around, taking in all the plants and trinkets littered throughout. “Green.”

He meant it as a compliment. Here, among the items that reminded him of you, he felt warm and secure. Green evoked a similar feeling for him. Was that weird? Probably, but it was the truth.

“Green,” you mused, “I like it.”

“It’s been a while since I considered someplace home.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant to admit that, and now that he’d spoken it out loud, he heard how pitiful that sounded. He wet his lips. “I, eh, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Your brow pinched. “We can’t have that,” you mumbled under your breath. Slowly, you stood and drifted over to your bookshelf where several plants of varying sizes decorated its surface. After considering the options, you picked a medium-sized succulent with deep eggplant-colored leaves edged with light green.

You set it in front of him and returned to your seat. “This is Viola. She’s named after the character in Twelfth Night. I’m quite fond of her.”

He stared at the succulent. “You name your plants?”

“That’s no way to speak to her.”

Jason fought a smile. “My apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“That’s more like it. It wouldn’t feel right to give her to you if you didn’t treat her with the respect she deserves.”

His smile faltered. “You’re giving her to me?”

You smiled wistfully. “Not only will she liven up your space, but any time you look at her, you’ll think of me and maybe you’ll feel more at home.” You avoided his gaze before quickly adding, “She’s also made of plastic, so it’s impossible to kill her.”

His heart thumped against his ribcage. Jason was just supposed to ignore the fact that you wanted him to think of you. News flash, he was well past that point. A plant wouldn’t change how you were constantly on his mind. Even when he should focus on other things.

A distraction.

But maybe, tonight, you both needed it.

“You’re always—”

Your phone vibrated, revealing the time—12:01—and a long string of texts from various group chats. Jealousy tightened his gut when he saw the names. Steph, Cass, and even Tim had sent you a message. His phone was noticeably quiet in his back pocket. He expected as much, but it still stung.

You flipped your phone over without opening any of them and faced him. Your hand fell over his fist that sat clenched on the table. “Happy New Year, Mr. Darcy.”

Jason swallowed another lump in his throat. All those people vying for your attention, and you chose him. He couldn’t remember the last time he was anyone’s first choice, be it as vigilante or in his personal life, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

He uncurled his fist to lace his fingers with yours as he whispered, “Happy New Year.”

Notes:

I went to a convention this weekend and there was exactly *one* Red Hood walking around. Alas, I would have liked to see more.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this mini-arc. Now, onto our regularly scheduled college/letter programming.

Chapter 20

“Four books by the end of the week. Four,” you emphasized as you shouldered through the door that led out of the student center, “And they’re not novellas either. I’m talking easily 600 pages each. It’s like my professors want me to go rogue.”

Second semester came at you hard and fast.

Classes were bound to get harder the further you progressed, but you didn’t expect it to happen this quickly. You could feel the imminent late-night breakdown creeping up, and it was only February.

“If I go rogue, which novel should I base my crimes on?”

Steph sucked her smoothie with dead eyes. If you were at your wit’s end, it was a miracle she was still standing. Pre-med at Gotham University had a reputation of raking its students through the coal. There was a reason half its graduates ended up in Arkham at some point, but you hoped Steph would be the half that came out unscathed.

She smacked her lips. “Anything written by Roald Dahl.”

“Horrifying,” you agreed.

She nodded solemnly. “Honestly, I would respect it. You’d rock the top hat and coat tails. Shit, the Bats might even leave you alone if you do it with enough flair.”

You snorted. Unlikely. “Are you done for the day?”

“I have a lab tonight. I hate that I have another night class, but it was the only course available this semester, and it’s a prerequisite for like everything else. Maybe Tim and Cass had the right idea when they chose to skip going to college.”

“We can’t all be nepo babies with trust funds.”

“Well, I mean.” Steph shot you a knowing look as she sipped her smoothie. “Some of us can reap the benefits of billionaires. How’s Brucie?”

“Brucie?”

“It’s what everyone calls him. He’s Gotham’s favorite himbo.”

You shuddered to think about it. You liked Bruce Wayne in theory. In your mind, he loomed over your head, slightly out of focus with harsh shadows contouring his face. It was easier to stomach than picturing the man who tripped and fell headfirst into a fountain… twice in one night.

“Bruce is doing whatever billionaires do, not that he responds to my letters. I imagine when you have that much money, I’m sure he gets on fine.”

You sent your first letter of the semester a few days ago. It may have come off a little unhinged as you outlined everything your professors asked you to complete, but Bruce couldn’t blame you for being overwhelmed. Between balancing your new schedule, work, and all the homework that came with it, you struggled to stay afloat.

“You could ask him yourself. I’m sure Cass would love to have us over for dinner sometime.”

“Absolutely not.”

You had nothing to show Bruce. No proof that his investment had paid off. Until that day, you were content to maintain this weird boundary that separated him from you.

Steph chuckled. “Just a thought. Did you want to head back to my place and work on some homework before my lab?”

Steph lived near campus. It made going home between classes convenient. You weren’t as lucky. “I’m done with classes for the day, and I have to work another party this evening.”

“We can hang out until you have to leave.”

“I would, but I promised to get there early so I could look over one of my coworker’s assignments.”

After a few gigs with Evan, he brought up his desire to finish high school. You had no idea where it came from, and honestly, you didn’t want to ask for fear of jinxing things. If he wanted to better himself, you weren’t about to squash those ambitions. He even mentioned going out for track in the spring the last time you talked.

Is this how parents felt when they saw their kids succeed?

Did you just consider yourself a parent?

You looked away to hide your horror. That was a secret you’d take to your grave.

“It’ll be easier to head to my place and work there.”

Steph pouted. “When are you not working?”

“Any time before 2 p.m. and after 2 a.m.”

“Lame, but again, I have to respect the hustle,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “Let’s find some time to study next week. My horoscope said that I need to surround myself with friends and family to overcome the hurdles life throws at me.”

“How poetic. What did mine say?”

Steph memorized your astrological chart within the first month of getting to know you. She also read all her friend’s horoscopes too.

“Take a chance and open your heart.”

“Frustratingly vague. I hate it.”

“Maybe, but now you’ll manifest it. Just wait and see.” She winked, lips curving into an impish smile. “I’m gonna head back to my place. Same time next week?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

You parted ways with a wave and headed toward the gate that led toward the subway station. A glacial wind sliced the air, stinging your skin. You shoved your nose beneath your knit scarf and pressed on, knowing it would be better once you made it below ground.

As you pulled up to the archway that led off campus, you noticed a tall figure leaning against the sleek stone column. His Wonder Woman ball cap hid the streak in his hair, but you knew it was Jacob.

Though it was odd to see him out during the day.

“Well, well. Look who’s out in broad daylight,” you teased as you pulled up next to him, “I always assumed direct sunlight would kill you.”

“Ha, ha. You know I’m not a vampire, right?”

“Obviously not. I watched you devour a box of garlic bread sticks the other night. You give me more of a spooky ghost vibe since you have a habit of appearing and disappearing like one.”

He mumbled under his breath.

You arched an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I said I’m more like a zombie. It was a bad joke. Forget it. Here.” He shoved the to-go cup in his hand at you, thin wisps of steam curling from its lid. “I had a feeling the start of the semester would be rough, so I thought you could use a little pick me up.”

“You know my drink order?”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I saw an old receipt the last time I was over and, uh, memorized it.”

“I don’t know whether to be creeped out or flattered.”

“The latter, hopefully.”

You sipped the drink, delighted to find it was made exactly how you liked it. “Flattered it is.” You licked your lips. “So, is that the only reason why you’re here? I expected to see you later.”

He fell into step beside you as you headed for the station. “I thought I’d surprise you after class for a change.”

“Is that all?”

“And maybe I didn’t want to wait until later.”

A pleasant zing rippled under your skin. Sometimes he said things that made you want to grab him by the collar and pepper kisses over his scars until he was a blushing mess. You smothered the urge with another sip of your drink. “I was heading back to my place to do some homework before my shift. While it’s not the most exciting afternoon, you’re welcome to join me.”

“There’s enough going on in my life that mundane sounds amazing, especially if I’m with you.”

He made self-restraint difficult.

Together, you headed down the stairs that emptied onto a platform. It was fairly crowded given several class blocks had just let out, students and professors alike huddled between the pillars as they waited for the next train. You stepped closer to Jacob, making room as more people arrived. His hand settled on the small of your back, drawing you into his side.

A few weeks ago, this would have only happened in your dreams, but he seemed more inclined to touch you. His hands never strayed far, often taking roost on your shoulder or knee. His personal favorite seemed to be your back, be it tracing small circles idly in your skin or providing a sturdy presence like he was now—tantalizingly close to your ass.

Anyway.

The subway pulled up to the platform and people shuffled onto it. You and Jacob found space in the last car near the back, people shoving you flat against the chilly glass. He angled his body toward the door, one arm braced over your head to shield you from the rest of the car. The brim of his hat created harsh shadows across his face as he peered down at you. You swore that his eyes almost glowed in the dim light.

“Is this alright?”

“No complaints here,” you assured him as you clutched your cup to your chest, ensuring it didn’t spill.

The car pulled away from the platform, your bodies swaying with its momentum. His hand fell to your hip, steadying you. Ten stops to Park Row. Approximately thirty minutes, give or take any unseen delays. You could survive that long.

Jacob though?

He appeared to struggle with your proximity.

He chewed the skin from his lower lip as he looked anywhere but your face, a soft flush turning his cheeks pink. You were about to tell him he didn’t have to stand so close when his thump dipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to rub small circles over your hip bone.

It seemed unintentional on his part like when he flexed his fingers to self-soothe, except now you were his personal fidget toy. Every muscle in your body pulled taut as you fought the involuntary shudder tingling at the base of your spine. You felt hot, feverish even, with him this close. There wasn’t enough self-restraint in the world. Not for this, not for him.

“Jacob,” you breathed.

His hand slipped fully under your sweatshirt, his palm ghosting up and down your side before settling back on your hip.

Your grip tightened around your cup. That felt more intentional than nervous fidgeting. He trained his gaze over your head as his hand drifted up once more, his thumb and forefinger teased the band of your bra, just shy of the swell of your breast. This time, he just… stayed there.

On the cusp of scandalous, but not quite.

A gasp snagged in your throat.

He peered down at you again with heavy eyes. “And this? Is this alright?” His voice barely crested a whisper.

You nodded, cheeks burning. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. It might ruin this moment. You never imagined he would muster the courage to touch you like this, let alone on a crowded subway. Sometimes, you wondered if he had sexual urges. Or he was just a gentleman. That thought had also crossed your mind, but now your mind had gone a little fuzzy as you wrangled with this new development.

This was good.

Better than good.

After months of push and pull, progress gained and progress lost, this was what you’d been working toward. And now that you had it… it still wasn’t enough. You wanted, no, you needed more. With a move this bold, it had to be a sign he was ready to take things to the next level.

Right?

You angled your chin more purposefully toward him, allowing him to make that choice. Pupils blown wide, he wet his lips and ducked his head, nearly closing the distance. Your eyes fluttered close as his lips grazed—

Your phone buzzed loudly in your back pocket.

Jacob extracted himself as onlookers shot you a dirty look because God forbid you disrupt their luxurious subway ride to the shittiest end of the city. You scrambled for your phone as he hid his face in his hand, though it did nothing to hide his ragged breaths or the noticeable bulge that pressed against the seam of his pants.

Your gaze flicked between his pants and your phone, torn. On the one hand, the embarrassment of popping a boner on the subway might just kill him, but on the other, knowing you’d riled him up enough to make him hard weighed heavy between your thighs.

So much for self-restraint.

Through means that should be classified as metahuman, you managed to look away from Jacob and focus on your phone. It wasn’t a number you recognized, but you pressed it to your ear anyway, hoping to alleviate the sexual tension that threatened to smother you.

“Hello?”

“—llo—icki Vale with the Goth—zette. I’m calling on behalf of our annual writing com—Is this—who submitted the short story Through My Eyes?” You straightened, pressing your phone closer to your ear as if that would fix the shitty service.

“Yes. That’s me.”

“Wonderful. I am de—finalist in our competition.”

“Are you joking?” You fell into Jacob as the subway slowed to a stop. He caught you loosely by the shoulder, muffling a soft grunt in his hand.

“I only report the truth Miss—offended by anyone—otherwise.”

You needed better service for this conversation. Your gaze flicked to Jacob who was red enough to match his helmet. Fresh air too. Shoving your drink into one of his hands and grabbing the other, you dragged him off the subway before the doors slid closed and headed up the stairs to get above ground. Vicki continued speaking, her voice cutting in and out.

“Excerpt—winner—I put you down?”

That last part sounded less like it was traveling through water. “Can you repeat that?”

Vicki heaved a sigh and said, “We’re holding a showcase at the end of March to recognize our finalists. There, you’ll read an excerpt from your submission, and we’ll announce the winner. Can I put down as attending?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be there. I’m so—thank you so much.”

“Fantastic. We’ll send formal invitations in the next week or so, but we wanted to inform our finalists ahead of time. This event is an exclusive showcase, space is limited. You’ll be allowed to bring two guests. We look forward to seeing you at the end of March. Be in touch.”

The line went dead before you could say anything more, but you were too stunned to speak. This couldn’t be real.

“Who was that?”

You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk outside the station, one hand still gripping Jacob’s like a vice. People moved around you because you two were very much in the way. He still looked a little pink, but the tent in his pants was less noticeable now that you’d left the crammed subway car. Residual embarrassment still looming, you pocketed your phone and guided him into a recessed alcove that led into an apartment complex. It was as ‘private’ as you would get out here.

“I just got off the phone with Vicki Vale.” You paused a beat before adding, “From the Gotham Gazette.”

He flashed a small smile, revealing his pronounced canines. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Well, hear this. I’m a finalist in the writing competition I entered in December. Me. I can’t believe it?” You struggled to hide your excitement. “My advisor suggested I enter, but I didn’t think anything would come of it. I’m a little rusty, more than a little if I’m being honest, and it was far from my best work seeing as I was—”

The to-go cup hit the ground as Jacob scooped you up, twirling you around. You bit back a yelp of surprise as you clutched his shoulders. His wide smile faltered once he slowed, his flush darkening again. “Sorry. You were talking shit about yourself, and I wanted you to stop.” He cleared his throat. “For the record, I never doubted you for a second.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re just saying that.”

“I mean it,” he said in earnest, “I always knew you had what it took to be a great writer. That’s why I—”

He hesitated.

Your fingers bunched in his collar. “That’s why?”

He lowered you so that your eyes were level. “That’s why I admire your passion.”

That heaviness from before returned. You lifted his cap to see his face, steely eyes softened with affection. Cupping him loosely by the jaw seemed like simultaneously too much and not enough. He pressed his face into your palm, a low, inaudible groan rumbling in his chest. You might have missed it if he didn’t have you pressed flush against him.

Take a chance and open your heart.

Damn it. Steph was right.

“I’d like you to come to the showcase.”

He dragged his face away from your hand and blinked. “You want me there?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I want you there?”

He averted his gaze, reverting to the shy man you found all the more endearing. “Trust me, I’m flattered, but wouldn’t you rather invite someone who matt—”

You took his face in both hands and forced him to look at you. “I’d rather invite you. End of discussion.”

His expression turned inexplicably soft. “Yes, ma’am. If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

You believed him.

You had no reason to believe otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes:

I promise I'll stop teasing y'all VERY soon. For me, the almost kisses keep me interested and excited.

Chapter 21

Dear Brucie,

Did you know that’s what people call you?

I assume you do. How could you not? But I find it hard to believe you revel in the idea of people calling you “Gotham’s Favorite Himbo”. Not that being a himbo is a bad thing, but I want to believe you have more substance than that. A man is more than how many times he falls into a fountain, after all.

Twelve times, in case you were wondering.

You probably weren’t wondering.

I have some exciting news, and no, it has nothing to do with giving up my academic pursuits to live in rural Appalachia (though I stand by the argument from my last letter. The world needs more cryptids, and I could totally pull it off).

If you recall, I entered a writing competition in December. I never thought anything would come of it, but I just got a call saying I was a finalist! Your faith in me hasn’t gone in vain, and now, I have proof.

There’s a showcase in March. More details to come, but I’m allowed to brin two guests, and I think you should be one of them.

Only if you want to, of course.

Don’t feel pressured to come on my behalf, though it would be a good opportunity to properly thank you for your generosity. I don’t make it a habit to thank rich people for doing the bare minimum, but I also recognize that none of this would have happened without you.

Just a thought.

Actually, forget I mentioned it.

This is more than enough.

 

Jason sighed as he shoved your latest letter in his pocket. His head fell back against the gargoyle that loomed over him, serving as a quiet sentinel that overlooked the city. A rare blue sky stretched on as far as the eye could see. Normal people might bask in a nice day like this, but Jason preferred an overcast sky that carried the promise of rain. Perfect reading weather. But, alas, the sun was the least of his worries.

He should have expected a letter like this one sooner or later, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

This web of lies had grown more complicated as the weeks wore on, with Jason was trapped at its center. Each tug and pull created a hopeless knot and a bigger mess. He wasn’t entirely sure how to break free, but he knew one thing for sure. While you might pretend like it wasn’t a big deal, having Bruce at your showcase would make you happy.

Jason wanted more than anything to see you happy, but Bruce had no idea you existed.

If you approached him at the showcase, his vapid attempts to placate you would sever the web of lies, leaving him in free fall. Jason convinced himself that wasn’t a fall he’d survive, but making Bruce care wasn’t a string he could pull. If it were that easy, the Joker would be dead, and Jason wouldn’t spend his holidays alone.

Maybe he could convince Dick to show up dressed as Bruce?

No, that was stupid. That only worked under the cowl.

He would figure something out before the showcase. Preferably a plan that didn’t involve someone prying into his personal affairs. The fact that certain members of the Bat-brigade knew you existed left him irritable.

Asking for help wasn’t his strong suit.

In fact, he loathed it with every fiber of his being.

Luca was right. Black Mask had enough men that allowed him to move at all hours of the day. Jason’s henchmen were good, but they weren’t detectives. Admitting to you that he had no one else to fall back on should the need arise opened his eyes to the gaps in his plan. Splitting his time between vigilante work, crime lord business, and spending time with you had spread him thin. Something had to give. Black Mask might not be a threat to Red Hood, but he didn’t want innocent bystanders to get hurt because he let something fall through the cracks.

He needed someone smart—both book and street.

And preferably someone with a neutral opinion of Red Hood.

That left him with fewer options on the list of willing vigilantes than he would have liked, but at least there were still options.

Jason rarely operated during the day, but he would grudgingly admit that Bruce trained him well. He knew the patrol routes by heart. All of them. He could pinpoint where a Robin would be down to the minute.

But Signal wasn’t a Robin.

He did things differently. Good on him for breaking away from the Bat-shaped mold. All of them did at some point, but his patrol routes didn’t make a lick of sense. One would think finding a guy dressed in neon fucking yellow would be easy, but it took the better part of the morning to track him down. Stooped in the shadow of the gargoyle, Jason felt oddly exposed with this many people milling about on a sunny day.

Signal came to him, landing at the feet of another gargoyle a few feet away. His uniform reflected the light in a way that left Jason squinting behind his visor.

“What the hell? Day patrols are my thing. You don’t see me stealing your thing, but I totally could. Watch me shred through Crime Alley waving a gun around like a dumbass.”

Maybe neutral wasn’t the right word for Duke’s opinion of him.

Jason pivoted to face him, still huddling between the feet of the gargoyle. “Good to see you too, Signal.”

Duke clucked his tongue. “What do you want? Your territory is on the other side of the city and it’s about…” He checked his wrist. Except he didn’t wear a watch. “…a lot of hours past your bedtime.”

Snarky fucker.

Jason respected it.

“I come in peace.”

“Yeah, no shit. Tim always said you were dramatic, but I hope you’d pick a more practical fighting ground if you wanted to jump me. You also wouldn’t wait for me to come to you.” He smacked his lips. “So, if you don’t want to fight, what do you want with me?”

“I need—” He gagged. Admitting he needed help out loud made him want to vomit. “I need some help.”

A tense beat passed between them.

“And you’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

“No offense to myself, but why?”

“Because you’re smart and you grew up on these streets like I did. You know them as well as I do.”

“I would argue Steph knows them better.”

Jason gritted his teeth. He had a point. Duke grew up in Gotham’s Narrows whereas Steph was born and raised on Park Row like him. While she was the logical choice, she’d be unbearably smug about the whole thing. Involving her would inevitably lead back to Tim and Cass. Cass, he could tolerate fine, but Tim was still on his shit list for telling you someone was reading the letters. His skin crawled just thinking about it.

So, no, he would not be asking Steph for help.

“But I want your help,” he insisted.

“Because if you asked anyone else, they’d involve the others.”

“See. I knew you were smart.”

Duke rolled his eyes, emphasized by the exaggerated flick of his head. “Right. I’m the chosen one because you think I won’t snitch. Thanks for that vote confidence, I guess, but whatever you need, I’m gonna have to pass. I already do day patrol alone. I don’t need your shit too.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I thought you didn’t sell to kids.”

Jason was ready to whip out a lecture on drugs and the lasting impacts they had on one’s life when he noticed the mischievous turn of his mouth. Duke was fucking with him. Wind stolen from his sails, he slumped and said, “I was going to offer to proofread your English papers for the rest of the semester.”

“Bold of you to assume I need help in English.”

This was going about as well as he expected. Unfortunately, Jason didn’t have a lot going for him that Bruce or one of the others couldn’t give Duke already.

“What do you want?”

“College essay topics. Apparently, the admission offices won’t be moved by the whole my parents were jokerized sob story. It isn’t unique enough to make me stand out, according to my advisor.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “I hate this city sometimes.”

“Preach.”

College essays were his bread and butter. Not that Jason ever made it that far, but sometimes, when he was feeling particularly spiteful about his lot in life, he’d start a college application knowing full well he’d never hit that submit button. It didn’t stop him from drafting dozens of essays that would bring a whole admission board to tears.

Fuck, maybe Tim was right.

He needed to get a life.

Or at the very least, a new hobby.

“I can think of a few topics that’ll help you stand out from the rest. We can workshop it.”

Duke shook his head in disbelief. “I expected more pushback. You must be desperate.”

“I need someone to watch my territory during the day. Black Mask is prepping for a comeback, and I don’t know what he has planned, but I’ve heard it’s going to be big. It’s possible he’ll try to make moves during the day to throw me off his trail and I physically can’t keep tabs on him at all hours of the day. You don’t have to do anything about it, but if you happen to see something—”

“Say something?” Duke cut in with a smirk.

“How are you more insufferable than the others?”

He shrugged. “You came to me, man. I’m entitled to make you work for it.”

This was precisely why he hated asking for help. He jumped in on the rare occasion they exhausted their list of eligible vigilantes, but when Jason needed something, he had to grovel like a dog.

But he was desperate, so he plastered on a smile and barked.

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll add Park Row to my rotation.” He waved him off. “Now, can I get back to my patrol? I’ve been tracking a couple of Falcone’s guys all morning and I don’t want them slipping through my fingers because we decided to get chummy.”

“Want some help while I’m here?”

Duke smirked. “Only if you can keep up.”

Jason caught himself smile for real this time. “I’ll be running laps around you in no time.”

“Whatever you say, man.”

“And…” His throat tightened before he could finish, rejecting the words that gathered on the tip of his tongue. He cleared his throat and tried again. “And thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”

“How much psychic damage was that right now? 3—no, 6D6?”

“Fuck off.”

 

***

 

Jason landed outside your window a few hours later, joints aching and feet dragging across the icy grate. After helping Duke nab Falcone’s guys, he decided to follow a few weak leads to find Black Mask before his regular night rotation.

Nothing came of those leads, no surprise there, but now he had a few hours to rest before he headed out again. He could have gone to one of his safehouses, but he ended up outside your place instead.

Weird, he thought idly as he fiddled with your window.

He balked when it slid open, unlocked despite never mentioning he planned to stop by. Either his appearance had become so routine over the last few weeks that you expected him to come, or you never locked your window. Both options were bad, but one was arguably worse.

Glancing around, you were noticeably absent despite your bag and keys sitting on the kitchen table. Panic sparked in his chest as he stepped further into the room and called out, “Hello?”

“Wha—”

You popped up from where you sprawled out on the floor in front of the couch, a sheet of loose notebook paper stuck to your cheek. “Shit,” you mumbled as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, “Is it that late already?”

He frowned. “You fell asleep with you window unlocked?”

“I was working on homework with the window unlocked,” you said around a yawn, “The nap took me by force, but would you look at that. No one broke in to kill me. Joyous day.”

Your blatant disregard for your safety would kill him.

Again.

Jason began the arduous process of removing the various layers of his uniform. Boot first, helmet, and so on, each movement automatic and practiced. “Has your workload gotten better yet?”

You laughed hollowly as you peeled the paper from your cheek. “I finished one of my readings before my nap, but I still have, uh, six more to go before Monday.”

He nodded along, listening, but only processing every third word or so. Now that he had finally slowed down, exhaustion settled over him like a wet blanket. “A nap sounds nice.”

You hopped onto the couch, arms resting along the frayed cushions as he fumbled with the various clasps and buckles on his harnesses. His coordination wasn’t nearly as fine-tuned as he would have liked. “It’s a little early for the full Hood getup, isn’t it?”

“Had some business to handle this morning, so I decided to stay out. I’ll head out again later.”

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Because I hate myself, apparently.”

You were quiet for a moment, the soft clack of metal buckles filling the empty air before you asked, “And you decided to come to my place because?”

Jason stopped, your question bringing a sudden burst of clarity that put everything into razor-sharp focus. He broke into your place and started stripping like he lived here, didn’t he?

“Because…” He wracked his brain, but there was no gas left in the proverbial tank. His hands fell from the buckles on his chest. “I don’t know why I came here.”

“Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but you look ready to keel over any second now.”

“It’s been a long week.”

A long month, a long year, a long life. He really should have asked for help sooner, but stubborn pride got in the way of things that ultimately helped him. Asking Duke had taken a lot out of him. There were a million ways involving Duke could go wrong, all of which he’d considered, but there were also a million ways it could go right. His bruised ego would survive, but for now, he was still feeling a little raw.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can go if you need to focus.”

Your expression softened. “You’re welcome to nap in my bed while I work.”

He blinked. “You want me in your bed?”

“You make it sound like I have nefarious motives. I am a gentile English lady of the softest constitution, Mr. Darcy. Consider my modesty.” You tried to look offended, but the subtle crinkle around your eyes betrayed you. “I’m trying to be considerate. It’s more comfortable than sleeping on my shitty couch.”

Anything was better than the lumpy brick at his place. He woke with more knots on his back that Batman had batarangs. It was probably wiser to invest in a nicer mattress. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his work demanded he be in peak physical form, but he also had a bad habit of going with the cheapest option—side effect of always watching his money and all that jazz.

Again, when he tried to come up with a compelling argument as to why he shouldn’t, he came up short. “Fine,” he said with a shrug.

Once he discarded the rest of his things, he turned back to you, dressed in the thin underlayer of his uniform and his cargo pants slung low around his hips. “Can I wear this in your bed? I don’t want to get it dirty.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I had a problem with what you were wearing,” you said as your attention returned to your homework.

He took that at face value and staggered over to your bed, fading and fast. You decorated the queen-sized bed with pillows of varying shapes and patterns that seemed impractical for sleeping. It was, however, warm and inviting, like everything in your apartment, even as Jason hesitated at the foot of it.

“It won’t bite you, I promise.”

“I know that,” he shot back, sharper than he intended. His fuse shortened considerably when he was tired, but that was a him problem. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. It feels wrong.”

“Elaborate.”

“Sleeping in your bed.” His other hand curled and uncurled at his side before he added, “Without you.”

Mind to mouth filter?

Ha.

That didn’t exist now that he’d passed 36 hours without sleep.

You sat with that for a second before responding. “Did you want me to lay next to you?”

Ever the problem solver.

You made it sound like a reasonable request when reason played no part in his sleep-addled musings. This was purely selfish on his part, but now he felt less awkward saying, “Yes.”

The springs in your couch groaned as you stood, your sharp exhale sounding suspiciously like a laugh. He sensed your presence over his shoulder, still keen despite his exhaustion. You flopped onto the bed, a finger pressed between the pages of Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus.

He chose to focus on that as he sprawled out next to you. “That’s one I haven’t read yet.”

“Really? I figured you’d be all over it given the plot.”

His brain was too muddled for the mental gymnastics it would take to figure out what you meant by that. A problem for later, he decided as he buried his face in one of your pillows. He all but moaned. They smelled like you—your shampoo, your laundry detergent, all the scents that created a potent concoction that left his head spinning. He pressed his face more deliberately into the velvet pillow edged with string tassels.

Mercifully, you didn’t comment on how weird he was being. “You’re welcome to read it when I’m done.”

“I’d like that,” was his muffled reply.

Silence followed.

One minute passed, then two. Jason adjusted and readjusted half a dozen times to get comfortable, but nothing felt quite right. He peered up at you, nose still buried in the pillow. You seemed content to sit beside him, fingers pressed to your temple as your eyes darted across the page. With his initial reservations falling by the wayside, Jason came to the startling conclusion that simply laying beside you wasn’t enough and he wanted more.

He rolled onto his side. “Did you want to read on my chest?”

You looked up, a bemused smile curving your lips. He tried to look indifferent, though he could already feel the mask slipping. “Did you want me to lay on your chest to read? Like a weighted blanket?”

He softened like butter. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Permission was all he needed. His arms hooked around your hips, dragging you with him as he rolled onto his back once more. You pinned him to the mattress, leaving him feeling less like a sailboat fighting to stay afloat during a tumultuous storm. He closed his eyes as his hands settled on your back.

You chuckled as you opened your book on his chest. “Better?”

He hummed. With his eyes still closed, Jason sank back into your collection of pillows as if they were cumulus clouds instead. Alright, he now understood the appeal of the pillows.

Soft instrumental music filtered from the speaker on your phone a few seconds later. A combination of strings and the soft trickle of a piano that reminded him of rain drops on windowpanes. He purred with approval. Minutes passed. Jason teetered on the edge of consciousness, almost, but not quite ready to take the full plunge.

His hand slid under your sweatshirt, seeking the warmth of your skin. Nimble fingers traced the length of your spine, a bra noticeably absent this go absent. His second hand joined the first, tracing intricate patterns on your skin in hopes of lulling himself to sleep. You squirmed a little as he ghosted over a ticklish patch of skin, but you seemed content to let him continue as you flipped to a new page.

Eventually, he found a sweet spot somewhere between lucidity and contentment. His breaths evened out, muscles going loose as his hands came to rest on the small of your back once more.

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

It barely crested a whisper, but it was enough to startle him awake. His eyes snapped open, vision clearing after a second. “W-What?”

You hid your face behind your book. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t really sleeping. Don’t feel bad.” His arm curled around your waist. “What’s up?”

“It’s just, well, I knew Titus was one of his bloodier plays, but damn, I wasn’t expecting it to pan out like this. I just got to a scene about Lavinia, Titus’ daughter, and the most horrendous—”

“No spoilers.”

You rolled your eyes. “This play is over 400 years old. It’s a tragedy. I don’t think spoilers apply in this—”

He pressed a finger to your lips.

You froze. His surprise followed a half second later, breaths turning shallow as he traced your bottom lip. It was soft under the pad of his finger. He knew he shouldn’t. Kissing you was an act doomed by the narrative, trapping you both in a hellish limbo whenever he tried to close the distance.

Undeterred by the odds, you dipped your head to capture the tip of his finger in your lips and sucked. Pleasure ripped through him like a crack of lightning, tightening his groin and curling his toes. Jason was a goner from the start, but this sealed the deal.

When he looked back on this moment, he could never remember who closed the distance first, only that your lips eventually met his. It started sweet. Tender in all the ways he imagined a first kiss should be, even if this wasn’t the setting he envisioned for it. He cradled the back of your head, a soft groan rumbling deep in his chest as he slanted his mouth over yours.

Your lips parted on a sigh, warm and inviting. His tongue pressed inside, desperate for a taste. He had, admittedly, imagined this moment a million ways, but the reality was just so much more satisfying. You tossed your books aside and curled your fingers in his collar, pulling him closer with unspoken intent.

Message received.

Jason sat up as you slid comfortably into his lap, the kiss never breaking. He was certain if it had, it would have felt like breaking the surface of water, but he was content to drown in everything you. His hands slid under your shirt once more, roaming with newfound purpose as your lips worked fervently. His thumb brushed hesitantly over the peak over your breast. You shuddered, arching into it. Encouraging. He kept going, circling your nipple until it was a hardened nub while his other hand massaged the other, soft and malleable like clay beneath his fingers.

Your fingers carded through his hair. Pleasure twined with affection as he broke away, vision swimming as he took in the sight of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips. You pressed hot, open-mouth kisses along his jaw and down the juncture of his throat. The smooth enamel of your teeth grazed his pulse point and—

His hips bucked involuntarily. “Fuck.”

He could feel your smirk on his skin as your thighs tightened around his hips, anchoring him in place. His reaction was immediate and visceral as he fought the urge to buck again.

“Patience, Mr. Darcy. I want to savor this moment.”

His head spun. “You’re going to kill me ag—”

That thought died on a whimper when you kissed his pulse point instead. Soft enough to steal the air from his lungs. He melted beneath you.

You tugged at the zipper on the front of his underlayer, its slow drag drowning out the soft music coming from your phone. Your hands slid beneath the flaps to explore the broad planes of his chest, ghosting over scars old and new. His skin prickled faintly, the current trajectory of your lips promising.

He wrestled with the sleeves on his uniform, peeling them back until the excess fabric fell around his hips. He wound his arms around your waist and fell back onto the bed, lips molding with yours once more.

He tugged on the hem of your sweatshirt, hoping you would get the hint. You caught on quickly and drew back to pull it over your head, eyes roving over his bare chest. Your lips glistened in the dim light. He gripped the sheets to keep himself from capturing them once more.

The fluid motion of your hands stuttered and fell, lust-filled eyes clearing. “Is that a…”

His grip loosened as he glanced down, already knowing what he’d fine. An autopsy scar spanned the length of his heaving chest and down his stomach, stark against his pale skin. His jaw worked as he grappled for an excuse to soften the blow, but there was nothing to say. He wasn’t going to insult your intelligence by pretending this was anything other than what it was.

Hard as he tried, there was no escape from the tragedy of Jason Peter Todd. It was one of many reasons why he never corrected you when you called him Jacob. At least as Jacob, he could pretend he wasn’t nearly as broken. His body was an exhausted story fixed in time. A constant reminder of all the things he lost. His shortcomings, his failures, all that he wasn’t ready to share. Not with you, not with anyone. He feared something like this would happen, and now that it had, he wanted nothing more than to turn back time.

He stumbled over his words as he shoved his arms back into his sleeves and zipped his uniform to the chin, hiding the offensive scar from view. It wasn’t enough. Under your discerning gaze, it was worse than being stripped bare. You’d already seen the secrets hidden beneath.

Jason could handle a lot, but he refused to accept your pity. It swam with the sadness and heartbreak in your eyes, snagging on his resolve. His nails bit into his Kevlar sleeves as he fought the urge to peel back his skin until there were no more scars, leaving nothing to pity.

“Don’t—please. Disgust, anger. Anything but pity.”

“Jacob, I don’t—”

He recoiled when you reached for him, scooting back until there was nowhere left to go. Cornered like prey. Tears burned his eyes. He wiped them away, cursing the annoying habit of crying when overwhelmed.

“Oh, sweetie. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” You wrapped him in a tight embrace. Jason faltered, unsure whether to shove you away or bury his face in your neck and sob, so he just sat there with tears streaming down his cheeks. You kissed his temple and whispered, “I don’t know what happened to you, but I’m sorry it did.”

Your words hit him like a freight train. The ones who’d taken from him would never apologize. He was a child. Yeah, maybe he’d gotten drunk on the thrill that justice provided, and he felt invincible, but he was still a child that wanted to be good and make the world a better place.

His sacrifice didn’t matter.

Life went on. Jason remained unavenged. It was a bitter truth that hung over his head every hour of every day. He could never escape it. Even when he tried to make a difference now, the people who should have been on his side turned their backs on him instead.

When they looked at him, they saw an angry boy who had turned into a violent man. Someone who was irredeemable. A lost cause. He was so much more than that.

Why couldn’t anyone see that?

You smoothed his hair. “You didn’t deserve it.”

Something inside him shattered. Jason collapsed in your arms with a shuddering sob. Between your soft assurances, you kissed his hairline, his temple, the scar on his cheek, showering him with affection until he had no more tears left to shed. He clung to you, worrying the fabric of your sweatshirt between his fingers.

“Sorry for ruining the moment,” he mumbled, shame burning at his cheeks.

“Never apologize for something like this.” You squeezed him tighter.

“But I’m a mons—”

“No. Stop that thought right in its tracks. That wasn’t an invitation to tear yourself down, You’re not a monster. I never thought that about you, and I still don’t,” you muttered against his hair, “If you really want to talk about this, we can do that later, but tonight, you’re tired and emotions are high. Just sit here and let me comfort you.”

His fingers curled in your shirt, fearing he’d fall to pieces if you let go of him before he was ready. He dipped his nose toward the slope of your neck, forcing himself to breathe as he pulled himself back together.

Notes:

Y'all got your kiss, but at what cost?

In other news, Duke Thomas enters the chat. Welcome to him. We love to see him.

Thanks so much for reading. Your comments have been fun to read as well as move through this story, so thank you to those who have commented. It really does brighten my day to see them.

Chapter 22

Secrets were unacknowledged truth.

You accepted that aspect of your relationship, knowing there were some parts of Jacob’s past you would never learn because he would never face them himself. Some of those secrets were harder to ignore than others.

That scar was…

Well.

You tried not to think about the way it cut across his chest and torso in a notable Y-shaped incision. It was hard not to know what it was, even if he couldn't bring himself to confirm it. Weirder things had happened in Gotham, but that was a secret you had to carry with you for as long as you stayed in his company. Like all his scars, it was part of his story.

Likely a chapter he wanted to forget.

It didn’t disgust you. Never. You tried to drive that point home on numerous occasions in the days following the incident, but all your gentle assurances fell on deaf ears.

He flinched if your fingers drifted too close to the hem of his shirt or ghosted over where the scar spanned the length of his chest. When you stared too long, he’d hunch his shoulders to make himself appear smaller. It broke your heart to see him self-conscious. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it, but he also didn’t want to be alone, and so you were left in limbo, pretending like the scar didn’t exist while he retreated into himself again.

You had your own secrets. He was allowed to have his too. No secrets could be detrimental, especially given the life he led. Secrets kept you safe, even if it killed you stay in the dark. A few kisses didn’t afford you the right to demand his life story before he was ready to tell it. You could wait until he was ready—if he ever got to that point.

“There’s a cocktail hour before the showcase, not that I expect you to join me for that. I want to rehearse my excerpt and meet the other finalists before the presentation begins, so if you’re late, that’s fine. Looking at the agenda, I present third. You don’t have to stay the whole time. I know you’re—”

You looked up from your laptop, noticing the way Jacob frowned at his phone. Fingers worried the tassel on the pillow tucked to his chest. His frown deepened the longer he stared at the screen. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it, but he rarely spent any time attached to his phone.

His attention strayed more often these last few weeks.

“Hey.” You poked his cheek. “If you’re going to glare at a screen, at least wear your glasses.”

He looked up, the pinch between his brows softening. “Sorry, I just got a text from—” He scrubbed his face, muffling a sigh. “I’m working on something.”

Work was a broad term that spanned the barely legal all the way to woefully illegal. It was better not to know, and yet, you asked anyway, “The same something from New Year’s Eve, or something else?” You maintained a conversational tone despite your burning curiosity. He rarely discussed his nightly activities, and that wouldn’t change simply because you asked.

“I’m still looking for Black Mask.” He tucked his phone away and shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, then another. By the fifth, you took the hint and set your computer aside to make room for him.  He collapsed in your lap, burying his face in your stomach.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I would believe that if you didn’t sound miserable,” you said as you smoothed his hair. A low purr rumbled in his chest as his arms closed around your waist. His hands disappeared beneath your shirt to trace the ridges on your spine, his favorite past time. At least, he still touched you. You would have liked to return the favor.

Because that worked out so well the last time.

You added, “And you wouldn’t be this clingy.”

“False.”

You chuckled. “Alright, fine. You’re always clingy, but something’s clearly wrong. I want to be supportive, but I’ll let you decide how I do that and to what extent.”

He groaned. “Do you ever ask for help and instantly regret it?”

Not where you expected this to go, but you took it in stride. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m currently kicking myself for asking someone for help. I thought it would make things easier, but I’m just more stressed. I still don’t know where Black Mask is and—” He pressed his face more firmly into your stomach and groaned again. “And now, I owe him a favor despite the fact that he hasn’t really helped me.”

“Who did you ask?”

“It’s not important.”

Your burning curiosity begged to differ, but you let the topic die. You were partly to blame for foiling his plans back on New Year’s Eve. You didn’t mean to, but that didn’t change the fact that you had.

“I wasn’t aware Red Hood worked with others.”

“He doesn’t in Gotham.”

The fluid stroke of your fingers stilled. “And outside of Gotham?”

“I do mercenary work with a small team when I have time. They’re weird like me. You’d like them, I think.”

Vigilante, crime lord, mercenary, avid Jane Austen enthusiast. It was hard to process the mess of contradictions that existed within the man currently snuggled in your lap. It was a wonder how anyone found him intimidating. He was soft. Incredibly so, but you assumed this was a side most people didn’t get to see.

“You have mercenary friends? Who has the time?”

“Not me these days.” He hesitated before adding, “I miss them, but they have their own lives to live. So, do I. Obviously. I’m busy, and I don’t want to bother them.”

It was the first time he’d mentioned friends since you met his friend at the club. Was he one of his mercenary friends? He didn’t look all that special but looks could be deceiving.

Case in point, the man currently melting like butter in your arms.

While you expected Jacob wasn’t the most outgoing person in the world, it was nice to know he had people outside of you to spend time with. You’d hate to be his only friend. “You should make some time for them once you have this Black Mask situation under control. I’m sure they miss you too.”

“Hopefully. If I ever find him.”

“I thought Black Mask wasn’t much of a concern?”

“Not usually, no. I just like to mess with him because I can.”

You snorted.

“Since he’s gone quiet, I’m a little on edge.”

“Why? Because your favorite plaything disappeared on you?”

He scoffed. “Because that’s not like him. I could always count on him being indiscreet and predictable, but he’s successfully thrown me off track. Apparently, he’s planning a big comeback, and I don’t know what that means. Innocent people could get hurt if I don’t figure things out soon.” He pulled you closer to emphasize his point. “Forget it. I know I’m overthinking things. Can we talk about something else?”

Clearly, he wouldn’t be forgetting it any time soon, but you let the topic go. This was more than you expected to tease out of him. “Like how I need to get ready for work in the next twenty minutes?”

“No, not like that, at all. Why would you bring that up?”

“Because I need you to brace yourself for when I extract myself from your arms in about ten minutes.” His grip tightened around you with a pitiful whine. Your heart squeezed. He didn’t make it easy. “I’m at the Opera House tonight. It’s my favorite venue.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if I have time, I can sneak up to the balcony and catch a song or two before the after party begins.”

“Or you could see a show on your night off.”

“With the price of tickets these days?” You shook your head. “I barely have enough expendable income for a night at the bar with Steph. I would never financially recover from a night at the opera. Did you know they charge twenty dollars for a glass of wine? Insanity.”

He looked up, frowning once more. “I can buy us tickets.”

Your pulse quickened. Us. “You’d go to the opera with me?”

“I love going to the theatre,” he said plainly, “If you want to go, I’ll make it happen. We could grab dinner beforehand and...” He buried his face in your stomach once more, a blush bleeding into the crown of his head. “And yeah.”

 “Are you asking me on a date?”

“I am,” he muttered, “I’ve wanted to for a while, but I didn’t know how to broach the topic without scaring you off.”

You stared at him. “You spend most nights at my place. We’ve kissed. Several times.” You could, honestly, go on. There were a lot of ways you’d gone about this relationship backwards.

“Still.” He looked up again, vulnerability softening his gaze. “I know neither of us are the flashy sort when it comes to these things.”

“And yet, you’re choosing the opera?”

“You deserve to be spoiled sometimes. Please, let me spoil you.”

You had been content spending quiet nights together, alone. If he took you on a formal date, that made this real. Your stomach bubbled with anticipation. Secrets and double lives aside, you wanted this to be real. “I would like that.”

His smile did funny things to your heart. “You won’t regret it. It’ll be the best date of your damn life.”

“It’ll be the best date because I’m with you.” You cupped him loosely by the cheeks. He breathed a sigh of relief, pressing his face into your palm. You squished his cheeks until his lips puckered and, well, he just looked so damn kissable.

If you were a few minutes late leaving for your shift that evening, that was no one’s business but your own.

 

***

 

The Gotham Opera House mimicked the opulence and character of neo-baroque Paris. Its fresco ceilings and gilded leaf felt like stepping back in time. Equal parts awe-inspiring and stomach-churning, your admiration of the venue warred with your general distaste for rich people and their frivolities.

But you were a sucker for culture...

You were allowed to be a hypocrite sometimes.

That evening was the opening performance of Puccini's Madame Butterfly, based on a novel you’d had on your TBR list for ages now. You would have loved a sneak peek, but between plating bacon-wrapped water chestnuts and ensuring the linens were pressed, you had very little time to spare.

The house’s event coordinator, Sarah, was on maternity leave, meaning the venue owner, Delilah Cadwell, stepped in to take her place. Your only impression of her up until that point had been in the company of the executive donors as she waxed poetic about the show with a rolled cigarette burning between her fingers. Delilah was passionate about the arts, no doubt, but her riddles were better suited to crafting material for the Riddler than coordinating details for a party.

Delilah swept into the cocktail lounge, the ends of her painted silk shawl fluttering like butterfly wings. When she moved, various bangles on her wrists clinked like wind chimes, offering a thirty-second warning before she arrived. You and Evan paused, having just finished rearranging the cocktail lounge at her behest.

She planted her hands on her hips and shook her head, wiry gray curls bouncing around her chin. “No, no, no. This is all wrong. I wanted to evoke the passion between two fleeting strangers in the heat of summer’s eve when I asked you to reset the room. I feel none of that fire, none of the allure or mystery.” Delilah marched to the nearest table and dragged it unceremoniously across the pristine hardwood.

Your eye twitched as the noise grated on your ears.

“Furniture should face the western wall,” she muttered under her breath, “It’s more romantic. We need to fix this before the show ends. If the donors catch wind that the furniture was facing north, I’ll never live it down.”

Evan sent a pleading look your way, his grip tightening on the back of a dining chair. You threw up your hands when Delilah turned her back, none-too-thrilled by the prospect of moving all the furniture again either, but as the senior server, it fell to you to try to reason with her.

“Ms. Cadwell,” you began with a polite smile, “Why don’t we do that in the executive area instead? We won’t have time to rearrange the whole lounge, but your top donors will notice the effort put into a west-facing setup that’s done specifically for them.”

You knew the game and how to play it, despite loathing it with every fiber of your being. Donors liked special treatment, and this suggestion would save you both time and effort. It seemed to satisfy Delilah, whose frantic muttering died on a beleaguered puff of air.

“Yes, yes. Do that, and while you do, I want the lights dimmed to remind me of a moonlit walk through the French Riviera, and not a watt more.” She clapped in your face which wasn’t the motivating anthem she thought it was. In fact, you were half-tempted to snap your teeth at her and growl. “Chop, chop. You don’t have time to stand around and gawk. The curtain falls in a half hour.”

She swept from the room, shawl fluttering and jewelry clicking with the bounce in her step. Once she disappeared around the corner, you turned to Evan and sketched a bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’m here all night.”

He applauded half-heartedly. “Still moving furniture. Three stars.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” You grabbed him by the shoulders and led him toward the curtained-off area reserved for the executive donors. The room smelled vaguely of jasmine incense and tobacco smoke with a glittering chandelier casting fractals of light across the mahogany walls.

By the time you finished rearranging the various fainting couches and armchairs littered throughout the room, you could hear people filter into the lobby. The curtain had fallen, and partygoers would soon make their way to the cocktail lounge for the after party.

Evan grunted as he wiped away the sweat glistening on his brow. “Here’s to another boring party.”

“Boring?” you jeered as you closed the curtains that led into the private lounge, “Oh, you sweet, summer child. You have no idea what the night will entail, do you?”

He puffed out his chest, which might have been more intimidating if he wasn’t swimming in his shirt and slacks. “I’ve worked enough of these to know what I’m walking into.”

“If this were a charity gala or family party, I’d agree with you,” you mused as you straightened one of the platters one the banquet table. You had it point north, just to spite Delilah. “But after parties are a different beast entirely. Patrons of the theatrical arts are certified freaks.”

These parties ran the risk of spiraling out of control. This particular flavor of rich liked to pretend they were refined and cultured, but once the party started, they dropped all pretense and let loose. You were numb to the debauchery at this point, but the executive lounge was no place for a sixteen—no, recently turned seventeen-year-old boy. Not that your boss listened to your advice when you raised concerns the other week.

So, once more, it fell to you to protect a literal child. You didn’t want to traumatize him when the donors decided to start shedding their clothes.

“I’ll handle the executive lounge,” you decided out loud.

His expression fell. “But I can help.”

“You’ll thank me for taking this bullet.” You patted him on the back. “If I solo the lounge, you’ll have to handle the guest’s out here. Help Mark run drinks if he needs you. You’re quick on your feet. I trust you.”

Evan stood a little straighter. “You trust me?”

“You said it yourself. You’ve been doing this long enough that you don’t need me breathing down your neck.”

He ducked his head to hide his bashful grin. It served as another painful reminder that he was young and impressionable. He craved your approval which was equal parts baffling and flattering. Really, you were not worth the pedestal he thrust you upon.

“Thanks. I’ll go see if Mark needs help.” He spun on his heel and headed toward where Mark organized wine and spirits behind the bar. “Give me a shout if you need help.”

 

People filtered into the cocktail lounge ten minutes later. Drinks flowed liberally between the guests in the private lounge, leaving them giggly with flushed cheeks. Words slurred as they gushed over the show. The best yet, several people claimed at varying decibels. It might have meant something if they didn’t say that every time a new show opened.

You moved quickly through the room, swooping in to grab empty glasses and replaced them with full ones before anyone noticed.

The first hour passed in a blur.

“Yes, yes. We brought in Ms. Chinen, a renowned designer from Japan to help us craft the costumes for the show,” Delilah explained as she carefully rolled a cigarette on the coffee table in front of her, “It was her suggestion to play with silhouettes and use colored lighting on white fabric to represent a character’s emotional state. Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“And Yevgeny has outdone himself with the direction. I’ve never seen such a raw depiction of love and sacrifice,” her friend agreed before taking a long drag of her cigarette. Tendrils of smoke seeped between her teeth and hung in the air.

There had always been poor ventilation in this room. Soon, a thick haze of acrid smoke would blur the vision and tickle your nose. Opening the window would hardly make a difference once enough people had cigarettes in hand.

You lingered at the edge of the room, content to blend in with the furniture as the discussion happened around you. So far, the evening had been tame, but that could change on a whim.

“You, there.” Your attention snapped toward Delilah. “Come.” She waved you over with a burning cigarette pressed between her fingers, her natural state.

You hurried over to her side. “Yes, Ms. Cadwell.”

She shoved a full cocktail glass into your hands, thin lips curling with indignation. “Have your bartender remake my gimlet. Too much lime. Not nearly enough gin. You’d think the man never tasted liquor before today.”

Her friend choked on a laugh, releasing a puff of pungent smoke square in your face. You recoiled with her drink, suppressing the cough that burned your throat. The stink of tobacco was bad enough, but that was downright fetid.

“I’ll be right back with a new drink.”

You ducked through the curtain. More people mingled in the main lounge, albeit tamer and more in line with what you were used to at the charity auctions and galas. Mark worked behind the bar, pouring drinks faster than your eyes could process his movements. All without spilling a drop.

“Ms. Cadwell wants a new drink,” you said as you set the glass on the counter, “Said you didn’t make it strong enough.”

He clutched his chest, feigning offense. “She was discontent with my goods. Perish the thought.”

You drummed your fingers on the bar top, feeling a little restless. “I don’t know. Throw it back in your shaker, toss it around, and pour it in a new glass. She won’t know the difference. This is her fifth drink tonight. I’m surprised she can taste anything at this point.”

“You got it, gorgeous.”

You ignored him, unfazed by his flirtations.

As he worked, your fingers tapped erratically, restlessness giving way to full-on jitters. It was like someone had doused you in cold water before shoving you on a bed of hot coal, simultaneously too hot and too cold.

That’s when it hit you.

A deep-rooted sense of dread that struck right before something bad happened. You glanced over your shoulder to study the faces in the room. No one stuck out, nor did they pay you any mind. You were as good as invisible in the slacks and dress shirt that marked you a server, but it still felt like someone was watching you.

“One gimlet,” Mark announced, startling you from your thoughts, “Shaken, not stirred. Have you ever had a gimlet? I could make you one after the party if…”

His words faded to the background as you scanned the crowd.

“Hey! You still with me?” He waved a hand in front of your face.

You forced a smile as you turned back to him. It felt wrong as it fitted into place. It must have looked as wrong as it felt because Mark grimaced. “Yikes. Not your best crack at a smile. Don't tell me they started stripping already?”

You shook your head as you swiped the drink from the bar, eager to return to the executive lounge so you could shake whatever this weird feeling was. “I’m fine. No stripping yet.” You hurried away before he could press the issue—not that there was an issue.

Why would there be an issue?

A haze hung thick in the air when you returned, reeking of decay. Delilah and her friend had gone still despite their animated conversation before you left.

A tremor developed in your hand somewhere between the bar and here, spilling gin over the rim of the glass. You set the drink in front of her. Your presence, the ‘new’ drink she cared so much about just a few minutes ago, it all went unnoticed as Delilah stared at the whorls in the wood ahead of her.

You wiped your hands on your apron. “Ms. Cad—”

Her hand shot out, grip bruising as it closed around your wrist. Your heart leapt into your throat as she dragged you until you were nose to nose. The gin on her breath curdled your stomach. Pupils blown wide. Lips curled away from her teeth. Ash drooping on the end of her cigarette. She stared through you as if you weren’t there.

Her throat bobbed as she visibly gulped.

You tried to pull away. “Ms. Cadwell, what are you—”

She shrieked. You whipped around, assuming there was something behind you, because that was the only explanation for a reaction like that. Nothing. That feeling from before increased tenfold.

Run, it seemed to say, Get out while you still can.

You listened to that voice. Yanking away, you nearly tripped over the coffee table, knocking over the glasses on the table. Gin and whiskey pooled between the cracks in the hardwood, but you had already ducked through the curtain, making a beeline for the hall. A burst of adrenaline coiled with the dread as you used the wall to stay upright. You aimed for the bathroom.

Someplace enclosed.

Someplace quiet.

Someplace where it couldn’t catch you.

What it was? You had no idea, only that you felt it looming on the edge of your vision. Watching, waiting. Not knowing what you were running from was infinitely worse.

You slipped inside the bathroom, locking the door and pressing your back to it for good measure.

Breathe, you told yourself, Just breathe.

You couldn’t catch your breath despite standing still. Gooseflesh spread up your arms, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. You rubbed the feeling away as you inched toward the sink.

Turning on the faucet, you splashed cold water in your face. It was less successful at chasing this feeling away than you hoped. A shiver raced down your spine that had nothing to do with the water.

A bulb overhead flickered, grating on your already frayed nerves. You turned a glare on it, willing it to stop. It, naturally, refused. Sighing, you turned your attention to your reflection.

Your blood coated your veins like ice.

A dark mass lingered over your shoulder—indistinct and blurry on the edges. It leaned toward your ear and whispered, “He lies. Everything is a lie.” You curled your fingers and swung as you spun around, striking air. Ragged breaths sawed from your chest as you glanced back toward the mirror, alone once more.

He lies.

“Who lies?”

No response.

You didn't expect one. Or maybe you did? Your brain was a jumble of thoughts and anxiety, blurring the lines between what was real and what was a figment.

You held your breath, waiting.

A knock shattered the flimsy illusion of calm.

You hit the ground, throwing your hands over your head as if they had set off a bomb instead. When they knocked again, you raised your head and squeaked, “Y-Yes?”

“It’s me,” Evan said quietly, “We heard a scream from the lounge, then you rushed out. You’ve been locked in here for ten minutes and I’m starting to get a little worried. Is everything okay?”

Ten minutes. It didn’t feel that long.

Using more effort than it reasonably should have, you managed to peel yourself off the ground, knees wobbling like a baby deer. Your blood trickled sluggishly through your veins, thicker than molasses. Grasping the knob, you steeled yourself before yanking it open.

Even Evan, dressed in his oversized dress shirt, looked imposing as the dim light cast harsh shadows across his face. He blinked owlishly. “You look awful.”

You glanced back, only you and Evan reflected in the mirror. The light flickered again, warping your reflections.

“Hey. Look at me.” Evan touched your arm. You jumped, putting as much distance between him and yourself. He tucked his hand behind his back, clearly unsettled by your behavior. That made two of you. How did you explain this to him without looking like you’d lost your mind?

Or maybe you had?

It certainly felt like it.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He chewed his bottom lip. “Your skin is a little clammy. Are you sick?”

Your shirt clung to the small of your back like a second skin. When did you start sweating?

“I don’t feel so great,” you admitted slowly.

“You should go home.”

“I c-can't.” You flinched, cursing your stutter. “What about you?”

“What about me? What about you? You’re shaking.”

Sure enough, you were. You wrapped your arms around your middle to curb it, but the tremor bled up into your jaw, chattering your teeth instead. Guilt gnawed at you. You hated to abandon him again, but there was no way you were making it through the rest of your shift in this state.

“I don’t want you going near the executive lounge,” you insisted. You’d seen a lot in your time as a server but tonight would haunt you. You weren’t going to put Evan through it as well until you knew what the hell that was.

“We can’t ignore them.”

I pinned him with a withering stare.

Evan threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine, I’ll ask Mark to help me, but you’re not staying. Do you have someone who can pick you up?”

“I can—”

“No, you aren’t taking the subway like this.”

It was odd being lectured by a teenager, but not nearly as odd as the dark shadows dancing on the edge of your vision. You conceded with a shrug. “I have a few options.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

You allowed him to wrap an arm around your shoulders as he led you down the hall. The warmth of another body did a better job as chasing away the shadows. You stepped into the lobby, spanning three floors with a blown-glass sculpture suspended from the ceiling like a cascading waterfall. Swallowing thickly, you feared the vast space would sweep you away. Evan seemed to sense this and guided you into the small seating area near the ticket booth.

You sank onto the velvet couch with a shuddering breath. Evan stooped on the arm, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his shirt. “Do you need me to call for you?” he offered when you didn’t move.

His question took a second to fully process, but when it did, you reached for your phone. “I can do it.”

The next step was far more daunting.

Jacob came to mind immediately, but it was late enough that you expected he’d be on patrol. You didn’t want to interrupt him if you could help it, so you settled on your second choice.

Steph had a car. Even if she was asleep, she was nice enough to make the drive across the city to grab you. She might even let you crash at her apartment to sleep off whatever was happening to you. You found her number and pressed the phone to your ear.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

“Hey!”

“Steph, thank god, I—”

“Gotcha. Sorry, the stars were not in position for this call, and I missed it. Leave me a message, but really, you and I both know this could have probably been a text.”

It beeped.

You ended the call before it went to voicemail. Weird. Steph always answered your calls. Granted, it was pretty late, but that never stopped her before. Your grip tightened around your phone.

What if something happened to her?

What if she decided you weren’t worth the effort?

What if you never saw her—

You clamped down on those thoughts before you lost yourself in them. Speculation wouldn’t help you here, so it was time to breathe and move on to the next person. As much as you hated to bother him, Jacob was the only other person you felt comfortable calling for something like this. You thumbed through your contacts until you found him and hit the ‘call’ button.

It rang several times, each new cycle driving the wedge of doubt deeper into your gut until you could hardly breathe. He was busy, but that weak excuse failed to put your mind at ease.

What if he was in the middle of a fight?

What if he was bleeding to death in a back alley somewhere?

What if—

“Hey?”

The tension coiling in your shoulders released.

“I’m sorry to call out of the blue like this. Are you in the middle of something.”

He hesitated. “No.”

He lies. Everything is a lie.

You whimpered as the tension slammed back into place. It hurt to breathe. “No, you’re busy. I knew it. I’m sorry. I interrupted you, didn’t I? Never mind. It was st—”

“Woah, woah.” He lowered his voice like a whisper in your ear. “No need to freak out on me, lovebug. You don’t have to apologize. I can talk. Are you okay?”

Your lower lip quivered. “I don’t know.”

The beat of silence that followed felt like it had lasted an eternity. “Do you need me to come get you?”

You glanced at Evan, who watched you with pity in his eyes. There was no worming your way out of this one. “Please.”

“Hold tight,” he said, his tone more serious, “Ten minutes tops.”

The line went dead before you could respond. You dropped your phone in your lap and buried your face in your shaking palms. The tremor had gotten worse. “My—”

You didn’t even know what to call Jacob. Friend wasn’t quite right, but boyfriend seemed presumptuous given you hadn’t even had your first date with him.

“Jacob will be here in ten minutes.”

“Do you want to wait outside?” Evan asked gently, “Some fresh air might do you some good.”

“Will you wait with me?” You couldn’t fathom being alone right now. “Just in case—” Just in case the shadows returned. In case it tried to spout nonsense about lies. You refused to fall for it tricks, but company might deter it better than relying on your willpower. It was tedious at best.

“Yeah,” he said as he helped you stand, “I’ll wait with you for as long as you need.”

Notes:

Hey. So. It's time for like the real plot to kick in. Were you aware there was a real plot? It's only been vaguely haunting me since I started writing this thing, but here it is. Let's have some fun, shall we?

Chapter 23

I might have something. You’re going to hate it. Meet to discuss?

 

Far from the confident lead he’d hoped for, but that’s the text he got from Duke earlier that evening. He tried to tease more information out of him, but the kid was adamant about discussing things face to face. Suspicious, but a fair request given the nature of their work. It was smarter not to talk about it over text if they could help it.

Jason still wasn’t happy about it though.

They planned to meet on the street near a safehouse located in the heart of his territory. Duke arrived in street clothes, torn jeans with an old puffer coat thrown over his hoodie. A smart move now that the sun had gone down. The yellow suit was bound to attract the wrong attention, and Jason didn’t need rumors swirling around that Red Hood was letting the Bats run amuck in Crime Alley.

Jason dropped down from where he stood watch on the roof, the hiss of his grapple gun still ringing in his ears. Duke, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. In fact, he’d never seen him more at ease than he was now, dressed as a civilian.

“This better be good.”

Duke rubbed his shorn hair. “Hey, Duke, how are you?” He said, doing what Jason could only assume was a bad impression his Jersey drawl. “Oh, ya know, same old, same old. Stopped a bank robbery the other day. Saved some kids from a burning building this morning. Oh, and I got the final hit on a Gelatinous Cube at D&D. No big. Just the highlight of my week.”

Jason crossed his arms. “I would be more impressed if it was a Beholder.”

He balked. “No way. You play?”

“Not in a while,” he said with a shrug, “Let me guess? Cleric?”

“Artificer, actually,” Duke said as he shoved his hands on his pockets, “Barbarian for you?”

“Bard.”

“Oh?”

Yeah, he expected that wide-eyed expression. He would assume he played the angry brawler class. At the very least, he wanted people to guess he played a gunslinger, but no, he would forever be the angry guy. Bullshit. Bards were infinitely more fun.

“I didn’t come here to discuss TTRPGs with you.”

“Right,” Duke said slowly, “Okay, well, let me start by saying that none of this is my fault. I was doing exactly what you asked of me and, ya know, things kinda spiraled out of hand from there.”

He narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t a promising start. “Okay?”

“But the good news is we found something.”

Hold up. Pause. Rewind.

“We? Who the fuck is we?” Deep down, Jason already knew the answer to his question, but he foolishly clung to the hope that Duke teamed up with an amiable rogue instead.

“We are a team.”

Jason swore under his breath as Tim, in all his Robin glory, hit the ground beside Duke.

“It’s been a while,” he said with a thin smile.

“Not long enough,” he shot back, “Whatever you know, forget it. I can do this alone like I should have from the start.”

“You see, that’s the problem with Leos.”

He resisted the urge to scream when Steph pulled up behind him, a swagger in her step and a pinch around her eyes that betrayed the smile hidden beneath her mask. This was precisely why he didn’t want to ask for help. This was quickly becoming a ‘family’ affair.

“Stubborn pride always comes back to bite you in the end. That was your horoscope, FYI. Be wary of pride. It keeps you from the goal at the end of a long road. A little on the nose given the situation, but eh.” She slung an arm around his shoulders. “No one said that horoscopes were subtle.”

Jason shoved her off, a growl ripping from his throat. “I gave Signal permission to come into my territory. You two are breaking an agreement.” His hand fell to his gun. “Scram before I start shooting.”

“Tt.”

His eye twitched.

Damian appeared around his other side with his hood drawn low over his eyes, though it failed to hide the general arrogance that permeated the air wherever he went. “First, you do not shoot that ruffian Blood Knuckle all those months ago, now you’re making idle threats against us. You are embarrassing yourself, crime lord.”

Jason had enough self-restraint not to punt a child halfway across Gotham, even if the snot deserved a swift kick in the ass. Instead, he turned his ire on Duke, who was now the odd man out in his street clothes. “What the fuck, Narrows? I told you I didn’t want to ask the others for help.”

Duke choked on a laugh. “Yeah, okay. You thought I could keep this to myself without the others finding out? First off, we’re detectives trained by Batman, world’s greatest detective.”

“Allegedly,” Steph cut in.

“Second, Oracle tracks my patrol routes. She knew something was up the second I crossed into your territory. Have you ever been grilled by her? I’m normally pretty good under pressure, but with her, I folded faster than an umbrella during a hurricane.”

“From there, I looped in Robin,” Babs' voice fed into his ear. Jason should have expected her to listen in. She had tabs on his vitals for Christ’s sake.

“I told Spoiler,” Tim said helpfully.

“And I informed Orphan,” Steph piped up, “She’s on a Bird’s of Prey mission tonight, otherwise she’d be here too. She was sad to miss it, but I promised to give her a play-by-play later.”

“That still doesn’t explain why the demon brat is here?”

“Tt.”

“We’re working on a case together,” Steph said as if it were obvious, “That’s what happens when you work a team, but when Rob told me he was talking to you tonight, I dropped everything to be here. Since I knew the brat would follow me anyway, I clued him in on what was happening.”

Jason chewed the inside of his cheek. “So, does everyone know?”

“Nightwing is out of the country,” Babs offered, the click of her keys accompanying her voice, “No point in telling him until he gets back.”

But she still planned on telling him.

Lovely.

Damian crossed his arms. “It was also agreed on by the others that Batman would not be involved.”

At least there was a silver lining.

He turned to Duke—the only one he wanted to hear from—to pose his next question. “What did—”

Duke raised his hand, effectively cutting him off, and walked back the way he came. “Nuh uh. I did my part. See something, say something, and all that noise. I just came to facilitate this messy family reunion, and now, I’m off the clock. I have a math test to study for and a lot of sleep to catch up on. You’re on your own from here.”

“You can forget about me helping with your college essays.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Duke shot back.

Jason reeled. The gall of this kid. “I mean it.”

“Sure, ya do, man.”

Predictably, Duke called his bluff. Refusing to help him would take more self-respect than Jason realistically had. He buried his helmet in his hand and muttered, “I’ve been bamboozled.”

Steph snorted. “Who says bamboozled unironically?”

“Like it’s hard to pull a fast one over you,” Tim said.

Jason swung. Tim easily dodged the first punch but missed the second fist that connected with his gut. He doubled over, face turning an impressive shade of purple as he swallowed his grunt. It was mollifying to see, but a broken nose would have been infinitely more satisfying.

He leaned down to growl in his ear, “That was for telling her about the letters.”

“Do you feel better now?” he wheezed.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” Tim knocked him off his feet with a quick swipe of his leg. He landed heavily on his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. “So, do I, and that was just because I wanted to.” He offered his hand to help him up.

Jason knocked it away and grappled to his feet. He gave his shoulder an experimental roll, wincing when it twinged.

“Pathetic,” Damian scoffed, “You could have drawn blood at least.”

Tim shot him a warning look before continuing, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of our system, we can move onto the matter at hand. If you’ll come back to the cave, we can—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable,” Jason echoed, “Reasonable. This is my case. I went to Signal because I wanted to avoid this becoming a Batman issue. That’s exactly what’ll happen if I step foot into that cave. Black Mask isn’t worth it.”

“You enlisted help for Black Mask?” Damian didn’t even try to hide the judgement in his tone.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion. At least, I have an archnemesis.”

Steph pulled down her mask to reveal her grimace. “Yeesh. Are you really winning if you consider him your archnemesis? I thought you had a higher standard than that.”

Jason gave her a dead-eyed stare. “Black Mask nearly killed you.”

“Hood,” Babs snapped in his ear, “Uncalled for.”

Her expression shuttered, the usual sunshine and rainbows giving way to something much darker as a sardonic smile slid across her face. Too many teeth and not nearly enough whimsy. It was a jarring change to witness, but at least he knew Steph had her demons like the rest of them.

“Like I said, standards,” she said as she replaced her face mask, “You don’t see me walking around calling him my archnemesis.”

They were getting off track. The sooner he got the information. The sooner he could kick them out of his territory and move on with his life. “No Batcave. No Batman. We can talk in my safehouse if you want to do this somewhere else.”

Tim shrugged. “Fine.”

“Pass,” Damian said as he turned on his heel, “I thought this was going to be more interesting than our usual bickering and dallying. Are you coming, Spoiler?”

“Nah, I wanna see how this pans out.” Some pep returned to her voice as she planted a hand on her hip. “I’ll catch you back at the cave, and we can compare notes.”

“Suit yourself. Let me know if a real fight breaks out between them. Only then will it be worth my time.” He didn’t deign to say goodbye and hurried off into the night, the soles of his boots noiseless against the pavement. Jason was relieved to see him go. There was only so much he could take before he snapped.

“So, are we doing this or not?”

Tim motioned for him to lead the way.

His safehouse was a short walk from the alley, a one-bedroom in what was otherwise a condemned apartment building. In a lot of ways, it reminded him of where he grew up. Cracked plaster revealed the brick beneath. Floorboards that squeaked when he walked on them. Some spots softer than others under his heavy boots.

“Please tell me you don’t live here full-time,” Steph said as she took in the bare walls and scant, cheap furniture. Her gaze snagged on the small succulent decorating the counter, eyes narrowing. “This is depressing, even for you.”

“Again. I didn’t ask for your opinion.” He tugged off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. “Alright. We’re alone. Tell me what you found.”

Tim pulled a tablet from the depths of his cape. Where did he hide it? No clue. Jason decided it was better not to ask questions he didn’t want the answers to. With his eyes glued to the screen, he said, “I think we might be investigating the same case.”

“How do you figure that?”

“We have to turn back the clock a bit before we get to that,” he said as he swiped absently through several tabs on his tablet, “Context first. Over the summer, we discovered a series of break-ins at Wayne-owned warehouses at Gotham harbor. Chemicals were stolen. You caught me reviewing surveillance footage that night.”

It took Jason a second to piece together what he was referring to. Did he mean the night he broke into Wayne Enterprises? That had to be it. He thought it was weird to find Tim there. If he’d pressed a little harder, he might have found a lead sooner.

“What components were stolen?”

“Ones used to make fear toxin.”

Jason blinked. “Scarecrow?”

“Except it wasn’t him. He’s been locked in Arkham since last year, and that hasn’t changed. He’s also not known for employing henchmen, but this wouldn’t be the first time another rogue got their hands on fear toxin without Crane being involved.” He flipped his screen around to show Jason. Two men in nondescript black clothes approached the warehouse before the video went fuzzy. “For all our state-of-the-art technology, they managed to circumvent the cameras, and we found very little at the scene of the crime. I’ll admit, it was a clean job save for this bit of video.”

Huh. Much like Bruce, he saw the world through a fractured lens riddled with imperfections. Using those imperfections, Tim could draw conclusions. It was always about what was broken and how he could fix it. If he was commending them for a job well done, that meant something.

“And how does that connect to my case? The harbor doesn’t fall within my territory last I checked.”

“Maybe not, but the goods were moved several times,” Babs cut in.

The screen progressed as she remoted into his tablet. Green blips appeared on a street view of Jason’s territory. “They stayed to the periphery of your territory, but one veered too close and caught your attention.”

A final blip appeared in red. He recognized it immediately. It was the surveillance mission he botched. Luca had said that was part of a trail of breadcrumbs left by Mask to keep Hood off his trail.

But…

He never got around to checking the goods inside the warehouse. “A warehouse belonging to Mask full of lifted chemicals,” he breathed.

“Chemicals that you left behind,” Tim stressed as if Jason wasn’t feeling bad enough, “Paving the way for Black Mask to do as he pleased with them. Nice work.”

“Oh, cut the guy some slack. He fully intended to blow the place to high hell.” Steph sidled into the kitchen to pick up the succulent, studying it closely. Jason resisted the urge to rip it from her hands. “Why didn’t you blow it to high hell again?”

He didn’t owe them an explanation. “So, what are you saying? That fear toxin is some new wonder drug on the street?” It sounded absurd when he said it out loud. “I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim scoffed.

Jason ran his fingers through his hair. “How am I the ridiculous one here?”

“Everyone knows about the harmful side effects of fear toxin in a more concentrated dose,” Tim continued with his usual air of superiority, “But microdosing seems to be the fad. People crave the rush of adrenaline that comes with fear.”

“Sounds like you would know that from experience?”

Tim merely shrugged, neither confirming nor denying the claim.

“I don’t believe you,” Jason reiterated as he snatched the succulent from Steph’s hands, returning it to its rightful place on the counter. Her pout went ignored as he continued, “I’m the drug guy. I would know if—”

His phone started vibrating in his back pocket, nearly giving him a heart attack. It didn’t usually ring. Not unless… He pulled it out, seeing your name on the screen. The corner of his mouth twitched up into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Woah, what the hell was that?”

The smile dropped. “What was what?”

“That thing you just did with your face right now. Was that a smile?” Steph pinched his cheek, scrutinizing his face. “Were you just smiling at your phone? I didn’t know you knew how to do that?”

 Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Steph.”

“Excuse me for taking an interest in his life. You should try it some time. Maybe if you do, he’ll stop acting like no one likes him.” She popped onto her toes to look at his phone. He tried to hide it, but he wasn’t fast enough for her discerning gaze. A sharp breath passed through her teeth. “That bitch. She told me she wasn’t seeing you.”

He shooed her away as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey?”

“I’m sorry to call you out of the blue like this. Are you in the middle of something?”

You sounded off, your voice brittle as if you were holding back tears. He glanced back at the other two before saying, “No.”

The line crackled with your whimper. “No, you’re busy. I knew it. I’m sorry. I interrupted you, didn’t I? Never mind. It was st—”

“Woah, woah.” He lowered his voice, turning his back on the others. “No need to freak out on me, lovebug. You don’t have to apologize. I can talk. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”

It was hard not to jump to the worst-case scenario with an answer like that, but he tried to keep his voice steady. “Do you need me to come get you?”

“Please.”

You could have asked him to walk barefoot over a bed of rusty nails and he would have done so in a heartbeat. Forget the case. Forget Tim and Steph. If you needed him, he’d drop everything to ensure you were alright. Even over the phone, he could tell something was wrong.

“Hold tight.” He shrugged off his leather jacket, “Ten minutes tops.”

He hung up, feeling the weight of judgement on his back. Tim gave him an indecipherable look before turning his attention back to his tablet. Probably stowing this moment away to use against him later. There was no escaping a comment from Steph.

“Lovebug?” she asked, “That’s adorable.”

He flushed. Pet names weren’t really his style, but it came out as if it were the most natural thing. Lovebug, of all things. That would not stick if he could help it.

“Shut up,” he said as he grabbed a hoodie draped over the back of his futon and threw it over his head. “I need to go.”

“We’re not done,” Tim deadpanned.

“I know that. I’ll be back, but I need to—” Fuck it. He didn’t owe them an explanation here either. He unbuckled his holsters and left them on the counter as he passed. “Give me a half hour. We can pick up where we left when I get back.”

But for now, he only had one thing on his mind. You.

 

***

 

He arrived outside the opera ten minutes later, an impressive feat given it was usually a twenty-minute drive from his safehouse. You sat on the curb with a young man with shaggy blonde hair that flopped down into his eyes. Jason threw down the kickstand and killed the engine. The blonde looked up as he tugged off his helmet (a completely normal helmet—Jason wasn’t dense enough to ride up in full Red Hood gear), giving him a clearer view of his face.

Jason had to do a double take.

That kid from the warehouse—Evan—was currently sitting on the curb… with you. He wasn’t sure what to make of this situation as he slid off his bike and approached, hiding his initial surprise behind something more neutral.

You hid your face in your arms. The yellow jacket draped over your shoulders. You shivered despite it.

He crouched in front of you. “Hey, lovebug.”

Again, it just kind of slipped out, and it still didn’t feel quite right. Luckily, you were too out of it to notice his bland attempts at affection. He tried again, “What happened?”

Finally, you dragged your gaze toward him. He swallowed his gasp. Your pupils eclipsed your irises, creating an abyss of black that unsettled him. You searched for the words, eyes darting back and forth as if they floated in the air over his head. In the end, you gave up and buried your face in your arms once more.

Evan leaned in and whispered, “Is this Jacob?”

“That’d be me, kid. You staying out of trouble these days?” A dumb question, he realized a second too late, but it had already left his lips. Jacob had never met Evan before tonight, and knew nothing about his rough past, but Red Hood was more invested in his wellbeing. Obviously, something was going right for him if he was here.

With you.

He couldn’t quite get over that.

It was funny how small the world could be.

Evan gave him a once over, taking in the beaten combat boots and the scars on his face. “Are you?”

Touche. Jason let the topic drop. “Do you know what happened?”

“Everything was fine. I was running around in the main dining room while she was working in the executive lounge with the top donors. She mentioned they were a bunch of freaks before the party started. I thought she was pulling my leg until I heard a scream. She ran from the room, and I didn’t see her for ten minutes. I found her in the bathroom on the verge of a panic attack, but she claims she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Did she drink anything?” Jason turned back to you. “Did you drink anything?”

You shook your head.

“Did you eat anything?”

Another shake of your head.

“What about—”

“Enough.” Evan shifted in front of you as if Jason wasn’t at least a head taller and twice as wide. “She’s clearly overwhelmed. Stop grilling her like she’s in an interrogation room.”

Jason withdrew like a scolded child. That was exactly what he was doing, and he failed to temper the shame that burned his cheeks. It was hard not to be in detective mode when faced with a situation like this. While it was possible you’d come down with something, it seemed more complicated than a stomach bug.

“What about you? Are you feeling weird?”

He fidgeted under his discerning gaze. “I’m fine.”

As it stood, you weren’t in any state to be alone. He’d have to take you back to his place. Where Tim and Steph were currently waiting for him. An inevitable cross-section of various aspects of his life stood in front of him, and it made him viscerally ill to consider. Jason couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“Do you feel comfortable going with me?”

“Yeah,” you managed after a second.

That was progress. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded. Evan scooted away, albeit reluctantly, allowing Jason to wrap an arm around your waist. He helped you to your feet and led you over to his motorcycle. Evan followed a few steps behind, distrust for Jason plain on his face.

“Are you taking her back to her place?” he pressed, “Not yours, right?”

Jason didn’t appreciate the insinuation in his tone. Despite an appearance that suggested otherwise, he would never take advantage of you. Evan might not know that, but come on, kid. Jason was clearly worried about you too. “That’s none of your business. Why would she call me if she didn’t feel safe with me?”

“Well, you weren’t the first person she called.”

He nearly tripped over his own feet. Ouch. That was the last thing he needed to hear right now, but he tried not to let the pain show on his face as he grabbed a second helmet from the bag on the back of his bike.

“Evan, I appreciate you looking out for me, but you can leave him alone,” you pleaded, seeming to find your words to rise to his defense, “I trust him and that’s all you need to know.”

“But—”

“Evan, thank you.”

You patted his cheek with a sort of maternal affection. He didn’t shy away from it like he would expect from a broody teenager. Jason felt a pang of sympathy for the kid. From one touch-starved kid to another, he knew all too well how nice it felt to be doted on.

“Really, I appreciate your concern, but not tonight.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, his gaze shifting between Jason and the motorcycle. Everything about Jason probably reminded him of the life he wanted to leave behind. It was good the kid found someone like you to encourage him. A good influence.

God knows, it was never going to be him.

Evan shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll send you a text later. Feel better.” With that, he trudged back into the opera house.

Once he disappeared, you placed a hand on his chest and said, “I called Steph first. Didn’t want to bother you.”

Shame hollowed his chest. He shouldn’t have let Evan get in his head like that, but the thought of becoming your second choice terrified him. “You’re never a bother. You don’t need to explain yourself, hon.” Better, but still not quite right. He pressed a quick kiss to your hairline before placing the helmet on your head. “I’m going to take you back to my place. Is that okay?”

“Your place?”

“I have some company at the moment.”

Your eyes widened through the tinted glass.

“The good kind.” Though good was relative in this case. He would have preferred to introduce you to one of his henchmen instead. Most of them were good guys. Well, outside of the drug trafficking part of the gig. “Is that alright? I didn’t want to blindside you.”

“It’s fine,” you said as you shoved your arms through the sleeves of your jacket, “I was the one who interrupted you.”

Jason swallowed his argument, knowing you’d be rehashing the same issue. You weren’t in the right headspace to hear him when he said this wasn’t an inconvenience. He replaced his helmet and activated his comm. “Oracle, I’m on my way back now. Can you let the others know to mask up if they’ve gotten comfortable. I’ll—” He glanced back. Your hands shook as you struggled with your zipper. He held your hands to steady them and helped you guide the pieces together. You managed to zip it yourself once they were fitted together. “I’m bringing a civilian back with me.”

Her beat of silence spoke volumes. “And you think that’s wise?”

“It’s my safehouse. I can bring back whoever I please.”

She sighed. “Alright. I’ll relay the message.”

“Thank you.”

The drive back passed in veritable silence. No wandering hands, though he felt the consistent tremor that you tried to hide by pressing your palms flat against his torso. No coy smiles, no sarcastic quips, just brittle exhales feeding into his ear when he took a side street a scooch too fast. He slowed considerably to avoid scaring you.

It was unnerving to see you like this. Jason didn’t know how to describe it, only that it wasn’t right. When he pulled up outside his place, you slipped off the bike and removed your helmet.

You rubbed your palms together as he dismounted. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think,” you said carefully as you took in the crumbling brick building in front of you, “The fresh air helped. My vision is a little...” You blinked a few times. “Shadows are more pronounced than usual, I guess.”

That failed to ease his conscience, but he would press the issue later, when you were more like yourself. He pressed your hands between his palms. They were colder than a shard of ice. He kissed your fingertips. “I'll wrap this up quickly, but once I’m done, we can talk about what happened tonight. If you want to talk about it, that is.”

You’d shown him grace with his secrets. He could do the same for you. “I don’t expect you to drop everything for me. This was more than enough, so take your time. I can survive now that you’re nearby.”

You had no idea how much that meant to him. Knowing you found his presence comforting made his heart swell. “I’ll get you comfortable first.”

Or as comfortable as you could get in his place.

He led you inside, up three flights of stairs until you reached his one-bedroom. The other two sat at the table, still masked up, much to his relief. Tim sat backwards in his chair with his chin resting on the back, snoozing. Typical. You didn’t balk as Jason ushered you inside. Not like Steph who openly stared after you, her concern evident as you stumbled in the dim light.

Way to be obvious.

Jason waved her off, hoping it conveyed that he had things handled as he led you into his bedroom. For once, he was grateful for his minimalist lifestyle. His bedroom was mostly clean save for a few articles of clothing littering the floor, but at least it didn’t smell. His bed was also made—likely because he’d been sustaining himself on naps at your place over the last few days.

You settled at the foot of the bed, a quick sweep of your gaze all you offered his place. Jason kneeled in front of you. “Do you need water? A blanket?”

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass. Like I said, I feel better already.”

You looked better, a bit of the color returning to your cheeks. He still had a lot of questions. Ones you might not have the answer to, and the uncertainty sat poorly with him. Unsure of what else to do, he kissed your hairline again. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be with, uh...”

“Robin and Spoiler,” you said, your tone unreadable.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I might have been more concerned to see Batman.”

It was a bland attempt at a joke, but it made him feel slightly better about leaving you alone for a little bit. “Be back in a little bit.” He stood and returned to the kitchen.

Steph rose from her chair. “Is she okay?”

“Unclear,” he admitted as he closed the door firmly behind him, “She’s better than she was when I found her. It’ll pass, whatever it is.” He lowered his voice and added, “She tried calling you first, FYI, but you were here instead, living for the drama. Was it worth it?”

She lowered her gaze, ashamed. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t. You made your choice, and I made mine. She’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.” Jason kicked Tim’s chair as he passed. “Rise and shine, princess.”

He jolted awake. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Wiping it away with the back of his hand, he straightened, “I was awake.”

“Sure, ya were.” Jason leaned casually against the counter with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “So, where were we? Fear toxin on the streets, right? That’s bullshit. I would know if there was a new drug on the market.”

“Only you wouldn’t because it isn’t starting in your territory,” Tim said, almost bored.

“And you would know that how?”

“Because it’s not,” Babs chimed in, this time through the tablet. A pixelated image of the Oracle sprite appeared on the screen, casting a sickly green glow across their faces.

Jason was suddenly in the Lazarus Pit, electric green as far as the eye could see as the pool worked its magic. Fitting his broken bones back together and making him whole again. It was as painful as it sounded. He looked away, shoving the memory away as she continued.

“Instead of starting on the streets and working their way up to more influential circles, it appears Mask decided to start from the top and work his way down.”

“I witnessed it in a real time the other week when I attended a party with Br—” Steph elbowed him sharply in the side and nodded to the closed door that led into Jason’s bedroom. It was unlikely that you were eavesdropping, but he’d been wrong before.

Tim licked his teeth and amended, “Some guests partook. They dip cigarette paper in fear toxin and smoke it with their tobacco or weed. It’s the smoke that doles out a hit. Leave it to the ultra-wealthy to get a kick out of experiencing fear.”

“Ironic,” Jason grunted, “Has anyone informed them that all they need to do is look out their windows to see the horrors of the world? Or is that too rustic for their tastes?”

Steph shuddered. “Rich people are the worst.”

“Not all rich people partake,” Tim mumbled sourly.

“Still rich. Still a pain in my ass.” Jason shoved off the counter. “You heard Oracle. What happens when small-time dealers catch wind of it and start distributing it on the streets. They’ll make dupes or cut it with other shit that makes it more dangerous.” A headache prickled at his temples just thinking about it. That would make a mess of his operation, for sure. “How do we stop that from happening?”

“We find the man behind it. Black Mask.”

“Wow. Fantastic.” He deadpanned. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“But you didn’t have us before now,” Steph said in a tone that was surprisingly earnest, “We can help if you let us.”

Anyone else would have taken the olive branch she extended and moved one, but Jason was too proud to make things easy for himself. “Say I accepted your help. Hypothetically.” Steph and Tim shared a look but let him continue. “What would that entail?”

“A supplier would be a good place to start. There’s enough evidence to suggest that Black Mask is the Puppet Master, but we need to know how this new operation works. The sooner we find the suppliers, the sooner we can cut off the supply,” Babs said, her sprite flickering as if the mouth were moving with her words, “While the paper isn’t as potent as the original recipe, the drug is still a liability if bystanders inhale smoke secondhand. They’ll feel the effects all the same, creating a ripple effect you don’t see in other drugs on the market.”

“What are the effects?”

Tim said, “Paranoia, mild hallucinations, elevated heartrate, the usual schtick you see with fear toxin, just milder. It’s still—”

“Are you saying I was unwittingly dosed with fear toxin tonight?”

You stood in the door that had been closed seconds ago. Jason swore he stopped breathing. You threw an old hoodie over your clothes with the hood drawn. He swallowed thickly, trying not to fixate on the fact you were wearing his clothes and instead on the matter at hand.

“Come again?”

“Tonight. While I was working, Delilah Cadwell—her friend blew smoke in my face. I thought it was a cigarette but those side effects that you described were exactly what I experienced.” You stepped further into the room, undaunted by the masked vigilantes sitting at the table. In fact, you spared them little more than a glance as you went on, “There was fear toxin at the party tonight. It would explain why Delilah was acting weird and why I saw...”

You trailed off.

Jason had no idea what you saw, but he stepped forward to place a steadying hand on your back, captivated audience be damned. “Are you sure?”

“Hand-rolled cigarettes,” you stated soberly, “Delilah loves them, but they smelled off tonight. Like decay. If they’re dipping cigarette paper in toxin and smoking it, then yeah, I’m sure.”

So, you had been eavesdropping.

“You were dosed?” Tim grabbed his tablet. “What else can you tell us? Would you be willing to give us a sample of your bl—”

Jason stepped in front of you. “No one touches her.”

“Jacob, it’s fine.”

Steph and Tim shared a similar reaction, a small pinch to the eyebrows that betrayed their surprise. They missed a couple chapters in your relationship, but Jacob remained a constant since they last saw him with you. He didn’t need their judgement. He judged himself for letting this go on for as long as it had.

“You want a blood sample?” You pushed up your sleeves as you spoke. “If you think it’ll help, but I only got a puff to the face. Will it even register?”

Tim considered your question. “It should, even if your symptoms have passed. Are you encountering any residual side effects we should know about? Shortness of breath? Nerve spasms?”

“A little shaky,” you said, unnervingly calm for someone who just discovered they were drugged, “Shadows are darker.”

Tim nodded as his fingers flew across the screen. “That seems to coincide with the lingering side effects of fear toxin,” he noted absently, “Are you afraid of needles?”

Jason held up a hand before you could answer. “I'm not sticking her like a pin cushion. A blood sample isn’t going to do anything except satiate your little mad scientist brain, so let’s focus on the task at hand—finding a supplier. How do you propose we do that?”

Tim paused, his gaze falling back to you. “I think our connection is right in front of us.”

Steph curbed her surprise. “Robin, that’s reckless, even for you.”

“You work these parties. You’re intimately aware of the comings and goings of this crowd, yet your job allows you to witness the action from the outside. You would recognize something was amiss—if someone was amiss?”

Jason realized what Tim was hinting at. Involve you. He sputtered, “You want her to find the supplier. No. Not happening. She’s a civilian.”

“That’s for her to decide,” he insisted, “It’s not like I’m asking her to apprehend anyone. I think a tracker would suffice. One link inevitably leads to another, all the way up the chain.” He snapped. “And that’s how we find Black Mask.”

“I’m not putting her at risk.”

Tim leveled him with an unwavering stare. “You already have.”

Jason didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even though he made a valid point. Interacting with you puts you at risk. There was a reason vigilantes kept their identities a secret. The more you knew, the bigger the target on your back. He knew that, and he continued to see you anyway. Trying to keep you from helping now was hypocritical, but he also hated to watch you put yourself in harm’s way for his sake.

“We can stop talking as if I’m not here,” you said flatly, stepping around Jason to speak with Tim directly, “If you’re asking for my help, I accept. A supplier was likely there tonight, right under my nose. It’ll likely happen again, so why not make myself useful if I’m already on the field. I work at an art exhibition next week. If there was toxin at the opera, I bet it’ll also be at the art museum.”

“Fine, but you’re not doing it alone,” Jason conceded, “I’ll find a way to be there too. Undercover, or whatever.” That earned him a round of skeptical looks, even from you. He bristled. “Fine, I’ll go as myself. I can ask my buddy Tim Drake to get me in.”

A muscle in his jaw feathered. “That’ll make things messy.”

“I’m not sitting back and letting her handle something I should have nipped in the bud months ago.”

“I think that’s smart,” Babs piped in from the tablet.

You startled a little at the disembodied voice.

“Sorry to scare you.” Tim turned the tablet around to show Babs’ sprite again. “I’m Oracle. The eyes and ears of our operation. Don’t let them tell you any differently.”

“We would never,” Tim insisted.

“Ditto,” Steph piped in.

She ignored them. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you said, taking it in stride, “You want Jacob there.”

“Jacob,” Babs said his name sharper than she probably intended. He was never living this down. “Is perfectly capable and well-intentioned. A second set of hands isn’t necessarily a bad thing either. We don’t know who this supplier is or where they’ll be. Having two of you will ensure they don’t slip through our fingers this time.”

“Alright, fine.” you conceded as you took the tablet from Tim. He let you without argument. “What’s the plan?”

He swore the sprite smiled. “Have a seat and I’ll give you a crash course in vigilante.”

You settled in the empty chair beside Steph who had tucked her blonde hair more deliberately under her hood and pulled up her mask until her eyes were the only thing showing.

If you figured out her identity too, he was well and truly cooked. Steph as Spoiler would inevitably lead to you discovering Tim as Robin and so on until you pieced together Bruce Wayne as Batman.

Jason cleared his throat, “Robin, can I talk to you for a second?”

Tim followed him into his room, leaving you and Steph to hash out the details with Oracle. Once the door closed behind them, he began, “If you’re going to bitch about this, save your breath, I have better—”

“I want something in return for this.”

He lifted his chin. “I wasn’t aware I owed you a favor. If anything, you owe me for that one time I helped you get a foundation off the ground to—”

“Do you know how to shut your trap and listen for five seconds?”

“When people deserve it.”

Jason resisted the urge to throttle him. “There’s a showcase at the end of the month at the Gotham Gazette for a writing competition. I need you to make sure Bruce is there.”

Tim’s lips puckered. “Why?”

He averted his gaze. “You know why. Don’t make me say it.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? I can see this blowing up, every pun intended, in your face if she decides to talk Bruce.”

“You think I don’t know that? I know what could happen and how it could all go wrong.” And maybe he wanted it all to go wrong. It would be the push he needed to finally tell you the truth because he was too much of a coward to broach the subject himself.

“But it would mean a lot to her if he was there, even if he isn’t the one who’s... you know. He’s still paying for her technically, so it matters, even if I’m the one she’s writing to.”

“I told you this was stupid.”

He inclined his head. “But?”

Tim sighed. “I’ll make sure Nadine puts it on his calendar.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Tim sniffed, “I think you’re making a mistake, but you’re too whipped to realize it.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

But he was in too deep.

Notes:

I think this is the longest chapter I've written for this fic. A lot of personalities in one place.
Jason is totally a bard. Let the man be silly. Please.

Chapter 24

Your life was weird.  

Weirder than most of the people who lived in Gotham, which was saying something. Seeing a vigilante romantically was one thing. Probably more common than people realized given how many caped crusaders were running around the city.  

Maybe there was a support group for the significant others?  

It would help you navigate this new normal. Hell, another person in your situation might have advised against helping said vigilante catch a potential drug pusher.   

Or maybe they would have commended you for jumping into the fray? Flirting with danger seemed like a prerequisite to dating a vigilante. Besides, how could anyone expect you to sit back and do nothing?  

Jacob might not like your decision to insert yourself on the case like you had, but you also didn’t live to please him. If he put his life on the line on the regular, this was child’s play by comparison.  

The plan seemed simple enough.  

Work the art exhibition as you usually would, this time with a comm tucked in your ear to link you with Oracle and Jacob who attended the event as a guest. It’s not like you were recklessly throwing yourself in the line of fire or impeding on an undercover operation.  

Been there, done that.  

You promised him you would be careful, which was a promise you planned to make good on now that you knew the plan. It was exhilarating, working in tandem with Red Hood and other vigilantes, but you kept that to yourself. Admitting it might give him a heart attack.  

Tonight kicked off the Claude Monet Immersive Experience , an exhibition that animated and projected his work on blank walls. People could walk through his work as you learned about Monet's inspirations and life. You’d heard of these experiences before, but this was the first of its kind to come to Gotham, so it was a big deal for the museum.  

Donors and historians attended the intimate gathering hosted in the west wing where they housed the impressionist collections while they waited for their chance to walk through the exhibit. Classical music filtered through the speakers as the guests mingled at high tops scattered throughout the room.   

A stocked bar sat in the hall outside the wing where Mark poured wine and mixed cocktails. His laugh carried as he flirted shamelessly with the donors for his tips. You moved around the room, unassuming with your tray of toasted bruschetta outstretched in front of you.  

“How are you feeling, Finch?” Oracle asked.  

That was the codename Jacob suggested you use.  

Well, it had been Goldfinch which was quickly shortened to Finch for the sake of brevity. When you pressed where the name had come from, he admitted it was an ode to the yellow hoodie you wore which was adorable .   

He tried calling you goldie after that . The pet name lasted all of two seconds when you laughed, and he turned redder than a ripe tomato. Several pet names had come and gone over the last few days—sweetie, doll, honeybunch—but nothing stuck. His attempts endeared you, so you let it continue, not wanting to discourage him. He’d find one that felt right eventually.  

“Never better,” you said as a guest swiped one of the plates from your platter without sparing you a glance, “I always knew serving would lead to a higher calling.”  

Oracle chuckled. “Not all heroes wear capes.”  

“Well, when you see Finch, the newest vigilante on the street, she will not be wearing a cape. They seem impractical.”  

“Dually noted.”  

“Not happening,” Jacob grunted, an unwilling participant in your shenanigans, “You can do a lot better for yourself than vigilante work.”  

“I never pegged you for a mother hen, Hood,” Oracle teased.  

“Cluck.”  

You scanned the crowd for the man in question. He stood off by himself between a Renoir and a Degas, squinting at the placard despite the glasses resting on top of his head. He wore a wool sweater over his button up—the kind with leather elbow patches that gave the impression of an English professor. He blended well with the historians, and that was do in some small part to the fact that he appeared genuinely interested in the collections.  

With a fond smile, you swooped past, flicking his glasses down so they rested on his nose instead. He startled. You winked and carried on. A soft flush dusted his cheeks as he straightened his glasses, focusing on the placard once more.  

Clearing his throat, he continued, his voice feeding into your ear, “What’ve you got for us, Oracle? I’ve done three rounds already and not a cigarette in sight.”  

“The museum wouldn’t allow smoking indoors.”  

“I would hope not,” he said, mostly to himself.  

“They have a designated smoking area on the second floor. I’ll check the cameras that overlook it. Stand by.”  

Her absence resonated as she muted her comm to search the cameras. You glanced over your shoulder at Jacob who moved onto the Degas. One of his later pieces at the ballet, the dancers painted in a soft focus.  

“Learn anything interesting?”  

He shrugged as if you were standing next to him. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”  

“Care to share with the rest of the class?”  

“Did you know Degas loathed being called an impressionist?” he said, the hint of a smile in his voice, “He thought of himself as a realist. I’m sure he’s rolling in his grave, knowing modern historians are lumping him with the impressionists.”  

“I would argue he was a realist,” you agreed thoughtfully, offering a guest your platter as you passed. They swiped a piece of bruschetta, and you moved on. “Until his vision started failing. I was hoping it was something more interesting. I knew that.”  

“If you already knew, why did you ask?”  

“Have you ever considered that I like to hear you talk about things you’re passionate about?”  

Your comment caught him off guard like you expected it would. He had always been easy to fluster, but there was something exciting about achieving it right now. Across the room, you clocked the bashful curl of his shoulders and felt a wisp of triumph.  

“Are you two done flirting or should I come back later?”  

His spine straightened. “N-No. Go ahead.”  

“I have eyes on two guests on the second floor. They’ve been still for nearly ten minutes. Like eerily still. Either someone spliced the video to look or they’re in the middle of a bad high. Care to check out which one it is?”  

“I’ll do it,” Jacob offered, already moving toward the door.  

“Be careful, Hood. Try not to—”  

“Don’t inhale the smoke. I know what fear toxin can do,” he said, “Give me two minutes and I’ll report back.”  

He disappeared, leaving you to focus on your actual job. When one lap around the room turned into a second and third, ten minutes had passed, and Jacob had yet to check in.  

“Find anything?” you asked, unsure of whether you were asking Oracle or Jacob.  

“Nothing on my end. The guys are still there though,” Oracle said, “It's possible Hood is surveying the situation and can’t respond.”  

She made a valid point. She would know better than you did given she’d been doing this a lot longer, but the answer failed to make you feel better. A quick peek wouldn’t hurt anyone. If it was a designated area for smoking, it wouldn’t be odd for a server to wander that way. You left your platter on one of the high tops, ducked into the hall and headed down the stairs that led onto the second floor.  

As you followed the signs toward the smoking area, you kept your eyes peeled for any sign of Jacob along the way. Rounding the corner, you found him heading toward you. He stopped short, catching you loosely by the arm so you didn’t run headfirst into him. His expression shuttered like you had caught him doing something wrong.  

"What are you doing?”  

“I was worried. You said two minutes, and it’s been ten. What did you—”  

“Not here.” He guided you down a narrow corridor designated for museum staff. Once you were hidden from prying eyes, he turned to you, pulled the comm from your ear and muted it.  

“Why are we hiding?” you whispered.  

“I think I might know who the supplier is.”  

“But that’s good news, right?” you said uncertainly, “Why would turn off our comms? Oracle should know about it too.”  

“Not until I talk to you first.”  

“Why would you need to talk to me?”  

He averted his gaze, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. “I think it might be Evan.”  

Cue shock. “Excuse me?”  

“Trust me. I know it sounds crazy and—” His expression grew more upset with each passing second. “I hate that I’m even suggesting it.”  

You tugged from his grasp and crossed your arms. “And why, pray tell, would you think Evan is supplying for Black Mask. He isn’t even—”  

“I saw him sneaking around the second floor.”  

Okay...  

That wasn’t the best look, but you weren’t going to let that sway you. “He probably got lost.”  

“It occurred to me that I haven’t seen him all night,” he continued, “I didn’t think much about it until I saw him wandering on his own. It would explain—and I know you care about the kid. People get desperate. They make mistakes. That doesn’t make him a bad kid. I think we can get him back on the right path if we approach this carefully.”  

You leveled him with a pointed look. “I don’t think he’s guilty.”  

He shoved his glasses up to rub his eyes. “You don’t know what I do. This isn’t my first time meeting him.”  

“Yeah, no shit. He was at the opera house.”  

“Before that. When I was initially following the trail to Black Mask, I came across a drug cartel and, there’s no easy way to tell you this, but he was—”  

“Evan was one of them.”  

He stilled. “He told you that?”  

“A few weeks ago,” you confirmed, “We were having one of those post-work heart to hearts, ya know.” His blank stare suggested that, no, he didn’t know what you meant. You heaved a sigh. That actually made a lot of sense. “I know he got in with the wrong crowd. It’s the same old tale we hear from the youth living on Park Row. You, of all people, should get that.”  

“I get it.” His voice was painfully soft. “I also know how easy it is to fall back into the wrong crowd when things get dicey, even when you want to be good. I was in his shoes once. One could argue that I still am, and I’m not exactly the best role model for kids like him. It’s terrifying to look at someone and see yourself staring back. That could have been me if—”  

“Except it couldn’t have been him.”  

The look he gave you bordered on pity. “Hon...”  

“Don’t hon me,” you snapped, “If you let me finish, you’d know it couldn’t be Evan because he was at a track meet this evening.”  

His jaw went slack. “He—what?”  

“He runs hurdles,” you explained, “I haven’t had time to get out to watch a meet yet, but he’s shown me a few videos from his practices. He’s good, for the record, and he made it to a semi-final competition. He cleared it with me before tonight. I forgot to tell him where the party was happening, and he probably got turned around trying to find it. That’s on me.”  

You pulled out your phone and, sure enough, Evan sent you several frantic texts over the last ten minutes. You turned your screen to show him. “There’s your proof. I didn’t tell you because I never thought you’d accuse him of pushing drugs.”  

His back hit the opposite wall, dumbfounded. “Fuck me. With enough shitty people in this world to look down on him, the last person he needed it from was me. When I saw him, my mind jumped to conclusions and I— God . I’m the worst.”   

His hands shook as he buried his face in his hands. Shame pulled his muscles taut as he released a low, slow breath that sounded a lot like a sigh of relief.  

No, Evan was not pushing drugs like he feared.  

With the information he had, you could see why he jumped to the conclusion he did, and why doing so pained him. The deck was stacked against kids like Evan. It would be easy to see a few scattered dots on a board and want to connect them. Jacob wanted to see this case finished. That meant finding answers that made sense, even when those answers churned his stomach.  

“Don’t blame yourself.”  

“Why not?” he mumbled, “I did what everyone does to kids like us.”  

Like us .  

Another piece to the puzzle, but one that left your chest aching. He was spiraling, and you needed to give him something to latch onto. “Do you know Evan was almost a high school dropout?”  

He nodded.  

“Do you know why he decided to go back to school?”  

“No.”  

You placed a tentative hand on his bicep, wool rough beneath your fingers. He stiffened but allowed you to touch him. That was a step in the right direction. “He didn’t go into the details, but he told me that someone looked at him and decided he was worth a second chance. Despite being at his lowest. Despite doing things he wasn’t proud of. This person showed him there were choices, and Evan chose to do something different.”  

It was impossible to miss the faint hitch in his breath, confirming what you already suspected. Red Hood let Evan go that night. He saw a kid who reminded him of himself and did the right thing. A momentary lapse in judgement now didn’t change that he was a good man with a soft heart.  

His eyes were wet when his hands dropped back to his sides. “He said that?”  

“Yes. He’s a good kid who needed a nudge in the right direction. I can assume that was you.” He nodded, albeit reluctantly. “See. Now, I need you to take a step back. Stop thinking like a detective for a second and approach this from the perspective of street kid like him. Like you were. Someone who knows how the illicit drug industry works. What would he think? What would he see?”  

“He would have noticed the fear in his eyes, not because he was doing something illegal, but because he was lost and didn’t know what to do.”  

“Good.”  

“He would also know that suppliers are meant to blend in with their surroundings. A teenager would stick out at an event like this. They would pick someone who blended seamlessly. Someone with the means to deal to a lot of people without being conspicuous.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Evan is too green for that.”  

“Exactly.”  

“I’m an idiot.”  

“You’re not an idiot,” you insisted, “You have a lot on your mind. You can’t possibly be expected to process everything perfectly. That’s why you asked for help in the first place.” His jaw tightened. “You’re bound to follow threads that lead to dead ends. This was one of them, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more to follow. We have time to find the supplier.”  

“We do.” The tension in his jaw eased. “I’m sorry.”  

“For?”  

“For acting like this. For not trusting you to think rationally. I just—” His hand fell to your hip, drawing you closer. “I don’t let others see the sides of myself you’re privy to and having you here has me at odds with who I need to be in the field and who I want to be when I’m with you.”  

“I accept that Red Hood exists in shades of gray,” you assured him, “You don’t need to soften your rough edges for my sake. Gotham isn’t for the faint of heart and neither am I.”  

“Don’t I know it,” he teased with a soft curve of his mouth, “But I don’t want you getting hurt.”  

“I’m staying safe.”  

“You followed me without a plan.”  

You waved him off. “I had a plan.”  

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Enlighten me, please.”  

“It’s a moot point now.” You ignored his knowing smile. There was no plan and you both knew it, but your point stood. “Now, we focus on that next thread. So, what’re we doing?”  

“The museum staff,” he said soberly, “The guys on the balcony are dosing on fear toxin, but we never saw an exchange. Either they already had it on them or someone managed to do it without getting caught on camera. Mask is known to work with several suppliers, so it’s possible we’re dealing with someone who wasn’t at the opera house.”  

“Sounds like a plan.” You patted him lightly on the cheek. “Breathe, and don’t beat yourself up too badly.”  

“I still feel awful for thinking it was him.”  

“Then make it right. Find the real supplier so someone else doesn’t draw the same conclusion you did. Be better than you were five minutes ago. It’s only thing we can do.”  

He took your hand and kissed the heel of your palm. “You’re too good for me.”  

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. There’s a big heart under all that muscle. One day, I hope you see it too.” You took the comm from him and fitted it back in your ear before he could argue. “Oracle, are you still there?”  

“Jesus, I thought something happened to you. I was about to send in backup.”  

“That won’t be necessary. Finch and I were just—” Jacob licked his teeth. “We were comparing notes.”  

Babs clicked her tongue. “Ugh. Just say you were making out.”  

“Let’s be real. He would say canoodling.”  

“You are so right. He has the vernacular of a bleeding poet.”  

“I regret ever allowing an instance where you two could meet. I’ll be gray before the night is out.”  

“Too late for that, Mr. Darcy.”  

Jacob flashed his teeth in a half-smile as he passed, leaving first so as not to arouse suspicion. “I’m going to chat up the staff near the exhibit. I’ll see if one of them might be a supplier.”  

“Sounds like a plan. What about you, Finch?”  

“I gotta find a lost server before I head back. Could you check the camera feeds for me? Hood said he saw him wandering the second floor,” you said as you left the corridor, heading away from the party. You scrolled through your texts from Evan, a wave of guilt washing over you. Poor kid was beside himself. “Once I find him, I’ll keep an eye on the guests.”  

“Yeah, let me see what I can find. Do you have a description?”  

“Sure do.”  

With her help, you eventually found Evan in the middle of the Southeast Asian exhibit. A replica of an Indonesian rumah adat towered overhead, casting the rest of the displays in shadow. The glow of the flash on his phone illuminated his face as he searched for an exit.   

“Wrong floor, champ. The party is up another level,” you said as you stepped out from between two stilts that pierced the ground.  

He whipped around, flashing his light in your eyes. You blinked away the dark spots dancing in your vision. “Oh, thank God, you found me. I thought it was up on another floor, but when I arrived the guys that I was following stopped on the second floor. I assumed they were heading to the party.”  

So, he did see their guests who were microdosing.  

“Huh, weird,” you said, keeping it casual, “What did they do?”  

He tugged sheepishly on his bangs. “Turns out there’s a balcony for smoking. When I realized that, I tried to come back, but I was so focused on following them, I couldn’t remember which way I had come.”  

You hoped that explanation would ease Jacob’s concerns. You’d forgotten to mute your comm. He could hear your conversation with Evan. “I’ve found you now, and I know the way out,” you said as you led him back toward the stairwell, “How did your meet go?”  

He shuffled through his bag to pull out a cheap ribbon stamped with a ‘2’ printed on one side. He showed it to you, beaming brighter than the flash on his phone. “I got second place.”  

“Not bad. I’m proud of you.” You ruffled his hair. “And how are your classes? I know you were worried about your history test.”  

That conversation carried you up to the impressionist wing, chatter from the party filtering through the open doors. Outside, a lull in the crowd offered Mark a rare moment of peace. He leaned casually against the bar with an easy smile spread across his face.  

“I was wondering where you ran off to, gorgeous.”  

Jacob scoffed in your ear. Still listening, it seemed. He tried using gorgeous , but you wrinkled your nose the second it left his lips. It reminded you of Mark and he was the last guy you wanted to think about with him.   

You ignored his displeasure and nodded toward Evan. “This one got himself turned around, and I went to find him.”  

Evan ducked his head, blonde bangs shifting over his eyes. “Thanks again,” he muttered shyly before heading into the exhibit to start his shift. You lingered, joining Mark behind the bar to catch your breath and figure out how to proceed.  

Jacob seemed to have things handled with the museum staff. It was easier for him to move around as a guest, while you needed to stay within a certain radius of the party without arousing suspicion. It was safer that way too, but that also seemed counterproductive to the case. Your head was a jumble of contradictions as you sank back against the wall.  

Mark smirked. “Long night?”  

“No longer than usual.”  

“Surprisingly tame group tonight,” he remarked as he bent over, sifting through the pockets in his coat, “Since there’s a lull, I’m gonna grab a quick smoke. Do you mind watching the bar for me?”  

You shot him a curious look as you pretended to scratch behind your ear, muting your comm. “I didn’t know you smoked.”  

He pulled a small tin from the pocket in his coat and flipped it open, revealing a neat row of hand-rolled cigarettes. It was almost too convenient. He pressed one between his teeth and said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, always keeping me at arm’s length. Apparently, you only open up to punk ass kids like Evan.” He sounded bitter. You’d never known Mark to be bitter about anything. He shrugged. “Whatever. It’s a habit you pick up eventually.”  

You stared at Mark, the wheels turning in your mind as the picture became clearer. He was attractive with an unassuming smile that made you want to like him. With how many people he saw in a night, the constant flow of drinks passing through hands, it would be east to pass drugs. No one would be the wiser.  

You would never be the wiser.  

Jacob hadn’t been that far off to be suspicious of your staff. He just placed his bets on the wrong coworker.  

Mark worked at the same parties as you. More parties than you, in fact. They didn’t always need servers, but a bartender was a most at most events. You rarely kept tabs on him like you did with Evan because he stuck behind the bar. You were coworkers, sure, but what did you really know about him at the end of the day?  

Not much.  

He noticed you staring. “What’s with that look, gorgeous? Are you finally ready to admit that I’m a catch?” He kept his tone light, but you knew he meant it. Mark liked to be desired by people, and you had long since stopped feeding his ego.  

You forced yourself to smile, rolling your eyes as if you hadn’t just made a chilling realization. “You wish. You know I’ve got someone.”   

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”  

You never told him outright, but your relationship came to light when Evan let it slip that a buff guy with a motorcycle picked you up from the opera house. Mark hadn’t reacted at the time, but he seemed to be making up for lost time now.  

“Be back in a few.”  

With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he headed down the stairs and onto the second floor. Once he was gone, you dropped to your knees, concealing yourself behind the bar. His frayed military coat had several pockets inside and out. You sniffed the collar, searching for the telltale smokiness, but all you got was a nose full of cheap cologne.  

Liar .  

Jacob gave you a tracker at the start of the night in case a chance arose to use it. The tech was thin, half the size of your pinkie nail and easily concealed. You slipped it inside one of the inner pockets, deep in the corner until it was wedged in there.  

You popped back up as a couple stepped out into the hall, locked in an amicable conversation. You smiled as they passed. It went ignored, the pair never sparing you a glance. A sigh of relief pressed through your lips when they rounded the corner and you unmuted your comm, “I placed a tracker.”  

“You found them?” Jacob asked.  

“I think so,” you said, “Mark Westfall, bartender. He headed to the second floor to smoke, but he doesn’t smoke. Approximately six feet tall, strawberry blonde hair, hazel eyes. He has the advantage of pushing drugs without anyone noticing.”  

“I’m checking the cameras now,” Oracle said, the clack of her keyboard audible over the comm.  

“Should we follow him?” you asked.  

“No,” Jacob said, “If he is our supplier, we’ll track his movements over the next few days to find the next link in the chain. Don’t engage if you can help it.”  

“Kinda hard when I work with him.”  

“You know what I mean,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “No shoving priceless art pieces on him if you can help it.”  

“No promises.”  

“You did good, Finch.”  

A swell of pride bloomed in your chest. “Thanks.”  

“Alright, lovebirds. I’ve got eyes on Westfall and I’m running his face through my programs to see if there’s anything we missed tonight or in the past. It looks like you two have a handle on things. Keep your eyes peeled if anything changes, but I’m gonna sign off for the night. Thanks for your help, Finch. It was a pleasure to work with you.”  

“Anytime.”  

You pulled the comm from your ear and slipped it in your pocket, content to exist with your own thoughts for a while. When Mark returned, a frown had settled in place as he slipped wordlessly next to you. It was such a jarring change that you had to excuse yourself.  

Whatever crawled up his ass, you didn’t want to deal with it. Besides, with the tracker placed, there wasn’t anything left for you to do.  

From there, the night progressed without incident, much to your relief. All jokes aside, you didn’t want the evening to end in a shit show.  

As the party winded down for the night, you and Evan cleared the tables and packed away the linens. You were ready to call it a night when you felt a brush against your back. You glanced up as Jacob leaned into your ear and whispered, “Hallway. Five minutes.”  

You wrapped up your work and excused yourself to meet Jacob. He waited around the corner, away from Mark and the few guests who still lingered outside the impressionist wing. “Is something wrong?”  

“No,” he assured you, “I talked to the folks running the exhibit, and they said they would let the Monet experience run for a few more cycles if you wanted to see it.”  

That was… not what you were expecting.  

“I thought you were finding our supplier before.”  

“I can multitask.”  

You bit back a smile. “Did you want to go now?”  

“If I can steal you away for a few minutes.”  

“You can steal me away for as long as you’d like.” You looped your arm through his. “We’re just about done anyway. Evan can handle the rest.”  

He led you down the hall where the line for the exhibit would begin. It was empty save for a few staff members hanging on the periphery. He offered them a nod as you passed, leading you through the LED banners that shifted through paintings with handwritten script superimposed over them.  

You paused to read one of the excerpts as it drifted listlessly across the screen. Letters crafted the story of his life, painting another picture with words as you hoped to do one day. Would anyone find the letters you wrote to Bruce Wayne and do the same?   

Probably not, but the thought left you oddly warm.  

Inside the exhibit hall, projectors painted moving images on the bare walls. Chairs were scattered throughout the space for people to sit and watch the show, but your attention snagged on the faux bridge at the far end of the room. Weeping wisteria hung off its trellis, creating a gradient of pink and purple while an overhead projector painted the floor with lily pads and rippling water.  

You gasped and dragged him toward it. Jacob paused at its crux, leaning against the railing as the show progressed on the walls around you. You joined him, head resting on his shoulder.  

“Did you know they made Monet’s home a museum in Giverny. You can walk through his gardens and see the scenes he painted.”  

“Is that so?”   

The image on the wall shifted to another painting with a shower of painted flower petals, bathing the room in soft blue light. A narration played over the soft instrumental music, but you only half-listened.  

“Mhm. The garden was his, and they maintain it to this day.”  

“A book nerd and an art historian,” you teased, “Is there anything you don’t know?”  

“Plenty, but I like to learn new things.”  

“Have you ever wanted to go to college? Or have you already gone?”  

He paused, uncertainty twisting his mouth. “That would require me to have finished high school first.”  

“You—”  

“I dropped out,” he said, “I guess.”  

That wasn’t so uncommon for people like you and him. When life got hard, something had to give. School was often the easy choice, even if it made life harder in the end. It also explained why he was so affected to learn Evan had gone back to school. “I didn’t know. I guess I just assumed you had.”  

“People assume a lot of things about me.” His fingers curled around the railing. “That’s gotta be the kindest assumption by far, even if it’s not true. People would prefer to pretend I’m an idiot and move on. I’d have to be to make some of the decisions I have, but…”  

There was a lot to unpack there. “Do you want to go to college?”  

“More than anything.”  

The admission barely crested a whisper. A prayer spoken into existence as if it would make a difference now. You could guess his life hadn’t been easy, but knowing his dream—a dream you shared with him—had been ripped away from him left your chest tight.  

“It’s not too late. It’s never too late. You could get your GED, and we could figure out a solution for college. You’re smart enough to get financial aid. You could try applying for the same scholarship I have.”  

His grip tightened on the railing until his knuckles turned white. “It’s not—” His nostrils flared. “It’s not that easy.”  

He left it there.  

Of all the things to make him clam up, you never thought it would be discussing school. “What would you study if you did go to school?”  

“Education. I want— wanted to be a teacher.”  

Wanted . He set his dreams aside and you couldn’t fathom why. “Well, we know you could dress like one if you needed to.”  

A pained quiet darkened his eyes. “Yeah.”  

It was jarring enough to make you drop the subject altogether. He’d never mentioned his desire to go to college before tonight, but now you felt bad for inadvertently rubbing salt in the wound. He’d abandoned his dream while watching you achieve what he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair.  

“I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t be. I live vicariously through you.”  

That was somehow worse. He shouldn’t have to, but you let it go for now. You didn’t want to ruin this by dredging up his past any more than you already had tonight.  

“Are we calling this our first date?”  

“No.” His grip loosened. “When I take you out, I’m going to do it right.”  

“Like with a shotgun? Or?”  

That earned you a genuine laugh that warmed your blood. At least you hadn’t killed the mood entirely. His fingers brushed yours. Your pinkie curled around his.  

“Preferably a date,” he mused with a wistful smile, “A night where you can dress up all nice. Seeing you dolled up for me will make me want to drop to my knees and worship the ground you walk on.”  

You licked your lips as you recalled the way he looked up at you on New Year’s Eve, lips parted in stunned admiration from the ground. It left the area between your legs heavy. A small, selfish part wanted to see that look again. “And here I though you couldn’t smooth talk for shit.”  

“Does it still count if I cringed the second it left my mouth?”  

“Only if that was a promise.”  

His fingers twined more deliberately with yours. “More than that. You deserve to be doted on for a change. I’ve got it all planned out.”  

You hummed. “Do tell.”  

“I want it to be a surprise. After your showcase, we’ll have our date and it’ll be done right. There won't be any more doubts after that.”  

Something went unsaid, but trying to decipher his words was like trying to fit together shattered glass sometimes. Some of those pieces were broken beyond recognition while others were small enough to miss. “Not even a little hint,” you pressed, “I think I deserve something for finding your supplier this evening.”  

“So, a teaser?”  

“That’ll have to do, I sup—”  

He pressed his lips to yours. Soft, almost tentative as he cupped your cheek, angling your face toward his. It was the first real kiss you two had shared since you discovered his scar. Sure, you shared light pecks to the cheek or forehead, but nothing overt like this. You didn’t want to push him, hoping he would eventually come back around and kiss you again.  

You sighed contentedly as you brought his hand to rest on your hip. It slipped dutifully into place at the small of your back before bringing you closer, your chest flush with his. His heart hammered, but not nearly as fast as yours.  

Soft love stories had always been a guilty pleasure, but living one in real time had never crossed your mind before him. When his lips pressed sweetly against yours, nothing else mattered. Secrets, letters to vapid billionaires, and all the anecdotes that came with living in Gotham melted away until he broke away.  

“Is that enough of a teaser, love?”  

Glazed eyes stared down at you over the edge of foggy glasses. Your fingers curled in his collar, half-tempted to drag him back down to kiss him again, but you restrained yourself. That kiss was a promise. One you couldn’t wait to see come to fruition.  

“I like that one.”  

“Hm?”  

“Love. It’s a classic.” You shot him a coy smile. “Though lovebug is a close second.”  

He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a flustered reaction as he turned back to watch the show. Shame, you would just have to try harder. “Though, I’m personally a fan of sugar tits.”  

Jacob choked on air. “I’m not calling you that.”  

“Aw, come on. You haven’t even tried. Say it with me, su—”  

He wrapped you in a tight embrace, mumbling your teasing in his broad chest. You felt a sudden surge of heat as he kissed the top of your head. “No,” he said firmly before softly adding, “I like it too... love.”  

Love .  

With the way things were going, you were bound to fall headfirst in love with him—if you weren’t already there. Moments like these made it impossible to ignore the profound fondness you had for him.  

And was that so bad?  

Notes:

It's moments like these where I use the art history minor I got just for funnsies.

The next chapter is going to be a doozy. Please prepare yourselves now. I will provide warnings at the start of the chapter.

As we end our journey, I look toward my next project. I'm looking at writing a Tim Drake x Reader fic next. I'm beginning the process of laying out mood boards and a plot, so hopefully I can find a story I like.

Chapter 25

Notes:

TW: I updated the tags to reflect this, but I just wanted to reiterate them for this chapter specifically - Non-consensual drug use, body horror, self-mutilation/harm, blood and gore, PTSD, hallucinations.

Please proceed with caution, and for those who decide this chapter is too much for them, I will provide a TLDR at the end in the author notes.

Dear Bruce,

Vicki Vale mentioned that you would be attending the showcase in a few days. I don’t want to assume that I’m the reason you decided to go, but I do want to reiterate how much your attendance means to me, even if you’re only there for the sake of publicity. I know we’ve had a few hiccups along the way, and I’m not the most emotionally vulnerable person when it comes to these things. I have the feeling you might be the same given the fact you’ve only responded to one of my letters. I doubt I’ll muster the courage to approach you at the showcase either, so I’ll let this letter say what I can’t:

From that start, I was hesitant to accept this scholarship because I never wanted to be a charity case, even if I supposedly ‘earned it’.

You said that you picked me for a reason. You saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself, but I think I’m beginning to. When you see me on that stage, whether I win or lose, I hope you know this is only the beginning.

Thank you, truly, for being my real-life Daddy Long Legs.

 

“That’ll be $96.73,” the elderly woman behind the florist's counter said as she rung up his order. Jason never asked your favorite flower, so he opted for the safest option was all of them. While not the most fiscally smart and a recipe for what was probably the ugliest bouquet ever, he didn't want to come empty-handed to your showcase.

He would ask your favorite flower for next time.

Hopefully, there would be a next time.

Once you learned the truth about him, about the scholarship, and all the secrets littered in between, you could decide that you never wanted to see him again. He would respect that, even if it killed him to walk away.

Sensing his nerves, and how could she not with the way he kept flexing his fingers on the counter, the florist smiled and asked, “Would you like to write a card to go with it?”

“Please.”

She handed him a card and pen before turning to bundle up the flowers he picked out. A lot of yellow, a lot of red, some pink and blue, and, well, all the colors, really. Each of the flowers conveyed something romantic or fond. He was a sucker for symbolism. Sue him. Jason jotted down a quick note, confidence waning once he hit the sign off.

He almost wrote Jason.

That was one way to rip the bandage off, but not quite the avenue he wanted to use to broach the topic. The truth was coming.

Just not tonight.

He tried to tell you. Really, he did, but anytime he flirted a little too close to a confession, he struggled to articulate it. There was no easy way to tell you, nor was he entirely sure how you’d react when he did, but one thing was for certain.

Tonight was about you.

Jason wasn’t going to sour it.

He signed the note with a simple J despite the insistent voice at the back of his mind telling him to stop delaying the inevitable. It went away if he ignored long enough. Pulling out his phone, he sent you a quick ‘see you soon’ text to temper the guilt of another missed opportunity. It only succeeded in fanning the flames.

“Here you go, dearie.” The florist handed him the bouquet, now wrapped with twine and brown paper. “I hope this makes up for whatever you’ve done.”

He blanched. “Oh, I didn’t do—”

His protests died on a puff of air. Let her think what she wanted. It wasn’t an apology bouquet. He had nothing to apologize for...

Yet.

As he shouldered through the door and stepped outside, his phone vibrated in his palm with an incoming call. Unknown Caller flashed on the screen.

Unknown, his ass.

He sighed and answered, “Can someone else handle it?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if they could,” Babs said sympathetically.

“I’m busy.”

“Aren’t we all,” she countered, “Mark Westfall is on the move, and he’s finally crossed into your neck of the woods. If we follow him now, we can find the next link in the chain, bringing us one step closer to Black Mask.”

He stopped short of his motorcycle with the bouquet gripped tight in his fist. “I ironed my shirt today. I’m wearing a tie.” Jason bought dress shoes for Christ’s sake. He’d yet to fully break them in, the backs rubbing his ankles raw. “If I get blood or dirt on me, I’m sending you a dry-cleaning bill.” Jason had never dry cleaned anything, but he would start to prove his point.

“Does that mean you’ll check it out?”

He checked the time. There was still forty-five minutes before the presentation began. He planned accordingly, allowing himself adequate time to mentally prepare himself for a potential run-in with Bruce. A quick detour through the streets of Crime Alley would minimize the likelihood of seeing his estranged father, but it also ran the risk of showing up late to your event which he wanted to avoid.

Jason huffed.

However.

A chance like this might not come again. Once it got too warm, Mark would probably stop wearing the jacket and they’d have to shift to more pointed surveillance methods which would take more time, and he was done wasting time. It was now or never.

“Ten minutes. Not a minute over. I have places to be.”

“I’m sending coordinates now. He’s a few blocks from you. If you can do some light surveillance, I’ll handle the rest.”

“Fine, but you owe me.”

“I’ll come up with something worth your time, Jacob.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now? I know it was stupid. You don’t need to remind me.”

She cracked her knuckles before she continued typing. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first one to make a bad judgment call on this sort of thing. Need we revisit Robin’s overuse of the Alvin Draper alias? Mr. Draper is wanted in six countries. I’m surprised Spoiler still talks to him after parading around as Alvin while they dated. I half-expected him to do the same thing with Bernard.” She snorted. “So, when’re you going to tell her the truth?”

“Soon,” he assured her as he tucked the tucked the flowers in his saddlebag, “Really soon.”

“I’ll hold you to that, big guy. She’s good for you, so I’d hate to see you fuck it up by acting like B.”

“Social folly is a curse we’re forced to bear under the tutelage of the Bat.” Even for the ones who tried to remove themselves. He still bore the weight of being a former Robin without any of the benefits. A shit deal if you asked him.

“With that philosophy, you guys will kill me.” She paused before adding, “And sent.”

His phone buzzed with the coordinates.

“Got it. I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Better hurry. I’ll tune into the livestream of the showcase. Spoiler tells me she’s a good a writer.”

He chose not to dignify that with a response and hung up.

Zipping the front of his leather jacket, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed off toward the location on his GPS. He recognized the area where Mark had gone. A labyrinth of alleys and dead ends made this place a breeding ground for illicit activities. Bold to do it while the sun was up, but that explained why Jason hadn’t caught them before now.

It would be smarter to get a bird’s eye view, but he didn’t bring any of his gear with him. Nor was he looking to get his clothes dirty before the showcase.

Ill-equipped as he was for this, Jason pressed on despite every instinct telling him to hold off. That instinct sounded a lot like Batman, but he tried to ignore it. Batman didn’t call the shots anymore.

He stepped carefully, ensuring his shoes didn’t crunch under the loose asphalt as he drew closer to the location.

Almost there. Just a few more—

“—nough for the rest of the month.”

He paused at the intersection between two streets, ears keen as he slowed his breathing and listened.

“They expect twice the distribution this time.”

“Twice?” That was Mark. He remembered the quivering fuck from the Wayne party. Hard to believe the same guy cowering behidn the bar was pushing drugs for Black Mask. “I don’t know if I can manage that. April is light month for—”

“Figure it out.” It was a woman’s voice. Low with the barest hint of a vocal fry that gave the impression that she smoked. “We don’t pay you to sit on your ass.”

Breath soft, eyes sharp, he used the shadows to his advantage as he pressed himself flat against the wall and crept closer. It was natural at this point. Jason crouched near the mouth of the alley and poked his head around the corner until he could see the two figures near the far end. Mark faced him with his back nearly pressed against the stone.

He tried to appear indifferent, but the way his eyes darted around betrayed him. An amateur dealer—how disappointing. They really were starting from the bottom and working their way up. His companion had her back to Jason. She was shorter than Mark with curly brown hair that fell past her shoulders.

Jason pulled out his phone to snag a photo for Babs. “Come on. Turn around,” he mumbled under his breath.

“If you can’t figure it out,” she continued, her voice syrupy like the drip of molasses, “We've found other means of distributing bête noire on the streets. Mask doesn’t need you.”

Bête noire. Seemed appropriate.

Mark grimaced. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Be sure that you do.”

She moved to turn.

He readied his camera.

Only for her to stop short.

Damn it.

“We’re being watched.”

Jason swore his heart stopped beating. How did she know? He was hidden. He did everything right. She never turned around. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to find a blinking light on the adjacent rooftop.

Babs owed him big time.

He bolted as the bullet ricocheted off the stone over his head. At least the lookout was a lousy shot. Footsteps crunched noisily behind him as he took a sharp left, then a right. He knew these streets, but so did his pursuers.

Two blocks turned to three and four. One turn too many. Double damn it. He was quickly closing in on a dead end. Jason scanned the area for an out. A fire escape sat ahead of him with a dumpster in front of it.

Perfect.

He used the lid of the dumpster as a springboard, aiming for the lowest rung in the ladder. He caught it and moved to hoist himself onto the grate. He might not be as flippy as Mr. Circus-performer, but he was a close second, even at his size. If only the grips on his new shoes weren’t absolute ass.

The sole of his shoe slipped on the final rung, and he plummeted. He hit the asphalt a second later, pain lancing through his bad shoulder and into his chest like hot needles. Jason wheezed, curling in on himself as if folding himself like a pretzel would smother the pain.

“And who do we have here?”

Shit.

A woman with narrow eyes and a flat nose stared down at him. She had a notable freckle under her left eye shapes like a crescent moon, not that a description would matter if he didn’t get out of here.

Shoving through the pain, he lunged at her. She stared down at him, unimpressed as a set of meaty arms caught him around the waist, hauling him back. He turned to face a man with a nasty scar carving down his lip.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” Jason insisted, playing up his Jersey drawl. If they thought he was just another druggie on the street, they might leave him be. Or offer him a job if he was lucky.

Luck didn’t seem to be on his side tonight.

“Hm. Yes. We’ll make sure of that.”

She nodded to her partner who pulled a syringe from the depths of his coat. Jason shoved him away, raking his fingernails down his cheek. Blood beaded his skin, not that the man flinched. Back and forth, they wrestled with each other, Jason drawing more blood as he did.

His vantage was awkward and the pain in his shoulder brought tears to his eyes. It was a valiant effort, but valiant wasn’t enough.

The man yanked him by the tie, effectively choking the fight out of him. His hesitation created a window of opportunity, and he brought the syringe down on the soft patch of skin where his shoulder met his neck. Jason’s tendons constricted with the release of its contents.

Its effects were instantaneous and familiar.

Fear toxin.

A sudden spike in his blood left him breathless. Sweat beaded his brow as he pawed at the injection site. A vain attempt to rip the wending snake from his veins. It slithered, branching off through his capillaries until he burned like an exploding star.

Oh, this was bad.

He reached for his phone, finding nothing in his pocket. He must have dropped it during the chase. Somewhere in the labyrinth of streets.

Devastation buckled his knees, and he dropped like deadweight, head bouncing off the concrete with a sickening crack. He writhed and twisted, fighting uselessly against the intoxicating pull of the toxin.

It was hot.

Too hot.

He ripped his jacket off, but it failed to alleviate the burn.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut to stave off the hallucinations, but the darkness was much worse. Like taking a plunge in fetid water, until it closed in on him from all sides. Burning, drowning, and everything in between. He thrashed violently against the abyss, desperate to find the surface.

When he found the strength to open his eyes, he was alone once more. Nothing made that fact more poignant than now, as the shadows closed in on him.

Left to their mercy until—

The darkness consumed him once more.

His time spent with you had created a false sense of security. When it mattered most, he would face his demons alone—time and time again. No one would come to save him. He accepted that with a fleeting peace that loosened his muscles.

The toxin snagged on his insecurities and dredged them from the depths of his psyche. Forcing him to bear witness to them like the world’s most fucked up claw game. There was no escape. His best hope was to ride it out and pray his past didn’t kill him.

Sickly green light cast the crags in the abyss in harsh contrast. It bled from the scars on his hands, on his arms. His breath caught in his throat as he flexed his fingers. Each curl tugged at the seams of flesh until they split anew, luminescent green oozing from the sores.

He puckered the skin, willing it to fuse back together. His flesh melted like putty in his hands, rotted. Not dead, but not quite alive either. His scars told the story of a dead man. A creation of the pit and nothing more.

Disgusting.

Blunt nails raked across the pockets of flesh.

Horrifying.

He peeled it away until there was only pulsing muscle on bone. The pain hardly registered.

Monster.

“Failure.”

Bruce. No. Batman stared down his nose at Jason as he unraveled at the seams. Disapproval mixed with pointed disgust. It was a look he imagined Batman made often where he was concerned.

“I thought I could save you from yourself.”

His rough voice grated on his ears. He ripped more desperately at his skin as if that might save him.

“But there was no saving what was already damaged. One day, in the not-so-distant future, your recklessness, your anger, this warped sense of justice you hold close to your chest will get you killed.”

Jason quivered.

“And this time, I hope you stay gone. This city, my city, is better off without you in it.”

“No. Pl—”

“You really thought you could replace me?”

Dick took Batman’s place, dressed in his Nightwing—

No, his Robin—

No.

It flickered between the two until his vision blurred. That should have been his first clue that the hallucinations had begun, but his mind was too much of a whirlwind for rationale. He stepped toward Jason, his visage an amalgamation of the past and present. It was still hauntingly beautiful, even in his nightmares.

As his nails raked over his forearms, Jason flinched.

Now, it stung.

“Little broken Wing.” He hadn’t used that name in years. He only used it because he couldn’t stand to call him Robin. Dick had gotten over it eventually, but now, here he was—using it again. “You were never going to replace me. At least the Robins who came after you—”

Tim.

Steph.

Damian.

They appeared behind him dressed in their Robin costumes, each more distinct than the last. They stared down at him with soulless eyes.

“They were better. They made the mantle their own. And what did you do? You mimicked me. And a poor imitation at that. Even if you hadn’t died, you never embodied the spirit of a Robin like I did. Like any of them did.”

He crouched down so they were nose to nose. Jason tried to lean away, but he gripped him by the back of his neck and forced his forehead to press against his. It was almost tender, if not for the way his nails dug into the nape of his neck and the vitriol in his words.

“You were always meant to fall.”

The ground fractured beneath him.

No, no, no.

“H-He picked me.”

“Because we’ve always trusted Bruce’s judgement.”

The ground shattered like glass, leaving him in free fall. He flung out his arms, seeking purchase in the abyss. Their faces faded from view, but his words stuck with him. Jason smacked his temples, desperate to dislodge them.

He was a Robin.

A good Robin.

So, so good.

It gave him hope.

It gave him magic.

He was a—

“Liar.”

He hit the ground.

You stared at him. Horror played plain on your face as you studied him. He refused to look down, knowing he’d vomit at the sight. He could feel it. The twitch of exposed muscle beneath his fingers even as he continued to rake his nails across his arms. Each pump of his heart brought warm blood that soaked the front of his shirt.

“I didn’t—”

But he had.

Every time you called him Jacob.

Every time you talked about college or your letters.

Every time you asked a question, and he deflected.

How could he trick himself into believing that he ever deserved someone as good as you?

“If I’d know this was who you really were...”

You turned your back on him.

“You really are a monster.”

He wasn’t strong enough. Losing you would mean he had nothing, and Jason couldn’t lose the one good thing he had in Gotham. Walking away wasn’t an option. It never was. He would rather grovel.

“Please,” he begged through his tears, “Look at me.”

You kept your back to him. He would have preferred you melt into the shadows like the others, but you remained. Watching you reject him was its own flavor of torture.

“Look at me,” he pleaded again, “See me. Say my name.”

But you didn’t know his name.

Jason Todd was dead.

He was better off that way.

“See me, see me, see me.” He curled in on himself, trembling.

See the man beyond the blood and gore. Beyond the hood with his violence and guns. See the timid man who so soft for you that it caused physical pain to watch you turn your back on him now.

A man who yearns.

A man who lo—

Jason gasped and rolled onto his side. It was dark. Thin strips of light bled into the alley, casting the pitted asphalt with shadows. They danced like devils around a fire, celebrating his fall. Blood caked his nails—his blood—dried and nearly black in the dim light. A feverish shudder wracked his body.

He willed himself to move, but his limbs weighed like lead and pinned him to the ground.

“Please,” he croaked, throat raw and tasting vaguely of copper. He had no idea what he was asking and of whom. His eyes drooped as darkness threatened once more.

“Oracle, I... Others... Stand down...”

A mass dropped from the roof, swathed in black. Fear gripped him as he gazed up at the Bat. Backlit by the streetlights, Jason couldn’t make out the particulars of his face, but he readied himself for more abuse.

It never came.

When he opened his eyes again, Batman had knelt at his side. He smoothed his hair, creating a strange dichotomy when paired with the severe pull of his mouth. “I’ve got you, Jay. It’s going to be alright.”

Jason broke on a sob.

He felt like a kid again. Scared, broken and bleeding. It was all too familiar except for one thing.

This time—Batman arrived in time.

“Thank you.”

When unconsciousness reached for him again, Jason let it drag him under.

Notes:

Hey...

How y'all doing?

TLDR of the Chapter: Jason buys flowers for your showcase. As he leaves, Babs calls him and asks him to check out Mark, who is on the move a short walk away. He agrees #reluctantly. As he's doing surveillance, he is discovered. A chase proceeds and he is caught. They dose him with a pure fear toxin directly into the veins.

Cue horrifying imagery of undead Jason. Mostly, he is told visited by Batman and Dick who tell him he was a poor imitation and always meant to fall. Then he sees you. You call him a liar and turn your back on him. He begs you to look at him, to see him. When he comes to lucidity, he is found by Batman. Jason is relieved as he goes unconscious.

Chapter 26

See you soon.

That was forty minutes ago, and Jacob had yet to arrive. Cocktail hour came and went, your gaze drifting back to the door every so often. Small talk and mediocre cheese boards could only do so much to distract you from his absence.

You weren’t sure in what world soon meant down to the fucking wire, but your stomach was a mess of hopeless knots because of it.

The Gazette held the showcase at the historic Gotham Hotel. You had worked parties in its dining room several times but never attended as a guest. Its art deco inspired decorations had a dizzying effect with mirrored half-walls creating a visual abyss. It made the room feel much larger than it was. Chevron-patterned carpet covered the floor, leaving you unsteady on your feet.

The showcase would take place on the old jazz stage in the corner with several dozen chairs in front of it. Too many chairs. You expected the pre-showcase jitters, but the knots in your stomach tightened as the time drew closer.

Still coming?

You paused with your finger hovered over what would be the third text you sent in the last five minutes. Vicki messed with the microphone on the stage. It was almost showtime, and Jacob was nowhere to be found. You craned your neck to scan the room, foolishly hoping that you’d missed him on your first seven passes.

Bruce sat at the bar, his presence like a vacuum. His tailored suit showed off his broad shoulders and the taper of his waist. His tie had been immaculate when he arrived, but he had loosened it at some point to give off a rakish quality.

Reporters and socialites flocked him the second he stepped in the door, seeking a chance to speak with the Prince of Gotham.

Seeing him made your heart beat a little faster. You knew he was coming but knowing and seeing were two different things. You deleted your text to Jacob. If he didn’t answer the first two, he wasn’t going to answer this one.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Chloe, a fellow finalist, appeared beside you. She managed to strike a balance between artsy and professionalism with her black hair fastened with a handmade barrette on the nape of her neck. Strands of multicolored beads coiled from the center, reminding you of a budding flower. Smudged liner darkened her vulpine eyes, offset by the soft smile rounding her brown cheeks.

“I don’t mean to pry, but you keep looking at the door, and it’s starting to make me nervous.”

“Sorry,” you said as you tucked your phone behind your back, “My—my plus one is running late.” You still couldn’t bring yourself to call him your boyfriend, even if it felt right. Even if you knew he wanted it too.

“I don’t want him to miss this.”

Chloe nodded thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. My girlfriend tried to get off for this, but her work sucks. I would have liked her to be here too. She always knows what to say when I’m nervous.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “I was hoping he would know what to say.”

“First writing competition?”

“First competition. Period. I never thought I’d make it this far.”

“You’re here for a reason,” she insisted, “Don’t overthink it.”

Chloe was a junior at Gotham University. A writing major, like you, though she was nearly finished with her degree. It showed in the way she held herself. Her shoulders squared with an air of confidence that made you want to curl into yourself and hide. She approached you when the cocktail hour began to introduce herself. The more you talked, the more you liked her, but you still felt woefully inadequate by comparison.

“I hear they plan to stream the showcase on socials,” Chloe said when she noticed your frown. She nodded to the camera pointed at the stage. “If your plus one misses this, he can always catch the highlights later. These things are usually dry.”

You appreciated her attempts to settle your nerves, but pointing out the cameras were the least helpful thing she could have done. Being perceived was not something you were used to. You’d perfected the art of fading into the background over the years, so this was a change. Whether it was good or bad had yet to be decided.

“Ladies!” Vicki approached, dressed smartly in tweed with a pair of chunky heels. “I hope you’re excited because we’re about to begin, if you could take your seats near the front. I’ll call you to the front when it’s your turn to read.”

“Will do.” Chloe shot her a thumbs up, but Vicki had already moved on to gather the other finalists. Turning to you, she asked, “Want to sit next to me? I'll need the moral support. I’m a wreck in front of a crowd.”

You chanced one last look at your phone. Still now text. Irritation gave way to concern. Jacob wouldn’t blow you off like this unless he had a good reason. What if—

Your jaw tightened.

Turn off your phone.

Try not to think about it.

It was out of your control.

“Please,” you said with a watery smile, “I’ll need it too.”

 

The showcase began. It was dry, just as Chloe had predicted, and was more of a showcase for the Gazette’s accomplishments more so than theirs. Your mind wandered as Vicki listed off the recognitions and awards that they received over the last year.

When it came time to read an excerpt from your submission, the knots in your stomach pulled taut. Chloe went before you. Her excerpt was heavily inspired from Lenape stories. Her voice was steady as she painted a vivid picture with words alone, balancing imagery with dialogue that felt real.

If she was a wreck, what did that make you?

You wiped your palms on the front of your silk skirt. If, by some miracle, you managed to make it through your excerpt without stumbling, you’d be surprised. There was a reason you hid behind the written word. It was why you couldn’t fathom approaching Bruce today. No, the letters kept a healthy barrier between you and the billionaire. No need to shatter the illusion you’d created.

When Chloe finished, the roaring applause threatened to sweep you away. Your knee bounced as she returned your seat. Vicki called your name. It took a second to fully register, and only when Chloe nudged you did you stand. Knees weak and heart threatening to beat clear from your chest, you joined her onstage.

Spotlights muddled the faces in the audience. That made you feel slightly better, but there was still a tempest swirling in your chest. You had nothing to prove. The Gazette had already made their decision. This was a formality to add some flair to the competition. You knew that, and yet, you felt like your worth depended on this.

“I never doubted you for a second.”

God, you wished Jacob had come.

You stumbled through the first few paragraphs before you found a comfortable rhythm. It wasn’t particularly good compared to the other submissions—not in your eyes—but you had always been overly critical of your work. As you read, you compiled a list of all the things that could have made the submission better.

It wasn’t good.

It wasn’t perfect.

How did you even make it to the finals?

The pool of applicants must have been small this year. It was the only explanation. Bruce's first impression of your work would be tainted by imperfection.

You stumbled over your next sentence, nauseated with yourself. This was a disaster. Why was Vicki letting this go on? She would be better off stopping you before you made a bigger fool of yourself.

The applause barely registered when you finished. You couldn’t help but think they were doing it out of pity as you stumbled back to your seat, legs threatening to give out from under you. Chloe smiled when you settled next to her, but that, too, felt like a consolation.

The rest of the showcase passed in a blur. When it came time to announce the winner, you had already made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t be your name.

And it wasn’t.

Chloe won. You were genuinely happy when Vicki said her name instead. She deserved it. Absolutely. One hundred percent. They would have been crazy not to pick her over the others. Your disappointment was fleeting as she stepped onstage to retrieve her certificate.

Most of the guests stuck around after the showcase to mingle and take photos. You lingered awkwardly at the end of the bar as the other finalists celebrated with friends and family. You had no one to celebrate this accomplishment—not even Bruce Wayne who spoke with Vicki in the corner. Their heads were ducked as they spoke in hushed voices.

It was a sobering realization that left you numb.

“You excerpt was really good.”

Chloe slid next to you, her purse slung over her shoulders. Several more beaded keychains hung off the zipper. You forced yourself to smile, knowing you’d never want to be seen in public again if you burst into tears in a room full of reporters.

“Yours was phenomenal,” you insisted, “You deserved the win.”

She beamed. “I appreciate that, but I think you should give yourself more credit. I never would have never placed in my first year at GU.” Her purse rattled as she leaned against the bar. “I didn’t even think about entering the competition until this year. I didn’t have the nerve.”

Something akin to hope stirred in your chest. “Really?”

“This competition is no joke,” she said, “Trust me when I say you don’t garner the attention of the Vicki Vale by being mediocre. I worked on my submission for months with the writing club on campus.”

You stood a little straighter. “There’s a writing club at GU?”

She nodded. “Do you want to join? We meet on Monday nights at the student center.”

Your heart sank. “I don’t know if I can commit to a weekly club.”

“Nonsense.” Chloe waved you off. “It’s super casual. Come when you can. Use the prompts or don’t. Either way, we’d love to have you. The sad reality is that no one will ever care about your writing as much as you do, but it's a good place to find support and gather feedback.”

You’d never had something like that. It sounded nice.

“I would like that.”

Her smile broadened. “Great! With a little fine-tuning, you’ll be back here again next year with another shot at winning.” She knocked shoulders with you, encouraging despite the pit hollowing your stomach. “The other finalists and I were talking about grabbing a drink at the bar across the street. You should come with us.”

“Let me think about it. I want to see if I can get a hold of my…”

“Your plus one?” she offered with a knowing smile, “That’s fine. He can come too. The more the merrier. Let’s trade numbers. Text me if you decide to join us.”

After giving her your number, you felt slightly better about the night. It was nice to have a prospective writer friend. In general, having a writing community to fall back on would be necessary in the long run. They would understand the challenges and offer advice. Steph was great, but pre-med and classics were on opposite ends of the spectrum. She also considered Twilight classic literature which made your skin itch.

Chloe left shortly thereafter. You thought about doing the same when you noticed the horde around Bruce Wayne had dissipated. He sat two stools down from you, scrolling idly on his phone.

Now would be the chance to speak with him.

If you wanted to.

Did you want to?

If you approached him, there would be no going back. The illusion would shatter, and as Jacob had suggested, the romantic nature of your correspondence would cease to exist. You had thanked him several times already, but the thought of reiterating those same sentiments out loud left you queasy.

If Jacob were there, you’d convince him to talk you out of it.

But he wasn’t there.

Fuck it.

Anything was better than agonizing over all the ways tonight could have gone better. Who knew? Bruce Wayne might be the person to turn this whole night around. You squared your shoulders, stood and marched over to where Bruce sat. “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?”

“Oh, please, Mr. Wayne was my fa—”

He looked up. You stepped back with a sharp breath, startled by the intensity of his striking blue eyes as they bore into you. Strands of gray hair made his widow’s peak more severe. He was attractive, no doubt, but the subtle lines around his eyes and mouth gave him a paternal quality. Even as his vapid smile fitted into place like a mask.

“You were one of the finalists.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, but the boyish tilt of his head gave the impression that he wanted you to think it was. Your eyes narrowed as you considered him. He considered you right back as if he were connecting a name to your face. It wouldn’t surprise you if he had already forgotten it.

“Yes,” you said slowly, “I wanted to thank you for taking the time to come to the showcase. It means it a lot.”

“Well, you know me. I aim to show my support where I can. It was a pleasant showcase.” His placating smile returned, rubbing like steel wool across your skin. “A lot of talent in one room.”

It was a safe answer—one likely fed to him by his PR team to make him appear likeable. It was something you’d say to the reporter covering the event rather than one of the finalists. You tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your gut as you pressed on. This interaction could still be saved.

“You know, it’s because of you that I’m even here.”

That did a better job of catching his attention. His gaze sharpened, and you got the briefest glimpse of the man who hid behind a mask of duality. Just as you expected. There was more to Bruce Wayne than he wanted you to believe. “Oh?”

“I thanked you in my letters. More than once, in fact, but I wanted to do so in person as well. So, thank you for believing in me and giving me this chance.”

There was no hiding the confusion that tightened his mouth. “I’m not sure I follow.”

You told him your name, hoping it would jog his memory, but your confidence waned the longer this interaction lasted. “I’m a recipient of the Jason Todd Memorial scholarship. It pays my tuition for Gotham University. None of this would have been possible if not for you.”

As soon as the explanation left your mouth and you saw the look on his face, you realized you’d made a grave mistake.

Oh.

Oh shit.

Tim never confirmed it was Bruce reading your letters. You made an assumption based on incomplete data. It was your own fault for never clarifying, but perhaps, a small part of you was afraid to confirm what you already suspected. Bruce was too busy to read your letters. He didn’t pick you because there was something special about you.

He probably didn’t pick you at all.

That kind of decision fell to the foundation board.

Your real-life Daddy Long Legs was a myth you created to sweeten the bitter reality that you were nothing more than a charity case to people like Bruce Wayne. He didn’t care for you. He couldn’t care, because he’d never really known you.

The realization was like a knife through the heart.

You looked away, eyes wetter than before. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I’ll just—”

“Did you say the Jason Todd Memorial?” His voice cracked.

You couldn’t bear to look at him. “Yes.”

Shame burrowed deep beneath your skin and festered. To think, you’d convinced yourself that a man like Bruce cared about you. There was nothing about you to remember. Not your name, not your face, not your hopes or aspirations, because he’d never known you in the first place. The truth was a bitter pill to swallow, and you nearly choked on it.

“Forgive me,” Bruce began, “I didn’t—”

His phone started vibrating. He looked between it and you, his expression indecipherable.

“Excuse me, I need to take this call. A pleasure to meet you. I’ll be in touch.”

You doubted that.

He couldn’t escape this interaction quickly enough. Bruce hurried off with his phone pressed to his ear. You watched the door close behind him, and something in your chest splintered and cracked.

You clicked your phone on. Still nothing from Jacob.

He promised to come. It might be stupid to hold someone to a promise like a grade schooler, but you trusted him to keep his word. You tried calling him. It rang several times before going to voicemail. When it beeped, you had no idea what you were going to say.

“Hey.” Your voice cracked like ice over a shallow pond. “I tried to text you and no answer. I doubt this’ll be any different. You’re not here. I can only assume the worst, and I don’t know what to do. It’s not like I have other vigilantes on speed dial.”

Your grip tightened on your phone.

Was this what your future with him would be? Left in the dark. Waiting for confirmation that he wasn’t lost or dead. His line of work was dangerous. He was bound to get hurt, and you would be none the wiser until he reached out.

What if he never reached out?

“I don’t know if you’re busy or dead or—” You caught the gasp before it broke on a sob. “I can’t help you and that realization is more terrifying than not knowing where you are. Call me when you can. If you can.”

You hung up as the weight of the last few hours came crashing down around you. Between the showcase, your conversation with Bruce, Jacob’s concerning absence—there wasn’t very much worth celebrating.

Notes:

Surprise!

I am down to finishing the last chapter of this fic, so I thought I'd celebrate by posting twice this week (and by emotionally devastating y'all twice-my bad)

Chapter 27

When Jason came to, it felt like someone had wedged his head between two flat stones. His eyes threatened to pop from their sockets with all the pressure built behind them. A sharp pain lanced down his neck and into his arm, leaving it prickling with pins and needles. He grunted, peeling one eye open before attempting the same with the other eye. After a few blinks, his vision cleared.

Crisp blue light illuminated the Batcave. It came from monitors on the far wall. Always on, always running some test or data search in the background, even when no one was seated in front of it. It was cold. It had always been cold, but now that he was shirtless (how the hell did that happen), the chill sliced to the bone.

He attempted to sit up, but a pair of hands sleeved in clean white gloves stopped him. Alfred peered down at him, his face a perfect mask of professional stoicism.

At least, it appeared that way, but Jason had known him too long.

He caught the subtle pinch of concern around his mouth.

“Master Jason, it would be ill-advised to move until you are fully coherent.”

“What happened?” he slurred, “How did I—ah.” His neck muscle pinched. He fell back on the cot with a groan as it throbbed. “I feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“Yes. Fear toxin is known to cause muscle fatigue.”

“Wha?”

His memories came back in a rush. The telltale spike of adrenaline, hallucinations, old wounds ripped open—both literally and figuratively. He lifted his hands, noting the fresh bandages that covered his forearms. He felt the tug of stitches beneath them.

“Self-inflicted wounds,” he provided as if that would make Jason feel better.

It did not.

He flexed his fingers, wincing as the stitches pulled taut. “Ah.”

“Given the amount of toxin in your system, it’s a marvel you’re still with us at all.”

“My nightmares haven’t killed me yet.” He meant it as a joke, but from the unimpressed arch of his eyebrow, Alfred failed to see the humor of his statement. Jason licked his teeth. “How long have I been out?”

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last week.” Alfred draped a blanket over his bare chest. Its sudden warmth caused a full-body shiver that rattled the flimsy cot.

His mind raced. A week.

All that time. Gone.

Alfred cleared his throat. “You know he will want to speak with you.”

He meant Bruce, of course.

Jason pinched his brow to alleviate the pressure building behind it. “We all want things. Maybe this will teach the old man he can’t always get his way. God knows he could stand to gain some humility. I need to head out before—”

Alfred pinned him with a look that suggested this wasn’t a fight he would win. Because he would always take Bruce’s side, even when he was objectively wrong.

“Fine. He gets five minutes.”

“I shall inform Master Bruce of this metaphorical time limit and that you are eager to see him.” He fluffed his pillow as he passed. It was as close to paternal affection that Alfred would allow. “Welcome home.”

Home.

There was that word again.

It may have been at one point, or maybe not. He wanted it to be his home, desperately, but there had always been that lingering fear that Bruce might change his mind and kick him to the curb. He could never be fully comfortable because of it. These days, neither the cave nor the mansion were all that familiar. He shifted uncomfortably and muttered, “It’s good to see you too, Alf.”

Alfred headed up the stairs, offering him a brief reprieve before Bruce arrived. He finally mustered the strength to sit up, his stiff muscles screaming in protest as he did.

Directly across from him, the Robin memorial taunted him. His uniform had lost its vibrancy despite the airtight pod that displayed it. There was something grossly poetic about a faded relic of the very thing that used to bring him joy. The plaque beneath bore the words: A Good Soldier.

That was all he’d ever be good for, he supposed.

He looked away, focusing instead on the small table next to his cot. A fresh shirt awaited him, no doubt one of Bruce’s as he was to only one large enough to share clothes with him, along with his jacket and the keys to his motorcycle.

There was also a painted mini of a beholder.

Jason reached for it with a soft smile as he turned it over in his hands. He could make out the individual brushstrokes, deftly painted in a way that suggested hours of effort.

Duke left a sticky note on the bottom that read: You should play a D&D session with Tim and I (he plays a warlock—shocker). Also, please don’t die. I really need help with my college essay. Thx.

Jason snorted and set the mini aside before shrugging on the shirt and jacket, careful not to jostle the bandages on his arms. His phone sat under it, plugged into a charger. A hairline fracture bisected the screen, but the screen turned on despite it.

At least he had that going for him. He hated how often he needed a new phone in this line of work. Sometimes, he wondered if it was worth having one at all, especially with how little use it got. Well, before he met you, that is.

You.

Your showcase.

Devastation pitted his stomach. He missed it. It was supposed to be your night, and he’d abandoned you. All because he just had to be the hero. He just had to find Black Mask. Altruism required sacrifices. Heroes always got the short end of the stick. He’d learned that the hard way. It was moments like these he wondered if doing good was worth it.

God, how could he do that to you?

Jason expected texts, so when the first notification dropped, he didn’t think much of it. Two more followed, then six and twelve, and so on until he had nearly thirty missed calls and texts. He stared at his phone in disbelief.

One would have thought he died or something.

Scratch that.

He knew how people would react when he died, and this wasn’t how it went down. The topmost notification was a video message from Roy. A large brown eye greeted him when he tapped it. Lian angled the camera toward the ceiling giving him a perfect view up her nose as she turned over her shoulder. “Daddy, help.”

“Is it going?” Roy asked somewhere off camera.

The frame tilted violently on its side as Lian dropped the phone.

“Ah, shit.”

“Shit!” Lian squealed with delight.

“Princess, what did I tell ya about repeating my spicy words?”

“Only repeat them after Grandpa Ollie says them first.”

“Atta girl.” The phone righted itself, revealing Roy and Lian in a more flattering frame. Her hair was thrown back in uneven braids tied off with red bows. “Hey buddy. Word around the street is you had a rough couple of days.”

“Hi, Uncle Jay!”

Jason mirrored Roy’s fond smile as he ruffled Lian’s hair. “You know I woulda been out there looking for you too, but by the time word got to me, you’d already been found. I’m glad you’re alright. No one wants to bury you a second time.”

Lian tapped the camera with a pout. “When are you coming to visit? I miss you.”

“Princess, he can’t hear yo—”

The video ended abruptly as the phone fell.

His heart thundered. That was a fluke. He helped Roy when everyone else abandoned him. Of course, Roy would do the same for him at the drop of a hat. Some might even say Roy was his only friend.

Which wasn’t sad.

It was fine.

Having more than one friend sounded exhausting. Jason tried to ignore the weird gymnastics happening in his chest as he moved on to the voicemails. He had several, but the most recent was from Artemis. It had been a few months since he’d heard from her.

“We have been informed that you let somethings as ornery as a toxin borne of fear weaken your resolve,” Artemis began dryly and without preamble, “You would have lasted less than a day among the Amazons of Bana-Migdhall. There are many reasons for this, but for the purposes of this call, it is because—”

“Listen to her!” Bizzaro cut in, “She no worry about you.”

“That is gross accusation, Biz. Worrying would be an insult to his character. If we are to continue to stand behind him, I will not stoop so low as to coddle...”

Oh, yeah, she was definitely worried about him. Honestly, he was touched that Artemis cared enough to call, let alone pin him with one of her lectures.

“If our brave leader can get his shit together for five minutes, there are several clients seeking our expertise and they promise payment worthy of our time. I am not your secretary, Todd. Find the man with the black mask and get your ass back in the field.”

“We no miss you,” Bizarro chimed in once more, his cheeriness the perfect complement to Artemis’ bluntness. “We are no friends.”

“Yes, what he said,” she grumbled under her breath.

The voicemail ended there, and Jason didn’t know how to feel. Hearing from Roy was one thing, but Artemis and Bizarro weren’t the type to express their feelings outright. Well, Artemis wasn’t the type to express her concern outright.

What if he was still under the influence of the toxin? It was willing him to let down his guard so it could tear him down all over again. It was—

No.

He was safe.

He was present.

He shook out his hands before pressing them flat against the cot, mapping the texture on his palms as he sought to ground himself. It was cold. Enough to raise the hair on his arms and leave him shuddering. The cave smelled earthy, undercut with the faintest hint of metal and motor oil. Bats chittered overhead.

Once the ground felt a little more solid and the fear had receded, he moved on. The next voicemail was yours. That pocket in his stomach yawned as he clicked on the oldest message. It was from the night of the showcase.

“Hey.” Your voice cracked like you were on the verge of tears. “I tried to text you and no answer. I doubt this’ll be any different. You’re not here. I can only assume the worst, and I don’t know what to do. It’s not like I have other vigilantes on speed dial. I don’t know if you’re busy or dead or—”

You hesitated.

Jason buried his face in his hand and held his breath.

“I can’t help you and that realization is more terrifying than not knowing where you are. Call me when you can. If you can.”

He switched over to his messages, and sure enough, there were several texts from you that night.

Are you coming?

The showcase starts in ten minutes.

Where are you?

Are you safe?

He cycled through your voicemails, each of them more frantic than the last as you begged him to pick up the phone, to be safe, to give you a sign that he wasn’t bleeding out in a back alley somewhere.

Warm bile crept into his throat.

Your most recent voicemail was from two nights ago. It was crickets after that, so he fully expected this to be the message where you told him to go to hell. Jason hit play and prepared for the worst.

“Spoiler found me. You’ve been recovering from your injuries. She didn’t say it was bad outright, but she didn’t have to. I’m—” He released a shaky breath in tandem with you. “Find me when you can. Please, I need to see you with my own eyes to put my mind at ease.”

He set it aside before threading his fingers through his hair. There was only so much he could take, and hearing the unadulterated relief in your voice nearly broke him. As a personal rule, he refused to cry within a hundred yards of Bruce. Never mind that he’d already broken that rule a few days prior, but he was under duress, and didn’t know any better.

“She’s an excellent writer.”

Jason inhaled sharply as Bruce pulled up behind him.

“Her public speaking could use a little work, but that comes with experience. From my understanding she’s also a freshman in the program which means there’s plenty of time to hone her skills.”

“No idea what you’re talking ab—”

Bruce tapped a few keys on the keyboard, maximizing your file on the largest of the screens. Age, occupation, address, and everything else that a cursory search through his databases could piece together. He built a fucking case file on you. As he scanned the information, he noted that it didn’t have your favorite cafe order, or which book you read when you were feeling sad. All the little anecdotes that made you human.

It did, however, make his obstinacy a moot point. He caught his tongue between his teeth and waited for Bruce to continue.

“Polite too. I had the most enlightening conversation with her,” he said as he finally turned to face him. He wore a cashmere turtleneck and pressed slacks. His usual black on black. “She thanked me profusely for a scholarship I don’t remember signing off on.”

The light from the monitor made his eyes glow as they settled on him. Jason, despite all his bravado, looked away first. He could still feel the faintest hint of toxin clinging like burrs to his resolve, and Bruce only served to heighten its effects.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Straight to business, eh?”

“I was informed that I only had five minutes,” he countered.

“Fine. The money was there, collecting dust. It’s not my fault you never cared enough to do anything with it.” That was a low dig, but Jason couldn’t be bothered to care. Being around Bruce brought out the worst in him. The street kid in him believed if he acted exactly how he expected him to (i.e. antagonistically), it would hurt less than failing to prove him wrong. “I had to hear about it from Tim. Tim, of all people.”

“I’m aware of the role Tim played in this scheme. Believe me, he’ll become intimately familiar with Wayne Foundation and the good it does for the community for going behind my back like this.”

Jason made a face.

Why did that sound like a threat?

Bruce crossed his arms and continued, “I’m assuming Tim never told you why I didn't make it live?”

“He said he had a few guesses.”

“He would know better than anyone.”

Bruce let that hang in the air between them for several seconds. Jason’s knee bounced as he waited for Bruce to break the silence.

“Doing so would mean I accepted you were gone.”

And there it was. It was his turn to look away from Jason. His voice rumbled in his chest, more of a purr than actual words, but he heard it all the same. It came at him like a blow to the head, and Jason narrowly avoided impact as he steeled himself for this rare show of vulnerability. Moments like these rarely ended in a heartfelt reunion between father and son. He knew that much.

“I wasn’t ready. I still refuse to accept it some days.”

Acceptance was probably a hard step to hurdle when his dead son was currently sitting in front of him. Still, Jason refused to fall for this when all the evidence pointed to the contrary. They were estranged for a reason.

“And then I found out you were alive and...” He trailed off.

For that, Jason was glad. He’d heard enough.

“So, you’re upset I used your money for its intended purpose?”

Bruce sighed. “It’s not about the foundation. If this is how you want to use the money, so be it, but I would have liked to know. I looked like an idiot in front of this girl as she talked about letters and thanked me several times. If Babs hadn’t called me when she did, it could have ruined this persona I’ve worked years to craft.”

Of course, he found a way to make this about him.

Jason gritted his teeth. “I can’t tell if this is a lecture or your shitty attempt at reconciliation.”

“Both.”

“Weird flex, but alright.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Jason picked up the habit from him during his short stint living at the manor. He hated seeing Bruce do it now because it meant admitting he had influence over him, but the signs were there. “The fear toxin left your heart rate abnormally high, and you suffered major blood loss. I was lucky to find you when I did.”

“So, you’re looking for my gratitude?”

His nostrils flared. “In addition to the blood under your nails, we were able to identify a second strand of DNA. That of your attacker from that night.”

It seemed his attempt at a heart to heart was over, though his heart was far from softened by his father’s bland attempts to make nice. No one did a quicker one-eighty than Bruce “I’m uncomfortable with my emotions” Wayne.

“It was enough.”

That was probably the closest he’d get to hearing Bruce commend him, pitiful as that sounded. “Tim and Cass have spent the last few days following the person of interest. We believe we’re close to Black Mask. Once we find him, I’ll pass him off to you. Do as you see fit.”

That was... oddly generous of him.

One would think a control freak like him would want the final say about what happened to one of the largest crime lords in Gotham. “Where’s the catch?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The asshole absolutely did. “There’s no way you’re going to hand Roman Sionis to me when all this is said and done. What if I shoot him dead?”

He inclined his head. “Will you?”

Jason wanted to say ‘yes’, just to spite him, but it would be a lie, and he was tired of lies. Killing Sionis would be an act of mercy and after being dosed with fear toxin, Jason wasn’t feeling particularly merciful. He found unraveling his precious crime syndicate far more fun, but he would never admit that to Bruce.

“Can I go?”

Bruce bristled. “You’re welcome to stay. Alfred offered to make your favorite for dinner tonight.”

“I highly doubt he offered to make chilidogs.”

“Your favorite of his recipes,” he clarified.

As if that warranted clarification. He was trying to make a joke, but Bruce wouldn’t know what a joke was even when one bit him in the ass.

“It would mean a lot to him if you stayed.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Just him?”

“Hm.”

He never expected this meeting to end with a warm embrace and hot chocolate by the fire, but damn, give him something to work with. “As much as I would love to stay,” and Jason meant that with every drip of condescension he could muster, “I gotta go. Someone is expecting me, and I’ve kept her waiting long enough.”

Again, Bruce looked away, his attention shifting back toward the computer. He closed your file. “Ah, well, when will I... when will we...” He trailed off, unwilling to finish the question, but Jason knew what he was trying to ask.

He smirked. “We were going on nine months without speaking. How does another nine months sound?”

“Hm.”

Classic.

Jason stood, swiping his phone and keys from the side table. His vision wavered from his sudden verticality as he approached Bruce. In a show of charitable grace, Jason clapped him on the back as he passed and said, “You’ll see me around. Just stay the hell out of my territory.”

“I can’t make that promise.”

Ah, it was good to see the fear toxin hadn’t changed anything. No one said a relationship with his estranged father had to be perfect, and that was fine by him.

“Jason.”

He paused.

“I know I’m not—” His shoulders bunched around his ears as he stared at the monitors. “Family is—” He couldn’t finish that one either. It was like pulling teeth with him sometimes. Finally, he settled on, “I hope she forgives you.”

Jason nearly stumbled. How did he...?

Never mind. Stupid question.

“Yeah. Me too.”

 

***

 

An hour later, he arrived outside your complex. It was much later than was probably appropriate given the nature of the gravity of what he was going to share with you. Nothing good happened after 2 a.m., but he couldn’t hold off any longer. He approached the front door.

Not the fire escape, not the window, but the door like a civilized human being. If he was going to do this, he wanted to do it right.

He found your apartment number and buzzed the comm, his grip tightening around a fresh bouquet. There wasn’t a florist open at this time, so he had to settle for whatever the tiny bodega on the corner had to offer. White lilies. The funeral flower, which didn’t bode well for him, but it was the best he could find.

It still wasn’t enough to make this right, but he hoped you would at least appreciate the effort.

“Hello?” Your voice crackled through the intercom.

“Hey, it’s me. I—”

The door unlocked with a loud buzz. Jason jolted, his heart rate spiked, and he swore the shadows darkened with the sudden rush of adrenaline. Okay, so there were still some lingering effects from the toxin. Not great, but he was already here.

Jason steeled himself before pushing inside. It was time to face the consequences of his actions, no matter how the pieces fell.

You met him halfway up, dressed in mismatched socks and the yellow hoodie thrown over a ratty T-shirt and sweatpants. Before he could speak, you flung your arms around his neck. He caught you with one arm, the flowers head aloft in the other hand to avoid squishing them.

“You scared the shit out of me. Never do that again.”

He nearly burst into tears right there on the stairwell. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to be there.”

“Wha—” You drew back, confusion creasing your brow. “Are you talking about the showcase? Forget about that. I was told you got hurt. You went radio silent. For a week. That’s way more important than a stupid competition. Are you okay?”

You grabbed his cheeks. The injection site throbbed as you threw his head this way and that to assess the damage. From your perspective, he would look fine. His jacket hid the bandages, while the bruise from the injection site barely peeked out from beneath his collar.

“I’ve gone through worse.”

Your expression soured. “Forgive me if that fails to rouse any sort of relief in me.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

He set you down, albeit reluctantly, his hand still resting on the small of your back. Now that you were here, in his arms, he could think of a million reasons why coming clean would put this moment in jeopardy and that left his teeth on edge.

Why would he ruin a good thing?

Or was it already ruined?

Tainted by his lies.

“Do you want to come in?”

Jason shook himself from his stupor. No. He had to do this. For both of your sakes. “Lead the way.”

He followed you up the stairs until you reached your apartment. Textbooks and loose leaf lay scattered across the coffee table and floor. Your place smelled vaguely of Chinese food.

His stomach clenched around nothing. It was feeling he knew all too well, though he hadn’t felt it in a while. He tried to avoid going hungry if he could help it.

As if sensing his discomfort, you asked, “Are you hungry?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s your food.”

“I bought extra. Just in case.”

In case he arrived.

You’d been waiting for him. Now that he was here, he had no idea how to start. His gaze fell to the bouquet. Flowers. He had flowers. Death flowers, but flowers, nonetheless. He offered them to you.

“I bought flowers for your showcase. They died, and this was all I could find at—”

You cracked a small smile as you kissed his cheek. “I love them.”

Relief washed over him. “Oh, thank God.”

You set them aside, your expression turning more serious. In the silence that followed, expectation began to form and he shied from it. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Someone needed to break the tension, and try as he might, it couldn’t be him.

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

He forced himself to breathe. “Thanks.”

“I thought you were dead.”

Woof. That was one why to start things off. He didn’t blame you, of course. How could you know it wasn’t his first brush with death? Nor would it probably be his last. “The reaper would have to catch me first.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized it was in poor taste, but he was desperate to lighten the mood before it smothered him. Your mouth pulled taut. “If Spoiler hadn’t found me, I would still think you were dead. I wasn’t ready to grieve you. I’m still not.”

Bruce said the same thing, but your admission endeared him more than Bruce’s did. You didn’t hide your pain, but it was misplaced. You had every right to be upset with him. He missed your big night. He let you down, but you were focusing on him instead. This interaction would be easier to stomach if you were angry.

Anger was easy. It was familiar. Your soft affection and concern left him unsteady. Jason gripped the back of one of your dining chairs to keep the room from spinning. “It’s a hazard of the job unfortunately. I’m going to get hurt.”

“I understand that,” you said slowly, “but I don’t want to sit around every night waiting for confirmation that you’re alive every time you take to the streets. Is that selfish?”

No, it was completely valid. You had every right to want what he took for granted. His other romantic partners had been fellow vigilantes like him. They knew the risks, but they also had the means to communicate with other vigilantes,

“I know. I feel awful about the way things panned out.”

“Jacob.” Your voice was gentle, but that name left him reeling. “I’m not saying this to make you feel bad about yourself. I’m trying to…”

See me.

Jacob.

Say my name.

Jacob.

Liar.

There was only so much more he could take before—

“Jacob!”

He jumped as he refocused on your face. You stared at him with your hands planted on your hips. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

His heart crept into his throat. “I-I’m sorry, love.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re not in trouble. I’m not upset that you missed the showcase. I know you wouldn’t have left me alone like that without a good reason.“

He ducked his head, ashamed.

“I mean, yeah, it sucks, but I can tell you’re distraught enough for the both of us. No need to rub salt in a wound that I’ve already patched up. I’m worried about you. Can you at least tell me what happened? I couldn’t get any details from Spoiler.”

“I was dosed with fear toxin.”

That was one way to steer the conversation in the right direction.

“Don’t worry,” he insisted when you didn’t respond, “It’s not my first time.”

Your glare sent a shiver racing down his spine. “Again, that doesn’t make me feel better. Why didn’t you say anything? What did you—” You shook your head, seeming to think better of that question. “Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real. None of it was real.”

“It felt real,” he admitted softly, “It also put things into perspective for me. I haven’t been honest with you.” He searched your face to gauge your reaction. Your expression remained carefully neutral as you waited for him to continue. “I didn’t want to talk about certain things because I’m afraid of how you’ll react, but I know it’s not fair to you. If only you knew the things I…”

Jason was getting ahead of himself.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Fuck, why is this so hard?” he mumbled under his breath. Words failed him. Where you were concerned, that always seemed the case.

There had to be a way to ease his confession.

His hand fell to the zipper on his jacket.

“It might be easier if I showed you,” he said as he dragged it down, “Can I?”

“You don’t have to do this.” But he did, and you seemed to realize it too as you studied his face. He prayed he looked more confident than he felt. Probably not. Definitely not. But he’d spent enough time stalling. With another sigh, you amended, “Take all the time you need.”

He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall at his feet. Your gaze fell to the bandages on his arms—crisp white now dotted with pink. A muscle in your jaw tightened as your frown deepened, but you said nothing. Good. He might have lost his nerve if you did.

He rolled up the sleeve on his right arm to reveal a jagged scar on his bicep. “I got this one on Dinosaur Island.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Aptly named. I narrowly avoided becoming dinosaur food while on a case with my fellow mercenaries. We call ourselves the Outlaws. There’s a lot of reasons for that, but it’s mostly because we’re the rejects of our families.” And yes, he used air quotes for that word.

“The Outlaws?” you echoed.

“It was my idea.”

You almost smiled. “What are you doing?”

“I’d rather read a story than tell my own, but my scars do a better job at telling it for me.”

He walked you through each of them as if they were chapters in one of his books. A bullet wound in his hip. Courtesy of Black Mask, who got lucky during one of their earlier tussles. A mangled scar on his shoulder where one of Penguin’s goons got him with a serrated knife. He had a lot of bullet scars. Some stories were more interesting than others, and for some it was easier to say that the rogues of Gotham loved to see him riddled with holes.

He earned them.

They were his.

He wasn’t ashamed—not of the ones he’d shown off thus far.

You listened patiently, his stories eventually leading you both to sit on the couch as he found his groove. With each new scar, it became more apparent why he was doing it. He hoped every other story would soften the blow when it came time to discuss the autopsy scar. That’s when he would tell you his real name. From there, you would likely have questions, and he expected the truth about the letters would soon follow.

Soon only one scar remained.

He swallowed thickly as he pulled up his shirt to reveal the Y-shaped incision. “And this one—”

You stopped him. “That’s enough. You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” he insisted, “I need you to see me. I need you to know who I am.”

“But I already see you.”

You cupped his cheek and brushed your thumb over the scar on his cheek. Again, he could feel the toxin rear its ugly head. He was terrified of what came next. He couldn’t bear to see you turn your back on him.

Not again.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“What?”

“I see a man who’s had a hard life. Too hard, if you ask me, but he’s still here. He’s living and breathing,” Your hand drifted down his neck and over the pulse point that hammered faster than it reasonably should. His vision narrowed with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Every instinct told him to run, but he was pinned in place by the gentle stroke of your fingers. “It means he’s done something right.”

Jason pressed his forehead to yours, hoping to find strength in the certainty that oozed from every facet of your being. “But there’s so much you don’t know.”

“I know, and we have time to figure out which pieces of your past matter to us. It doesn’t define you. All that matters to me is right here.” You flattened your palm over his heart. “I’ve seen the good in you, even if you don’t believe it’s there. I’ll keep reminding you until you do.”

“But—”

“I don’t want you doing this because the toxin told you to.”

His argument crumbled like debris with your declaration. The toxin didn’t help the situation. It was still there. He hadn’t escaped it. Not yet. When he looked at you, all he could think of was the disgust on your face as you called him a liar.

“That’s not the reason I’m doing this,” he insisted weakly.

“Then what is?”

“Because I need to.”

Before this went any further. Before he tumbled too deep into the abyss that was you. He opened his mouth, but the words refused to come out.

My name is Jason Todd.

I came back from the dead and found you.

It was my scholarship to give.

You’ve been writing me letters this whole time.

I chose you.

“I thought you were dead,” you pressed, “Grieving you was one of the worst feelings I ever had to experience. I don’t need you to list the reasons why I should hate you because I don’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.” You gave him a hard look that conveyed what went unsaid, but he was too focused on the words that refused to come from his mouth.

This was too much. He didn’t deserve your grace. You would think twice once you learned the truth, and that terrified him.

Jason removed your hands from him and stood.

You sank back on the couch with a broken expression. “Jacob?”

“I’m not—”

I’m not Jacob.

Say it.

His confession died on a wheeze.

“I need a second.” He aimed for the bathroom and closed the door before you could argue with him. It was comically small for a man as large as he was. Various soaps and candles littered the shelves on the walls. He tried to find comfort in its familiarity, but he couldn’t.

He approached the sink and turned it on. Cold water pebbled his skin as he splashed it in his face.

He could do this.

He had to.

And he would.

For a second, he almost believed that was true.

Notes:

*Taps the hurt/comfort and angst tags* It's gotta get worse before it gets better. Trust the process.
Don't be too mad at Jason. He's trying his best. And he's frightened.

Chapter 28

You stared after Jacob as the bathroom door closed behind him, a tepid quiet settling in the aftermath of what should have been a heartfelt moment between you and him. This wasn’t the reunion you hoped for. You expected tears, sure, but ones soothed by searing kisses and tender caresses.

Bitterness coated your tongue as you tore your gaze from the door. Instead, he tried to show you all the reasons you should hate him. It sounded like your dose of fear toxin had been less potent than his, and you didn’t have nearly as many demons, but you had no idea why he wanted you to hate him.

He wouldn’t listen to you, which was unlike him. That could only mean something else was at play here.

The way he looked at you at the end...

With fear.

He still had remnants of the toxin in his system. Or the things he’d seen were worse than you could ever imagine. There was no escaping the ghosts of his past, especially when he’d been forced to face them just a few days prior. Either way, your heart ached for him. It was frustrating, yeah, but you could only imagine how he felt.

Tonight wasn’t the night for searing kisses and wandering hands. It was a night for comfort, for understanding. You were ready to do that when he came out.

Desperate to keep yourself occupied as he composed himself, you turned your attention to the mess on the coffee table. After tidying it up, you took in the rest of your apartment. It had gotten out of hand over the last few days. Your grief had manifested physically. A few dirty dishes in the sink, quickly turning to an overflow that bled onto the counter. Fruit flies in the air. Your garbage was overflowing, but you hadn’t found the strength to walk the two floors to take it out to the dumpster.

Both tasks seemed daunting, even now.

You needed something small that you could feasibly accomplish before Jacob returned that made the space look more put together than it was.

Jacob left his jacket inside the door, the soft leather creasing on the floor. Bingo. You picked it up, thumbing the soft leather, as you went to drape over the back of one of your chairs.

Something fell from one of his pockets.

A piece of folded paper.

No.

An envelope.

The back had been pried open, revealing the faintest bleed of green ink. The same deep green you’d switched to when you learned his favorite color, but that couldn’t be right.

You only used the color with...

A chill washed over you as you flipped it over, knowing what you’d find on the other side. Knowing didn’t soften the blow.

It was a letter to Bruce Wayne.

In his jacket.

Leave it, a small voice at the back of your mind pleaded, Put it back and pretend you never saw it. Don’t ruin things when he’s already acting strange. You ignored that voice. He must have a reason for this. Outside the obvious, of course. Before you realized what you were doing, you’d turned out his other pockets.

Now was the time for understanding.

And you needed to understand.

Two more letters were stowed in his interior pockets. Both were written in telltale green.

He lies.

Was this what he was trying to tell you?

You tried to find the logic in the evidence before you. Why would Jacob pretend to be Bruce Wayne? That would require hacking the Wayne Foundation or forging a fake acceptance letter.

But that didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t fake.

Tim knew about the scholarship. Unless Jacob forced him to lie on his behalf. But why would he do that? He didn’t have a reason to.

The letter slipped from your hands.

You told Red Hood about your financial trouble. Right away, in the beginning. He knew you applied for a scholarship at Wayne Foundation. A letter arrived a few weeks later. You thought they made a mistake, and now you know why. Given the nature of his work, he certainly could have done all those things. You just hoped you were wrong.

Why?

How?

Why?

Your head spun as you hurried over to your nightstand. Yanking the drawer out, you found a hastily scrawled note on the back of an old Bat Burger receipt and a more refined note on a piece of cardstock. One written by Red Hood, the other written by who you assumed was Bruce. You held them side by side, hands shaking.

The penmanship was near-identical.

You never thought to compare them before now. Why would you? It had never occurred to you that he—that Bruce—

Another piece of the puzzle fitted into the place, warping what you thought you knew. Jacob was your Bruce Wayne. It would explain why the real one was confused at the showcase. Or why the Memorial Foundation hadn’t been listed on their official website. Everything you thought you knew was a lie, but how deep did it go? You sank to your knees as the blood roared around your ears.

Secrets were one thing, but this.

How could he keep this from you?

Why would he keep it from you?

The door to the bathroom opened behind you. The noise almost didn’t register. “I’m sorry I walked out like that. I just needed to—”

You turned as Jacob froze in the doorway. Drops of water clung to his curls where he’d dampened them. He glanced between your face and the paper crumpled in your fists, frowning. “Love?”

“How long?”

“What?”

You shoved to your feet and reached him in a few short strides. When you did, he shied away with pupils blown wide as if he were scared. Of you.

It was enough of a reaction to temper your ire. Upset as you were, you didn’t want to scare him if he was still suffering from the effects of the toxin. Instead of shoving the notes at him, like you initially wanted to, you offered them. “How long have you been him?” You couldn’t say his name. That would make this real, and you clung to the foolish hope that this was all a huge misunderstanding.

“What are you...” His gaze fell to the notes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Oh.”

“Oh. Oh. That’s all you have to say?”

You didn’t shout. Your voice stayed eerily toneless as you grabbed a letter instead and pried it open. You wrote about a test you failed. About how you were insecure and how undeserving you were of his charity. You shared a lot of things with him, but really it had been Jacob. You couldn’t tell if that made things better or worse.

It had to be worse, right?

“Tell me there’s a reason your penmanship is identical to him. Tell me you haven’t been Bruce Wayne this whole time.”

“I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

Anymore.

But he had been lying. He’d been lying since the beginning.

You looked away so he wouldn’t see the tears as they gathered in your eyes.

“Please, I wanted to tell you.”

“Did you?” Your throat constricted painfully, and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room. You hurried over the window and pushed it open, allowing the cool night breeze to come inside. It failed to loosen the knot in your chest. It failed to make this right. “When were you going to tell me? A month from now? A year?”

“Tonight!”

“Why not sooner?”

He didn’t have an answer to that. You glanced over your shoulder to look at him. He stared at the floor, fingers flexing and unflexing as if he were grasping for the words to say.

“This whole time?” you continued as you tried to piece everything together. There were still big gaps in the picture. Some things didn't add up like they should, but you tried anyway. “Have I—” Another chill hit you and you shuddered. “Was I charity case to you?”

“Wha—no. Never!”

It felt like it. You accepted that someone like Bruce Wayne viewed you like another good deed that made him look better, but Jacob? This was a shade of gray you didn’t want to exist.

“Then why would you do this?”

“You wanted to go to college. I wanted to make that happen because I never got—” He didn’t finish the rest of that statement. He didn’t have to. I never got to go to college. He did it for himself. You tried to ignore the painful twist in your gut. “Love, please, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

The right thing?

The road of good intentions was paved with right and wrong, and this felt so, so wrong. “How did you do it? I talked to Wayne Foundations. Tim knew about the scholarship and the letter. Did you rope him into this? How many people were involved in your scheme? You were the one—” Your mind ran too fast to process things in real time. Sure, he had a tangential relationship with Tim, but he wasn’t the type to extend favors without a reason.

So, how did Jacob fit into the equation?

Why would he use Bruce Wayne as a cover?

“There must be something else. Jacob.” You said his name like a plea. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

You didn’t realize he’d crossed the room until he was upon you. Despite towering over you, he looked shaken. Frail. He lifted his hand like he might touch you but seemed to think better of it. It dropped back to his side with the sigh that pressed through his lips.

“My name.”

Your brain almost short-circuited. “Your name?”

“My name. It’s not—my name is Jason.”

“Jason,” you echoed, “Why would you—”

“My name is Jason Todd.”

Jason Todd.

Your knees threatened to give out under you. He never told you his last name. It hadn’t struck you as odd until this moment. Another piece slotted into place, followed by more. The scar on his chest, the missing connection to Bruce Wayne, all the times he might have edged close to the truth before backing off.

Jason Todd—the adopted child of Bruce Wayne who died too soon. Well, not too soon, because he was here—very much alive. You had felt the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin.

As all the little pieces stacked on top of each other, something in your chest snapped under the weight of clarity. Imperceptibly small. If you weren’t already on the precipice of oblivion, you might have ignored it, but you were and you couldn’t.

He lies.

Everything was a lie.

If he couldn’t even be honest about his name, what else was he keeping from you? Was what you had with him even real? It felt real, but he was better at pretending than you realized.

You stepped away from him, then another. His jaw clenched as you did, but he didn’t stop you. A war waged between your heart and your head. You wanted him to reach for you. You wanted him to never touch you again. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to slap him.

Naively, you believed distance might bring more clarity, but it didn’t. You were more confused now than ever before.

Time.

That was what you needed. To mull over the implications of the truth. You’d always been careful, but meeting Jac—meeting Jason had let down your guard. That was a mistake, Wariness kept you safe. It kept you from feeling like this. Curiosity had tainted this, and you hated yourself for it.

Without a word, you grabbed the small collection of books—his books—near the window and handed them back to him. His eyes were wet in the dim light as he stared down at them in disbelief. “Are you—”

“I need time.”

“Time?”

“Time,” you confirmed. You’d given him infinite patience, so was it so wrong of you to ask for some in return?

“So, you’re not...” He didn’t seem to know how to finish that and let the half-question hang in the air.

“I don’t know.”

You weren’t certain of anything right now. With each tug at his web of lies, you wondered if you ever knew him at all. It was a terrible thought to have, because you knew that wasn’t true, but no one could blame you for having it. If—when—you felt like you had a grasp on the situation, you might decide you could live in this shade of gray, but until then, you couldn’t have anything to remind you of him. You couldn’t bear that kind of pain.

Jason—that would take some getting used to—forced himself to stand a little straighter as he took the books and his jacket and headed for the door. It was too painful to watch him go, so you looked away to spare yourself the additional heartache.

A beat of silence passed.

“I am sorry.”

You held your breath, anticipating what he might say to change your mind. It would probably work. Your resolve was softer than mud right now.

“I never wanted to hurt you. Take all the time you need. And if you decide—” He left it there.

If you decide.

You weren’t even sure if this was the right decision.

It might be smarter to have him stay and explain himself. You had so many questions, but where would you even start? The beginning? But which beginning?

As you agonized over the right questions to ask, you didn’t hear the door click. It wasn’t until the silence struck you like a death toll that you noticed he had left.

And, God, it was awful.

You’d made a terrible mistake, but try as you might, you couldn’t find the strength to run after him. You had nothing left to give.

Not tonight.

He left the bouquet on the table. You’d almost forgotten about it, but as you gazed at the funeral lilies, you couldn’t help the rueful smile that cut across your face. How appropriate. You grabbed them to toss in the trash when a small card fell from its depths.

It had your name on the front in his handwriting. You stared at it for a second before picking it up. It would have been smarter to toss it with the bouquet, but you opened it anyway.

 

I’m a dumbass, it read, In more ways than one, which you’ll soon learn should tonight go the way I want it too. Unfortunately, it never does, but I hope you’ll forgive me. If not, I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to see me again. —JT

 

Tears burned your eyes as you sank to the ground once more. All the pieces of the puzzle you spent months artfully fitting together cut like glass across your skin. This is what happened when you opened your heart. It was foolish to think this could end any other way.

Notes:

Hey...
How y'all doing?
Remember, worse before it gets better and all that jazz.
Even the most mature characters have their breaking point.

Chapter 29

The letters stopped immediately.  

Jason expected that would happen, but it didn’t stop him from religiously checking the PO box for the next week. When it was clear he wouldn’t be hearing from you, he reached out to Tim to amend the scholarship. No more letters, no more contact. You would still get your money if you chose to accept it, but he had the sinking feeling that now that you knew where it was coming from, you’d decline the scholarship altogether. He would hate to see you put your dreams on hold to prove a point, but you were stubborn like that.  

Crime Alley had snuffed another dream.  

Who was he kidding? He couldn’t blame this on Crime Alley. It was his fault, and his alone.  

Steph was right all along. He inserted himself where he ought not to be, and now he had to face the consequences of doing so. He had a bad habit of ruining good things, so why not taint what he had with you? His intentions were good, but good intentions had a way of coming back to bite him in the ass. It was easier to do dubious things and hope he stumbled into good along the way.  

You asked for time, and he respected that. The execution of his confession was far from perfect. It wasn’t a confession at all. You found the truth yourself while he stood there like a gaping fish. Even when the opportunity to tell the truth presented itself on silver platter, he had to go and spit in it.  

Jason had to trust that you’d reach out when you were ready. Or maybe that was the last time he’d ever hear from you.  

He tried not to think about it.  

He couldn’t.  

Not unless he wanted to go to a very dark place.  

So, instead of crashing out like every instinct told him to do, he settled on something more (barely) productive. He passed the Black Mask case to Tim, including full reign of his territory and all the evidence he gathered over the last few months. Tim might have had something snarky to say, but Jason wasn’t around to hear it.  

He skipped town shortly after, leaving his phone behind so no one could bother him. The temptation to check his phone every five seconds for a message from you was too strong. There wouldn’t be one, so it was easier to leave it behind.  

Artemis and Bizarro waited for him with a long list of clients seeking their expertise. It promised a hefty paycheck and a perfect distraction, so Jason jumped at the opportunity to drown himself in mercenary work.  

It worked for the first week.  

But as time wore on, the darkness found him. Work could only do so much. It couldn’t protect him from the quiet nights when he was left alone with his thoughts, with his regrets. He couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried to distance himself from the mistakes he left behind in Gotham.  

Running wasn’t working.  

Again.  

So, crash out it was.  

That was how he found himself here, pinned to the ground by a harpy. At least, that’s what he was calling it. Artemis vehemently denied his claim. But he saw the body of a bird and the head of a beautiful woman. If not a harpy, then why harpy-shaped? He’d read the myth of Jason and the Argonauts, and yes, he did see the fucking irony now.  

Their most recent venture led them to Crete, yet another check mark in the totally a harpy box, by the way, to find a relic for their client. He was a collector of rare pieces of Mediterranean origin, though he was painfully vague on the details save for a few amphoras that depicted a hidden temple of Zeus. A lot of people would cry myth, but ya know, Jason had dug himself out of the grave and he was currently wrestling with a harpy, so anything was possible.  

Hooked feet pierced the leather of his jacket and dug into the meat of his shoulders as it dragged him across the remnants of a cobbled street. Where was it taking him? He wasn’t too keen to find out.  

Jason twisted in its grasp, ignoring the way its talons shredded his skin as he wrenched himself free. Reaching for his gun, he only allowed himself a second to compose himself before he shot. His bullet clipped its wing, passing harmlessly through its feathers.  

Damn it.  

He tried again.  

It dodged at the last second, impossibly fast as if it were made of the gales it rode on. Feathers flitted around him like petals in springtime. This is what he got for rushing headfirst into the ruins without the others. He, honestly, didn’t remember doing so. One second, he was with the others, doing some light surveillance of the area, and now he was here.  

As the harpy doubled back to come at him again, he closed his eyes and braced himself for impact.  

He deserved this.  

If Jason hadn’t lied. If he told you the truth from the start. None of this would have—  

Artemis lunged at the harpy, her sword arcing in a clean sweep that severed its wing at the joint. Brackish ichor sprayed from the wound, coating her blade like an oil slick. It fell heavily on its side, its dulcet birdsong shifting to a haunting wail. With a hard look on her face, Artemis drove her blade down on its throat, silencing it for good.  

When it stopped twitching, she turned her glare on him. “Your masculine audacity astounds me sometimes.”  

“Yeah, same. Where’s Biz?”  

“Finishing off the others. Sirens travel in packs.”  

Jason pressed his hand over the gash on his shoulder to staunch the flow of blood. “Sirens? No way.”  

“Modern mythos has warped their image to resemble that of a fish woman, but that was undoubtedly a siren. She lured you with her voice, not that you seemed to notice until she had you pinned. You are fortunate this one liked to play with her food.” She flicked the blood from her blade. “You would have known the dangers if you waited like we discussed. You are a mess, Todd.”  

He smiled through the pain as Artemis yanked him to his feet. The strength behind it nearly pulled his arm clear from its socket. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”  

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “I am sending you home.”  

Home . God, he hated that word. “You can’t bench me.”  

“And yet, I just did,” she said with a knowing slant of her brow, “I refuse to sit back and watch you get killed because you have decided to lose all sense of self-preservation. Whatever happened in Gotham is no concern of mine until it effects business. I—”  

“She no care for you.”  

Her eye twitched as Bizarro touched down next to her. A siren had slashed through his shirt to reveal the unblemished pectorals beneath. Must be nice to have skin tougher than steel.  

“It is unfortunate that I am put into a position to tell you that this is not the way to work through your feelings. As they say, it is the pot calling the kettle black. However, that would insinuate that pots and kettles are equal, and they are not. You are a flimsy kettle.”  

If Jason wasn’t actively bleeding, he might have had a leg to stand on, but now wasn’t the time to argue with her. “Gee, thanks.”  

“She says it to be mean,” Bizarro said sympathetically, “You are doing great. You no need to go back.”  

He shook his head. “I can’t go back to Gotham.”  

“Once, I would have loved to hear you say those words to me. I had wanted it more than you realized, but that is why I know you must. As much as I hate to admit it, you cannot quit that city. Nor can you quit its people.” Her gaze sharpened. “None of them.”  

Not even you.  

“So, what? You want me to fly back without a fight?”  

“Unless you would rather swim home? I hear the Mediterranean is balmy this time of year.”  

Jason grimaced. “I hate you.”  

“The feeling is mutual.” Her tone suggested the opposite. “I do hope that you can return to us in peak form eventually, but it is clear to me that you are simply running.” She placed a hand tentatively on his arm. One would almost say comforting , but Artemis would never admit that. “And I would like to meet the one that has so thoroughly fucked with your head. It seems she does not put up with your shit. An admirable quality.”  

Bizarro peeled back the strips of leather and Kevlar to study his wounds. “We no want to meet her. So, you fuck this up.”  

Jason laughed despite himself. If only they knew the half of it. He hadn’t been the most forthcoming of what went down between you and him, but it seemed they’d filled in the blanks themselves.  

“Yeah, we’ll see.”  

 

***  

 

Jason recalled the night he met you.  

Your yellow hoodie, the strings chewed to pieces.  

Your worn copy of Wuthering Heights .  

The wariness in your gaze he’d grown fond of.  

Your conversation made his return to Gotham feel a little warmer, but that wasn’t the case this time. He arrived outside his main safehouse without preamble. It looked the same as the day he left it, untouched and uninspired. It was moments like this that he missed the organized chaos of your studio.  

He shrugged off his jacket and trudged across his living room, pointedly ignoring the phone he’d left on its charger in the kitchen—right next to Viola, the plastic succulent.   

A warm front pushed in while he was gone, leaving the air thick. He shoved open the window that led out onto the fire escape. Time had long-since corroded the lower landing, but his remained sturdy despite the creak of the grate under his boots.  

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a carton of cigarettes he purchased from the bodega around the corner. A year had passed since he last smoked. It was a bad habit Jason returned to when life felt particularly bleak. It hung loose between his lips as he brought the lighter to the end.  

The familiar burn of nicotine filled his lungs. It didn’t help, per se, but it felt productive. Thin strips of smoke seeped through his teeth as he flicked some ash over the railing.   

Per Artemis’ demands, he came back.  

Now, what?  

Jason ran his fingers through his hair. He should have considered his next steps on the plane, but what he did next depended entirely on you. If you didn’t reach out, he wasn’t about to bully his way back into your life.  

“That’s a nasty habit, ya know?”  

He sputtered, choking on his next inhale.  

That voice.  

Babs said he was out of the country.  

Dick hoisted himself over the edge of the railing, dressed in his street clothes. He made it look effortless as he twisted into a handstand that pulled the fabric of his shirt taut across the lean muscles on his back. Show off . With a soft grunt, he shoved off and stuck the landing beside him. The grate groaned under their combined weight, and Jason felt less certain about its structural integrity than before.  

“So, I’ve been told.” He offered him the carton.  

Dick pulled one out and pressed it between his lips. Jason lit the end and watched as he took a long drag with the grace of someone who’d done it before. Only Jason knew the truth. Dick had been the one to teach him how to blow smoke rings, not that any of the others would believe that little Dickie would ever smoke. It was a memory he held onto like precious gold.  

“When did you get back?”  

“About three weeks ago,” he said with a half-smile, “Tim told me you skipped town.”  

And yet, he’d miraculously appeared the very night he got back. Jason could smell the bullshit from a mile away. “Who sent you to check in on me? Artemis?”  

“Please, we both know she’d have sent Roy.”  

“She still might.”  

“Then it’s a good thing I got here first.” Dick knocked shoulders with him. “Between you and me, Roy gives shit advice.”  

“Is that why you’re here? You give shit advice too.”  

“Rude.” Dick leaned against the railing. Despite his grumbling, Jason shifted over to make room for him. “Here I am, trying to be a good big brother, and this is the welcome I get.”  

Their relationship was complicated. Familiar, but complicated all the same. Case in point, this was the first time he’d seen Dick in almost a year because he couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes.   

Jason couldn’t shake the hooks that Gotham used to drag him back, but Dick, he was desperate to spread his wings and fly.  

He’d always been that way, even back before he died. He rarely came home, too busy being a hero and making a name for himself that was separate from Batman. Having him for a brother was like that sibling that was always away at school.  

Some things didn’t change, but that had.  

Dick tried to be more present for Tim, for Damian. With every new member that joined the Bat family, Dick went out of his way to make them feel welcome. Jason knew things had changed. His death may or may not have had something to do with it, but Dick never confirmed that it had, and he never asked.  

“Alright, fine, if Artemis didn’t send you, who did?”  

“Would you believe it if I said Bruce?”  

Jason blotted out his cigarette. It wasn’t scratching the itch like he hoped it would. “No.”  

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”   

His laugh skittered across his bones as he took another drag. It had always been vaguely unsettling, but he’d toned it down around others. Not with him. When it was just the two of them, he dropped the pretense. Dick was far from the golden boy everyone claimed he was, and he allowed himself to relax around Jason who had seen the wrinkles in his facade long before he smoothed them out.  

“Alfred asked me to check in.”  

“Now, that’s more believable, but barely.”  

Dick puffed his cheeks. “Alright, fine, he didn’t actively say those words either, but it was heavily implied. I’ve learned to read between the lines.”  

And that was more believable still. Jason flicked and unflicked the lighter, watching as the flame danced on it wick. “Why doesn't anyone in this fucking family knows how to communicate?”  

Dick shrugged. “No idea. Probably why you’re in this mess now, yeah?”  

He shot him a narrow look. “What do you know?”  

“Enough. You’ve taken a page from the Tim Drake school of using fake names with the girl you like. Bold move. Not what I would have done, but we can’t all be perf—” He couldn’t even finish that statement without bursting into another peel of laughter.  

Jason flipped his lighter off. “Are you here to give advice, or do you just want the credit for saying you did?”  

His expression turned more serious. “I was waiting for you to ask for it. Something tells me that’s as close as I’ll get, so here it is. You made a bad call, but that doesn’t mean all is lost. She already knows you have a vigilante identity and that’s, honestly, half the battle in our line of work.”  

“She seemed to like Red Hood a lot better than she liked the man under the mask.” That wasn’t true. Not even a little bit, but if he said it out loud, maybe he could convince himself it was. Your silence might hurt less if he believed Red Hood was the true object of your affection.  

“It’s because you never gave her a chance to know Jason Todd.”  

If anyone else in their family saw fit to appear suddenly outside his apartment, spouting the same bland ass advice, Jason would have started shooting, but Dick said it in earnest. He sat with his suggestion for a few moments as Dick finished off the rest of his cigarette.   

There were no expectations beyond his thoughtful reflection.   

He knew Jason well enough to know he couldn’t be forced to draw a conclusion before he was ready.  

And he was right, of course.  

You knew him, but not really. There were aspects of his past that fundamentally shaped who he is as a person, and you deserved to know about them. He never gave Jason Todd a chance.  

When Jason finally nodded, Dick flicked his cigarette butt over the railing. “So, when do I get to meet her?”  

“Never, if I can help it.”  

“Prick.”  

“ Dick .”  

They shared a conspiratorial smile. “I missed ya, man.”  

“I’m right here.” For better or for worse, Jason was here. Gotham was his home, whether he liked it or not. But if it meant spending the rest of his life with you, maybe this city wasn’t all bad.   

“I’m not going anywhere.”  

 

***  

 

In the serene quiet that followed Dick’s departure, Jason settled at his kitchen table, daunted by the blank sheet of paper laid out in front of him. Dick made it sound simple, but nothing about his life was simple.   

You deserved to meet Jason Todd. Not just the bad parts, not just the parts that were vaguely bittersweet parts, but the good parts as well.   

And there were good parts of his life.  

He decided a letter was the best way to tell his story. It was more romantic, and Jason was nothing if not a bleeding poet at heart.  

As he brought pen to paper, one thing became clear.  

He was going to need a lot more paper.  

Notes:

I finally overcame my fear of writing Dick Grayson. We're on the homestretch, friends.

Chapter 30

College was nice while it lasted.

Yes, that might be a tad melodramatic given you never got a letter in the mail that said your scholarship was null and void. Nor did anyone at Wayne Foundation reach out demanding restitution for the money you’d used thus far. But, come on, it had to be coming. And even if those letters never came, you refused to accept the money. There were other means to pay your tuition.

Certainly, ones with a lot less strings attached.

You would probably have to take a gap year to pad out your savings and look for new opportunities. It wasn’t ideal, but you’d waited this long. Pushing your education off another year wasn’t the end of the world.

But it might be the end of your world.

When the writing club had its last meeting this week, Chloe was kind enough to ask what classes you had slotted for the fall. Instead of making up something on the spot, you made up an excuse about work or a paper or a paper you needed to finish for work. Honestly, the details were kind of fuzzy.

Now, you were folded over a tray of hors d’oeuvres like your life wasn’t falling to pieces.

Screw Jacob.

Or Jason.

Or whatever his name was.

Why did he have to come into your life like a whirlwind and make a mess of things? A beautiful mess, but a mess, all the same.

“Hey!”

You looked up from your platter as Evan slipped into the catering kitchen at the Gotham banquet hall. One day, you’d never have to touch another serving platter, but that day wasn’t today. Nor was it any day soon. At this rate, you might as well sleep in the back of the catering truck to cut costs.

Evan hid his hands behind his back and smiled, revealing his missing incisor. When you looked at him, you saw a young Jason smiling back at you. It curdled your stomach.

“I have good news.”

You forced a smile. “And what would that be?”

He revealed the sheet of paper hidden behind his back. You took it and flipped it open, revealing a report card. It was mostly B’s, though he finished the quarter with an A in math. He was quick with numbers when he took the time to sit down and use them. You noted the C in English, but you expected that. It was one of his weaker subjects. The fact that he eked out with a passing grade at all was a marked improvement.

Your smile turned more genuine. “Holy shit.”

“I know!” Evan bounced on the balls of his feet. “My advisor said I should start thinking about college. I’m not sure if I can afford it without a scholarship, but I might be able to get into a technical college or go part-time so I can keep working with you...”

He rambled, but you didn’t care. Hearing him talk about going into higher education was the best news you had all month. Your throat clenched around nothing as you studied the grades once more.

“My advisor said I should have a few letters of recommendation at the ready. My GPA is on the lower side, but depending on my SAT scores and those letters, I might have a shot. I was wondering if you would write one for me?”

“You want me to write you a letter?”

Again, you couldn’t help but think of Jason.

He fiddled with the buttons on his sleeves. “Only if you want to, but I look up to you, I guess.”

If you weren’t crying before, you were now. With tears in your eyes, you flung your arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “Of course, I’ll write you a letter. I’m so proud of you.”

He gave you a quick squeeze, and you almost sobbed. He had no idea how badly you needed this hug. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get into GU too, and we could be students together.”

Evan meant well, but his words were like plunging headfirst into icy water. Nice as that sounded, that seemed unlikely for a lot of reasons.

When you broke away from him, you quickly wiped your tears and ruffled his hair. “I’ll do what I can to make that happen, kiddo. Now, let’s get to work. This bruschetta isn’t going to plate itself.”

 

 

The party came and went, uneventful for the most part. Mark no longer worked for your company. Your boss didn’t tell you why, but you assumed the drugs had something to do with it. Whatever. You weren’t sad to see him go. The world still turned, but you felt stuck.

By the time you finished cleaning up with Evan, exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, but a twenty-minute train ride stood between you and your bed.

You found a seat in the far corner of the mostly empty subway car. Resting your bag in your lap, you shuffled through its contents until you found the book tucked away at the bottom. The Odyssey translated by Emily Wilson. It was a comfort read, despite the vaguely bittersweet pang in your chest any time you cracked it open.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The good, the bad, and everything in between. You weren’t aware of how much you thought of him until he stopped coming around. You hadn’t seen him, not even as a blur of red on the night sky.

He did exactly as you asked and gave you space.

That irked you.

The fact that it irked you, irked you more.

Just as the doors were about to close, another person dashed onto the car. Tall with dark hair mostly hidden beneath a blue ball cap. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up.

Jas—

No.

He looked similar to him, save for his brown eyes and the scarless face. You missed his steely blue eyes. They painted the backs of your eyelids whenever you closed yours, but it wasn’t the same. You scolded yourself and tried to focus on your book, but that too had soured now that you’d gotten your hopes up over nothing.

The ghost of Jason Todd, ironic as that was, haunted your life, but you wanted more than his ghost. Life wasn’t nearly as vibrant without him in it, but you’d been the one to push him away. You should have had him stay. You should have sat down and talked through things like the adults you supposedly were. No more running, no more building walls to protect yourself from being vulnerable.

But should haves didn’t make things right now.

You needed action.

As the car pulled away from the platform, you devised a plan to make things right. Writing had gotten you into this mess. It was going to be the thing to get you out of it too. One more letter. One last shot to do things right. The only question was how to get it to him. The PO box was probably gone, not that you’d ever send it there.

This letter wasn’t for Bruce Wayne.

It was for Jason Todd.

Most people would call you crazy for writing to a dead man. They would tell you that you’d have better luck reaching him through a Ouija board, but there had to be people out there who knew the truth.

People who were close to him.

Family.

Friends.

Your book closed with a snap as the realization struck you. That was it. You knew exactly where to start your search.

 

***

 

Steph sat at your usual table in the student center with a purple smoothie and a half-eaten bag of sour gummy worms. The red end of one poked out between her lips as you settled in the chair across from her, jaw set in a determined line.

“What’s with the face?”

“I need to get something to Jason.”

The faintest pinch in her nose confirmed what you suspected. Steph knew his real name all along. You couldn’t blame her for keeping his secret. It wasn’t hers to tell, but she could make up for it now.

She ripped the gummy worm in half and chewed. “I don’t think I know any Jasons. Wild, I know.”

You stared at her, unimpressed.

She shrugged and popped the other half of the gummy worm in her mouth. “Worth a short. How much do you know?”

“How much do you know?”

“I asked you first.”

You glanced over your shoulder. Several students sat around them, but the closest ones wore large headphones to block out the bustle of the student center. They were unlikely to hear this next part, but you lowered your voice anyway. “I don’t know. You tell me, Spoiler.”

She gasped. “You bitch. How long have you known?”

“A blonde vigilante dressed in purple appeared outside my place in the middle of the night and blamed Mercury being in retrograde for Jason getting dosed with fear toxin.”

“Weird shit happens when Mercury is in retrograde.”

She really wasn’t helping her case. It was a wonder how any of them kept their identities under wraps. “Come on, Steph. I might not have guessed Jason was using a fake name but give me some credit here. I know you’re not Batman.”

“Psh, Batman wishes he was me.”

“How many of your friends are actually vigilantes?”

“Not that many. Like one or two. Twelve tops. They’re mostly Ti—shit, forget you heard that.” She stuffed another gummy in her mouth to avoid talking, but it didn’t work. “Ya know, some of my friends, like you, are just normal people.”

“And what is Jason?”

“Jason is...” She chewed thoughtfully. “He’s complicated.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Steph shrugged as if she hadn’t just been outed as a vigilante over a bag of gummy worms and a smoothie. “It comes with the territory. Well-adjusted people don’t wear masks and fight crime, not even me. Shocker, I know, my life seems so put together.”

“So, say I wanted to give him something,” you began as you pulled the letter from your bag, “How would I go about finding him?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said he doesn’t come around often. He and the Bat don’t really agree on how to combat crime, so it’s easier for Red Hood to work as a solo act. He claims to prefer it that way, but I don’t know. His whole vibe screams child sidekick if you ask me.”

“Do you know what happened between us?”

“Seeing as you’re using his real name, I can hazard a guess, but no, he didn’t tell me anything. Not when—” She closed her mouth so fast, her teeth snapped.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’ve been in contact with him.”

“Once. A week ago. We crossed paths while out on patrol. Well, that implies it was a happy accident, but he sought me out. The lovesick fool wanted me to give you this.” She pulled a manila envelope from her bag. It was heftier than yours by a concerning degree.

Your pulse quickened.

“I didn’t know if you wanted it or not, so I held off on giving it to you until you brought it up on your own, but God, you two were made for each other. How did you both settle on writing each other letters like a pair of star-crossed lovers? It’s nauseating.”

“Says the girl who’s been taking ASL classes with Cass.”

Steph flushed scarlet. “Do you want me to give him your letter or not.”

“Please. I’m afraid I’ll go crazy if I hold off any longer,” you said as you slid the envelope across the table. She did the same with his. When you picked it up, you turned it over in your hands, trying to imagine what he could have written.

“Let’s raincheck for later this week,” Steph said as she shoved the letter and her bag of gummies in her bag, “Something tells me you’ll want to be alone for this next part.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You said it yourself. I think you’ve waited long enough.” Her voice was firm, but not unkind as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “Your horoscope for today said you needed to face the things you keep putting off.”

“Why do I feel like you made that one up to make your point?”

She winked. “Guess you’ll never know.”

With that, she headed off, leaving you alone with whatever awaited you in this envelope. It was weird being on the receiving end of a letter for a change. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you ripped it open.

 

Hi.

I’m not really sure what to write.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There are plenty of things I want to write, but I have a feeling this is already going to be pretty long as it is, and I don’t want to bore you. Most pressingly, I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have lied to you. Jacob was a stupid name, and I shouldn’t have let it go on as long as it did.

And the letters to Bruce Wayne… I’m sorry for deceiving you.

I was a coward.

You had every right to turn me away, but now that I’ve had time to sit with my poor decisions, I realize I still owe you the truth. All of it, even if it makes you hate me more. So, here it is.

Fair warning, it’s not a happy story, but it’s mine.

Make of it what you will.

 

And he did. Pages upon pages of it. Jason told the story of a boy who came from nothing. With loving parents who were far from perfect, until one day, they were gone too. He was alone in the world.

 

I preferred it that way. I knew how to take care of myself. I’d been doing so long before my mom died of her overdose. It wasn’t anything new. I had an affinity for lifting tires off cars. Shocker, I know. One day, I got bold and targeted the wrong person.

Or the right person.

It’s all perspective, I guess.

 

A man of great influence, Bruce Wayne, plucked him off the street and gave him a life he only ever dreamed of. He wasn’t alone anymore, but with it came the weight of expectation. He was out of his depth, but he tried to make things work.

 

Bruce opened the door to a world of opportunity. Much like I wanted to do for you, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the story. I wanted to use my new life for good. I could make the world a better place, not with charity galas or schmoozing with rich folk who didn’t give a damn about me, but under the cover of night.

I found magic in an unlikely place.

I became Robin. Not the first. That was some other guy who did it a lot better than I did (which is a secret I want you to carry to your grave. If he learns I even hinted that he was better than me, I’ll never hear the end of it.)

 

You reread that passage, ensuring you hadn’t misunderstood. Red Hood had been a Robin? Did that mean Bruce Wayne was Batman? Is that what he was telling you? Most people suspected there had been more than one kid acting as Robin. Nearly twenty years had passed since the first one appeared, after all, but you never expected…

You shook your head as you cast your judgments aside until you had finished reading. You still had several pages to go.

 

For the first time in years, I felt like I had the means to be the change I wanted to see in the world. I wanted to do right by it and help the people who needed it most. It was a thrilling time.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

 

Jason was killed by the Joker’s hand when he was fifteen. There was no terrorist attack abroad, not really. He’d gone after his birth mom who’d sold him out to the Joker. Despite that, broken and bleeding, he’d tried to save her until his dying breath.

A lump formed in your throat as you recalled the scar on his cheek. J—not for Jacob or Jason, but for the Joker. You clasped your hand over your mouth to keep from whimpering.

 

The story should have ended there, but it didn’t. I woke up, clawed my way out of the grave and… what happened after was a little fuzzy. I wish I could tell you more. I was taken abroad by the League of Assassins (long story—again, the details are a little fuzzy), but I eventually found my way back to Gotham.

I was angry.

Vindictive.

Starved for revenge.

In all the time I’d been gone, nothing had changed. Rogues still ran rampant through the city. And worst of all, the man who’d orchestrated my death was still alive. Clearly, my death meant nothing.

 

He did things he wasn’t proud of, but you already knew that part of the narrative. The guns, the crime, his tenuous relationship with Batman. It all made sense now that you had the context behind it.

You weren’t sure where else this story could go, but as you flipped to the next page, that lump in your throat threatened to burst.

 

One day, not so long ago, I met a woman on the subway. She wore a yellow hoodie as she read Wuthering Heights. We talked about books and for the first time in years, I felt a little less like a monster. When we parted ways that night, I never expected to see her again.

But fate has a sense of humor, I guess.

 

He recounted the night he saved you from being mugged. That felt like ages ago. Another lifetime, in fact.

 

This woman was smart and brave and rightfully cynical of the world. She had a dream. It was a lot like a dream I had once upon a time, though I’d long since abandoned it. A half-dead kid would never go to college, but it wasn’t too late for her.

 

Oh.

Oh no.

 

I wanted to help, so I did something stupid. I pulled some strings. Used the influence I’d turned my back on and got her a scholarship for a foundation in my name.

The letters were meant to be clever. An ode to her favorite novel and nothing more. We were never meant to see each other again, but I couldn’t stay away.

The more I got to know her.

The more I got to know you…

The web of lies grew, and I was stuck. I didn’t know how to break free, and I was afraid of what would happen once I did. I couldn’t imagine a life where you’re not part of it, love.

 

Your teeth chattered as you fought back a new wave of tears. This was a complicated emotion. Neither good, nor bad, but raw and so, so real. Words couldn’t do this feeling justice, but it was visceral.

 

The money is yours. No more letters. I don’t expect anything from you. That’s the way it should have been from the start, and I refuse to let you drop out of college because I’m an idiot who lets my lies get away from me. You’ve always been capable of more than you give yourself credit for.

I, Jason Peter Todd, chose you for a reason. Not Bruce Wayne, not his foundation, but me. I would do it again. And again, and again, if it meant I had a moment of your time.

Because it was a beautiful moment.

Please, love. Don’t give up on your dreams.

Dreams are the real magic.

 

That’s where his letter ended. You wiped your tears, only slightly embarrassed to be caught crying in the middle of the student center. You probably should have taken the letter home to read it there, but it was already done.

His story answered some questions, but like the head of a hydra, they multiplied, leaving infinitely more in their place. You understood why he made these choices. How could you not after he poured his heart and soul into every page. You wanted to gather him in your arms and kiss each of his scars until he knew, in his heart of heart’s that nothing he shared changed your perception of him.

But that would have to wait.

You would have to wait.

What happened next was entirely up to him. You just hoped your letter inspired him to make the right choice.

Notes:

In case you were wondering, this was the chapter that made me tear up.

Chapter 31

Stressed didn’t even begin to describe how Jason felt.

He passed his letter off a week ago. Steph made no promises, but he hoped she was more merciful than the serious turn of her mouth suggested, but he’d heard nothing since then. Did she give it to you? Had you already read it? If so, why hadn’t you reached out?

Silence was, of course, an answer, but silence was more painful than outright rejection.

In the days that followed, he overanalyzed what he wrote. Was it too much? Not enough? Were the gritty details necessary to make his point, or could he have softened the narrative with more flowery prose? No, that would have been a disservice to you. The truth wasn’t flowery, it wasn’t romantic. He had to accept that.

But the what ifs were killing him.

He couldn’t sleep, so the next best thing was to eat his feelings at Bat Burger. Not the healthiest coping mechanism, but neither was beating the shit out of Black Mask’s goons. He could only tun laps around Park Row so many times before he ended up outside your apartment. Choking on a greasy burger sounded far less painful.

As he pushed through the doors that led out of the fast-food joint, a bag of burgers and fries tucked in the crook of his arm, the odd sense of being watched struck him. He learned to trust that instinct early on but continued down the sidewalk as if he hadn’t noticed.

When he rounded the corner three blocks later, he could still feel those eyes on him. It was unlikely that they were following him to knab one of his burgers. He slipped a hand under his jacket to grip the gun that hung off his belt.

“I know you’re watching me. You have for the last three blocks.”

“Boo. You’re no fun. This is what I get for going sans costume.”

Steph appeared suddenly behind him, her wild curls fastened by a purple bandana. Jason immediately relaxed as he pulled a few fries from his back. She stole one before he offered, not that he planned to because she pulled shit like this.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, the swift and agile Dionysus, come bearing the message of the fair Juliet to her Rhett Butler.”

Jason swore he was having a brain aneurysm. Where did one even begin with all the wrong in that singular statement, but he tried anyway. “You mean Hermes?”

“I do not.”

“Juliet is Shakespeare and Rhett Butler is Margaret Mitchell.”

“So?”

He couldn’t help himself. “They’re not even from the same era.”

“It’s all the same to me.”

She easily dodged the burger he lobbed at her head. It bounced a few times before stopping further down the sidewalk. She gasped, feigning a look of shock. “That was a perfectly good burger. How dare you?”

Jason reached for the second burger, prepared to waste another.

Steph threw up her hands. “Geeze, someone’s in a mood today. Did you completely miss the part where I said I have a message from your sweet lovebug. Still think that’s adorable, by the way.”

His hand fell from the paper bag, stunned. “What?”

She pulled a letter from her purse and waved it teasingly over her head. “A letter from Juliet to her fair Romeo.”

Why did people always use Romeo and Juliet as the pinnacle of romance? He had a long list of better literary couples. Lizzie and Darcy, Odysseus and Penelope. Hell, if she wanted to keep in the vein of Shakespeare, he would have suggested Benedict and Beatrice. Their love story was far more realistic.

“Dude, did I fry your brain or something?”

Jason dislodged himself from his internal monologue before it became an external monologue. After wiping the salt and grease off on his jeans, he reached for the letter.

She drew back before he could.

He scowled. “Seriously?”

“I really like her.”

His chest ached. “I really like her too.”

Like didn’t even begin to cover it, but his way his heart bled for you was no one’s business but his own. And maybe yours. Definitely yours.

“Oh, good. I’m glad we bot agree. Then you won’t take it personally when I tell you not to fuck this up. I’d have to pick her side in the divorce, and you’d never see me again.” She placed the letter in his outstretched hand. “And that would be a travesty.”

He chose not to reward that with a response.

Steph smirked. “Want to hear your horoscope for the day?”

“I’m sure it’s something about me being a dumbass for letting my pride get the best of me.”

“Something like that.” She punched him lightly on the arm. “Don’t wait too long to see her, alright? You two were made for each other.” Swiping another fry from his bag, she stuck out her tongue and bounded around the corner.

Jason waited a beat before he ripped into the letter, not wanting to appear too eager. Your letter wasn’t nearly as long as his. Just a single page written in green ink. He took that as a good sign. Knowing its contents terrified him, not knowing was worse.

 

Dear Daddy Long Legs,

Dear Bruce Wayne,

Dear Mr. Darcy,

Dear Red Hood,

Dear Jacob,

Dear Jason Todd,

A man with a million names.

As I list them out now, I realize you’ve succeeded in touching every aspect of my life, even the parts I wasn’t aware of. That was never more glaringly obvious now that you’re no longer in it. When I accepted the Jason Todd Memorial Scholarship (along with all the strings attached), I promised myself that I’d never fall in love with my mysterious benefactor like Miss Abbott had, but here I stand.

I have fallen irrevocably in love with you.

Every mask, every name. Red Hood, Jacob, Jason. Whatever name you choose is inconsequential because it’s the man behind the name who’s stolen my heart. That was always the case.

I accepted that in loving you, I would have to exist in shades of gray. Admittedly, learning you were also the man behind my scholarship made gray a little muddier than I would have liked. I had no idea how to respond to the revelation at the time. I panicked, but I now see it came from a place of good intentions.

Your intentions have always been good.

You are good.

I know you don’t believe me, but seeing as you’re human, you’re allowed to make mistakes. I’ve seen your heart, the fire in your eyes, and all the scars that come with doing good.

I love you more for it.

You don’t have to do anything with this letter, but I thought you should know how I really feel, and this seemed like the most appropriate way to tell you.

I’ve been patient.

I can continue to be patient.

There are chapters of your life that you’d rather not talk about, and I respect that. Just know that it’s the man you are today that I fell in love with, not the man you were.

My heart is yours, should you choose to accept it.

You know where to find me when you’re ready.

 

Reading your letter had always given him this warm, cotton-soft feeling in his chest, and this time was much of the same until he read ‘I have fallen irrevocably in love with you’.

That’s when he started to burn.

You loved him.

He’d almost written similar sentiments, but writing those exact words made it real. There would be no turning back because Jason loved with his entire being. But seeing those words, he realized it was already too late. He was so hopelessly in love with you. All the signs were there, but the idea that Jason could love and have that same love reciprocated was a foreign concept.

You chose him.

You continued to choose him. Even when he felt he didn’t deserve it. Being wanted despite all his flaws was new territory for him. There was always this unspoken expectation that he had to do more, be more, but you weren’t asking for anything but his love.

He needed to see you.

Now.

It couldn’t wait another second.

You’d waited for him to make the first move long enough. This time, it was Jason’s turn to bridge the gap.

 

***

 

Jason arrived outside your apartment twenty minutes later, dressed in his street clothes. No Red Hood, no shitty disguises, he wanted to face you as himself.

As Jason Todd.

The last time he tried this, it didn’t end well, but he was determined to do everything right this time. His stomach lurched with anticipation as he approached the call box. A month wasn’t very long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like an eternity when he’d gotten used to seeing you daily.

He buzzed your apartment and waited.

Silence.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

He wandered around the back to check your window that emptied out onto the fire escape. The blinds were closed, your apartment dark. He flexed his fingers irritably.

Ah, fuck.

Alright, new plan.

He’d find the highest building in Gotham and jump off it, because he should have realized you’d be working around this time. Grand romantic gestures only worked if you were home.

He left the way he came, heading toward the subway terminal a few blocks down. A full moon brightened the sky, lighting his way as he walked. Disappointment simmered in his chest. And here he thought nothing would go wrong. A bitter laugh burbled from his throat as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

It was a stupid idea anyway.

He should have sent you a text to ensure you were—

“Jason?”

He stopped dead, blood coating his veins like ice. His gaze lifted to you, standing a few feet away. No uniform, but you wore your yellow hoodie. It was such a welcome sight that yellow might just be his new favorite color. You gripped a canvas bag filled with groceries with a trembling fist as you stared at him in disbelief.

“Jason?”

You stepped toward him.

He matched your step with one of his own, holding out his arms timidly as he presented himself. “That’s my name.”

Another step. He could almost touch you, and shit, he wanted to more than anything. One more step. He brushed your cheek softly with the ridge of his knuckles featherlight in case you were a vision, and his touch was the thing that would bring reality crashing down again.

And if that was the case, seeing you was a beautiful dream that he never wanted to wake up from.

You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, confirming that you were real. That this was real. Emboldened, his fingers curled around the base of your neck, drawing you in. “Jason, Jacob, Jensen, Jerimiah. I’ll call you whatever you want if it means you’ll stick around long enough to hear me call you it.”

He cracked a small smile. “Jason is fine.”

“So, Jason.”

God, he loved the way you said his name. To think, he’d deprived himself of the pleasure of hearing it spill from your lips.

“I assume you got my letter?”

“I did,” he confirmed, “And you got mine?”

“More of a light novel if you ask me,” you teased as you smoothed the front of his jacket. His heart hammered beneath the slow drag of your palm. “But I don’t mind. You know how to tell a captivating story.”

“And you still want to give me your heart?” He pressed his forehead to yours. “After reading it?”

“I really do.”

“I would offer mine as well.”

His free hand settled on the small of your back. It felt like coming home. You felt like home. It might be the sappiest thing to ever cross his mind, but he didn’t care. It was the truth, and the truth felt as nice as the warmth of your body pressed to his.

“But I think you already have it,” he continued as he traced the length of your nose with the tip of his. You nudged it, nearly bridging the gap between your lips. “You stole it the moment I met you.”

“My apologies.”

His lips grazed yours. “Don’t apologize. You were always meant to have it. I want you to have it.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I love you with every fiber of my being, and being apart from you feels like dying all over again.” He cupped your jaw loosely. Tears gathered in your eyes, and he wiped them away with his thumbs. “If you’re willing to give me another chance, give us another chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much you mean to me.”

You twined your fingers through his, your chest now flush with his. It still wasn’t enough. He needed to get you closer. Temptation burned like an open flame, threatening to turn him to ash. “Will you let me?”

“I forgave you the moment you left.”

His breath caught in his throat. “We really are idiots, aren’t we?”

“No. I’m stubborn and rightfully cynical of the world, and you were afraid of losing me. Your fears were founded given the way I reacted, but I’m not going anywhere. I now see the appeal of shades of gray, and I don’t think anything is scaring me away now.”

“So, you’ll let me love you?”

In lieu of an answer, you kissed him.

Jason melted. His lips worked fervently against yours until his lungs ached, but even then, he didn’t stop until you broke away first. You kissed the tip of his nose. “I love you, Jason Todd.”

Jason Todd.

Not Jacob.

Not Red Hood.

But Jason fucking Todd.

At the back of his mind, several questions surfaced. What about the scholarship? What about your education? Was he ready to come back from the dead? To move on, and pursue the dream he’d put on hold for the sake of revenge and anger?

He shoved those nagging questions away and pulled you in for another kiss. He poured everything into it. His love, his devotion, and all the dreams he’d put on hold because he thought it was too late for him.

It wasn’t too late.

Admitting that to himself, he felt like he was shucking a weight he’d carried for far too long. Neither of you needed to have the answers to those questions right now. Life was all about figuring things out. Being human was about figuring it out. You and Jason would navigate that path together, deciding which chapters mattered and which were best left in the past.

Because there was still so much life left to live.

And Jason couldn’t wait to finally live.

Notes:

And that's a wrap.

I want to thank everyone who has followed along for the ride. Your support meant the world as I worked on this fic and I appreciate all the kind words and excitement. Thank you, truly.

You might be wondering 'what's next?' and I am working on a Tim Drake x Reader fic that takes place in the same universe as this fic (hinted in chapter 26). So, keep an eye out of that if you're interested!

You can find me on tumblr at: www.tumblr.com/blog/athenagc94

Again. Thank you all so much. This was such a fun fic to write.

Chapter 32

Notes:

Stay tuned :)

Notes:

New chapters posted on Sundays because I like to keep to a schedule.

I'm also posting this work on my Tumblr at: tumblr.com/athenagc94

This is my first time ever attempting an "x Reader" fic so, I apologize in advance but this idea has been sitting with me for a while and I decided Jason Todd was the character I wanted to use to achieve it. This piece is heavily inspired by the musical Daddy Long Legs, along with other odes to classical pieces of literature.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Batfam x Reader Series