Chapter Text
The rain had finally stopped, leaving Gotham’s rooftops slick and gleaming under a hazy moon. Three shadows converged on a rusted fire escape overlooking the Sionis Steelworks, a fourth figure struggling between them.
“Easy, Quinn. The fun’s over,” Robin said, his voice a mix of youthful bravado and genuine strain as he tightened his grip on Harley’s upper arm.
Batman, a monolithic silhouette in dark blue and gray, secured the second pair of cuffs with a quiet, definitive click. “The van is en route. Montoya’s team.”
Batgirl watched from a half-step away, her gray spandex clinging to her form, the yellow bat-symbol on her chest a stark contrast in the gloom. Her blue cowl hid her eyes, but not the set of her jaw. He’s all business. Always. She saw the way he moved—economical, precise, utterly controlled. It was a fascination that had started as professional admiration and had, lately, taken on a sharper, more personal edge.
Harley Quinn, her motley costume soaked and askew, squirmed. “Oh, Batsy! You coulda just asked for a date! All this roughhousing’s gonna give a girl the wrong idea.”
Batman ignored her, his gaze fixed on the alley below where red and blue lights began to strobe. He gave Harley a firm, impersonal nudge toward the ladder. “Move.”
They descended, a strange procession of heroes and villain. Officer Renee Montoya waited by the open doors of a GCPD transport van, her expression weary but relieved. “Batman. Good work. We’ll take her from here.”
The transfer was a formality. Batman released Harley’s arm to Montoya’s secure grip. Robin stepped back, rolling his shoulders. Batgirl lingered, her eyes tracking every minute shift in Batman’s posture, the way the rain-beaded cape fell from his shoulders.
It happened in a blur of calculated chaos.
Harley feigned a stumble, her cuffed hands flying up. Montoya’s grip slipped on the wet sleeve. With a gymnast’s agility Harley hadn’t shown in the fight, she twisted, planted her feet, and launched herself backward.
Not at Robin. Not at Batgirl.
Straight at Batman.
She didn’t aim for his mouth at first. It was a lunge, a parody of an embrace. But at the last second, she tilted her head. Her lips, painted a garish red, met the unforgiving line of his jaw, just below the cowl. The kiss was loud, smacking, absurd. Her cuffed hands, trapped between them, pressed firmly, unmistakably, against the curve of his buttock through the armored suit.
Time froze for a single, suspended heartbeat.
Batman stiffened, a statue of shock and revulsion. Montoya recovered, hauling Harley back with a sharp curse.
“Whoa. Two-for-one special, B-man!” Harley laughed.
Harley was cackling, being shoved into the van. “Tell Mr. J I send my love! And my condolences!”
The van doors slammed shut, cutting off her manic laughter. The alley was suddenly, profoundly quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the drip of water from a gutter. Batman hadn’t moved. Batgirl watched a muscle tick in his jaw, a tiny fracture in the granite.
Montoya cleared her throat, apologetic. “I am so sorry, Batman. She’s… slippery.”
“It wasn't a real kiss,” he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the damp air.
"Looked like a real kiss to me," Robin said.
He finally turned, his back to the retreating police lights. “It was a message for the Joker in lock-up. A petty power play.”
His explanation was clinical, detached. It made perfect sense. It was the only thing that made sense for the Batman.
Batgirl took a step closer. The rain had left a clean, metallic scent in the air, but underneath it she caught a hint of him—spandex, ozone, and something else, something starkly human. Her heart was doing a strange, rapid tap against her ribs. The sight of that kiss, that touch, had ignited a reckless spark in her gut.
Robin was still grinning, wiping his eye. “A power play, huh? Looked pretty personal from here. You might want to check for lipstick.”
Batman shot him a look that could freeze the Gotham River. Robin’s smile vanished, replaced by a sheepish cough.
But Batgirl didn’t look away from Batman. She moved until she was directly in his eyeline, the yellow of her emblem a bright challenge in the dark. Her voice, when she spoke, was different. Lower. Softer. It stripped away the pretense of the chase, the camaraderie of the mission. It was just a woman’s voice, curious and intimate.
“A message for the Joker,” she echoed, her head tilting in a perfect mimicry of Harley’s motion. Her gaze was fixed on his mouth, the part of his face the rigid cowl left exposed. “I see.”
She paused, letting the implication hang. The alley felt ten degrees warmer.
“So Batman,” she continued, the word a gentle exhale. “How do you like to be kissed?”
The silence that followed was absolute. Robin’s sharp intake of breath was audible. Batman went utterly still. Not the controlled stillness of a predator, but the stunned stillness of a man who had just had his foundations subtly, irrevocably, shaken. The question hung between them, naked and electric. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a taunt. It was an offer. A hypothetical, wrapped in velvet, laced with a promise.
She was only 19, maybe 20 years old. He was almost 35. He figured she'd have move interest in Robin. But her suit didn't hide her admiration or interest in him.
He said nothing. He just looked at her, the white lenses of his cowl wide and unblinking.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Batgirl’s lips—a smile he could see, a smile meant only for him. It held a universe of possibilities: tenderness, urgency, a loss of control he would never permit himself.
She held his gaze for one more second, letting the question—and every unspoken answer to it—sink into the space between them. Then, without another word, she turned. Her blue cape swirled behind her as she took two steps and launched her grapple towards the rooftops. She didn’t look back. Not even to see if he was fighting every urge to hold an incoming erection.