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Chapter Text

People think living in Gotham is about knowing which alleys to avoid and how to spot a gun under a hoodie. Like it's a survival guide you pick up at fourteen and memorise before your first mugging.

But the real trick - the thing that makes someone a true Gothamite - is subtler than that. It's instinct. Muscle memory. A sixth sense forged somewhere between your first birthday party at Gotham Fairgrounds and the time your cousin got a promotion for not dying in traffic court.

It's knowing when something shifts.

Not the kind of shift you can pin down in a news report. Not even the kind the cops care to notice. It's in the air, the teeth of it. It's the way people start carrying their shoulders differently on your block. The way certain doors stay shut longer than usual. The way you catch your reflection in the train window, and think, Something’s coming, and can’t say what.

The city talks, if you're the kind of fool still in love with it enough to listen.

It murmurs in twitching hands around to-go cups, in the absence of sidewalk chatter outside corner bodegas that used to blast reggaeton at 3 a.m., in the silence that hangs too heavy around a name people used to say with casual familiarity.

It's a lover's whisper to those stupid enough to stay. A warning growled through lipstick and subway grease: Run, if you’ve still got legs. Stay, if you’ve already pawned your lungs. Gotham doesn’t beg you to leave. She just lets her worse boyfriends handle that. Usually under Sprang Bridge, with a smile and a crowbar.

Sometimes that whisper shows up in the form of a low-level enforcer who only ever comes in for a cut when he’s been dumped.

He’s sitting in your chair now, bags under his eyes like he’s been through three breakups and a haunting. His fingers keep tapping the armrest like he’s working up the nerve to ask for something that isn’t a fade.

You remember him. He cried in your sink once. Not a lot. Just one of those silent, ashamed leaks like the city had pressed too hard on a bruise. You think the girl’s name was Maura. She’d come up around the third visit. He said her name like it burned.

So you pick up your scissors. Tilt your head. Watch him flinch at the sound.

And you think: Yeah. Something’s shifting.

There's a thousand kinds of customers, but only about six ways to handle them. You figured that out by nineteen and sharpened it like a blade. There's the flirts, the sulkers, the over-sharers, the absolute silence enjoyers, the ones who want a mirror and a monologue, and then there's the mourners - the ones who come in grieving something that's still walking around.

And this guy?

He's mourning. Again.

Goes by Denny. Might be short for Dennis, might be short for something stupider. Calls himself an 'enforcer', which could mean he writes parking tickets or breaks legs in alleyways. His build says ex-cop, you think; his eyes say once shot someone and didn't sleep for a week. His usual square-ass haircut tells you he likes order. Symmetry. Clean lines. Someone in his childhood probably made a big deal out of neatness and now he’s cursed with the inability to sit in a crooked chair without trying to fix it.

Denny’s the kind of guy who never takes his coat off, even when he’s sweating. Walks like he’s either expecting a hit or remembering the last one. Been coming to you every three months like clockwork - except lately, it's been every three weeks.

Today, his tie’s already half-undone, knuckles bruised, jaw tense like he’s grinding down the words before they reach you.

“You want your usual?” You ask, comb already in hand.

He nods like it hurts. “Yeah. Tidy. I’m... I’m trying to stay tidy.”

He says it like he’s holding onto that haircut like it’s the last thing keeping him out of a psych ward.

So you start snipping. Gentle. Not slow - he gets jumpy when you go slow, like you're drawing out the pain - but soft, precise. Controlled. The kind of haircut for a man who needs to believe that some part of his life is still lining up right.

He doesn't talk right away. He never does. Just watches his own reflection in the mirror like he's not sure what he's seeing.

Then it comes, voice low. "She said I'm emotionally constipated. That's her word. Constipated."

You keep your face neutral. Denny needs neutral. Not pity. Just the kind of mild nod you'd give a guy confessing to petty theft.

"She said I talk around everything," he continues. "Said I'm like a dog bringing back the same dead bird and pretending it's a gift."

"That's pretty poetic," you say.

"She writes poetry. Of course she does. Goth chicks always go." He sniffles once, then clears his throat like he's ready to punch himself for it.

You hum. "Maura, right?"

His eyes flick up in the mirror. Surprise, then some stupid hint of gratitude like you remembered his birthday. "Yeah. You got a good memory."

You shrug. "You bled on my towel last time. People tend to stand out when they do that."

He chuckles. First time you've seen his shoulders drop since he walked in.

"She made me feel like a person," he mumbles. "Not a function. Not a job. Just ... Denny. But I fucked it up."

You lift an eyebrow. "How bad?"

"She said I was shutting her out. Said I was distracted. That I was gonna get myself killed if I didn't take a step back and breathe. But I can't take a step back right now. Not with everything ramping up the way it is."

He twitches when you hit the neckline. You tap his chin to tilt his head.

"Ramping up how?"

He hesitates. Eyes flick to the mirror again. He's not looking at you - he's looking at himself, like he's weighing whether this version deserves to be honest.  You're not the hairdresser anymore. Not to him. You're Maura, and the girl before her, and - probably - his mother: every woman he's ever disappointed by not opening up.

"I'm working extra," he says finally. "A lot of us are. All over. Top to bottom. Like everyone knows something's coming but no one's saying it out loud."

Your fingers pause. Just a second. Just long enough to tuck that away. 

"Something what?" You ask, keeping it light, like you're only making conversation.

Denny frowns. "Something big. And not the usual gang bullshit. Like ... cleanup-before-the-storm big."

You nod slowly, parting his hair with the comb. "You mean like ... change of management?"

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. "Maybe. Maybe a power vacuum's about to get filled. Maybe someone's about to blow a hole in the side of this city and we're all just waiting to get dragged in."

You don't say anything right away. Just hum low in your throat and go back to lining up the sideburns like you're not mentally stapling this whole exchange inside of your skull.

'Cleanup-before-the-storm' hits wrong. Or maybe it hits right, and that's what's got your skin prickling. Because Gotham doesn't clean anything up. It buries things. Under rubble, under corruption, under so many years of blood in the cracks of sidewalk that the rain's learned to run red. The only time Gotham cleans is when someone's trying to paint over the rot long enough to slap a price tag on it.

And there's been little things, recently. The two liquor stores across the street closing on the same day, no warning, signs gone by morning. The sudden, very shiny, very quiet business licences going up in windows that used to be boarded up or burnt out. Your landlord offering to buy you out - like you're not the only thing keeping this corner from being steamrolled into a Pilates studio.

Denny might think it's a war. You're starting to wonder if it's worse. If it's peace. The curated kind. The expensive kind. The profitable kind.

And peace in Gotham? That always comes with a body count.

You shake the thought off with a quick flick of your wrist, move to clean the neckline, and mutter, mostly to yourself, "I gotta get out of this place."

Denny doesn't catch it. He's too busy staring in the mirror like it might give him absolution. 

Which is fine. You weren't really talking to him anyway.

You finish the cut in silence, let him sit for a moment while you dust off his collar, straighten his tie. 

And then: "But, hey - we're used to this shit, right? Just a bunch of assholes walking around waiting for the next shot. Might be nothin'."

You give him a wry smile, hand scrunching his shoulder like a proud parent.

"You're not an asshole, Denny." You say, not unkind. "You're just in love with someone who saw through your bullshit. That's rare. Don't punish yourself for mourning that."

And with that, any thought of gang wars or bomb plots is gone. Replaced by a look like you've cracked something open in his chest. He blinks it away, reaches for his wallet, drops a few crumpled bills on the counter.

"Thanks," he mutters. "You're better than therapy."

"I'll make you tip extra for that." You smile, offering him the pot of sweets you keep under your counter, next to the revolver and the panic button that connects to your neighbours' buildings, not the GCPD. 

He leaves without meeting your eye again, door jangling shut behind him.

You watch his shape blur down the block through the rain-glazed window, then write one word on the back of a receipt and slide it under the register.

"Cleanup."

Because if the enforcers are prepping, that means the wolves are already out. And Gotham? Gotham trusts you enough to not whisper twice. 

***

The dumbest part of running a semi-legit business in Gotham isn't the permits, or the bulletproof glass, or the way every now and then someone tries to pay in diamonds. 

It's the name.

'Cut and Run.'

Which, to be clear, you didn't pick. That was your cousin back when it was more of an under-the-table haircut-and-hustle operation in a borrowed laundromat. He thought it was edgy. You told him it sounded like a barbershop for getaway drivers. He said, "Exactly."

By the time the sign went up over a real door, it was too late to change it. Besides, it started to grow on you. Not because it made sense - it doesn't. But like everything else in this city, it's a huge fucking joke. 

The shop itself used to be a numbers racket back in the 40s, then a bookshop, then a bodega that only sold knockoff energy drinks and maybe grenades. Now it's yours.

Brick bones. Black-and-white tile that always looks like it's been scrubbed one time too few. One of the back chairs still creaks like it's haunted. The whole place smells like hair product and old radiator pipes. Home.

The clientele is mostly locals. The types who don't flinch when they hear sirens because they already know whose kid it was. Single moms who tip with cash and gossip. Retired security guards who still want their edges clean. Teenagers with switchblades in their sock hems and sorrow under their eyes. They don't just come for haircuts - they come to feel normal, if only for twenty minutes.

You don't get many surprises anymore.

So when the bell over the door rings and the guy steps inside, it takes you a second to clock why something feels off.

He doesn't move like someone who wandered in on a whim. Doesn't have that anxious "please fix this thing my girlfriend hates" energy, either. He stands just inside the door like he's already calculated every exit.

Tall. Broad in the shoulders, like he was built for wreckage. Black leather jacket zipped to the throat despite the warm snap in the weather. Boots heavy enough to crack pavement. White streak in his hair. Scar on his cheek, just faded enough to be old - probably something sharp. He sells like gunmetal and motor oil, the kind of scent that doesn't come in a bottle.

But none of this is exactly new.

You get your fair share of "businessmen" moonlighting as mobsters, of jacked men in leather who look like they'd rather talk about custom-building a bike than how their day was. And, honestly, seeing someone in Gotham who isn't scarred is more of a horror story than anyone who is.

What really gives you pause - what makes you set the broom aside without even realising it - is the stillness.

This man is still in the way bombs are, right before they go off. Like every part of him is wired tight and waiting. Watching.

You clock the gloves, the cut of his jaw, the faint tightness around the eyes. Not cop. Not exactly military, either. Something in between. A man who knows how to hurt people and isn't bragging about it.

He looks round once, brief scan, then zeroes in on you like he's already done the math and you're the least likely to waste his time. 

"Do you do men's cuts?" he asks, voice low and a little rough, like gravel in a coffee grinder.

You don't flinch. You never flinch. Even when your gut’s doing that small, specific twist that says something’s up.

You give him your best neutral.

"I cut hair, not chromosomes. You want a seat or just looking to loiter?"

There's a beat of silence. His mouth twitches. It's not a smile - more like something considering it and then backing out at the last second.

"Seat's fine," he says, moving toward the chair closest to the window. 

You nod, grab your kit, and flip the smock over one arm like you're not actively cataloguing every movement he makes.

There are six types of customers. Maybe seven on a weird day. You’re not sure which one he is yet - but he’s not here for small talk. He didn’t ask for a specific cut. Didn’t give you a name. He wants something quick, impersonal. Surface-level.

Problem is, men like this don’t walk into salons at random. They don’t trust chairs with their backs exposed unless they’re looking for something.

So now you gotta wonder what that something is.

He sits stiffly, like the chair's trying to interrogate him. Doesn't lean back. Doesn't loosen his shoulders. Just plants his boots, settles his hands in his lap like he's expecting a courtroom verdict, and waits.

“What are we doing today?” you ask, snapping the smock open with a practised flick and draping it over him.

His eyes lift to meet yours in the mirror - cool, unreadable, like a man who doesn't blink unless it's necessary.

A shiver runs through you. 

"Trim," he says shortly. "Just clean it up."

You glance at the ends. Bit shaggy. Nothing scandalous. Could pass for casual neglect or calculated indifference. Then you see it again: the white streak in the front, cutting clean through the dark like a lightning strike.

You'd noticed it when he'd walked in, but now up close, you can see it's no dye job. If it is, he's a man who bleaches his roots with military precision and then walks into a local salon for a trim. Which doesn't track.

You nudge the comb through his curls, and the texture tells you even more - coarse but soft when the strands split at the ends. Healthy, which means someone's been caring for it. Or someone used it.

You squint at the streak again. "That natural?"

He doesn't answer, just exhales through his nose like he's already tired of the conversation.

"Cool," you murmur, snipping near his ear. "Love a cut with a mystery. Gotta keep Gotham guessing."

Still nothing. Not even a twitch of the mouth. Okay. Silent type.

Fine by you.

You work in silence, fingers moving on autopilot, neat in the way you know people like him respond to. Precision. No flash. No flair. Just control.

Your gaze flickers, cataloguing him in pieces: 

The scar at the side of his neck - not defensive, not accidental. The kind that happens when someone means it. The way he watches you in the mirror - not staring, not twitchy, just aware. Like he's reading you in real time. The subtle tension in his jaw every time your hand moves near his face.

He's coiled wire. Not because he's planning to strike - you hope - but because he already has. Enough times to make it instinct.

Halfway through the cut, you're sliding the comb down the side of his head when he speaks.

"You been working here long?"

You pause. Blink once.

So maybe not the silent type.

"Long enough," you say, noncommittal.

No nods slightly. Doesn't push. Then: "You notice anything weird lately? Around the block. People acting different."

It's casual. Too casual.

Your guard shifts. 

Instead, you snort softly. "Weird like what? Flash mob of clowns? Or weird like the bodega guy finally admitting his cat's a spy?"

That gets you the flicker of something in his expression. Not quite a smile. Just a faint softening, like he wasn’t expecting the joke but didn’t hate it.

He doesn’t clarify, so you go back to trimming the back of his hair, voice easy. “People in this city are always acting different. Depends on the weather, the moon cycle, how close we are to tax season.”

Another beat.

You hear him breathe in like he’s going to drop another question, then thinks better of it.

You don’t press. You never do.

But internally, you’re circling the thing now - like a cat around a corner. Because he’s not asking the usual stuff. Not who does your fades or what’s the wait time or you single. He’s probing. Watching. Feeling out where the cracks might be.

Which means he’s not just passing through.

And whatever he’s looking for - you’re betting it’s not a haircut.

You work around to his temple, comb catching slightly on a stubborn curl, when he speaks again.

“What about new faces? Businesses? Anyone acting like they don’t belong here?”

You pause -not enough to be obvious, just long enough to note the way his tone is still even, still gruff, but the question's tighter. A little more pointed than the last one.

You exhale softly through your nose, brush a stray hair off his shoulder. “You wanna tell me what you think I know?”

His eyes flick up, catch yours in the mirror. For half a second, something passes over his face - barely there. Not frustration. Not even suspicion.

Tired.

Like someone trying to follow a map that keeps redrawing itself. Like every conversation he's had lately has led to a dead end paved in polite lies and closed doors.

You know that look. You've worn it.

You set the clippers down and reach for the scissors instead, voice cool, dry. "I haven't heard anything."

Then you hesitate. Not long. Just a breath.

"But if you're asking for an opinion ..." You angle the comb along his fringe. "I've been thinking about checking out that swanky new bar at the end of the block. Fancy name. Polished sign. Always empty, but still open. That's not how things work around here."

His eyes stay on you in the mirror, unreadable.

You snip the last section clean and shake off the hair from your hands.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't look relieved. Just stills again, like a man quietly pocketing something sharp.

You don't touch him when you're done. Just peel the smock away with practice and step back. "That's thirty," you say.

He stands - and somehow that's the first moment you register just how big he is.

Not just tall, but built like he's had to fight through doors rather than open them. The kind of size that makes rooms feel smaller when he's in them. Your throat doesn't tighten, but your muscles take quiet inventory.

He pulls out a bill that's too much. Folds it once. Leaves it on the counter with ceremony.

"Thanks," he says, turning toward the door.

It's the first time he's said it. The weight in it isn't even gratitude - it's ... acknowledgement. Something quieter. Sadder.

You watch him go, door chime giving a lonely jingle behind him.

You tell yourself you're not watching the way he walks. You tell yourself you're not waiting to see if he looks back.

He doesn't. 

And you hope - genuinely, stupidly, naively - that you'll never see him again. 

Because a man like that doesn't ask questions unless something's already broken.

And a man like that coming to your shop?

Means it's about to break here.

***

Outside, the street's half-dead in the way only Gotham can manage - too quiet to feel safe, too loud to feel calm. Somewhere, someone's screaming at their kid in Spanglish. A dog barks once and shuts up like it remembered the rules. The sun's slipping down behind the rooftops like even if it doesn't want to be here.

You wonder if you should lock up early. You've got no one else on the books this evening, and even though you usually stay open late for stragglers who can only do evenings or weekends, you're on edge enough that you'd like to walk home before the sun completely abandons you.

The air bends.

That's the only way you can describe it.

A flicker of pressure in your chest. A static-punch to your ears. And then - 

BOOM.

The sound splits the block.

Glass shatters three doors down. Your front window vibrates like it's having a panic attack. You hit the ground between you've even thought about it, broom clattering beside you, coffee arcing mid-air.

Smoke curls past the storefront a second later - thick, ugly, chemical. Somewhere behind it, flames licking into the darkening sky.

And in the ringing silence that follows, you already know.

Chapter Text

By the time you get close enough to see the wreckage, your coffee's cold and your stomach's trying to convince you it's full of bricks.

It's not the first time you've seen a burning building in Gotham.

Not even on this block.

You've stepped over shell casings on your way to work. Walked your groceries home past bloodstains still drying in the summer heat. Once, a flaming tire rolled down the street like some kind of apocalyptic tumbleweed and no one even paused their sandwich. That's just how it goes. Gotham's skyline has always glowed at night.

But this? This one's different.

Because this time, you think it might be your fault.

The bar is barely recognisable. Half the facade is gone, blown out into the street like shrapnel from a severed limb. Glass crunches underfoot where the windows used to be. The door's hanging by one hinge, still smouldering, like even the hardware's trying to make a break for it. The air reeks of scorched plastic and the kind of smoke that doesn't come from wood - smoke that sticks to your clothes, your teeth, your bones.

A crowd's already formed. Always does. Gotham's got more looky-loos than it has therapists. They stand behind the barricades, jaws slack, phones out. Some filming, some live-streaming, some just staring like they're watching the end of the world with no popcorn.

You recognise some of them - Mrs. Valdez from the deli; Terrance from the pawn shop, sucking on a vape like it's the only thing keeping him from screaming; that teenage boy who keeps asking you for a job even though he can't tell the difference between conditioner and bleach.

And then there are the others.

Suits that don't look local. Guys with earpieces. One woman in a trench coat whose shoes are too clean and whose eyes are scanning everything like she's cataloguing it for later destruction.

Outsiders. You know the type. They're here to "assess" or "contain" or "restructure". They'll leave behind reports and regulations and a few more dead bodies no one talks about. 

And the noise is unbelievable.

Sirens still wailing even though half the responders are already on site. Fire hoses gushing water in chaotic arcs that steam when they hit the metal. People yelling - over each other, through each other - panic and command voices layered like a badly mixed track.

But beneath it all, there's a quieter noise. The one you've learned to pay attention to. That low, living crackle of flame still chewing through what's left inside. The pop of something collapsing deeper in. The way the fire talks when no one else is listening.

You pull your coat tighter, even though it's not cold.

Guilt's a weird thing in Gotham. Most people only feel it when they survive something they shouldn't. But you feel it now. Gnawing at the back of your throat. Because you don't know that your offhand comment led to this, but ... you've got good instincts. And those instincts are whispering that maybe you should've kept your mouth shut.

You'd thought you were throwing a lifeline. 

Now it feels more like you lit a match and handed it over with a smile.

You shift your weight from foot to foot. Stay back from the tape. No one's paying you any mind. Just another face in the crowd. Another pair of eyes watching something break.

You should go.

You want to go.

But you stand there a moment longer anyway. Watching. Waiting. Listening to something you can't quite name crack open in the smoke.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re scared that someone’s going to come back for you.

Not because you talked.

But because now you know something.

And in Gotham, that’s more dangerous than fire.

***

Mrs. Greeves talks now.

Not during her first visit - then she was all tight smiles and humming disapproval, the kind of woman who looked like she'd only booked a cut here because her usual salon was fumigating. The kind who kept her purse close to her hip like she expected you to bite it.

But you'd figured her out by the second trim. 

Mrs. Greeves will talk if you start it. Not with questions - those don't work. She doesn't like being asked. But if you offer? Just a little? Something low-stakes and delicious?

She'll eat it up like foie gras.

"... so I told Gina," you say casually, snipping around the ear, "that if she's going to bring the guy back to the apartment again, she could at least do it when his wife isn't parked outside in a silver Lexus. But does she listen?"

Mrs. Greeves sucks in a scandalised breath. "No!"

You give her a dry look in the mirror. "Oh yes."

That gets her. She laughs - this sharp, delighted thing - and the floodgates open.

Her husband's in Morocco. Or Monaco. Or Madrid. You stop listening to the where after a while because the point is, he's not here. She is. And she's bored. "Awfully bored at him," as she puts it, with a haughty sniff and a slightly-too-long look at her own reflection.

She doesn't work. Not that you'd ask. That's not what she wants to talk about. 

So instead, you throw her a fresh bone: "The delivery guy's started looping the block twice on Tuesday. Right when the new cosmetician across the road comes in. Coincidence?"

Mrs. Greeves leans forward in the chair, like you're telling her classified secrets.

"He's not even subtle about it," you go on. "Leaves the van running. Nearly got clipped by a cab last week trying to cross mid-traffic."

"Oh, how thrilling," she breathes.

Mrs. Greeves comes from further uptown. You can tell by the tone she uses when she says Somerset, like she's biting into dark chocolate - expensive, bitter, and just risky enough to brag about. This whole trip is recreational for her. An urban safari. She likes her gossip seasoned with sweat and fluorescent lighting. She likes feeling like she knows the real Gotham.

You let her pretend.

"So," you say, combing through the crown of her hair, "you planning something big for when Mr. Greeves comes home? Throw him a party? Buy him a new boat?"

"Oh god, no," she says, fluttering one hand. "Maybe I'll change the locks. That'll surprise him."

You snort softly. "Classic."

And then the bell above the door rings.

You don't turn right away - you're in the zone, mid-roller - but you catch the shift in energy before you catch the reflection. The sudden inhale of breath from the front of the shop. The silence that slides in like cold air under the door.

June's voice - normally perky, friendly - goes oddly stiff. "Uh, hi. Um. Welcome in. You looking for someone?"

You glance up in the mirror just in time to see her expression: a flicker of confusion, a beat too long pause, and then -

She turns, catches your eye.

And gestures you over with a hand that's trying not to shake.

The guy standing just inside the doorway doesn't move. Just watches you. Not hostile. Not curious. Just focused. Like you're the only one in the room and he's trying to work out why.

You get a shiver, sharp and cold, deep in your ribs.

That unmistakable Gotham feeling. 

Your lover is warning you that something's about to happen. 

And once again, it's coming through your door.

June's eyes are still wide as you approach, like a kid who just saw someone pull a knife in the middle of a PTA meeting. She jerks her head slightly toward Mrs. Greeves, who's flipping through a month-old fashion mag like she doesn't notice anything.

You lean in, voice low. "Tag in for Greeves, would you? You're almost at the set, she likes the rollers hot and the compliments hotter."

June nods too fast. "Y-yeah, okay."

You slap a smile on your face - not a warm one, just something that shows teeth - and turn to the stranger.

He hasn't moved since he stepped inside. Like he's waiting to be invited into your life like some demonic vampire with a government badge. No badge in sight, though. Just a well-tailored dark suit, pressed crisp, no lint, no flash. Navy shirt underneath, no tie. Too clean for a cop. Too quiet for a mobster.

You don't recognise his face. But you recognise the type.

You saw them at the edge of the wreckage three days ago - clustered in pairs, murmuring things with furrowed brows, pointing at burn patterns like they meant something. Not panicked. Not mourning. Just taking notes.

This guy's cut from that same cloth.

"Can I help you?" you ask, all mild politeness, with just enough grit underneath to make it clear you the answer is no.

He offers a small, professional smile. "Are you the owner?"

You give a single nod. "That's me."

"And your name?"

You hesitate. Always a bad sign, that one. People who need your name rarely want to knit you a sweater. Still, you say it. No reason not to - yet.

He tilts his head slightly, smile tightening. "Mind if we talk somewhere private?"

You glance around the shop. Every chair is in view. June's getting her groove back with Mrs. Greeves, who's already launching into a story about the time she met a prince at Heathrow. The scent of hairspray and coffee grounds is thick in the air.

You look back at him, tone flat. "It's one room."

A lie. Obvious.

The storage room is right behind you. The curtain hides it like a bad stage magician hides his assistant - barely.

He clocks it. You see it in the way his mouth quirks. But he doesn't call it out. Doesn’t need to. You’ve both just agreed: this is not a trust-based relationship.

"Alright," he says, shifting slightly to give a more casual stance - one hand resting in his coat pocket. "Just a few questions. About the explosion. Few days back, down the street."

You don't blink. Don't shift.

“Pretty loud one,” you say, like you’re commenting on the weather. “Knocked my broom off the wall. Didn’t know dust could be tactical.”

He doesn't smile this time. Not even a twitch.

"We have a report," he continues, tone level but clipped, "that you were in your place of business when it happened."

You give a shrug. "I live here. More or less. Not exactly news that I'm in my shop."

He watches you for a long beat. Then: "Did you see anything unusual that day?"

You raise a brow. "It's Gotham. Define unusual. Was there a parade of nuns? A man with a rocket launcher? Or are we talking about the bar with the wrong permit suddenly turning into a bonfire?"

His jaw ticks - barely.

You wait, watching him scan the room again. Like he’s checking how fast he could flip a chair, how long it’d take to get to that curtain behind you. You lean your elbow against the counter like you’re relaxed, even as your fingers inch just beneath it. Curling around the familiar, cold grip of the thing taped to the underside.

Just in case.

"There's reason to believe," he says, slowly now, carefully, "that someone may have visited your shop shortly before it happened."

Your spine doesn't stiffen. Your heart doesn't stutter. But you feel the air leave your lips like someone cracked the seal on something dangerous.

You scratch your eyebrow with your free hand. "We get a lot of walk-ins. Gonna have to be more specific."

His eyes sharpen. "Tall. Built. Leather jacket."

Your pulse gives a quiet kick. Your face doesn't.

You snort. "You just described half my male clientele. It's Gotham. Everyone's tall, broad, and has unresolved trauma."

He doesn't laugh. "Did he say anything?"

You pretend to think. Furrow your brows slightly. "Bit of a silent type, if I remember. Sat down, got his cut, paid in full, left. Not exactly headline-worthy."

He watches you a moment longer. Long enough to be sure he won’t trip you up now. But not long enough for comfort.

You keep your grip on the gun.

Eventually, he nods. “Thank you for your time.”

You don’t say you’re welcome. Just watch him turn and walk out.

The bell rings overhead like a warning shot. June peeks up at you from behind a stack of curlers, eyes wide again.

You release the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You don’t loosen your grip until you see him cross the street and disappear behind a van with tinted windows.

Even then, it takes a minute.

“Jesus wept,” you mutter under your breath, then paste on a smile like it’s your job. Which, technically, it is.

You turn back toward June and Mrs. Greeves like nothing just happened. Like the guy in the tailored suit didn’t just size up your entire existence with a measuring tape shaped like a threat.

June’s finished with the rollers. The hood dryer’s humming quietly now, glowing soft pink like the inside of a sunlamp. She’s flitting around the station, reorganising clips that don’t need reorganising, twisting her ring like she’s trying to screw it through her knuckle.

You give the work a once-over, nod. “Hope Junie’s been treating you well,” you say, catching Mrs. Greeves’s eye in the mirror. “She’s been practising extra hard lately. Something about saving up for a flat with the new boyfriend.”

The reaction is immediate. Double gasp - June’s sharp and horrified, Mrs. Greeves’s delighted and nosy, already leaning in like she’s about to ask for a wedding date.

“You didn’t tell me you’re seeing someone new,” Mrs. Greeves croons.

“I - he’s not - it’s not even-” June stammers, her whole face blooming red.

But you figure the distraction’s good for her. Better an exaggerated romance than a real interrogation. Let her drown in Greeves’s over-curious avalanche of questions for a few minutes while you breathe.

You pass behind June a moment later, lightly brushing her elbow with yours as you slide by, murmuring low, “If anyone else comes in like him? Let me know.”

She nods. A little too quickly. She doesn’t ask for clarification. Good girl.

You slip through the curtain into the back room, exhaling slow.

The storeroom is exactly the same as it always is - hot, claustrophobic, faintly smelling of acetone and old wood - but the air feels heavier now. Like someone’s pressed a hand to your chest and won’t let up.

You dig out your notebook from beneath the false bottom in the cleaning supply crate. It’s small. Dog-eared. Cover peeled halfway off. You've used it for everything from vendor invoices to grocery lists to client dye formulas.

You hate writing things down. Feels permanent. Tangible. A little too helpful to anyone with the wrong set of keys and no conscience. But memory is only good until the nerves set in, and today? You’re buzzing just under the skin.

You flip to the back and start a new page. Nothing too specific. Just shapes. Codes. Phrases only you would bother decoding.

Clean suit. Navy shirt. No tie. Earpiece bulge, left. Southpaw.
Asked for name first - red flag.
Described him physically. Not facially. Why?
Didn’t press hard. Fishing, not confirming.
"Someone saw you." Who? Where? When? How?

You pause. Tap the pen once against the paper, then add:

Feels like groundwork.
Feels like they're checking if I’m stupid.

You stare at the page for a beat longer than you mean to.

Then close the notebook, shove it back beneath the crate, and lock the door behind you as you step out.

***

The shop's dark except for the desk lamp - an old green-shaded thing you picked up from a pawn shop after the fluorescent overheads started flickering like a morgue. It casts just enough light to glare on your calculator screen, where your bank app stares back like an open wound. 

You've been juggling numbers for twenty minutes, trying to find the margin between barely scraping by and cutting off your own foot to save on rent. Somewhere in the middle of figuring out if you can afford to replace the waiting bench and still cover product orders, your eyes land on the fresh envelope still sitting unopened next to the till.

Polite font. Expensive paper. It reeks of veiled threats.

You already know what it says. You've had that landlord long enough to read between the lines of his "gentle reminders" and "unavoidable increases."

"Asshole," you mutter, dragging a hand down your face.

You don't want to move shop. Not because you're sentimental - this place has eaten your back and knees and most of your twenties - but because you've carved out your corner here. In Somerset. On this block. In this city.

You've watched businesses come and go like seasonal flowers. You're still standing.

So when a crack echoes from the back room, low and out of place, it cuts through the silence like a bone snap.

You freeze.

Another sound - barely a scuff this time. Soft. But there.

You move without thinking.

Hand slides under the till. Fingers wrap around cool metal. Familiar weight. Smooth grip. The comfort of knowing you're not defenseless in your own goddamn salon.

The back hallway is dead quiet. Just the low hum of the fridge in the kitchenette. A curl of hairspray still hanging in the air.

You approach the storeroom, slow and quiet. The curtain's cracked open. 

No windows.

No outside access.

You push it the rest of the way open with the barrel of the gun and - 

The man with the white streak is standing in the middle of the room.

Reading your fucking notebook.

He looks calm. Casual. Holding it like he's skimming the TV guide, not rifling through the closest thing you have to classified files.

And for half a second, your brain just stalls.

Not because you recognise him. Not because he's here. 

Because you don’t know how the hell he got in.

There’s no door. No window. No broken locks. No damn sign.

Just him. Standing there. Holding your secrets.

You see red.

“You been watching me?” you snap, voice sharp, gun still up.

He looks up from the page slowly. No surprise. No panic. Just a flicker of something - guilt, maybe. Or resignation. Like he's been expecting this exact moment.

He sets the notebook down. Palms open, slow. "It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" you bark. "Because it looks like breaking and entering and a reading comprehension violation."

He's still got his hands up, but you don't drop the gun.

Not even close.

"How'd you get in?" you ask, teeth gritted. "How long you been in here?"

"I didn't come to hurt you."

"That's not what I asked."

He doesn't answer. 

Your heart is kicking now, blood buzzing in your fingers, and you can't tell if it's the adrenaline or fury or something colder, slinking behind your ribs. You should've trusted your gut the first time you saw him. You should've burned that notebook.

You don't lower the weapon. "The bar. That you?"

He exhales, shifts his weight. "Did someone come asking about it?"

You flick your eyes towards the notebook. "You tell me."

He steps forward half a pace - slow, testing. You don't back up.

"Did you tell them about me?" he asks, low now, fast. "Did you describe me? Face? Hair?"

You almost laugh. "You worried someone's gonna sketch that little white streak on a wanted poster?"

His jaw twitches.

His hands lower slightly. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Did you tell them anything?”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

One word. Flat. Final.

And before you can blink, he moves.

Disarms you with a fast, practised strike, knocking your wrist wide just hard enough to make the gun hit the floor. You go for it on instinct but he’s already on you - closing the distance, grabbing your wrists, shoving them back against the doorframe with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The wood rattles behind you.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, wrists pinned, heart slamming under your ribs.

He’s not snarling. Not even breathing heavy.

Just staring at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

You press yourself harder into the doorframe, not because you think it'll help - he's stronger, heavier, trained - but because it's the only thing grounding you.

The curtain's still between you, caught in the middle like some flimsy excuse for decency. Doesn't matter. You can feel him, every inch. The press of his hips. The way his thigh slots against yours. The heat of him, coiled and waiting.

You look up at him, chin tilted. Not afraid - at least, not yet.

He watches you with that unreadable stare. Hooded. Measured. Like he's cataloguing pressure points. Then his voice drops low, rough and dry:

"You gonna shoot me if I let go?"

You don't blink. "Maybe."

His mouth twitches - halfway between amusement and challenge. The kind of expression that shouldn’t feel like a thrill in your chest, but does.

He leans in, just enough to feel the shift of his breath against your cheek. “Then I guess we’re doing it like this.”

His voice is quiet, and far too steady for someone who just got a gun pulled on him. He doesn’t sound like a man trying to scare you. He sounds like one who knows he already does.

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t get to pin me to a wall and offer deals like you’re doing me a favour.”

"Don't see anyone else lining up to help," he murmurs, gaze dragging down your face like a blueprint. "Tell me what you hear. I keep your shop safe."

You scoff. "You want gossip for protection? You think I'm a mob wife?"

His brow lifts. "You want to keep your doors open?"

"I want to keep my clients' trust."

He doesn't back off. Doesn't blink. Just watches you like he's daring you to pick the wrong hill to die on.

You press your wrists against the doorframe, testing the strength of his grip. It doesn't budge. "You gonna tell me how you're planning to protect me, Prince Charming? Because if it's more explosions, I'll pass."

"I know people," he says plainly. "People who make the bad guys rethink their evening plans."

You believe him. More than you want to.

There's something in the way he says it - not boastful, not threatening. Just true. Like stating the weather. Like if he whispered a name right now, the floor would shift under you.

You keep your tone even. "And I'm just supposed to trust you?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, his voice lowers, a rasp against your skin. "Your rent's going up next month. Thirty percent. Landlord hasn't posted it yet - waiting for the city to approve the zoning change."

Your stomach drops.

But he's not done.

"June's new boyfriend? Not new. Not hers, either. Married. Lives in Bristol Hill. Your sweet apprentice is about a week away from a public heartbreak."

You stop breathing for half a second. 

His grip loosens - just enough to let you move if you wanted to. You don’t. Not yet.

You stare up at him, something colder lacing the burn under your ribs now. “You’ve been watching me.”

He shakes his head once. “I watch everyone.”

That makes it worse, somehow.

You ask, voice lower now, quieter: “If you know all that, why do you need me?”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Because you make people talk,” he says, and lets you go.

You stumble forward a half step - not from force, but from the sudden absence of it. The curtain sways gently between you.

He turns like it’s over. Like the deal’s done.

“You just gonna decide for both of us?” you snap, voice sharp.

He pauses at the threshold.

You clench your fists, pulse still thudding too fast. “You want me to talk? Fine. Show me protection. Show me it’s real. Then maybe I’ll think about it.”

He glances back at you, over his shoulder. Something like a smirk ghosts across his mouth - but it’s not smug. It’s knowing. Tired. Like he expected this response.

Like he wants the fight in you.

Then he disappears through the back door.

No sound. No lock clicking.

Just gone.

And you’re left with your gun on the floor, your heart in your throat, and the sickening sense that you’ve just stepped into something a lot bigger than rent hikes and bruised egos.

You exhale once, slow and shaky.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

But your voice isn’t angry anymore.

It’s intrigued.

***

The next morning, before the sun has clawed fully over the rooftops, you unlock the shop's front door with fingers still stiff from sleep and suspicion. The air smells like garbage trucks and burnt toast - normal. Comforting, even. The shop looks the same. Same crooked blinds, same crack in the front tile no one's fixed yet, same faded awning whispering promises of walk-ins welcome.

Which is when you spot it.

Near the corner of the building, just above the drainpipe. Small. Subtle. Sharp.

A red stencil - no bigger than your palm. Faintly smeared like it was done fast, under cover of dark. A crude hood shape with two black slashes for eyes, barely visible unless you know what to look for. A tourist would think it was street art. Taggers getting creative. Just another layer of Gotham grime.

But you know better.

You've lived here long enough to feel the weight of symbols.

And this one? This one's a warning. A ward. A promise, carved in spray paint: This property is in Red Hood territory.

You stare at it for a moment too long, keys still clutched in your hand.

Then you sigh, mutter, “Shit,” and head inside.

You guess he wasn't kidding about friends in high places.

Chapter Text

Vigilantes in Gotham are a lot like stray dogs. They show up, uninvited, usually bleeding, and half the time you're not sure if they're going to save your life or bite your hand off.

You've never been starstruck by them. Not the Bat. Not the Birds. Not whoever's climbing rooftops this week in a new colour scheme and a leather fetish.

To you, they're just part of the city's architecture. Like gargoyles. Or potholes. Or the ever-present smell of wet brick.

Still, you've only ever met one.

And honestly?

You're not even sure you'd call him a vigilante - though the news sure did.

“Baby Robin Strikes Again!”
“Sidekick or Street Menace?”
“Who’s Giving These Children Weapons?”
“Bat-Brat Bloodies Knife Fight in Alley Near GCPD—Again!”

Yeah. Gotham’s press doesn’t have a great bedside manner.

But you remember him differently.

You were maybe fifteen. Maybe just about to turn.

It was early spring - the kind that still felt like winter, all grey skies and slush pretending to be snow. You were sitting outside the jailhouse on Bristol Street, cheeks raw, nose running, trying to count dinner pennies out of a Ziploc bag while pretending you weren't crying.

You'd brought everything you'd scraped together - register tips, loose change, the bottom of your coat pocket - because your older brother had done something dumb (again), and someone needed to bail him out (again). The desk guy behind the counter told you - not unkindly, but firmly - that you were a few bucks short.

You'd corrected him. It was a few pennies.

Didn't matter.

So you'd sat down on the stone steps, shoulders curled, counting and recounting, like maybe that would change anything. You weren't in danger. You weren't doing anything wrong. You were just tired.

That's when you heard a scuffle beside you.

The kind of shuffle that says someone is trying not to be heard.

When you looked up, there was a kid sitting next to you.

At first, you thought costume party. Some rich brat slumming it for the thrill of cosplay. The red tunic. The gauntlets. The cape bunched around his knees like it was too heavy for his frame. The domino mask perched perfectly.

Then you noticed the scratches. Deep tears in the green fabric of his sleeve, and matching ones across his arm, red and ugly and real. His knuckles were scraped raw. One boot was untied. He was practically vibrating with leftover adrenaline.

He looked at you. Said nothing at first. Just blinked, wide-eyed, like a bird deciding whether or not you’d bite.

Then he fidgeted, fingers twitching, glanced at your lap, then dug into the pouch at his side - utility belt, really, was that real? - and pulled out a crumpled Bat Burger kids' toy. Plastic. Chipped. One of those spinning-tip things with a cartoon Nightwing painted on it.

"Here," he said, shoving it into your hand like it was treasure. His voice was high, younger than you expected, but with a scratchy edge—like he’d been yelling not long ago, or like his throat hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him. "I got a duplicate. It spins real good if you let it go on a flat surface. Watch the curve - it always leans left. Kind of like me. My brother says it’s defective, but I think it’s just got personality."

You stared at it. Then at him. His eyes flicked to your expression and held there, searching for a reaction. Like he cared a little too much if you liked it.

" ... Is this a bribe?"

He shrugged, hands twitching toward his knees again. "It's a solidarity offering. And a morale booster. You looked like you could use a win."

"You think I'm five?"

"I think you're upset."

You narrowed your eyes. "I think you're injured."

He looked at the scratches, then flexed his fingers. "You should see the other guy. Actually, no. You shouldn't. It got messy."

You didn't want to smile. But it happened anyway. Something about him pulled at you - not just the ridiculous toy or the stupid way he seemed proud of it, but the fact that he'd noticed you. Really noticed you, in a way that didn’t feel like pity or passing curiosity.

He was fidgety, clearly wired on leftover adrenaline and god knew what else, but he wasn’t trying to scare you. He was just trying. And that was more than most people had done in a long time. 

It wasn't a full-blown moment of faith or anything - you weren’t a fool. But for the first time all afternoon, the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing inward. And for a second, that felt like hope.

"Aren't you supposed to be stopping muggings or something?"

He gave you a weirdly tired look for someone who still had baby fat in his cheeks. "I'm on break. Five minutes. Maybe seven. I earned it. I got kicked in the kidney and didn’t even throw up until I was around the corner."

"Right. Breaktime in full uniform."

He rolled his shoulders, like he was trying to shake off the energy still clinging to him. "You know how hard it is to get this stuff off? Half the time I think the cape's glued on."

Then added: "What's your deal, anyway?"

You gestured at the Ziploc bag, half-full of shame and copper. "Just your standard family bail-out. I'm a few cents short of redemption."

He looked at the bag, then at you. "That sucks."

"Yup."

“Do you want me to beat someone up about it?”

That made you laugh, for real. “Wow. Chivalry’s not dead after all.”

He beamed, all boyish pride. “Nope. Just legally flexible.”

You sat there in silence for a moment. Sharing space like it was a blanket. You didn’t ask who he was. He didn’t ask who you were. And you didn’t notice until much later that he’d slid a few extra coins out of his belt pouch and into your Ziploc when you weren’t looking.

Just enough.

He stood up after a few minutes, bounced on the balls of his feet like he had to burn the last of the momentum. Brushed off his knees like he was about to go back to punching crime in the throat.

You watched him, then muttered, “I should just go. Screw the desk guy, screw my brother. He’s the one who got arrested. Maybe I just leave him there and walk home.”

It wasn’t a real plan. Just something bitter that felt good to say out loud.

But the boy paused - half-turned, cape shifting behind him like it had a mind of its own.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you’ve just gotta cut and run.”

You looked up at him. “That your personal motto?”

He grinned. “One of them.”

“And what do the other ones say? ‘Aim for the kneecaps’?”

“That’s a tactical guideline.”

You snorted.

Then he was off, slipping into the alley without a sound, the last thing you saw of him the sharp edge of red against brick.

You looked down at the spinning top in your hand. It was still warm from his. Cracked, dumb, useless. You kept it.

And you never saw him again.

You still can't really bring yourself to call him a vigilante. 

That kid - whoever he was under the cape, with his dumb Bat Burger toy and quietly heroic sleight of hand - he wasn't some avenging angel. He didn't threaten you, didn't flash steel under his coat, didn't make you feel like you'd just stepped into someone else's war.

He just sat beside you when you were sad. And gave you enough.

That's what a hero felt like.

The man with the white streak and the war in his shoulders? He's not your hero.

Not even close.

You've heard from him almost every day since that first late-night visit. Never the same way twice. A scrawled note tucked under your cash drawer one morning - four names, no explanation. A burner phone left in a box of salon capes, vibrating at odd hours with single-word questions. A regular - one of you're older clients - dropping a phrase into conversation so awkwardly out of place you almost laughed, until you realised it was him, using them.

Some of it, you don't even know how he did. One morning, your schedule app glitched and a name you didn't recognise appeared on the booking list, attached to a single sentence: “Barber next to the record shop was picked up - ask about the van.”

That one nearly made you drop your phone.

He's getting creative. And worse - he's getting impatient.

You haven't been giving him much. You tell yourself it's because you don't have anything worth sharing. But you know it's more than that. You're stalling. Dodging. Pretending not to notice things that might be useful to him.

Because every time you do send something along - always filtered, always vague - you feel like you're reaching your hand into something with teeth. And you're not sure who it'll bite first.

Some of the methods are untraceable. Others, if anyone were to find them ... it wouldn't take much for the wrong person to connect the dots.

You don't want to think about what happens if they do.

Your apartment is quiet tonight. Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels like it's listening to you. 

It's a single-room deal above a shuttered laundromat. The walls are painted the colour of dust, and the radiator knocks like it's trying to start a fight. The window sticks. The pipes rattle. But it's yours.

Half your clothes are hung on a line across the heater. You haven't gotten around to fixing the overhead light, so a table lamp glows tired yellow from the counter. There's a sink full of dishes and a stack of rent notices clipped under a laughing magnet that says SHEAR MADNESS.

And on the high shelf above your bed, wedged between a rusted can of hairspray and a cracked snow globe, is the old Bat Burger spinning top. 

Still chipped. Still dumb. Still yours.

You haven't touched it in years. 

But tonight, you glance at it longer than usual. 

Because for the first time in a long time, you're not sure which direction to spin.

***

You hear the lock click first.

Not knock. Not rattle.

Click.

Deliberate. Smooth. Like someone picking it with a bored kind of grace, the same way someone might crack their knuckles or spin a coin.

You're halfway to the gun taped under your kitchen table when the door swings open, and he steps inside like he owns the lease.

Leather jacket. Black gloves. That same unmistakable white streak of hair like a bolt down a loaded cloud. Two guns, holstered and visible, because of course they are. His eyes—sharp, wild, locked onto you like he's still seeing something else just behind your face.

He doesn’t say hello.

He just kicks the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot and stands there like your apartment is a warzone and you're ground zero.

Your fingers tense around the grip under the table.

He’s going to kill you.

It’s the only thing your brain can land on at first. The guns. The stare. The way he moves - like violence is just a jacket he hasn’t taken off yet.

Your voice is flat, brittle at the edges. "If this is about the notepad, I was gonna alphabetise it eventually."

His eyes flick to your hand - just a flick - then back to your face. And then he starts moving.

Fast, focused. Not charging, but advancing. His shoulders are tight, gloved hand twitching like it doesn't know what it's supposed to be holding anymore. You don’t draw the gun, not yet. But you hold your ground.

He stops a foot away.

Too close. Chest rising and falling like he's just come from a sprint - or a gunfight.

“Did anyone mention a guy named Caleb Rowe?” he demands. Not a question, not a threat. Just urgent.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “What- ?”

No hello, no why aren’t you cooperating, no time’s up, sweetheart - just a name, shoved between you like a live wire.

“Rowe,” he says again, like if he says it fast enough it’ll conjure meaning. “Caleb. Anyone talk about him?”

You glance at the holsters. Then at his face.

And now, only now, you see the thing beneath the mania.

He’s exhausted. Not in the “missed a few hours of sleep” way. In the “crawled out of hell and left pieces of himself behind” way. There’s a tremor in his jaw like he’s clenching to hold something in. A tremor in your gut, because somehow this is worse than the idea of him killing you.

He’s not here to hurt you.

He’s here because something’s already hurt him.

And for a moment, just a flicker, you think: Oh, he’s not here to kill me. He’s here because if he doesn’t get an answer, something inside him will die.

You let out a breath, slow. “Jesus. Calm down.”

“I am calm,” he says, too fast, too defensive.

You tilt your head. “You’ve got a vein in your forehead trying to unionise.”

He drags a hand through his hair, scruffing the white streak, then fumbles a look around like he just remembered the concept of surroundings. “I just - I need to know what you heard. Anything. Anyone who said his name. Please.”

The “please” is stiff. Like it hurt him to say it.

And for some reason, that makes something inside you shift. 

You were half-certain he was going to kill you when he came through the door. You were already measuring the distance to the table, calculating whether you'd have time to flip it and reach the gun. And now, he's standing in your kitchen, shaking from something that clearly didn't start with you, asking for help like it’s the worst thing he’s had to do all day.

You don’t even like him. Not really. You don’t trust him. But there’s something about the desperation behind that ‘please’ - the stiffness of it, the way it caught on his tongue like a word he doesn’t know how to say - that tugs at something inconvenient in your chest.

It’s not sympathy. You don’t believe in handing that out for free.

But it’s something close. Something that looks like recognition.

Because you’ve been there. On the edge of unravelling. On the edge of begging.

And maybe that’s why, even though your instincts are screaming not to, you start flipping through the notepad anyway.

You don’t need to. You remember the name. Loud, clear, underlined twice in your mind.

Rowe, Caleb. Mentioned three days ago.

You’re stalling. Watching him from the corner of your eye. Weighing whether you should tell him or not.

He’s pacing now. Not looking at you. Eyes bouncing from the fridge to the half-open cabinet to the crusty mug still in the sink.

He’s pacing now. Awkward, off-rhythm. Eyes bouncing between your fridge and the sink like he’s never seen either before. His hand brushes a chipped mug, then pulls back like it burned him.

And then, for no reason you can name, he rolls up his sleeves and starts doing your dishes.

You blink.

“What-” you start.

“I need something to do with my hands,” he mutters, already filling the sink, grabbing a sponge like he’s lived here for years and your dishwasher is just free use.

You stare at his back.

“…Are you seriously washing my dishes right now?”

He doesn’t look at you. “They need to be done."

“You need a Xanax.”

He scrubs harder. “You got any?”

“No, but I do have a suspicious number of knives. So maybe don’t reach under the sink.”

He makes a low sound that might be a laugh or a growl. It’s hard to tell with the water running.

You close the notepad with a sigh and lean your hip against the counter. Arms crossed.

“Caleb Rowe,” you say, voice quieter now. “Didn’t hear it from him. Heard it from his aunt. Real chatty, thinks her nephew’s a genius. Comes in every few weeks for a root touch-up and to humblebrag about his ‘new gig in distribution.’”

Jason scrubs a plate like it insulted his mother. “Distribution.”

You eye him. “You think I’m lying?”

He shakes his head, jaw locked. “I think Caleb Rowe couldn’t distribute flyers without turning it into a felony.”

You hum, dragging a nail along the edge of the counter. “So not actually in logistics.”

“Not unless ‘moving bodies’ counts.”

That shifts the air between you. You glance at the towel hanging limp from the oven handle, wonder vaguely if it’s about to catch fire just from the friction radiating off of him. And it suddenly hits you - what you're actually informing on.

Not petty turf scuffles or muscle-flexing gang beef. Not even shady bookkeeping or smuggled weapons. This isn't gossip about who's dating who in the back room of a bodega. It's something darker. Bigger. Organised.

And not shocking - this is Gotham. But it still settles strange in your chest.

You'd laughed when Gerry Rowe said "distribution." Joked about basements and concrete. But you're starting to believe it. Starting to see it behind her eyes. Caleb Rowe isn’t just caught up in something dangerous. He is something dangerous. And by extension, so are you now.

You’re not a coward. You’ve heard worse, seen worse. But for the first time since you started this little arrangement, your mouth is dry. You’ve been treating this like a game. Like you're the sharpest knife in the drawer, too clever to get blood on your hands.

But blood doesn’t care how clever you are. It just sticks.

“I didn’t push,” you say. “Didn’t ask. Just let her ramble. Said he’s working nights. Got a new place uptown. Industrial vibes. Sounded like code for ‘windowless basement.’”

He nods once. But his shoulders don’t drop.

You lean back against the counter, arms crossed now, watching him like a riddle that’s half-solved and twitching.

“Do you do this often?” you ask.

His hands still in the sink, fingertips pressing into the rim of a dish like he’s weighing how literal you’re being.

You clarify, tone dry. “Breaking in. Intimidating people for intel.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Just like that. Like it’s normal.

Then he glances at you over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t seem intimidated, though.”

You raise an eyebrow, slow and steady. “Explain.”

He actually hesitates. Drips water on your floor.

“It’s important,” he says finally, “to keep a good network. People who know things. Hear things. People who can read a room without needing to pull a gun.”

You nod slowly, amused. “So, like ... local gossip witches.”

He huffs. “More or less.”

You tilt your head. “You got a lot of those?”

He shrugs. “Some. Not enough.”

“And you just go around, what - showing up in their apartments and washing their dishes?”

His mouth twitches. “Only when it’s urgent.”

You tap your nail against the counter again, letting the beat hang.

It's strangely intimate, watching him do your dishes. Too intimate. Nobody's done them since you were a kid and it was your brother’s turn - back before chore wheels turned into eviction notices. You never let anyone get close enough to reach the sponge. Let alone someone with guns and scars and a jaw that looks like it’s clenched by default.

Something about it makes your skin itch. Like he’s stepped over a line neither of you agreed on but now it’s too awkward to mention.

“Well, then,” you say, tone deceptively casual, “you must be a regular at Dusty’s.”

That gets him.

His head jerks like he wasn’t expecting you to go there. Which is funny, because everyone in Gotham knows Dusty’s.

Infamous isn’t strong enough. Mythic, maybe. It’s the kind of place that pretends to be a strip club, but no one goes for the dances. You go for the whispers. The deals done in booths with blackout curtains. The backroom where secrets cost less than dignity and more than money. Red lighting. Cash-only. Everything smells like heat and perfume and danger.

His eyes narrow, and for the first time since he walked in, you see something like embarrassment flicker across his face.

“Not a - ” He clears his throat. “Not a regular.”

You grin, slow and sharp. “Uh-huh.”

“Dusty’s isn’t my kind of spot.”

“No?” you ask, enjoying this a little too much. “Too much glitter? Not enough punching?”

He gives you a look. “There’s plenty of punching. Just ... not the right kind.”

You laugh, and it slips out softer than you meant it to. Not teasing. Not smug. Just amused.

He watches you for a second longer than he should.

Then picks up the next plate.

The silence stretches, taut and uncertain. You can hear the faint drip of the tap behind the steady scrape of sponge on ceramic. He’s working through your dishes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You know,” you finally mutter, “when I imagined a man breaking into my apartment, panting and manic, I thought it’d be a different kind of night.”

He glances over his shoulder. For a moment, he actually looks startled. Like he forgot you were here.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I was disappointed.” You arch an eyebrow. “Just thought there’d be less soap involved. Or more, depending on the setting.”

He sets the last mug down with a little more force than necessary.

And you see it - just a flicker, just enough. That tension behind his eyes when you joke too close to the line. The slight jerk of his shoulders when your voice drops or your words get suggestive. Like he’s bracing for something, or trying not to be caught off guard. It doesn’t match the rest of him - the guns, the gravel-thick voice, the way he stares like he already knows where your weak spot is.

It’s weird. Hard to reconcile.

He moves like a man with blood on his boots. But flinch like that again, and you’ll start wondering if someone taught him early that kindness is a trap and familiarity is worse.

Then he turns.

Steps in close. Just a few inches too close. Close enough that your pulse kicks up without your permission. Close enough that you can see the scars - not just the one on his cheek - the one that always catches the light and dares people to ask about it, but also the smaller ones. A thin white crescent curling up the side of his lip like a question mark. A scattering near his temple, half-hidden by the uneven edge of his hair. The faded trace of something that might've been a burn along the line of his jaw. A litany of old injuries etched into him like warnings.

The air feels warmer all of a sudden - or maybe you’re just acutely aware of how narrow the space is between you. There’s a bead of sweat gathering just behind your neck, and your fingers curl against the counter without thinking, like your body’s trying to ground itself. You feel a twitch in your throat, a catch behind your ribs, like your body forgot how to process adrenaline and attraction at the same time. It’s unsettling. A little annoying.

He’s the one who broke in. The one who barged into your night, barked questions like they were bullets. But now he’s standing so close your breath comes shallow, and you’re suddenly, embarrassingly aware of the shape of your own mouth.

But you don’t move. Neither does he.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

You raise an eyebrow. “You always say thanks after committing a felony?”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. He begins to move away. “Only when the host lets me do chores.”

You snort softly. “Next time, knock.”

He makes it to the door before pausing. Hand on the frame.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

He glances back, and something flickers behind his eyes. “Didn’t want to give you time to say no.”

And then he’s gone.

Again.

Leaving behind a clean sink, a dripping dishrag, and that same knot behind your ribs that keeps tightening every time he leaves.

***

It's late morning when your next client walks in - heels too loud for the cracked linoleum, purse too small for practicality. She's pretty in a way that feels purchased, but not in a bad way. Just ... recent. Nails done yesterday, blowout from a salon with water features and free wine. Big designer sunglasses she doesn't take off until she's already halfway through your greeting.

She smiles like she means it, which is rare in Gotham and makes you instantly suspicious.

You usher her in, take her coat, offer coffee. She accepts it like she's just gotten used to being served.

The hair's an even bigger tell. Thick, heavy, and a full two inches of root showing beneath a very expensive balayage. The kind of upkeep that says wealth is new, and stability is uncertain.

“Just a trim today?” you ask, draping the cape over her shoulders. It’s a newer one. No holes. Small miracles.

She looks at herself in the mirror, then smiles at you through it. “Maybe a treatment too. My sister loves this place. Says you’re magic.”

You raise a brow. “Yeah? Who’s your sister?”

“Oh - Gerry. Gerry Rowe.”

You freeze.

Just for a breath. Just long enough to miss the next snip. You cover it by reaching for the comb.

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light, “Gerry’s a good client.”

She nods, clearly pleased with herself. “She said you fixed her bangs after that disaster at Casa Nueve.”

You hum in agreement, even though you remember that appointment mostly as Gerry talking non-stop about her nephew’s promotion while you tried to bleach out six months of box dye.

"She actually booked me this appointment," the woman adds with a little laugh. "Said I deserved to treat myself. My son's doing well, so he's been a bit generous lately. Says I can splurge on this sort of thing."

That catches your attention harder than the name did.

You eye her roots again. Two inches of delay before the money kicked in.

You shouldn’t ask. You know you shouldn’t ask.

You’re not in the business of pushing. That’s not how you get people to talk. You create the space. They fill it.

Still…

You know better. You do.

But you glance at her reflection in the mirror - then at your own - and your fingers tighten slightly on the comb, like maybe you can ground yourself with the pressure.

You section off her hair with slow fingers, letting your tone shift, casual and warm. Careful. Like you're stepping through a door you can’t close again.

"Oh, yeah. I think Gerry mentioned his promotion," you say, smile flickering easy. "What's he do again?"

Chapter Text

You stare at the burner phone for a full thirty seconds before you send the text.

Just a name: Caleb Rowe.

No fluff. No context. He knows what it means.

You’ve never used it before. Not once. The only thing clogging the message thread is a string of two-word texts from him, scattered across the past week like breadcrumbs from a paranoid maniac.

“Update?”
“Dennis Richards?”
“You okay?”

You didn’t reply to any of them. Until now.

His response comes back five seconds later. No punctuation. No hesitation.

71 Glasswell. 3rd floor. Side entrance.

You stare at it.

Right. So you're not doing pleasantries.

You flip the sign on the shop door to Gone to Lunch, tell June not to buzz anyone in, and pocket the burner alongside your regular phone and a small folding knife, because Gotham’s Gotham.

The train takes eleven minutes. And it’s eleven minutes of pure Gotham hell.

You don’t hate the subway. That would imply it deserves that much emotion. It’s just a necessary evil, like rainstorms or Commissioner Gordon’s moustache. You’ve learned not to make eye contact, not to sit near anyone eating soup out of a thermos, and to always - always - choose the seat furthest from a man with birds on his shoulder.

You make it in one piece.

Glasswell’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of building that looks like it used to be a factory, then an office space, then something else no one talks about. Graffiti’s been cleaned up, mostly. Windows replaced. Rent probably still cash-only.

You find the side entrance - steel door, keypad lock, smell faintly of bleach and asphalt - and make your way up to the third floor. No signs. No names. Just a grey door with no peephole.

You knock once.

It opens immediately. Like he was standing there, waiting.

He doesn’t say hi.

Just steps aside, letting you in with a short nod and a longer look. You brush past him, shoulder just barely grazing his chest. Too close. Too warm. Your skin hums from the contact, and your jaw locks instinctively.

The place isn’t … bad.

It’s not date material, either. But it’s not a corpse pile or a crack den, so your standards are thoroughly exceeded.

One-room flat. Exposed brick, metal piping. Dustless floors and counters. Neatly stacked magazines by the window - mostly weapons catalogues and motorbike manuals. A twin mattress on a low frame. A tiny fridge that hums too loud. And a first-aid kit out on the kitchen counter, open, stocked like a trauma ward.

There’s a duffel by the door that you’re 90% sure has guns in it. A single ceramic mug in the sink. Two toothbrushes in a cup in the bathroom. One still in its wrapper.

Everything’s clean, but barren. Like he scrubs the place down to keep it from feeling too much like someone lives here. A safehouse he keeps warm enough to pretend, if only for a minute, that he belongs in it.

He watches you take it in without saying a word. He’s got that lean again - shoulder to doorframe, arms crossed like he’s either at ease or about to throw someone through a wall. You’re not sure which. But his eyes track you, just a little too long, like he's waiting for you to flinch.

“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this where you bring all your informants?”

His brow quirks, just slightly, as his gaze flickers over to the twin bed with no sheets. "Only the pretty ones."

You snort, your heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. “Guess the standards drop when the intel’s free.”

He doesn’t rise to it, just shifts his weight and watches you like he’s waiting for something useful to fall out of your mouth. His fingers flex slightly against his forearm.

You try again, casual. "You gonna offer me a drink?"

He blinks once. Slow. And there's a twitch in his mouth, like the idea sits weirdly inside him. “You come here to flirt or report?”

Well, that’s a wall.

“Fine,” you say, voice flattening. You drop your bag on the counter beside the first-aid kit. “Let’s get it over with then.”

You fold your arms, leaning against the same counter, close enough that you can smell his soap - something plain, institutional, and too clean to feel like it belongs in Gotham. It makes your stomach twist. Domesticity has always been a harder kind of intimacy for you, and this feels close to it.

Across from you, he drops his weight onto the counter, fingers brushing opposite biceps like he's making sure he catches everything you say. 

“Caleb Rowe’s mommy came in for a ‘treat-yourself’ blowout,” you start, like it’s gossip and not a wiretap with hairspray. “Said her boy’s ‘finally moved up.’ She thinks he’s got a job in city planning. Either that or distribution - she kept changing the story. But apparently he’s driving a new car, living in some private security housing uptown, and working nights six days a week. Says he’s important now. Real hush-hush.”

He doesn’t move, but his jaw tightens like he’s grinding the intel through his molars.

“She said he had a late start,” you go on, “but he finally found a job that suits his temperament. She used that exact phrase. ‘His temperament.’ Which I’m guessing means whatever he’s doing, it involves hurting people and being rewarded for it.”

He’s quiet. Focused. Eyes narrowed just slightly. Calculating.

You give him the rest, fast and dry. “She mentioned his boss once - some guy she called ‘The Architect,’ which might’ve been a joke or might be a real thing. She said Caleb sounded better. Healthier. Calmer. Which is probably code for ‘drugged or brainwashed or finally got a stable paycheck from a syndicate that offers dental.’”

His lips twitch like he might smile, but he doesn’t.

You finish with a shrug. “It’s all filtered through a mother’s pride and the lies he fed her. But there’s meat on the bone. Enough to chew on.”

He nods once. Thoughtful.

And then, a beat later, he frowns.

“Not weird to you?” he asks, voice low. “That his mom showed up right after we talked about him?”

You shrug. “You think it’s a setup?”

He doesn’t answer.

You watch him, then say, casually sharp, “What - you’re not gonna use it?”

The question hangs there. Heavy. Hungrier than it sounds.

What you’re really asking is: Are you choosing my safety or your mission?

He looks at you. Just looks. There’s no softening. No guilt. Just calculation and quiet. Your stomach gives a little lurch, something sharp tightening beneath your ribs. You keep your face blank, but your body shifts - one foot retreating half a step, arms folding tighter. You don’t want to look like you care, but the sting hits somewhere low in your chest anyway. It shouldn’t matter. You don’t know him. Not really. But something about it - about being seen and still not being chosen - almost makes your heart hurt.

You turn away first, picking at a scratch on the laminate counter.

“If you’re gonna use it,” you say, not looking at him, “then I want something.”

He’s immediately alert. “What?”

You turn your head just enough to see his profile. That stupid white streak, cut too close to his scalp like he took a blade to it himself since you saw him a few days ago. The scar on his neck. The tension in his posture that’s less like a man and more like a trap that forgot how to spring.

“Your name,” you say. “If I’m going to keep handing you things, I want to know who the hell I’m handing them to.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Jason.”

He says it like it’s nothing.

No dramatic pause. No sly grin. No fake names or dodge.

Just Jason.

And somehow, that hits harder than it should.

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods, confused. “Yeah. Why?”

You stare at him.

That’s when it hits you. He didn’t withhold it out of secrecy. He genuinely forgot you didn’t already know. He forgot because somewhere, in his head, you’re already someone who does.

“Nothing,” you say, voice softer than you mean. “Just expected a little more mystery from the guy with the burner phone and the safehouse with a trauma kit.”

Jason shrugs, a little sheepish now. “Jason’s the name I go by.”

You tilt your head. “You got others?”

His mouth quirks. “None you’d like.”

You let out a huff, turning and trying to get a better read on the space again, not because you need to but because you don't know what else to do with your hands. Your fingertips are cold. You clench them once, twice.

Jason mirrors your breath. Shorter. Audible.

You spot something you hadn't seen before. A photo frame on the edge of the windowsill. Not unusual - except, it's face-down. Like someone changed their mind about remembering.

You wander toward it, slow and deliberate. Jason doesn't stop you.

You pick it up.

Two kids. Teenagers. One of them’s Jason - smaller, sharper around the edges, eyes all bite and nowhere to put it. The other one’s unfamiliar. Dark hair, big grin, wearing something red and gold that feels like it meant something once.

They’re both in costume. Sort of. Enough to suggest a team, or a legacy. The photo’s faded, frayed at the corners.

You tilt it toward him. “Your brother?”

Jason’s eyes flick over but don’t hold. “That was just after my first day at his school.” He says it like a joke with the teeth still in it. “He was smug as hell. Thought it was funny I’d decked the first kid who opened his mouth.”

“Wow,” you say, dry as sandpaper. “Maybe you do belong in Arkham.”

He doesn’t blink. “I stand by it.”

You set the photo back down, more careful this time. Your fingertips linger on the edge of the frame for a second longer than you mean them to.

“Anyway,” he adds, tone light but not amused, “aren’t you the one who’s voluntarily passing notes to a suspected arsonist?”

“‘Voluntarily’ is doing a lot of work in that sentence.”

“You let me in your apartment.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

He shrugs. “Semantics.”

“After you broke into my shop. After you admitted to watching me. And June.”

“Alright,” he says, almost smiling, “too much?”

You exhale through your nose. “Just a bit.”

You turn your back on him, fiddling with the strap of your bag like it needs fixing. You can feel the heat of his gaze on you. “You were right, by the way.”

Jason’s voice is slower this time. “About?”

“June’s boyfriend.” You don’t mean to sound bitter, but it leaks out anyway. “Telling her how I knew was hell. But she’s not with him anymore. So. I guess that’s something.”

You glance back just in time to catch the look on his face. That slight lift of his brow. That twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Your stomach dips.

“You’re fucking with me,” you mutter.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you. And for a beat, you swear his expression flickers with something close to guilt.

And that’s all you need to know.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh. “I don’t know who I’m more pissed at - her for lying to me or you for creeping on my employee.”

Jason folds his arms, but says nothing. His thumb rubs against his bicep, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands either.

You fix him with a glare. “You still keeping tabs on me?”

You hold a finger up before he can respond. “Stupid question.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Wait—did you leave a recorder in my place?”

“No,” he says, but it’s reflexive. Fast.

Too fast.

You narrow your eyes. “Bullshit. Bet you were listening when I hooked up with that guy yesterday.”

Jason straightens just slightly. Doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t scoff. Just says, quietly: “You didn’t hook up with anyone yesterday.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Then opens again.

You point at him. “You are listening to me.”

Jason’s expression shifts, mouth tugging into a crooked, unrepentant smile. It’s not graceful. Like his face forgot how to do it - too many hard years pulling the corners down instead of up. But it’s real. Full of teeth and shadows and something that almost aches.

You stare at him. Your heart does something small and stupid in your chest, like the smile hit you somewhere you didn’t know was exposed. It’s disconcerting - feeling like this for someone who just admitted to bugging your place and actively listening to you. Who’s smiling now, apparently, just to throw you off-balance.

“You talked yourself out of it halfway through brushing your teeth.” He shrugs, leaning against the wall like this is a totally normal conversation. “Said, and I quote: ‘God, I’d rather do laundry.’”

You grab the closest cushion and hurl it at his head.

“Pervert!”

He catches it without effort. Doesn’t even blink. “You’re the one narrating your sex life at full volume.”

You cross your arms. “In my own apartment.”

He grins - wide, sharp, completely unapologetic. You hate how it makes you feel. Hate that it flickers something warm and dangerous low in your chest. It’s the first time you’ve seen his whole face twist like that, unguarded, like he forgot he was supposed to be the dangerous one in the room.

And then - a crack.

Sharp, loud, and unmistakable.

A gunshot. Somewhere outside, distant but close enough to feel in your ribs.

You flinch. Just slightly. But it’s enough.

Jason straightens, the grin gone. His brow draws, eyes sweeping the space around you like he’s cataloguing exits, threats, everything. His voice is low, more careful than before. “You okay?”

The question’s simple. Ordinary.

But something about the way he says it - quiet, direct, like he actually means it - scrapes under your skin.

You nod once, too fast. Swallow against the sudden, tight coil in your throat. It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve heard worse, lived through louder. You’ve patched up neighbours with bullets still lodged in their sides. This city screams like that sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.

But he doesn't get to care. 

Not when you know he's going to sell you out the moment he acts on the information you gave him. 

You step back, busy yourself grabbing your bag, already moving toward the door. Your pulse is an itch beneath your skin.

“I’ve gotta get back to the shop,” you say, and it sounds casual enough. Even though your fingers are tense on the strap. Even though you don’t look at him.

Jason doesn’t try to stop you.

But just before you step out, you hesitate. One beat. Two.

You glance back, just long enough to meet his eyes.

“Don’t tell me what happens to Caleb Rowe,” you say, voice quieter now. Not cold. Just tired. “I don’t want to know.”

***

Your next client is already waiting by the time you make it back to the salon - planted in the front chair like she owns the place, knees crossed, phone out, talking to June with the kind of enthusiastic authority only teenagers and cult leaders possess.

Mr. Morris is still in June’s chair, flicking through a battered seed catalogue he brings with him every appointment like it’s scripture. June’s halfway through his usual trim, snipping in tidy, practised strokes, nodding along as Avery - because that’s what her name tag on the appointment book says, in sharpie and hearts - fills the room with words.

You’d been reluctant to hand Mr. Morris over to June when she first started apprenticing. Not because she wasn’t capable - she is - but because he was yours. Quiet. Predictable. Steady. The kind of customer who reminds you that not everything in Gotham comes with blood on it.

Three years he’s been coming in. Same cut. Same tea order. Same story about his back garden slugs.

You’d once asked, casually, why he didn’t just go to a barbershop. Save a few bucks.

He’d given you a tired smile. Said his husband had passed that spring, and one of the unexpected things grief had taken from him was the feeling of someone else washing his hair.

So yeah. You’ve had a soft spot ever since.

You greet him first, gently pinching his cheek, making him scowl like he doesn’t secretly love it. “Looking sharp, Morris.”

He huffs. “You always say that halfway through. Premature flattery.”

“Gotta get you while you’re vulnerable.” You nod toward Avery. “My three o’clock?”

“She’s been very polite,” he says diplomatically, handing June the catalogue like it’s a sacred text. “And very enthusiastic.”

June’s mouth twitches like she’s been holding back a laugh for twenty minutes.

You turn to Avery.

She beams at you. All eyes and energy and teenage certainty. “Hi! I know I was a walk-in last month but I loved it. I made an appointment this time. Early. And I asked for the whole afternoon. I want something major.”

You nod slowly, sizing her up. Platform boots. Glitter eyeliner. Sleeves shoved up in that fake-casual way that suggests hours spent choosing the outfit. Hair long, heavy, and in that awkward limbo between natural and box dye.

She’s seventeen, you’d bet. Maybe eighteen. One of those ages where everything’s the most important thing that’s ever happened.

You wave her over to your chair. “Alright, major it is.”

She practically skips.

“School event?” you ask, draping the cape over her shoulders.

She waves a hand. “Boring. Don’t want to talk about it.”

Fair enough.

“Party tonight?”

Her whole face lights up. “Yes! It’s gonna be huge. My friend Tara’s cousin’s boyfriend is throwing it - he’s, like, twenty-five, but it’s fine - and there’s gonna be a pool and probably a DJ and definitely tequila. I mean, I don’t drink, obviously, but still.”

“Obviously,” you say dryly, sectioning her hair like it owes you rent. “And I assume the hair transformation is so you can stun an unsuspecting college-aged man into abandoning his common sense?”

Avery giggles. “Nooo,” she says, in the exact tone of someone who absolutely is trying to do that.

You catch June’s eye in the mirror. She hides a smirk behind her comb.

Mr. Morris finishes up with a polite cough and a creak of his knees. He thanks June, and you watch the way she softens when she hands him his coat. Good. She's learning.

Once the door shuts behind him, June flits to the back, grabbing her bag.

“I’ll head off now, if that’s okay?”

You nod without looking, still snipping. “Big plans?”

She hesitates. “Just... meeting someone.”

“Mmm.” You don’t press. Not your business. Even with Jason's expression ringing in the back of your mind.

But as she moves past, you say, half-lazy, half-pointed, “Be careful. And don’t take drinks from any married men this time.”

June flushes crimson. “That was one time.”

“I counted two.”

“Okay - twice. But-”

“Have fun, Junie.”

She groans but leaves smiling, and you turn back to Avery, who’s looking at you with a mix of admiration and gossip-ready glee.

“She seems cool.”

“She’s nineteen and dumb as bricks when she’s in love,” you say, fond. “But yeah. She’s good people.”

You tip Avery’s chin. “Now, let’s make you look like the kind of girl who gets invited back next weekend too.”

She grins. “Hell yes.”

You’re halfway through the second layer when Avery, ever-so-casually, says, “So, uh … that mark on the wall outside?”

You pause. Just for a second. Not enough to notice unless you were watching your hands - which, unfortunately, you are.

“Which mark?” you ask, reaching for a new clip.

“That red symbol. Like a hood. Or a skull, kind of? I saw it when I was waiting.”

You glance at her in the mirror. She’s trying for nonchalant, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth that gives her away.

You hum. “Probably just graffiti.”

She snorts. “It’s not graffiti. It’s him.”

You raise a brow. “Him?”

“Red Hood,” she stage-whispers, like the walls might be listening. “You know him?”

You snort softly through your nose. “That’s not the kind of guy you just know, Avery.”

She shrugs, gaze flicking away, too pleased with herself. “I dunno. I’ve seen him around. Near the old paper mill. And once - swear to god - at Almodovar’s deli. He bought an egg sandwich. Wore the helmet and everything.”

You blink. “And he was just … casually ordering brunch?”

“I mean, yeah,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Guys gotta eat.”

You make a sound that might be agreement or just mild disbelief.

She leans back, expression dreamy. “Do you think he’s hot?”

That pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “Isn’t he, like, a known murderer?”

She shrugs again. “So are half the guys at my school.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You kids and your weird taste in men.”

It still throws you a little - how teenage crushes have started extending to vigilantes. Like they're actors or boyband frontmen instead of people with body counts and felony records. You remember back in high school, when the Nightwing obsession hit like a plague. One of your friends got knocked into a dumpster during a botched robbery at a corner store - split lip, twisted ankle, might’ve broken something in her shoulder - and all she talked about for a week was how good his hair looked when he helped her up.

Something about the cape and the drama and the fact that most of them looked just old enough to be dangerous. You get it. Doesn’t mean you like it.

She grins. “You didn’t answer the question.”

You work the scissors through the next section, letting the silence stretch. Then, finally: “Never met him. Just some guy came around saying he knows him.”

Which is technically true.

You don’t follow it up. But your thoughts flicker.

To the guns. The trauma kit. The training. The burned-edge nerves and the fact that he offered you protection, then your building got tagged with a symbol that’s supposed to mean: This one’s under my umbrella.

It’s not confirmation. But it’s close.

You’re half-certain. And that half is louder than the rest.

Avery sighs. “I just think he’s doing something important, you know? Like, yeah, it’s a little murder-y, but he’s making a difference.”

You meet her eyes in the mirror. She looks serious now. A little too sincere. Like she’s talking herself into something.

You take a slow breath.

“I don’t love the body count,” you say. “But I respect what he’s doing. Someone’s gotta show the kids out here that they matter. That they’re worth protecting.”

She tilts her head.

You go on, voice low. “I’ve seen too many kids get chewed up by the same system that pretends to save them. Guys with records at sixteen because they were broke, hungry, or scared. Then the same assholes who sold them the trouble in the first place swoop in and toss money at ‘fixing it.’”

You snip, slow and precise.

“Sometimes, yeah, they deserve a broken nose. But they don’t deserve to disappear forever. Especially not just to protect someone else's profit margin.”

Avery is quiet for a second longer than you'd expect.

You adjust the cape, move on to the final layer. And try not to think too hard about the fact that maybe Avery's not just dreaming about vigilantes for the aesthetic. Because no one her age stares that hard at a symbol unless they’re wondering if it applies to them.

Then she says, a little softer, a little lower, “... You sound like him.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like Red Hood?”

She nods.

"You know him or something?"

You say it like a joke. Because it is. Obviously.

But Avery freezes. Just a half-beat. Barely noticeable if you didn’t already have her pinned under your hands and forty bucks of product.

Then she shrugs, all fake-casual. “He saved me. Once.”

You stop snipping.

“Okay,” you say. “Cool. But maybe don’t confess to any crimes while I’m holding scissors.”

Avery rolls her eyes, but the flush in her cheeks betrays her.

“It wasn’t like that,” she insists. Then reconsiders. “Okay, maybe it was a little like that. But not bad-bad.”

You raise your eyebrows in the mirror. She takes that as encouragement.

“Last year,” she says, lowering her voice even though there’s no one else in the shop, “my brother knew some guys who worked for the Penguin. Real low-level stuff. Moving crates, keeping lookouts, whatever.”

“Whatever,” you echo. “Totally normal résumé filler.”

She shrugs. “One of their guys dropped out last-minute, and they needed someone quick. I’d just turned sixteen. I figured - extra money, Mom’s bills, whatever. There was a raid. Whole place lit up - sirens, shots, yelling. I didn’t even know who was raiding who.”

“And that’s when Red Hood showed up.”

She nods, solemn. “Knocked me clean off my feet. Thought he was gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head. “And he didn’t.”

“No,” she says, a little soft. “He circled back for me. After. Once everything had gone quiet. He brought me home. Said if I ever thought about doing something that stupid again, to call him instead.”

You blink. “He offered you employment?”

Avery beams. “Said he knows people who owe him favours. Said I was better than running crates for creeps.”

You stare at her through the mirror. It’s hard not to be a little impressed.

“Okay,” you admit. “That’s a pretty good recruitment strategy.”

“I know,” she says, practically vibrating now. “Like, duh, I’ve had a crush on him ever since.”

You smirk. “So all I have to do is blow up a warehouse and get shot at by cops and maybe I’ll be someone’s teenage heartthrob?”

Avery grins. “Don’t sell yourself short. If this haircut’s good enough, maybe I’ll finally use the line he gave me."

You scoff, about to answer-

-and then the front window explodes.

Glass rains inward with a violence that feels personal, followed by a brick that lands hard, too close to Avery’s chair.

Your whole body jolts. An instinctive flinch locks your spine and punches the air from your lungs. It's not dramatic, just cold and sharp and immediate - like your nervous system fired first and let your brain catch up later. But you’re already moving, pulling her down by the cape, glass crunching under your boots as your ears ring from the impact.

She screams, high and sharp. You don’t. You’re too busy checking the street through the shattered gap - nothing visible. No figures. No car speeding off. Just a smear of city noise and the ringing hum of your own heartbeat.

But your stomach lurches. 

It's fast and ugly - rage, panic, something tangled and sharp. You clench your jaw to stop it from spilling out. Because in that first raw second, before your brain starts lining things up in tidy rows, there’s a different instinct. A flash of heat behind your eyes. A thought that hits like spit on a fuse:

This is because of him.

It’s not a certainty, not yet. But the coincidence scrapes like broken glass.

“Stay down,” you snap, voice low.

You straighten slowly, glass crunching underfoot, heart pounding too loud in your ears. The air’s colder now, wind curling through the hole where the front window used to be.

Your gaze drops to the object in question.

The brick’s rough-edged. Chipped on one side. A smear of something - spray paint? - bleeds across the surface in a symbol you don’t recognise. Not a gang tag. Not a turf mark. But deliberate. Angular. Familiar in the way a stranger’s face is right before they punch you.

It wasn’t random.

Someone knew exactly where to throw.

Your hands shake as you crouch, brushing aside shards of glass to get a better look. Your pulse is doing double time now, your mind cataloguing possibilities like a deck of knives: Jason pissed off the wrong people. You pissed off the wrong people. The wrong people were already watching.

Maybe this was a warning.

Maybe next time it won’t be a brick.

Your thoughts spiral, fast and ugly, tangling with the wind and the sound of Avery’s breathing still tight and high behind you.

And then - 

“Um,” Avery says, tentative. “I still gotta get to that party. If you don’t mind.”

You blink.

Turn.

She’s half-up from the floor already, brushing glass out of her sleeves like she’s just tripped on a curb, not narrowly avoided being concussed by urban symbolism. She looks at you, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re still cool to finish my hair?”

There’s a moment of dead silence. Your ears still ringing. The brick still sitting there. The window still gone.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Yeah, of course. Can’t have you showing up half-blowdried. That’s a social death sentence.”

Avery grins, like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just dodge a message written in brick.

You walk back toward her chair, glass crunching under your boots, and flick the cape back over her lap like it’s just another Tuesday.

“So,” you say, shears in hand, “tell me more about this party.”

And somehow, you do want to know.

Because if the world’s about to implode again, you’d at least like the girl to show up looking good for it.

***

You wait until Avery leaves before you start cleaning up. 

The glass crunches beneath your boots, each sweep of the broom sharp and scratchy across the floor.

You should be panicking. Instead, your movements are mechanical. Sweeping. Tossing. Sweeping again. Your fingers sting from a shallow slice near your thumb, but you don't bother with a bandage yet.

You've placed the brick on the counter like a warning bell - or a trophy. You haven't decided which. The rent notice shoved underneath it flutters slightly in the breeze from the busted window, like it's laughing at you. Like the universe wanted to add a little salt to the day.

Rent increase. Glass repair. Lost business. One teenager almost brained by street politics. You wonder how hard someone had to throw to break through reinforced glass. Bulletproof, they said. Resistant to bricks, they didn’t.

You're bitter. Sharp around the edges with a kind of focused fury that buzzes in your teeth.

You think about calling in a favour. There’s a beat cop who comes in sometimes, likes to flirt over root touch-ups. You never said no to him, not really. Might be time to say yes. Ask about accessing the cameras across the road.

You’re still debating it when movement outside draws your eye.

A figure, standing just beyond the frame of the wrecked window. Still. Watching. Helmeted.

Red.

You spot the glint first - metal catching light. Then the shape of him becomes clear. Broad shoulders, combat boots, that dented crimson dome like a war medal. Leather jacket, zipped up. Hands at his sides like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

Red Hood.

Your eyes drag over him. He’s built like Jason. Not the same posture - this guy stands straighter, cockier, like he’s used to being the loudest threat in the room. But the frame matches. Same height. Same bulk. Same sense of restrained violence ready to snap.

You’re already opening the door before you can stop yourself. The breeze slaps your face. You step out, crunching over glass.

"Aren’t you supposed to stop this kind of thing from happening?" you ask, voice flat.

He tilts his head, helmet unreadable.

You fold your arms. "Or don’t tell me. You didn’t actually draw the mark."

"Wish I could say I did," he replies. His voice is deeper than Jason's, rougher with a lazy Gotham rasp. It’s confident. Cocky. Practiced.

You scoff and turn back to the door, grabbing the broom again.

You hear the scrape of boots on sidewalk.

Then: "Here. Hand that over."

You blink, turning. He's stepped into the frame of the broken window. He gestures - two fingers and a curl of gloved palm.

"What are you doing?"

"If the place’s marked as mine, then it’s my mess to clean up, sweetheart."

You narrow your eyes. "That how it works?"

"That’s how I work. Now go start packing up your valuables. You don’t need to worry about the window anymore."

There’s steel in his tone. Not a threat. A promise.

He reaches for the broom again.

And the image - it hits you sideways.

Jason, in your kitchen. Washing dishes like he belonged there. That silent intimacy. That tension under his skin like a violin string plucked too hard. The memory tangles weird in your gut, and this - this domestic vigilante scene outside your shop - feels like déjà vu in combat boots.

And you, against all better judgement, let him take it.

***

The next morning, you unlock the front door and pause.

The glass is back.

New pane. Clean edges. No cracks. No trace of shatter or stress. Just a single spotless sheet glinting in the daylight.

The brick is gone.

The mark on the wall - cleaned and repainted. Neater this time. Bolder. Like it was always meant to be there.

There’s no note. No invoice. No sign of who did it.

But you know.

You stand in the doorway for a long minute, bag still slung on your shoulder, keys still clutched tight in your palm. Your eyes sting, and it’s not from the wind.

Last night, you tore through your living room like something was watching. Ripped open vents. Checked the light fixtures. Turned your sofa inside out looking for a wire you knew had to be somewhere. When you finally gave up, you shut yourself in your bedroom and cried like a teenager. Quiet. Full-body. The kind that doesn’t want an audience.

So yeah. This morning, you’re calm.

You take a breath. Let it out slow.

Then step inside - careful over the threshold - and try not to wonder how long it’ll be before the next window breaks.

Chapter Text

The next window break never comes.

In fact - nothing comes.

You're not new to silence.

You grew up in it, mostly. That particular Gotham kind - thick, grimy, and humming under the surface, like the city was always holding its breath. Like it knew something bad was coming, but figured it might as well light a cigarette while it waited.

Your parents weren’t the talkative type. Not out of cruelty - just out of bone-deep exhaustion. They’d been swallowed by the city long before you were old enough to ask why. Wore their weariness like a second skin, like they knew better than to get too attached to outcomes. You don’t coddle kids when you’re already grieving futures they might not have.

They loved you. In that Gotham way. Fed you. Drove you to school. Locked the doors at night and hoped it would be enough.

It wasn’t, but still.

Your brothers were louder. Always out. Always chasing something - respect, money, trouble, take your pick. In and out of holding cells like it was a job with bad hours and worse benefits. You’d sit in waiting rooms with a Ziploc full of quarters and think about how no one ever really leaves Gotham, they just get rotated.

So yeah. You’re not new to being alone. Not new to holding your own leash, checking your own corners, keeping your own damn heart in your own damn chest. You've had whole years where the only time someone asked how you were was when it came with a receipt.

And you were fine.

You are fine.

Which is why this - this kind of quiet - is throwing you off.

Because you should be fine with the silence.

You unlock the salon door on Thursday and half-expect to find glass on the floor again. Or another brick waiting for you, like some kind of deranged subscription box.

But the place is spotless.

The new window looks fake - like it belongs in one of those tech start-ups that give out cold brew and performance anxiety. Not a hair salon with a leaky sink and a temperamental boiler. No cracks. No smears. Not even a fingerprint. Just sunlight slicing through it like the city didn’t try to throw a brick through your chest a few days ago.

The mark’s still there on the wall outside. Repainted. Straighter. A little bolder. Like someone took their time this time. Like it’s meant to stay.

You’d scrub it off. Maybe. If it didn’t feel so much like a warning label.

If it weren’t for the slice on your thumb still healing weird, or the dusting of glass you keep finding in the baseboards, you could almost convince yourself it hadn’t happened.

Almost.

You haven’t been sleeping much. And when you do, it’s shallow and jittery, like your dreams are listening for footsteps.

Not because you’re scared. You’ve lived in Gotham long enough to have developed a healthy respect for denial as a coping mechanism. But the neatness of it - the clean edges and the absence - makes your skin itch. Like you’re being buried under something too polite to call itself a consequence.

Worse than fear. It’s absence.

Because Jason is gone.

No burner texts. No notes tucked in appointment books. No cash-stuffed tips passed through old women with cryptic gossip. No shadow at your window. No muttered warnings. Not even a sarcastic one-liner left on your voicemail.

He vanished the same night the glass got replaced.

Which should’ve been a good thing. That’s the part that keeps circling the drain in your brain. You’re supposed to be glad. Relieved. Grateful, even, that the chaos has folded itself up neatly and fucked off.

But that’s not what it feels like.

What it feels like is: you’d gotten used to him. Not just the messages or the break-ins or the occasional mutual destruction of privacy. Him. The weird rhythm of knowing someone was listening. That someone had their eye on you - not in the way men leer on the train, but in the way someone might actually come back for you if shit went sideways.

You’d never admit it out loud, but you miss it.

You miss him.

Which is its own brand of humiliation.

You try to keep your hands busy, which isn’t hard in a salon, but your current client feels like a cosmic joke. Like the universe dug around in your subconscious and spat out the exact person who would highlight how frayed your wires are.

She’s probably sixty. Tight silver curls, a lemon cashmere sweater that screams “divorce lawyer’s retirement fund,” and the kind of purse that doesn’t fit keys but definitely fits judgment. Margie. Smells like gardenias and cheap pink wine. Said “Trim the ends, please,” and nothing else. Hasn’t looked at you since.

Perfect.

You start combing through her curls like you’re on autopilot. It’s fine. You’ve cut hair in worse headspaces. It’s muscle memory at this point. Scissors, comb, snip, breathe.

Your eyes flick to the mirror. The scissors. The street beyond the glass.

It’s so clean it throws light in a way that doesn’t feel natural. Like it’s trying too hard.

You follow that sharp little slice of sun across the floor.

Then you follow the people outside.

And none of them are him.

Your fingers falter. The comb stutters. Just for a second.

Maybe he’s hurt.

Maybe he’s hiding.

Maybe you got caught in the backdraft of something bigger than you, and now he’s moved on. Found another informant. Another neighbourhood stray dumb enough to pick up when he calls.

Or maybe this is his version of kindness.

Space. Distance. Silence. The kind that doesn’t echo, just ... settles.

You glance back to the wall. You know exactly where the mark is.

Still there.

Still watching.

You look down at the curl in your hand.

And you cut.

Too hard. Too fast.

And Margie, bless her, doesn’t flinch.

***

Mercado Del Sol hits you in the face like a slap and a kiss.

It smells like grilled meat and acetone and too many stories told under hot lights. You hear five languages before you’ve crossed the first row. Spanglish. Cantonese. Gotham gutter dialect. A toddler is shrieking over a bootleg toy that plays the wrong cartoon theme. Someone’s selling oysters out of a cooler and someone else is definitely fencing refurbished tech behind a curtain that used to be a shower liner.

You love it here.

Mercado isn’t on any official registry, and it doesn’t need to be. It lives by word-of-mouth, muscle memory, and the sacred Gotham ritual of asking for the real menu. If you want it legal, you’ll get a shrug. If you want it fast, hot, slightly cursed, and off the books - you better know who to ask.

You walk through with purpose. Familiar enough to get nods, unknown enough to not be everyone’s business. But today, a few of those nods linger a second too long. A sideways glance here, a muttered name there. You catch someone pretending to be absorbed in a rack of belts while clearly watching you through their lashes. It’s nothing overt. Not enough to shout danger. But it prickles your neck just the same. Like someone has added your name to a list you didn’t sign up for.

No one says anything. But something says everything.

And then you notice the quiet.

Not silence. Not yet. But subdued.

The Mercado normally buzzes like a beehive with a caffeine addiction - yelling, music, hawking, laughter, the hiss of oil and the bark of dogs.

Today, it’s thinner.

And the air smells different. Not bad - just ... wrong. The usual mix of grilled corn, nail glue, cheap perfume, and fried chorizo is missing something. Maybe it's the incense stall that’s no longer there, or the lady who always sold spiced nuts from a dented wok on a folding table. You don’t know. But the scent feels thin, like someone aired out a room that was supposed to be humid.

Some stalls are shuttered. Others have been replaced, the tarps swapped for clean signage and suspiciously matching uniforms. You pass a spot that used to sell knockoff shampoos that smelled suspiciously like vodka and find it rebranded as "Gotham Glow Pro." The vendor’s gone. In their place, a guy in a black polo stares too hard at a tablet, standing too straight for someone working a market.

The crowd’s different too. Stiffer. Quieter. The usual loose energy of the place - the bartering, the heckling, the shouted greetings from across aisles - is subdued. People are watching each other. Not overtly. But enough to make your spine itch.

Something’s changed. You don’t know what. But it’s not just a vibe shift. It’s a slow restructuring of something that was never supposed to be structured in the first place.

You catch a glimpse of a kid threading through the crowd - thin, wiry, dark hair falling in his face, a scowl too big for his frame. He can’t be older than fourteen. But something about him drags at you. The sharp angles. The eyes. For half a second, you think of the photo frame Jason left face down on his windowsill.

Your feet slow. Your mouth almost opens.

Then you remember it’s been two weeks.

Two weeks of nothing. No texts. No notes. No boots at your door, no rasped sarcasm over burner phones, no stupid riddles scrawled in smudged ballpoint. Just silence.

You’d tried not to care. Turned the burner off. Turned the noise on. But it didn’t help much, not after that morning you saw him on the news - grainy footage from a traffic cam, Red Hood dragging a man out of a black SUV with tinted windows and slamming him against a storefront wall. The ticker said something about suspected trafficking ties, about the man vanishing shortly after. About no arrests made.

He’s still out there. Or - at least - you're 80% sure it's him.

Still working.

Just not talking to you.

You’re not worried anymore.

You’re pissed.

So you let the kid vanish into the crowd.

And you don’t follow.

Miguel’s stall is the same, thank God. A mash-up of tarp and bent poles, stacked crates and questionable shelving. Miguel himself is perched on an overturned bucket, cigarette tucked behind his ear, texting with one hand and eating a cup of mango with the other.

"Heyyyy, if it ain't Scissorhands," he calls, without looking up.

You smirk. "Miguel. You still pushing that bleach that eats through gloves?"

"Only for customers who ask dumb questions."

He hops down and disappears into the back. You wait. He emerges with a napkin-wrapped bundle and a grin that says he’s missed this too.

"Two pairs of shears, three heat-proof gloves, and your beloved illegal keratin spray."

"It’s not illegal. It’s entrepreneurial."

"Mhm. Tell that to the last guy who tried to fly with it."

You hand over the cash and glance down the row. Another shuttered stall. New branding. New uniforms. None of it right.

"What’s with the upgrades?"

Miguel shrugs. Like he’s trying to care less than he does.

"Licensing," he says, like it’s a curse word. "Word is some people got told they need to start showing paperwork."

"Here?"

"Gotham’s always had its claws out," he mutters. "But now it’s acting like it found a manicure."

You raise a brow. He grins and flashes a license that’s bright pink and says MIGUEL TORRES, CERTIFIED CHAOS DISTRIBUTOR.

"Classy."

"I laminated it myself."

He doesn’t give you more, and you don’t press. But your mind’s already filing things away. The stalls. The signage. The guys in black polos. It doesn’t smell like a crackdown. It smells like organisation. Or, maybe, reorganisation.

Someone’s drawing lines. And the places without lines? They’re being folded in.

You think about the Red Hood mark on your wall. About how you're not nearly close enough to the Narrows to warrant that symbol. About how it’s still there, bold as blood, and Jason hasn’t even shown his face since.

You wonder if he knows this is happening.

You wonder if he cares.

And then you shake the thought off and thank Miguel with a half-smile.

"Don’t be a stranger," he calls after you.

"Not planning on it."

You don’t look back.

***

It’s been three weeks.

Not that you’ve been counting.

Well. You were counting, for the first couple weeks. The ones where you still had something sharp to cling to - irritation, mostly. Anger, sure. You could work with that. Anger’s got heat. Anger lets you mutter “asshole” under your breath every time a man with broad shoulders passes the window.

But anger fades.

And what’s left now?

Nothing loud. Just quiet. The hollow kind. Like the feeling when a storm skips your street and all the gutters still flood.

You’ve convinced yourself he’s gone. Moved on. Found someone else to lean on, or maybe just decided you weren’t worth the upkeep.

And fine. You didn’t want the maintenance. Didn’t ask for the visits. The tension. The goddamn domesticity.

But.

The silence - it scrapes. Leaves something raw. You weren’t asking for his chaos, but now that it’s gone, your day feels off-balance. Unchecked.

You're stacking mugs when it happens. End of day. Last client out. A podcast murmuring in the background, something about embezzlement and a disgraced dentist. Your hands move on autopilot - rinse, dry, shelf - until one of them doesn’t.

It’s neon orange. Chipped enamel. Peeling Comic Sans that reads: I’m not mad, just disappointed.

You blink.

Because this mug? Was in your apartment. Shoved in the back of the cabinet. A gag gift from June. You always meant to throw it out. You never brought it here.

But someone did.

You set it down. Step back. Feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

It’s not a threat.

It’s a joke. A signal. A breadcrumb with attitude.

It’s his version of a peace offering.

You cross your arms, stare it down. No note. No text. Just a mug, passive-aggressive and smug as hell.

Typical.

You consider smashing it. Dramatic flair, full circle. Or maybe you should make tea, let it steep while you stew. Instead, you lean against the counter and let the moment stretch.

He’s back.

Didn’t tell you he was going. Didn’t say when he’d be back. Just left you whirring like a spinning top and expected you to still be there, faced-up and waiting.

And apparently, this is your invite.

You roll your eyes.

And you say, to the empty store, like it’s the most mundane thing in the world:

“You can come round, you dramatic bitch.”

***

When you get back to your apartment, your keys feel heavier in the lock than they did this morning. Maybe it’s just the dread. Maybe it’s the weather. Gotham’s got a hundred ways to bleed you slowly, and most of them don’t look like crimes on paper.

But when the door creaks open, you know.

Not because anything’s out of place. Not at first.

The lights are off. The air’s too still. And the scent hits you late: sweat, gunpowder, and that vaguely antiseptic smell of cheap gauze and worse decisions.

Jason’s sitting on your couch.

Technically, he’s slumped. Arms resting on his knees. Shoulders bowed under the weight of something you don’t have a name for yet. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, and in that look you read a hundred miles of bad road.

You flick the lights on.

He squints, but doesn’t flinch.

You take him in slowly. Like someone counting inventory and not liking the math.

The beard’s new. Or maybe it’s old, just allowed to grow without supervision. Patchy, uneven, curling at the edges like it’s trying to escape. There’s a split in his lip that hasn’t healed right. A new scar just above his brow. You count bruises in every shade. Yellowing over his collarbone. Fresh and furious along the line of his jaw.

His eye bags could carry groceries. His knuckles are still swollen. One of them’s taped. You don’t want to know why.

You close the door.

"You look like something the river coughed up," you say, dry.

Jason’s mouth twitches. Doesn’t make it to a smile.

"Good to see you too."

You toe your boots off and drop your bag by the door. Try not to make a face as you cross the room.

"I should punch you."

"Fair."

"Three weeks, Jason. No messages. No stupid burner. Just - radio silence and then surprise, you’re in my living room looking like a post-apocalyptic raccoon."

He shifts like he wants to explain. Then doesn’t. Just settles deeper into the cushions, like maybe he thinks if he sinks far enough, he won’t have to answer.

You sigh. Move past him. Let the anger sit low in your chest, heavy and bubbling.

You don’t say I was worried. You don’t say I missed you. You don’t say anything.

But when you return from the kitchen, he’s watching you.

Eyes darker than usual. Tired. Honest.

"I’m sorry," he says, barely audible. Like it’s not for you, exactly. Like it just needed to be said aloud before it rotted him from the inside.

You pause, one hand on the kettle. It's half full already. You flick it on without thinking.

You watch him a beat longer. Your chest does that thing. That stupid, traitorous thing. You want to stay mad. You should be mad. He left. He vanished without a word and you spent three weeks convincing yourself he wasn’t coming back, letting that conviction calcify just enough to feel sturdy.

And now he's here. Looking like a kicked dog in riot gear.

You hate the ache that rises in you. The pity. The pull. The way your arms itch to do something stupid like offer comfort.

But mostly, you hate that it matters. That he matters.

"You patch yourself up?"

"Yeah."

You glance over your shoulder. "Someone help you?"

He frowns, like the idea doesn’t track. "No. Just me."

You nod.

The bandages are functional but rushed. Sloppy, if you’re being judgmental. Which you are. You’re allowed.

You pull down a bowl, run warm water. Find the shaving cream you keep under the sink. It’s his brand, or close enough.

He watches you without asking.

You don’t know when you decide to help him. You just prep the bowl like this is any other part of your routine, like he’s any other broken thing you’ve taken in and decided not to return.

When you start setting things out, Jason leans forward slightly, like he wants to stop you. Doesn’t.

Just watches.

And when you meet his eyes - really meet them - something in your throat goes tight.

No armour there. No deflection. Just that look.

Like maybe this wasn’t the plan, but it’s the only thing that’s kept him from completely unravelling.

You don’t touch him yet. Just hold his gaze for a breath longer than you should.

Then you turn back to the bowl, fingers curling around the brush.

"You’ve got blood in your beard, by the way," you say. Casual. Biting.

"It’s exfoliating," he mutters.

"It’s disgusting."

You set the brush down on the coffee table, toss him a towel.

"Sit still. Don’t bleed on my cushions."

And just like that, you kneel in front of him.

"You don't have to do this," he says, low and wary. "It's a rough canvas."

You don't look up from where you're laying out the soap and brush, the towel already warming on the radiator. The scent of clean cotton and sandalwood rises with the heat.

"I've shaved worse," you say, casual. "Guy came in once with burn scars all down his neck and lower face. Wanted the rest cleaned up for his wedding."

Jason blinks.

You shrug. "It was sweet. Scared the shit out of June, but we got through it."

He hesitates a beat longer, then exhales through his nose like someone bracing for a punch.

"You sure?"

You finally look at him. "I want to."

He nods.

You drape the towel around his shoulders, gentle and precise, then dampen his face with water. The first brush of contact makes his jaw tense, the rasp of stubble catching against your fingers, and you feel it - the hesitation, the instinctive flinch just under the skin.

He doesn’t pull away, though. He clenches his hands in his lap instead, like if he keeps them still, the rest of him will follow. Like this isn’t just grooming. Like it’s a test he’s not sure he’ll pass.

Your fingertips linger a moment longer than they need to, registering the warmth of him, the taut line of muscle, the faint buzz of nerves just beneath the surface. It’s the closest you’ve been to him without one of you deflecting, and for some reason, the intimacy of it kicks at your ribs.

Three weeks. No word. No texts. Just radio silence.

And now he’s here. In your living room. Letting you touch him like this.

You swallow it down. Focus on your task.

He holds still. So still. Like stillness is all that’s holding him together.

You lather the soap, working it into a fine foam in the bowl before brushing it onto his jaw. The brush is soft. Your touch is softer. His breath hitches, just once, when the bristles graze the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't speak.

You don't push.

Until the blade is at his jaw and your breath is warm on his skin.

"You want silence, music, or talking?"

A pause.

Then: "Talk."

You nod, then start.

Not with anything important. Nothing sharp. You tell him about the salon. About how Avery came back last week for a toner and spent the entire appointment trying to convince June to let her dye her hair red. About Mr. Havering and his never-ending war with Gotham's kite club politics. About the old lady who came in asking for a shampoo strong enough to scrub the sin out of her ex-husband's pillowcases.

You don’t stop talking when you reach the first scar.

It’s small. Jagged. Just above the jawline where a razor can’t skim without a little extra care. He flinches, barely perceptible - but you feel it. Your fingers go still.

You adjust.

Angle the blade, reposition your grip, give him just enough warning with your hand that he knows it’s coming. Then glide over, featherlight.

He breathes out through his nose, controlled. But it’s there again when you reach the next one - longer, thinner, like the memory of a blade that cut too close. Another flinch. Not from pain - instinct.

You adjust again. Slower this time. As gentle as you can.

Jason doesn’t say anything. But you see the way his lashes tremble. The way his fingers curl a little tighter in his lap.

You work carefully, tracing around each scar like a cartographer mapping unkind territory. He reacts less each time, but there's a tell: the tiniest inhale, the tightening of his shoulders. You wonder how long it’s been since someone touched him without it hurting.

But he’s letting you. Even when every old instinct must be screaming not to.

And you notice the way his shoulders loosen. The way his eyelids drift a little lower. The way he almost smiles when you mention Mr. Morris refusing to use self-checkout because he doesn't trust anything without a barcode he can read himself.

"You're a library guy, huh?" you murmur, carefully shaving the line beneath his cheekbone.

He hums. Not quite a confirmation. Not quite a denial.

You file it away anyway.

You keep talking. Switching lanes whenever his expression flickers, whenever you feel him tense. You read him like you read clients. Like you read everyone. But with him, it's gentler. Less for strategy. More for care.

And he lets you. Lets you touch him, tip his chin, smooth the towel beneath his neck. Lets you make him comfortable. Safe.

It’s almost reverent. Almost ordinary.

You don’t comment on it.

Neither does he.

You switch to the other side of his face, thumb brushing the angle of his jaw to steady it, and it happens again - a full-body twitch, his breath snagging in his chest.

"Hey," you say softly, pulling back just enough. "It's okay. We can stop."

Jason shakes his head immediately, but his throat moves like he’s swallowed glass.

"It's not you," he says. "Just - old habits. Shitty ones."

His voice is raw. Honest.

You nod, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder. "Okay. Then we go slow. You tell me when. You’re not a job. I’m not on a timer."

He gives a shaky breath that might be a laugh. You feel it more than hear it.

"Okay," he says again, quieter now.

When you start again, you work with the same precision, but softer still. And Jason doesn’t flinch this time. He lets you in.

And as the blade glides along the vulnerable stretch of his throat, you notice just how close your faces are now - your breath grazing his cheek, your hand steady on his jaw. His lashes lowered, his pulse fluttering beneath your fingers like something caged.

Your own pulse responds in kind. Your skin feels too warm, your grip a little too careful. The soap smells cleaner now, more distinct. The warmth of the towel seeps through to your fingertips.

And then his eyes open.

They meet yours.

Just for a second.

Everything stills. Time shrinks to that one look - quiet, endless, thick with something you aren't ready to name. And maybe he feels it too. You see it in the lines around his mouth, the hesitation in his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s about to breathe or bolt.

Nothing for almost a month. And now he’s looking at you like this.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

Then you pull the razor away, exhale slow, and break the moment before it breaks you.

And you don't let yourself think about what it means.

“So,” you say, clearing your throat and willing your tone dry again, the blade now resting against your knee, “are you gonna explain where the hell you’ve been for the last three weeks?”

Jason doesn’t answer at first. Just leans back slightly in the chair, wiping a hand down his freshly shaved jaw like he’s still getting used to feeling human again.

“You asking like you care,” he says finally, voice low, rough, “or like you’re legally obligated to file a report?”

You snort. “Please. If I thought you were missing, I’d have assumed you finally stepped on the wrong landmine. Figured I wouldn’t see you again.”

A beat. Then, softer. A little cracked around the edges: “But I guess I did.”

His gaze flickers up to yours. There’s something cautious in it. Careful. Then he speaks.

“I was working,” he says. “Following up on something. Someone. Didn’t want to be found. Took longer than expected.”

He shrugs. Casual. But you can tell it’s not. You can tell by the way his jaw tenses again, by the tiredness in his shoulders. There’s more he’s not saying.

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t want to be found, or didn’t want to be followed?”

“Bit of both.”

You nod. Let that settle in the air between you, smoke-thick and hard to swallow. He never gives you much. Never anything close to a full picture. But this? This is something. A splintered crack in the drywall. A glimpse of the rot underneath.

And even though it’s vague, even though you know it’s just the tip of a much uglier iceberg, it feels like something. Like a window cracked open in a room you didn’t know you were allowed to be in.

You toss the towel into the laundry bin and reach for the aftershave. “Well, whatever it was, you look like you got dragged through it backwards.”

A breath of a laugh from him, half-amused, half-exhausted. He doesn’t argue.

"You still tryna flirt with me?"

You tilt your head, lips twitching, something warm and wicked curling behind your ribs. “Darlin’, that wasn’t flirting.”

Pause. Smile tugging sharp and lazy at the corner of your mouth. “But if you want a full demonstration, you know how to make an appointment.”

Jason chuckles, startled - like he hadn't meant to say it out loud, like the word flirt had just slipped past whatever frayed filter he still has left. His hand lifts, half-hearted, scrubbing at the back of his neck like he can undo it. The sound dies fast, and what's left behind is awkwardness, brittle and clumsy.

"Wasn't-" he starts, then stops. Tries again. "I mean. Just - never mind."

He looks away, eyes skimming the floor for something that isn’t there. A breath hitches in his chest, too quiet to be anything real, but you catch it anyway. The flicker of something unspoken. Regret, maybe.

He looks older in the dim light. Not in years, but in miles. In all the nights that felt longer without anyone waiting up.

You sigh and move toward the hall closet. Dig out an old blanket, soft with time, and chuck it at his chest. “Couch is yours if you want it.”

He catches it easily, like instinct. Like muscle memory.

You don’t wait for a reply. Just turn and head toward your bedroom, flicking off lights as you go. The apartment shifts into hush behind you. Night thickens.

Sleep comes slow. Restless. Your limbs feel too heavy, your skin too aware of the echo down the hall. Of someone else breathing just out of reach.

It’s sometime past three when you give up pretending. The thirst in your throat drags you from bed, and you pad out into the kitchen barefoot, silence pressing against your ears.

The living room’s empty.

Couch still mussed, blanket folded with military neatness across the armrest.

No note.

Not unexpected. You knew it before your eyes confirmed it. Still, the ache comes anyway, slow and familiar. Like a bruise you keep bumping into.

Loneliness settles next to you like it never left.

You pour a glass of water, drink it slow. Stare out the dark window.

And that’s when you notice it.

A crack. Tiny. Barely there. But new. Cutting through the edge of the glass like a hairline fracture in a bone.

Wasn’t there before.

You don’t touch it. Just press your lips together and stare for a long moment. The night holds its breath.

Then, finally, you turn away.

Chapter Text

You don’t know when Jason started using your apartment like a second front door.

It’s not like he ever asks. There’s no schedule. No warning. Just subtle shifts in the atmosphere - things slightly moved, boots that weren’t there when you left, the smell of soap and something metal-sharp that lingers in your bathroom drain. Once, you came home to find your window stuck open, shoved into a position you couldn't get back down again. Nothing missing. Just … ajar. Like the air needed airing out. Like he needed airing out.

It should bother you.

It should make your skin crawl. Some man slipping in and out of your space like a ghost with a copy of your floor plan. But it doesn’t. Not in the way it’s supposed to.

You think maybe that’s not a Jason thing. Maybe that’s a you thing.

Because truth is, you’ve never really had a locked door that meant anything.

The place you grew up in didn’t do boundaries. Not because your parents were permissive, exactly, but because Gotham raises a certain kind of tired into people. The kind that makes rules feel like wasted breath. That makes locking doors seem like tempting fate. Your mother always said locks were for people with things to lose, and you didn’t have much of that.

So the front door was almost always open. For air. For neighbours. For friends of friends. For whatever cousin or ex-con or small-time grifter your brother was doing favours for that week.

Strangers wandered in all the time.

A guy named Pickle once used your shower because his apartment was flooded. A woman named Lorna used your kitchen for six days to make tamales that no one paid for. One time, you woke up to a guy passed out in the hallway with your family’s last throw blanket over him. Nobody knew who put it there. Nobody really asked.

The only rule was: don’t touch the fridge unless you brought something for it.

You got used to it. The blur of movement in your peripheral. The way someone could pass through the edges of your life without ever giving their name. It was community, sure. But the Gotham kind. No hugs. No potlucks. Just the uneasy loyalty of people who all knew better than to snitch.

You were eleven the first time you asked for a lock.

Not for the front door - God, no. That was a joke. You wanted one for your room. Just yours. Because you’d found a stranger’s lighter under your pillow the week before and decided that was maybe one apocalypse too many.

Your dad handed you a brass key the next day. Heavy. Cold. Slight bend in the neck like it had been cut drunk.

“Don’t lose it,” he said. “This one’s real.”

And of course you did lose it. Two years later, in a drain behind the corner bodega. You cried for an hour. Not because you missed the lock - by then, you barely used it - but because it had felt like something. Like maybe a door could be yours. A life. A boundary.

You think about that sometimes. That key. That fake safety.

And then you walk into your apartment and find Jason’s coffee mug in your sink, or a new pack of gauze on your bathroom shelf. Sometimes he fixes things he breaks. Sometimes he doesn’t.

And the worst part?

You don’t mind.

Not really.

Because deep down, a part of you still leaves the front door cracked. Still expects someone to step through and claim space they didn’t earn. Still equates presence with safety - even if it’s laced with danger. Even if it makes no goddamn sense.

Even if it’s him.

He doesn't live here.

But it’s starting to feel like he haunts the place. In a weird, helpful poltergeist way. Less boo, more bought milk and unclogged your sink drain.

You never asked him to. Not once. But the trash takes itself out now. The busted overhead light in the living room - the one you cursed every morning for flickering like a haunted disco - stopped doing that a week after he first showed up. No note. No explanation. Just brightness. Steady. Annoyingly competent.

You think he might’ve fixed the loose cupboard hinge too. Either that or the ghost of your childhood latchkey self finally got tired and started picking up a wrench.

The place is … cleaner, lately.

Not clean-clean. Not June-clean, where things sparkle and lemon-scent you into submission. But functional. Cared for in the quiet, infuriating way that makes you feel a little seen, a little soft, and a lot unprepared.

And sometimes - only sometimes - there’s food in the fridge that you didn’t make.

Like last night. A container of rice and something shredded and spiced just right. Still warm when you got home. He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t label it. Just left it sitting on the middle shelf like a truce offering disguised as dinner.

And you ate it. Every bite.

Because you’re a lot of things, but you’re not ungrateful.

Tonight, the apartment hums quiet when you walk in. Dim light leaking through the blinds. You head toward the kitchen out of habit - and that’s when you catch it.

Movement.

Near the window.

He’s halfway through it. One boot already planted on the fire escape, the rest of him angled out like a thief who’s doing you a courtesy by not making eye contact.

But he does.

His head turns, slow. Guilty. Caught in the act of his own weird domestic crime. One hand braced on the window frame, the other still in your living room. He looks like he’s about to flinch.

You raise your brows. Then nod. At the empty bin tucked under the sink.

Jason stills.

And then - grins.

Fast and crooked and boyish in a way that makes your chest stutter.

It’s the kind of smile that belongs in a different life. One where nobody’s bleeding in back alleys or fixing someone’s electrical wiring at two a.m. just because they can’t say I missed you out loud.

Your hand curls a little tighter around your keys.

And then he’s gone.

No words.

Just a soft creak as the window closes behind him.

And you're left in a clean apartment, heart doing cartwheels in your chest like an idiot.

Like a lock that keeps turning, even when there’s no key.

***

The salon smells like acetone and disappointment.

Again.

You toss your appointment book onto the front counter with a little more force than necessary, the spine hitting with a thud that makes June flinch from where she’s sweeping up stray clippings near her chair.

“Third one this week,” you mutter. “Didn’t even call.”

“Maybe they died,” June offers, chipper.

You give her a look.

She shrugs. “You always say you hope your clients die if they no-show.”

“Yeah, well. I say a lot of things.”

June leans her broom against the chair, brushes her hands off. “Want me to text her?”

“What, and say what exactly? ‘Hey, just checking if you’ve perished or if you’re just inconsiderate’?”

June grins. “Yes?”

You sigh, flopping down into the breakroom stool like it wronged you. The salon is too quiet. The sun filters through the front window and hits the empty chair like it’s mocking you. You should be elbow-deep in toner by now, not sulking with a half-warm coffee and a too-clean floor.

“Swear to god,” you say, dragging your palm down your face, “if one more person cancels without even pretending they got hit by a bus, I’m gonna start charging psychic damage.”

June hums, chewing the inside of her cheek. “It’s weird, though. Mine have been flaky too this week.”

You glance up.

“Like - nervous,” she goes on, adjusting a row of shampoo bottles that were already aligned. “Skittish. You know how that one lady always talks about her grandkids until she cries and I give her peppermint oil? She barely said two words Tuesday. Just kept checking the front window.”

You frown. “Thought you were just losing your touch.”

“I am,” she says brightly. “But this felt different.”

You narrow your eyes.

She shrugs again, like it’s nothing. “Could be the suits.”

“The what now?”

“At Mercado. Went over after work yesterday to get some nail glue - don’t look at me like that, it was for a friend - and saw these guys in suits standing around like they were lost in a food court.”

You sit up a little straighter. “Suits. At Mercado Del Sol.”

She waves it off. “I mean, not full Wall Street. More like mall cop business casual. You know - expensive haircut, dead eyes, sleeves rolled up like they’re pretending to help carry something.”

You stare at her. “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna spiral.”

You shoot her a look. She grins again. Bastard.

You lean back, mind whirring. It tracks with what you saw last week. The cleaned-up stalls. The new signage. But hearing it from June - a bubble-brained ray of sunshine with too much glitter under her nails and not enough cynicism to spot a turf restructure - makes it feel worse. Like the ground shifting under your feet while someone tells you to smile.

She watches your expression turn sour and nudges your elbow.

“Hey,” she says. “Don’t stew.”

“Not stewing.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“Which one?”

“The one where your eyes go all ‘murdered six men in a warehouse and didn’t even smudge your lipstick.’”

You can’t help it. You laugh. Just once. But it’s something.

“C’mon,” she says, dragging her stool closer. “Let’s go over the pop-up stuff. That’ll cheer you up.”

You raise a brow. “You think planning a logistical nightmare in the middle of Gotham will cheer me up?”

“Yup,” she says. “Because you love logistical nightmares.”

She’s not wrong.

The pop-ups are your thing. Always have been. You try to do one a month when time and sanity allow - just a fold-out table, your emergency kit, and enough folding chairs to make it feel official. No fees. No appointments. First come, first served.

You did the last one in the corner of Robinson Park, two blocks from the bus depot. It was during those weird silent weeks, when Jason had vanished and you were trying not to feel like a dropped call. You remember setting up next to a patch of dead grass and trying to ignore the feeling that something was off.

You’ve been doing them since cosmetology school. Started in the church basement on your street. Borrowed clippers. Second-hand products. Mostly regulars who’d heard about it from someone’s aunt. A few kids with nowhere else to go. You never advertised. Didn’t need to. Word spreads.

The thought steadies you a little. Something familiar. Real. Something you can control.

“Fine,” you say, grabbing your notepad. “You want to do the market this time?”

June beams. “Duh. Better foot traffic. And I want to try the tamarind noodles from the guy with the pirate flag.”

You pause. “You mean Hector?”

“Sure.”

You jot down a note. Then pause. Blink.

Because for some reason - maybe it’s the mention of food, maybe it’s just the fact that the grocery bag you meant to unpack last night is still by the door - you remember you’re out of soy sauce.

Not a crisis. But annoying. Especially because you’d been planning to cook tonight. Or at least microwave something and pretend.

Without thinking, you pull the burner phone from your pocket. Type fast. No punctuation, just impulse.

“Get soy sauce next time. Low sodium. Kikkoman.”

You stare at it for half a second. Then hit send.

It’s only after the message disappears that you realise what you’ve done. The burner phone. The one meant for cryptic intel and tactical updates.

And you’ve just turned it into a grocery list.

But you don’t delete the message. Just shove the phone back in your pocket like it didn’t happen and flip to a blank page. “Alright. Market it is. But you’re in charge of keeping the fake license visible.”

She salutes you with two fingers. “Yes, boss.”

And just like that, something clicks back into place.

Not peace. Not certainty.

But maybe - just maybe - a plan.

***

You lock up the salon just past eleven. The last client ran late, and you didn’t have it in you to rush them. It’s quiet now. The kind of Gotham quiet that has a weight to it - like the city’s holding its breath, waiting for something to crawl out of the dark.

The air smells like ozone and hot tarmac, summer clinging to the concrete. Somewhere down the block, an old AC unit coughs out its last dying breath. A neon sign across the street flickers just enough to give you a headache.

You pause at the corner to take a longer look at the building that used to be The Wick. The bar Jason blew up.

It should still look like a crime scene.

But it doesn’t.

The new windows are clean. Double-paned. There's a Coming Soon sign taped to the inside in glossy red and gold. Same name. Same logo. Same weathered brick with that rust-ringed exterior light that never worked. It's like someone peeled away the soot and just kept the bones.

You step closer. Peer through the glass.

New counters. Bottles already restocked. Bar stools still wrapped in plastic. It doesn’t look like a rebuild. It looks like a reset. Like someone hit the undo button on the explosion and decided to keep everything exactly the same.

That shouldn't sit right with you. It doesn't. The edges of your spine feel itchy.

But it’s late. And Gotham does this. Puts a new coat of paint over the bloodstains and calls it renewal.

You turn back toward your building.

And then you hear it.

A scrape. Quick and sharp. Boot against gravel.

Your eyes lift toward the roofline.

Another sound. A grunt. Followed by something softer. A thud, maybe. The kind you’d miss if you weren’t already tuned to danger like a broken radio.

You exhale through your nose. Slowly.

And walk around the back, past the dumpsters, to the ladder bolted to the side of the building. You reach behind the panel next to it and pull out the bat. Metal. Scuffed. Yours since year two of owning the salon.

The rungs are hot from the day’s heat, but you climb anyway.

The rooftop greets you with a burst of wind and the low hum of city noise. Trash skitters in the corner. There's a whiff of something burned – gunpowder maybe, or just scorched tar.

And then you see them.

Two figures. One against the ventilation shaft. The other standing over him, a gloved hand gripping the front of the guy’s jacket so tight the fabric's straining. The pinned man wheezes through clenched teeth. There’s blood smeared on his lip.

But your eyes don’t register him first.

They land on him.

Red Hood.

His boots are planted wide, knees bent in that grounded, ready stance. One shoulder rises and falls with his breathing, slow and heavy. The red helmet catches the rooftop floodlight and throws back a dull gleam. Not chrome. Matte. Like it’s been repainted by hand.

The jacket's darker than you remember - black leather, brown shoulder pads worn to hell. His gloves creak when he tightens his grip, and the movement makes the guy beneath him choke out a word you can't hear.

Red Hood growls something low. Not for your ears.

His free hand lifts. Curls into a fist like it’s got a mind of its own.

You take a step forward. Not loud. Not quiet either.

The helmet turns.

One tilt. Sharp and deliberate. Like a dog scenting something familiar.

You brace the bat over your shoulder. Just in case.

He stares for a moment. Then his stance shifts - only a fraction, but enough to know he’s clocked you. Read you.

And instead of letting go, he leans in closer to the guy he's holding.

You don’t know what he says. But the man flinches. Then nods.

Red Hood steps back. Releases him. Just enough to let the guy stumble to the ground.

Then, without a word, he turns toward you.

And grins.

You can feel it. Even under the helmet. The tilt of his head. The cocky, maddening energy that rolls off him like static. The kind of expression that says yeah, I know you know.

And god help you, but he looks good like this. Powerful. Unapologetic. Built like tension and control and a hundred sharp edges smoothed just enough to be dangerous in a different way. The suit shouldn’t be flattering, but it is. Of course it is.

You roll your eyes.

He saunters past you toward the roof edge like it’s just another Tuesday.

Boots heavy, shoulders easy. Like the guy behind the helmet didn’t just pin someone to a ventilation shaft with one hand like it was personal.

"Gettin' good at catchin' me, sweetheart."

You don't answer.

You just lower the bat. And let the wind carry the scent of scorched tar and steel across your face.

The guy’s still groaning. Still moving. Which is a miracle, all things considered.

“So,” you say, dry, motioning vaguely at the man still wheezing against the metal, “are you doing cleanup too, or is that my responsibility now?”

Hood laughs. Low and rough. “You see any other bodies lying around?”

You blink. Let that sink in.

Then you glance at the rooftop behind him. Just in case.

Nothing.

Nothing in the alley. Nothing on the fire escape. Nothing at all.

The weight of that clicks in your gut like a lock turning. He’s been keeping the place clean. Not just tonight - this whole time. Silently. Efficiently. On your rooftop, in your alley, maybe even on your walk home when you didn’t know to look over your shoulder.

And you never noticed. Because that’s the point, isn’t it? Protection so seamless you don’t feel it until it’s gone.

It makes something cold and tight unfurl behind your ribs. Not fear, exactly. Not gratitude either. Just a sharp awareness of the fact that you haven’t been alone in months - and didn’t realise until now.

You swallow hard. Eyes flick back to him.

What else has he cleaned up before you ever saw the mess?

"You’ve been doing that the whole time?”

He tilts his head. The helmet catches the moonlight just right - gleaming red, sharp as blood. “Told you it came with the mark.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “I figured that was just branding. Or a threat.”

“Doll,” he says, mock-wounded. “If I wanted to threaten you, you’d be unconscious. Or back at my place. Depending on the day.”

That does something unpleasant to your pulse.

You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to swing.”

Then you glance back at the guy still curled against the ventilation shaft. “What did he want?”

Red Hood doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you - head tilted slightly, unreadable behind the visor.

Then, in a tone almost playful: “You sure you wanna know?”

You blink. Something in his voice - like he’s checking. Not teasing for fun, but for real. Not a joke. A moment of hesitation curled beneath the bravado, like he’d rather you didn’t have to think about what almost happened on your roof.

“Yeah,” you say, quiet but steady. “I’m sure.”

He hums. Shrugs a little. “Snapped a pic of your building last week. Passed it to the wrong guy. Word is, someone out there doesn’t like the mark.”

You freeze for half a second.

Just half.

Then exhale through your nose. “Great.”

He shifts again, lazy-like. But his stance hasn’t relaxed. “It’s handled.”

You glance at the guy, then back at him. “I can see that.” You step closer, arms folding. “You want something in return?”

“Always.” His voice is lighter now. Teasing. “But I’m a gentleman. I’ll let you offer.”

Your fingers drum once against your bicep. Then you speak, casual.

“There’s been weird shit at Mercado.”

He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But something in his stance goes still.

“Weird how?”

“Stalls closing. New ones popping up. Different energy. Cleaner signs. Uniforms. Licensing talk.”

Now he does move. Just his head, tilting slightly toward you. “And what’ve you been doin’ around Mercado?”

There’s something sharp behind the question. Not jealousy. Not quite suspicion. Just … interest. Too much of it.

You arch a brow. “I don’t hang around your precious gun bazaars, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A chuckle. Dark. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He pushes off the ledge, closes the distance by a step. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to make you look up. “You always this prickly when someone looks out for you?”

You scoff. “You always this smug when someone calls in a favour?”

He shrugs, and then, like he can't stop himself: “Only when it comes with that voice.”

Your breath catches. You hate that it does.

“That voice?” you echo.

“That voice,” he says, cocky now. “The one you use when you’re trying not to admit you like me.”

You blink. Then laugh - sharp, incredulous. “You’re insufferable like this.”

“And yet,” he purrs, stepping around you, shoulder brushing yours, “here you are. Worried enough to come swingin’ a bat up a ladder in the middle of the night.”

You turn as he passes, eyes narrowed. “Maybe I just wanted to break something.”

His voice trails behind him: “Then you’ve got terrible timing. Shoulda caught me five minutes ago.”

You shake your head. But the smirk tugs at your mouth before you can stop it - sharp at first, then softening, blooming somewhere you don’t want to name.

Goddamnit.

You shouldn’t enjoy this. The game. The rhythm of it. The way he says things that toe the line between flirtation and danger and make your skin hum like a live wire. You shouldn’t enjoy any of it.

But you do.

And worse - he sees it. Of course he does. Cataloguing every flicker of amusement you try to strangle before it escapes.

That flicker slips now.

And it’s enough.

The tilt of his helmet shifts like he’s smiling underneath.

You hate that. Hate that he gets a win. That he gets to be smug about making you laugh, when he’s the one who vanished for weeks and only reappears with blood on his gloves and terrible timing, and you still let him back in.

You can't have that.

So you call back: "You got my soy sauce?"

He’s already crouching at the edge, gloved fingers brushing the rim of the ledge, when he pauses.

Freezes, really.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

His head turns - not like Red Hood, not like the swaggering menace with the perfect timing and the cocky mouth - but slower. Stiller. Like a man caught out. Like someone remembering he left the stove on.

When he looks back, it’s not just a tilt.

It’s Jason. Behind the helmet. Just for a flicker. A breath. There and gone again before you can name it.

And whatever passes between you in that look - recognition, gratitude, maybe even something softer - settles deep in your chest like heat.

Then he straightens.

Back to the edge.

Back to the mask.

Then he’s gone.

Over the side.

Into the night.

And you’re left on the rooftop, heart thudding a little too fast, with a guy still moaning beside the ventilation shaft and the scent of Red Hood still stuck in your throat.

You try not to think about it. Try not to think about the way that persona sits on Jason like a second skin - how easy he is in the helmet, how quick he is to flirt. Confident. Unbothered. Like the world can't touch him, and neither can you, not really.

It’s not the same as the Jason who dodges compliments. Who gets flustered when you tease him. Who says your name like he’s afraid of what it means. Who moves through your apartment like he’s trying not to leave footprints. Like he doesn’t want to be noticed too much, even when he’s there.

But it’s him.

And maybe it shouldn’t be attractive. The mask, the bravado, the way he talks like he’s already halfway into your skin.

But it is. God help you, it is.

And you’re starting to think he knows it. That he's worked it out - that you flinch when his voice drops, that you start breathing faster when he calls you sweetheart, like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t land every damn time.

But what he doesn’t know - what you haven’t let yourself admit, even in the quiet - is that it’s not the mask that gets to you.

Not really. That’s the part that’s worse.

Because if it were just the mask, you could call it thrill-chasing. Adrenaline. A crush on danger, like every idiot who’s ever swooned over a guy in Kevlar.

But it’s not that.

And no matter how many times you try to tell yourself it’s just the situation, just proximity, just boredom or timing or something easier - some part of you keeps watching the door.

And you hate that.

You hate that you care.

Because once you admit it, you can’t take it back.

***

You don’t know what to call Jason.

Not boyfriend. Not partner. Not client. Not friend, even, though that one comes close on some days.

Not a stranger, either - not anymore.

He’s something else. Something stitched into the seams of your life without ever being sewn all the way in.

There’s a rhythm to him, now. His presence. Like the hum of your radiator in winter or the way the door frame swells when the weather changes - annoying, inevitable, familiar. You’ve gotten used to finding the sink empty and the couch dented. Food you didn’t buy showing up in your fridge. Towels drying a little faster on the rack.

It should be weird.

It is weird.

But it’s not unfamiliar.

You remember when you were thirteen, and your brother’s friends used to drift in and out of the apartment like the place had no front door. The regulars, sure - Rafe, with the loud laugh and the ugly sneakers. Vic, who always brought cold fries and half-finished stories. But sometimes there were others. Older guys. Quieter. Rough around the edges in a way you didn’t have language for yet.

They never said much to you.

But sometimes one of them would stick around a little longer after your brother left. Waiting. Loitering. Killing time on the pretence of charging a phone or finishing a smoke on the fire escape.

You’d pretend not to notice.

Pretend you didn’t sit a little straighter when they passed through the kitchen.

Pretend you didn’t hate yourself for the flicker in your chest. That tight little thrill of proximity. The attention that wasn’t really attention. The weight of it. The heat.

That’s what Jason feels like, sometimes.

Like someone lingering on the edge of a space you didn’t invite him into - but don’t really want him to leave.

Maybe that’s why you don’t stop him. Why you stopped thinking of the apartment as yours alone. Why you don’t change the locks. Why you leave the window latch undone.

Maybe it’s just that you like it. The not-knowing. The near-miss. The gravity of someone orbiting you close enough to burn.

You’re lying in bed now, lights off, fan humming.

The apartment’s quiet. Still. You know the shape of every sound here - the groan of the pipes, the soft creak in the floorboard outside the bathroom, the tick of the fridge when it cycles.

So when you hear the thud from the fire escape - sharp, solid, definite - you know it’s none of those things.

And it’s not Jason either.

You know what he sounds like. Even masked, even careful, there’s always something casual in the way he moves. Fluid. Familiar. Like someone used to walking through rooms in the dark.

This isn’t that.

This is heavier.

Deliberate.

Like someone jumped down and meant it.

You don’t get up.

You don’t check the window.

Instead, you sit up slow. Re-check the lock on your bedroom door. It’s engaged. You know it is. But your fingers twist it again anyway, just to be sure.

Then your hand drifts, half-conscious, to the shelf above your bed.

And finds it.

The stupid Nightwing spinning top. Plastic. Scratched. Still chipped from where you dropped it once on the church basement tile floor.

You haven’t touched it in years.

But now it’s in your palm. Familiar weight. Dumb comfort. A piece of something you can’t quite name.

You clutch it.

And wait.

Breath held.

Eyes open.

Listening for a second sound that never comes.

Chapter Text

Mercado’s humming.

Not the nervous buzz it sometimes gets when things are about to go sideways - but a true hum. A living, breathing thing. Somewhere between music and foot traffic and someone shouting over a grill about sausage discounts in what you think might be German.

The tarpaulin above your pop-up stall flaps like it’s trying to escape. Your knuckles ache from the last braid set. You’re sweating. There’s hair clippings stuck to your lip gloss. It’s perfect.

June is perched cross-legged on an overturned milk crate nearby, plastic noodle tub in one hand, chopsticks in the other. She’s halfway through her second portion of tamarind noodles, humming happily and totally useless.

“This might be the best Mercado vibe all summer,” she declares between slurps.

“Your idea of a vibe is entirely based on carbs,” you mutter, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist.

June grins like that’s a compliment.

At your feet, Yaz is telling you about a boy in her class who tried to kiss her and got kicked in the shin for his efforts.

“He cried after though,” Yaz adds, nine years old and utterly scandalised. “Like he was the victim. Just ‘cause my shoe had the sparkly toe bit.”

“Sounds like a dangerous weapon,” you say, hands working through the last section of box braids. Yaz has good hair - thick, heavy, soft in a way that makes your job easy. You’ve done it once before, last year, and she remembered your name since.

Now she leans into your touch like a cat. Chatterbox. Cheeky. Heart pinned right to her sleeve.

“You want beads on the ends again?” you ask, shifting your weight.

“Obv.” Yaz says, then glances at June’s noodles. “Can I have some?”

“You allergic to peanuts?”

“No.”

“Sure,” June says, passing the carton. “But only a bite. I saw you eat two ice lollies already.”

“I’m growing.”

“Into a raccoon maybe,” June mutters, handing over the chopsticks anyway.

You breathe out a small laugh. It’s easy, here. The noise of the crowd feels like a buffer. The rustle of fake gold chains on the table next to yours, someone shouting in Kreyòl about limes, the smell of cumin, bleach, and grilled corn.

Safe? No. But warm. Familiar.

Then you see it.

A new stall. Down the row, past the guy who sells teeth-whitening powder out of a sewing kit. Square corners. Stainless steel trim. A name printed in bold Helvetica across a black awning. No tarpaulin. No crates. No folding chairs.

Too clean.

It’s the kind of stall that asks for paperwork.

The guy behind it doesn’t move like a vendor. He stands too still. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t heckle. Just watches.

Your eyes catch on his collar. The shirt looks ironed. The logo stitched into it doesn’t match the awning - it’s weird, almost like a medical symbol, but wrong. A snake coiled around a bone instead of a staff, flanked by wings that taper into blades. It looks more like it belongs on the packaging of an experimental drug than at a market stall.

You frown. Then blink. Let it go.

Not your business. Not today.

You tuck a final bead in place and let Yaz inspect herself in the smudged mirror hanging off the pole by your chair.

She gasps. “Ohmygod I look famous.”

“You do,” you agree. “Supermodel or pop star?”

“Assassin.”

June snorts.

Yaz hugs you in that awkward, spontaneous way only kids do - arms half around your ribs, nose in your collarbone.

You watch her skip off toward her mum’s stall, beads clacking like war drums.

And then - just for a second - you feel it.

The wind doesn’t change. The temperature doesn’t drop. But something inside your ribcage goes still - like a rabbit sensing a hawk.

You glance up.

And you know it before you see him.

Across the row. Blending in. Hoodie. Shadow. Half a turn of his head and you catch it - the outline of a helmet under the fabric. Red. Warped slightly by distance and sun.

Jason’s here.

Watching.

You don’t wave.

But your pulse flicks anyway.

You pass the bat off to June and wipe your hands on the apron you’ve had on since 9 am. It’s crusted with hair gel and heat protectant, and smells faintly like clove oil and summer sweat.

“Hold down the fort,” you say, eyeing the little crowd of folding chairs in front of the pop-up.

June salutes with one chopstick. “Where you headed?”

“Fish curry. Goan, if I’m lucky.”

“Bold move. If she’s not here today, you’ll sulk.”

You give her a warning glare. “Just take the next ticket.”

A teenager with over-straightened bangs is already waving a dog-eared slip of numbered paper at the stall. June groans, dramatically, but slides into your chair with the noodle tub still in hand.

You duck out into the Mercado current.

The sun’s cut across the canvas awnings now, gold on faded red and striped blue. Someone’s selling mango juice in plastic cups, sweating against the heat. A dog barks from somewhere under a table. Loud reggae spills from a cracked speaker two stalls over, barely drowning out the layered conversation that ebbs and flows like the tide.

You find her three rows down, under the same ragged umbrella she’s had for the last ten years.

“Aunty,” you say, already smiling.

She looks up from the battered aluminium pot she’s been stirring and squints. “If it isn’t the beauty school dropout.”

You laugh. “Still calling me that?”

“You’re still paying off debts for degrees you never finished.”

You lean against the plastic table, letting the smell hit you. It’s perfect. Sharp tamarind, warm spices, the heat of chili over fresh fish.

She ladles some into a styrofoam container and gestures at the battered cooler beside her. “You want rice or chapati?”

“Rice. Obviously.”

“How are your parents?”

You shrug. “Still surviving. Still believing that if something hasn’t killed you yet, it can’t be that serious.”

She huffs. “So. Still Gotham.”

You nod.

She passes you the curry with a little nod of her own. No small talk needed. You grew up with this rhythm. Grease-stained napkins and unspoken solidarity.

You’re about to ask if she’s been selling well today when you hear it.

A crash. Metal on metal. Somewhere behind the butane grills and fake designer belts.

Normal. Maybe. This is Mercado. Things fall. People yell.

But then there’s another sound - sharp, whining - like pressure releasing too fast. A hiss that climbs up your spine.

And then the first bang.

Not a gunshot. Not quite. But close. Too loud. Too sharp.

Your body jerks before your brain catches up.

You whip around, curry container tilting in your hand.

Then a second bang. And a third. Rapid. Crackling.

The kind of sound that says get down, or get moving.

It’s fireworks. You realise that a second before the sky lights up pink and white above the awnings. Bright. Chaotic. Wrong.

Someone screams.

Then three things happen all at once:

A table flips two stalls over, sending stacks of cheap sunglasses into the air like shrapnel. A vendor grabs a child and bolts. And someone knocks into your shoulder hard enough that the curry flies, splattering across the ground.

Your heart starts pounding.

Mercado isn’t buzzing anymore. It’s howling.

People are shouting. Some are running. Others are ducking behind their stalls, clutching crates and cash boxes.

You spin again, eyes sweeping the chaos.

And then you see them.

Two sets.

One group in masks - cheap, black, rubbery. Faces hidden. They’re moving like they’ve rehearsed this. Elbows out, boots steady, parting the crowd like they own it.

The second group is worse. Clean-cut. Button-ups. Polished boots. The kind of guys who don’t belong here. Who look like they’ve never had to haggle for a box of knockoff bleach in their life. Like they came from behind a desk and brought violence with them. They’re not rushing - they’re placing themselves. Flanking exits. Watching. Herding.

A chair clatters beside you. Someone shoves past. You twist, stumble. People are yelling - no, pleading now.

Another explosion. Bigger. This one sends a vendor’s canopy into flames. Smoke curls fast into the air, acrid and thick. Someone coughs violently.

And in that moment, you realise-

This isn’t a fight.

It’s a takeover.

And you’re standing dead in the middle of it.

You’re already moving. Curry abandoned. Feet skidding across cracked pavement. Eyes searching for June. For a way out. For the person you know is watching.

And then you see it.

Your stall - half-collapsed, one of the chairs overturned - and June. Struggling. A man’s got her by the arm.

Polished boots. Clean-shaven jaw. No mask, but just enough smugness in the set of his mouth to make you wish he was wearing one. Buttoned blazer despite the heat. Neck tattoo peeking above the collar - something coiled and aggressive. One of his sleeves is rolled up, and you clock a wire tucked under the cuff. Comm unit. Professional. And his eyes - dead calm. Bored, almost, like this is routine.

Like grabbing a nineteen-year-old girl by the elbow in the middle of a panicked market is just another Tuesday.

He's dragging June backward, not rough enough to bruise but firm, practised. She stumbles, trying to dig her heels in, but her sneakers skid uselessly on the worn tarpaulin. Her eyes find yours.

Wide. Scared. Trusting.

Your gut flips.

"Hey!" you yell, voice cracking like a whip across the chaos. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, creep?"

It’s the Gotham in you. Not loud enough to call cops. Just loud enough to pick a fight.

The guy turns.

Smirks.

You hate him instantly.

June opens her mouth, probably to warn you, but your blood’s already hot. You grab the nearest thing off a vendor's table - an umbrella with a bent spine and a garish pineapple print - and point it like a spear.

"You touch my staff again and I swear to god I'll scalp you with this tourist shit."

The man raises a brow.

And then two more of them appear. Same pressed shirts. Same quiet arrogance. One cracks his knuckles. Another checks his watch.

Your stomach drops.

They’re coordinated. Not street-level punks, not petty muscle. These are clean-up crew. The kind that doesn't leave prints, only scars.

Around you, Mercado’s gone full riot. Screams, crashes, the scent of ozone and hot smoke curling up from a vendor's exploded stash of bootleg fireworks. Kids crying. Vendors swinging broom handles. Chaos like a living thing, teeth bared.

But all you see is June.

Getting dragged farther away.

You hesitate - just a breath. That old, ugly instinct clawing up your throat. Run. Save yourself. Nobody survives Gotham by playing hero.

But June’s still staring at you.

Like she believes you’ll fix it.

And god help you, maybe she’s right. Because somewhere between shared ramen and swapped playlists and her relentless optimism, she became yours. Not in any legal, binding way. Not in the way Gotham measures ownership. But in the way someone becomes your person without you realising - until you can’t look away when they’re in danger. Until the idea of them disappearing with that look in their eyes makes something primal snap loose in your chest.

You trained her. You taught her how to fade background noise, how to duck behind a mirror when things got hot, how to press a knuckle into a guy’s throat just right. You taught her to survive, but you never taught her how to disappear, because deep down, you hoped she'd never have to.

So you move.

You lurch forward, heart in your throat, just as a firm arm hooks around your waist and yanks you back hard.

“Let me go - !” you snap, teeth bared, already twisting out of the grip.

But then you hear it. The low, unmistakable modulated growl.

“Don’t.”

You freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough to register the helmet beside you, the gloved hand still braced over your ribs.

You see the recognition ripple across the thugs’ faces.

Too late. June’s gone. Pulled around a corner in a tangle of kicking legs and panicked yelling.

Your stomach flips. Your throat goes tight.

“I swear to God- ” you growl, twisting on him, “if you don’t let me go right now- ”

“I’ll get her,” he cuts in, voice even beneath the helmet’s growl, “but not if you charge in and get shot.”

“Do I look like I care?!” you bark. “That’s my apprentice, you asshole! That’s my responsibility-!”

He’s already moving - one hand catching your elbow, the other raising as another man round the corner behind him.

You barely get a breath in before he moves. Fast. Brutal. Efficient.

The first guy lunges with a pipe. Red Hood kicks his knee sideways - bone cracks. The second swings a baton. He catches it mid-swing, wrenches it free, and slams the butt into the guy’s temple. They go down like cheap scaffolding.

The fight lasts all of twelve seconds.

You’re still shaking.

He turns back to you, breathing hard beneath the modulator. “Happy?”

“No,” you snap, fists clenched, “because I can't see June anymore.”

He grunts, hand tightening around your elbow for just one moment, before he realises you entirely.

You turn toward the direction June was dragged and take a step, but he moves with you this time - silent, sharp, stalking through the shattered market path like smoke with a purpose.

You hesitate. Then grab his hand.

His gloved fingers stiffen, just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting it. You ignore that. Tug him toward the neighbouring stall, where a sheet of corrugated metal has been laid like a makeshift roof.

“Up,” you say.

He looks at you. Then down at your grip.

“What, afraid of heights now?”

He huffs. “No. Just not used to you giving orders.”

“Well,” you mutter, hoisting yourself up with effort, “get used to it.”

He follows, quieter than he has any right to be.

You haul yourself onto the roof, breath catching as you rise above the chaos. The market sprawls in a tangle of steam, firework smoke, and fleeing bodies. Shouts echo from every direction - vendors yelling, children crying, the pop of another explosion too close for comfort.

But it’s the shapes you’re after.

And there - cutting between the rows of tarp - three figures. One limping. One dragging something small.

Red Hood sees it at the same time you do.

His jaw clenches behind the helmet.

“June,” you breathe.

He’s already moving beside you, crouching low, motioning you forward.

“Stay close,” he says.

“Try and keep up,” you shoot back.

And then the two of you take off across the metal, boots slamming, breath harsh, the heat of him trailing just a half-step behind you like a vow unspoken.

The rooftops blur beneath you - slats of corrugated metal, canvas tarps slick with soot, patched wood groaning under every step. Your boots slam down hard, then slip, then catch again. The air reeks of firework residue and grease smoke, but all you can hear is the thunder of footsteps and your own blood roaring in your ears.

Hood is at your back. Always. His heavier frame thudding a beat behind yours, close enough to shadow you, not close enough to get in your way.

The problem is the roof itself.

It's not made for running. Hell, it’s barely made for standing. You leap over a gap - someone’s makeshift sign still swinging from the breeze left by your landing - and nearly lose your footing on the next stretch of plastic tarp.

Then, without warning, the seam gives.

Your boot rips through. The tarp tears like tissue. You pitch forward-

A hand clamps around your waist.

Hard.

You gasp - half-breath, half-grunt - as Red Hood yanks you back with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs. Your other boot scrapes across the edge, toes barely catching the support beam.

You’re upright again before your brain catches up. His arm is still around you, his breath harsh in your ear.

"You good?" he rasps.

You nod, chest heaving. “Still breathin'.”

“Good.”

Then he releases you, and you both keep running.

You spot them first - three figures cutting through the smoke ahead, dragging something small and struggling between them. You slam your boots down faster, Hood veering off to drop down through the scaffolding first. You follow, landing harder than he did, knees jarring, body jolted back into motion by sheer adrenaline.

The chaos here is worse.

You push into it. Elbow-first, jaw set.

It’s a riot made from Mercado itself - bright powder dyes thrown from smashed stalls hanging in the air like neon fog, the scent of burnt oil and copper thick in your nose. You stumble on fruit pulp, someone’s lost sandal, an overturned table slick with spilt oyster sauce.

People are screaming. Running. Fighting.

And you lose him.

The helmet vanishes into the crowd - pulled away by the wave of motion, swallowed whole by the bodies - and for a second, it feels like the floor’s gone out from under you.

You curse. Loud. Ugly. The sound ripped straight from your throat. Because the truth is, your adrenaline, your bravado, your quick little jabs and half-baked confidence - it all came with a safety net. He was behind you. Watching. Catching. The one thing standing between you and the worst-case scenario.

And now he’s gone.

You’re not him. Not a vigilante. Not trained. Not built for this kind of chaos beyond what living in Gotham’s taught you by necessity. You know how to survive - but not like this. You’re fast on your feet, but you’ve never been in a real fight that didn’t end with someone else stepping in, someone else bleeding. You told yourself you could do this because he was there.

And now he’s not.

You blink hard, throat tight, and keep moving. Try to force your way through - head ducked, arms up - but a hand closes around your bicep.

You turn - and a masked man with a knife grins at you through the split in his cloth, teeth gold and cracked. He’s not part of the polished ones from before. This guy looks feral. Too local. Too dirty. Like someone who got desperate and took the wrong job.

He lunges.

You duck, twist, wrench your arm back - and your hand lands on something hot.

A wok.

The stall beside you - half-collapsed - still has a burner going. Oil bubbling. Scallions burnt to a crisp on the rim.

You don’t think.

You just grab the handle, swing the pan wide, and splash the scalding oil straight into the guy’s exposed neck.

He howls.

Drops the knife.

You don’t stay to gloat.

Slipping past him, you duck through the broken frame of a produce tent, heart punching your ribs like it’s trying to break free. But the scream draws attention. And now there’s more of them - three, four, maybe five - masked and coming fast.

“If they’ve hurt her—”

You don’t finish it. You run.

Through an aisle that used to be perfume knockoffs. Past a candy stand still playing tinny salsa music from a busted speaker. Over a pile of crushed fruit crates and beneath a half-hung clothesline dripping cheap saris.

Your lungs are on fire. Your legs, worse.

Then-

A hand.

From nowhere.

Snatches your arm and yanks you sideways.

You don’t even have time to scream.

You’re dragged into a tent you didn’t see - black canvas, no signage, wedged between two shipping crates like a fold in reality.

Inside, it’s dark. Quiet.

You freeze.

Back pressed to the warm body behind you, eyes wide in the dimness, breath held like prayer.

Outside, boots thunder past.

And whoever pulled you in doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

Because he doesn’t need to.

The scent hits you first - gunmetal and smoke and something warm beneath the armour.

Then his hand drops from your arm.

And you breathe again.

You don’t turn. Not right away. Just lean your head back slightly.

His chest rises behind you, steady now. Like the fight hasn’t touched him. Like the fire outside doesn’t reach in here. You feel it - his presence, the weight of it, how it’s not just protection anymore. It’s something else. Something heavier.

Your breath is loud in your ears. You can still hear the outside - distant yelling, the crack of something wooden shattering, a low scream. But it’s muffled now, like the tent is made of wool instead of canvas. You try to wrench forward.

“We have to find her-”

“Wait.”

“No, Jason-”

He grabs your face. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to stop your next move.

His hands are gloved. Rough. Steady. They cradle your jaw with a kind of reverence that feels all wrong in the moment, like it doesn’t belong in the middle of a warzone. His thumbs hover at the corners of your mouth.

You realise then that you’re shaking.

Not just your hands. Your whole body. A quiet, controlled tremor. Like a string held too tight for too long.

His voice, modulated and low, cuts through the static. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head before you can think better of it. “No. I just - I lost her.”

His helmet dips closer. “You didn’t lose her.”

The words are firm. Certain. Like a promise.

It should be Red Hood talking, but something about the tone - about the way he says it like you need to hear it, not just like it's true - makes you feel like it’s Jason with you.

He shifts his grip, tilts your chin. Eyes scanning your face for damage in the dim light.

You lean forward without meaning to.

Just a little.

Close enough to feel the warmth of him behind the kevlar and leather. Close enough to see your warped reflection in the curve of his helmet. Your lips part, not for a breath, but something softer. A question. A dare. An opening.

Your pulse hammers. You’re not sure if it’s from the chase or from him. You’re not sure it matters. He doesn't move. Doesn’t flinch. Just stays there, so close, so still, like he’s waiting too.

And then - light.

Soft, ambient, ghostly.

It pulses once from the centre of the tent - a table draped in thick, stained silk, where a glass ball sits on a stand made of what might be antlers. Around it: scattered bones, cheap candles, half-burned incense sticks. Purple light flickers against hanging beads and trinkets like blinking eyes. There's a smell - lavender and myrrh and something older, something green and bitter.

Jason shifts beside you. Barely. But it’s the kind of movement that says he’s either seconds from bolting or seconds from something worse.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep your eyes fixed on the glowing orb. Your fingers clenched too tight.

There’s a figure behind the table now. You hadn't seen her at first - she blends into the dim like part of the décor. An old woman, hunched and papery, with skin like folded leather and eyes that catch the purple glow like marbles. Her hair is pinned up in a messy grey knot, and her robes hang like moth-eaten theatre curtains, too dramatic for the space.

She watches you.

Silent. Still.

It’s the kind of moment that begs for prophecy. For omens. You brace for something cryptic. Something heavy with fate.

She squints. Then rasps, “If you two are about to fuck, can you at least do it outside? The last couple broke the lamp.”

You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted. Jason stumbles a half-step back. You twist away so fast you nearly trip over a crate.

The spell shatters.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, breath catching. Your face is burning. It shouldn't be. You’re not shy. Crude jokes don’t bother you. But something about that - about being seen in that moment, all breathless and too-close and shaking - lands like a slap. Your chest is tight. Your stomach, worse.

Jason exhales sharply, shaking his head. “This place is so fucking cursed.”

You huff a breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite.

He looks at you, visor tilted like he’s checking you’re still standing. Then his voice comes low and practical again. “We should keep moving.”

You nod, even though your body feels like it’s still lagging a beat behind your brain.

You push past the curtain flap, stepping back into the roar of Mercado. The safety of adrenaline. The clarity of panic. And you tell yourself you’ll deal with whatever that was later.

Right now, you have to find June.

You and Jason push back into the Mercado like stones dropped into floodwater. The sound hits first - louder now, angrier. The metallic clash of overturned carts. The pop and crack of what might be fireworks, might be something worse. The shouts have turned shrill. Vendors barking at shadows. Someone sobbing into a tarp.

The aisle outside the tent is almost unrecognisable.

A table of costume jewellery has been trampled, rhinestones glittering like broken glass. The fruit stand next door is a pulped mess, bright orange rinds crushed underfoot. A ceiling fan blade lies twisted in the dirt. Somewhere nearby, a generator sputters uselessly, buzzing over the chaos like a dying wasp.

Smoke hangs low. Not enough to choke, but enough to sting.

You spin in place, trying to find a direction - any clue - but June is gone again. No sign of the braid, the sneakers, the voice that always gets louder when she's scared.

Jason’s helmet sweeps side to side. He moves fast, scanning rooftops, alley gaps, exits.

“She’s not here,” he says, low.

You hate the way your stomach sinks. “Then where-”

“There’s a secondary point. Has to be.”

He doesn’t explain how he knows. He doesn’t need to. He’s already pulling a small device from his belt, flicking it on - signals, maybe. Coordinates. You don’t ask.

You just say, “Then let’s go.”

But he stops.

Hand on your arm.

“Wait.”

You turn, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I need you to trust me.”

“Ja-”

“If I go alone, I’m faster. Cleaner. Less to worry about.”

You flinch. Not because he’s wrong. But because it still stings.

“I know how much she means to you,” he says, softer now. “I’ll get her back.”

Your throat tightens. You hate this part. Hate the way he says it like a promise, like he doesn’t leave people behind. Like he hasn’t lost people before.

You breathe in. “Fine.”

He nods once. Then he’s gone. Silent. Swift. Smoke and shadow swallowed him whole.

You don’t wait around.

Your legs are already moving, hands already reaching - someone’s overturned their table, their kid is crying, another woman is shouting in Kreyòl about her lost cash box. You kneel, lift, pass, mop, press, anything to keep busy.

Because sitting still means picturing June’s face.

Someone nearby is arguing in Spanish. You catch words - territorio, papeles, oferta. Territory. Papers. Offer.

You move closer. Listen. Watch.

Men in suits - those same clean-cut assholes from before - are walking stall to stall. Clipboard in hand. Smiling the way sharks do. They’re passing out forms. Contracts. You can’t read them from here, but you recognise the shape of it.

One of them leans in to a vendor who’s still picking glass shards out of a crate of mangoes. Says something low. Slides a clipboard across the counter like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. The vendor doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake his head either. Just stares.

You squint. Can’t read the form from here, but you know the shape of it. Indemnity. Transfer. Conditional rights. The kind of language that says sign this and we’ll stop burning your life down.

A deal.

You spot the masks too. A few of them are being dragged toward the alley — uniforms torn, insignia already scrubbed with black paint. One’s got a cracked nose. Another is missing a boot. Disposable. Muscle left behind after the real players close in.

The suits didn’t just win - they’re replacing. Covering up. Scrubbing the narrative clean.

So that’s what this was. Not random. Not some turf war sparked by pride or petty revenge.

Two sides. The masks were chaos. A distraction. Hired fists. Loud. The suits? Quiet. Measured. Backed by something bigger. Something coordinated.

And Mercado?

It’s the pilot scheme. The test case. If this works - if they flip the block, sign the contracts, silence the noise - they’ll do it again. Somewhere else. Cleaner. Faster. No blood next time. Just silence.

And the city won’t even blink.

You wipe your hands on your apron, eyes scanning the damage, the detritus, the people still too stunned to move.

And you wait.

***

It’s barely fifteen minutes - but it feels like fifty - before you see the silhouette through the smoke. Broad shoulders. Confident stride. And next to him, limping slightly, is a smaller form.

June.

You’re running before you can think. The noise of Mercado fades into background blur. Your boots hit the pavement too hard, your throat already tight.

June spots you and breaks into a stumbling jog, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

“Boss-!”

She crashes into your arms, all elbows and shaking limbs. You catch her like instinct, like muscle memory, like she was always going to end up right here.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” you murmur, pulling her in tight. One hand cups the back of her head, the other rubs circles into her back. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

She’s babbling. Words tumbling too fast to catch. Half sentences about boots and masks and being pushed and someone with bad breath and a taser, maybe.

“Slow down,” you say, voice thick. “You’re safe. You’re with me now.”

“I didn’t - they thought I was you -  they said the boss thing and I told them I wasn’t, but they didn’t -”

You pull back just enough to look at her. There’s a cut on her cheek, dried blood on her collar, but she’s whole. Shaken, but whole.

“Breathe,” you say softly. “I need you to breathe or I’m giving you the rest of the week off.”

That gets a choked laugh.

“A week?” she sniffles.

“Ten days, max. Unless you’re milking it.”

“Two weeks and you do my roots.”

“You’re pushing it, June.”

She hiccups through a teary grin and buries her face in your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m so sorry, boss. I didn’t mean to get snatched. They just - they didn’t know -  they said you were the one - I mean, not you, but the one who runs -”

You glance up.

Hood's still there. Just a few feet back. Watching.

You meet his eye. Raise your brows.

He just shakes his head. Not now.

You nod.

“Alright,” you say, squeezing June gently. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet. One of your friends home today?”

June sniffs. “Deya’s around. She owes me ramen.”

“Perfect. We’ll go there.”

***

You drop June at Deya’s place with a warm drink, a hug, and enough snacks to last a soft apocalypse. You don’t leave until you see her through the door, Deya already pulling her into the light and noise of the flat beyond.

Then it’s just you and him.

You slide into the driver’s seat of your beat-up car, and he climbs in wordlessly beside you, helmet still on.

The silence stretches as you drive. Away from Mercado. Away from the smoke and noise and broken teeth of the day. Past the bridge where the city turns industrial. You don’t talk. Neither does he.

You pull off into a narrow, quiet lot near the water. The kind of place people come to scream into the void or fall apart in peace.

You kill the engine.

Then you turn to him.

“I’m not going home until you tell me what the hell just happened.”

He doesn’t move.

You wait.

Then - 

He rips off the helmet.

It’s not theatrical. It’s not slow. It’s raw. Violent.

And for the first time, he lets you see him.

Not Red Hood.

Jason.

His face is flushed. Jaw tight. Eyes dark and sharp with something halfway between fury and fear.

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, helmet in his lap.

“They were looking for you,” he says, voice low. Rough. “Not June.”

You stare. “Why?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I’m not sure.”

“Bullshit.”

His shoulders tense.

“Is it because of you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just lifts his eyes. And it’s all there - wounded, cornered, frustrated. Angry at himself. Angry at you for asking. Angry that it matters.

And you almost feel bad.

Almost.

But you remember June’s face. Her voice, trembling. Her blood on her collar.

“My apprentice got kidnapped,” you say, cold and even. “And if they’d taken me instead - if they’d gotten who they wanted - what then?”

He doesn’t blink.

You press. “Was that because of you?”

Jason exhales, like it hurts. Then he speaks.

“There was backlash. After Rowe.”

You frown. “Caleb Rowe?”

He nods. “I shut him down. Burned the whole thing. The wrong person noticed. Turns out, he was part of something a lot bigger.”

“Bigger like what?”

“They’re callin' him the Architect,” Jason says finally. “I don’t know who he is. Not yet. But Rowe worked one of his supply lines. I cut it off. Someone noticed.”

You don’t speak.

He does. Quietly. “He doesn’t run things like Cobblepot or Maroni. He builds networks. Infrastructure. He’s turnin' Gotham’s crime ecosystem into a blueprint - territory by territory, partnership by partnership. Quiet. Organised. Sanitised.”

You blink. “And you blew up one of his assets.”

“Yeah. And now he wants to know who helped me do it.”

He finally meets your eyes.

“They know you’re the informant.”

The car suddenly feels too small. Too hot. Too loud with the absence of everything.

Jason adds, quieter now, “People have been watchin' the shop. Since the brick. That wasn’t random.”

You blink.

“Since then?”

He nods.

“It’s a lot,” he says, and this time, he actually sounds sorry.

You look out the windshield.

Yeah.

It’s a lot.

Because now it’s not just theory. Not whispers in the dark. Not the abstract fear you’d been pushing to the back of your mind with every bolt you turned on the door, every heavy footstep in the stairwell, every stranger’s face you tried not to track too long.

It’s real.

It’s suits and muscle and contracts being handed out like candy. It’s your name - maybe not spoken aloud, but circled in red somewhere. It’s June being grabbed because you weren’t there. Because you’ve been brushing shoulders with someone the rest of the city knows better than to stand beside.

And yeah, maybe Jason’s not all mask and bullets. Maybe he's also the quiet guy who eats noodles too fast, who shaves with too much pressure, who can’t quite look at you when you talk about your past.

But this? This is what follows him.

And it might burn everything that matters to you to the ground.

You’re still trying to catch up - still replaying every late shift, every creak in the floorboards, every passing face that lingered too long near your window - when he moves.

You clock it instantly. The shift in his body. The way he straightens, muscles taut like a bowstring, fingers flexing against the helmet in his lap.

He’s about to leave.

And no. No, absolutely not.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut.

Jason stills.

Doesn’t turn.

But he doesn’t open the door either.

“Seriously,” you say, louder now, leaning toward him, blood still too hot from everything. “You bring this shit to my block. To my shop. You get my kid - my kid, Jason - dragged across town by men in suits with tasers, and now what? You’re just gonna disappear into the night again like some gritty ghost? Fuck you.”

That gets him. He looks at you - full on. Guilt writ deep into every line of his face, but there’s something else there too. Something stubborn. Tired. Almost tender.

“I was tryin' to protect you.”

“Then don’t fucking leave.”

You see it land. The tension in his jaw flickers. His shoulders drop a little.

“You think I want this?” you ask, quieter now. “You think I want masked psychos sniffing around my home, putting a target on my back and a leash around my neck? I didn’t ask for this, Jason. But it’s here. So no - you don’t get to decide what happens next. Not without me.”

He looks down.

You wait.

And then he nods. Just once. Barely there.

“Alright,” he says, voice rasped thin. “I’ll stay.”

“Damn right you will.”

You both sit there, the engine ticking as it cools, the river outside stretching black and silent beyond the windshield.

No plan yet. No map forward.

But he's still here.

And that counts for something.

"Are you injured?" You finally ask, refusing to look at him. 

He lets a non-committal hum, and your head snaps round, taking him in. You can't see anything major - blood, sure, but not leaking out of him. And decide that's good enough.

"Okay," you push the clutch down. "You're making Goan fish curry, and listening to me tell you about how I almost brained someone with a wok. Got it?"

He huffs something like a laugh.

Then, quieter: “Yeah. Got it.”

Chapter Text

You wake up feeling like you got jumped by a streetlamp and then politely escorted off a rooftop by gravity itself.

Your shoulders hate you. Your knees are writing strongly worded letters to your spine. Your ribs have developed an entirely new relationship with breathing, and that relationship is abusive. You blink at the ceiling and wonder how you ever thought you were built for rooftop chases. You work in a salon. You crouch for a living, not leap.

Mercado is still under your skin - the smoke, the noise, the panic-chemical tang of fight-or-flight not fully burned off. It clings to your muscles like a memory. You don't dream, but if you had, it would've been about the sound your boot made when it tore through tarp. About how close June's braid came to vanishing around a corner you couldn't reach.

You sit up. Grimace. Check your phone. No new messages, no news pings, no Mercado fatalities listed online yet. Just Gotham doing what Gotham does best: pretend it didn’t see anything.

You drag yourself upright and shuffle barefoot to the door, one hand pressed to your lower back like someone’s grandma. You don’t bother fixing your tank top or checking the mirror. Anyone who’s in your apartment right now has seen worse.

Kitchen light’s still on. You forgot to turn it off last night. Or maybe he turned it on when he came in - silent, bruised, and refusing to take off the stupid vest.

Jason’s on your couch.

Kind of.

He’s not lying down so much as arranged. Half-upright, slumped into one corner like a vending machine gave up on him mid-delivery. His legs are stretched out but one boot’s half-off. His arm is pressed on the back of the sofa, bent awkwardly like he was going to reach for something and fell asleep before he could. The Red Hood chestplate is still on - scratched, dented, streaked with smoke. The holsters too. Just waiting for something to go wrong.

But the helmet’s gone.

It’s on your kitchen table, upside down next to your best mug. And Jason’s eyes are shut.

You pause.

The gear’s everywhere. His belt’s on a chair. A combat knife lies next to your butter dish. One of his gloves is hanging from the cabinet handle like it belongs there. The line between his world and yours isn’t blurred anymore - it’s just gone. And you let it happen.

You lean on the doorway and just … look.

He’s still got a busted lip. Faint smear of soot at his temple. His hair’s a mess and his throat’s bruised, probably from where someone tried to choke him and failed. His jaw’s clenched even in sleep. The kind of rest that isn’t resting. Like he’s still on the clock. Like even unconscious, he’s ready to get up and swing.

You think about the Mercado. The smoke. The screams. The way he pulled you out of the crush. You think about his arm around your waist and the way he said wait like he meant stay alive.

And you know.

You're in now.

Fully. Deeply. No half-measures. No more telling yourself you're just a bystander with a good sense of when to duck. No more pretending it’s just about fades and gossip and tip money.

You need to know what’s going on.

You want to.

Because the city’s shifting under your feet and pretending otherwise is just letting someone else draw the map. You want to because June got dragged across a market by men with pressed collars and clean boots. You want to because Jason looked you in the eye and said they know you’re the informant and you didn’t flinch - you just filed it away like the last price increase on bleach.

You want to because Jason’s asleep on your couch, still wearing half his war paint, and somehow this is the safest you’ve felt in weeks.

You step further into the room.

Careful not to wake him.

But also not not careful. Just enough to pretend. Just enough to feel it: the sharp, stupid weight of letting someone in and realising you never locked the door behind them.

He stirs.

You freeze.

But he doesn’t wake. Just sighs, deeper, like his body’s letting go for the first time in hours.

You look down at him - bruised, breathing, and, for now, yours.

And you think: Alright. Let’s burn this map together.

***

You don’t work Tuesdays.

That started as an act of self-preservation - one day a week where you didn’t have to kneel in front of a stranger and pretend to care about their dead ends or dating drama. Now it’s something else.

Now it’s the day Jason brings bagels and blueprints.

He’s across from you at the kitchen table, frowning down at a street map like it owes him money. The gear’s off - mostly. No helmet. No vest. Just the long-sleeved compression shirt that clings to his frame like a sin, and the fingerless gloves he sometimes forgets to take off when he’s focused. His coffee’s going cold next to a half-eaten plain bagel he refused to toast. You tried to argue once. He said heat made it too brittle. You decided to save your battles for bigger hills.

Your own bagel is cinnamon-raisin, heavy on the cream cheese, and halfway gone. You're barefoot, in a hoodie that technically belongs to him now, and flipping through zoning ordinances printed in grainy black-and-white from City Hall’s online archive.

The table’s a war zone of paper and caffeine.

Jason’s side: maps, surveillance stills, red string logic and post-it note shorthand that only makes sense to someone who’s been punched through drywall recently. Yours: zoning amendments, lease agreements, property tax deferments, and a highlighter you keep uncapping with your teeth.

It’s quiet. But not awkward.

Just the kind of quiet you build with someone after a week of accidental cohabitation.

Jason hasn’t technically moved in. You’re not sure he ever will - he doesn’t strike you as the type to hang his cape up anywhere but the next disaster. But the pattern’s undeniable now. You come home from work, he’s waiting. You talk. You eat. Sometimes he leaves for a couple hours - Red Hood things, no elaboration needed - and by morning, he’s asleep on your couch again, sprawled out like a cat who wandered in through the fire escape and decided to stay.

His stuff is everywhere.

Not in a messy way. Not in a my territory way. Just … present.

Boots lined up by the radiator. A spare helmet tucked under your laundry shelf. Weapons cleaned and stacked in a shoebox under your sink. He folds everything, wipes it down. Nothing’s sticky. Nothing’s grimy. He respects your space more than most ex-boyfriends ever did - but he’s not pretending like he’s not part of it.

You haven’t said anything. Neither has he.

There’s a comfort in the not-saying.

You circle something on the zoning change packet. Jason glances up from his side of the table.

“What is it?”

You slide the paper across. “New carve-out. Slipped through three weeks ago - no press, no public comment. Reclassifies eight blocks in Old Tricorner from mixed-use to exclusive commercial redevelopment.”

Jason’s brow furrows. “So?”

You tap the line with your pen. “Five of those blocks were protected under the Gotham Historical Preservation Act. Changing their status should’ve taken three layers of approval. Someone leaned hard on Planning and Zoning.”

He leans closer, scanning. “You read this stuff for fun?”

“Used to want to go into city planning,” you say, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Took a couple semesters at GCC. Money ran out. But I had a professor who said if you really want to track corruption, don’t follow the money - follow land use. That stuck.”

Jason makes a low, thoughtful noise. Not impressed, exactly. But not far off.

You glance down at the paper, your pen hovering over another address, and you feel it - that weird little twist in your stomach. The same one you’ve been ignoring since you started pinning building permits next to your salon appointment book. Since you started staying up late to cross-reference property databases instead of sleeping like a person with common sense.

What the hell are you doing?

This isn’t your job. You’re not a vigilante. You’re not even sure what you’re trying to fix.

But then you look up - and Jason’s still watching you. Still listening. And somehow, that makes it feel less insane.

You gesture to another map pinned between two coffee cups and a crumpled napkin. “The buildings going up there? Aren’t going up. They’re being retrofitted. Old properties. Cheap buys. And every single one used to be owned by families. Locals.”

His jaw tightens. “And now?”

You reach for another sheet and lay it between you. “Shell companies. All of them. Same business address: Suite 1902, Kane Tower.”

He doesn’t ask. Just stares. Grim.

Then leans back, folding his arms. “You’d have made a hell of a vigilante.”

You snort. “Too little paperwork. Too many Kevlar jockstraps.”

He gives you a crooked smile - small, worn at the edges. Doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s trying.

The heater clicks on with a rattle. Somewhere outside, a siren wails half-heartedly and fades.

Then Jason speaks again, voice lower. “I found something, too. Last night. Guy near Blackgate running messages. Not drugs. Files. Bound in red tape so thick I thought it was legit government work.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s not?”

“Not even close. But it looks right. Dates. Codes. Even the city seal. Like someone’s feeding him internal drafts.”

You blink. “So the Architect’s copying city forms.”

“Not just copying,” he says, reaching under his mess of maps and pulling out a folder. “Preempting. These are ordinances that haven’t even hit committee yet. He’s getting them first.”

You stare down at the pages. Quiet. “So someone’s feeding him from the inside.”

Jason nods once. “Has to be.”

The silence stretches. Thicker now. Heavier. You both know what it means - more layers, more risk. Deeper roots than either of you thought.

Jason finally reaches for the coffee and takes a long sip, wincing. Cold. Bitter. You push the microwave button before he can stand up, and he looks up at you like he doesn’t want to be grateful, but is anyway.

***

You call the zoning file quits around noon.

Your eyes are crossing, your highlighter’s dried out, and Jason’s started tapping the corner of the map like it personally betrayed him. You declare a break, drag yourself toward the kitchen, and start pulling pans from cabinets.

Jason hovers.

You wave him off. “Nope. Not a chance.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to. I could feel it.”

He raises his brows. “About to what?”

“Offer to help. Hover over my shoulder. Ask why I don’t own a garlic press. Something.”

He shrugs, but doesn’t deny it. “You’re territorial.”

“I’m correct.”

You turn the stove on and fish out the ingredients for a quick fry-up: peppers, leftover sausage, rice from two nights ago. It’s muscle memory at this point, the way you move in your kitchen - oil, pan, chop, stir - and Jason, to his credit, actually listens for once. Doesn’t try to take over. Just stands there.

For a while.

Then the silence gets too heavy for him to leave it be. He shifts. Looks toward the sink.

“Your faucet’s leaking.”

You don’t even look up. “You’re not fixing my sink while I’m cooking.”

“I’m not fixing it for you. I’m fixing it because it’s annoying.”

“Jason-”

He’s already moving. Already crouching. Already pulling open the cabinet doors under the sink and assessing the situation like he’s about to dismantle a bomb.

You exhale through your nose. “Does it have to be right now?”

“Can’t focus when something’s broken.”

“You’re in the way.”

“Move better.”

“You move better,” you mutter, flicking water off your fingers.

He grins, not looking back at you. “Maybe I would if you took better care of your shit.”

You’re about to fire back when he straightens up just enough to hook his hands under the hem of his compression shirt.

And then - off it goes.

No warning. No hesitation.

“Just in case of leaks,” he says, like this is a completely reasonable thing to do before elbow-deep plumbing.

You go still.

Not dramatically. Just … still. Pan in one hand, wooden spoon paused mid-stir. The oil crackles absently.

Jason doesn’t meet your eyes. He grabs the wrench from your catch-all drawer like it’s nothing. Drops into a crouch, shoulders flexing, ribs shifting as he settles half-under the sink.

But you see it.

The tension in his neck. The slight hesitation before he turned away. The way his shoulders braced - not just for the work, but for being seen.

And God, there’s a lot to see.

Scars - old ones, jagged ones, raised and silvery, some crisscrossing like poorly drawn roadmaps. Fine lines etched into his shoulders like he’d been kissed by shrapnel. Deep dents along his bicep, brutal and uneven, as if his body had been broken and put back together by someone in a hurry.

And then there's that one - the long, arching scar that curves under his ribs like an autopsy that never got the dignity of closure. You don't know what it means, not really, but your stomach does something ugly and quiet at the sight of it. Like your body knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

Still, your eyes keep drifting.

His muscle is lean but solid, shaped like armour. Not the pretty kind, but the forged-through-fire kind. Tension wrapped in sinew, effort carved into flesh. You tell yourself you're just taking it all in for tactical reasons - awareness, alertness, threat assessment - but the heat pooling behind your sternum says otherwise.

You swallow, but your gaze lingers. It's not just the damage. It's the living. The undeniable weight of someone who survived more than he should have, and didn't come back untouched.

“Real subtle,” you say, voice smooth despite the sudden dry mouth. “Desperate to impress, or is this just what passes for plumber etiquette in your world?”

“Just practical,” he mutters, torso half-vanished into the cupboard now.

“Sure. Because everyone strips to the waist when tightening a valve.”

“It’s a compression shirt,” he says, voice echoing under the sink. “It gets clingy when it’s wet.”

“You get clingy when you’re wet.”

Jason huffs out a sound that’s definitely a laugh and definitely tries to pretend it isn’t.

You return to stirring - casually, like you’re not watching the flex of his shoulders out of the corner of your eye. You hear a soft clang, the thunk of metal on old pipes.

You open your mouth to say something else - probably another dig, maybe a compliment disguised as one - when the intercom buzzes.

You both freeze.

Jason pulls his head out from under the sink, brows raised. You set the spoon down with a clatter and move quickly to the wall unit.

The voice that filters through is unmistakable.

“You decent?”

Your stomach drops. “Shit.”

Jason stands, suddenly alert. “What?”

You press the talk button. “Hey, Ma. I-uh, I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

Your father’s voice chimes in, calm and dry. “Good. You can take a break. We’re coming up.”

“You don’t have to-”

“We brought donuts,” your mother says, already muffled by distance.

You look over your shoulder, eyes wide. Jason looks around at the state of the place - maps, forms, open files, a half-peeled gun under a dishtowel.

You make a frantic circling gesture. “Move the crap. Now.”

Jason moves fast, sweeping paper into a stack, sliding it under a newspaper, tossing the wrench into the sink.

You hiss, “Don’t just stand there bare-chested like you own the place!”

He grins. “I was fixing your sink.”

You press the button again. “Take the elevator, not the stairs. I’ll meet you at the door.”

You don’t even wait for the reply. Just whirl on Jason. "Hide the weapons. Chuck the helmet in my room. Don't let that burn," you point at the stir-up, and then give him another once over. "And get the hell out of here."

***

You open the front door two minutes later, breath still caught somewhere behind your ribs. You leave the door open and step back just in time for your dad to shoulder it the rest of the way, bakery box in one hand, that same battered bomber jacket flapping off one arm like it’s got somewhere better to be. He smells faintly of engine grease and old cigarettes, despite having quit five years ago, and his boots leave dusty half-prints on your hallway tile. His hair’s more grey than not these days, and his jaw still sets like he’s bracing for a fight that hasn’t happened yet.

Your mom’s right behind him, oversized reusable bag digging into the crook of her elbow - the kind that could smuggle a toddler if she needed to. She’s got laugh lines that don’t match her eyes and a brisk, don’t-start-with-me energy that hits you like a cold gust off the river. She clocks the hallway light flickering overhead and mutters, "Still haven’t replaced that bulb, huh."

“Hi to you too,” you mutter, stepping aside.

She kisses your cheek like it’s a habit, not a greeting. “How’s business?”

“Fine.”

She gives you a look that says she doesn’t believe you but isn’t about to dig. Yet.

Your dad’s already heading to the kitchen like it's his own. "Smells like food. Real food. You order out or actually turn on the stove?"

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. Watching them cross your threshold is like watching your past muscle its way into your present - uninvited, loud, and wearing steel-toe boots.

You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror as you follow them in and wince at the resemblance. Same stubborn set to your jaw. Same fast mouth. Same instinct to deflect affection with sarcasm and a change of subject. You’re not your parents - but God help you, you’re definitely theirs.

“Bit of both.”

He grunts, setting the bakery box down. Pops it open like a promise. “Brought the good ones. The almond ones you like.”

You exhale. Let yourself smile. “Thanks.”

“Least we could do. Haven’t seen you in weeks. You been ghostin' or just workin' yourself into the grave?”

“Option C. All of the above.”

They settle in like they always do - your mom rearranging things that don’t need rearranging, your dad opening cabinets just to see what’s changed. You lean against the counter and pretend you’re not trying to slow your pulse.

You don’t know where Jason is.

He was still in the kitchen a few minutes ago. Shirt half-on. Pan still sizzling. Something smug in the curve of his mouth.

And now?

Gone.

You haven’t checked the bedroom yet, but you’re pretty sure.

“So,” your dad says between bites of donut. “That job still giving you grief?”

You blink. “What?”

He jerks his chin vaguely in the direction of the window. “The salon. All those permits. You said they were cracking down.”

“Oh. Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Your mom hums. "That place ever gonna fix their back steps? Nearly broke my hip last time."

You huff. "You nearly broke your hip dancing at my cousin's wedding."

She waves you off. “That DJ had no business playing Shakira back-to-back like that.”

Conversation drifts. Touches on your older brother, Miles - still working nights, still trying to fix things that won’t stay fixed. Your mom says he called last week asking for bail again. Your dad rolls his eyes and mutters something about bad wiring, worse wiring, always the wiring.

It’s normal. Comfortable, even. Until your mom glances toward the hallway.

“What’s with the second toothbrush?”

Your stomach drops half an inch.

“I … got lazy replacing mine,” you offer. “Two-pack.”

Your dad’s already squinting at the coat hooks. “New jacket?”

Shit.

“I thrifted it,” you say too fast.

Your mom turns slowly, scanning the kitchen. The pan on the stove. The two mismatched mugs in the sink. The folded dish towel that you definitely haven’t used in months. Her eyes narrow.

“You’ve got someone stayin' over.”

“No-”

“Don’t bullshit me,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ve got two of everything out. And your fridge’s full. Last time I came by, you were livin' off takeaway soy sauce packets and bottled coffee.”

Your dad leans against the counter, eyebrow raised. “Is this a secret, or just unconfirmed?”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

You glance toward the hallway.

Still nothing.

You think about the closed bedroom door. The way Jason moves like smoke when he needs to. The way he fit into your kitchen this morning like he'd always belonged there. Like he wasn’t just a ghost in body armour most nights. You can still feel the echo of his warmth against your back as you poured the tea. Still hear the way he tried not to laugh when he nearly burned the toast.

And now here you are, being asked to name it.

He’s not your boyfriend. Not even close. You’ve never had the talk, never drawn the lines. But he trusts you enough to let you touch his throat with a razor. To close his eyes while you work the blade. He’s not a secret, not really. But he’s not something you can explain, either. Not the way he shows up smelling like steel and rain. Not the way you want something more and don’t dare name it.

So what do you call that?

You can’t say friend without lying. You can’t say lover without laughing. You can’t say Jason without everything in you softening in places you don’t want your parents to see.

So you go with the only word that fits in their world, even if it chafes against yours.

“… Boyfriend,” you admit, like you’ve just been handed a court summons. “Sort of.”

And something inside you starts to curl up, hot and ugly. Tight in your chest, like a wire pulled taut.

Your mom’s face doesn’t change, but her mouth twitches. "Took you long enough."

“Didn’t wanna jinx it,” you mutter, already regretting the whole damn conversation. You fold your hands in your lap. Unfold them. Press your thumbnail into the edge of your finger until it hurts.

Your dad just nods. "So long as he’s not one of those crypto pricks."

You stare down at your mug. Try not to think about the man currently hiding in your bedroom. The one with bloodstained gloves in his jacket pocket. The one who eats noodles like it’s a competitive sport and looks at you like you’re the last good thing in this city.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Not that. I just - can we not?”

Your mom doesn’t drop it.

“Look, I don’t care what he is - situationship, casual, whatever. Just make sure he’s got the basics. Steady income, working phone, somewhere to sleep that isn’t here.”

Your dad chimes in with his mouth full. “And condoms. For the love of God.”

You nearly choke on your tea. A spike of embarrassment lights through you like a match against dry grass.

“Jesus, Dad-”

“Hey, you brought a man into your apartment with a bed and a bathroom. I’m not pretendin' you’re playing Uno in here.”

You cover your face with one hand. “Please stop talking.”

“We’re not judging,” your mom adds, like that’s the problem. “You’re grown. We just know what it’s like trying to raise a kid when you’ve got no savings and barely a lease.”

“She means your brother,” your dad says helpfully. “And you, to be honest.”

You drag your hand down your face. Try to laugh, but it catches in your throat. “I’m not pregnant.”

“Well, good,” your mom says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Just make sure he’s not another one of those emotional flatlines. You know the ones.”

You do.

Too well.

The ones who never raised their voice, but never showed up either. The ones who liked your sharp edges until they nicked their pride. Who took without asking and left without warning, and made you feel like it was your fault for not being easier to hold.

They didn’t break you. But they emptied you. Slowly. Quietly. Without apology.

Your mom’s still going. “If he’s the kind that makes you shrink yourself - no. I’m not letting you fall for another one who looks good on paper and leaves you doing all the emotional labour. Where's he from?”

And there it is. The real question. The one that matters. Not the maybe-boyfriend title. Not the uneven edge in your voice. Not the fact that you’re gripping your mug too tight.

"Crime Alley," you mutter, before thinking.

And you watch something strange unfold. A shift. Like a puzzle piece clicking quietly into place. Like your parents understand now - know him - and they’re ... settled. Comfortable. Pleased, even.

And you - God help you - feel something idiotic and soft and traitorous swell in your chest.

Pride.

Actual pride.

Like you’re introducing your actual boyfriend. Like it means something.

Which is-

No.

You snap yourself out of it so fast it gives you whiplash.

Absolutely the fuck not.

Your mom hums. "Yeah, pegged him as the type."

You blink. “What type.”

She waves a hand vaguely. “Quiet. Intense. Probably sleeps with the window cracked even in winter. No photos in the living room.”

Your heart skips.

She’s not quite wrong.

Your dad adds, “Yeah, he’s got that vibe. Keeps his boots by the door, right? But lined up too neat. Not like he lives here, but like he might need to leave quick.”

You feel yourself break into a cold sweat. You glance, just once, toward the hallway. The bedroom door still closed. Too quiet. You swallow. Take a sip of tea that tastes like ash. Try not to fidget.

You wonder - stupidly, wildly - if he can hear all this. If he’s standing just beyond the door, listening to your parents describe him like they’ve studied him, like they already know how this ends.

Your mom finishes her tea in one long sip. Sets the mug down, then gives you a look that lands somewhere between amused and exhausted.

“You’ve been lookin' at that bedroom door like it owes you money,” she says. “He in there?”

Your brain short-circuits, skips ahead to disaster: Jason stepping out of the bedroom in nothing but yesterday’s hoodie and that expression he wears when he smells bullshit. Your parents asking what he does for work. Him lying badly - or telling the truth worse. The horror of them recognising his face - or worse, his reputation. The even deeper horror of them not recognising him at all, and judging him anyway. Or not judging him, and you caring about that.

You’re not sure what terrifies you more: that he’ll slip out like smoke and never come back, or that he won’t - and your parents will see too much. See you, wanting him. See the part of you that’s cracked open around him and hoping nobody notices.

Then sigh. “Yeah.”

Your dad doesn’t even blink. “Smart. Not many exits in a one-bed flat.”

“I’m not introducing you,” you add quickly, like it’ll stop them from trying. “It’s not that serious.”

They both raise their eyebrows in sync - like some kind of judgmental, working-class Batman & Robin.

“‘Not that serious,’” your mom echoes, standing up and stretching like she’s been here hours. “You’ve got a fry up on the stove and a toothbrush that isn’t yours.”

Your dad grabs the bakery box, stuffs it into your cupboard, and heads for the door. “We’ll let you get back to it then. Just remember - hydration and good lighting.”

“Dad.”

“I'm just saying. We can’t afford another mystery grandkid.”

You groan. “You’re both banned.”

Your mom pats your cheek like you’re still eight. “We raised you with common sense. Don’t let good sex make you stupid.”

“Out,” you say, pointing at the door.

They grin the whole way out.

***

You wait until the elevator’s groaned its way down the building and the lock’s turned over twice.

Then, cautiously, like you’re checking if a mine’s been defused:

"You can come out now."

Your voice sounds rougher than you mean it to. Not annoyed - just ... braced. For the embarrassment. For the fallout. For the fact that you can still feel the echo of Jason's body in your mind, and that your parents called him your boyfriend and you told them to.

Nothing, at first.

Then your bedroom door opens with the soft click of someone who knows how to make noise disappear.

Jason walks out like he’s just come from checking a fuse box.

No panic. No blush. No sign that he’s been hiding ten feet away while your parents dissected his toothbrush placement and exit strategy and made increasingly deranged commentary about your sex life.

He gives you a small nod, casual as hell. “Radiator was humming. Think it’s the circulation. I bled it.”

You blink.

"Huh. Handy."

He moves past you without hesitation, like nothing just happened. Like crawling into your bedroom closet of shame was a Tuesday afternoon errand.

You squint after him, off-balance. Not irritated - but raw. Waiting for the laugh. The smirk. The shared acknowledgement that that was, categorically, insane.

Nothing.

So you do the only thing you can think of: reheat lunch.

The half-made fry-up goes back on the burner. You stir with more aggression than necessary.

Jason leans against the counter, glancing toward the window.

“I’ll be out late tonight. Patrol.”

That makes you pause.

Because he never tells you that.

You offer him a bowl without comment, sliding it across the counter. He takes it with a quiet thanks, starts eating like nothing in him is vibrating with the tension he refuses to name.

And that’s how you know.

He’s trying not to feel it. Not to let it show. Not to let the word boyfriend rattle loose any screws he can’t tighten back down.

You don’t push. You shouldn't.

But you can't help yourself.

"Well, don't be out too late. You heard my dad. Good lighting."

Jason chokes. Actually chokes.

You keep your expression carefully neutral as he doubles over, coughing into his sleeve.

“Christ,” he rasps, glaring over the rim of his bowl, eyes watering.

You offer the tiniest of smirks. Not victory - just survival.

You think that’s the end of it. That the joke will let the tension burn off. That you’ll coast back into your uneasy rhythm. That he’ll eat, and vanish, and you’ll pretend your parents didn’t see something you’re not ready to name.

But then:

"That thing your mom said."

You freeze mid-chew. Glance up, throat tight.

He’s not looking directly at you. Thumb skimming the edge of the bowl like he’s testing its temperature. Casual. Not.

“About the emotional flatlines.”

A flicker in your chest. Too fast, too deep. You blink like it’ll keep your expression neutral. "That’s the part that stuck?"

He shrugs one shoulder. Doesn’t answer.

You exhale, slow but shallow. Lean back. Cross your arms—more of a brace than a gesture. You feel your knee bouncing under the table and force it still.

"She’s not wrong," you say, too quickly. Too lightly. The words feel wrong-shaped in your mouth. "My track record’s not exactly a parade of well-adjusted communicators. Something in my wiring, probably. Or maybe just a long-standing interest in setting myself on fire for people who don’t know how to ask for warmth."

Jason lets out a quiet sound. Not quite agreement. Not quite pity.

Your chest gets tight. Your jaw ticks.

"There was this guy," you continue, because silence feels sharper than speaking. You start spinning the spoon between your fingers - too fast, the metal tapping like a tell. "Said he needed space to heal. Mental health stuff. Disappeared for a week. Turned out he had a second apartment. And a wife."

Jason hums low in his throat.

Your stomach rolls. The hum feels too gentle. Too kind. You can feel your skin start to itch with it.

"My mom found me a day later under the coffee table, crying into a jar of peanut butter with a spoon that was actually a toe separator. She gave me crackers and said, 'at least your digestive system's intact.'"

Jason winces. "That’s ... grim."

You smile. Bright. Brittle. Fake.

He doesn’t laugh.

Just watches you. Fixed. Careful. Like he sees too much. Like he’s trying not to.

The knot behind your ribs pulls tighter. You look away. Jaw clenched. You can feel it coming on like a pressure wave - heat prickling beneath your skin, that fine buzzing in your teeth. Panic dressed up as poise.

You pivot, sharp and loud and ugly.

"Honestly, they probably saw it coming. I mean, I lost my virginity at fifteen in the back of Rafe Huller's hatchback. No passenger door. Blink-182 decal on the ceiling. Classy stuff."

Jason gives a startled little huff. Tries to smother it.

You catch it anyway. And you’re grateful.

Because you need him to laugh. You need the air to move again. Because if he’d stayed quiet - if he’d just looked at you with that same guilt-soft expression - if he’d said something like I’m sorry or you deserve better-

You’d probably be halfway under the coffee table again.

And so, because you feel raw and unmoored and too exposed by the word boyfriend echoing in your ears-

You lash out.

"Alright, Casanova. Your turn," you say, and your voice already has too much bite in it. "You ever fuck someone up by being too closed-off and hot for your own good? Any tragic exes who wanted more than dead-of-night rooftop cuddles and got burned instead?"

The second it’s out of your mouth, you want to snatch it back. The words are sharper than you meant. Too pointed. Too crude. Not just blunt - mean. And not in the usual way you wield honesty like a scalpel, deliberate and precise.

This? This is sloppy. This is swinging a wrench when a whisper would do.

You hear yourself and barely recognise the sound. None of the ease, none of the charm, none of the little flickers of grace you usually take pride in - your ability to soften people, to make them laugh, to make them stay. That part of you, the part that knows how to make someone feel comfortable in their own skin, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, you feel flayed open. Exposed. And your defence mechanism is ugly. You knew the question crossed a line before you finished asking it. Knew it wasn’t curiosity talking - it was fear. Lashing out in the one direction you shouldn't.

It doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like someone cornered.

Which, you suppose, you are.

Because that’s always been your pattern, hasn’t it? The second things get too close - too real - you crack a joke or throw a punch or walk away before anyone else can. Burn the bridge before someone else decides to let it rot.

Jason’s smile falters. Just a flicker. But you see it.

"Not really been a big priority," he says. Too smooth. Too fast. Memorised.

You try to walk it back. Lean in, playful, like you can still save this.

"C’mon. Not even one cautionary tale? The girl who thought she could fix you with eye contact and a playlist?"

No response.

He just looks down into his bowl like it might offer him an escape route. Then he sets it down in the sink without eating the last few bites.

Your chest goes cold.

"Hey, I was just-"

"I should go."

It's soft. No bite to it. No heat. Just that low, low tone that always lands harder than yelling ever could.

You flinch.

"What? Why?"

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Just grabs his jacket. Doesn’t look at you.

"Something to check on," he says.

It’s the worst kind of excuse. Vague. Weightless. Said like he hopes you won’t follow it with a question.

And it hits harder than it should.

Because you know what you did. You know exactly where the line was, and how far past it you stomped. You know the look he gave you, or didn’t give you, and how quiet he went, and how your chest feels hollow and crowded at the same time.

You want to stop him. You want to say something that matters. But your throat has gone tight and your brain is screaming fix it and don’t beg and why did you say that all at once.

You want to tell him you're sorry. That it wasn’t really about him. That it was about you feeling too much and not knowing where to put it. That you were scared and cornered and doing that thing you swore you wouldn’t do - making someone pay for the fact that they matter.

But the words won’t come.

Jason pulls the door open like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like this is what he expects to have to do. Like walking out is easier than staying put.

And for the first time, you recognise the echo in him.

He’s doing the same thing.

Cut and run.

You’ve spent years telling yourself it’s survival. That it’s smart. That it’s safer to be first out the door than last to watch it close.

But maybe that instinct isn’t always self-preservation.

Maybe sometimes it’s just fear.

You don’t stop him.

But God, you want to.

You just don’t know if you have the right. Not after what you said. Not after how you made him feel.

So you watch him leave.

And the quiet he leaves behind is brutal.

Not because he’s gone.

But because you both know the exit too well to ever try staying.

Chapter Text

Some days just start wrong.

Not in a catastrophic way. Not the kinds of days with bullets or blood or sirens. Those, Jason knows how to handle.

No - it's the other kind. The kind where the air feels too thick where his suit doesn't sit right on his shoulders and every step feels one second too slow. Where nothing's gone sideways yet, but something in his chest already has.

Where he wakes up like he's late for a punishment.

No voice in his ear. No mission on the board. Just him. And that awful, cloying itch under his skin that says you shouldn’t be here and you definitely don’t deserve to be breathing this freely.

Gotham’s good at that kind of day. Real good.

It doesn’t shout. Just smothers.

The sky’s grey. Not storm-grey - fatigue grey. Like even the weather’s too tired to give a shit. The streets stink of old oil and cheap cigarette smoke, and Jason feels like a ghost no one bothered to finish clearing out.

He doesn't eat. Doesn't sleep. Doesn't call anyone. He doesn't even patrol, really - just drift. Through alleys. Across rooftops. one boot in front of the other until he convinces himself it counts as living.

And he didn't expect anything to mean anything. 

Didn't expect you to mean anything. 

But then again - Jason didn't expect a lot of things when he first met you.

***

Four months earlier.

The warehouse smells like mildew and sweat and the kind of chemical tang that always means someone’s cooking meth badly. Not that Jason came here for the product. He came for the runners. And they’re mostly dealt with.

One’s still moaning on the concrete near the loading dock. Shattered arm, maybe dislocated shoulder. It’s hard to tell. Jason didn’t check.

He’s perched on the upper catwalk, gun still in hand, mask blank. The steel beam under him groans every time he shifts, but he doesn’t mind the sound. It’s the only thing in here still telling the truth. 

The rest of the place is a lie - plastic crates stacked with dead product, decoy shipping labels, inventory logs faked to hell. No sign of the file drop he was supposed to intercept. No courier. No briefcase. Just six very stupid men and one very good excuse to work off a week’s worth of frustration.

He inhales. Slow. Controlled.

Exhales like it might settle the burn under his skin.

It doesn’t.

The Rowe case is going nowhere. All the hard intel he’s dug up so far - names, routes, partial addresses - they keep dissolving into nothing. Every connection is one step removed. Every player too careful or too dead to matter. He thought maybe tonight would change that. Thought maybe the whisper about the Narrows hand-off was finally the breadcrumb he needed.

It wasn’t.

Just another dead end in a city built on them.

Jason wipes his thumb along the grip of his sidearm, eyes scanning the shadows below for anything he might’ve missed. Empty pallets. Two busted drones. A broken vending machine that someone’s tried to shoot open at least once - probably not recently. One of the men on the floor twitches. Groans again.

Jason doesn’t flinch. He’s not in the mood for mercy tonight. 

He came here for a lead.

Instead, he got noise.

And blood under his boots.

And that hollow itch behind his teeth again - the one that always shows up when everything’s gone too quiet and the silence starts to feel like a dare.

He shifts, rolling his neck until something cracks. His knuckles are split open again. Not from the fight. From punching a wall two nights ago and never bothering to clean it. His comm buzzed twice earlier - encrypted channel, too weak to trace. Might’ve been Oracle. Might’ve been someone else. He hasn’t checked it yet. He should.

Instead, he sits there. Still breathing hard. Still holding the gun.

He tells himself he’s just being thorough. Double-checking the scene.

That he’s not stalling. Not unravelling. Not circling the same drain he’s circled a thousand times before.

And then headlights slash across the broken windows at the far end of the warehouse. A car pulling in fast. No sirens. No city markings.

Jason’s grip tightens. His body shifts without thinking - silent, lethal, ready.

If it’s backup, it’s late.

And if it’s someone worse?

Then maybe tonight won’t be a waste after all.

The car doesn’t idle. Doesn’t creep up careful like it’s looking to keep a low profile. It swerves into the lot like it’s got something to prove, headlights sweeping across broken pallets and blood-slick concrete. Jason tenses on instinct - gun raised, body already calculating descent angles. He’s looking for backup. For a second wave of muscle. For a second shot at something useful.

Instead, the door bursts open and someone stumbles out.

Not backup. Not a threat.

You.

Leather pants, mesh top, boots clicking like gunfire across the concrete. Not tactical. Not cautious. Definitely not sober.

You're moving fast, a little crooked - like you're just barely winning the fight with gravity - but you're locked onto something. Jason follows your trajectory with the barrel of his pistol, slow and deliberate, expecting you to veer. To notice the blood. The bodies. Him.

You don't.

You head straight for the guy with the shattered arm.

Jason’s finger shifts on the trigger.

You crouch down beside the groaning mess of cartilage and self-pity, one hand braced on your thigh, the other jabbing hard at the guy’s chest with a manicured finger.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you snap, voice sharp as broken glass. “You swore. Swore you were out. What the fuck, Miles?”

Jason blinks. Lowers the gun an inch.

The guy mumbles something. Pained. Probably apologetic. It doesn’t help.

You keep going.

“I told you. I fucking told you. One more time and you’re on your own. You know that? You’re lucky I was still at the club when your idiot friend called. Do you know what I left behind? Do you know how fast I had to run in these boots?”

Jason watches you just going off on this guy, who by all rights should be unconscious or crying, and instead looks like he’s trying not to crawl inside his own body.

Sibling.

It clicks before the guy says anything. Jason knows that tone. Knows that particular brand of fury laced with protectiveness. The kind that comes from love that’s had to work too fucking hard to survive.

He shifts back into the shadows. Lowers the gun. Not fully. Just enough.

You stand back up with a scoff, arms crossed, face thunderous. “Get in the car.”

“I can’t,” the guy groans. “I gotta finish this-”

“Get in the fucking car,” you snap, “or I’ll finish you.”

He stumbles upright, cradling his arm. Jason can hear the wet hitch of breath, the hiss of pain.

Then: “What are you even wearing?”

You throw your hands up. “I had to leave the club to get your stupid ass. Didn’t exactly have time to change on the way.”

“You drunk?”

“You’ve been a sobering sight.”

“You know that’s very irresponsible.”

Jason sees the moment your glare sharpens, the kind of look that’s ruined stronger men than your brother.

“Watch it.”

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Something in his chest curls a little tighter.

It’s the way your brother looks at you when you say it - worn down, fond, like he’s heard it before and knows better than to test it. Like he trusts you to drag him out of the fire even when he’s the one who started it.

Jason’s fingers twitch against the grip of his gun.

He remembers nights like this. Kind of.

Remembers wanting someone to come around a corner, cussing and angry and loud, just to prove he was worth the energy.

He remembers Bruce yelling sometimes, sure. Dick throwing a punch. Barbara covering for him. But that wasn’t ... this.

It hits something old in him. Something brittle.

And he doesn’t like it.

You’ve already got your brother halfway to the car, one hand steadying him, the other unlocking the door. Jason can hear the muttering, the insults, the exhaustion. Can see the way you shoulder his weight like it’s nothing new.

He stays where he is.

Invisible.

Silent.

Watching you curse out a man you clearly love like it’s the only way you know how to keep him alive.

And he wonders, just for a second-

Who would’ve come for him?

After the pit. After the mask.

Jason closes his eyes for a second. Breathes in the stink of sweat and bad decisions.

You shove your brother into the passenger seat and slam the door shut. Jason sees your hands tighten on the wheel before you drive off - tight enough to make the leather squeak. You don’t look back.

He watches your car disappear into the sprawl of the city.

Then sits back against the beam and tries to remember what the hell he was even doing here. He wonders if this is how ghosts haunt things - not out of vengeance, but habit. Just ... hanging around. Too empty to leave.

***

He should’ve gone home.

Or whatever passes for that these days - half a floor in an abandoned building with good windows and terrible insulation. Somewhere to stash gear. Hide bruises. Pretend solitude is peace and not punishment.

Instead, he’s doing a stupid walk on the top of roofs.

Pacing along the cracked edge of the Narrows like a gargoyle with too many opinions and no one left to bite.

Below, the city slouches toward dawn. Neon flickering. Bodega signs sputtering out. Steam coiling up from vents that never shut off. It’s the kind of quiet that always makes Gotham feel like it’s waiting for something. And maybe it is.

Jason drags a gloved hand through his hair, helmetless now, the air sticky against the back of his neck. He’s not bleeding anymore, but he still feels raw. It’s not the fight. It’s not even the way his ribs ache from the last hit.

It’s you.

Flashing into his mind again without warning. That voice, that look. The fucking boots. Marching across a crime scene in leather pants like it was just another Tuesday night.

He doesn’t know why it hit him like it did.

He doesn’t want to.

But he keeps walking. Keeps thinking. Keeps telling himself this isn’t about anything except blowing off steam, stretching his legs, whatever. That he’s not replaying that stupid exchange like it matters. Like it meant anything.

He’s halfway across a half-collapsed walkway when it happens.

The thought.

Clean, crisp, and dangerous.

Call Dick.

Jason stops walking. Dead in his tracks. Stares out over the rooftops like the skyline might slap him for thinking it.

Dick.

His brother. Once. Kind of. Maybe still.

The thought feels like swallowing broken glass.

Jason pulls out his phone before he can stop himself. Just to look.

The last conversation is months old. Correction: the last one-sided conversation. A list of blue bubbles stretching down the screen like an apology he never opened.

Dick: You okay?
Dick: Heard something went bad near Otisburg. That you?
Dick: Just call me back, man.
Dick: Please.
Dick: Jay.

Jason stares at that one the longest.

Jay.

He hates how fast that cracks something open.

His thumb hovers over the screen.

It’s stupid.

Dick won’t answer. Or he will, and it’ll be weird. Or worse - earnest. Jason can’t handle earnest tonight.

And yet-

He types.

Jason: Got eyes on something weird near Tricorner. Need a second opinion.

Simple. Cold. Tactical.

He stares at it.

Deletes it.

Types again.

Jason: You up?

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

Then instantly regrets it.

Fucking idiot.

Like one sight of you yelling at your idiot brother in a warehouse has suddenly rewired his whole brain. Like now he’s nostalgic. Open to connection. That’s what happens when you let your guard down - get sentimental about people who were smart enough to leave you behind.

He starts walking again. Faster. Like the movement will undo the message. Like it’ll claw that little spike of hope out of his chest before it takes root.

Because that’s what it is.

Hope.

He hates it. Hates that it’s still there. That it still kicks when he’s tired and bleeding and trying so hard not to need anyone.

The phone buzzes. Jason freezes. Pulls it out again.

One new message.

Dick: Always.

Jason stares. Then shoves the phone back into his pocket like it might explode.

He doesn’t know what this means. Not really.

But it’s something.

And that?

That’s dangerous.

Because he knows how nights like this end. He’s seen it. He’s lived it. And tonight’s only just getting started.

***

Jason gets there early.

Which is stupid, because he’s the one who said maybe and later and don’t make it a thing. But he’s perched on the edge of the rooftop in Park Row twenty minutes before Dick’s supposed to show. Helmet off. Hood down. Looking like he’s just happened to stop here. Like he hasn’t checked his phone twice. Like his foot isn’t bouncing just slightly, betraying the nerves he refuses to name.

The city below him is restless, as usual. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackles through a busted window. Latin pop. Out of tune. A siren starts and dies again before it finishes wailing. It's late now. Even with their fucked up schedules, Jason's surprised that Dick agreed to meet with such short notice.

He rubs a hand along his jaw. He shaved this morning. Regretted it instantly. Now he feels too clean. Too exposed.

Then: the sound of boots on roof gravel.

He doesn’t turn right away. Waits until the presence settles a few paces back. Then looks.

Dick Grayson stands there like the city owes him a better skyline. Still too tall, still too golden, still too much. Not in costume, not exactly - dark gear, no symbol, jacket zipped high. Hair longer than it used to be, jaw sharper. The years have smoothed him out in all the places Jason hasn’t let heal.

Jason swallows something dumb. Hopes it doesn’t show.

Dick gives him a cautious smile. “Hey.”

Jason shrugs. “Took you long enough.”

“I was trying not to look too eager.”

Jason huffs - almost a laugh.

Dick steps forward, slow and loose. He’s careful with it, like Jason might bolt.

He’s not wrong.

“You look good,” Dick says, then immediately winces. “Not like - just. You know. Alive.”

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Yeah,” Dick mutters, stopping beside him, hands in his pockets. “I really am.”

For a few seconds, they just stand there.

Not talking.

Not not-talking.

Breathing in the same stretch of air for the first time in too long.

Jason finally says, “I’ve got something.”

Dick glances over. Nods.

And just like that, it’s easier.

Jason starts laying the case out.

“There was a guy. Caleb Rowe. Worked logistics for one of the mid-tier smuggling rings on the Narrows port. Low profile. Mostly kept the shipments moving - weapons, mostly, some designer stuff. Nothing heavy enough to put him on any of the Bat’s lists.”

He pauses. Watches a rat scuttle under the opposite rooftop ledge.

“Three weeks ago, he went dark. Not unusual - guys like him spook easy. But then I started hearing things. Territory lines shifting. Small-time outfits pulling out of neighbourhoods they’ve had for years. Gangs acting twitchy - not scared, just ... waiting for something.”

Dick frowns, leaning forward slightly.

Jason shrugs, but there’s tension in it.

"Now I’ve got two dead couriers, both burned. One of 'em had a contact number that traces back to Rowe’s old drop house. Same pattern - nothin' flashy, just clean erasure. Like someone’s wiping down a crime scene that hasn’t even happened yet. Clearing the board before a bigger play.”

Dick listens. Sharp and focused like he always used to be. Nods in the right places. Asks the right questions.

And Jason starts to feel it again - that thing. The rhythm. The momentum. The sense that, maybe, just maybe, they could work like this. Side by side. Not boss and soldier. Not disappointment and golden boy. Just - brothers.

But then.

Then Dick starts to plan.

“We should get a deeper pull on the city’s planning logs,” Dick says, already pulling out his phone. “I know someone in Records who still owes me a favour. And I bet Babs can run a comparison on the signature scans - they can’t be forging those without someone on the inside.”

Jason’s stomach tightens. “I didn’t say bring Barbara in.”

Dick glances up. “Why not? She’s already working on something similar - this could link.”

“This isn’t her case.”

“I’m just trying to help, Jay.”

Jason flinches. Subtle. Quick. But enough.

He steps back. Puts space between them.

Dick’s face does that thing - concerned, open, exhausting.

“You’re not helping,” Jason says flatly. “You’re taking over.”

“That’s not what I- ”

“You’re doing the thing. You’re doing the Bat thing.”

Dick frowns. “I’m not Bruce.”

Jason snorts. “You’re doing a pretty good impression.”

Dick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is what you do, you know that? You push. Then you snap when someone takes you at your word.”

“And you only show up when you think I’m bleeding out.”

“I came because you called.”

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it again. Because that’s true. And it’s the only reason he hasn’t left yet.

The silence stretches again. Ugly this time. Brittle.

Dick takes a breath. “Look, I get it. You want space. You don’t want a team. But if you’re going to keep chasing leads like this alone, you’re gonna get-”

“Don’t.”

“-yourself killed.”

Jason turns away. Tightens his jaw. Breathes hard through his nose. He stands in the half-light of the rooftop like an echo - not quite real, not quite gone.

And then - because of course the universe hates him - Dick says:

“I’m just saying. You don’t always have to be a ghost, Robin.”

Jason stops.

Dead cold.

Doesn’t turn.

The rooftop is suddenly too quiet.

Dick’s voice is softer now, like he knows.

“Jay. I didn’t mean-”

“You did.”

“No, I was just-”

“You fucking did.”

Jason turns, and it’s like the years peel off his face in one go. He doesn’t remember stepping back, but suddenly he’s farther away - like even his body’s trying to pull him out of frame. His mouth pulls into something sharp. His eyes flash - not with rage, not yet, but with hurt. Raw and old and still too close to the surface.

“You called me Robin.”

Dick’s face tightens. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you did.” Jason’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts like a blade. “That’s all I’ll ever be to you, right? The fuckup in the tights. The replacement. The one who didn’t stick the landing.”

“You were more than that.”

“Not to him.”

“I’m not him.”

“You’re tryin' real hard to be.”

That lands. Jason sees it. Dick’s mouth presses into a line. His shoulders stiffen.

Jason shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Jay-”

“No. This was a mistake.”

He turns, grabbing the helmet from where he left it near the edge. Snaps it down over his head like a slammed door.

Dick doesn’t follow.

And Jason tells himself that’s fine.

That he wanted this.

That the spike in his chest isn’t disappointment - it’s relief.

But as he vaults off the roof into the night, he doesn’t believe it. Not even a little.

***

The rooftop in Somerset is barely a rooftop. 

Flat concrete, busted HVAC unit, one flickering security light that hasn’t worked in months. Graffiti curling up the ledge like ivy. The kind of place people don’t look up at, let alone climb to.

Which makes it perfect.

Jason doesn't remember walking over here. Just the ache in his ribs and the cigarette burn of shame under his skin. He still hasn't changed. Still hasn't spoken since Dick left. He sits with his back against the wall, knees bent, helmet beside him. Gun in his lap. Cigarette burning low between two fingers he doesn’t remember lifting.

He doesn’t notice the ash creeping down until it nicks the edge of his glove - a sharp, unexpected sting. He hisses and shakes it off. Mutters something under his breath. Doesn’t even bother brushing the burn mark away.

The city hums below, beginning to wake up, like it’s trying to pretend it isn’t rotting. Like it’s not complicit in how everything here hurts. How everything stays.

He drags the smoke slow. Doesn’t taste it. Doesn’t care.

The regret crept in an hour ago. Or maybe it’s always been there, just louder now.

He's replayed the conversation with Dick at least ten times already - most of them ending differently. In one, he doesn’t snap. In another, Dick doesn’t say it. In a better one, they talk like brothers again. The kind that joke. The kind that ask instead of assume.

But that’s not the version he got.

He got the one where he fucked it up. Again.

Jason presses the heel of his hand to his eye until stars bloom.

He doesn’t even know what he wants from Dick. Not really. Forgiveness? Permission? Just one goddamn moment where he doesn’t feel like someone else’s mistake?

He shifts. The gun shifts with him. Cold metal. Familiar weight.

He hates that it’s comforting.

The cigarette burns to the filter. He flicks it over the edge and lights another, even though it makes his stomach churn. He breathes in and leans his head back against the wall. Feels the ache behind his ribs rise and fall like a second heartbeat.

The worst part is - it mattered. Talking to Dick. It actually fucking mattered.

He tried.

He let himself hope.

That’s the part that burns.

Jason runs a thumb along the grip of the gun. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t have to.

He thinks of the manor. Of walking in the first time, scuffed and skinny and trying to act like he wasn’t impressed. He thinks of Alfred’s tea. Of Bruce’s silence. Of the way Dick used to fill every room like he was allergic to stillness.

His breath goes sharp once. Quick. Like his own body’s trying to betray him.

And he doesn’t want to be this anymore.

A ghost in his own story. A voyeur to everyone else’s healing. A freak in a family that only works when he’s not in the room.

He glances down at his hands - at the raw patch where the cigarette burned through the glove, at the way his fingers twitch like they’re still waiting for orders. Something to do. Something to be.

It’s nearly sunrise. He hasn’t eaten. Not in hours. Maybe all night. He can’t remember.

Because this isn’t living. Not really. It’s just passing time between silences.

And some part of him - the part still clawing for something better - knows it.

Jason closes his eyes.

Instinct makes his fingers twitch toward his comm.

Not to check in. Not for orders. Just to hear something. A pulse. Static. Anything that says the world’s still turning.

He clicks it on. Lets the silence rush in.

There’s no mission. No voice. Just the thin, empty hum of a frequency not meant for comfort.

He listens anyway.

The wind kicks up over the edge of the rooftop, cold and mean.

And then - out of nowhere - a loud, scraping clank of shoe on metal, a muttered curse, and the unmistakable thud of someone nearly eating shit on the fire escape.

Jason startles, hand already twitching toward his gun, before the voice cuts through the dawn-fog:

“Holy shit, are you-?! Jesus. Sorry. Didn’t think anyone else would be up here.”

Jason snatches the helmet off the ground and shoves it over his head in one smooth motion, just as a figure flaps over the ledge - all glitter and leather and smeared eyeliner and a laugh that’s just this side of incredulous.

You.

Of all people.

Still in that clubbing outfit from earlier - mesh top, boots, earrings catching the low light like thrown knives. You stumble once on landing, laugh again, and plant a hand on the nearest vent box like the building might tip.

Jason doesn’t say anything.

He can’t.

You squint at him - eyes narrowing, then widening - and lets out a wheezy breath.

“Wait. Wait. Is Red Hood sitting on my roof? Shit - I knew someone laced that last shot."

Jason shifts, gun now hidden beneath his jacket. “Didn’t know it was yours.”

You huff a laugh and drop down next to him like it’s nothing. Like he’s not a known killer. Like you're not alone in the pre-dawn with a man who just finished spiralling so hard he forgot how lungs work.

Jason watches you carefully, even through the visor.

“Rough night?” you ask, pulling a mostly-crushed Twinkie out of your boot. “Or is this what you always do after beating people to a pulp?”

Jason stares at the squashed Twinkie like it’s a weapon. Or a relic.

You tear the wrapper open with your teeth.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, mouth already half-full. “I was out of pocket snacks. And boots are versatile.”

He doesn’t respond. Just leans his head back against the concrete and listens to the soft plastic crinkle.

You chew thoughtfully for a second. Then, in a burst: “I should’ve known the night was cursed when my brother actually texted me this morning. Always a red flag that he's gonna do somethin' stupid.”

Jason turns his head slightly. Not enough to speak - just enough to listen. He's not sure why he's staying, letting you talk at him. There’s tension running under his skin, a quiet bracing in the way he sits. His hands curl loosely over his knees, but he doesn’t relax.

You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, gesturing with the half-eaten Twinkie like a prop in a particularly dramatic monologue.

“I was, like, five drinks deep,” you say, still halfway laughing, halfway bitter. “Finally having a good time. Dancing with a guy who didn’t suck. And then I get a call from Rafe fuckin' Huller - you don't know him but he's an asshole - saying my brother's gotten himself busted in some warehouse near the river - drug run gone sideways, arm snapped like a glowstick, cops sniffing around, and nobody else picking up their goddamn phone.”

You pause, licking Twinkie filling off your thumb. “Which is hilarious, because he’s spent the last six months swearing he’s clean. Told me he’s workin' security. Wouldn’t even admit who he was moving for.”

Jason huffs. Quiet. Almost imperceptible.

You don’t notice.

“So I drag ass across the city looking like a sparkly nightmare, find him crumpled in the dust, high to all hell and bleeding through his sleeve - and the first thing he says is ‘Don’t freak out.’ Like I’m the one who got caught holding ten grand worth of pills in a building with no exits.” You let out a breath. “Got him to Gotham General just in time for him to call me dramatic and make me deal with his pregnant girlfriend, who showed up thirty minutes later already mid-breakdown. She threw a shoe at a nurse and cried on my shoulder for a solid hour. Told me he’s been cheating on her with someone named Jazz. Or maybe Taz. Honestly, I was too busy catching a stiletto to the knee.”

You lean your head back, gaze glassy but sharp in the edges. “By the time I finally got back to the club, the guy I’d been flirting with was gone. And my friend - who swore she’d wingwoman all night - left with him. No note. Just 'fuck you' vibes.”

Jason lets out a breath. Not a laugh. But close. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension bleeding out like smoke. He doesn't say anything. Just watches you in the blue city light, half-wrecked and still standing.

You glance at him. “I know, right?”

There’s a long pause. A quiet one. The city’s still shifting awake in the distance - blinking lights, train brakes, that low whine of Gotham always humming behind the noise.

Then, softer:

“I shouldn’t keep doing it,” you say, not looking at him. “Bailing him out. Running when he calls. Covering for his messes like it’s part of the job description.”

Jason turns to look at you. You’re still chewing. Still slouched. Still glowing faintly like the glitter’s part of your skin.

“But I do,” you add. “Because that’s what family is, right? Trying, even when it’s exhausting. Even when they call you a slut on the drive to the hospital and blame you for their broken face.”

Jason blinks. 

You just shrug, like you’re stating the weather.

“He was pissed because I told his girlfriend the truth,” you say, popping the last bite of Twinkie into your mouth. "Well, maybe ex now. I hope."

Jason doesn't speak.

Because what could he say?

You, still drunk, still warpainted in eyeliner and glitter, sitting on a shitty rooftop with your knees pulled up, are more honest than anyone’s ever been with him in years. And in your ridiculous story - the blood, the hospital, the betrayal - he hears something awful and familiar.

Loyalty, even when it’s not deserved. Devotion, even when it’s unreturned.

That relentless, self-sabotaging need to keep showing up for someone who might never do the same.

You blink slowly, then press your palm against your forehead like you’re trying to keep your thoughts from sliding out.

“Shit,” you mumble. “I just trauma dumped on a guy with a gun who might be a figment of my imagination.”

Jason huffs. The sound comes out more like a breath than a laugh, but it still startles him.

You glance over, squinting at him through glitter-smudged eyes.

“Remind me again what your deal is?” you ask, genuinely confused. "You're, like, Gotham's grumpiest ghost story right? Always showing up outta nowhere, scarin' the shit out of people, disappearin' before anyone can blink."

Jason tilts his head slightly. “More or less.”

You nod sagely, resting your cheek against your knee. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

A long pause. Just the city murmuring beneath you both.

Then you lift your head again, looking at him - really looking. Slower this time. Sober, but not. Fuzzy around the edges, but sharp in the places that matter.

"You don't seem like a ghost," you say, voice low. Blunt.

Jason turns to you. Doesn’t answer.

You hold the look for a second, then shrug like you’re stating a weather report.

“I mean, you look like shit. No offence. But I've met ghosts. You're not one.”

He swallows. Something thick and hot pressing behind the helmet.

“And how the hell would you know?” he asks.

You smirk. That tired, witchy little grin like you know a secret the rest of the world’s not smart enough to notice.

"Because ghosts don't break my brother's arm and ruin my night."

Jason blinks.

“I-” he starts, but stops just as fast.

You cock your head. “What? You thought I didn’t know it was you?”

Jason straightens a little. The helmet helps. Hides the twitch in his jaw. The way his lungs stall.

You grin wider. Pleased with yourself. “C’mon. You think I wouldn’t clock the guy skulking around the rafters like Gotham’s least subtle cryptid? Please. I see shit.”

Jason’s quiet. Too quiet.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do, and just don’t care.

"I might be drunk, but I'm not blind. I know what it feels like when something shifts. Like, did you notice the bodega’s shuttered now? The guy with the ferrets is gone. Landlord sold out the corner lot to someone in a suit who’s never had a real bad day in his life. That’s when everything starts to rot.”

You shake your head, muttering, “Hate that shit.”

Jason exhales. Low. Like a balloon deflating.

Then you push up onto your feet with a wobble and stretch like you’re shaking off the weight of the night. The hem of your mesh shirt rides up. You don’t fix it.

“You should come by the salon sometime,” you say, brushing crumbs off your hands. “Pay off your debt.”

Jason blinks again. “Debt?”

You nod solemnly. “Trauma tax. Tipping required. House rules.”

He watches you like you’re a dream trying to walk off the roof.

Then, with a muttered curse and a half-laugh at your own balance, you clamber back down the fire escape.

Jason stays frozen in place long after your boots disappear below the ledge.

And for the first time all night, he doesn’t feel like a ghost.

He feels seen.

Still fucked up. Still half-broken.

But seen.

And that’s almost worse.

***

Present.

Jason doesn’t go far.

He tells himself it’s just for air. Just to cool down. But the truth is - he doesn’t know where else to go. Not tonight. Not with your voice still stuck in his chest, ringing with teeth.

He ends up leaning against a rusted fire escape behind a shuttered deli, helmet tucked under one arm, the wind slicing down the alley like it’s got something to prove. The night smells like fried grease and rain-wet concrete. Somewhere, a train screams into the dark.

A car door slams a block over. Jason flinches. Just slightly. Jaw tightens. One hand twitches like it wants to reach for a weapon he’s not carrying. The moment passes, but it leaves a residue - proof that his nerves haven’t settled, that he’s still wearing the fight under his skin.

He’s still hearing it - that sharp, too-smooth question you lobbed like a weapon.

Any tragic exes who wanted more than dead-of-night rooftop cuddles?

The words shouldn’t sting. He’s been called worse by people who meant it more. But something about the way your voice cracked around it - like you already regretted it, like you already hated yourself for asking - hit lower than it should’ve.

And the thing is?

He doesn’t know how to explain what you are to him. Not yet. Not when he still flinches every time he finds your hair on his hoodie. Not when your laugh lives somewhere behind his ribs. Not when he’s not sure what it means that he started sleeping better - actually sleeping - once you made him a space on your couch.

That’s what messes with him the most.

That you let him take up space. That you made him a toothbrush cup and cleared half a drawer and rewarmed his coffee without asking. That when he tried to run after Mercado - bloody, wired, too guilty to stay - you swore at him, forced him down, and made sure he knew he had a place in your life now.

You weren’t gentle.

You were solid.

And that meant more than anything.

Because after what happened - the fire, the screaming, the way you’d still had oil burns up your arm - you should’ve told him to get out. You should’ve screamed. You didn’t.

You told him to stay.

Even when your voice was shaking. Even when it came out wrapped in fury and fuck-yous and that glittery, furious care you wear like a bad habit.

He’s used to being tolerated. Hidden. Managed. Something sharp to be kept in a drawer until needed.

But you see him.

And that’s what scares him more than anything.

Because then you started asking questions. Real ones. About his past. About people. And Jason - he doesn’t talk about that shit. Doesn’t open those boxes. He barely opens his mail.

So yeah. He ran.

Reflex.

Same as always.

But he didn’t get far.

His fingers are cold. He hadn’t noticed until now. He flexes them once, twice, before pulling out his phone. Stares at the screen. Debates a dozen drafts of what he could say - biting, cold, jokey, apologetic - and deletes them all.

Finally, he types:

Jason: Don’t forget to lock up.

It’s nothing. Stupid. Plain.

But also: it’s him staying visible. It’s him not vanishing. It’s his way of saying, I didn’t slam the door.

Not yet.

He hits send before he can change his mind. Pockets the phone. Adjusts the helmet under his arm.

And keeps walking.

Not away.

Just … not gone.

Chapter Text

The crack in your kitchen window is longer than it was yesterday.

Barely. A hairline - spider-thin, almost elegant in the way it curls just above the latch. You wouldn't notice it if you weren't looking.  If you didn’t already know what it meant.

You rest your knuckles on the sill. The glass hums faintly under the heat.

You're not a superstitious person. But you've lived your life knowing that - when the city talks - it's worth listening. 

And that fracture appeared when Jason came back, the first time. Tiny. Nothing at first. Just a shimmer where there hadn’t been one before.

Now he’s gone again, and it’s longer.

You don’t think that means anything. Not really. Glass warps. Time warps. Memory does what it wants. But still - you look at that crack and feel it in your gums. Like pressure. Like weather in the bones.

There’s something about a slow break that’s worse than any gunshot.

You’ve seen blood. You’ve heard screams. You’ve stepped over bodies still twitching outside the corner bodega. Gotham's never bothered pretending it has a pulse, just a nervous system that spasms on command.

But watching something begin to break - watching the line snake its way through something that was whole yesterday and won’t ever be again?

That’s worse.

That’s the part that stays.

You once read that human nerve endings grow more sensitive after trauma, like they remember what broke them and brace for the repeat. No wonder some people flinch at kindness harder than they do at fists.

You’re one of those people, probably. Even if you won’t say it out loud.

He is, too.

You stare at the crack. It reminds you of something - a feeling you've had before.

And you remember the mirror.

You were sixteen. Maybe seventeen. Your brother had slammed the bathroom door after some stupid fight, and the corner of the medicine cabinet caught it just wrong. You were still inside. Still brushing your teeth. And you watched the crack bloom right between your reflection’s eyes.

Thin at first.

Then thicker.

Your heart had kicked once - deep and fast - because somehow that was the scariest part of the night. Not the yelling. Not the door slam. Not the threat of another arrest.

Just the sound of a mirror fracturing like it had been waiting for an excuse.

You tried to fix it, of course. Masking tape across the middle. A magazine page pressed over the webbing. Something about hiding the break felt important. Like if no one could see the damage, it wouldn’t count.

But every time you looked in it, your face split at the seam. Right down the middle.

You learned something then. Something ugly.

You notice things breaking faster when you’ve already had to patch yourself back together a few times. And now here you are. In your kitchen. With another crack. And no idea how much longer until this one spreads.

***

You slept on the staff couch again.

It’s not comfortable - never has been - but it’s quiet. Warm. Less haunted than the apartment. You keep pretending it’s just because of the early starts. Because it’s easier than commuting. Because the back room has blackout curtains and decent water pressure and a mini-fridge that hums like a lullaby.

You keep pretending.

The coffee in your mug tastes like reheated resolve. You’re already halfway through your second set of rollers when Mrs. Greeves sails through the door like a disgruntled empress inspecting her holdings.

She’s draped in something pink and satin that could be a dressing gown, a war banner, or both. Oversized sunglasses hide half her face; the rest is set in an expression of deeply cultivated contempt.

June gives you a long-suffering look as she leads her toward your chair.

“I made her tea. Decaf. I’m not a monster.”

“Coward,” you mutter.

June shrugs. “She has the robe on, boss. I wasn’t risking it.”

You don’t blame her.

Mrs. Greeves lowers herself into your chair like it’s a throne with a grievance. “I swear, this city gets more exhausting every year. Yesterday, a man had the nerve to offer me a flyer. Me. Can you imagine?”

“Unthinkable,” you say, too brightly.

She waves a hand, bangles clinking like windchimes at a crime scene. “They’re everywhere lately. Peddling opinions. Smiling like they’ve got dental insurance. And don’t even start on prescription refills - my husband’s meant to sort them, but he’s too busy playing office.”

You start working oil through her roots — careful, deliberate. She’s one of those clients who says “no buildup” and then complains if she doesn’t come out shining like a lacquered coffee table.

“He’s never home,” she says. “Not that I mind. He’s boring when he’s around. I told him if he’s having an affair, he should at least have the decency to make it scandalous. But apparently secretaries with personality are out of fashion.”

You hum noncommittally.

Like you've forgotten that she needs more than proximity - she needs for participation. And when you don't give it readily, she tires of her own monologue and sharpens.

“You know,” she says, watching you in the mirror, “you’ve got lovely hands. Long fingers. No ring, though.”

Here it comes.

You don’t look up. “No ring.”

“Are you seeing anyone yet?”

There’s that tone - syrupy, predatory, and perfectly pitched for maximum humiliation. The kind that’s just as delighted by heartbreak as it is by filth. Usually, you lie. You let June make up something outrageous and let the joke carry you both to safety.

But today your mouth moves faster than your brain. Your voice comes out flat.

“No. I’m not.”

And of course, of course, that’s the moment June chooses to walk by with a tray of clean combs.

She perks up immediately.

“What about the guy that’s been staying over-”

Your eyes snap up.

“June.”

Too sharp. Too quick. It slices through the room like a crack of thunder.

June freezes. Blinks. “Sorry. I didn’t-”

“It’s - he’s not - it’s nothing," you say, too fast.

Mrs. Greeves inhales like she’s smelling a scandal.

“Oh,” she coos. “Staying over? My my. Do tell.”

You bite your cheek hard enough to taste metal.

June shifts, uncertain. There’s a flicker of something in her expression - hesitation, confusion - before she looks away.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you go for the jugular.

“You should talk,” you mutter. “Last I checked, you were still mooning over that married guy.”

Silence.

June stops in her tracks. Even Mrs. Greeves stills.

You can feel it immediately - the drop in temperature. The shift in pressure.

“I told you I stopped seeing him,” she says. Quiet. Measured.

You don’t respond. You’re too busy trying to backpedal internally, wondering what the fuck that was. You never bring that up. Not even when you knew she was lying. Not even after Jason told you the truth.

Mrs. Greeves makes a show of sipping her tea, like she’s pretending to mind her own business and failing spectacularly.

“June,” you say, finally. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” she cuts in. Not cold. Not warm. Just done.

And then she’s gone, ducking into the back room with a towel over one shoulder like she’s just remembered something else to do.

You keep your hands moving through Mrs. Greeves’ hair. Automatic. Focused. Like if you roll tightly enough, you might twist your own shame into something cleaner.

The tape over the crack peels just a little more.

Mrs. Greeves settles again, sipping her lukewarm tea like it’s champagne. You try to refocus - to slide the mood back into something salvageable.

“So,” you say, lighter now, fingers working with a gentler rhythm, “didn’t you say Sandra caught her assistant dating that finance guy again?”

She snaps back to life like you’ve lit a match under her. “Please. Caught is generous. Walked in on, more like. Shirt off, pants ... relocated. There were invoices involved.”

You let out a breath. Almost laugh.

“Well, she fired him on the spot. HR said it wasn’t technically against policy, but she said if she couldn’t abuse her position of power in moments like that, what was the point of being a department head.”

You smile despite yourself. “Sandra’s got her priorities straight.”

Mrs. Greeves sighs, long-suffering. “Honestly, I envy her. The secretary at my husband’s new office couldn’t manage a fax, let alone a scandal. Acrylic nails and full sentences - that’s her whole personality.”

You lift an eyebrow in the mirror. “New office?”

“Some renovation floor. Kane Tower,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “Elevators so slow I could be buried between floors and no one would notice.”

You don’t move, but something cold snakes down your spine.

Kane Tower. Suite 1902.

She keeps talking - some complaint about fluorescent lighting and a ‘hostile aura’ - but you’re not listening anymore.

You keep your hands steady. You keep your face neutral.

But your mind is already racing.

And despite everything - despite the silence, the argument, the space you both carved into each other - you want to tell him.

You could send a message - quick, simple. Just the detail. No need for follow-up. No need for-

What, exactly?

You glance down at your hands. Still twisting. Still pretending.

Would he even respond?

Would it help?

The last thing you said to him wasn’t even a goodbye. It was a misstep. A cut. He’d left, and you’d let him. Like a coward. Like someone who didn’t know how to ask for a hand back once it’s slipped from theirs.

You think of his face again - that expression when he shut down, pulled away. Like something was still bleeding under his ribs and you’d just made it worse.

Maybe you don’t get to call him anymore.

Maybe you burned that line.

You cinch the roller tighter than necessary. Mrs. Greeves winces.

“Careful,” she says, dabbing at her temple. “That’s attached.”

“Sorry,” you murmur.

But your eyes flick once to the phone on the counter.

And then away again.

You say nothing.

Just finish the roll, seal it with a flick of product, and smile like everything’s still in one piece.

Like there’s no heat under your skin. No ghosts in your throat.

Like the crack’s not already spreading, and you’re not just watching it happen again.

***

Mrs. Greeves leaves with a pastry and a parting remark about returning next month for her "usual therapy session," like the salon doubles as a confessional booth. You smile through it, of course. Even manage a little laugh when she tries to kiss your cheek and misses.

Then the door clicks shut.

And it’s too quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting to accuse you.

You should apologise. But you can’t.

So you wipe your hands on your jeans and call out, “June - I’m heading out for lunch. Might be a while.”

You don’t wait for a response. Just grab your keys, swing the door shut behind you, and step into the street like you’re being chased.

The sun’s out. The city’s breathing heat and grime and fried dough from the cart two blocks down. You walk to the car without knowing why. Just that you can’t be here. And you definitely can’t go home, where the silence lives with teeth now. Or to your parents’, who’ll ask more questions you’ll have to dodge like gunfire.

You just need somewhere else.

Somewhere not here.

You blink, and you’re driving.

You don’t remember the turns. The lights. Just the blur of concrete and painted lines and the clatter of your own thoughts.

And then you’re parked.

Outside your brother’s place in the Bowery.

You stare at the building for a long time. Engine ticking under your feet. One window’s cracked. Another has an A/C unit wedged in like an afterthought. Someone’s laundry flaps on a balcony - grey T-shirts and mismatched socks and one towel with a hole in the middle.

You haven’t been here in months.

Last time you came, he made you watch a documentary about prison reform and asked if you could lend him sixty bucks before you’d even taken off your coat. He still owes you forty. Maybe fifty, if you count the bodega snacks.

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes closed.

This is stupid.

You don’t even know why you’re here.

Except - he’s blood. He’s seen you worse. And you’ve seen him worse. Maybe that’s the point.

You open your eyes.

And reach for the door handle.

The smell hits first.

Not bad. Not quite. Just wrong. A mix of too many air fresheners, half-wiped counters, cheap body spray, and the unmistakable stink of someone who burned something at 2 a.m. and refuses to admit it.

You let the door swing shut behind you.

Miles’ place is exactly how you remember: one wall is covered floor to ceiling in sneaker boxes - the expensive kind, the kind that still have tags; a sagging couch that smells like back sweat and cheap weed; a gaming chair that looks like it’s been in a bar fight; laundry in the corner in a pile tall enough to qualify as a roommate.

But tucked in between all the usual wreckage?

Baby stuff.

A folded-up stroller by the radiator. A fresh pack of nappies still wrapped in plastic. A half-built crib in the hallway with one screw missing and a Monster can standing guard. A pink onesie hanging from the ceiling fan like a white flag.

It’s enough to give you emotional whiplash.

So is Miles - who appears around the corner in a wife-beater and boxers, hair flattened on one side like he just woke up on the couch, the line of his still-healing arm casting faint tension through his movement.

He squints. Frowns.

“What the fuck happened to your face.”

“Hi, Miles.”

He points at you. Then at the hallway. “No, seriously. You look like someone ran you over and reversed for good measure.”

“Your apartment looks like a parenting PSA filmed in a vape shop.”

He stares. Then shrugs. “Yeah, fair.”

You toe off your boots, eyeing the baby bottles stacked on top of an upside-down colander full of instant ramen.

“Did someone lose a bet,” you ask, “or are you seriously about to raise a child in here?”

“I’m nesting, bitch," he says, totally serious. “Like a fuckin' pigeon.”

You snort. “Pigeons are more hygienic.”

“Pigeons also don’t have to assemble cribs with fuckin’ IKEA hex keys and instructions written in Hangul.”

“Can you even read instructions in English?”

“Can you shut the fuck up and sit down?”

You flop onto the cushion, which groans like it’s begging for death. Miles slumps next to you, grabs a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade off the floor, and swigs it like it’s whiskey.

There’s a beat.

Then-

“You runnin’ from something?”

You glare sideways. “Do I look like I want to talk about it?”

He smirks. “Not really. But you’re in my living room, which means you’re either here to hide from something or to steal a pair of Jordans.”

You throw a throw pillow at his face. “I already stole your Jordans in senior year.”

He catches it, grinning. “Yeah, and I’m still in mourning.”

You lean your head back, watching a lone fly do suicidal loops around the ceiling light.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” you mutter.

Miles groans. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I saw a TikTok of a baby sneezing and shitting at the same time. I almost moved to fuckin' Keystone.”

You laugh. Actual laugh. First one all day.

It startles you.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, eventually. “Kid’s gonna have excellent sneakers and parental abandonment issues in balance.”

“Balance is key.”

The silence that follows is easy. Familiar. It’s not the absence of noise. It’s the absence of performance.

Miles fiddles with the Gatorade label for a second, then sighs. Loud. Dramatic.

“You know,” he says, “maybe it’s just the dad hormones talking-”

“They’re called emotions, Miles.”

“Fuck off. I’m being serious.” He sits forward a little, elbows on knees. “You don’t come here unless the world's ending. Like, mascara-on-your-chin, crying-into-my-sink level shit. Remember the time you showed up in two different shoes and tried to tell me it was ‘avant-garde’?”

You groan. “That was-”

“You had glitter in your ear and tried to fight a traffic cone.”

“It looked at me funny.”

“You broke my Swiffer.”

“Don’t leave it in ambush position.”

He smirks. Then sobers.

“I know what it looks like when you’re comin' apart. ’Cause I do the same thing. We both vanish when shit gets real. Show up where we don’t belong so we don’t gotta deal with the mess we made back home.”

He leans back, spreads his arms to the chaos around you.

“So. If I’m out here building a crib with half a brain cell and nipple cream on the coffee table, the least you can do is tell me what the fuck's going on.”

You scowl.

It’s a good line. You hate when he makes good lines.

You sit there, arms crossed, legs curled under you, stomach turning like a bad meal.

Then, finally:

“I was a bitch to June.”

He blinks. “Like, standard-level bitch? Or four-horsemen-of-the-apocalypse bitch?”

You wince. “End-of-days bitch.”

“Jesus.”

You rub a hand down your face. “She walked into something I didn’t want her to see, and I snapped. Said some shit I knew would hurt. Low shit.”

“She gonna quit?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“You gonna let her?”

“No,” you snap, like it’s obvious.

“Good.” He chucks a stray sock off the table. “That’s part one. What’s part two?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You sigh. “There’s a guy.”

Miles perks up immediately. “You let him touch a boob and now he's ghosted?”

You shoot him a look. “No. It’s not like that.”

“Does he know that?”

You hesitate again.

His eyes go wide. “Oh shit. You caught feelings.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is. That’s what makes it fun.”

You lean your head back. “He’s … not like other guys.”

“That’s either the start of a romcom or a dateline episode.”

“He’s kind of fucked up.”

Miles snorts. “So are you.”

You laugh again. Short, breathless.

Miles presses. “Fucked up how? Like emotionally unavailable? Actual criminal? Secret wife in Blüdhaven?”

You pause.

“All three?” he says, eyes wide.

“No! Well - yes. But not the wife thing. Just … he’s got a past. And he tried to pull away. And I let him. And now-”

“Now you’re spirallin',” he finishes, nodding. “Classic.”

You go quiet.

Miles watches you a second longer, then shrugs.

“Look. I’m not a fucking therapist. I’m barely a functioning adult. I buy baby wipes in bulk and still can’t figure out how to set the microwave clock. But if someone’s got you this spun out? Either you’re in deep, or he’s not just any guy.”

You stare at the wall of sneakers.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Miles bumps your shoulder with his. “You want my advice?”

“Not even a little.”

“Too bad. If you love 'im, stop playing defence. If you don’t, delete his number and stop makin' poor June question her entire belief system.”

You freeze.

Not outwardly. You’re still. Breathing. Blinking. But something under your ribs jerks like it’s been kicked.

Love.

It shouldn’t land like that. Shouldn’t rattle in your chest like a marble in a glass jar. You want to laugh. Or snap. Or deny it so hard the walls shake. But the word just ... hangs there. Too big. Too heavy. Like a coat you don’t remember putting on but now can’t take off.

You shake your head. Hard. Like you’re physically trying to dislodge the idea.

“That’s not-” you start, but the words snag somewhere behind your teeth. You swallow. Try again. “It’s not that simple.”

Miles doesn’t answer. Just watches you with that maddening, infuriating look - not smug. Not judgmental. Just … knowing. Like he’s already seen the truth but he’s gonna let you catch up at your own pace.

You look away.

Your throat’s tight. Your stomach feels like it’s folded in on itself.

Because the worst part is: you don’t know.

You don’t know if it’s love. Or fear. Or something older and more dangerous - that bone-deep wanting that doesn’t let you breathe easy when he’s not around. The weight of absence in the apartment, the half-sound of footsteps you keep thinking you hear in the hallway. The space he took up in your life so fast, like he’d always meant to fill it.

Your voice is too quiet when it comes.

“Thanks, Miles.”

You try to mean it.

He shrugs. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m naming the baby after you if it’s ugly.”

You throw the pillow at his head again.

This time he doesn’t catch it.

***

You text June on the way home.

You: hey. don’t worry about closing. take the rest of the afternoon. on me.
You: we’ll talk tomorrow. properly.

You don’t wait for the typing bubble. Just lock your phone and shove it face-down into the passenger seat like the guilt won’t seep through if you don’t look at it.

The sun’s dropped low enough that everything’s hazed in gold, but it’s the kind that feels fake - movie lighting over a city that doesn’t deserve it. The drive home is muscle memory, your fingers gripping the wheel tighter than necessary, like you’re afraid your thoughts might veer the whole car off course.

The building’s quiet when you get back.

You climb the stairs with keys between your fingers, not because you’re worried - just because habit is hard to kill.

And then you’re inside.

And everything’s exactly the same.

Which is worse.

His shit’s still here.

Helmet gone, but gloves on the table. Jacket on the back of the chair. One of his knives on the counter - not hidden, not secured, just left there, like he meant to come back. Like he got up to grab something and got pulled away.

Like he left mid-sentence.

You stand in the middle of the living room, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Or your heart. Or the ache swelling in your ribs like a bruise you didn’t know was there until someone pressed on it.

You’d rather it was gone.

All of it.

Because then at least you’d know.

Then at least he’d made the decision.

But this? This is worse.

This is a maybe.

A hanging thread with nothing to anchor it to.

You force yourself to move. To act like you’re normal. Like your world isn’t tilting slightly to the left.

You sit at the table. Pull your laptop in front of you. Open the booking system, the product invoices, the grainy PDF scans of supplier agreements that you usually inhale like candy.

You try to focus.

Try.

But then-

Drip.

You ignore it.

Drip. Drip.

You clench your jaw. Slam the laptop shut.

A second later, you’re wrenching open the cupboard under the sink, sleeves already shoved up to your elbows, wrench in hand.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll fix the fucking faucet.”

It’s rusted. Stupid. More complicated than it looks. You twist a valve the wrong way. There’s a click. A snap.

And then water.

Everywhere.

It bursts in a spray that soaks your shirt, your hair, the papers on the counter. It floods the tile and splashes the bottom of your jeans. You swear, stumble, try to shut it off - but the knob spins in place like it’s laughing at you.

And that’s it.

That’s the thing that breaks you.

You drop the wrench. It hits the tile with a clatter.

You sit back on the cold floor, soaked through, hands shaking, throat tight.

And you cry.

Not pretty tears.

Not even angry ones.

Just big, ugly sobs that scrape out of your chest like they’ve been hiding there too long. You don’t even know what you’re crying for.

The pipe?

June?

Your own goddamn reflection?

Or maybe it’s for him - for the half-presence of a man who came into your life like a loaded secret and left it like a shadow. For everything you said, and everything you didn’t. For what you could’ve asked him to stay for and didn’t.

You bury your face in your wet palms.

And let it come.

Let yourself crack.

Because if a goddamn faucet can shatter you, maybe it was never about the faucet at all.

***

You sit in the flood.

Not dramatic, not inches deep. Just enough to soak into your socks, to chill your spine through the denim clinging to your thighs. The kind of leak that keeps going even when you stop looking at it. That spreads slow and certain and unapologetic.

Your knees are tucked up now. Elbows braced on them. Water dripping from your sleeves. The wrench lies abandoned on the floor like it betrayed you. Like it knew.

You don’t cry anymore.

And you think: this is what it feels like after.

Not the heartbreak. Not the heat of the fight or the sting of the walkout. But the stretch of silence that comes next. The click of the door. The moment the glass breaks, and then you just ... sit with the shards.

There’s no soundtrack. No slow fade to black.

Just you. On the floor. Wet. Cold. Still breathing.

You remember when the mirror - months after you'd tried to tape it back up - finally fell. You weren’t even in the room. You just heard the thud. The crack. The silence that came after. You found it on the tile. Face down, glass dust blooming out from the corners like frost. Shards tucked under the toilet tank. A sliver stuck in the bath mat.

There was no fight that day. No storm. No reason.

It just broke.

Like it had been waiting for the quiet.

You remember your mom not yelling. Just sighing. Handing you a towel. Saying, “Watch where you walk.”

It felt important then. More than it was.

You feel the same now.

Like the faucet isn’t just broken. Like this isn’t about plumbing. Like you knew the second he said, “I’ll fix it,” that he wouldn’t. That you’d be the one left with the mess. The unfinished thing. The spray and the drip and the silence.

And maybe that’s what stings most. Not that he left. Not even that he might not come back.

But that he started something.

Half-finished the patch job. Half-wrapped himself around the edges of your life. And now everything’s damp and warped and leaking and you have no idea what’s salvageable anymore.

You tilt your head back against the cabinet. The fan’s still on, humming uselessly. There’s water pooling in the grout lines.

And everywhere you look: proof he was here.

His mug. His gloves. The goddamn gauze on the bathroom shelf.

You’re not mad at him.

Not really.

You just don’t understand how someone can leave this much behind and still be gone.

And maybe that’s a you thing.

Maybe it always has been.

Because you were never taught that people stay. Not really. You were taught that they show up in flashes - brief, bright, and chaotic. You were taught that if someone leaves you something behind, it means they’ll be back for it. That it’s a claim. A promise. A breadcrumb.

But you’re old enough now to know that’s bullshit.

Sometimes people forget their things.

Sometimes people forget you.

The pipe keeps leaking.

You don’t move.

You just sit there. In the after.

And wonder, quietly, if there’s still anything left to fix.

You don’t hear the knock.

You don’t hear the door open, either.

You’re still on the floor, soaked and tired and split down the middle, when the air changes. When the silence behind the drip folds in on itself. You don’t look up.

You just say, barely above a whisper, “If you’re a landlord or a ghost, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

There’s a beat. Then, his voice. Low. Familiar. Frayed at the edges.

"Not a ghost."

You laugh.

Sharp. Bitter. It bubbles out without warning and dies just as quick.

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “You don’t get to do that.”

You don't know what you mean - coming back or making you laugh.

“I know,” he says. Not defensive. Not trying to justify anything. Just honest. “Didn’t plan to.”

You still haven’t looked at him.

Because if you do, you’ll either cry again or throw something. Or both.

So instead, you wipe at your face with the sleeve of your drenched hoodie, sniff hard, and say, “You left.”

“I did.”

You nod, like that’s it. Like that’s the explanation, the apology, the full story. The silence yawns again.

Then:

“I heard the pipe break.”

That gets you. You blink. Turn your head, slow, like it takes effort. Jason’s standing just inside the kitchen now - helmet off, hair mussed, dark hoodie stuck with rain or sweat or both. There’s a bag in one hand. The stupid kind that hardware stores give out like party favours.

You frown. “What?”

“The pipe,” he says again, quieter now. “I heard it. Over the mic.”

It takes a second.

Then your chest caves in.

“I thought you stopped listening.”

“I did.”

“Right.”

Jason shifts, uncomfortable. “I was gonna take it out. I meant to. After Mercado - I told myself I’d come back and-”

“But you didn’t,” you finish for him. “Didn’t take it out. Didn’t check in. Didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t think I had the right to.”

"Jesus Christ.”

“I wasn’t spying,” he says. “I turned it off. I swear. I just ... never deleted the feed. And then tonight, I - I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I opened the channel. And I heard-”

“The faucet.”

He nods.

You press the heel of your palm to your eyes, hard. “God. That’s so creepy.”

“I know.”

“I should be mad.”

“You are.”

“I should tell you to take your spy shit and go.”

“You should.”

You look up.

He’s still there.

Still in the doorway. Still holding the bag like it’s a peace offering or a prayer.

And his face-

It’s open.

Wrecked and human and here.

“I wasn’t going to come back tonight,” he says, low. “I didn’t know if I should. Or if you’d want me to.”

“I didn’t,” you say. And then, smaller: “Didn't think I earnt it.”

He breathes in.

Slow.

Like it hurts.

Then, finally, he crosses the kitchen, water squelching beneath his boots. Crouches in front of you, gaze level.

“I know I’m shit at showing up,” he says. “But if something breaks - something real - don’t fix it alone. Don’t sit here and bleed next to a busted pipe like you deserve to.”

Your lip wobbles.

Just once.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper.

“This is where you go,” he says, without hesitation. “This is it.”

You blink at him. Something in your chest stretches - not healed, not whole, just ... looser. Like a fist unclenching. You don’t believe it yet. But you want to.

The faucet drips once. Twice.

And then his hand wraps gently around your wrist, soaked and shaking and still holding tension like it might keep you upright.

You let it go.

Just for now.

Let it break again.

Only this time - he’s here to help you put it back together.

Chapter Text

You never really had sleepovers.

Not in the normal way.

No matching pyjamas. No whispered secrets under blanket forts. No nail polish or popcorn or someone’s older sister teaching you how to French kiss on the arm of a couch that didn’t smell like mildew.

Not unless you count the nights you curled up at the foot of your brother’s bed while his friends smoked weed out of a Sprite bottle and argued about which Fast & Furious movie was “most culturally significant.”

You’d get bored after a while. Pretend to be asleep just so they’d shut up. Wake up to burnt ramen and a lighter melted into the carpet. One time, you caught Vic trying to sneak your Walkman out of your backpack. You threw a slipper at his face and he bled on the rug. You didn’t get invited back for a few weeks after that.

It didn’t matter. You were never really a guest. Just a shadow. Just someone who didn’t want to be alone in a bedroom that used to belong to an uncle who vanished mid-sentence one June.

You remember one night - maybe the closest thing to a real one.

You were thirteen. Your cousin Bree had a fallout with her mom, showed up at your place with two garbage bags and a broken sandal. Your mom sighed, made up the couch. You stayed up with Bree that night. Ate the last packet of powdered mac and cheese raw out of the bag and braided each other’s hair in the blue flicker of late-night TV.

You don’t remember what you talked about. Just that it felt like holding your breath and being allowed to exhale.

In the morning, she was gone. So were the spare cigarettes under the sink and your dad’s last bottle of cheap aftershave. You never told anyone. You figured it was the price of the moment.

And this?

This doesn’t feel like a sleepover either.

Because this time, you’re not crashing for a night. You’re not sneaking through a back window or hiding in the closet when someone’s mom gets home early.

This time, it’s Jason’s apartment.

This time, you were asked.

Or - invited, maybe. Gently implied. He didn’t say the words, exactly, but he opened the door. And you walked through it with a gym bag full of wet clothes and a leaking sink on your mind.

Because the damage was worse than you thought. Water got under the linoleum, soaked into the baseboards. Landlord said you’d have to be out at least a few days. Maybe longer.

You nodded, said okay, even as your stomach twisted sideways.

There’s nowhere else you want to be.

No childhood room. No couch to crash. No brother whose spare mattress isn’t already claimed by baby stuff and bad decisions.

So here you are.

The hallway smells like dust and old tile glue.

Not bad. Just worn. Like a place built for surviving, not living.

You climb the stairs to the third floor of 71 Glasswell - Jason behind you, boots quiet on the steps - and try not to look like you’re casing the place. You know this building. Not well, but enough to clock the exit routes. The fire escape. The apartment across the hall with the taped-up door and no name on the mailbox.

The safehouse felt different. The first time you came here. Like a holding cell with heating. Sterile in that special Gotham way: empty beer bottles, military-grade first-aid kits, and a mattress wrapped in plastic. It was never really anyone’s space. Just a pause between disasters.

But now?

You step inside and hesitate.

It’s still barebones - still has that unfinished, don’t-get-comfortable energy - but something’s changed. The air doesn’t bite like it used to. The table’s got a half-burnt candle sitting on it. There’s a second mug in the drying rack. A hoodie you recognise from your laundry pile is folded over the back of a chair.

There’s ... stuff.

Not much. Not sentimental. But enough to make it feel like someone lives here. Someone who’s trying, at least.

Which is funny, really. Ironic, even.

Because Jason’s been sleeping at yours more nights than not for the last month.

And yet here you are, suitcase in hand, crash-landing into his space.

He closes the door behind you. Doesn’t bolt it. Just slides the chain across like muscle memory. His eyes don’t quite meet yours, but his voice is steady when he says, “You can stay as long as you need.”

You nod. Or mean to. It’s more of a blink. A pause. Something too soft to count.

Then you let yourself look at him. Really look. Not the sideways-glance, eyes-on-the-floor, get-through-it kind of look you’ve been surviving on since the fight.

This is deliberate. Measured. A choice.

He’s backlit by the hallway light - faint, yellow, shitty - but it catches enough. The rain’s still clinging to his shoulders, turning the edges of his hoodie darker than they should be. His hair’s a mess. There’s a healing cut just beneath his jawline you hadn’t noticed before. His gloves are missing, so his hands are bare. Strong. Still damp from the bag in the car, maybe, or the air outside.

And his face-

God.

You’d forgotten, somehow, in the static of everything else, just how good he looks like this. All sharp edges and bad timing and quiet gravity, like someone sculpted regret into something solid and accidentally made it hot.

Your chest goes tight. Not in a new way. In a remembered way.

Like catching the scent of something you once loved and forgot you missed. It hits like heat. Low and steady. A hum under your skin that makes you shift your weight and look away a second too late.

You drop your bag just inside the doorway. “It’s just for tonight.”

You both know that’s a lie. But neither of you calls it.

Jason nods once. Accepts it like gospel. Like he doesn’t want to scare it off by pointing out the cracks.

The silence stretches a second too long.

You scan the apartment - if you can call one room and a half-wall kitchenette an apartment. Twin bed in the corner. Couch across from the counters. No doors, no privacy. Just enough space to orbit each other without touching.

“Well,” you say, clapping your hands once, too loud. “Guess I’ll take the couch.”

Jason glances at it. Then at you. “No, I’ll take the couch.”

You snort. “It’s basically a loveseat. You’ll break it.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ve broken sturdier things than that couch.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again, then mutters, “You take the bed.”

You cross your arms. “What, and have you do the whole self-sacrificing, stoic act all night? Hard pass.”

“It’s not an act,” he mutters.

“Oh, so you naturally hover in corners like bad lighting?”

“I don’t-” He pauses. Frowns. “Okay. Sometimes.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. You drop onto the couch with a grunt, testing the springs. They whine in protest like a dying accordion.

“See?” you say. “That sound? That’s the sound of furniture begging for mercy.”

Jason rubs the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to argue or not. He settles for walking to the kitchenette and pretending to look for something in a drawer that’s already open.

The weight of it all settles in the gaps.

This isn’t your place. This isn’t his either, not really. But it’s something. A stopgap. A pause. A third location in the awkward Venn diagram you’ve both been dancing around for weeks.

You look around again. The hoodie. The mug. The familiar boots by the door.

You think: this could be worse.

And then you think: this could be something.

You shut that thought down quick.

Jason clears his throat. “You want tea or something?”

You blink. “You have tea?”

“Kind of.”

You almost smile. “Sure. Hit me with your ‘kind of’ tea.”

He fills the kettle like it’s an excuse to do something with his hands. You watch him work, quiet. He doesn’t say anything else. You don’t either.

***

You open the salon just after nine.

Keys clatter in the lock, the door sticks like it always does, and the lights flicker once before coming to life. You exhale when they do, like you’d half expected them not to. Like that would be the final thing - the one break you couldn’t tape over.

The smell’s familiar: chemical sweetness, fake vanilla, a hint of burnt hair in the vents. You let the silence stretch for a minute. Just stand there, soaking in the hum of the fluorescents. It’s grounding, in that weird way trauma sometimes is. Like: you’ve bled here before. You’ll be fine.

You take your time wiping down stations that don’t need it, sweeping already clean floors. June comes in late - only by ten minutes - but she’s chewing gum and her hair’s half-damp and her eyeliner’s sharp enough to count as a warning. She pauses when she sees you.

You don’t let it hang. Just look up and say, “Hey.”

She raises a brow. “Hey.”

“I owe you an apology.”

June kicks the door shut behind her, tossing her bag under the front desk. “You think?”

“Yeah,” you say, and mean it.

She studies you for a second. Not mean. Not cold. Just assessing - like she’s flipping through yesterday’s events in her head, deciding whether she’s still pissed.

“I was outta line,” you continue. “I panicked and said something shitty because I didn’t want to answer for my own crap. That wasn’t fair.”

June doesn't respond immediately, just chews her gum twice, then pops it.

“I told myself I was done being stupid about him,” she says finally. “Then I wasn’t. Then you called me on it. And you were right.”

You start to shake your head.

“But,” she adds, cutting you off. “That wasn’t the time.”

You nod. “No. It wasn’t.”

She shrugs. “S’alright. I thought about icing you out for a week, but then I remembered I like getting paid.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You gonna keep the tips too?”

“Depends. You gonna keep being weird and sad and bad at hiding it?”

You tilt your head. “Probably.”

She snorts. “Then yeah, I’m taking your tips.”

You don’t hug. That’s not your thing. But you bump her shoulder when you pass, and she doesn’t flinch. That’s enough.

You only stay a couple hours. Enough to do one walk-in trim and reschedule a dye job. You tell June you’ve got something to handle and she nods like she already knows.

The city’s bright when you leave. Warm in a way that makes the cold feel like a memory you’re not ready to trust yet.

You don’t text Jason to say you’re coming back. You don’t have to.

He probably heard you say you were leaving through the bug that's found a permanent home somewhere in the salon.

Inside, it’s quiet. Still. But not untouched.

The first thing you notice is the couch.

There’s a blanket now - an actual one. Folded, clean, soft in a mismatched way that screams found rather than bought. A pillow too. And on the low table beside it, your favourite kind of instant noodles, still sealed in its garish orange cup. A faint smell of laundry powder clings to the fleece. Subtle things.

Things that make it feel like maybe you’re not intruding.

Or maybe you are.

You don’t mean to stay on the edge of the couch like that. Balanced like a maybe. But it’s where your body lands, tense and undecided, like you’re waiting for someone to tell you how long you’re allowed to exist in this room.

You shift back into the seat and let yourself sink a little deeper. Kick off your shoes. Pull your legs up, tuck the blanket over your lap like it’s no big deal.

Like you do this all the time.

It’s a performance, kind of. Just for you. The performance of ease.

Because this space is still strange. Not unfamiliar, not anymore. But strange.

And not just because you freaked out over a gunshot here.

(Not just because you cried over a broken faucet and Jason knelt down and told you this is where you go, and you half think he meant himself.)

You scan the room again. Slow this time. Thoughtful.

He’s been living here. Or trying to. And you’re still not sure what that makes you - guest, exception, accident.

You unfold yourself from the couch and pad over to the shelf, feigning a search for something to do.

That’s when you see the photo.

It’s upright now. Same one you found weeks ago - creased at the corners, colours dulled, but still sharp enough to catch the light. Two boys. One grinning with his whole face, the other trying not to. Jason’s arm looped awkwardly around the older one’s neck like he didn’t know how to be close but tried anyway.

Last time you saw it, it was face-down on the window ledge, like a wound he couldn’t stop poking at.

Now it’s here.

Just sitting there. Not hidden. Not flaunted.

You swallow.

Somehow that’s worse.

You trace a finger down the edge of the frame, then catch yourself and pull away. You don’t want to smudge it. Don’t want to leave proof you were here.

You move on.

The rest of the shelf is boring - books, maps, notebooks, a chipped Gotham U mug holding loose change and what might be lockpicks.

You open the drawer beneath the shelf.

You don’t mean to. Honestly. It’s just ... reflex. And you figure Jason's broken enough boundaries that you can snoop a little.

There’s nothing too exciting inside. Just a mess of papers, a flashlight, a packet of Advil, some receipts from a bodega in Otisburg-

And a bottle of cologne.

You pause.

Pick it up.

It’s expensive. Glass heavy in your palm, label peeling slightly at the edge. You pop the lid. The scent hits immediately - warm and clean and absolutely him. Leather and cedar. That sharp peppery top note that makes your throat catch for reasons you refuse to interrogate.

You put the bottle down faster than you picked it up.

It’s stupid, really. He’s a grown man. Of course he smells good. Of course he wears cologne.

You rub the back of your neck and close the drawer.

The heat lingers at your collar.

This is dumb.

The two of you haven’t even talked. Not really. Not since-

Well.

You haven’t talked about the fight. Or where he went after. Or what it meant, when he came back.

You haven’t told him about Mrs Greeves. About Kane Tower. About the office and the secretary and the accidental lead she dropped in your lap like a bomb. You don’t even know if he wants to hear it. You don’t even know if you should stay.

Still.

You pick the noodles off the table and head to the kitchenette. Turn the kettle on. Set out two mugs.

Just in case he comes back.

***

The door clicks.

You don’t look up.

Partly because you’re elbow-deep in your own hair, trying to remember how the hell to start a French braid on your own head instead of someone else's. Partly because your mouth is full of an off-brand Twinkie you found behind a bag of Jason’s emergency protein powder.

You swore you’d only eat one. This is number three.

Your laptop’s propped up on the coffee table, screen flickering with the low-res drama of too-perfect strangers fake-dating for a cash prize. Someone’s confessing their love to three different women in one breath. You call him a coward under yours. Muffled by cake.

Then-

Shift.

Not loud. Not obvious.

Just one of those Gotham-trained instincts crawling up the back of your neck. Air pressure changing. Ghosts taking their coats off.

You glance up.

Jason’s in the doorway.

Helmet off. Hair damp. Hoodie stuck to his collar like he walked through rain and didn’t care. Bag slung over his shoulder, the kind of tired in his eyes that usually comes with bruises.

He sees you.

And stops.

Flat-out stops like his brain’s rebooting.

And maybe it should be funny. Maybe if you weren’t sitting under a blanket in pyjamas older than most of your shampoo, halfway into a Twinkie and halfway into your scalp, it would be.

But it’s not funny. Because for a second, he doesn’t move.

And that second stretches.

You track the line of sight: stove still warm, something half-decent simmering. Sheets folded clean at the end of the bed. Laundry spinning slow in the corner - half yours, half his.

And you.

On the couch. Looking, you realise belatedly, a lot like someone who lives here. The Twinkie sits limp on the plate in your lap. The show keeps playing - someone yelling about betrayal and kissing with tongue too soon.

You launch to your feet like the couch bit you.

“I wasn’t - fuck, sorry - I didn’t mean to, like, take over, I was just-” You gesture. To the couch. To the food. To yourself. “It’s not like I was nesting or whatever-”

He snorts.

Loudly. Like he actually finds you funny.

Walks past you, drops the bag with a thud, opens the fridge, and pulls out a beer.

Like it’s nothing.

Like this is any other night.

“Chill,” he says, bottlecap flicking into the sink. “It’s a good look.”

You blink at him.

He tips the beer toward the stove. “That for me?”

“... Yeah,” you say, slowly. “I thought you might want something hot. After patrol.”

He grunts. Approvingly, you think. Or at least not horrified.

You’re still hovering near the couch, a little thrown off your axis.

“Seriously,” he says, softer now. “It’s fine. You can sit. Eat your Twinkie.”

You eye him. “You’re not gonna give me shit for the show?”

Jason shrugs. “They’re idiots. It’s riveting.”

You snort. Sit.

He moves through the flat like it’s any other night. Shrugs off the jacket. Tosses it toward the hook by the door. Misses. Doesn’t correct it. And just like that, the tension leaks out of your spine. You tuck your feet back under the blanket. Pick up the Twinkie again. Jason drops down at the little table by the window, eyeing the food.

You chew. Watch him move. Wonder, briefly, if you’ve overstepped. If you’ve broken something by pretending there wasn’t anything to be careful about.

Wonder if it's time to bring it up. Or if you've fallen too far into pretending everything is okay, that it's too late to apologise. To tell him you were wrong for lashing out and that you never want to make him feel unwelcome again.

But then he eats. Quiet, unfazed. Elbows on the table, shoulders still a little tight, but-

Here.

And maybe that’s the answer.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be a thing. Doesn’t have to be named. Doesn’t have to be earned in blood or argued into existence.

Maybe sometimes it’s just this.

Twinkies. Rice. And the kind of quiet that says: you’re not alone.

Jason finishes eating without saying much - just a quiet grunt of approval, a scrape of the fork, a glance toward the couch. You don’t look directly at him, but you catch it. The way he hesitates, then crosses the room.

He doesn’t sit too close.

But he sits.

You queue the next episode like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just launch yourself off that same couch three Twinkies deep and halfway into a nervous breakdown. The title card flashes in migraine-pink. Jason exhales like a man about to walk into live fire.

“You’re watching another one?” he mutters. “This shit kills brain cells.”

“Yep,” you say, without looking at him. “That’s the point.”

He mumbles something about psychological warfare and low-brow programming, but he doesn’t leave. Just settles in. Arms folded. Ankles crossed. The kind of body language that says I’m not staying, but I’m not leaving either.

You pretend to watch.

But your skin’s buzzing. That not-quite-panic, not-quite-electric hum. Like being fifteen and walking home with someone who might hold your hand but doesn’t. Shoulder brushing shoulder. Breath syncing up just enough to notice.

Your hands drift up to your hair.

The braid’s half-done. Too tight near the crown. Too loose by the nape. You tug, try again, fumble the elastic. It’s stuck now, caught between your nerves and your skull, and your hands are shaking just slightly-

Jason sighs.

“Stop,” he says, gruff. “You’re gonna scalp yourself.”

You freeze.

Then glance at him. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Before you can snap something back, he shifts closer. One arm behind you on the couch, the other reaching up like this is normal. Like you aren’t one touch away from dissolving into static.

Big hands. Callused fingers. Gentle in that careful, competent way that betrays how many wounds he’s cleaned, how many things he’s patched. One side of your neck warms where his knuckles graze.

You don’t breathe.

You don’t even blink.

He works in silence, separating the strands. Functional. Firm. Not delicate, but not careless either. The TV burbles in the background - someone’s crying in a hot tub about betrayal, probably.

But you’re not listening anymore.

You’re stuck on the sensation of someone else’s hands in your hair. You’ve done more braids than you can count. Pinned buns, curled bangs, clipped pieces back with bobby pins you held in your mouth. Your fingers know the shape of someone else’s skull before your eyes do. It’s muscle memory now - part work, part instinct, part prayer.

But this?

This never happens.

Even as a kid, your hair was your own problem. Your mom tried sometimes, when there was time - but it was rushed. Always rushed. The quick twist of a tired hand before school. A cheap brush yanked through your hair on the living room floor while the news played too loud in the background. You used to cry over tangles, and she used to sigh like she had to choose between brushing you and clocking in.

Eventually, you just stopped asking.

Learned to do it yourself. Bought your own comb. Burnt your own fingers on straighteners and curling irons and chemical relaxer. Got good at making it neat. Got even better at making it look like you didn’t care if it wasn’t.

But this?

Jason’s hands - rough, steady, sure - are moving slow. Not rushed. Not out of obligation or habit. Just … because. Because you were fidgeting. Because he saw you struggling and decided to help.

And it’s fucking stupid how much that cracks you open.

How much your throat tightens. How much your chest pulls, sharp and quiet like a stitch in your ribs.

You stare straight ahead, heart thudding in places that shouldn’t have bloodflow.

Jason finishes with a low, satisfied sound. A little grunt that somehow lands closer to fond than it should.

“There,” he says. “Try not to rip it out.”

You swallow.

Then, quiet as a whisper: “Thanks.”

You turn your head just slightly - not enough to look at him, just enough to feel the weight of the braid shift behind your ear - and face the TV again. Onscreen, there’s a montage of heavy petting and open-mouth confessions. The camera cuts to a champagne-soaked tongue battle, and your spine locks in secondhand mortification.

You speak too fast. “Didn’t think you were a Twinkie guy.”

Jason snorts. “I’m not.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then why the stash?”

He shrugs. “Stole them off a warehouse pallet two months ago. Figured if they survive nuclear fallout, they’d survive my pantry.”

You hum, still a little breathless. “Guess I’m just surprised. You don’t really seem like the snack cake type.”

Another grunt.

But you can’t help yourself. “You ever have Dunkaroos?”

Jason actually turns to look at you. “Do I look like someone who had fucking Dunkaroos?”

You bite back a smile. “I don’t know. Maybe your fancy school was feeling festive one day.”

He snorts. “I ate vending machine ramen until I was twelve.”

“Shit.”

“Not even the name-brand kind. The kind with a mystery flavour packet and duct tape on the label.”

You lean back into the couch, braid still warm against your neck. “I used to pretend the milk powder from charity boxes was cake mix.”

Jason winces. “Jesus.”

“Tasted like chalk.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

Then, low: “We should try them sometime.”

“Dunkaroos?”

He nods, eyes on the screen now.

You look at him sideways.

And your chest does that thing again - tight and loose all at once. Like your ribs are making room for something they’re not sure you’re allowed to keep.

Because he didn’t say you should try them. He said we.

Like there’s a future in this. Like there’s a timeline where he’s still around long enough for snack cakes and grocery lists and stupid jokes in the baking aisle. Like he’s already decided you get a mundane together.

And maybe it shouldn’t hit you as hard as it does.

But it does.

You don’t say anything. Just tuck your toes under the blanket. Half-finished Twinkie still on the plate. Fake romance flickering across the screen.

The episode cuts to black.

***

You blink at the end credits. Realise your hands are sticky from Twinkie frosting and your legs have gone half-numb under the blanket. Jason hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, save to nurse his beer and grunt once when someone on the show tried to toast with a ring pop.

You glance at him.

He looks relaxed. Sort of. His jaw’s less tight than usual. His shoulders aren’t hunched like he’s waiting for the next punch. The light from the laptop flickers across his face, too soft to cut into anything. You bite the inside of your cheek.

Then, lightly - more lightly than usual - you say, “You heading out tonight?”

Jason doesn’t look at you. Just rubs a thumb over the bottle label and says, “Already been out.”

It lands strange.

Because you know that’s not how he works. Not really. Red Hood doesn’t run errands and clock out early. He’s a creature of midnight rooftops and back-alley surveillance, not quick spins around the block before dinner.

Still.

You nod. “Cool.”

Cool. Great. Normal. Fine.

You’re very aware of the fact you’re still half-curled into the corner of his couch, and that the air in the apartment feels too still all of a sudden, like it’s holding its breath. You shift, fold the blanket back, and rise to your feet, stretching until your spine pops.

“I’m gonna brush my teeth,” you say, too casual.

Jason nods without looking up.

You make it halfway down the hall before you hear movement behind you - quiet but deliberate. You glance over your shoulder.

Jason’s following.

You raise an eyebrow. “We sharing the sink now?”

He shrugs. “Figured I’d beat you to it before you use all the hot water.”

“That’s for the shower.”

“Still counts.”

You huff a laugh and push open the bathroom door, flipping the light on. The bulb overhead hums faintly. The bathroom is small - one of those boxy, badly tiled Gotham rectangles where everything’s a little too close and the mirror’s always a little too scratched.

Jason steps in behind you, and suddenly there’s no room. His shoulder brushes yours as he reaches for his toothbrush, and your brain short-circuits for half a second.

Because this? This never happened at your place.

You’d brush your teeth alone, lights dimmed, Jason stretched on the couch or already half-ghosting out the window. He was always careful not to take up space. You always assumed it was about manners. Space. Boundaries. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he just didn’t know if he was allowed to be here like this. Maybe now he does.

Because now?

Now he’s beside you, elbow grazing yours as you both squeeze over the sink like it’s normal. Like this is something you do. You keep your eyes on the mirror. Try not to look like your brain’s melting over something as stupid as simultaneous dental hygiene.

Jason’s not helping.

He leans down to spit and nearly bangs heads with you on the way back up.

“Shit. Sorry.”

You shake your head, mouth full of foam. “S’fine.”

You brush quickly, methodically, trying to ignore the heat crawling up the back of your neck. Jason finishes before you do, steps aside to rinse his mouth. You hold your breath as he passes behind you - too close, warm, solid.

You rinse. Spit. Avoid your own reflection.

When you come out, the apartment’s quieter. Dimmer.

Jason’s already by the couch, folding the blanket back, straightening the pillow like it matters.

You pause just long enough to clock the gesture. It’s such a small thing. A nothing gesture. But it catches in your throat, the way small kindnesses do when you're not sure you deserve them.

Then move to sit.

The couch isn’t much, but you settle into it. Tuck your knees under the throw. You don’t feel tired. Not yet. Just aware.

Aware of Jason still moving around the room. Tapping his phone. Shrugging off his hoodie. Setting something on the windowsill.

You wonder if he’s ever gone to bed before midnight before.

You wonder if he’s doing it for you.

When the lamp clicks off, he warns you first.

“Lights.”

And it’s just one word, low and soft. But it lands like a hand on your spine.

You murmur, “Okay.”

The apartment goes dark.

And the quiet feels almost like a gift.

Until it doesn't.

You’re not asleep. You’re so not asleep it feels offensive to even be lying down.

The couch springs creak every time you so much as shift a toe, and the throw pillow under your head smells like Jason - like detergent and cedar and that stupid cologne you definitely didn’t sniff earlier like a lunatic. You’re overheating under the blanket but the second you kick it off, you’re freezing. You try to breathe evenly. Casually. Like you’re normal. Like this is fine.

Across the room, Jason’s breathing.

Not in a weird way. Just … in a breathing way. Like a person. Which would be totally acceptable and even commendable if it didn’t sound so steady and goddamn present in the dark like he’s some kind of Gotham-themed sleep meditation track.

You listen to him inhale. Exhale.

Then you listen to yourself try not to do the same.

Because suddenly even your own lungs feel like a performance. Too loud. Too shallow. Too desperate.

And the thoughts-

Jesus, the thoughts.

They’re piling up now. Like subway delays at rush hour.

He’s letting you stay here. After the fight. After the way you snapped at him. After the sharp, nasty words you threw like you were scared of being loved too much. And he’s here. Letting you soak his throw pillow in anxiety sweat. Letting you sleep under his roof like you won’t break another thing just by looking at it.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Try to reset your brain. Count backwards from a hundred. Picture a sheep. A cloud. Something soft.

Instead, your mind conjures Jason’s hands fixing your braid. The way his fingers moved - practised, rough, absurdly gentle. Like he wanted to do it. Like it wasn’t just a kindness but a choice.

You press your face into the pillow. You are not going to do it. You are not going to say it.

The stupid, fragile, clichéd: are you awake?

You sit in silence. Try to endure it.

Twenty seconds pass. Then forty. Then Jason exhales again - soft, low, even.

God, that breath. That breath makes you stupid.

“… are you awake?” you whisper.

You immediately hate yourself.

Silence.

More silence.

And then-

“Yeah.”

His voice is low. Tired. Not annoyed. Just there. Real. Steady. Like you didn’t just shatter whatever thin veil of composure you were pretending to wrap yourself in.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “That was lame.”

“Little bit,” he says.

You bury your face again. Muffled: “I knew it the second it left my mouth.”

Jason doesn’t laugh, exactly. But there’s a sound. Something warm in the back of his throat. You hear him shift - fabric rustling faintly. You imagine him on his back, arm slung over his chest, that shitty mattress creaking under his weight like it’s negotiating terms.

You lie there.

The silence stretches again.

You should leave it alone. Let it fade back into the dark.

But you don’t.

“I was a dick,” you say. Quiet. Steady. The words feel like stepping into cold water. “That night. I know I hit below the belt.”

Jason doesn’t say anything.

You listen, hard. To the shift of the sheets. To the change in his breathing. He exhales. Not sharp. Not angry. You can't tell what it means.

You kind of hope he is angry. At least that would make sense. At least that would let you stay in the version of yourself that’s easier to manage - defensive, sharp, already halfway out the door.

But he isn’t.

And somehow, that’s worse.

“It wasn’t …” he starts, then stops. You hear him swallow. “I didn’t leave because of that.”

Your chest flinches.

Not because you didn’t believe it, but because some part of you had needed it to be the reason. At least then it would’ve been cause and effect. Action and consequence. Something clean. Something you could point at and say: See? I ruined it. That’s the shape of me.

“I know,” you whisper. “But it didn’t help.”

“No,” he agrees.

You stare at the ceiling. Or what you think is the ceiling. It’s too dark to tell. It could be anything. The inside of your own eyelids.

“I didn’t mean it,” you say. “What I said. About exes and rooftop hookups and - whatever the fuck else I was spewing like a rabid bat.”

Jason huffs. A breath. Maybe the beginning of a smile.

“I know,” he says again. Like he’s giving you space to flail, but not drown.

The silence slips back in. Not thick this time. Not biting.

Just present.

You shift slightly. The couch squeaks. A second later, you hear the echo of his own shift across the room. The soft creak of his mattress mirroring yours like a call and response.

It does something stupid to your chest.

“I don’t want to fight like that again,” you say, small now.

Because you know how fast that version of you can crawl out. You know how easy it is to mistake a burn for a boundary.

“Then don’t,” he replies. “We don’t have to.”

And just like that, the spiral stops.

Not entirely. But it slows. Like someone took their hand off the panic switch and let the gears wind down.

You let out a breath.

Soft.

Real.

“Okay.”

Across the room, Jason settles again. You imagine his hand behind his head. His eyes open. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about you.

You don’t say anything else. You just let the quiet return.

And try to settle. Not all the way. Not completely. Your spine still hums with tension, and your heart hasn’t decided whether it’s allowed to exhale. But something in your chest unclenches, just a little. You shift again - couch creaking in protest - and let your cheek sink deeper into the pillow.

Jason’s still across the room. Still breathing like he means it. Still quiet.

You think maybe he’s fallen asleep.

But then:

“… Did you ever have those dumb jelly shoes? The see-through ones with glitter?”

You blink.

Stare into the dark.

“What?” you croak, thrown entirely off-course.

Jason clears his throat. “I dunno. I saw a pair on a billboard earlier. They looked like toe prisons. Figured you might’ve had some.”

You gape into the void of the living room, processing that for a beat too long.

And that’s when you know you’re not sleeping tonight.

Because something kicks behind your ribs - sharp, bright, giddy - and it feels so close to joy it makes you dizzy. Like maybe this is what a crush feels like when it isn’t poisoned by survival instincts.

You let out a huff. “I had one pair. My mom got ’em from a flea market and they squeaked like ducks every time I walked.”

Jason grunts, amused. “So they were a safety feature. Good.”

“I wore them for a week straight, got blisters the size of quarters. My brother’s friends called them my stripper sandals.”

You can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “Jesus.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” you say, rolling onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “They dared me to slide down the hill behind our building in them. Like a full grass-and-dirt slope. I tripped halfway, scraped both knees, and puked from the pain. All while wearing glittery denim shorts and a ‘Hannah Montana Forever’ shirt with rhinestones.”

Jason’s laugh breaks open in the dark. It’s not loud, not mocking - just real. Bright. Like he wasn’t expecting it, and now he can’t stop.

“That’s bleak,” he says, breath catching.

“Tell me about it. Miles still calls me Sparkle Vomit when he wants to win an argument.”

Another laugh. He shifts - mattress creaking again - and you catch the sound of his knuckles tapping lightly against the wall.

You grin at the ceiling.

Then, soft:

“What about you? Ever do anything deeply stupid and sparkly?”

Jason hums. “No sparkles. But - once, when I was about thirteen, Dick convinced me it would be character-building to try and break into a condemned skating rink.”

“Oh my god.”

“I got stuck in a window. Like - wedged. Ass-up.”

You snort.

“Dick had to bribe a sanitation worker to help yank me out before the cops showed up. I lost a sneaker, sprained my wrist, and still had to do algebra homework that night.”

You’re grinning now. Full smile. Pillow-muffled.

“He sounds like a menace.”

“He is,” Jason says, voice quieter now, almost fond.

You hold your breath. Just for a second. It’s the first time he’s talked about his family. Like that. Without flinching. You want to ask more, of course you do - but some things aren’t gifts unless you let them rest in your hands without prying them open.

The quiet stretches again - but it’s warmer this time. Like a blanket passed back and forth.

And then you talk.

About nothing, really.

Old cartoons. First concerts. The time you got locked inside a 7-Eleven bathroom and had to text your high school ex for help. Jason tells you about a stolen go-kart and a priest’s shed and something about a missing wheel of brie that you don’t fully understand but laugh at anyway.

And then - like time folded in on itself - you blink.

The curtains have gone from dark to gold.

The city’s waking up again. Sirens faint in the distance. A delivery truck honking somewhere nearby. The laundry machine clicks as it powers down, long-forgotten.

You shift on the couch. Roll your face toward the back cushions, blanket kicked halfway off. The light is soft on your skin, and your voice comes out slow, drowsy.

“I thought you’d fall asleep hours ago.”

Jason doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quiet:

“I don’t sleep easy when someone’s in the room.”

Your breath catches.

You twist slightly to look over, but you can’t see him well - not with the lamp off and the sun still too low to hit his side of the room.

Still, you hear it. The hesitation. The honesty.

He adds, even softer, “I don’t really let people touch me either.”

You swallow. Words gone sticky. You murmur, “You let me.”

Jason’s voice dips, husky with exhaustion. “Yeah. I didn’t even flinch,” he mutters. Like he’s remembering it now. Like he’s still confused by it.

“Your hair looked like shit,” you whisper, even though you know it's a lie. “Someone had to.”

He laughs - low and real and wrecked with sleep.

You grin into the couch cushion.

Then, finally, you close your eyes, mind full of shared stories, secret laughter, and someone breathing steady in the dark beside you.

Chapter Text

The smell hits first.

Not fresh-brewed. Not cosy. Just hot, burned, aggressive - like the coffee’s already been yelled at and is taking it out on your nose. 

You groan before your eyes even open.

Every muscle feels like it’s been soaked in concrete. Your spine is welded to the couch cushions. Your tongue tastes like bad dreams and whatever chemicals Jason puts in his detergent.

You sit up slow. Not dramatic - just the kind of movement you make when you’ve had two hours of sleep, zero regrets, and a laundry list of consequences still waiting to hit.

Jason’s already in the kitchenette.

Of course he is.

Standing there, freshly showered, already dressed, pouring coffee like a man who didn’t spend the entire night baring his fucking soul in the dark. Like he didn’t crawl through your childhood with you until the sun came up and your throat went hoarse from laughing.

He looks up.

Nods.

“Morning.”

You stare at him like he just spat in your cereal.

“Are you kidding me.”

Jason slides a mug toward you without comment. You reach for it like it’s morphine. Take one sip. Scald your throat.

Worth it.

You shuffle toward the counter like a zombie in fuzzy socks. He’s got toast going - which is alarming - and someone’s opened a jar of peanut butter. You assume it was him. You’d remember if it were you.

You make yourself a plate. Slowly. Like it’s an act of mourning. The toaster wheezes like it might die mid-job.

Jason’s already eaten. Or maybe he’s one of those freaks who considers caffeine a food group. You don’t care. You’re chewing dry toast and glaring at him over your mug like he personally ruined your childhood.

“You’re not even tired,” you mutter. “That’s disgusting.”

He shrugs. “I’ve run on worse.”

You believe it.

Still. It pisses you off.

You butter your second piece of toast like it owes you money.

He’s sipping his coffee. Calm. Relaxed. Bastard.

You chomp. Loudly.

Jason watches, vaguely amused.

You swallow. “You’re gonna mock me for the Twinkies, aren’t you.”

He doesn’t blink. “I already did. Last night.”

“Right. I forgot.” You wave the toast vaguely. “Did you know they were in there?”

Jason’s eyes flick to the counter. “Forgot they were mine.”

“Tragic. You’ve been sitting on gold and didn’t even know it.”

“Could say the same about you,” he says, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just say something that could be taken thirteen different ways.

You pause mid-chew. Swallow. Glare at the floor. Toast crumbs rain down your hoodie like judgment. You are the opposite of graceful. The opposite of mysterious. You’re slouched, bleary-eyed, and covered in evidence of your poor life choices.

Jason doesn’t seem to mind.

“Anyway,” you say around your next bite. “Greeves said something yesterday.”

Jason arches a brow.

You keep eating. Talking around the mouthful like it’s nothing.

“Her husband’s working in Kane Tower now. Renovation floor. No idea what he actually does. She said the elevators suck and the secretary has too many opinions.”

Jason goes still.

The shift is subtle, but it’s there.

His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow just a little - that quiet flick of focus you’ve seen a dozen times before, usually right before he bolts.

And for a split second, your stomach turns.

Because you’ve felt this before - the moment when warmth gets swapped out for mission-mode, when the windows slam shut and the air changes and suddenly you’re just background noise to whatever’s next on the Red Hood agenda. You know how quickly closeness can turn clinical with him. How fragile the whole thing is - how one piece of intel might be enough to remind him that this isn’t supposed to be real.

You keep going. Force the words out through a yawn. Like it’s nothing. Like you’re not already mourning a silence that hasn’t even happened yet. “Didn’t say which floor, but it’s probably the one without a lease listed. Nineteen-oh-two.”

Jason sets his mug down.

You don’t acknowledge it. Just butter your third piece of toast like it’s any other Thursday. Like you’re not holding your breath. Like you’re not waiting for the rollback - for him to pull away again. For this soft, strange little thing between you to snap under the weight of what it was never supposed to be.

“It just felt weird,” you say, keeping your tone easy. “Too clean. Didn’t match her usual bullshit. Thought you’d wanna know.”

Jason’s already walking toward the cracked tablet on the counter, screen half-dead, fingers moving fast.

You shuffle past him. Headed for the bathroom.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just habit. Focus. Muscle memory. But it still feels like the start of a reset. And you hate how much you don’t want that.

“I’ll leave you to your stewing,” you mutter. “Try not to bring down a skyscraper before lunch.”

No response.

You shut the door. Stare at yourself in the mirror.

And freeze.

Because what you expect to see - raccoon eyes, toast crumbs, full goblin-mode exhaustion - isn’t what greets you.

You look awful, yes. But not the way you planned.

Your hair’s a disaster, sticking out in odd directions from the braided chaos you slept on. There’s definitely a smudge of something near your jaw - peanut butter? mascara? existential regret?

But your eyes are bright. Cheeks flushed. And worst of all?

You’re smiling.

Not full beam. Not teeth. Just this soft, stupid curve at the corner of your mouth, like you’re holding onto something warm and don’t want to put it down. Like you just stayed up all night whispering in the dark with someone who made you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. Like you’re thirteen again and someone’s dared to like you back.

You blink. Step closer. Try to wipe the look off your face with the back of your hand like that’ll fix it. Like you can scrape off the evidence.

It doesn’t budge.

So you run the tap. Splash your face. Exhale hard.

And try to find your way back to the version of you that doesn’t look like you're halfway gone on a boy who knows how to break things.

***

The door sticks a little when you shove it open - still swollen from last week’s rain, still too stubborn to be fixed properly.

“-and then she says, ‘It’s only illegal if the bride finds out,’ which I feel like should be embroidered on a throw pillow or carved into the fucking city charter at this point-”

You trail off.

Because Jason’s still in the kitchen.

Exactly where you left him this morning.

Same black shirt. Same grey sweats. Same boots. Same expression - a mix of laser focus and low-grade murder - scowling down at the tablet on the counter like it personally insulted his mother.

Only difference is the chaos.

Papers everywhere. Floor to counter to sink. Some printed, some handwritten, some highlighted with an aggression that feels less “note-taking” and more “premeditated assault.”

He doesn’t look up.

You drop your bag by the door, eyeing the scene. “You grow roots while I was gone?”

“Mm.”

“What’s happening here?” You gesture vaguely at the mess. “Trying to summon something?”

Jason grunts. Which you’ve learned is Jason for I heard you, I just haven’t decided if I care enough to answer.

You toe off your shoes, make your way toward the kitchen. Elbow on the counter, chin in hand, you peer down at the tablet. It’s a grainy blueprint, too zoomed-in to mean anything. Something that might be ductwork. Or maybe a cursed maze. There’s a post-it stuck to the corner with the word NORTH?? underlined three times.

You blink. “Is this Kane Tower stuff?”

He nods once, doesn’t look up. “Bitch of a building.”

“Because of security?”

“Because of everything.” He swipes to another schematic - lines on top of lines, red zones crisscrossing every hallway. “Retrofitted tech in a Frankenstein shell. Cameras on every angle except the ones that matter. Elevator access is locked tighter than a mob safe. And every staffer’s badge is linked to biometric checkpoints.”

You whistle low. “Sounds fun.”

“Not for me.” He gestures to the counter, scattered with a warzone of paper. “Even if I get in, I’m flagged the second I pause too long. That building doesn’t do idle time. Everyone’s scanned, logged, and watched.”

You glance at a printout near your elbow - someone’s security roster with half the names blacked out. Below it, a printed still from Mercado Market. Your gut tugs.

The logo again.

Snake around a bone. Wings tapering into blades.

Wrong.

“Hey,” you murmur. “That’s the guy from Mercado.”

Jason hums. “I clocked it too. Patch on the collar’s the same. Popped up in some contractor logs for Kane. But the logo’s not on any vendor lists.”

You frown. “Weird as hell.”

He nods once. “Tells me someone’s outsourcing under the table.”

You stretch, cracking your neck, and wander over to the fridge. There’s a sad apple and a bag of something that used to be cheese. You grab a protein bar off the counter instead. “You thought about just walking in the front door?”

Jason blinks. “As who?”

You shrug. “Dunno. Guy with a clipboard. Building inspector. Executive asshole. Phil.”

He stares at you.

“Phil?” he echoes.

“You look like a Phil.”

He squints. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Means I bet if you wore a suit and talked like you knew what a KPI was, someone would hand you a keycard and a latte.”

"You wanna explain what a KPI is?"

“God, no. But I’ll do your hair so you look trustworthy.”

He snorts. Tosses a paper aside like it offended him. "That's not going to work."

“Why not?” you ask, halfway through unwrapping the protein bar. “People bullshit their way into buildings all the time.”

Jason leans on the counter. “Because the clearance is biometric. You can’t fake a thumbprint unless you’ve got the original. Facial scan pings every thirty seconds once you’re in the elevator. One glitch, and you’re flagged.”

You chew. “Well, that’s dumb.”

He doesn’t argue.

You finish your bite, then nudge a paper aside with your knuckle. “What about the secretary?”

Jason’s brow furrows. “What about her?”

“She’s in the system, right? Logs the floor traffic. Has ears on who’s coming and going.”

Jason nods, slowly. “She’s chatty. Saw it in the footage - talks to every suit who walks through. Might know which contractors are just names on a clipboard versus actual bodies.”

“Exactly.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “You want me to tail her?”

“No,” you say, wiping your mouth. “I want to talk to her.”

Jason stills.

You toss the protein bar wrapper in the trash. Lean a hip against the counter.

“She’s the one Greeves bitched about, yeah?” you say. “Too many opinions. Nose in everyone’s business. Probably dying for someone new to gossip at. You give me a name and a badge number, I bet I can get her spilling in ten minutes flat.”

Jason looks sceptical. “You think she’ll just hand over floor access intel to a stranger?”

“Course not. But she’ll tell me who’s banging who, who’s been working late, who got booted for some quiet HR issue that was really corporate espionage. You think a building like that has airtight security and no leaks? Please.” You smirk. “Gotham runs on petty drama. You just gotta know where to poke.”

Jason’s still watching you. Assessing. Not doubting you, exactly - just turning it over in his head like he’s not used to trusting anyone else to be clever.

Finally, he says, “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you reply, brushing a crumb off your shirt. “I want to.”

Jason doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks to the papers again, then back to you.

And for half a second, something in his expression stutters - like a loose wire sparking behind his eyes. It's gone almost instantly, buried under the usual grit and calculation, but you catch it. That flicker of something raw.

Not surprise, exactly.

Gratitude, maybe. Or the ache of it.

Like part of him is trying to understand why you’d choose this - choose to step into his mess, his mission, his life - without being asked. Like he's holding the shape of your offer in his hands and doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

It makes something in your chest pull tight.

Because you know that look. You’ve seen it in mirrors. In locked bathroom stalls. In the moments before you talk yourself out of asking for help.

You cross your arms. “What, you think I can’t pull off a nosy contractor’s girlfriend with a Starbucks cup and too many opinions about mid-century elevator lobbies?”

Jason huffs. “No. I think you’ll terrify her.”

You grin. “Perfect. Then we’re halfway there.”

Jason exhales, shaking his head like he’s not sure if this is a great idea or the best terrible one he’s heard all week.

You crunch the wrapper. Drop it in the trash. “Think about it, Phil.”

Jason groans into his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

***

The packed lunch is a lie.

Not a very good one. Bodega sandwich, bag of kettle chips that’ve been half-crushed by the weight of Jason’s paranoia and poor grocery storage. Jammed into a greasy paper sack with a handwritten note scrawled across the front: eat something, idiot.

You’re pretending it’s for your contractor boyfriend. Pretending you’re the kind of person who brings a man his lunch just to see who he’s been smiling at lately. Pretending like the whole thing is mundane enough that no-one should suspect anything strange.

You’re good at pretending. Always have been.

But it’s harder when you’re standing in the bathroom of a safehouse the size of a glorified closet, and that same pretend-boyfriend is tucking your hair behind your ear.

Jason’s hands are warm. Callused in that uneven way that says most of his scars weren’t stitched up in time. Still, he’s careful. Too careful, maybe. Like the part of him that knows how to clean a gun is trying to figure out what to do with softness.

He nudges another strand back.

You try not to flinch.

Not because you don’t want him to - but because you do. Because it’s too much. Too gentle. Too pointedly not a threat, and that makes it worse somehow. Like being held under a magnifying glass and told not to squirm.

Then he picks up the glasses.

Standard black frames. Slightly crooked. One arm already loose enough to slip. He wipes the lenses on the hem of his shirt, muttering something under his breath about shitty wipes and anti-glare filters, and then lifts them to your face.

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. The glasses settle behind your ears. His fingers pause.

Just for a second.

And it shouldn’t matter. It’s nothing. Barely a touch. Barely pressure. But your skin lights up like he’s struck a match and left it burning.

He doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Just stands there, close enough that you can smell the last of his cologne and whatever dusty smell always clings to his clothes after patrol. His fingers twitch - almost imperceptibly - like some part of him’s still debating whether to pull back.

You glance up.

And his eyes are already on you. Green. Softer than they have any right to be. Less storm, more forest - thick and quiet and impossible to look away from.

You should.

You really should.

But you don’t.

You just hold his gaze like you’re waiting for the crash.

There’s something in his expression - not just focus, not just assessment. It’s gentler than that. Like he’s watching to see how this lands. Like he knows this isn’t nothing, even if neither of you are saying it.

Your pulse trips.

You feel it in your wrists, in your ribs, in the soft part of your throat where your voice always catches when he gets too close. He tilts your chin slightly. Adjusts the angle of the arms behind your ears like they matter. Like this whole charade has to be perfect.

“There,” he says.

And the word is nothing, technically. Just a placeholder. A marker of completion. But it lands like a promise you weren’t ready to hear.

You blink. Try to breathe. Try not to tip forward. Try not to want. Your chest pulls tight - an inhale you never quite release. You feel him retreat a fraction, the moment easing before it can break.

So, naturally, you shoot it in the kneecap.

“Seriously?” you say, flat. “Glasses?”

Jason huffs, half-smile tugging. “What.”

“This is straight-to-streaming spy garbage. What’s next, lipstick taser?”

He shrugs. “Don’t tempt me.”

You glance at the mirror. Grimace. “You know everyone in that building’s probably already wired. Gotham’s practically got corporate espionage in the plumbing.”

“Yeah, and none of them have my encryption key.”

He steps back. Checks the mic in your collar. You resist the urge to fidget.

“You’re the one who bitched about contacts,” he says.

“I didn’t bitch. I said they feel like wet clingfilm on my eyeball.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Says the man fitting me with surveillance glasses like we’re storming Arkham.”

He grunts.

Then: “You look good in them.”

It slips out like a missed step on a stair. Casual. Almost careless.

But your stomach still swoops. Not a nosedive - not yet - just that stomach-drop you get at the top of a rollercoaster. That half-second where gravity goes sideways and your body forgets the ground exists.

“Oh,” you say, eloquently.

Because you're trying not to read into it. Trying not to want to.

Your face burns anyway.

You adjust the glasses - unnecessary, fidgety. His thumbprint is still on the lens. You’re too afraid to wipe it off. You stare somewhere over his shoulder. Try not to look at his mouth. Try not to imagine what it would feel like if he leaned in. If he meant it. If this wasn’t just one more thing you weren’t allowed to want.

You’ve been here before, not here exactly, but close. Enough to know how this goes. That wanting isn’t the same as getting. That softness is always just a trick of the light. You’ve kissed boys who held your hand like it meant something, and then let go when it didn’t.

You don't want him to let go. 

So you can't give him something to let go of.

Jason doesn’t look at you. Just tugs the collar of your jacket back into place. Checks the wire. Keeps his hands steady like he didn’t just short-circuit your whole damn central nervous system.

“You’re wired. I’ll be watching and listening the whole time. If anything goes sideways, you pull your phone out and fake a call. You say it’s from me. If I hear that, I’m moving.”

You nod. Barely.

Because you’re still processing the heat in your face. The distance between you. The memory of his hands and how easily it would all unravel if you let it.

“Okay,” you say.

Jason watches you for a beat longer.

Then, quieter: “You sure about this?”

You glance up. Let the weight of it settle.

“I was raised in a house with six rotating felons and a woman who could get the truth out of you just by looking disappointed. I’ve got this.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close enough.

He steps back.

You grab the lunch sack. Tuck your nerves under your sleeve. And you don’t think about the way his fingers felt. You just walk out the door.

***

The lobby at Kane Tower is colder than you expect.

Not just temperature-wise - though, yeah, the air-con’s got teeth - but in the way everything gleams. The kind of sterile polish that screams hush money and NDA clauses. Even the marble’s been buffed to an unsettling sheen, like the floor’s trying to pretend it’s never been walked on.

You keep your head down.

Not in a suspicious way - just in a I’m-so-sorry-I’m-here kind of way. The way someone carries themselves when they’re running an errand they don’t want to be running. Lunch bag clutched awkwardly in both hands. Shoulders slightly hunched. Expression equal parts guilt and urgency.

The disguise isn’t the clothes. It’s the performance.

And this one’s easy.

You’ve been playing mirrorball since you were fifteen - reading moods, matching tones. At the salon, it’s second nature. Chatty client? You’re sunshine. Nervous first-timer? Soft and steady. Divorce hair? You pour wine out of a conditioner bottle and ask if he cheated.

So this?

This is just another client.

You zero in on the receptionist desk like you’re a little lost, a little flustered, and just charming enough to survive it. She’s perched behind it like a queen in acrylics - headset angled just so, blouse too crisp to be off-the-rack. Probably mid-thirties, good brows, bad shoes. Not her fault - the dress code’s clearly choking her.

You wait until she glances up.

Then you wince, sheepish. “Sorry - hi. I know I’m not supposed to be up here. I just - he forgot his lunch, and I figured better me than a whole H.R. fire drill.”

You offer the brown paper bag like a peace treaty.

The receptionist arches a brow.

“And who is he?”

You take a gamble.

“Oh. Uh - Phil. Well, Phillip, technically. Michael, on paper, which - don't even get me started.” You roll your eyes with the kind of fond exhaustion that only long-term girlfriends or hostage negotiators can pull off. “He’s one of the contractors. Renovation team. Usually up on nineteen-oh-two?”

Her expression doesn’t soften exactly, but it shifts. Calculating. Checking for tells.

You double down. Lower your voice a touch. “Listen, I wouldn’t normally, but last week I came by and bumped into one of the execs’ wives - Mrs. Greeves? Blonde, real sharp voice, looked at me like I’d just pissed on her handbag?”

That does it.

The receptionist snorts. Actually snorts. “Oh, her.”

You lean in, faux-conspiratorial. “Right? She was horrid. I said hi and she gave me this look like I was disease in heels. I swear I was ten seconds from faking a medical emergency.”

“She does that to everyone,” the woman says, shaking her head. “Last month she told a janitor he ‘smelled poor.’ He was wearing Old Spice.”

You grimace. “Oof.”

“She treats this place like her personal kingdom just because her husband signed a lease.”

You let your mouth drop, eyes wide with practised sympathy. “Wait - so he’s not even, like, on the board or anything?”

“Please,” the receptionist huffs. “He oversees one floor and still acts like he built the place with his bare hands. And she-” her voice drops, “-calls down here twice a week to ask if we’ve ‘seen any suspicious characters’ in the lobby.”

You give her a look. “Is that code for anyone who shops off the rack?”

“She once called security because someone brought in a guide dog.”

“Wow.”

“She said it looked at her funny.”

You press a hand to your chest. “Justice for the dog.”

That earns a laugh - full-bodied and honest. Her posture loosens a little. Not much. But enough.

You glance toward the elevators. Observe. Four shafts, three active, one “under maintenance” with a suspiciously clean smudge on the glass. No label for the 1902 floor, just a digital panel requiring clearance. You mentally note the direction of the cameras. One near the corner - angled just shy of the desk - and a second above the elevator bank.

You file that away.

Then turn back to the secretary, careful to keep your expression just the right amount of frazzled.

“So - uh - I don’t wanna get him in trouble or anything. Is there a ... sign-in sheet or something?”

She waves it off. “Not for drop-offs. You’re fine.”

“Bless you. I was halfway through planning my courtroom testimony.”

Another grin. You let the silence stretch just enough to suggest hesitation, then:

“He’s not even supposed to be working up there this week,” you say, casual, like the thought just hit you. “They pulled him off some plumbing reroute last-minute. Said the floor had priority. Sounded like politics.”

“Probably,” she says, tapping something on her keyboard. “It’s always politics up there. Renovation team’s been bounced around for weeks.”

“Oh yeah?”

She shrugs. “Changes every few days. Half the names I log in don’t match the contractors listed on the staff sheet.”

You let your eyebrows tick up. “Isn’t that weird?”

She gives you a look. “Sweetheart, I stopped asking questions when the office on fifteen replaced their water cooler with a champagne cart.”

You laugh. “Wait, seriously?”

“Deadly. I offered to take it off their hands if it ever started to ‘disrupt workflow.’” She air-quotes the phrase. “Management wasn’t amused.”

You glance around again. Two contractors exit the elevator, splitting off from the morning rush. They don’t move like union guys. Too clean. Too quiet. One has a duffel slung crossbody - bulky, heavy-looking. The other clocks the receptionist without breaking stride and adjusts something under his jacket.

Your eyes catch the stitchwork on their uniforms.

Not the Kane Tower logo. A different one. The snake and bone. Coiled up the sleeve, flanked by tapered wings.

It’s subtle - black thread on charcoal fabric - but unmistakable. The same emblem from Mercado. The wrong one. The one that looked more like pharmaceutical branding than anything that belonged on a worksite.

You shift slightly and catch their reflection in the polished wall panel beside the desk. No smiles. No small talk. They move with that practised tension - deliberate, heads down, not trying to blend in so much as move through unnoticed.

One flashes a badge with a red strip as they approach a locked door at the far end of the mezzanine.

You nudge the lunch bag higher in your grip, like it’s getting heavy.

“Anyway - thanks for not frogmarching me out. I’m still recovering from the Greeves incident. Although…” You pause, letting the thought trail out like a loose thread. “Maybe it makes sense she’s so … tense. Phil mentioned seeing a few women come through this week without proper ID - said they were waved straight through to Mr. Greeves’ office.”

You shrug. Smile, light and sympathetic.

“But I guess you’d know more about that.”

The receptionist’s expression twitches. Not in surprise, exactly - more like recognition. Confirmation. She leans back in her chair, one brow raised like she’s not sure if you’re fishing or just dumb-lucky.

You keep your breath even. Don’t flinch. The trick isn’t pretending you know more than you do - it’s making them want to fill in the blanks for you.

She huffs a breath. “Yeah. They’ve been around a few times. Never badge in, always escorted.”

Your brows lift, impressed. “That sounds fancy.”

“Or sketchy,” she mutters. “No one tells us anything. But every time they show up, something changes. Keycards get wiped. Floor access reroutes. Hell, the elevator voice even changed last week.”

You blink. “They changed the voice?”

“Swear to god. It used to sound like a flight attendant. Now it sounds like a Bond villain.”

You let out a small laugh - just the right amount of delighted. “That’s so weird.”

She leans forward again, chin in hand. “This place’s full of weird. You work here long enough, you stop asking questions.”

You nod, lips pursed like that makes sense. “Phil says the same. Like, it’s just safer not to poke the bear.”

“He’s not wrong.”

There’s a pause. You glance at the bag in your hands, then back at her.

“Would you mind…?” You hold out the bag, tentative. “I’ll tell him to pick it up.”

She waves it over. “Sure. What’s his name again?”

“Michael.” You grin. “Unless he’s in trouble, then it’s ‘Phillip’.”

She chuckles, scribbling something onto a post-it and sticking it to the bag like she’s done this a thousand times before.

“Got it. I’ll make sure it gets to him.”

“Thank you,” you say, all warmth and gratitude. “You’re a lifesaver. Really.”

“No problem.”

You flash her one last appreciative smile, take a small step back, and glance around the lobby one more time.

Another pair of suits exit the elevator. They move too fast. Don’t make eye contact. One of them has a sleeve that doesn’t quite fit - something boxy and off about the stitching. You file that away too.

You get out of the building with your heart beating too fast and your hands still clutched like they’re holding something important. They’re not - just air and nerves and the memory of a too-bright lobby and a secretary who clearly doesn’t get paid enough to care.

You don’t look back.

Not like you’re fleeing. Not like you’re suspicious. Just like someone who’s late for the rest of their day.

The city noise folds back around you - horns, footsteps, heat off the sidewalk. You duck around the corner and let your shoulders drop.

Then tap the side of your collar with two fingers.

Mutter, quiet enough that it doesn’t look like talking:

“She said half the names she logs don’t match the contractor list.”

You pause, glance both ways like it matters, then keep walking.

“If you want in … go now. Say your girlfriend just texted - dropped off your lunch. She probably won’t even check if you’re supposed to be there. Use the snake logo.”

Another beat. You cross the street on autopilot. Smirk faintly. Can’t help it.

“Tell her you’re Phil.”

Then you cut the mic and keep walking.

Like you didn’t just kick a door open with a sandwich and a smile.

***

The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not in a cold way - just quiet. Like it's holding its breath.

You’ve been pacing soft loops around the kitchen island. Half checking the time. Half pretending you’re not. The tablet’s still where he left it. The comm link is silent. It’s been over two hours since you gave the all-clear.

You sit. Stand. Sit again. The chair creaks like it’s judging you. You chew half a protein bar and forget to swallow the last bite.

Then-

The lock clicks.

You freeze.

The door swings open.

And Jason steps in like the wind didn’t almost knock you flat.

He’s wearing a plain grey contractor tee with the logo on the chest, stitched clean above the heart. Dust clings to the hem like he actually did a hard day’s work. His jeans are dark and worn in, hanging low on his hips, cuffs streaked with concrete, completed with scuffed work boots, the kind that thud heavy on tile and track in trouble.

The whole outfit is so convincingly nondescript it loops right back around to hot. The kind of hot that makes your stomach do a weird little flip, because what the hell. You’re a grown adult. You have taste.

But apparently, your taste includes men who look like they could install a water heater and break someone’s jaw in the same afternoon.

You blink, because that shirt hugs his arms like it’s grateful to be there. And somewhere, completely uninvited, your brain dredges up the memory of the plumber who used to fix the pipes at your parents’ place - thick forearms, low voice, called you "kid" like it was supposed to help.

It did not help.

You blink again. Try to reset your internal settings.

“Where did you get those?”

He shrugs, shutting the door behind him. “Don’t worry about it.”

And then - god - he smiles.

Not a smirk. Not a twitch of amusement halfway to a grimace. A real one. Subtle. Warm. Threaded with something like pride. Like he just got away with something big and can’t quite believe it worked.

It hits you square in the ribs and you forget all about the hot plumber.

You want to squeeze that look out of him again and again - bottle it, pin it to the wall, eat it with a spoon. You’ve never wanted to win a smile so badly in your life.

He kicks off his boots without looking at you. Peels the fake badge off his chest and tosses it on the counter.

You’re still staring. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“What happened?” you ask, voice low. Careful.

Jason shakes his head once. Not dismissive - just private. Instead, he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time today. Like something’s still slotting into place behind his eyes.

“I-” he starts, but the words stall. He exhales instead. Takes a step forward. Then another.

And then he’s right in front of you. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. The leftover buzz of adrenaline still clinging to his skin.

“You did good,” he says, quiet.

You open your mouth. No sound comes out.

He moves - one hand finding your waist, the other sliding behind your shoulders - and pulls you in. Just like that. No warning, no slow build.

A hug.

Full-bodied. Solid. No armour.

He presses his face to your hair like it’s instinct. Like it’s the first place he wanted to go. His breath is warm against your temple, steady and sure.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

And something in you splinters.

Because it’s not just the words. It’s the weight of them. Like no one’s ever helped him without asking for something back. Like he didn’t expect this to work. Like he didn’t expect you to work.

You wrap your arms around him because it’s all you can do. Your fingers curl in the hem of his shirt.

And in that moment, you know.

You would do anything to make him this happy again. Anything to keep that look on his face. To be the reason he breathes easier. To see him come back through that door every single time and choose you - not with promises or poetry, but with something like this.

Steady. Wordless. Real.

You close your eyes.

And hold on.

Chapter Text

You don’t let go first.

That’s the part you’ll remember.

You’d love to pretend it’s mutual. That you both shifted at the same time, awkward and even-footed. But the truth is: Jason pulled back first. Just a little. Just enough for you to feel the air slip in where his body used to be. Cold. Thin.

And you followed. Slower. Like maybe if you just stayed still long enough, he’d change his mind.

He doesn’t.

You step back.

Not far. Not dramatically. Just enough that the hug becomes a memory. A technicality. Something that could be shrugged off in the morning if you both play it right.

You look at him. He looks at the floor.

And for a second, neither of you knows what to do.

There’s an empty glass by the sink. You lurch toward it like it’s an emergency. Jason mutters something about brushing his teeth. The sink in the bathroom starts running almost immediately.

You take a sip of water you don’t want. Stare out the window at nothing.

You’re grinning. You can feel it. Stupid, soft-edged, involuntary. It’s not even the full thing - just this pathetic tug at the corner of your mouth like you’re suppressing a cough made of butterflies. You try to school your face into something more normal. Wipe your hand over your mouth like that might erase it.

It doesn’t.

You are a full adult. You’ve seen people shot in the neck. You’ve given CPR on a salon floor. You’ve bailed your brother out of county lockup at 2 a.m. while wearing a crop top and one flip-flop.

You should not be this affected by a fucking hug.

But it wasn’t just the hug. Not really.

It was the hand on your back. The way he didn’t pull away immediately. The way his voice sounded when he said he you did a good job like he didn't know what he'd do without you.

You press the glass to your cheek.

Cool. Grounding. Ineffective.

The bathroom door opens.

Jason walks out, hair damp, jaw tight, avoiding your eyes like they might indict him. He’s back in the same hoodie as earlier, sleeves rolled up, the bruises on his forearms just peeking past the cuffs. You catch yourself staring.

He stops in the middle of the room like he forgot why he walked in.

You clear your throat. “I, uh. Got you a beer.”

You point to the bottle you'd got out before he came in, a forgotten offering that now feels a little too housewife to sit comfortably in your chest.

Jason blinks. “Right.”

He walks past you to grab it.

You move to the couch.

He sits at the little table by the window. Pulls the curtain back an inch, like he’s checking for movement outside, but doesn’t seem to actually be seeing anything. Just a habit. Just muscle memory.

The silence stretches.

Not heavy. Just thick. Like fabric too warm for the season.

You flip open your laptop, cue up another episode of whatever disaster TV you’ve been watching. Let the voices fill the air. Background noise. Something to layer over the obvious.

Jason doesn’t move.

Eventually, you toss him a look over your shoulder. “You wanna sit or just loom dramatically by the window all night?”

He glances at you.

It takes him another ten seconds to move.

When he does, it’s stiff. Controlled. He sinks onto the edge of the couch like he’s worried the thing might bite. You slide your feet over to give him space, trying not to brush him on accident - or on purpose. You haven’t decided which one you’re more afraid of.

Jason sets the beer on the floor.

Doesn’t drink it.

You let the show play.

Nobody says anything for a while.

You’re not sure if the awkwardness is shared or if you’re just feeling it extra hard in your own skin. But Jason’s not laughing at the screen like he usually does. Not even snorting when the idiot bachelor says he’s “emotionally exclusive but physically exploratory.”

You peek sideways.

Jason’s eyes are on the TV, but his jaw’s tight. Still wound up. Still somewhere else.

And even though your own body is buzzing with the high of proximity and touch and goddamn feelings, your stomach flips a little. Because he doesn’t seem giddy. Doesn’t seem flustered.

He just seems tired.

Like maybe he gave something away without meaning to, and now he’s trying to reel it back in.

You want to reach out. Say something. Make a joke. Ease it.

But instead, you tuck your knees under the blanket and pretend your pulse isn’t hammering like you’re seventeen again.

Jason shifts slightly. Not toward you.

Just away from his own thoughts.

You press play on another episode and try not to wish the hug had lasted longer. Try not to hope it meant what you want it to mean.

You were never good at safe bets. But God, you want this one to pay out. Even just a little.

You open your mouth.

He beats you to it.

“I didn’t mean for that to be … weird.”

His voice is low. Careful. Like he’s laying out a wire he’s not sure is live.

You blink.

Then: “Weird?”

Jason shifts, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eye. “The hug. Just - don’t want you to think it … meant something.”

Something flinches in your chest. Small. Quick. Not painful, exactly. But sharp enough that you straighten a little under the blanket. Sharp enough to make your eyes flicker to him.

He’s still looking at the floor.

You swallow.

“Oh,” you say. Quiet. Trying not to sound like you just got winded by someone who didn’t even throw a punch.

You almost let it go there. Almost say “sure,” and play it cool. Like you didn’t spend the last hour replaying the feel of his hands on your back, the shape of his breath against your collarbone.

But then-

You notice it.

The blush.

Just there. Creeping up his neck. Bright against the collar of his hoodie. And the way his arms are folded, tight and defensive, like he’s trying to contain something he doesn’t know how to deal with.

Your mouth twitches.

And suddenly, everything shifts again. The weight in your chest lifts, just a little. Enough to give you breath. Enough to let you feel smug.

Because he’s not trying to erase it.

He’s flustered.

You smile. Slow. Crooked.

“Relax,” you say, voice light. “It’s not going in my diary.”

Jason blinks.

Looks at you.

You shrug. “I won’t doodle our initials in hearts, either. Probably.”

That does it.

He lets out a laugh - short, embarrassed, but real. It slips out of him like he wasn’t expecting it, eyes wide for half a second before he ducks his head.

“You’re an asshole,” he mutters.

“Mmhm.” You turn back to the screen. “And you’re bad at playing it cool.”

“I am cool.”

You snort. “Sure you are, Phil.”

He groans like you’ve wounded him.

But when you glance sideways again, some of the tension is gone from his frame. He’s sunk back against the couch cushion. A little looser. A little more like himself.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

The show plays on. Some disaster about to unfold on a yacht. Two people screaming about loyalty while their mics slip into the ocean. You settle back, heart still tapping a strange little rhythm in your chest. Because maybe you didn’t imagine it. Maybe he felt it too. Maybe it’s not just nothing pretending to be something. Maybe it’s real. Even if it only lasts tonight.

You tuck that thought away.

And let the moment breathe.

***

It’s late enough that the sun’s crawling through the front window at just the right angle to highlight every missed sweep of the broom. You make a mental note to fix it. Then forget it immediately.

Because Aysha walks in like she owns the place.

“Holy shit,” she says, pausing at the door, sunglasses still on, arms raised in mock-surrender. “You’re alive.”

You want to laugh. You want to say something sharp about ghosts or being raised from the dead. But it catches in your throat. Because you’ve been somewhere else. Somewhere warm and uncertain and a little too good to look at directly.

So you roll your eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not. Margot said you fell off the face of the earth. We were gonna start printing T-shirts.”

She pulls off the glasses and crosses the floor in a lazy saunter. Familiar. Confident. She’s wearing a cropped ‘Gotham U’ hoodie and flared cargos, earrings big enough to slice a throat, and sneakers that are way too clean for someone who claims to take the subway.

Aysha’s been your friend since you were sixteen and got banned from every underground venue south of Dockside for slapping a promoter who tried to grope her onstage. She’d watched you throw a drink, steal someone’s mic, and climb out a bathroom window all in one night - and had offered you a ride home before you hit the pavement.

She’s two years older, too smart for her own good, and makes most of her money selling vintage jackets she claims to “find” but you suspect she lifts from better houses in worse neighbourhoods. Once dated a guy who wrote poetry on receipt paper and cried during thunderstorms. Once slapped a judge’s daughter in a public park. Once helped you duct-tape your bedroom window shut when a drunk ex tried to climb through it at 3 a.m.

Aysha’s the kind of person who’d risk a public transport stabbing to bring you cake on your birthday, but would also rob you blind if you ever got too comfortable.

She’s also been cutting her hair with kitchen scissors because you refuse to do it for free.

You smile before you mean to. “You want a cut or just here to roast me in front of my employees?”

Aysha drops into the chair. “Little from column A, little from column B.”

You grab the cape, flick it with a bit of flare, and snap it around her neck. She still smells like the same cheap vanilla body spray she wore in high school. She still picks at her split ends while you section her hair. She still talks with her whole body.

“You gonna tell me where you’ve been?” she asks, head tilted like a challenge.

You shrug. “Busy.”

Aysha raises an eyebrow. “Busy doing what?”

You comb through her curls. Try to focus. “Work. Family. Plumbing disasters.”

“That pipe still leaking?”

“I … think so?” You pause. “I don’t know.”

And then it hits you.

You don’t know.

You haven’t asked. Haven’t checked in with your landlord. Haven’t swung by the apartment except to grab a change of clothes from the hamper and pretend it still feels like home.

You blink. Grip the comb a little tighter.

Because that’s not like you.

You don’t like feeling untethered. You’ve always been the kind of person who knows where your keys are. Who checks the locks twice. Who pays your rent early and keeps receipts in a labelled folder just in case. Your apartment’s not much - peeling walls, rust in the pipes, the ghost of mildew in the corners - but it’s yours. Or it was. 

You swallow. Suddenly very aware of how soft your chest feels. How warm. How exposed. Because you haven’t just forgotten to check the leak. You’ve forgotten everything about the place.

And worse - Jason hasn’t asked, either.

Not once.

Not in a casual way, not in a jokey way, not in a practical way. No “Think you’ll be heading home soon?” No “Want me to go check the place out?” No “What’s the situation with the faucet?”

Just silence. Like the idea of you returning hasn’t even crossed his mind.

Aysha shifts to look at you, but you gently tug her chin back forward.

“Wait-” she says, frowning. “You think so?”

Your stomach pulls, slow and low. A weird guilt blooms in your throat. Not hot. Not sharp. Just this slow, rising wave of what the fuck am I doing?

Because you haven’t even considered going back.

“I haven’t been home much.”

Aysha blinks at you in the mirror. “Where the hell have you been sleeping?”

Before you can lie - and you’re not even sure what the lie would be - June chimes in from the back.

“She’s been staying with her mystery man,” she says brightly, not even looking up from the towel bundle she’s folding. “Won’t tell anyone who he is. Which obviously means it’s serious.”

You freeze.

Hand mid-air. Comb tangled between your fingers. A lock of Aysha’s hair droops just out of reach, and you don’t move to catch it.

It takes a beat for your brain to catch up. Like the words were spoken underwater and only now hit the surface, echoing in your chest louder than they should. You glance up. Meet Aysha’s wide-eyed expression in the mirror just as the blood starts to rise in your ears.

And suddenly you feel exposed. Like someone pulled the curtain back on something you were still trying to name. Like Jason’s name might be floating in the air even though no one’s said it - like it’s hanging there, hot and invisible, waiting for someone to touch it.

You weren’t ready for this.

Weren't ready for people are asking about him. Because now he exists. In your real life. In this room. And that makes it feel like something's actually happening. Like you're not just playing house in someone else's space. Like this could be building toward something with weight.

And you-

You don’t know what to do with that.

Aysha’s mouth falls open. “Shut up. You’re seeing someone?”

“I’m not-” you start. Then stop.

Because the tone came out wrong. Too sharp. Too defensive. Worse than a name. Worse than an answer.

You can feel June glance up, just briefly. Aysha’s still watching you in the mirror, head cocked, eyes narrowing like she’s already sniffing out the lie.

“You okay?”

You brush at a section too fast. “I’m fine.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Not like this. You’re smiling like you robbed a bank and got away with it.”

You wipe the expression you didn't even realise was on your face. “Maybe I did.”

“Okay, now I need to know who this guy is.”

“There is no guy,” you lie, too quickly.

Aysha gives you a look that says bitch, please.

June hums from across the room. “You said that last week, too. And then blushed when I asked whose hoodie you were wearing.”

You glare at her. “I had a fever.”

June grins. “And the week before that-”

“I had food poisoning.”

Aysha crosses her arms under the cape. “Oh my god. You’re in love.”

You nearly drop the comb.

“I’m not in love.”

Aysha raises both brows. “Okay. That was definitely convincing.”

You click your tongue. Focus hard on the layers like they’re going to save you.

Aysha goes quiet for a moment. Then, softer: “Hey. Seriously. You’re okay, right?”

You nod. Don’t look up. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

And it’s mostly true. Because your skin still feels warm from last night’s hug. Your chest still stutters at the memory of Jason’s fingers brushing your cheek. You haven’t felt like this in a long time - stupid, awkward, floaty.

You don’t know if your pipe’s been fixed. You don’t know what Jason meant when he pulled away. You don’t know what it means that you haven’t slept in your own bed in a week.

Still.

You smile at Aysha through the mirror.

“He's just a friend,” you say. “That’s all.”

But even as you say it, something low in your chest stirs. Not warning. Not dread. Just … an itch. You say it the same way you’ve said a dozen other lies in your life. Like it costs nothing. Like your voice doesn’t tremble. Aysha nods. June doesn’t call you out. But the lie sits wrong in your mouth. Like wearing someone else’s lipstick. Too soft. Too bright. Too easy to smear.

***

You don’t mean to rush.

You close up the salon like it’s any other night - lights off, cash drawer balanced, chairs wiped down and turned. You text June a snide comment about her playlist. You lock the door. You even stop at the bodega on the corner for kettle chips and some new off-brand candy shaped like bats. Stupid. The kind of thing you'd pretend you were buying for a child, if the cashier ever asked.

But still. You walk a little faster than usual.

Not because you’re giddy.

Obviously.

You just - want to make sure Jason ate something. And didn't punch any civilians. And didn’t spend the day crawling around construction scaffolding with stitches still healing in his side.

That’s all.

The third-floor hallway smells like dust and pipe rot. The overhead bulb flickers once, then steadies, then flickers again like it's fighting for its life. You jiggle the key in the lock. Your elbow aches. Your feet hurt. You're halfway through mentally drafting a snarky comment about him leaving wet towels everywhere again-

But then you open the door.

And stop.

The safehouse is a mess.

Not, like, “man lives here” mess. Not “too many takeout boxes and not enough vacuuming.” This is wrecked.

Couch cushions on the floor. Storage bins ripped open. Wiring tools scattered across the kitchenette counter. The little folding table overturned like someone kicked it. Jason’s gear is everywhere - helmet, jacket, knives - but he's the real chaos, pacing the length of the room like a tiger on a leash, muttering under his breath and peeling panels off the baseboards.

Your heart jumps. It doesn’t know which direction to run in.

“Jason?”

He doesn’t hear you.

Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

He crouches near the corner, lifts a socket panel, yanks something out. He holds it up to the light - tiny, black, the size of a dime - and growls something under his breath. Not words. Not yet.

You step inside, gently shut the door behind you. The lock clicks too loud.

“Jason.”

No answer. He moves to the bookshelf. Books already on the floor. The photo of him and Dick knocked face-down again. He doesn’t fix it this time.

He mutters: “It’s here. Fucking knew it.”

The room’s buzzing with something. Not sound - something worse. A pressure. Like the air's been compressed, every molecule vibrating with unspent energy.

You cross the space slowly, boots crunching over splintered plastic from a broken headphone case. You reach out. Catch his arm.

“Hey,” you say, firm. “What the fuck is going on?”

He flinches.

And then he snatches his arm away, too fast, too rough - like your touch burned.

Your breath stutters.

Jason doesn’t look at you. His jaw’s clenched, eyes dark, shoulders taut like he’s trying to hold something inside. Something dangerous.

He gestures around the wreckage with a sharp flick of his hand. “This place is bugged.”

Your heart stutters. “The Architect?”

“No.”

“Greeves?”

“No.”

You stare at him. “Then who?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just sets the tiny listening device on the counter like it might explode. Then another. And another. His hands move fast. Efficient. Too efficient.

“Jason,” you say again, quieter now. “Who?”

He straightens up. Runs a hand through his hair. The strands spike, damp with sweat.

“It’s not them,” he mutters. “It’s-” He stops. Sucks in a breath. Tries again. “Doesn’t matter.”

Your pulse skips.

Because this isn’t like before. This isn’t storming in after a patrol, bleeding and tired and too proud to ask for help. This is something else. Something deeper. Older. Tighter wound.

You move toward him again.

Carefully.

Slow steps. Open palms. Voice soft in the wreckage.

“Talk to me,” you say. Gentle. “Please.”

That’s the thing that lands.

Not the question. Not the tone. The softness.

His head snaps toward you like he’s been slapped. Eyes sharp. Not angry - but raw. Braced. Like whatever part of him was holding it together just cracked under the weight of your kindness.

“Don’t,” he snaps. Not loud, but vicious. Not quite at you - but not not at you either. “Don’t do that.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“That.” His voice is tight. Rough-edged. “That soft voice shit. That - please. I can’t-” He cuts himself off. Looks away. Like if he keeps going, something’s going to break.

Your heart thuds.

Hard.

Because you were careful. You know how to be careful. It’s a skill you honed early, like the sound of a turning doorknob or the hitch in someone’s voice right before a blow lands. You chose every word with the same precision you use to section hair, the same calm, exacting rhythm you fall back on when the world starts spinning.

No teasing. No jabs. Just care. Just something quiet to meet the panic in him without feeding it.

And still it was too much.

He’s standing like he’s been cornered. Like your gentleness was a trap. Like the offer of it burned worse than any blade.

And for a second - just a second - you feel something sting behind your ribs. Not quite embarrassment. Not quite shame. Just that hollowing ache that comes when you try to give softness to someone and they flinch like you threw it.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Breathe through your nose. School your expression into something neutral. Unbothered. Unmoved.

But your hands are still. Your voice doesn’t come back right away. And if he’s looking - really looking - he might see it.

The way your eyes go glassy for half a second before you blink it away. The way your shoulders stiffen, not defensively, but like you’re shoring yourself up against something cold.

You’re good at hiding. You’ve made a life out of it. But not right now. Not all the way.

And Jason doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer a sorry or a backpedal. Just breathes hard through his nose and keeps his gaze pointed somewhere else - like maybe he knows what he just did and can’t bring himself to face it.

So you nod once. Slow. And step back. Just a little. Just enough.

And suddenly, you feel like a stranger in this space again. Like you’re back at square one. Like something is slipping away and you don’t know how to stop it. You look at the wreckage. The broken table. The scattered gear. The discarded bugs lined up like bones on a butcher’s block. You take in the tremble in his hands, the static in the air, the hard set of his jaw.

Your stomach turns. Because whoever it was - it wasn’t a stranger. And it wasn’t for intel. It was personal. Deep. Close.

And he won’t tell you why.

***

The couch is lumpy.

That’s not news. It’s been lumpy since day one. Too narrow. Too firm. Just soft enough to fool you into thinking it might be comfortable until it leaves your spine feeling like a cracked sidewalk.

But tonight?

Tonight it feels hostile.

You’re lying on your side, facing the kitchenette, blanket tucked under your chin like it might keep something out. The overhead light’s off. The city bleeds in through the half-cracked window, soft orange spilling across the floor. You haven’t blinked in ten minutes.

Because Jason’s still cleaning.

Not actively. Not urgently. Just - fussing.

An hour ago, you’d tried to help. Bent down to pick up a cracked casing from some gadget you couldn’t name, and his shoulder jerked like you’d pulled a trigger. The flinch wasn’t big. Wasn’t loud. Just sudden enough to stop your hand mid-air and freeze your ribs in place.

You didn’t try again.

Just sat down. Quiet. Out of the way. Out of reach.

Now, the apartment is tidied in a way that doesn’t feel like cleaning. More like containment. Like if he just realigns every cable, every screw, every loose piece of tech, the world might fall back into place with them.

Eventually, he disappears into the bed. The light goes out.

You stay on the couch.

Awake.

Alone.

Listening.

At first, it’s just the mattress creaking. A shift. A rustle. Nothing strange.

Then it starts. Faint, at first. The sound of fabric twisting. Breathing too fast. A low, strangled sound - half-whimper, half-growl - like he’s fighting something even in sleep. Especially in sleep.

Your fingers twitch on the blanket. You don’t get up. You don’t call out.

Not because you don’t care - but because you don’t know if that would make it worse. If touching him would snap the last thread he’s got left holding him together.

So you stay where you are. And you listen to the nightmare bleeding out through the open space.

You’ve always had a weird relationship with nightmares.

Some kids cry. Some crawl into their parents’ beds. Some wake up screaming.

You used to narrate yours.

Lying flat on your back. Staring at the ceiling. Listing out the monsters in alphabetical order. Fire, ghosts, home invasions, knives, lightning. Not because you were brave, but because naming things made them smaller.

You learned early that in Gotham, a bad dream was just the prelude.

The first time someone broke into your building, it was a Thursday. You’d had a nightmare the night before about a man with no eyes. The next morning, your mum made you toast, stepped over a passed-out junkie in the hallway, and told you to suck it up.

“Fear’s just your brain running drills,” she said. “Means it’s trying to keep you alive.”

You were seven.

You used to think that was good advice.

You’re not sure anymore.

Because the thing about nightmares is they don’t end when you wake up. Not really. Not in this city. Sometimes they sneak in sideways. In daylight. In the space between words. In the stretch of silence where someone won’t meet your eyes and won’t tell you who bugged their apartment and won’t let you touch their pain.

Sometimes, they live in other people.

You’re not sure what’s worse - having them, or loving someone who does.

Jason makes another sound. Low. Broken. Your whole body curls around the weight of it like instinct.

And it hits you. You don’t know how to help him. Not really. And worse - your kindness makes it worse. Your softness hurts him. It pokes at something under his skin that he doesn’t want touched. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You stare at the ceiling. Count cracks. Swallow the tight lump forming in your throat.

You used to think love was about showing up. About being there. Hands open. Voice soft.

But maybe, for him, it’s knowing when not to reach out. When to sit in the dark and let someone battle their ghosts alone. Not because you want to. Because they need you to.

You press your cheek deeper into the cushion.

Try to breathe around it.

Try not to wonder what the hell is coming next.

Chapter Text

It’s warm.

That’s the first thing you notice.

The heat of it. The steam. The way it curls around your knuckles as you press the hot towel to his throat. Jason doesn’t flinch. Just tips his chin up slightly, offering you the full length of his neck like it’s nothing. Like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

Maybe you have.

Maybe this is routine now - the soft scrape of cotton, the silver glint of the razor. The bottle of shaving cream balanced perfectly on the windowsill like it lives there. Like it’s always been there. Like it belongs.

You blink.

There’s something wrong with the light. Too gold. Like syrup, almost. It pools around his collarbones, catches in the stubble across his jaw, and glows against the small scar near his temple. A scar you don’t remember seeing before. Or maybe you do. Maybe it’s always been there. Maybe it’s yours.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

His voice is soft. Familiar. It curls low in your belly.

You drag the blade along his jaw, slow and sure. Like you know what you’re doing. Like you won’t slip.

Jason’s eyes are closed.

That’s strange.

You don’t remember him closing them.

“Turn your head,” you say, quiet.

He does.

But it’s too slow. The wrong angle. His temple bumps your wrist. You flinch - not enough to cut, just enough to feel it in your teeth.

Your hands sweat.

You try again. The next pass is smooth. So clean it almost hums.

And when you pull back, he’s smiling.

“You’re good at this,” he says.

You swallow. “You let me.”

His smile fades. Something about the light shifts. Like the sun just blinked. He leans forward.

Just slightly. Just enough that his breath hits your cheek, warm and humid and laced with whatever-aftershave-doesn’t-quite-exist.

You freeze.

Your mouth parts, reflexively. Automatically. Like it’s supposed to be a kiss. Like this is the moment. The pivot point.

But instead-

He tilts his chin again. Presses forward. Not toward you. Not toward your mouth.

Toward the blade.

You try to pull back. He follows. Jason’s throat touches steel.

Not enough to slice. Not yet.

Just enough to catch.

You gasp. Try to shift your grip, to pull it away - but your hand’s heavy. Wrong. The handle's slick. Your knuckles won’t move the way they should.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice too calm.

You shake your head. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he says. Not angry. Not even surprised. “You always do this.”

“I’m not - Jason, I’m not-”

“You're hurting me,” he says. And he presses in closer. The blade dents skin.

A drop of blood forms. Slow. Thick.

You can’t move your hand. Your knees are shaking now. Your voice won't work.

Jason keeps his eyes open. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“I feel like this because of you,” he says.

The light flickers.

Your hand is stuck. Your legs won’t hold you. There’s blood blooming down his chest now, soaking into the collar of his shirt - and it is a shirt now, not the towel, not the hoodie - something crisp and white and wrong, and it’s catching every drop like a sponge.

You scream.

Or maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s just breath.

Jason leans further into the blade.

And smiles.

***

You wake up like you’ve been thrown.

The couch cushion sticks to the sweat on your cheek. Your pulse is wild in your throat. It takes a full ten seconds to realise your hands are empty.

No razor.

No blood.

Just the safehouse. Just the dark. Just the soft, panicked thud of your own body trying to figure out where it is.

You sit up. Breathe once. Twice.

The laptop's off. The apartment’s still. But your fingers are trembling and your stomach’s flipping and you don’t dare look toward the bed because you're scared of what you’ll see.

Or worse. What you won’t.

You don’t go back to sleep. Not even close. Instead, you lie there - still half-tangled in the blanket, still too hot and too cold at the same time - and pretend you don’t feel like something’s crawling under your skin. Like your chest isn’t two sizes too small.

The dream sits on your shoulders like fog. Thick. Damp. Inevitable.

You kick the blanket off. Rise too fast. Your knees creak. The apartment is quiet - no creaking from the bed, no rustle of movement.

You brush your hair back with a hand that still feels wet. Stare at your fingers.

Still empty. Still shaking.

Get over it, you think.

It was a dream. Just a dream. No blade. No blood. No smile-that-wasn’t-a-smile. You’re not thirteen anymore. You don’t get to fall apart because your subconscious had bad timing.

You shuffle into the kitchenette.

The floor’s cold. The counters are cluttered. The little window’s still too fogged to show anything but the outline of the fire escape. It all feels real enough.

Still, you check.

Jason’s jacket is hanging by the door. His boots are kicked just off the mat - like always. His helmet’s on the shelf above the laundry, paint chipped and visor scuffed.

You exhale. It’s not relief. Not exactly. More like confirmation that you didn’t make him up. That he’s still here. Still breathing. Still real.

You touch the edge of the counter. Anchor yourself. Then flick on the kettle like you’re fine.

Coffee helps.

That’s what people say, right?

You spoon grounds into the press. Let your hands move on autopilot. The routine is solid enough - hot water, stir, wait - and it almost tricks your body into calm.

You reach for a second mug.

Pause.

It’s his.

The chipped one. The one with the dumb sticker half peeled off and the handle that sits just slightly wrong in your palm. The one he always uses, even though there are two perfectly normal ones right next to it.

You hesitate. Then you don’t. You put the mug back.

Just yours today.

He doesn’t need the extra effort. Doesn’t want it. He said as much - not in words, maybe, but in the way his voice broke when you tried to be gentle. In the way your softness landed like a slap.

You’re not going to make that mistake again.

Footsteps sound from by the bed. Slow. Barefoot. You don’t look up. Just pour your own cup and lean back against the counter like this is any other morning.

Jason emerges a second later.

His hair’s still sleep-mussed. One sleeve is caught half-rolled at the elbow. He doesn’t speak. Just blinks blearily and rubs a hand over his face as he crosses toward the kitchenette.

You hold your breath.

Not for long - just long enough to register that you don’t say good morning. You don’t ask how he slept. You don’t hold out the mug.

Jason glances toward the counter.

His hand hesitates - barely - before reaching for the chipped one you left behind.

He doesn’t comment. Just fills it. And drinks.

You don’t know if he notices. You don’t know if it matters.

You dry your hands on the dish towel. Rinse out the press. Avoid his eyes. Then you cross the room and grab your bag from the floor, shoving yesterday’s receipts into a side pocket.

You’re leaving early. You don’t have to, but you want to. Need to. It feels like discipline. Like restraint. Like the grown-up thing to do.

He doesn’t want coddling, you remind yourself. He doesn’t need you to hover. Doesn’t want you to touch his back or soften your voice or hold space for him like he’ll actually step into it.

So you don’t.

You grab your coat. Slide your phone into your pocket. Pull the door open.

You don’t ask if he’ll be okay.

And for a second - just a second - you feel proud of that. Of how well you’re doing. Of how you’re respecting the distance. Giving him space. Keeping your hands to yourself.

It’s what he wanted.

Right?

You glance back.

And he’s still there.

Still sitting at the little table.

Still in the same clothes, mug cradled in both hands like it might offer answers.

The chipped handle catches the morning light.

Jason stares at the cup. Not drinking. Not moving.

You blink.

Your throat tightens.

And something inside your chest - something small and twitchy and mean - whispers that maybe this isn’t restraint. Maybe it’s just fear in a better outfit.

You leave anyway. Because you said you would. Because giving him space shouldn’t feel like this.

Like stepping off a roof without knowing if there’s a ledge below.

***

June walks in at 7:42.

Not the worst it’s ever been - there was a week in spring where she showed up before the street sweepers - but early enough for her brows to go up as soon as the salon door swings shut behind her.

“Damn,” she chirps, blinking at you over her travel mug. “You beat me in.”

You shrug. “Had a walk-in.”

It’s not a lie. Just not the whole story.

June doesn’t press. Just gives you that look - soft, curious, annoyingly perceptive - and keeps walking. Her sneakers squeak a little as she heads toward the back.

You don’t turn.

Instead, you return to the guy already in your chair.

He’s new. Not fresh-fresh - this is his third visit - but still new enough that you don’t have a read on him beyond the surface layer. Says his name’s Kavi. Mid-thirties, probably. Looks like he might moonlight in a cover band or teach high school drama depending on the lighting. Always smells good - clean laundry and decent cologne. Wears his button-downs with the sleeves rolled up and the top two undone, like he wants you to look but isn’t pushy about it.

Kavi’s one of those customers who makes you work for it.

Not with the hair - he sits still, tips well, compliments your product choices like he’s memorised them off the shelf. No, the real work’s in the performance. The rhythm. He tosses you flirty comments like underhand pitches, knowing full well you’ll hit them or let them pass without even blinking.

You used to be better at this.

Used to laugh more. Play it back. Give them just enough edge to keep them curious.

But lately, something’s dulled in you. Something you haven’t wanted to admit.

Kavi shifts as you layer the sides of his hair, peeking at you through the mirror. “So,” he says, bright, “do you do early mornings for everyone, or should I feel special?”

You blink.

It’s not the question. It’s the mirror. The light. The glint of the scissors catching in the reflection - too sharp, too fast. For half a second, your pulse trips like your body remembers something you haven’t let yourself think about all morning.

You don’t smirk like you normally would. Just adjust the angle of your scissors. “You can feel however you want.”

He grins. “Dangerous thing to say to a man in a cape.”

You glance at the cape wrapped around him. “You mean the one covered in other people’s hair?”

He gasps. “Rude.”

You hum. Keep working.

He doesn’t seem put off. If anything, he beams brighter.  “You okay, though?” he adds, light. “Not to be that guy, but - kind of looks like you dreamed yourself into a fight and lost.”

You snort once, low in your throat. “Something like that.”

It’s not untrue.

You’re still not convinced you’re fully awake. Some part of you still feels like it’s waiting for the floor to change texture or the window to blink out of existence. Like reality hasn’t quite settled into place yet. The feeling that always trails behind a bad dream - slippery, tacky, too quiet around the edges.

And for a split second, you let yourself think about Jason.

About his arms around you. About the way he flinched when you got too close. About how you didn't make coffee for him, and he didn't ask.

You told yourself it was what he wanted. Space. Quiet. Distance. You told yourself you were being smart. Giving him the room to feel safe again. But that doesn’t explain why you’ve been avoiding your own reflection. Why, when you woke up, you did it already braced. Why your fingers still feel ghost-wet when you touch the tap.

Your stomach twists.

You step back for a second, under the guise of checking your station. Your phone buzzes once in your back pocket. You slide it out. Open your landlord’s number. Text without thinking:

You: Hey - just checking in. Any updates on the water damage? Should I plan to be back this week?

You don’t look at the screen when it sends. Just drop it into your apron pocket, refocus. Swallow something strange and low in your chest.

It’s a practical thing to do. You’re not sneaking out in the dead of night. You’re just checking in. But the pit in your stomach tells you exactly what it would feel like to leave right now: like running.

Kavi’s waiting. Still smiling. “So. Do I get a post-haircut espresso, or is that strictly reserved for the clients you actually like?”

You huff. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you stop talking before I accidentally shave a smiley face into your scalp.”

He places a dramatic hand over his heart. “A woman after my own-”

“-blood,” you finish for him, deadpan.

He laughs.

You cut.

And pretend, just for a second, that you haven’t forgotten how to flirt.

But something in your chest is watching you carefully. Like a mirror version of yourself standing just behind your shoulder. Not judging. Just wondering who you’re performing for.

Because this - this easy patter, this push and pull - was always harmless before. Just smoke. Just play. A tool in the box. But today, it tastes different. Like you’re putting on a face you don’t believe in. Like you’re ignoring something real just long enough to remind yourself that it’s not yours. That Jason’s not yours.

That the silence you’re walking around back at the safehouse doesn’t mean anything.

***

The hallway is quiet when you return. Not dark - not really - but it feels that way. Dimmer. Muted. Like the building's holding its breath.

You unlock the door gently. Push it open like the hinges might bite.

The safehouse is clean. Too clean.

The couch blankets are folded into identical rectangles, sharp at the corners, stacked on the armrest with mechanical precision. The dishes are done and dried and shelved. Even the boots by the door have been lined up heel-to-toe, laces tucked in like they’re being punished.

There’s a glass of water on the table. Untouched.

You close the door behind you and it sounds too loud.

Jason’s at the far end of the room, sitting on the windowsill like he might dissolve into the fog outside if he leans a little further. Hood up. Shoulders down. Elbows braced on his knees. He doesn’t turn around.

He doesn’t ask how work was. You don’t ask if he went out.

The silence stretches long across the space between you. Thin, transparent, and tight as fishing wire. You almost imagine you could reach out and cut yourself on it.

You toe off your shoes quietly, like volume might make it worse.

Then you see it - your mug, freshly washed, sitting in the drying rack. Not used. Not left out. Just there.

Waiting.

The space around your heart hollows a little. Not painfully. Not suddenly. Just like a balloon leaking air - slow and steady and hard to patch.

He doesn’t need me anymore.

It lands in your chest like a thought you’ve been rehearsing. Not with bitterness. Not even grief. Just that quiet, inevitable sense of a story shifting back to its original trajectory.

You cross the room, drop your keys by the sink.

Jason glances up. Just for a moment. And it’s the kind of look that says he wants to speak. Like there’s a thread caught in his throat and he’s deciding whether to pull it. His mouth twitches. His jaw shifts.

But nothing comes out.

So you offer him something. Something easy. Something safe.

“I texted my landlord,” you say. “Still waiting on a response.”

Jason blinks once.

Then nods. “You can stay as long as you need.”

He says it like muscle memory. Like an auto-reply. Like the sentence has been left out too long and dried into something brittle.

You nod back.

But it doesn’t feel like it used to. The first time he said it, it sounded like a lifeline. Like a door being opened, just for you. Now it sounds like an echo.

You sit on the couch and try not to sink into it. The cushions give like they’re used to your weight. That shouldn’t sting. But it does.

He doesn’t move.

You don’t speak.

The room doesn’t breathe.

And somewhere in your chest, the nightmare pulses again - quiet but insistent. That sickly syrup-light. That razor-hesitation. That question in Jason’s mouth like he’d already decided your answer for you.

You’re hurting me.

You rub your hands together and they feel a little too slick. You’re back in that awful moment, the one where you know something’s wrong but you keep going anyway, because the signs are too soft to read.

Because what if it’s not a nightmare?

What if this is real?

What if this is just how it ends?

Jason shifts. Just barely. A turn of his wrist. A movement too subtle to be meaningful. You glance at him. He glances away.

You stare at the wall until your eyes blur. And the hours stretch long and low and gray.

Not filled.

Just endured.

***

The apartment is quiet again.

Not soft. Not peaceful.

Just empty.

Jason’s still out - patrolling, you assume. Or picking a fight he thinks he deserves to lose. You’ve stopped trying to guess the shape of his nights. They come home with him like smoke in his hair and bruises on his ribs. Not spoken. Just carried.

You lie on the couch. Stare at the ceiling. Tell yourself it’s a good thing. That this is the space you’ve been trying to give him. That it’s what he needs. What you both need. A little breathing room.

You don’t sleep.

You curl tighter under the blanket, twist it around your fingers like it might tether you to something. But the room feels too still. Too hollow. Like all the warmth’s been scooped out and hidden somewhere you can’t reach.

Your phone’s charging on the floor beside you. You haven’t looked at it in over an hour.

The window’s cracked an inch. The fire escape groans softly with the wind. Somewhere in the hallway, a pipe hisses. You fix your eyes on a crack in the ceiling paint and try to will your thoughts still.

Tomorrow, you decide. You’ll go back tomorrow.

Even if the landlord doesn’t text. Even if the pipe’s still leaking.

You’ll tell Jason thanks. Tell him you’re fine. Tell him it helped.

You’ll lie if you have to.

Because staying is starting to feel like pressing a bruise. And you’re not sure how long you can keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.

You close your eyes. Try to trick your body into stillness. Into sleep. You’re failing at it when you hear the door. The soft click of the lock. The deliberate slide of the bolt. The sound of someone trying not to make a sound.

Your heart jumps.

You don’t move.

Boots hit the floor with a muffled thump. One, then the other. Then the rustle of something heavy being hung up - his jacket, probably. You hear the quiet creak of the floorboards as he crosses to the sink. A glass being filled. A swallow.

Then silence.

You wait.

The bathroom light clicks on. It spills gold under the door for a moment. Then the sound of the faucet again. A hiss of water. Fabric shifting. You catch it then - just barely - the stifled hiss between his teeth. The sharp intake. Like a sleeve dragged too fast over a wound. Like pain he didn’t mean to reveal.

Your fingers curl tighter in the blanket.

You still don’t move.

The water stops. The door opens.

He doesn’t pause. Just crosses the room - slow, quiet, measured - and drops onto the twin bed like he’s afraid of waking something. The mattress sighs beneath him. The springs barely groan.

Then nothing.

No rustle of sheets. No adjusting of pillows. No tired breath.

Just silence.

Like he’s holding it.

Like he’s holding everything in.

Your own breath catches in your chest, unbidden. You’re suddenly, painfully aware of the sound of your pulse in your ears, the heat under your skin, the way your lungs ache with the stillness.

You hold it.

One second. Two.

Then-

He exhales.

Just once.

Slow. Controlled. Quiet.

But it’s enough.

You let your breath out too. Barely audible. Like a truce.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just lie there, eyes closed, facing the wall, with your heart caught in your throat and your body still pretending it can sleep on a couch that’s not yours anymore.

You’ll go tomorrow. Really. You will.

You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie there in the dark, eyes shut, every inch of you aching for stillness that won’t come. Your heart’s too loud. Your thoughts won’t settle. Your pulse keeps syncing to the hush of Jason’s breathing - until it doesn’t.

Until it shifts.

At first it’s just a twitch. Same as last night. A quiet shuffle of blankets.

Then-

A sharp, cut-off sound. Choked.

You open your eyes.

Don’t move.

He mutters something. Incoherent. Low and slurred like he’s arguing with someone underwater. The blanket twists in his grip. His legs jerk.

You bite your lip. Stay still. It’s the same as the other night, you tell yourself. He’ll calm down. He always does.

But then he lets out a sound - low, fractured, guttural - that makes your chest seize.

You cover your mouth before the sob can escape. You grit your teeth against it. Swallow it whole. You told yourself you’d give him space. That you'd leave him alone.

He says your name.

Barely audible.

A breath, almost. Like it escaped his throat without permission.

But it hits like a siren.

You move before you can think.

Out of bed. Across the space in three soft steps. You crouch down beside the twin mattress, careful not to jolt him, and rest your hand - so, so gently - on his shoulder.

“Jason,” you whisper. “Hey.”

He jerks awake.

Not all at once. Not clean.

He flinches back with a sharp inhale, hand lashing out on instinct - catching your wrist, hard. Tight. His eyes are wild in the dark. His grip is bruising. Breath ragged.

“Hey,” you say again, fast. “It’s me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

His eyes finally land on you. Recognition hits him like a slap. He lets go so fast you stumble. Like your skin burned him.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

You fall back onto your heels. Not hurt - just breathless. Your wrist is already throbbing, but you don't care. That’s not the part that stings.

He pushes himself upright. Not fully - just far enough to plant his feet, press his hands into his knees, and bow his head like he’s about to be sick.

“Jason-”

“Don’t,” he mutters. Sharp. Raw. “Don’t fucking look at me.”

You blink.

“I wasn’t-”

“I said don’t.”

His voice cracks on it.

You sit frozen.

He stands. Moves like every inch of him hurts - like the nightmare left its teeth in him and he’s still bleeding somewhere you can’t see. His hand finds the doorframe. He leans against it for a second. Then bolts.

“Jason, wait-”

But he’s already gone.

Into the bathroom. The door clicks shut. And locks.

You sit there on the floor, breath shaking in your chest, heart still hammering.

Your wrist still tingles from the pressure of his grip.

You don’t cry.

You just stare at the mattress. Still warm from where he lay. Still shaped like a body trying to hold itself together. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t know what the hell to do.

You don’t move for a long time. Just sit there, blinking at the bathroom door like it might open on its own. Like maybe if you wait long enough, he’ll come out of his own misery the same way he went into it - quickly, quietly, invisibly.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, you hear it.

The harsh whisper of breath through clenched teeth. The muted thump of his fist against porcelain or tile. The quiet, brutal murmur of self-loathing too low to catch word-for-word - but loud enough to feel like sandpaper down your spine.

And something inside you snaps.

All day, you’ve walked on glass. You’ve swallowed your instincts - softened your voice, made your exit plans, turned yourself into a goddamn shadow just to give him room. And it didn't fucking work. You've both been miserable ever since.

So you stand.

You cross the apartment in three strides, fist raised before your brain even catches up.

“Open the door,” you bark, loud enough to make your throat sting.

No answer.

You slap the flat of your hand against the wood. “Jason. I swear to God, if you don’t open this fucking door-”

“I said-” his voice, sharp through the gap, “I need a minute.”

“You’re out of minutes.”

You hit the door again. Not hard, but not gentle. “Open the door or I break it.”

A beat.

Then the lock clicks.

It creaks open.

Jason doesn’t meet your eyes.

He just stands there, one hand braced on the frame like he’s using it to stay upright. His chest is bare. Pants still half-unbuttoned. Hair soaked at the temples. A fresh bruise blooming beneath his ribs like rot.

And he looks wrecked.

Raw. Twitchy. Pale with the kind of fury that only turns inward. Like he’s one thought away from clawing out of his own skin.

You don’t wait for an invitation.

You grab his hands.

“Sit.”

“Don’t-”

You step into him. “Sit down, Jason.”

He startles like a kicked dog. Then, reluctantly - like his body gives out before his pride does - he lowers himself onto the closed toilet lid. Shoulders hunched. Eyes dark and skittish.

You kneel. Right there, between his knees.

The tile’s cold on your bare legs. The room smells like steam and sweat and antiseptic. Your fingers tremble, but not from fear. From rage. From the way his hands feel limp in yours, like he’s already halfway given up.

And for a position that should feel suggestive - it’s the least sexual you’ve ever felt. Because all you can think about is how to help him. How to piece him back together with nothing but heat and spit and the will to not let him drown in this.

He flinches when you press your palm to his chest. You don’t let him pull away.

“Look at me.”

“I don’t want-”

“Say it then.” Your voice cracks. “If you want me to go, say it. Right now. To my face.”

Jason closes his eyes.

“Look at me,” you snap. “Not the tile. Me. You want me gone? Say it. Say ‘fuck off,’ and I will. But if you can’t - if you won’t - then you sit there and you let me do what I do best.”

He opens his eyes.

And finally, he looks at you.

Really looks.

His jaw’s clenched like it hurts. His lashes are wet. And when his mouth opens, no sound comes out.

You tighten your grip on his hands. “Let me take care of you.”

Jason exhales like he’s been holding it in since the second you touched him.

And he buckles.

Not all at once. Not loudly. But something inside him folds, visible only in the way his hands start to shake again - and don’t stop. You shift forward on your knees. Raise one hand to cradle the back of his neck. He bows his head into the touch like it’s instinct. Like it’s relief.

Jason doesn’t cry - at least, not like you expect him to.

It’s not loud. Not ugly. Not the kind of sobbing you might get from someone who’s never had to hide it. It’s silent, the kind that leaks out of the corners when there’s no space left to keep it inside. The kind of crying that barely even counts as crying - except it does. Because his whole body trembles with it, like grief’s living in his bones.

You curl your arm around his neck. Thread your fingers into his damp hair and pull him closer, until his forehead presses into your shoulder.

And you hold him.

He doesn’t cling. Doesn’t even wrap his arms around you. He just sits there, stiff and shaking, like someone dumped ice water into his lungs and told him to breathe anyway.

You shift your other hand to his back. Stroke slow circles between his shoulder blades, whispering into the crown of his head.

“S'okay,” you murmur. “You can let it out. You don’t have to be strong all the time, you dumbass.”

Jason shudders. You stroke his hair again, brushing it back off his forehead. His breathing hitches. Your chest squeezes.

“You can fall apart,” you whisper. “I’ll put you back together. Won’t even charge extra.”

His shoulders shake harder at that. A choked exhale against your skin, like something between a breath and a laugh.

“Though,” you add, softer, “I am absolutely charging hazard pay for the emotional trauma of seeing you like this. And you need a haircut. It’s gettin' unprofessional.”

Jason huffs. It's wet. Barely there. But it’s something.

“You smell like adrenaline and guilt,” you continue, gently thumbing at the back of his neck. “And your jawline’s still annoying. But I’m not going anywhere. So suck it up and let yourself be held.”

He turns slightly, burying more of his face into your shoulder, and you feel the wet heat of his breath there - raw and shaky.

You hold tighter. Let the silence fill up around you, soft and pulsing like a heartbeat.

Eventually - eventually - his breathing starts to even out. Not smooth, not steady, but closer. Enough that his hands stop clenching. Enough that he exhales without it sounding like he’s breaking.

You stay where you are.

Still kneeling. Still wrapped around him. Still stroking his hair like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

You whisper, without thinking, “Why?”

Jason doesn’t move.

You try again. Lower. Slower. “Why do you need me to do it this way?”

He shifts. A twitch in your arms. Not a full flinch - but close.

You press your mouth to his temple. “I mean it. You don’t let me say the soft shit. You can’t stand it when I’m nice. But you let me hold you if I call you an asshole while I’m doing it. Why?”

Jason doesn’t answer.

Not for a long time.

Then, thickly - like he’s chewing on the words before they fall:

“Because nice means I matter.”

You freeze.

Jason’s breath stutters. His voice is rough. Barely audible.

“And if I matter,” he whispers, “then it hurts more when I don’t anymore.”

You close your eyes.

Bite down hard on the ache building in your throat.

And you don’t say you do matter. You don’t say you’ll always matter. You don’t try to fix it or fill the space or soften the sting.

You just hold him tighter. Tuck your face into his shoulder.

And whisper, “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Because it’s what he needs.

And maybe - right now - it’s what you need too.

Eventually, his shoulders stop shaking.

His hands still, resting heavy and warm where they’ve slipped to your sides. The worst of it passes - not like a storm, but like an old injury flaring, then ebbing. He exhales against your collarbone, not quite steady, but not falling apart anymore either.

Neither of you speak.

You stay there a moment longer. Kneeling between his knees. Holding his weight like it’s stitched into you.

When you finally pull back - slow, careful - he lets you. Doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t drop his gaze. He just looks ... hollowed out. In that quiet way grief does - less of a blow, more of a carving.

And you don’t say anything. You don’t ask how he’s feeling or if he’s okay or if that helped. You just rise, legs stiff, and reach for a towel. Hand it to him without a word.

He takes it. Wipes his face. Breathes.

You back out of the bathroom like it’s a fragile perimeter and you’re scared to break the seal.

The apartment is dark. Cooler now.

You don’t know what time it is. Doesn’t matter.

You walk toward the mattress of the twin without thinking, pull the blanket back, and sit down on the edge. You hear him pad out a moment later - barefoot, careful.

The mattress shifts behind you.

You don’t look.

He doesn’t say anything.

You just both move - together, unconsciously. Like orbiting bodies settling into balance. You scoot forward a little, give him space. He lies down slow, the creak of springs like a sigh. His legs brush yours. One arm bumps your hip as he adjusts.

You shift again. Lie back. There’s barely enough room. But he doesn't roll away. Doesn’t put distance between you.

Instead, his hand finds yours.

Just lightly.

Just the brush of knuckles, like a question he’s too tired to ask out loud.

You answer without thinking. Turn your hand over. Lace your fingers through his.

He exhales - slow, thick with the kind of relief that sounds like surrender.

You drift in and out of sleep - thin, weightless half-sleep, like floating in the wake of something too big to name. In the too-small bed, with the too-heavy silence, and the too-much weight of all the things neither of you can say yet. Jason’s breathing steadies beside you. Slower now. Heavy with exhaustion. But your body won’t let go.

Blanket half-draped. Knees aching from the bathroom tiles. Hands still tingling from where they held on too tight.

You think about what it means to fall.

Not the cinematic kind. Not the sweeping, dizzying freefall into love or lust or whatever the fuck you’re circling around with Jason. You mean the other kind - the small collapse. The quiet unravel. The moment the scaffolding gives out under your ribs and you drop, graceless and instinctive, without knowing if anyone’s going to catch you.

And how sometimes someone does.

Your brother used to let you crawl onto the foot of his bed when you were little. On nights where the hallway creaked too loud or the back door didn’t lock quite right, you’d curl around his ankles under the blanket like a cat, and he’d pretend not to notice. Never said anything. Never shifted. Just let you be there.

Your mom would knock on the wall once if she heard you scream in your sleep. That was it. Just one knock. Never got up. Never opened the door. But it was enough. Enough to let you know she was awake. That you weren’t alone.

It wasn’t soft.

Not in the way movies or birthday cards or better houses made care look.

But it meant something.

So does this.

And so maybe you were wrong. Because you thought love was about knowing when not to reach out. But Jason flinches when you touch him. Fights you when you ask to stay. Tries to outrun his own breaking point and walks straight into yours instead.

And you still reach for him. Still hold him through the shaking. Through the sweat. Through the awful, aching truth of what it means to matter to someone and be terrified of it.

And maybe - maybe that’s what love looks like here.

Not flowers. Not vows. Not the sweeping promise of always. Just a grip on someone’s shoulder in the dark. A bathroom light left on. A body that doesn’t pull away.

You curl your fingers into the edge of the blanket. Listen to Jason breathe beside you.

And think: maybe it’s okay that it’s fucked up. That it’s messy. That it doesn’t look like it’s supposed to.

Because it feels real.

And sometimes, that’s the only thing that matters. A shared mattress. A tethered hand.

Chapter Text

You wake up to the sound of rain against metal and the distinct, agonising feeling of having no circulation in your left foot.

It takes a second to remember where you are.

The mattress is too thin. The air smells like coffee and old gun oil. And your leg - one of them, anyway - is dangling off the side of the bed like an afterthought, toes brushing cold floor.

But it’s not the lack of space that stops your breath.

It’s him.

Jason is still here.

Still pressed against you, one long stretch of heat and muscle and tension that hasn’t quite let go. His chest moves in slow, uneven drags. His thigh brushes yours. And even though he’s dead asleep, there’s a little twitch at his brow - like his dreams haven’t entirely gotten the memo yet.

He doesn’t look peaceful. But he doesn’t look haunted either.

And you can’t move. Not right away. Not when your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, and your hand’s half-pinned beneath his ribs, and the smell of him - warm skin, a trace of smoke that somehow hasn’t left him - is dragging your thoughts somewhere deeply unhelpful.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Try to slow your own breathing. Try not to let the weight of last night flatten you into the mattress entirely.

Because it’s still there. All of it.

The panic. The guilt. The desperate quiet of him shattering in your arms. The way he held on like he wasn’t sure what would happen if he let go.

It’s harrowing. Even now.

But your body doesn’t seem to care.

It only knows this - this closeness, this heat, this Jason, real and solid and wrapped around you like some terrible miracle. And you hate it. You hate how good it feels. How hard it is to stay still and respectful when every nerve ending is screaming to curl closer, to bury your face in the space under his jaw and stay forever.

You clench your teeth.

Shift your gaze.

It lands on his hair - messy, sleep-ruffled, strands falling over his forehead. The white streak catches the early light, faint and glinting, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out.

Slow. Barely breathing.

Your fingers find the streak and ghost through it. Just once. Gentle. It’s soft. Softer than it should be. And it undoes something in your chest, something deep and full of grief and tenderness you weren’t prepared for.

You press your lips together. Pull your hand back like it burned you.

It’s not fair, you think, sitting there half-suspended over the mattress like some shameful Victorian heroine.

To feel this much. To want this much. To have this much, even for a second - and still feel like you don’t know what the hell to do with it.

You don’t say anything.

Just breathe.

And try not to let your heartbeat betray you.

His breath shifts.

Then - eyes. Flicking open. Sharp, soft green. Bleary at first. Then not.

They meet yours, dead-on. And everything in you seizes. You freeze. Completely, stupidly still.

Because he’s looking at you. Actually looking. Not just the kind of accidental glance you can pretend didn’t happen. This is direct. Intentional. His eyes are focused and alert and so close.

You forget how to breathe.

Your face is inches from his. The kind of close that catches shared breath. The kind of close where you can see every fleck of colour in his irises, the way one of his lashes bends slightly inward, the faint line of a scar just above his brow. You don’t know what your expression is doing - can’t even feel your face anymore - but something about it makes the corner of his mouth twitch.

His gaze drops to your lips. You can’t move.

Then - slowly - Jason lifts his hand.

You should look away. You should blink. You should do something.

But you don’t.

You’re dumbstruck. Held in place by whatever this is - gravity, longing, sheer emotional negligence. He moves with the kind of gentleness that doesn’t belong on a man like him, calloused fingers brushing the edge of your jaw, the pad of his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.

You flinch - not from fear, but from awareness.

He doesn’t pull back.

His thumb tugs lightly, guiding your jaw shut like you’re some doll he’s adjusting.

And then, low - rough with sleep, but unmistakably smug - he murmurs:

“You always wake up looking this desperate?”

Your face goes nuclear.

Jason’s mouth curls - just a hint - into something maddening. Something just this side of a smirk. It’s not cruel. It’s not even cocky, not really. It’s worse.

Fond.

Like he’s enjoying this. Like the image of you dumb and moon-eyed in his bed is going to carry him through the rest of the goddamn week.

You make a noise in your throat - something halfway between a scoff and a gasp - and yank the blanket up over your face, mortified.

Jason lets out a huff of laughter against your arm. Close. Still there.

Your heart is doing Olympic-level gymnastics.

And behind the blanket, pressed into the crook of your elbow, you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek. Because if he keeps looking at you like that - soft and sharp and knowing - you’re not going to survive it. You stay under the blanket for a second longer than necessary. Long enough to suffocate. Long enough to feel it - your pulse climbing out of your skin, your spine hot and traitorous.

And god. Now you get it.

Why he panicked. Why he bolted. Why softness makes him twitch like it’s worse than violence. Because this - this stupid, unbearable sweetness - hurts. Because being touched like that, looked at like that, unravels you. Makes you feel feral. Like you’ll bite someone if they stop.

You drag the blanket down just enough to peek out.

Jason is still watching you. That same little smile. Still folded soft in the corners. Still stitched through with sleep and wreckage and something darker underneath. The faintest ghost of last night flickering back into his eyes like a match re-lit.

And you - you’re still frozen.

Still aching in that humiliating way. Not just flustered. Ruined.

You clear your throat. Sit up. Try to shake it off. Reassemble yourself into something grumpier. Meaner. Something with edge. Your voice is too thick when you say, flatly:

“You’re not allowed to do that after last night.”

Jason’s smile doesn’t vanish entirely, but it tilts. Curves a little sad at the ends.

“That’s fair,” he says quietly. “But if you saw me like that, then I get to call you a fucking idiot when you look like this.”

You snort. Try to scoff. You mean to. But a laugh escapes anyway. Unfiltered. Stupidly light.

You twist, half to throw him a glare, half to roll away from the heat in his gaze.

Mistake.

Your ass grazes his hip.

Just a brush. Barely anything.

But Jason startles like he’s been shot.

He makes a sound - sharp, choked, half-swallowed - and flinches back so fast the mattress lurches.

And then he’s up. Gone. In two seconds flat, like someone pulled a fire alarm only he can hear.

You stay where you are. Staring at the empty space he left behind. Blanket askew. Hair in your mouth. Thoughts screaming.

Well.

Shit.

You flop back against the pillow and mutter, to no one in particular: “Smooth.”

Somewhere in the next room, Jason bangs a cabinet like it insulted his lineage.

And despite everything - despite your burning face and cursed hormones and the mutual idiocy of two people who desperately want to make out but can’t stop emotionally spiralling - you grin into the pillow.

Because goddamn, that was almost something.

The mattress is warm where Jason used to be. The pillow smells like him. And the bathroom - tiny, awful, unavoidable - is now echoing with the sound of water slapping tile like it’s trying to exfoliate guilt from existence.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You are not going to think about this. You are not going to think about the fact that he is naked in that shower. Naked and probably bracing one hand on the tile, letting the steam fog up that mirror you used to hate. Naked and wet and alone, ten feet away from where you're trying to pretend your bones haven’t liquefied.

God, there’s not enough space in this apartment for shame.

You groan into the pillow.

What would a normal, functional adult do in this situation?

Suffer. In silence. Like a martyr. Sit on their hands and try not to think about the ache pulsing through their gut like something poisonous. Make breakfast. Drink tea. Channel the horniness into a podcast or a crossword puzzle.

Or, you know. Just get it over with. Five minutes in the closet. A little self-respect left at the end, if you’re lucky.

You roll onto your back and immediately regret it.

No. No, you are not going to be the person who gets horny at a trauma sleepover. This is not that kind of salon fantasy. You are not some porn parody of emotional intimacy. You're a grown adult with some fucking boundaries.

And anyway.

You have shit to do.

You fumble for your phone, fingers stiff and irrationally angry at the swipe code. Type a message out to June like you’re trying to defuse a bomb.

You: not coming in today. sorry. emergencies. hair-related.

You don’t wait for the reply. Toss the phone onto the blanket and swing your legs off the bed with something that might almost be conviction. You are not going to spiral today. You’re going to eat something. Drink something. Maybe make Jason talk about his feelings until he short-circuits and hides in the bathroom again.

You pad barefoot into the kitchenette, drag your fingers through your hair like it might convince it to behave. The shower’s still going. Of course it is. You do not think about it.

Instead, you pull the bread out. Crack eggs into a pan. Start the coffee. And for a second - just a second - you let yourself imagine a normal morning. Not good. Not quiet. But normal.

The coffee pot hisses. You sip, even though it’s scalding.

You're halfway through a piece of toast, peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth, when the shower shuts off.

And then there’s just … air.

Humming. Dense. Charged like a live wire somewhere under the floorboards.

You stare resolutely at your toast.

Jason emerges a minute later, damp hair dark against his temples, cheeks flushed from the heat. He’s wearing a new T-shirt - black this time, soft and wrinkled - and sweatpants low enough on his hips to be personally insulting.

You keep your gaze fixed on your plate like it contains nuclear secrets.

He crosses the room like nothing happened. Like he didn’t leave you with your own feelings and a vibrating mattress and a primal urge to die a little inside.

He grabs a mug from the rack, pours coffee. Doesn’t say anything.

Then: “Shower was … needed. Sweaty, after-” He gestures vaguely. “Last night.”

You nod. Not at the sentence. At the lie.

“Yeah,” you say. “Makes sense.”

You both sip in silence.

And you’re fine. Totally fine. Totally not hyper-aware of the flush still creeping down his neck. Totally not cataloguing every single drip of water trailing from his hairline to his collarbone like your survival depends on it.

You clear your throat.

Because you made a decision, lying in that bed. You’re staying. You’re not running. You’ll be here when he’s ready to talk - about the past, about the nightmares, about what the hell he thinks this is between you.

You’re in it now. God help you.

***

You’re not tiptoeing around him. Not anymore. Jason might be carrying a black hole in his chest right now, but you’ve decided he doesn’t get to suck you into it unless you let him.

So you clean. Not because it’s dirty, but because there’s a rhythm to it. Something to do with your hands while he sulks at the counter and pretends to be deeply invested in a half-functional tablet. You’ve got music on your phone, low and tinny from the speaker. You’re humming off-key, barefoot, and making passive-aggressive commentary to no one in particular as you wipe down surfaces that are already clean.

“That’s the third time you’ve come in with blood on your boots,” you mutter, slapping a wet cloth against the floorboards near the entryway. “I swear to God, Jason, if I get tetanus in the kitchenette, I’m haunting your ass.”

No response.

Just a vague grunt from the other side of the room.

You pause. Point at him with the dripping cloth.

“I’m serious. Put a tray by the door or something. I’m not mopping up chunks of crime lord every damn morning.”

Another grunt. You take it as acknowledgement.

Back to the counter. You open the fridge, immediately regret it. “Why do you have three kinds of mustard and no butter?”

No answer. You hum louder.

It’s hot today. A slow, sticky Gotham heat that seeps in through the concrete and climbs up your spine. You tug the collar of your shirt loose and debate whether the couch blanket is too thick for summer. You make a mental note to steal something lighter from your apartment the next time you drop by. If you drop by.

If you still live there.

Behind you, Jason finally speaks.

“You still sleeping on the couch?”

You pause mid-wipe. Blink at the countertop like it might offer insight.

“You mean … now?” you ask, slowly. “Like, am I - sleeping on the couch right now, today?”

Jason doesn’t look up from the tablet. “Yeah.”

There’s a tension in the word that doesn’t match the question.

You straighten. Wipe your hands on your thighs. “You mean, like … in general? Or just - are you asking if I’m moving back to my place?”

Jason’s thumb taps the edge of the tablet, slow. “I’m asking if you’re still on the couch.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Your brain hiccups.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, with all the confidence of someone who just forgot how language works. “Maybe.”

He nods once. Doesn’t argue. But the tablet gets set down. Carefully. Like it’s suddenly very breakable.

Then: “Will you cut my hair?”

You blink.

Look at him.

He’s not joking. His face is steady, brow slightly furrowed, mouth neutral - but there’s something in the set of his shoulders. Something taut. Waiting.

It’s not just a haircut. You know that. You also know your answer before he’s finished asking.

You smile. Real. Wide. No hesitation this time.

“Yeah,” you say. “Course I will.”

Something in his expression shifts. Not big. Barely there. But softer, somehow. Like tension exhaling out of his ribs.

You nod toward the chair in the corner. “Get your ass in position, Phil.”

He huffs - might almost be a laugh - and heads over.

And you think: maybe the real conversations don’t start with words.

Maybe they start with scissors.

You crouch by the sofa, drag the kit from where it’s wedged underneath. The bag smells like dust and lavender oil. One comb’s got a bent tooth. The scissors are still sharp. The cape’s folded clean at the bottom, waiting like it always does.

When you stand, Jason’s in the chair already. Arms on his knees. Head bowed. Like he’s preparing for execution. You pad over, barefoot and quiet, and drape the cape around his shoulders. He shifts only enough to let you fasten it. Chin tipped forward, breath slow. Braced.

The hair’s longer than you realised. Wilder. Like he’s been putting it off, waiting for this - though you’re not sure he’d ever admit that out loud. You rake your fingers through it once, gentle, checking for knots. He’s quiet. Letting you. You comb again, slower, watching the strands slide through your fingers.

“This isn’t about the haircut, is it,” you say softly.

Jason’s mouth twitches. “You told me I needed one."

“You do.”

That gets a breath. Sharp. Amused.

You angle the comb. Scissors meet curl.

Snip.

Jason exhales, long. Like something’s finally leaving him.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he says, finally.

You don’t answer. Just keep combing.

“I mean - I was never normal,” he adds, eyes on the floor. “But I was something else. Before all this.”

Snip.

You let the silence stretch, careful not to crowd him.

“I tried,” he says. “To be good. Better.”

The word sounds sour on his tongue. Like it doesn’t fit right.

You run the comb through again, fingertips brushing his scalp. He leans into it, almost imperceptibly.

You didn't know him then. Don't know what he was. But you know what you see now - how he protects people, how he's helped you, given you more kindness than he thinks he has left. And maybe 'good' isn't the right word, but that raw, human, real part of him - it's yours. And it matters.

“There was a man,” he says. “Called himself the Joker.”

His voice is flat, but the words land heavy, like a slab of concrete dropped between you. His shoulders draw tighter, like the act of saying it forced something out of him he’d kept buried deep.

Your stomach coils. A reflex. You know that name. Of course you do. Gotham born and bred - you’ve heard it whispered in alleys and shouted on news broadcasts. But hearing it here, now, from him, is different. Like a shadow stepping into your living room and sitting down at your table.

“He killed me,” Jason says, and the words come out hard. Fast. Like they needed to be expelled. His hands are clenched on his knees now. Jaw tight. Breathing steady, but only because he’s holding it down. Every part of his body is screaming what his voice refuses to.

The scissors still in your hand. Just for a moment. Your chest cracks open.

And the ache that rushes in-

It’s everything. Grief. Rage. Pride.

You want to fall to your knees. You want to throw your arms around him and never let go. You want to find that clown-faced monster and carve your fury into his skin for every second of pain Jason ever carried.

But more than anything, you want to be steady for him. Because he chose you to say this to.

The blade touches curl.

Snip.

“It wasn’t quick. Or clean. It was ... deliberate. A punchline.”

You don’t ask how. You don’t want to know.

You comb again, gently clearing the strands from the back of his neck. Your other hand rests lightly against his shoulder.

“Didn’t come back right,” he says. “Whatever they did ... whatever the pit did ... I came back wrong.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Not because they're new - you knew something happened. Everyone in Gotham has their scars, their stories, and Jason carries his like armour. But hearing him say it, so plainly, like a diagnosis he’s resigned himself to - wrong - it twists something deep inside you.

Wrong.

You hate that he thinks of himself that way. Like he’s a glitch in the system, a broken thing instead of a brutal miracle for having come back at all. Your jaw clenches, and it takes everything in you not to speak, not to argue, not to press your palm to his chest and tell him to feel the way it beats.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “It’s funny.”

You hum. Let him talk.

“I think about it all the time. Not the dying. The moment after. First breath back. My body screaming like it knew it shouldn’t exist anymore. Like something ancient was crawling inside my skin and trying it on.”

“That first breath,” he says, quieter now. “I don’t know if that was the worst part, or the best.”

You brush a few trimmed curls from his collar. They tumble down his shoulder. Jason doesn’t seem to notice.

“After that, I couldn’t go back. Not really. Not to the way things were. Not to who I was. I was angry,” he mutters. “Still am. But back then it was ... all I had. Fire in a skin suit. Ghost on Gotham's shore. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t stop. Just pain, all the time. Like bleeding was the only thing keeping me alive.”

He pauses, breath catching faint in his throat.

“I don’t know if it’s still true now. Not all the way.”

It slips out like it surprises him to say it - soft, unsure, like he’s trying the thought on for the first time. His gaze stays fixed on the floor, but his jaw shifts, like he’s bracing for something to hit.

And inside you?

Fuck, does it hit.

Not just ache, but a sudden rush, tidal and loud and unignorable. I love you.

It swells, too big to hold in your chest. A punch of knowing that lands behind your ribs and doesn’t leave. You want to say it, scream it, carve it into the walls. But all you can do is hold it close, guard it like a flame.

I love you, I love you, I love you, your mind hums, feral and quiet and certain.

You pause. Comb. Snip.

And stay steady. Because that’s what love looks like, too.

“It didn’t scare me,” you say. “When I met you.”

Jason tilts his head slightly, not quite looking at you.

“Should’ve,” you add. “Didn’t. Not even when you showed up with blood on your boots and a voice like gravel and a stare that said don’t ask. You felt like a warning sign I knew to avoid. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

That earns the faintest smile. Bitter. But real.

You set the comb down. Tilt his chin, gently, to check your line.

“You don’t feel like a ghost. Not to me. I’ve never felt more alive around anyone else.”

His eyes flick up. Catch yours.

Your breath catches, but you keep going. Steady. Honest.

“If you don’t know what keeps you moving, that’s okay. I do. And I’ll keep pushing. I’ll drag you forward kicking and screaming if I have to, even if you hate me for it.”

The words are soft, but they shake something loose inside you. It’s not a confession, not exactly. But it feels like one. All that love you didn’t know where to put? It’s here. In your hands. In your voice. In the way you refuse to let him disappear.

You smooth back the curls. Brush stray hairs from his temple.

He says nothing.

But his throat works as he swallows. And when you step back, when you meet his gaze in the mirror across the room, you see it:

Not relief. Not closure. But something loosened. Something tired of hiding.

You smile. Small. Honest.

“Looks better already,” you say.

And then you hesitate.

The scissors are still in your hand, but your thoughts are miles away, caught in the space between words and action. You should’ve said something already, should’ve reacted sooner when he laid himself bare in front of you like that. The weight of it - his pain, his fear - it’s suffocating. And the fact that he trusted you with it?

Yeah. That’s still sitting with you.

But now? You can’t just sit here with it. Not anymore.

The words spill out before you can stop them.

“Jason,” you murmur, softer than you want, “I … thank you. For telling me.”

He stiffens, a quick breath catching. Like that wasn’t what he expected to hear.

“I know it's gonna make you mad,” you add quickly, “but you need to hear it. I’m grateful. For you. For trusting me enough to say it.”

He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are trained on his lap, on the floor, anywhere but on you. Jaw clenched. The weight of his silence presses the air out of the room, but there’s something else, too. A slow, flickering heat in his eyes.

“I don’t need you to be grateful,” he mutters, voice almost drowned by the weight of his own shame.

“Too fucking bad,” you say, a slight smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in the room. “You’re stuck with me.”

A quiet laugh rumbles out of Jason, but it’s choked, not reaching his eyes. He shakes his head, like he’s fighting with something he can’t name. For a second, he’s still, almost like he’s wrestling with it all. Then, like he’s made a decision, his clenched hands fall open, reaching toward you, just barely.

You feel the unspoken question hanging there between you two. He doesn’t have to say it. It’s clear enough.

“Can I…?”

You don’t wait for the rest of it. The rest of it doesn’t matter. All you hear is can I. And you know exactly what he’s asking, what he needs.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t overthink it.

You just shove yourself into his arms.

It’s quick. Too quick. You slam into him with more force than you meant, your head knocking against his chest with a thud that would’ve made you wince if you weren’t so focused on him. But you don’t pull back. Not this time. You cling to him, both hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, your heart hammering with the urgency of it, like you might drown in this moment if you don’t hold on.

His arms wrap around you, but there’s no urgency from him. Just slow, deliberate movements. He pulls you closer, careful but firm, until you can feel the heat of him against every inch of you. His hands find your hair, fingers threading through it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the gesture. His breath is warm against your scalp, steadying.

For a second, neither of you moves. You breathe, and he breathes, the sound of it syncing between you.

The tension in his shoulders slowly melts, like you’re erasing all the space that’s been between you. And even though he’s trying to act like it’s nothing, you feel the deep release in him. The relief. The quiet exhale that says he’s finally allowed himself to need this.

His hand stills in your hair, and you feel a shift in him. A soft twitch at the corner of his lips. His voice comes out rough, almost sheepish, like he’s trying to hide something: “God, your hair always smells so fucking good.”

You smile into him, a little overwhelmed, even as you shift your head, resting your cheek against his chest. “I’ve been told.”

Jason shakes his head, but there’s affection behind it. A little warmth. “You're ridiculous.”

“I know,” you murmur, relaxing into him even more.

And for that second, in the quiet of it all, when everything else falls away, you don’t need to say anything else. Everything feels simple. Just you. Just him. Just the warmth between you.

***

You’ve never had a real definition of love. Not in the way people talk about it.

You thought you loved Rafe Huller when he made you feel something you couldn’t name. Thought it was love because you were fifteen, caught up in his cheap cologne and even cheaper car, fumbling around the backseat like it was supposed to mean something. Thought you loved him the moment you kissed him, then stopped thinking about him the second the door slammed shut.

You thought you loved Matt Connors too. The way he kissed you in the back of his dusty sedan, fingers too eager and words too sweet. He talked about the future, about a life together, about us. You thought it was real. Tried to pretend it could last even after you found out about his wife in Metropolis. And when you walked away, it was like nothing had ever existed between you, except the hollow space where a lie used to sit.

Love, in Gotham, isn’t shiny. It isn’t grand gestures, or jewellery, or sunrises that turn into lazy Sundays. It’s the thing that happens when someone’s got a gun to your head and they say it’s all over, but you still find a way to get up. Or it’s when your brother’s at your door, asking for a handout after a few too many bad calls, and you give it because it's the only way to keep the peace.

It’s never been something soft.

You’ve always assumed love’s a thing that falls apart the second you expect it to last. Like everything in Gotham, it's a transaction, a tradeoff. You give a little, you take a little. If someone asks for more, you run.

But now? Now, you’re not so sure.

You can feel it creeping in, like something that was always there, but you never noticed it because you weren’t looking. The moments when Jason just ... exists in the same room as you, when he says nothing and yet everything is being said in the silence. The way he stands there, covered in the city’s dirt and blood, and still looks at you like you matter. Like you could hold him, if only you were brave enough to believe it.

It feels different than anything you’ve known. The way it makes your heart beat a little faster, your thoughts race even when you’re not sure where they’re headed. You’ve heard people talk about love, and you’ve brushed it off like the cliché it always seemed to be. But you’re standing here now, feeling it shift inside you, and there’s no denying it anymore.

You’re in love with Jason Todd.

And, for the first time, it feels like it might be the only thing that makes sense in a world that never lets anything make sense.

And it’s terrifying.

Because you’ve always known love is something you only let yourself want for a few minutes before it gets yanked away. That it’s always fleeting. But this? This isn’t like that. It’s not fleeting. It’s not a couple of careless words whispered in the dark or something that’ll burn out the second the spark hits. No. This one’s going to stick.

And that scares you more than anything.

But it’s going to last longer than this hug. You know that, deep down. And maybe that’s the scariest thing about it.

Chapter Text

Jason remembers his first crash.

Not the Batmobile kind. Not rooftops or alley brawls or glass in his teeth. Not even the kind that ends with blood on pavement and someone muttering I thought you were behind me.

No - the real first. Backseat of someone else’s car. Seven years old, legs swinging, palms pressed to the window like he could learn something from the way the world blurred past.

It was a friend’s dad. Some busted-up Lincoln with a stereo that half-worked and a glove box that wouldn't close all the way. Jason remembers thinking it was a nice car. Smooth ride. Didn’t rattle like his mom’s did. Didn’t cough when it hit a red light. The engine hummed.

He got curious. Couldn’t help it. Asked a thousand questions - what made it purr like that? What did the brakes do? How did a master cylinder work?

And the guy - he’d smiled. Not annoyed. Not impatient. Just glanced into the rearview, said, “You really wanna know?” and started explaining. Hydraulics. Disc brakes versus drums. Some bit about weight distribution in older models.

Two seconds.

That’s all it took.

The tires lost grip. Or maybe the brakes failed. Maybe the road was just slick enough. Maybe fate has a sick sense of humour.

They hit the shoulder hard. The car veered. Metal screamed. Rubber peeled back from pavement like it was trying to escape. The world tilted sideways.

They didn’t flip. No hospital. No tow truck. Just a long skid and a shaking stop.

He remembers the smell. Oil and ozone and whatever panic smells like when you’re too young to name it. The seatbelt cutting into his chest. The man’s arm flung across the passenger seat like it could stop physics if it just tried hard enough.

They were okay. But something stuck.

Not the crash.

The kindness that caused it.

Because for once - someone had looked at him. Listened. Answered a question just because he asked. And in the space of that soft moment, everything fell apart.

That’s the part that stuck in his ribs.

That kindness wasn’t safe.

That people get hurt when they’re not looking. When they care. When they explain things just to make a kid feel seen.

And Jason?

He’s been white-knuckling the wheel ever since.

Keeps his hands tight. Watches the road. Doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t already know the answers to. Doesn’t let people explain things - not about cars, not about themselves, not about him.

Because when people start talking, they look away.

And when they look away, the brakes go.

The apartment’s quiet now in the way crash sites are quiet.

Not peaceful. Not still.

Just wrong.

Jason wakes slow, like his body already knows something’s missing. The kind of waking that comes after impact - blinking blearily through the smoke, ears ringing, blood still buzzing from the adrenaline that hasn’t caught up to the damage yet.

He reaches for the other pillow before he thinks.

Finds it cold.

Of course it’s cold.

You left last night. Said you had “stuff to sort out.” Said you’d be back. Said it like it was normal. Like it didn’t matter. Like coming home to your own place after sleeping in someone else’s bed for days wasn’t enough to shatter something fragile.

He closes his eyes again.

Doesn’t help.

There’s a low throb behind his temple. One of those half-memories - not quite a headache, not quite a thought - pressing on him like the weight of something he should have seen coming.

The bed feels too big now. His skin feels too tight.

It’s the first time you haven’t been here in what feels like forever. And the silence is … god, it’s awful. Not the good kind. Not rest. Not relief. Just the echo of everything he’s not saying, everything he’s pretending he doesn’t feel, bouncing off the walls in your absence.

You’d filled this place up so completely, without even trying. Your jacket over the arm of the couch. Your socks mismatched. Your mug that he never moved from the sink. Even your toothbrush - still in the cup, still tilted sideways like it always is.

All of it’s still here.

Except you.

And that’s the worst part. Because it’s not like you stormed out. It’s not like something broke. You just … left. Like people do.

Like people always do.

He scrubs a hand down his face.

The last few days have been a haze - not in a bad way. Not exactly. Just … unreal. Your hands in his hair like they belonged there. The way he told you everything - or most of it - and you didn’t run. Didn’t flinch.

It felt like pretending.

Like borrowing someone else’s life - someone softer. Dumber. Someone who could survive in a world where being touched didn’t make him want to crawl out of his own skin. Where saying the worst parts of himself out loud didn’t feel like inviting disaster.

And now?

Now the pretending’s over.

He swings his legs out of bed. Stares at the floor. Doesn’t move.

You’d said you’d be back.

He doesn’t believe it.

Not because he thinks you were lying - no, that’s not it. But because he’s been here before. Enough times to know the rhythm. The script. The inevitable slide back into silence. People say they’ll come back, and sometimes they mean it. Doesn’t matter. The ending’s always the same.

He breathes in.

Regrets it. The air still smells like you.

He gets up anyway.

Starts moving like he’s still in that other version of his life - the one where you’re in the kitchen, mumbling about coffee strength and stealing the last slice of toast. He moves like you're just out of sight, just in the other room, just-

Gone.

The place is too clean. Too still.

His gaze snags on your hoodie, still draped over the back of the couch, sleeves twisted, one shoulder slipping like it’s mid-exit. He reaches for it before thinking. Brings it to his face.

Breathes in.

It smells like you. Like that shampoo you hate but continue to use because he bought it. Like heat and softness and something that settled under his skin without permission.

And then the shame hits.

His stomach turns. He forces the hoodie away, too fast, like it burned him. Drops it onto the couch with a muttered curse and doesn’t look at it again. His cheeks flush, high and hot and ugly. Something between longing and disgust twisting tight in his chest. Like he’s been caught. Like he caught himself and is already pleading guilty.

And all he can hear is the moment before the impact - the stretch of time between knowing you’re about to crash and actually feeling the metal fold.

He hasn’t stopped bracing for it.

Not really.

He tells himself again that you’ll come back.

Then tells himself it doesn’t matter if you don’t.

Neither version feels true.

***

Jason moves like he owns the place.

Not with swagger - not tonight - but with precision. Clean lines, clipped steps, posture tight with purpose. The elevator hums under his boots, the flicker of overhead light catching on the brim of his borrowed cap. Floor numbers tick upward. Slowly. Always slowly.

He hates this building.

Too polished. Too paranoid. Everything about Kane Tower feels like it’s trying too hard to act normal. And the smarter a building pretends to be, the more secrets it’s hiding in its walls.

The intel got him this far.

Your intel.

Jason hadn’t said it aloud. Didn’t plan to. But he knows this path - this lead, this whole goddamn crack in the Tower’s armour - it’s because of you. A lunch bag and a smile, and somehow it broke open a corridor he'd been locked out of for weeks. He’s not wasting it.

The elevator dings.

Floor 17.

Soft hum of vending machines, drywall dust in the vents. Admin offices. Subcontractor field terminals. Utility processing. Nothing flashy, nothing suspicious. Exactly where he needs to be.

Jason walks like he belongs. Contractor ID with the name 'Phil' clipped to his belt. Clipboard in hand. Boots scuffed just enough to look real. The helmet stays hidden - for now.

He already has the name.

Derrick Mallo. Fire inspection contractor. Subbed in three times in the last month. Has access to every mechanical floor, every riser room, every subpanel and relay. Doesn’t ask questions. Logged into three secured floors with no badge trail.

And - most importantly - he’s sloppy.

Jason slips past a bored receptionist with a nod. Moves down the corridor toward the utilities wing. The lights here flicker every sixth step. Someone logged a service ticket, but no one's fixed it. He files that away.

He finds Derrick where he expected: crouched in a service hallway, prying open a faulty breaker panel with too-new tools. Early thirties, shaved head, uniform too crisp, hands that don’t match the job. He’s not union. He’s not legit.

Jason stops two feet from him.

“Breaker’s not your problem,” he says, voice low.

Derrick jolts. Nearly drops the screwdriver. “What-? Who-”

Jason flashes the contractor badge he lifted at his last visit.

“Wiring’s fine,” Jason says. “Your problem’s upstairs. Floor 19. Last access rerouted the fireline stack into a false terminal. That’s what’s tripping your alarms.”

Derrick narrows his eyes. “How do you know that?”

Jason smiles, slow and dangerous. “Because I built the false terminal.”

Silence stretches. The flickering light buzzes above them.

Jason squats, eye-level now. Still and calm and absolutely in control.

“Derrick,” he says, not a question. “You’re not supposed to be here. Not officially. Not through any licensed subcontractor. I’ve seen your badge log. I’ve seen the building cam skips. You’ve been off-route more than once.”

“I-”

“Don’t bother lying. I don’t need your confession. I already have the footage.”

Derrick swallows. Sweat beads at his temple.

Jason doesn’t press. Yet.

He reaches into his vest pocket. Pulls out a folded slip of paper. Places it on the floor between them.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jason says, voice low and even. “You’re going to give me the maintenance access roster for floors fifteen through twenty-two. Names. Logs. Device clearance. I want the fire suppression test schedule and the outstanding maintenance tickets for the past two weeks.”

Derrick opens his mouth. Shuts it again.

Jason leans in.

“You’re going to do that,” he says, “because you’re not the worst guy in this building. But you’re in deep with people who don’t give a shit about you. And you already know what happens when someone tries to walk away from them.”

Derrick blinks, flinching.

Jason softens his tone - just slightly. “I’m not here to ruin you. I’m here to get ahead of what’s coming.”

He stands again. Lets the silence weigh down.

And then, almost too quiet to catch-

“I can get you out.”

Derrick looks up.

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You give me what I need. I make sure your name disappears before this place goes to hell. No one comes for your family. No one loops you into a crime scene. You walk.”

Derrick hesitates. His eyes flicker - some combination of fear, guilt, relief.

Then: a nod.

Jason watches him pull out his tablet, fingers flying across the screen.

He doesn’t relax. Doesn’t ease off. But he lets himself breathe.

Because it’s working. Because this is what he’s good at. Fast pressure, clean angles, targeted fear with just enough mercy to make people believe they have a choice.

He’s good at this.

But even now, in the buzz and clatter of the utilities floor, his mind won’t shut up.

Because he wants to tell you. Not about Derrick, not about shell companies or badge trails - but about the part where you gave him something and he made it matter. Where your stupid Twinkies and lunch-bag cover story cracked the case wide open. Where you were good. Clever. Braver than him in all the ways that count.

And god, he wants to see your face when he says that. Wants to watch you pretend to play it off, and see that pride bloom in your eyes anyway. Wants-

Jason hears the sound of brakes screaming, already bled dry.

No.

No, he doesn’t.

He just needs this done.

Derrick finishes. Sends the file. Jason watches it populate on his burner screen. Names, logs, floor diagnostics, clearance mismatches. Exactly what he needs.

Exactly what you helped him find.

Jason turns without a word and walks away - not fast, not loud, but final. If Derrick calls out, he doesn’t hear it.

The file pulses in his hand. The next move’s already taking shape.

He doesn’t think about you again.

Not until he gets to the roof and realises your name is still the passcode on his comms line.

***

The city blurs past, thick with exhaust and low cloud. Jason keeps to the shadows, helmet back on, boots quiet on the fire escape as he swings down to street level. He moves fast - not rushed, just deliberate. Controlled. Every turn, every glance, every light change tracked and filed.

And still - the prickle doesn’t fade.

Someone’s following him.

He’s sure of it by the time he hits 82nd - a flicker in a window, the same hum of tread two rooftops behind, the way the rhythm shifts just enough when he speeds up. It's subtle, but not subtle enough.

Jason swears under his breath.

He takes a hard left, vaults a chain-link fence, lands cat-soft in an alley he knows better than most of his childhood. Two more blocks, three rooftops up. He doesn’t head toward the safehouse - doesn’t even look that direction.

If they’re tracking him, they’re not getting anywhere near you.

Not your apartment. Not the salon. Not the half-lived warmth of his shitty kitchen where you used to hum under your breath while digging for coffee like it owed you money.

He swerves toward a rooftop with a rusted billboard and a busted HVAC unit he used to sleep under during his first year back in Gotham - when his bones still rattled from the pit and his hands didn’t stop shaking unless they were holding a weapon.

He waits.

Lets the silence stretch. Feels the city settle.

Then: "You really think I wouldn't notice a tail?"

His voice cuts clean through the dark - sharp, amused, and dripping with the kind of condescension only a big brother could inspire.

"Come on, Dickhead. After the bugs? Really?"

A long pause.

Then movement - slow, deliberate.

Hands first. Palms up. No threat.

Dick steps out of the shadows like this is all normal, like this is just another night out with the family.

"Can’t say I’m shocked,” Jason drawls. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a marching band."

Dick shrugs, that sheepish grin spreading across his face like he thinks it'll defuse anything. “In my defence, you should have expected it.”

Jason almost punches him right there.

Because yeah, maybe he should have. Bruce bugged everything that breathed. He grew up with wires in the walls and lies in the silverware drawers. And Jason? He learned that playbook. Ran it. Improved it.

He bugged your apartment before he ever let himself fall asleep on your couch. He planted a mic at the salon the day after he blew up that bar.

So yeah. He's a hypocrite.

But this? This is different.

Because that safehouse wasn’t just his.

It was yours too.

The two of you built something there. Small. Quiet. Stupidly fragile. Like a bird’s nest on a rusted ledge, stitched together with grocery store leftovers and inside jokes and one busted toaster you both hated.

And the thought of Dick - anyone - listening in on that? On Jason laughing at bad TV or burning pancakes while you swore at him with stars in your eyes? On you humming tunelessly while you tidied up and scolded the coffee machine like it was a misbehaving child?

God.

Worse.

Worse is the idea that, if Jason hadn't found the bugs, Dick might have heard the night he came apart - voice cracking, fingers clenched in the fabric of your sleep shirt like it could hold him together. The way you held him without asking for anything, humming soft like a lullaby through grit teeth.

Jason’s fists clench. He doesn’t throw a punch. Barely.

"You bugged my safehouse, asshole," he says, voice low now. "Not a checkpoint. Not a stash spot. Not a Batcave-lite rental."

He takes a step closer. Doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to.

"You bugged the only fucking place in this city I’ve ever felt safe."

Dick’s smile fades.

“That wasn’t the-”

Jason cuts him off, a knife’s edge in every word. “You don’t get to explain. Not this time.”

He’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but fury - coiled and hot under his skin, choking him. Dick raises his eyebrows, like he’s trying to lighten the mood without fully understanding the minefield he's stepped into.

“What, you got a secret family in there or something?” he asks, grinning. “Couple kids? White picket fence? Because you're seriously overreacting.”

Jason stutters.

Actually stutters.

Not for long. Just a second. Just enough for the words to hit like buckshot - scatter, sting, lodge deep.

A secret family.

His mind flashes. Brief, brutal. Your hand brushing his. The toothbrush in the cup. The sound of your laugh echoing in the kitchen. The stupid Twinkies he got you and pretended not to remember. The way you touched his face like it mattered.

And suddenly, the words feel like they don’t fit right in his mouth. Like they’re too big, too honest, too dangerous. It guts him, almost - that Dick could throw out a joke and accidentally slice through Jason’s ribcage with it.

He snarls instead. “What’s the play here, Dick? You running recon or just getting sloppy?”

Dick’s grin falters.

Jason steps closer. “Because if you bugged me, you’d know. Right? You’d know everything.”

That lands.

Dick’s face tightens - not with guilt, but something closer to concern. Maybe even regret. He lifts a hand. Not defensive. Just slow. Careful.

“I wasn’t listening in often,” he says quietly. “Only when it got bad. When there were reports about Red Hood being … brutal. Sloppy. I wanted to make sure you weren’t bleeding out in some alley somewhere.”

Jason scoffs, but it’s not as sharp as he wants it to be. It catches halfway out.

“And the bugs were gonna save me?”

“No. But maybe knowing you were still breathing would.”

It’s fucked.

It’s invasive. Controlling. Almost sweet.

Jason looks away, jaw tight.

Dick shifts on his feet. Hesitates.

Then: “I know about your-”

“Shut up.”

It’s instant. Snapped out like a tripwire.

Jason turns on him again, glare sharp. “Don’t. Don’t even try.”

Because what is he about to say?

What does Dick know?

That there’s a hoodie hanging on the back of Jason’s chair that doesn’t belong to him? That someone hums off-key in the mornings and leaves Post-it notes on his fridge? That Jason couldn't sleep right last night because he could still feel you in the bed beside him?

What are you? His friend? His part-time roommate?

The person he trusts most in the world?

His stomach twists. His throat closes.

Dick doesn’t press.

Just studies him. Softer, now. Gentler.

“I’m just glad you’ve got someone,” he says.

And it’s said without irony. Without accusation. Just honest.

That almost makes it worse.

Something in his chest tightens - not quite enough to be called warmth, not yet - and he crushes it fast. Jason swallows hard, and then scoffs at Dick's words like they're moldy fruit tossed at his feet.

“Oh, Christ,” he mutters, “save the Lifetime special for someone else. That almost sounded sincere.”

Dick just smirks. Doesn’t rise to it.

Jason exhales hard through his nose, not quite sure why he's still having this conversation. “So what the hell are you even doing here? Besides being annoying.”

“I’ve got intel,” Dick says, tone shifting, still light but more grounded now. “You told me to drop the Rowe stuff, I know. But Babs came through with the background packet. Took longer than she expected. Couple of sealed files, bit of political shielding. But it’s clean now.”

Jason pauses.

His spine straightens like someone just hit the restart button on his posture. The name alone dials him back into focus.

He doesn’t say thank you.

He just mutters, “Hand it over.”

Dick nods, reaching into his jacket. Pulls a USB from a chest pocket like it’s a peace offering. “Here. Mostly notes. Some surveillance. Paper trail’s thin, but the stuff that’s there? It’s not good.”

Jason grabs the drive without ceremony.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” Dick says, too pleased with himself.

And then - because he can’t help himself - he steps in and noogies the side of Jason’s helmet.

Hard.

“Jesus,” Jason snaps, yanking back with the full-body offence of someone who cannot believe this is happening to him. “Are you five?”

Dick stumbles, laughing, smug and unrepentant, brushing his hands off like he’s just done community service. “You agreed to take the file. I had to mark the occasion. Felt historical.”

Jason glares.

Dick grins wider.

“Now c’mon. You gonna tell me her name, or do I have to start pulling safehouse CCTV and playing ‘Guess Who’ with your tragic taste in women?”

Jason pulls a gun.

Casually.

No words. Just lifts it from the holster, clicks the safety off, and points it right between Dick’s eyes like it’s his version of a middle finger.

Dick raises both hands, still grinning like a bastard. “Ah. The language of brotherhood.”

Jason keeps his arm steady, tone flat. “Say one more word and I will make sure you have to explain to Barbara how you got shot in the face with a rubber round.”

There's a pause. Then:

“…Rubber?”

“For now.”

Dick backs off a step, hands still raised in mock surrender, laughing under his breath. “Man, she’s really got you twisted.”

Jason doesn’t lower the gun.

But he does roll his eyes.

Which, in Dick’s world, might as well be a hug.

***

Jason doesn’t mean to go to your apartment.

It just … happens. Like muscle memory. Like a turn he takes without thinking. He tells himself it’s about the locks. One quick sweep. Standard paranoia. No big deal. He slips the key into the door like a thief - soft and fast and familiar. Doesn’t flick on the lights. Just exhales as the click echoes through the stillness.

It smells like you. Like shampoo and old coffee and that citrus candle you claim you hate but keep relighting anyway.

Jason steps inside.

The place is clean, but not empty. Jacket draped over the arm of a chair. Shoes by the mat. The mismatched mugs still stacked on the counter like they’re part of the decor.

Just caution, he tells himself. Just curiosity. Just routine.

He heads to the fridge. Opens it. Scans. Two bottles of juice. A half-pack of shredded cheese. A sad-looking tomato.

He frowns. Closes the door.

Friendly concern, he calls it. Like checking on a neighbour. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

Then the sink.

He crouches, pulls open the cupboard.

Still there.

Two of his emergency stashes - one pistol, one taser, a lockpick kit in a breath mint tin. Unmoved. Undisturbed.

He lets the relief exhale out of him.

Gratitude, he thinks, mouth twisting. She hasn’t cleaned you out. Still trusts you. That’s all this is.

He rises. Paces.

And then - footsteps in the hall. Light. Quick. Just one pair.

He stills.

Every inch of him tenses, heart thudding sharp and sudden in his chest.

For one stupid second - one breath too long - he thinks it’s you.

The turn of the knob. The scuff of your boot. The smell of your shampoo curling into the air.

It’s not.

The steps pass by. Fade down the hall.

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then he clenches his jaw and forces the hope back down, shoving it into the same dark box where he keeps the rest of the things he can’t afford to want.

Idiot.

He ends up by the couch. The old throw blanket - the one he used before you invaded his space - is still folded on the cushion, corners slightly askew like someone moved it absentmindedly and forgot to fix it.

Jason stares at it for too long.

His throat pulls tight.

"Obsession," he mutters, like saying it first will make it true. Like that word hurts less than the one he’s avoiding.

He leaves.

Fast. Like the place might collapse if he stays.

Back at the safehouse, the silence doesn’t creep - it slams.

He doesn’t bother with the lights. Just drops his gear by the door and slumps into the chair - your chair, technically. The one you always half-curled in when you were ranting about bad movies or claiming the blanket “just migrated there on its own.”

His hand scrapes through his hair. He tells himself this is fine. Normal. He’s handled worse. He’s been shot, stabbed, tossed off rooftops, resurrected - he can survive this.

Except he can’t.

Because he closes his eyes, just for a second - just to breathe - and his mind goes there. To you.

To the feel of your fingers in his hair. The scrape of your nails, slow and absentminded, like it calmed you as much as it calmed him. To the sound you made when he finally relaxed under your touch - that soft, breathy laugh like you couldn’t believe you got through.

His lungs seize.

It’s so fucking gentle.

That’s the worst part. That it was nothing. That it was everything.

That you’d do it again in a heartbeat, probably without thinking - not realising you’ve made yourself a home in the wreckage of someone who never expected to be anything but temporary.

Jason grips the arms of the chair like they’re the only thing anchoring him.

Because this?

This is the crash.

He’s in it. No warning. No brakes. Just that sick, suspended feeling - knowing the world’s about to shatter and there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop it.

Because Jason Todd is in love with you.

And he is so completely, irreversibly, violently fucked.

His head drops back against the chair. His fingers twitch. The words echo in his chest like a backfiring engine.

He wants to scream. Wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s adrenaline, it’s trauma, it’s chemical confusion. That it’ll pass.

It won’t.

It won’t, because he misses you so bad he can taste it. Because your absence lives in his lungs like smoke. Because you made this place feel safe, and now it’s just another place he doesn’t want to be alone in.

Because you looked at him, and didn’t run.

Jason wipes a hand down his face like he can scrape the truth off with grit and sweat.

But it’s still there.

It’s in every breath.

Every memory.

Every crash he never walked away from - except this one, he’s still in it.

Still spinning.

Still holding the wheel, white-knuckled and bracing for impact, even though he’s already halfway through the windshield.

And still?

Still, he’d get back in the car.

Chapter Text

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You know that. You’ve known that since you stepped out the door, since you clutched the flyer like it was a secret note and not a desperate shot in the dark. Since you got on the train with your hood up and your heartbeat doing that thing it does when your brain’s already decided to make a bad call.

But here you are anyway - standing in front of a building that looks like it’s being held together by duct tape, nicotine stains, and generational trauma. You clutch the paper in your hand like it’s going to magically make the rent reasonable.

It won’t.

The price is obscene, of course. Gotham real estate is less about square footage and more about how long you're willing to coexist with mould and the memory of a probable crime scene. This one’s got all the charm of a condemned bunker and still somehow demands a deposit bigger than your credit score.

You stare up at the crumbling facade and sigh. There’s almost definitely been at least one death here. Maybe not recent. Maybe not murder. But definitely tragic. Probably stupid. The kind of place where someone slips in the shower and gets found six months later by a neighbour trying to steal their Wi-Fi box.

You hit the buzzer.

The intercom spits back a voice that sounds like it’s been pickled in whiskey and existential resentment. “Yeah?”

You clear your throat. Try for polite. “Hi, I’m here about the two-bedroom?”

“Third floor,” the voice croaks. “If the stairs don’t kill you, the wiring might.”

Charming.

You don’t wait to reply. Just push into the building and take the stairs two at a time. The elevator’s visible, barely, like a haunted promise in the corner of the lobby - rusted shut and probably last used during the Nixon administration. You don’t trust it. You don’t trust the stairs either, if you’re honest, but at least if those collapse you can go out swinging.

The third floor smells like bleach and damp. There's a metallic tang in the air, like someone tried to cover up a crime scene with Clorox and hope.

You knock once before the door creaks open on its own.

Inside: a shoebox. With aspirations. One main room that’s trying to be a living room, maybe a kitchen if you squint. The walls are the colour of nicotine withdrawal. The floor creaks like it remembers every argument that ever happened here.

The landlord appears from somewhere behind a stack of folding chairs, wearing a Hawaiian shirt stained with what might be ketchup or blood. He waves a hand like he’s shooing off a fly. “It’s small,” he says. “But the ghosts are friendly. Usually.”

You give a tight-lipped smile. Don’t ask about rent reductions for haunted appliances. Don’t make the joke about free exorcisms with every lease.

You walk the space. You’ve lived in worse. Hell, you’ve slept in worse - on couches, under desks, in the break room when Jason didn’t come back and your lungs refused to exhale until he did. So yeah. This isn’t a hard sell.

Two bedrooms. Enough space for company - for him, if he wanted. If he needed. If something in either of you ever gave enough to admit that “stay” doesn’t have to mean “forever” - just “tonight.” Just “safe.”

You pause near the second door. Not the bedroom you’d take. The other one. The maybe.

You’re not saying it. Not even to yourself. You’re not picturing his jacket hanging on the hook or his boots lined up by the radiator. You’re not thinking about what it would mean if this place wasn’t just yours.

But you’re not not thinking it either.

Maybe Jason could crash here without ... well, without complications. Because the idea of him being back on your couch again just doesn’t sit right with you anymore. Or worse, in your bed.

You press your fingers into the edge of the countertop and breathe out through your nose.

Because this is dumb.

This is reckless and soft in a way you can't afford right now. You haven’t even told him you’re looking. You haven’t told anyone. You can’t say why it feels so urgent, or why the idea of going back to your own apartment - the one with his ghost all over the furniture - feels like wearing someone else’s skin.

But this place? This barely-standing, mildew-scented trash heap?

It’s a maybe.

And maybe’s better than nothing.

You stare at the cracked wall for a long moment.

And you don’t say no.

***

The salon hums around you as you sit at the back, paperwork sprawled across the counter, trying to get through a mountain of receipts and schedules for the week. Your coffee’s gone cold for the second time, but you’re too deep in the numbers to care.

June’s out front, chirping her way through a cut like usual. Snip, laugh, some over-sharing about a Tinder date who cried in the Uber. Background noise, familiar as the bleach sting in the air.

Her client today is curled in the chair like a cat in a sunbeam, half-buried in a book thick enough to be legally classified as a weapon. Nose practically in the binding. You’re pretty sure her name’s Millie - one of those offbeat regulars who always smells faintly like peppermint and moral conviction. You’ve seen her read everything from grimy murder thrillers to whatever ten-dollar philosophy paperback promises to ruin your worldview in under a hundred pages. Right now? Definitely something heavy. Probably for a book club. Or maybe for the hell of it.

You flip to a fresh page of scheduling printouts and squint like that’ll make the numbers behave. June’s got another hour on shift. And you’ve been meaning to ask her something - casually, quietly, like it doesn’t mean anything.

You aim for nonchalance. Miss.

“Hey, Junie,” you call, still pretending to read the same invoice for the third time. “You know anyone moving out of a two-bed?”

The scissors pause.

Then, like flipping a switch, June whirls around with the kind of expression usually reserved for lottery winners. “OH MY GOD.”

Millie glances up, one unimpressed brow raised above the rim of her book.

You don’t even get the chance to play dumb. June’s already halfway across the floor, eyes wide, voice pitched low like you’re discussing state secrets. “Are you serious?” she hisses. “Like - serious serious?”

You lift a brow. “It’s a question, June. Not a marriage proposal.”

She claps a hand over her mouth like she’s about to scream into it. Her whole body’s vibrating like she’s trying not to launch into orbit.

Then, very seriously: “Wait. Are you ... are you pregnant?”

You blink.

Then choke. “What?!”

You lurch backward so hard your knee hits the filing cabinet and sends a stack of appointment cards flying. Cold coffee sloshes. Somewhere behind you, the printer sighs like it’s given up on you as a person.

June’s already steamrolling past your horror. “I knew it,” she stage-whispers, eyes huge. “You’ve been acting all weird and stuff - don’t look at me like that! You’ve been off lately. Secretive. Mopey. Now you’re looking for a bigger place, and I knew something was up-”

“Jesus wept,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “June, I am not pregnant.”

She stops. Cocks her head. “You sure?”

“I would hope so!”

Millie coughs pointedly behind her book. You shoot her an apologetic look.

June, undeterred, grins like she’s just discovered fire. “Okay, good. Great. I mean, I had ideas for the baby shower, but this is better. Because now I can ask what I was really thinking.”

You close your eyes like that might stop her.

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

She leans in, dropping her voice. “It’s him, right?”

You crack one eye open. “Who.”

“The guy,” she whispers, like you’ve got listening devices planted in the ceiling. Which you probably still do. “From Mercado.”

Your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Oh come on,” she says, gleeful now. “You thought I didn’t notice? That lingering touch he gave you when he handed me off like a sack of potatoes? Like you were the only person on the street who existed. I was a little distracted by the whole, you know, getting-kidnapped part - but I have eyes. And he said stuff.”

You freeze. “... Stuff?”

June wiggles her brows, clearly delighted with herself. “Sweet things. About you. On the way back. All mumbly and weird, but I caught it.”

You squint at her, heart knocking unevenly behind your ribs. “What did he say?”

She makes a show of zipping her lips. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. Wouldn’t want to inflate your ego. But yeah. He’s into you. Hard.”

You stare at her, still trying to catch up. “You were barely conscious.”

June grins. “I was recovering. Still sharp.”

“You were in shock.”

“I’m always in shock when a man pines for someone like that.” She crosses her arms. “I mean, I don’t blame you. He seemed hot. Under the-" She makes a helmet motion. "-In that sort of brooding, stab-you-for-love way. Very 'tragic vigilante who makes terrible life choices and sleeps like a war criminal.' But, like. Hot.”

You groan. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

June leans forward, eyes twinkling. “You like him.”

You glare. “That’s none of your business.”

“You like him,” she repeats, sing-song, like a curse. “You’re making real estate decisions based on his sexy masked face and I respect that.”

You make a strangled noise and swipe your phone off the desk just to have something to focus on. “We’re not - he’s not - we’re just. Figuring stuff out.”

June hums. “Mmhm. Figuring stuff out. Did he fix your pipe? He's who you've been sleeping with, right?"

"We're not-!" You startle, and then groan into your hands. “Please shut up.”

"I meant while your apartment's being fixed, silly. You're staying at his?"

You mutter something unprintable and go back to pretending the invoices need your attention.

But your hands are shaking a little.

And yeah. You’re definitely not asking about any two-beds ever again.

***

It’s too quiet when you get home.

Not the good kind. Not the soft, earned quiet of a post-shift glass of wine and a half-charged phone. This is the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin. The kind that feels wrong.

You pause in the doorway, keys still clutched between your fingers, your other hand hovering near the light switch. The air feels ... off. Heavy. Like the room’s been holding its breath.

You’ve been in this apartment a hundred times, in a hundred versions of tired. But it hasn’t felt like yours since the safehouse. Since the silence there was his silence - all warmth and weight and him throwing wrenches at plumbing like he was avenging a crime. This place? It’s hollow. Half a beat too slow. Furniture too still, like it doesn’t remember how to be touched.

You flip the lights on.

And freeze.

Because Jason is perched in the corner of your living room like some Gotham nightmare: half-shadowed, one boot up on the windowsill, arms resting on his knee like he’s posing for the cover of Brooding Monthly. The curtains shift behind him in a ghost of a breeze, and the expression on his face is pure trouble - calm, unreadable, like he’s been here a while.

You scream.

Well - you shout something that definitely starts with “Jesus Christ” and ends with “what the fuck,” and then - because your nerves are running the show now - you grab the closest thing (a rolled-up fashion magazine, your enemy) and hurl it straight at his head.

It bounces off his shoulder with a sad little thwap.

Jason doesn’t flinch.

He just blinks. Then starts laughing - low, rough, from the chest, like this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him all week.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demand, hand over your thundering heart. “You can’t just be here like that! I thought I was about to get serial killed by a bat-shaped tax deduction!”

Jason lifts one shoulder in a shrug, as if breaking and entering for vibes is a completely normal midweek activity. “Window wasn’t locked.”

“That’s not better!”

He swings his leg down from the windowsill, unfurling and crossing the room without ceremony. He plucks a bag of half-stale chips from your coffee table, slouches into the chair by the kitchen counter like he owns it, and pops one in his mouth with maddening calm.

“I heard you might be moving,” he says casually, like that’s the part that needs unpacking right now.

You blink at him.

Then blink again.

Then the penny drops and your mouth falls open. “Wait - wait. You were listening? Still?”

Jason doesn’t look up. “You told June.”

You stare at him, scandalised. “There's still bugs in the salon?!”

He makes a vague hand gesture. “Old ones. Just in case. Figured you’d have found them by now.”

“I did find them,” you sputter. “I unplugged them!”

His mouth quirks. “Didn’t mean I stopped listening.”

You cross your arms. “Creep.”

He shrugs again. “Missed your voice.”

And it’s … almost sweet. Enough to knock the wind out of you for a second. Enough to make your stomach twist in that awful, traitorous way. Because the truth is: he could’ve said anything. Could’ve shown up covered in blood or wearing your bathrobe or actively dismantling your stove and you’d still be standing here, already full throttle in love with whatever disaster he’s about to start.

Jason crunches another chip and glances up at you under his lashes. “So?”

You blink. “So...?”

“Are you?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Thinking about it. Maybe.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You clear your throat and look away, busying your hands with nothing. “This place sucks,” you lie. “Water pressure’s crap. My upstairs neighbour plays the recorder.”

Jason nods slowly, clearly not buying a single word of it. “Right.”

“It’s not about you,” you add too quickly, which - in your experience - is the universal sign that it absolutely is.

Jason watches you for a beat longer - then tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s sizing something up.

Then: “You miss me?”

Your heart stutters. Stupidly. Predictably.

You scoff. Or try to. It comes out more like a wheeze. “I saw you two days ago.”

“Didn’t ask when,” he says, standing slowly - all smooth muscle and rolling shoulders - “I asked if.”

Something about the way he moves sets your teeth on edge. It’s not unfamiliar - but it is out of place. There’s a precision to him now. A cool, deliberate grace that doesn’t belong in your kitchen. That belongs in alleyways and shadows and the hiss of smoke off a gun barrel.

You take a step back. Instinct. Not fear - just the automatic response of someone whose nervous system has decided that Jason Todd is now a category-five event.

He follows.

Not in a rush. Not with intent. Just closes the distance like he’s got all night to play with his food.

You shift. Lean back against the kitchen counter, trying to look unimpressed. Trying to breathe normal. Your spine meets cold tile and your brain lights up like a pinball machine. Jason plants his hands on either side of you - bracketing, not trapping. His smirk is lazy. His gaze isn’t.

“Do you miss sleeping in the same room as me?”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost see last week. “We didn’t sleep, Jason. You spent two weeks wiring a bug the size of a dime out of a light fixture and threatening to punch the toaster.”

He shrugs. “Still shared a room, sweetheart.”

You narrow your eyes. There it is again - that voice, that drawl. It’s not the soft, sardonic teasing you’re used to from him. This is practised. Razor-sharp and low, made to unnerve.

“You snored.”

“You swore at me in your sleep.”

“You deserved it.”

His grin sharpens.

He leans in a fraction closer - enough that you feel the warmth of his breath near your cheek. The scent of him wraps around you like it’s got weight: old leather, that cologne, a trace of gunpowder and skin.

Every inch of your skin prickles.

“Do you miss sharing a bed?” he murmurs, low and rough.

You stop breathing.

He’s inches from your face now - closer than he has any right to be, closer than someone with that jawline and that voice and those eyes should be. You can count every freckle, every scar, every infuriating little smirk line he has no business owning.

“I - That-” you stammer, mouth doing the backpedal your body forgot how to execute. “That was one time. That doesn’t count. You had a nightmare.”

Jason hums.

Not embarrassed. Not even remotely apologetic.

His hand lifts - slow, gentle - and brushes your wrist as he reaches for the chip bag behind you. His fingers barely graze your skin. It’s nothing. A flicker. A breath.

But it lights you up like you’ve swallowed a fuse.

He doesn’t pull away.

“Still think about that morning,” he says.

You feel your pulse spike so hard it might crack a rib. “Why,” you manage, voice strangled.

Jason shrugs one shoulder, gaze never leaving yours. “You looked wrecked. All dazed. Soft. Didn’t even blink when I called you out.”

You do blink now. Rapid-fire. Like it’ll reset your whole face.

He smirks, like he’s reading your vitals straight from your skin.

Your jaw tightens. Your ears are ringing. Your heart has moved directly into your throat.

“You always wake up looking that desperate?” he quotes, the words soft but devastating, like he’s unwrapping a memory just to see you flinch.

And oh, you do. Right down to your toes. Your face goes nuclear. The kind of full-body blush that should come with an evacuation plan.

Jason leans back slightly - just enough to grin. Just enough to let you breathe.

You scowl up at him. “When the hell did you learn how to flirt?”

He gives you a look so smug it should be illegal. “Darlin’, that wasn’t flirting.”

His voice drops - teasing, dangerous, drawled just enough to curl. “But if you want a full demonstration...” He taps two fingers against the countertop beside your hip. “You know how to make an appointment.”

Your brain bluescreens.

You gape at him, sputtering. “That’s my line-!”

But he’s already moving, unhurried, like a man who knows he’s left a smoking crater in his wake. He turns his back on you with infuriating confidence, heading toward your bathroom with that loose, heavy gait that makes it impossible not to watch him leave.

You do.

Obviously.

Staring at the stretch of his spine beneath his jacket, the way his shoulders roll like tension’s just a concept he used to know. And you’re still breathless, still blushing, still clutching the edge of the counter like it might keep you upright.

He glances back over his shoulder - all hooded eyes and wicked mouth.

“You want the shower, say the word,” he calls.

You choke.

He disappears inside.

And you're left standing in your kitchen, red-faced and ruined, in love with a nightmare you’d let haunt every square inch of your life if he asked nicely. Or if he just kept looking at you like that.

Jason’s footsteps fade into the bathroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts, and that's the worst part, really - because your mind is full of them. It's too quiet again. Only now, it’s not the heavy silence you walked into; it’s the kind that follows a blow to the chest - the kind that’s been building all this time.

You press your palm to your forehead, trying to steady your breath.

Did he know?

Does he know you’re in love with him?

No, you think, clutching the counter harder, as though it’ll keep you anchored. No, he’s not doing this on purpose. He can’t be. But there’s that small, sick voice in your head whispering that maybe he is. Maybe this is his game now - playing with you, teasing you, toying with you, seeing how much you’ll take before you crack.

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. No. No, he’s not doing that.

But the thought lingers, thick as smoke.

And you can’t reconcile it. You can’t reconcile this Jason - Red Hood without the mask - the one who grins at you with a look that could melt glass, the one who leans in too close and asks about your love life like it’s a casual question - with the man you’ve known for months. The one who barely survived the last time you flirted with him.

Jason Todd, the man who couldn’t handle the mention of romance, who stiffened like a soldier every time your hand brushed his. Jason, who you had to talk down from every single one of his self-imposed walls, who had a panic attack at the idea of being vulnerable.

Now he’s pushing you around the kitchen with words. Flirting like it’s his second language. Looking at you like that.

You take a long, shaky breath and force yourself to calm down.

When he steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, his shirt is untucked, sleeves rolled up just enough to drive you crazy. His hair is damp from the shower, dark and wild - a few strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes your heart lurch.

You don’t even try to stop yourself from looking.

He catches you - eyes flicking over the way your gaze lingers before you look away, heat flooding your face. He grins. “You want to make sure I’m not stealing your shampoo?”

You lean back against the counter, trying to reclaim your composure. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, but you like it,” he says smoothly, stepping closer. The space between you is getting smaller. Dangerously smaller. “You’re just too shy to admit it.”

Your pulse jumps in your throat. You glare at him. “Shut up.”

He steps right into your personal space. Close enough that his breath is warm on your skin. Close enough that your mind starts reeling. You want to take a step back. You want to push him away, tell him to stop ... but you don’t. You stay there, standing still, heart pounding too hard.

Jason’s smirk softens into something a little more real. “You’ve actually been thinking about it, huh? About moving.”

You snap your gaze up to meet his, heart hammering in your chest. “I'm ... I didn’t mean-”

“Didn’t mean what?” He presses, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. “You’re always talkin' about leaving, but you’re not moving, are you?”

You swallow hard. Your hands are trembling at your sides. “I’m jus' thinking about it,” you mutter. “That’s all.”

Jason watches you for a beat longer, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s trying to read you - and you’re helpless against it.

You can’t tell if it’s the heat in his gaze or the softening of his posture, but your chest tightens. "Maybe I’ll stick around a little longer," he says, his voice quieter, almost softer than usual. "You’re not really going anywhere, are you?"

And suddenly, you're not sure which one of you is more of a mess.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you find yourself saying, voice quieter than you expected. “I just ... I just want to make sure there’s space for you to stay.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, before your brain has a chance to talk you out of it.

Jason doesn’t move. The teasing expression is gone, replaced with something that’s harder to read. His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to process what you just said. His hand hovers near the counter, but he doesn’t reach for it.

“Space?” he asks, his voice rougher, more uncertain. “For me?”

You nod, but you're not sure you’ve said the right thing, because something changes in his eyes. Something softens. And you don’t know if it’s fear or hope, but it’s there. It’s real, and you can’t ignore it.

You swallow, trying to reclaim some of the control you feel slipping away. “Yeah.” You step closer, your voice dipping into a playful tease to keep the mood from spiralling into something you’re not ready for. “I just didn’t want to ask you to sleep in my room in case you got too flustered about it.”

Jason goes completely still.

For a long moment, you don’t know if he’s going to laugh it off or retreat to his usual shell, but instead, the colour rushes to his face. Red. His neck, his cheeks - hell, even the tips of his ears are turning an impossible shade of crimson. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

You can’t help it. The satisfaction floods you, and you smile - not the playful one you’ve been wearing, but the one that’s a little too smug, a little too self-assured.

"Don't tell me you’re actually blushing," you coo, crossing your arms, watching the way his whole body tightens, how he shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he’s trying to disappear into the floor.

“I-” Jason stammers. “I don’t-”

You tilt your head, unable to resist pushing him just a little more. “What? You don’t mind sleeping in my bed?”

Jason goes fully red now, like his entire system just shut down, but the strangest thing happens - the vulnerability slips, and he finally meets your gaze, his voice dropping, strained. “I don’t mind.” He’s barely above a whisper. “I don’t mind.”

Your smile stretches wider. “It’s settled then,” you say, your tone playful, even though the truth is, your insides are doing flips. You’re not sure who’s more shaken - you, for actually saying it, or him, for hearing it. “I’ll stay here, and you’ll stay with me.”

You lean against the counter, your posture relaxed, but your heart is racing. You’ve said it. You’ve opened the door.

Jason doesn’t move for a long time. His eyes are locked on you, his face flushed with the aftermath of being caught in something so raw. And then, just when you’re starting to wonder if he’s going to pull away - when the silence between you feels like it might suffocate you both - he shifts, his shoulders lowering, like the weight of his thoughts just caught up with him.

“I’m not sure what the hell is happening right now,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, visibly still flustered. "But if you want me to stay ... I’ll stay.”

You watch him, the tension in his voice echoing in the air, and for the first time, you realise how different he is now. It’s not just the flirtation. It’s not just the teasing and the smirks. It’s something deeper, something far more raw. The man standing in front of you is trying - trying to balance out the version of him that needed you to hold him close with the version of him that now needs to pull away and play it cool.

You breathe out a small laugh, trying to mask the ache in your chest. “I’m just making sure you don’t get stuck on my couch again,” you say with a shrug, forcing nonchalance back into your voice. “Hard to be big bad Red Hood just a crooked spine.”

Jason finally steps away from the counter, his body language shifting as he takes a step back toward the bathroom. “Right. No more couch.”

You follow his movement with your eyes, watching the way he moves - still that familiar quiet, but the tension between you is shifting again. It’s not the easy, sarcastic Jason you knew before. This Jason is more real. More vulnerable.

And it leaves you a little dizzy.

***

The quiet creeps in again. The kind that hums behind your ears and makes the air feel too still - like even the walls are waiting for something to snap.

You brush your teeth in silence, shoulder to shoulder with Jason in the mirror, and try not to overthink the way it feels. The routine's familiar. Easy. But this isn’t his apartment anymore. And tonight, for the first time, you’re choosing to share a bed.

It could be convenient. Practical.

It’s not.

Jason leans against the sink, watching the faucet like it might give him something. You can see him in the reflection, not looking at you, but definitely not not looking. He moves like someone in the middle of a stakeout - still on the outside, even when he’s right beside you.

“Have you followed up on the Kane Tower stuff?” you ask, aiming for casual and missing by a few inches.

He spits into the sink, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Shrugs.

“Been slow.”

You arch a brow. “Jason.”

His gaze flicks to yours in the mirror. There’s the faintest edge of a smirk there - less humour, more deflection. “Just business. I’ll fill you in when there’s something worth saying.”

“You always say that.”

His posture doesn’t change, but something in his jaw ticks. “Tomorrow,” he says. Soft, sure. Like he wants it to sound like a promise.

You nod, reluctantly. “Fine. But I’m holding you to it.”

He doesn’t respond. Just rinses his toothbrush one last time and sets it down like it’s the most interesting object in the room.

The air feels heavier as the two of you head toward the bedroom. That same breath-held hush clings to the corners. You pause by the door.

“I’m going to change,” you say, voice suddenly shaky. “Better knock before you come in.”

Jason grins at you over his shoulder. “I’ll knock. Wouldn’t wanna invade your privacy.”

You roll your eyes, watching as he disappears out of the room and into the living area. The silence is back, but now it feels like it’s pressing in on you from all sides.

You stand still for a moment, staring at your wardrobe like it’s the hardest decision of your life. You could wear that old oversized shirt - the one you don’t even remember buying - or that ratty pair of leggings you’ve been living in for weeks.

With a mix of nervous energy and something else you can’t quite name, you grab one of Jason’s old t-shirts he left here weeks ago. It’s faded and soft from wear, the fabric smelling faintly like him. Like leather, like him, like everything that’s made him so him - and you wonder if it’s just an excuse to be closer.

You slide into your shorts, tugging the t-shirt over your head, and you freeze in front of the mirror for a second. You feel weird. Like a teenager in her first awkward attempt at being provocative. You stare at yourself for longer than you need to, debating whether to change again. But before you can, there’s a knock at the door.

“Can I come in?” Jason’s voice is muffled, but you can hear the nervous undertone in it.

You swallow. Your heart is pounding so hard now that it feels like it’s going to explode. You take a deep breath and walk to the door, cracking it open just enough to see him standing in the doorway. His eyes flick to you immediately, and for the first time, you see it - the hesitation. The slight widening of his eyes, the subtle shift of his posture. Then it’s gone. Tucked away behind the same unreadable mask he always wears.

You step aside and let him in.

Jason glances at you again as he walks past, his gaze lingering just a little too long before he looks away. There’s no mistaking the way his chest rises with each breath. You know what he’s thinking, because you’re thinking the same thing. He sits on the edge of the bed like it might bite him. One knee up, weight off his heels, like he’s ready to spring at a moment’s notice. The mattress creaks beneath him - loud in the quiet - and the sound goes straight to your chest.

You’re still standing.

Still watching.

He’s wearing his usual loose, dark shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his toned forearms, and his hair is still damp from the shower.

You sit beside him - careful, like you’re toeing into cold water - and try not to look like you’re noticing how his thigh almost brushes yours. Try not to look like you care.

The silence stretches thin. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … unclaimed. Like neither of you knows who’s supposed to break it first. He shifts beside you, the bed frame creaking under him. You don’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him. But every part of him feels pulled taut - held back like a door on a lockstring, waiting for something to give.

Then, finally, he exhales.

“...You good?”

It’s quiet. Uncharacteristically so. Like he’s asking about something else entirely.

You blink.

He’s not looking at you directly. Just glancing, like he’s checking a rearview mirror. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here, not really. Like he’s already bracing for the crash.

You could lie. Say you’re fine. Say it’s just another night. That sharing a bed with Jason Todd doesn’t feel like sliding into the deep end of something you’re not supposed to name.

But none of it comes out.

Instead, you swallow. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely above the hush of the room. Your voice is frayed at the edges. Too soft. Too full of meaning.

You bite your lip. Glance at him. Then back down. Then at him again. Trying to talk yourself out of it.

"...Bit cold."

A beat.

Then, dryly, “C’mere, idiot.”

He doesn’t wait.

He reaches for you - not fast, not rough. Just one smooth, sure line of motion as he catches your wrist, heat blooming under his touch. Then he’s tugging you in. Not hard. Just enough to make it clear it’s happening whether you brace for it or not.

Your body moves before your brain catches up.

He pulls you against him, and you go.

There’s no graceful way to do it. Your knee bumps his thigh. One elbow ends up digging awkwardly into his ribs before you manage to tuck yourself down, fit yourself into him - like a comma curling into the end of a sentence.

“Wow,” you sniff, dragging the word out, your cheek pressed into his shirt. “You know, people used to fear me. Call me scarily competent. Intimidating. Now I get degraded."

Jason hums above you. The sound vibrates through his chest, low and amused. “Mhm. And do you like that?”

You shove at his shoulder without moving your head, your faux-gasp a little too breathy to be completely fake. “I’ll literally shoot you with your own guns if you say one more word.”

He chuckles again - quiet, fond. The kind of sound that feels like something sacred. The bed shifts beneath you both as he settles more fully into the mattress, head tipped back against the pillow, arm curling firmly around your shoulders and anchoring you in place.

You find the crook of his collarbone without meaning to, cheek brushing fabric worn soft with time and too many washes, stretching slightly at the collar, and your fingers bunch instinctively in the hem as you try not to breathe too hard, too fast.

It shouldn’t feel like this. Easy. Weighted. Real.

You feel his chest rise and fall beneath you, slow and steady, and with every breath he takes, something in your own body begins to settle. Not just nerves, but something deeper. Something rooted. Like a wire pulled too tight that’s finally, finally being let go.

And then - his thumb brushes over the outside of your upper arm. Just once. Barely a movement. Gentle and unconscious, but it leaves you breathless. It burns.

Not because it’s a move. Not because it’s deliberate.

Because it isn’t. It’s instinct. Like this is normal. Like this is his normal.

And for a moment, just one suspended breath in the dark, you let yourself believe it could be.

That this is allowed. That this stays.

His breathing evens out before yours does, but neither of you says anything. You don’t need to. You shift slightly, curling closer, and his arm tightens around you in response - reflexive, protective.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Chapter Text

You wake up tangled in someone else.

Or - no. Not someone else.

Jason.

The realisation lands slow, soft, like the sun through gauzy curtains. It takes a second to register where your arm is (pinned between your chests), where your leg is (hooked over his thigh), and where his hand is (splayed across your lower back like it's always belonged there). Your face is smushed into his collarbone, half-buried in his shirt, and his breath ghosts steady and warm against your forehead.

And god, he’s warm.

Like bone-deep, sun-heated-wool kind of warm. The kind of warmth that seeps into your skin and stays there.

You should move. You really should. You’ve never been this wrapped around another human being outside of a full-body massage or a CPR class gone wrong. But your limbs feel heavy in the best way, your brain is cotton, and - okay - he smells good. It’s the kind of comfort that grows on you - quiet, creeping. Like moss on old brick. Like something that’s been there longer than you realised.

His eyes are closed.

That’s good. Safer. Less mortifying.

You blink a few times, letting yourself take it in. The light filtering through the window. The quiet. The fact that, against all logic, you slept. The fact that Jason hasn’t shoved you off. That he’s still here.

You shift slightly, scooting an inch closer - just enough to burrow your nose against the crook of his neck.

Then you feel it.

A breath. Sharper than the rest.

Followed by a quiet laugh.

Low. Rough. Smug.

“You thought I was asleep, huh?”

You freeze.

Then groan. “I will smother you with a pillow.”

“Mm.” Jason shifts just enough to nudge his knee higher between yours. His voice is still husky with sleep, quieter than usual. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

You make a face into his shirt. “You’re so annoying.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining a second ago,” he murmurs.

You consider biting him. You consider how stupidly comfortable this is. You consider the fact that your entire thigh is pressed against his hip and his palm is still warm and steady against your back.

“This is nothing,” you mumble into his chest, entirely unconvincing.

Jason hums. “Totally. Very normal physical contact.”

You hate him.

Or. You don’t. And that’s the real problem.

Your heart is a mess. Your brain is worse. And your body? Your body is currently doing this humiliating thing where it refuses to stop enjoying the fact that you’re basically slotted into each other like puzzle pieces. Your breath hitches just slightly as you exhale.

And Jason’s fingers - slow, careful - skim across the bare skin of your waist.

The hem of your shirt must’ve rucked up in the night. His fingertips graze just under it now, a lazy path over your hip.

And you - touch-starved, half-asleep, stupidly in love - moan.

It's not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just a helpless, bitten-off little thing that bubbles up uninvited and curls shame straight through your spine.

Jason goes still.

Then collapses back onto the pillow like he’s just been given a gift from the gods.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, voice still thick with sleep, but now thoroughly awake. “Do that again.”

Your entire body lights up in panic. You slap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide, brain screaming abort mission.

“Absolutely not,” you blurt, your voice cracking halfway through.

“Come on-”

“Piss off.”

“Just a little one. A tiny encore.”

“I'll push you out of this bed.”

He grins like a man deranged. “Fuck. Wanna hear that every day. You know that? I want that noise on a ringtone.”

That curls somewhere low and dangerous in your stomach. 

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet.” He squeezes your hip lightly with one hand, the other tucked beneath his head like he’s never been more content in his life. “You’re still here.”

You groan, face burning, and try to roll away - half to escape, half to smother yourself into the mattress and die where no one can find your corpse. But his arm locks around your waist instantly, pulling you back in with the ease of someone much stronger and very used to winning arguments by physically relocating people.

“Chill out,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “We’ve got time.”

You squint back at him, sceptical. “You got somewhere to be?”

Jason’s mouth curls at the corner, a smile more real than cocky now. “Yeah.”

You blink. “Is it Kane Tower related?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I wanna take you somewhere.”

You blink again.

He doesn't offer more. Just shifts slightly so your thigh settles back over his. His hand strokes absently across the fabric of your shirt now - lazy and warm - and the silence between you fills with something slow and golden.

And it feels a little like growing roots. Messy. Slow. Too deep to undo in the daylight.

You hope.

***

You’ve been in a lot of sketchy places in Gotham.

Rooftop drop sites. Basement clinics. That one warehouse with the meat hooks and the definitely-not-blood stains. You’ve stood in alleyways that reeked of piss and gunpowder and tried to convince yourself that it was probably just … crime-adjacent. And sure, maybe your standards aren’t exactly high, but still - this?

This feels like it might actually be where you die.

“Okay,” you mutter, scanning the empty street as Jason rounds the corner ahead of you, “if this is the part where you murder me, I’d appreciate at least a little warning.”

Jason glances back, one brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “You think I’d drag you all the way back to Crime Alley for that? Please. I have standards.”

“Oh, good,” you deadpan. “I was worried.”

He doesn’t reply - just steps up to a rusted gate wedged between two buildings that look like they’ve been condemned since before you were born. He rattles the chain-link once, eyes scanning the street, then pops the lock like muscle memory. It clicks with a quiet finality that sets every nerve in your spine to high alert.

“This is how people die,” you whisper under your breath as he slips through the opening.

“Only the boring ones,” Jason calls back.

You follow.

Because of course you do.

The alley is tight and dark, framed by fire escapes and flickering security lights that make everything feel just a little too cinematic for your liking. The building Jason leads you to is hulking, crumbling, and still somehow smug about it. The brick facade is streaked with soot and graffiti, the old marquee above the box office barely holding on by rusted bolts. Half the letters are missing. The other half are rearranged by some enterprising teen to read: “FUKC CAPITLISM.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

Jason doesn’t slow. He moves like someone retracing old footsteps, past the boarded-up ticket booth and beneath the archway of a faded name: THE MAJESTIC.

Inside, the air is thick with dust and time.

It smells like mildew and old popcorn oil. The lobby’s stripped of anything valuable, just empty cases where movie posters used to hang, and shattered tiles that crunch underfoot like bones. The ticket stub kiosk is half-collapsed, and the concession stand has been tagged a dozen times over with spray paint, some of it surprisingly artistic.

Jason’s already moving past it, toward a narrow stairwell tucked behind a velvet curtain that’s been torn nearly in half.

He pauses halfway up the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Careful on the landing,” he says. “Stairs dip weird.”

You eye the whole staircase suspiciously. “Everything dips weird.”

But you follow him anyway.

The balcony is a wreck.

A beautiful, crumbling, nostalgic wreck.

Seats are broken or missing, chunks of ceiling have collapsed onto the rows below, and vines - actual, living vines - curl through the far wall and up along the seat legs, remnants of a Poison Ivy incident that Jason vaguely gestures toward like it’s no big deal.

“Don’t sit in the green ones,” he says dryly. “They bite.”

“Noted.”

You step carefully over an old popcorn bucket, take the seat Jason gestures to - the padding’s ripped, the frame groans like it’s one sigh away from total collapse - but it holds. From here, the view is a wide stretch of shadowed air and empty seats leading down to the dust-frosted screen. The balcony curves slightly, tiered in half-rows, like an old-school amphitheatre that forgot it was meant to be glamorous.

Jason drops into the seat beside you like he’s done it a thousand times.

You glance over.

He’s holding a crumpled brown paper bag.

“I swear to god, if that’s a severed hand-”

He opens it and pulls out a handful of popcorn. Buttery. Salty. Slightly stale.

You blink.

“You brought snacks?”

Jason shrugs. “Felt right.”

He offers the bag.

You take some. Because you’re not a monster.

There’s a long pause as the two of you settle in. The flickering light from a hole in the roof spills a dusty beam down across the main floor, casting the space in a sepia haze. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that belongs to old places, half-sacred and half-forgotten.

“So?” you ask eventually. “What is this place?”

Jason exhales. His eyes are fixed on the dark screen ahead, like he’s watching a memory play out.

“When I was a kid,” he starts, voice low, “this was the only place that ever felt … okay.”

You don’t speak.

He continues.

“Didn’t matter that tickets were, like, a dollar fifty. I never paid. Learned how to jimmy the side door before I knew how to spell ‘majestic.’”

You glance toward the hallway behind you. Yeah. That tracks.

“I’d sneak up here,” he says, “sit in this exact row, and just - watch. Didn’t matter what was playing. Cartoons, action flicks, those weird period dramas with bad wigs. It was warm. Dark. Nobody yelled.”

He pops another kernel into his mouth. “For a couple hours, the world stopped being a piece of shit.”

You glance at him, but he’s still looking ahead, shoulders slouched, the bag of popcorn resting loosely on his knee. 

“And later,” he says, quieter now, “there was this fire. Guy lit the lobby up trynna to get insurance money. Whole place shoulda gone down in under ten.”

And as he begins to talk, the projector inside your brain flickers to life.

You don’t mean for it to. It just happens - the way memory sometimes does, skipping through the reels uninvited.

Smoke.

Glass.

A grainy overhead shot from the local news, captured from a chopper circling above. The Majestic Theatre - half-eaten by fire. Headlines scrolling beneath in white block font. Crime Alley Blaze - One Man Saved. Batman Responds.

You were thirteen. Home from school. Sitting on the floor with your knees drawn to your chest, watching static-fuzzed cable news while your mum talked on the phone in the kitchen. You remember the way the flames lit up the screen, orange and unreal. The way the reporter kept repeating, “No fatalities, thanks to Batman and an unidentified partner-”

Jason keeps talking.

“There was a custodian inside. Nobody knew 'til the heat sensors caught a body. Old guy, mostly deaf, didn’t hear the alarms. I-”

He stops.

Swallows.

You don’t move.

“I was on recon,” he says, quieter now. “Wasn’t supposed to intervene. But I knew the layout. Every corner of this place. Spent so much goddamn time here.”

You blink.

In your head, the news footage rolls again.

A blur of smoke.

And then-

A figure in yellow.

You’d forgotten that part. Or maybe you never paid enough attention to clock it. A boy - tiny next to the cowl and cape beside him - darting across the lobby, fire curling up behind him like a living thing. A red tunic. A domino mask. Gloved hands dragging someone out into the alley as flames licked up the ceiling.

Jason shifts beside you. The seat creaks beneath his weight.

“Didn’t wait around,” he mutters. “We got him out, Br - Batman called in the fire team, and we disappeared before anyone asked questions.”

You’re not breathing.

Your mind spools the footage again, slower now. Zooming in. Sharpening. That face - what little of it was visible - tight with focus, mouth set like he knew exactly what he was doing, even if he looked younger than you were at the time.

And now you can see it.

Not just the memory of the news clip, but your own memory - sitting outside the GCPD with a Ziploc bag of coins and eyes too raw to meet anyone’s. And the kid who sat beside you, cape bunched at his knees, voice cracking on the word “solidarity.” The spinning top. The Nightwing toy. The stupid, sweet earnestness in his voice.

You glance at Jason, the light from the ceiling breaking through the dust just enough to hit his profile - sharp and quiet and bathed in gold like some part of the past just decided to announce itself.

He’s silhouetted now against the remnants of a screen that hasn’t lit up in years.

And in that light, for the first time, the boy and the man line up.

A sick, staggering twist of recognition coils in your gut.

“You were Robin,” you say.

The words slip out before you can stop them. Before you’re ready to see how they land.

Jason goes still. Not defensive. Not angry. Just - quiet. His gaze drops to the floor for half a second. Then comes back up, slow and unguarded.

“Yeah,” he says.

Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You sit back in your seat. Stare at the screen. It's blank. Burned out. But in your head, the film keeps playing. And the twist has already hit.

You turn in your seat to look at him, heart thudding like it’s too big for your chest. He’s slouched down now, forearms resting on his knees, half-lit by the slanted light through the broken roof. There’s a boy in that posture still. A tired one.

And somehow you find your voice.

“…Did you ever get those stupid little BatBurger toys?” you ask, tone awkward and fragile in a way you rarely let anyone see. “The ones that came in the kid’s meals?”

Jason blinks. Looks at you sidelong.

“…Yeah?” he says slowly. “I mean, yeah. We used to get boxes of them at the Cave. Don’t ask.”

You nod, teeth catching on your bottom lip.

“…Did you ever get duplicates?”

Jason’s brow furrows. “Uh. Yeah. All the time. It was kind of the point. Why are we-”

You cut him off, voice a little breathless now. Eyes wide as you watch him. “Did you ever … ever give them to stupid kids counting coins outside police stations?”

Jason stills.

Not just pauses - freezes. Like something just rewrote the tape in his head.

You’re not expecting anything. Not really. That moment in your life was a flicker. Minuscule. A blip. Jason saved people. Hundreds. Thousands. He wouldn’t remember one tearstained kid with a Ziploc of shame.

But something flashes behind his eyes.

Recognition. Sharp. Vivid.

He’s quiet for a second too long.

And then: “Shit.”

You’re already laughing. A shocked, stunned, emotional little laugh that barrels out of your chest like your heart couldn’t keep it in. You lean back in your seat, breath catching, eyes wide. “Holy shit. You - Jason, how many times have you saved me?”

Jason doesn’t move. Not right away. His whole body goes still, like your words landed harder than they were meant to - like they hit somewhere soft and buried.

You watch it happen: the moment something in him catches. His breath pulls tight. His jaw clenches like he's bracing for impact. His hand drags down his face, slow and rough, fingers trembling just slightly at the tips.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely.

But it’s not annoyed. Not dismissive.

It’s overwhelmed.

“Jay,” you breathe.

“No, I’m - fuck, I’m serious,” he mutters, sitting forward suddenly, elbows braced on his knees like he’s trying to ground himself. His eyes won’t quite meet yours. “I - I remember that day. The police station. You had this dumb - this dumb look on your face, like the world just kicked you and expected you to say thank you for it.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

He laughs once, sharp and dry. “And now you’re sitting here saying shit like that - like I’ve been orbiting around you this whole damn time.”

You blink at him. Softly. “Haven’t you?”

He stares at you, eyes unreadable.

The panic creeps back in, blurring around the edges.

So you try to lighten it, voice still caught on the edge of something too big. “Seriously, though. How many times? ‘Cause I’m starting to think I’m your side quest or something.”

Jason groans, hand dragging through his hair. “I gave you a plastic Nightwing top. It wasn’t exactly a tactical rescue.”

“You gave me coins too.”

“That was supposed to be stealthy!” he protests, but it’s weaker now. Like it’s losing steam under the weight of everything else.

You laugh again, bright and choked and almost teary.

Because the boy who sat beside you on that step - quiet and bloodied and trying so hard to make you smile - is the man beside you now. And he never even knew.

And maybe that’s what gets you.

That he saved you, once. Quietly. Unknowingly.

And now, all these years later, he’s here again.

And Jason?

He just looks at you. Really looks at you.

Like he's seeing something for the first time, even though it’s been in front of him all along.

***

You’re not sure why you brought the BatBurgers up to the salon roof.

Okay - that’s a lie.

You brought it up here because the air’s not awful tonight. Because the sun’s setting in that soft, overripe way Gotham gets right before nightfall - gold bleeding into bruise-purple. Because this is the only place in the city that ever feels wide open without feeling empty.

And because this rooftop is yours. In a selfish, secret kind of way.

And Jason looks almost at home here. Back against the old brick wall, long legs stretched out, one boot tapping idly against the metal gutter like he belongs to the skyline.

You pass him a burger. He takes it without a word.

“Used to come up here after work,” you say, biting into yours. “Smoke. Eat cold leftovers straight from the container. Have little existential crises about rent and the state of the world.”

Jason glances over, brow cocked. “Sounds healthy.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “Top-tier coping mechanisms. Gold star stuff. Sometimes I’d stay up here until I sobered up. Or until the fire escape didn’t feel like a personal threat.”

He huffs a quiet laugh.

Then - almost too casually - says, “Yeah. I know.”

You blink. “You know what?”

He doesn’t meet your eye right away - just tears off a chunk of burger with his teeth like this is totally normal. “That you used to come up here.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, creep. How?”

Jason finally looks at you. There’s something careful in the way he does it. A flicker of hesitation at the corners.

“We met here,” he says. “You just don’t remember.”

Your stomach drops. Jason shifts slightly, shoulder brushing yours.

“You were wrecked,” he adds, quieter now. “And loud. Thought you were hallucinating me.”

You sit there, stunned.

Because you remember that night. Or - bits of it. Smudges of glitter and city light and the overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion of being let down too many times in one day. You remember a rooftop. A voice. Something solid beside you.

“No fucking way,” you breathe. “That was real?”

Jason nods.

You stare at him. “You let me eat a Twinkie from my boot.”

“It was impressive,” he says. “Didn’t even blink.”

You groan. “I trauma dumped on you.”

Jason leans back slightly, propping himself on one elbow. He’s smiling now - soft around the edges. “You also invited me to the salon. And told me I looked like shit.”

Your face is in your hands before you can stop it. “Jesus Christ - in my defence, you did.”

He laughs, voice low and warm. “Honestly? It was kind of the highlight of my week.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s closer than before. Not in a pushy way - just ... present. Solid. Like if you leaned a little, he’d catch you without even thinking about it.

Your voice is quieter now. “You remembered all that?”

Jason doesn’t hesitate. “Hard to forget.”

You shift slightly, hand brushing his thigh where your knees almost - almost - touch. Jason’s eyes flick down for half a second, then back up, like he felt the static jolt too.

And suddenly your burger feels very far away.

“So,” you say, trying to claw your way back to steady ground, “just to recap - you were already stalking me before we officially met?”

Jason’s brow lifts, and the corner of his mouth quirks like he’s trying not to look pleased. “You call it stalking, I call it rooftop coincidence.”

“Oh, sure,” you murmur. “Classic Red Hood move. Haunt a girl’s fire escape. Eavesdrop on her breakdowns. Real textbook wooing.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints.”

You scoff. “I thought you were a stress hallucination. I would’ve trauma-bonded with a traffic cone that night-"

He lifts one hand. Brushes a strand of hair away from your cheek - slow, gentle - like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times before, like your face belongs to him in some small, secret way.

His knuckles graze your temple - featherlight. Barely there. But your skin sparks in his wake, nerve endings lighting up like the rooftop’s caught fire.

You stop mid-sentence.

Your mouth stays open, useless now. Because your brain? Gone. Blank. Static hiss. Your breath hitches like your body’s buffering, too many signals colliding at once.

Because your faces are so close now, and it’s stupid how easily your breath syncs with his. Every inhale a mirror. Every heartbeat too loud in your ears. And you’re frozen. Lips parted. Breath shallow. Trying to remember how teasing works when every micro-expression he makes has you short-circuiting. Feeling every place your body isn’t touching him - and it’s maddening.

The city hums faintly in the distance - sirens, traffic, a train rumbling past on the elevated tracks. But it’s all background now. Muffled.

All you can hear is him.

The shift of his breath. The soft scrape of denim as he leans in half an inch. The quietest exhale, like he’s trying not to scare you off. Or trying not to fall in.

You want to say something. A joke. A lifeline. Anything to ground yourself.

But all the teasing’s burned off now. You’re just left with heat and static and somewhere between your lungs catching and your throat tightening, your breath stutters.

Jason sees it.

His eyes stay locked on yours - unreadable, hungry, patient in a way that feels like restraint and want all at once. Like he's daring you to move. Then, voice low, rough, curled around the edge of a grin you can feel before you see it, so close you could count the curve of every syllable, he murmurs:

“You gonna keep staring at my mouth or do something about it?”

And that’s it.

That’s the match on the gasoline.

Your heart lunges at the same time your body does, and you don’t even think - you can’t - because you’re already kissing him like it’s the only thing keeping your world upright.

The first contact is electric. A jolt down your spine. Your hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt like you need anchoring, like you’ll float off the edge of the roof if you don’t hang on.

Jason groans against your mouth - low, rough, involuntary - and it ruins you.

Because it’s not a soft kiss. It’s weeks of tension. Months of bite-your-tongue longing. It’s the way he held you like you mattered. The way you almost touched. The way you both pretended you weren’t drowning in it.

It’s greedy. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tastes like mine.

His mouth crashes into yours again and again - open, hungry, urgent. His lips are slightly too cold and dry and just this side of reckless, dragging across your bottom lip before he sucks it between his teeth with a groan so guttural it punches straight to your stomach. You answer with a broken little gasp - a sound he swallows down like he’s starving for it.

And then his tongue sweeps in - a flick, a tease, a slow deliberate slide that makes your toes curl - and everything inside you caves.

His hand finds your waist, fingers digging in like he needs to feel that you’re here, needs to know this is real and you’re not slipping away. Your knees knock together as you shift closer, angling your body toward him with a mewl that barely makes it past your lips.

He chases it.

Tilts his head and kisses you harder, deeper - mouth hot and insistent, slanting together over and over, messier now, tongue licking into yours with an off-kilter rhythm that makes your pulse spike. His teeth catch on your lip and you whine - actually whine - because it’s too much and not enough and too fucking much.

The air smells like hot brick and rusted metal, like ozone and summer thunder just beyond the skyline. Somewhere far below, a car alarm blares and cuts. The wind picks up - lazy and warm - tugging at your hair, making Jason’s shirt ripple at the hem where your fingers curl tight.

And you can feel the tension in him - the restraint burning at the edges, the way he holds himself back even now.

But he wants you.

God, he wants you.

And it’s not delicate. It’s not careful. It’s crushing. All teeth and heat and fingertips dragging up beneath the hem of your shirt like he needs to map the skin he’s barely allowed himself to touch, and all you can do is let him.

You break apart for air - barely.

Foreheads pressed together, noses bumping, breaths heaving between you like you’ve just sprinted full-speed into each other’s orbit and don’t know how to stop now.

“You son of a bitch,” you whisper.

Jason’s lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the shell of your ear - like he can’t stop now that he’s started. Still learning where you live under his hands.

“Been losing my mind over you, doll,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Didn’t even realise how bad ‘til you left."

You press your mouth to his again - softer this time, but no less desperate. No less real.

Because this?

This isn’t just a kiss.

This is the crash you’ve been bracing for. The one you saw coming from a mile away and still couldn’t stop. The one that leaves you breathless and split wide open, grinning through the wreckage.

Jason groans again - one hand sliding up your back, the other fisting in the hair at the nape of your neck - and you think:

Finally.

Because he tastes like heat and safety. Like every almost finally collided with now.

And it’s so much.

Too much.

But not enough.

Chapter Text

The door slams behind you like it’s trying to keep up with your pulse.

You don’t know who pushed who first. Might’ve been him. Might’ve been you. Doesn’t matter now - not with Jason’s mouth on yours, his hands already on your hips, hauling you back into him like he’s starved for contact.

Your spine hits the wall with a thunk. You don’t even flinch.

He kisses like a man who’s been holding back for too long - all heat and gravity, lips bruising, breath sharp. You break the kiss just long enough to gasp for air, only for him to chase your mouth with another. And another. Until you’re dizzy, until your fingers knot in the collar of his jacket just to stay upright.

“I’m gonna trip over m'own feet,” you mumble against his jaw.

Jason huffs a breath that might be a laugh - low and wrecked. “Don’t care. I’ll catch you.”

He does more than that.

The next thing you know, his hands are under your thighs, lifting you clean off the floor like you weigh nothing. You yelp - then immediately muffle the sound against his neck as he carries you across the room.

You know exactly where he’s going.

“Jay-" you start, a warning, a breath, a plea.

He scowls at the cluttered counter.

Then he shifts his grip, braces your back with one arm - and with the other, sweeps the whole damn thing clean.

Junk mail scatters. A mug hits the floor. A half-full container of hair pins skitters into the sink like plastic rain.

You gasp. “That was the only organised surface in the whole place-”

Jason sets you down hard on the countertop, his hips between your knees, and kisses the protest right out of your mouth.

“Still clean,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “For now.”

You curl your fingers into his shirt and pull. Hard. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You love it.”

You do.

God help you, you do.

He tilts his head and kisses you deeper, tongue stroking into your mouth like he’s got something to prove. Your thighs tighten around his hips without you telling them to. His hands are everywhere - your waist, your jaw, the hem of your shirt - rough and searching like he wants to feel everything all at once.

Your fingers fumble with the zipper of his hoodie. It’s halfway down before he pulls back and shrugs it off in one fluid motion. Then he’s back, crowding you, kissing like he’s afraid to stop - like he’s afraid this is still a dream.

Your nails scrape lightly down his back. He groans into your mouth.

“You gonna break my counter?” you murmur, breathless.

Jason’s grin is nothing short of filthy. “Not unless you want me to."

Your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way into his hands. You shove lightly at his chest - just enough to get your breath - and hop down, tugging him by the front of his shirt toward the bedroom.

You don’t make it far.

You both trip over your feet, stumbling into the hallway wall with a thud. Jason only just catches you with a grin, arms steady.

“I thought you said you’d catch me,” you say, laughing through the heat in your veins.

He presses his mouth to your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your neck. “I didn’t say I’d do it gracefully.”

You make it to the bedroom in a rush of limbs and half-finished thoughts, kissing like it’s the only language you remember. You fall onto the bed in a tangle. Jason lands half on top of you, elbow sinking into the mattress as his hand grips your hip like he doesn’t know how to let go.

You don’t want him to.

You don’t want to be anywhere else.

His mouth finds yours again, teeth dragging against your lower lip. 

His hands roam under your shirt again, touch warmer now, fingers pressing into the skin of your waist like he’s still convincing himself you’re real. Your hips tilt toward him in response, instinctive, and his breath hitches.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He answers it with a groan - low and almost frustrated - and buries his face against your neck for a beat.

Then he pulls back, just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “We gotta stop.”

You blink up at him, breath caught in your chest. “Why?”

Jason doesn’t move. Just closes his eyes and huffs a crooked laugh. “Because if we keep going, I’m gonna make a mess of your bathroom like I’m a goddamn teenager again.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then - breathless, stunned, wrecked - you start laughing.

You bury your face in his neck as your whole body shakes with it, the edge of heat curling into something softer, more delirious. Jason groans, half-exasperated, half-grinning, and collapses down next to you, dragging you with him.

You end up curled over his chest, one of your legs thrown over his hip, his hand still possessive at the small of your back.

“Could’ve just warned me you were secretly a gentleman,” you murmur against his collarbone.

“I’m not,” he says, fingers stroking idly under the hem of your shirt. “I’m a selfish bastard. I just don't wanna rush."

Your breath catches.

But neither of you says anything more.

You just nuzzle closer, wrapping your arms around him like gravity’s finally doing its job. Jason presses a kiss to your forehead, then another to the curve of your jaw, and you feel his lips twitch into a smile as you sigh into his shoulder.

You don’t change. Don’t even try.

You both just lie there - tangled and rumpled - sharing soft kisses, sleepy giggles, and the occasional playful nip that turns into another groan and another no, not yet.

Eventually, your eyes start to flutter closed. Jason’s breath evens out beneath you, arm tucked tight around your waist, like he’s anchoring you to him.

You fall asleep like that. Still dressed. Still buzzing. Still wrapped around each other like there’s nowhere else you’ve ever wanted to be.

***

You wake up with a full-grown man on top of you.

Well - not on you. Not entirely. Just ... draped. Heavy and warm, all long limbs and slow breaths, like gravity took one look at Jason Todd and decided, Yeah. That one. His arm is flung across your stomach, his head nestled between your neck and shoulder, and his entire torso is somehow tucked into you like you’re the pillow, despite the fact that he’s built like a tank.

You blink up at the ceiling, hair tickling your face, heart fluttering like a fool.

Because this?

This is so stupidly cute it should be illegal.

Somewhere in the night, you must’ve shifted - rolled onto your back maybe, kicked off the covers - and Jason, apparently, decided that you were a heating pad with a heartbeat and clung accordingly.

His nose is pressed to your collarbone. His thigh is slotted between yours. His hand twitches once, absently, like he’s still chasing something in his dreams.

And your heart?

Your heart does something awful and unspeakable and soft.

You should be uncomfortable. He's heavy as hell. Your arm’s asleep. And yet …

You’re smiling.

You try - very gently - to shift out from under him.

You do not succeed.

His arm tightens instinctively, a low, wordless grumble rumbling from somewhere in his chest. You feel it more than hear it, the vibration buzzing through your ribs.

“Jay,” you whisper. “C’mon. I gotta get up.”

Another grunt. Less coherent, somehow.

You wiggle again. “Seriously. You’re crushing me.”

He snuffles against your neck.

Snuffles.

Like a damn contented bear.

Then, in a voice wrecked from sleep and groggy as hell: “Mmmno.”

You blink. “No?”

“No movin’,” he mumbles, accent thick and words slurred. “You’re warm.”

You try not to laugh. Fail.

“Jason, I have work.”

“Call in dead,” he says, already half-buried in the crook of your neck again. “Tell June you got crushed by a sexy six-foot criminal.”

You snort. “I’d have to be a lot more specific than that in Gotham.”

He groans softly, head tipping further into your shoulder. “Yer evil.”

“I’m late.”

“You’re early.”

You twist again, managing to free one shoulder. Jason groans dramatically and tries to bodily roll with you, like he can pin you back into place just by being an immovable object.

It almost works. Until you actually slide out from under him with a hiss and stagger upright - hair wild, shirt wrinkled, sleep still stuck in your eyes.

Jason whines.

Then, with absolutely zero warning, grabs your wrist and hauls you back into bed like it’s a hostage negotiation.

You yelp as you topple into the mattress, bouncing once before Jason slings an arm across your waist and plants his face directly into your chest with a victorious sigh.

“M’gonna report you to HR,” you mumble, face buried in his hair.

Jason doesn’t budge. “You are HR.”

“Exactly. Abuse of power.”

He tilts his head back just enough to look up at you - hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still half-lidded and lazy - and gives you a slow, crooked smile that should be illegal before 9 a.m.

“You know you don’t wanna go,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and heat. “Stay. We’ll do nothin’. Eat leftover fries. Break your counter again.”

Your pulse skitters.

You roll your eyes to cover it. “You really think fries are enough to bribe me?”

He hums. “There’s also my face. And my charming personality.”

“Oh, well,” you say, dry, “why didn’t you lead with that.”

He nuzzles closer, pressing his nose beneath your jaw. “C’mon, doll. Just ten more minutes.”

You exhale.

It’s the “doll” that does it. Wrecked and mumbled and warm against your skin. Your hand finds his hair without thinking, fingers sifting through the messy strands.

Jason sighs, content and smug.

You give yourself five more minutes. Definitely not because he’s still got his arms around your waist like letting go isn’t an option. Definitely not because you like it.

Eventually you untangle yourself from Jason’s octopus-limbed clinginess and manage to roll out of bed.

He makes an offended sound behind you. The kind that belongs to an abandoned cat or a child denied dessert.

“Darl-”

“Don’t start,” you warn, running a hand through your hair and blinking blearily at the state of the room.

Your clothes are scattered. Your phone’s blinking a new message. Your entire body feels like it’s been kissed into a different gravitational orbit.

Jason, however, remains exactly where you left him: shirt rumpled, hair a mess, watching you with a lazy sort of interest from the crumpled bedsheets like he has zero intention of pretending to be a functional adult today.

The sun slants across his shoulder. Your shirt’s rucked up to your ribs. It should feel awkward, exposing. Instead, it feels … soft. Domestic.

Weird.

You’re not used to Jason being like this - like he’s allowed to be warm.

You cross to your dresser and start pulling out clean clothes. Behind you, the bedsheets rustle.

Then, too casual: “Have I ever told you how sexy you look in your little work uniform?”

You stop.

Blink.

Turn.

“…What?”

Jason grins - slow, sleepy, unbothered - still half-sprawled on the bed like he didn’t just commit a crime. “Your work stuff. That top. The apron. It’s hot.”

You stare at him. “I don’t have a uniform.”

He shrugs. “Whatever. It’s a vibe. Professional, scrappy, capable. Gets me goin’.”

You throw a sock at his face.

He catches it with one hand - easily, annoyingly - and just laughs.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, tugging your shirt on.

“You like it,” he calls, voice still warm with sleep. “Don’t lie.”

You check your watch.

Then curse.

“Shit - I’ve gotta go, I’m gonna be late-” You pull your hair back, teeth clenching around the tie. “No time for coffee, no time for food, I’ll grab something on the-”

Jason gets up, stretches like a cat, and strolls into your space with the confidence of a man who’s already decided your schedule’s secondary to his plans.

“What are you doing?” you ask, suspicious.

“I’ll drive you in,” he says, too casually. “We’ll stop for food on the way.”

You frown. “Since when do you-?”

Then you see it.

The glint in his eye.

You squint. “You mean on your bike.”

Jason shrugs, already tossing the spare helmet that lives in your closet toward you. “Fastest way across town.”

You catch it. Barely.

And sigh.

Not because you’re upset. Not even a little. Just because you know exactly what this means - him, smug and steady in front of you, and you clinging on like your life depends on it, pressed up tight against his back in a way that is definitely not conducive to keeping things casual.

You tug your jacket on. “If I fall off, I’m haunting you.”

Jason’s grin is all teeth. “Guess I’ll keep you close, then.”

Outside, the engine purrs to life.

And when you slide in behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, knuckles brushing the edge of his belt - it’s not subtle. Not friendly. Not casual.

His hand comes down to rest lightly over yours, fingers brushing your knuckles once.

You make him park a block away from the salon.

Not that Jason complains. He just quirks a brow, leans back against the handlebars like he’s got all the time in the world, and watches you hop off the bike and pull your jacket straight.

“June sees you drop me off,” you mutter, pulling your helmet off and fixing your hair in the reflection of the bike’s side mirror, “she’s gonna start planning our wedding.”

Jason grins. “You say that like she hasn’t already dreamed up the baby shower.”

You roll your eyes, take a step toward the sidewalk - and pause.

Because Jason’s not revving the engine. Not throwing you one last grin before peeling off into Gotham traffic. Not even reaching for his helmet.

He’s getting off the damn bike.

You squint at him. “What … what are you doing?”

Jason’s already adjusting his jacket, like he’s preparing to follow you into work and settle in for the day. “Gotta park anyway,” he says, way too casually. “And you’re gonna need a ride home.”

You blink. “Later. Like - hours from now.”

“Right.” He tilts his head. “So I figured I’ll just hang out. Work from the back room or whatever. Won’t even notice I’m there.”

You cross your arms. “You?”

Jason shrugs. “Very subtle.”

You narrow your eyes.

Jason tries to look innocent - which is impressive for a man built like a criminal record and dressed like a warning sign - but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrays him.

You open your mouth to argue - then close it.

Because truthfully? He’s not going anywhere. You can see that. It’s written all over him - the firm set of his shoulders, the quiet stubbornness in his expression. He's staying because he needs to, even if he won't say why. Even if he probably doesn't understand it himself.

You sigh.

“Might as well make yourself useful,” you mutter. “You so much as breathe on the colour stock, I’m making you rinse perms for a week.”

Jason grins and bumps your shoulder with his. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You give him a flat look. Then lean up, give him a kiss - short, soft, still new enough to make your stomach flutter - and head for the door.

He follows.

And so begins your very normal work day.

The bell above the salon door dings as you step inside, followed by the low buzz of a blow dryer and the unmistakable shriek of a nineteen-year-old seeing something she wasn’t emotionally prepared for.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You don’t even flinch. You just keep walking - straight past the reception counter where June has dropped her coffee in her lap, straight through the waiting area where she’s flapping a towel at herself like that’ll fix anything.

“Is that-? Is that-”

“Not now, June,” you snap under your breath, eyes already locking on your first client of the day.

Middle-aged. Pixie cut in need of a reshape. Long coat draped over the chair. Comes in every eight weeks like clockwork, talks about her dogs like they’re her tax dependents. You flash her a smile.

“Hi Denise! Give me two seconds to get set up.”

Denise smiles warmly. “Take your time, sweetheart. I brought a book.”

You nod gratefully - then turn back around, shooting Jason a glare and jerking your head toward the back desk.

“Stay out of the way,” you mouth, already grabbing your apron and tying it around your waist.

Jason gives you a lazy salute - and ambles toward the back like he owns the damn place.

June, meanwhile, is still making dolphin noises behind the counter.

You take a deep breath, slap on your client smile, and grab your shears.

Today is going to be a long day.

***

The first day, it's sweet.

Jason brings you lunch. Real food, too - not just a protein bar or the cold half of a sandwich you left in your locker. He remembers how you take your coffee. Passes it to you with a soft, offhand “Thought you could use this,” like it doesn't mean anything. Like it doesn't turn your insides to something warm and unsteady.

It’s easy to smile then. Easy to lean into the comfort of it. The smallness of the gesture. The way he looks at you like you matter.

The second day, it's charming.

He loiters by the back desk reading your mystery paperbacks, legs kicked up on the filing cabinet, occasionally throwing you a wink when June isn’t looking. He helps you sweep up after a fringe trim when your hands are full, handing you pins when you're elbow-deep in a bridal updo. A quiet, grounding presence at your shoulder.

He talks less, but touches more. Fingertips brushing your waist when he walks behind you. His arm around your middle when you rest between clients. A hand on the back of your neck, thumb grazing your pulse like he’s anchoring himself there.

You don’t mind. Not really.

The third day, it starts to feel … tight. 

You still like having him there. Still like the kisses pressed to your temple when you brush past, still like the soft banter between appointments, the low murmurs and glances that mean something now.

But Jesus. You're used to breathing room.

Even when he’d stayed with you before - crashing on your couch, occupying the same space - it was never this. This constant closeness. This unwavering presence, like he can’t afford to be even one thought away. Like letting you out of his sight means losing something.

And maybe that's it - the tension building under your ribs. Because it's not that you want him to leave. You just want a moment when you’re not being watched like you might disappear.

That afternoon, maybe he senses it. Maybe it's the way you sigh without meaning to. Or the way you don’t kiss him back when he ducks into your space during lunch. You don’t know.

But when your next client leaves, Jason stands from the back desk and mumbles, “Gonna run some errands. Be back later.”

You nod, and your smile is grateful. Too grateful, probably. He kisses your cheek before he goes, and you pretend you don’t feel his hesitation.

You don’t even finish your salad. Instead, you curl up on the salon couch during your last break of the day, head resting against the wall, hoodie pulled up around your ears like armour. And you just … crash. Not a nap. Not really. Just your body going still for the first time in days.

You wake up hours after your shift was supposed to end with a stiff neck and a walk-in waiting.

When Jason returns that evening, his gaze flicks across your face like he’s checking for bruises.

He doesn’t say anything about the afternoon.

But the next morning, he’s quieter. Closer. The space between you and him feels thinner. He doesn’t leave at all.

That day, he's helping June clean the tint bowls before you’ve even clocked in.

She laughs. Calls him “shop husband.” Jason grins. You don’t.

Because it's not that you don’t want him there.

You do.

But the pressure’s creeping in. Like walls inching closer. Like being hugged too tight for too long.

And Jason doesn’t seem to notice.

He kisses you goodbye in the morning and walks you to the front door. Kisses you again at the salon, parks the bike like he always planned to stay.

Fetches your lunch when your day runs over. Brushes his hand along the small of your back like he’s checking you’re still there. Sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s just … too much.

And you let him.

Because it’s Jason.

Because he’s scared. You can see that, now - the way his gaze tracks you like he’s still waiting for the moment everything falls apart.

You’re not angry.

Not yet.

Just … tired.

And overwhelmed in a way you can’t name.

You're just finishing up a cut when Jason disappears for lunch again - your only quiet pocket of the day. June’s working the chair beside you, blow dryer whirring like white noise, her client flipping through a Hello! mag with chunky rings on every finger.

“Your man’s still here?” June murmurs, low and amused.

You glance at her. “Out grabbing burritos.”

She lifts her brows. “Again?”

You wipe your scissors on the towel at your station. “Guess he’s committed to the bit.”

June’s eyes flicker toward the back room. Then back to you.

She leans in, voice dipped just under the hum of the dryer. “Don’t take this the wrong way, babe, but… he’s spending a lot of time here.”

You don’t look at her. “Yeah.”

“I mean, not that I’m complaining. He’s good at fixing the coffee machine. And he scares off the worst customers just by existing.”

You snort.

“But…” June’s voice softens, knowing now. “You okay?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just fold your towel a little slower.

“I’m not not okay,” you say finally.

June hums, carefully neutral.

You sigh. “It’s just … a lot.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“I think he’s scared I’m gonna disappear if he blinks too long.”

June casts you a sidelong glance. “Are you?”

“No,” you say. Then quieter: “But I am gonna go nuts if he keeps breathing down my neck while I’m bleaching roots.”

June chuckles under her breath. “Tell him then, boss.”

You exhale.

The dryer cuts off.

Conversation over.

But the echo of it lingers - low and guilty and a little too loud.

Because you love him. But if he keeps orbiting this close, you’re going to burn up before you ever get the chance to say it.

***

Jason unlocks the apartment door like it’s muscle memory. The key slides in smooth, and he nudges the door open with his shoulder, kicking off his boots without missing a beat.

“… should grab that background packet from the safehouse tomorrow,” he’s saying, already halfway through the thought. “Could bring it to the salon, go through it while you’re working. I think I’ve still got some notes stashed in the lining of my jacket-”

“Do you have other things to do?”

You don’t mean for it to come out like that.

Sharp. Clipped. Tense in a way that makes him pause mid-step.

Jason blinks at you, one brow raised. “What?”

You keep your coat on. Don’t cross the room. Don’t look at him directly. “I mean … you’re the Red Hood. You’ve got shit to handle, right? You’ve got a whole underground network. Turf wars. Interrogations. Crime to punch in the face.”

Jason shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Yeah, I’m handling it.”

You nod once. Like that explains everything. “And the Kane Tower stuff?”

Jason rubs the back of his neck. “Still working on it.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And the day before,” he adds, easy. “It’s fine. It’s under control.”

And something in you snaps.

Because it’s not fine. Not even close.

You toss your bag on the counter a little too hard. “Then why are you spending every hour of the goddamn day at my work?”

Jason’s face tightens. “What?”

“I mean it,” you say, sharper now, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “You’re in the salon more than I am. You bring me lunch, you walk me home, you linger like I'm gonna disappear if you take your eyes off me for two seconds.”

Jason’s mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but you don’t let him.

“You’re treating me like I’m your pet, Jason.”

He flinches.

Actually flinches.

And that, more than anything, makes you angrier. Not because he deserves it. But because you don’t want to be hurting him. And you are.

“I’m not-” he starts, voice rough.

“Then what are you doing?” you demand, stepping toward him now. “Because it doesn’t feel like trust. It feels like a chokehold.”

“I’m making sure you’re safe,” he snaps back, like it’s obvious.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Safe? From what, Jason? The guy who wanted layers and a balayage?”

His jaw tics.

“If you’re so worried, maybe I should come with you on one of your little rooftop errands. That sound fair? Or are you retiring from vigilante work to become my full-time babysitter?”

Jason exhales like he’s been punched. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then what is it like?” Your voice cracks, and you hate it, but you don’t stop. “Because I didn’t sign up for this. For being smothered under the weight of your anxiety.”

“I’m not anxious-”

“Yes, you are!” you shout. “You’re terrified. You’re hovering. You’re suffocating me, and I need you to say why!”

Something sharp and buried splits open in his chest, and Jason breaks.

“I thought you were gone, okay?!”

It rips out of him. Ragged. Furious. Scared.

You go still.

“I came back from a run and your apartment was fucking empty and your phone was off and I didn’t know, alright?” He’s pacing now, jaw clenched, hands flexing like he needs something to hold onto. “I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if someone had taken you. I didn’t know if you’d left.”

“Jason-”

“I looked for you for hours. I was halfway to ripping open traffic cams and starting fights just to see if someone had seen you.” His voice cracks, fury hitching on something fragile. “And then I found you. Just - passed out on the salon couch. Totally fine. No clue I’d been losing my goddamn mind thinking something happened to you.”

You stare at him, throat tight.

“And I know I’m not doing this right,” he mutters, half-choked. “I know I’m crowding you. I know I’m too much. But if I take one step back, if I blink - what if something happens and I’m not there?”

There’s silence.

The kind that hits in the aftermath of something devastating.

He drags a hand down his face, turning away, voice low and hoarse. “I don’t know how to lo-, how to want someone without feeling like I have to protect them from everything. And I know what you're gonna say. You can protect yourself - I know. But me even being in your life is putting you in danger, and I can't be the reason you get hurt."

You don’t know what to say.

Not yet.

Because underneath the anger, underneath the mess, underneath the wreckage of the last five minutes - is the truth.

The silence feels heavier now that the yelling’s stopped. Like it’s pressing on both of you, waiting to see what comes next. The kind of quiet that lives in the aftermath of something too sharp to be taken back.

Jason’s standing by the window, head bowed, jaw tight. You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, arms crossed over your chest like they might hold you together.

Neither of you speaks.

For a while, it’s just breath. Yours. His. The creak of the floor when he shifts his weight. The low hum of traffic outside.

Finally, you say, “I’m not mad at you for being scared.”

His head turns slightly, just enough to show he heard you.

“I get it,” you say softly. “More now than I did before.”

He still doesn’t look at you, but you can see the way his shoulders pull in - like he’s bracing for impact.

“I know what it’s like to lose people too,” you add. “To start thinking that if you’re not holding on with both hands, they’ll just … vanish. But Jason, I can’t breathe if I don’t get some space.”

You stand, slowly, and cross the room to him.

He looks at you this time - really looks - and he’s wrecked around the edges. That open, messy sort of vulnerability you don’t get often from him. You can see the apology in his eyes long before he says anything.

“I’m not trying to control you,” he says. “I swear. It’s just … ever since that night on the roof, it’s like something snapped. I keep thinking if I take my eyes off you, something’ll go wrong. And I won’t get another chance to fix it.”

You nod once. “That sounds exhausting.”

Jason gives a broken laugh. “Yeah. Well. I don’t recommend it.”

There’s a beat.

You don’t reach for him right away. Your arms stay folded, knotted tight against your ribs like they’re holding something in. Like if you uncross them, the words might get out before you’ve figured out how to survive them.

“I can’t-” you start, then stop. Jaw tight. You shake your head like you’re trying to shake something off. “I can’t have you glued to my hip all day.”

Jason stiffens.

“I don’t mean-” You cut yourself off again. Swallow. “I’m not trying to start another fight. I just ... I need to feel like I have a life that’s still mine. That I can be trusted to keep myself alive without someone monitoring my every move.”

“I do trust you,” Jason says, quiet.

“I know you do,” you snap, and then wince. Softer now: “I know. But that’s not what this is. You can trust me and still be scared. And I get that. I do. But I’m not built to be someone’s anchor. I don’t know how to - how to carry that without getting lost in it.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

Because this is the part you’re worst at - the aftermath. The compromise. The staying.

You think about leaving. About saying you need air. About disappearing for a few hours and pretending this whole thing didn’t happen.

But you don’t.

Instead, you breathe.

And after a long, aching pause, you make yourself look up.

“What if we ... figured something out,” you say, the words slow, like you’re dragging them over gravel. “Some kind of system. Something small. NOT surveillance-level, just - contingencies. So you don’t spiral every time I’m not where you expect me to be.”

Jason blinks. “A system?”

You shrug - awkward, defensive. “Like I check in if I go somewhere new. Or if I’m staying late, I shoot you a text. I set up a panic alert or something on my phone, if it makes you feel better. So you’re not camped out in my salon trying to guess if I’m dead.”

He’s quiet.

You force yourself to meet his gaze.

“I’m not offering that because I think you’re right,” you say. “I’m offering because I want you to stay. And this-” you gesture vaguely, to the air between you, the space charged with everything unsaid “-this is me trying. Even if I’m not good at it.”

Jason’s expression softens - barely. Like it’s still too raw to let go all the way.

His eyes drop to your hands - now curled into fists at your sides - then flick back up, slow and steady.

“I’ll try,” he says, voice hoarse. “Can’t promise I’ll be perfect at it. But I’ll try.”

And this time, when your hand finds the hem of his sleeve, it doesn’t shake.

You nod once. Then twice. Like if you keep doing it, you might believe yourself capable of this kind of grown-up emotional communication more than once every six months. Your chest still feels too tight. Like you’ve just taken your heart out, handed it to him, and now aren’t quite sure what to do with the empty space.

After a beat, you mutter: “Okay. That’s enough maturity for one day. Come have a cigarette before I start screaming.”

Jason huffs. “You don’t even smoke.”

“Yeah, well, I might start.”

You snatch your hoodie from the back of the chair, tug it over your head like armour, and open the window with a screech of warped metal. The frame sticks. Of course it does. Everything in this city clings too hard or lets go too easy.

Jason follows without question.

 The fire escape groans under your weight like it’s sighing on your behalf, every footstep a squeal of rusted bolts and half-remembered maintenance.  The railing rattles when you lean on it, fingers curling tight over the chilled metal like you’re grounding yourself on something real.

Gotham’s dusk spills across the skyline in thick streaks of gold and ash. The air tastes like wet concrete, exhaust, and distant cigarette smoke. Somewhere below, a siren wails low and long, then dies off in the distance, swallowed by the hum of traffic and the too-close shout of a pedestrian argument you can’t see.

You don’t speak for a while.

You sit shoulder to shoulder, backs to the brick, passing a cigarette neither of you really wants. One of those crumpled, half-stale ones from a drawer that should’ve been thrown out two years ago. You take turns anyway, like teenagers outside a shitty house party, trading silence and shared heat like it means something.

Maybe it does.

The city flickers beneath you. Neon signs half-lit. A dog barking across the alley. Smoke trails upwards into the dark like a prayer that’s already been forgotten.

You take a drag. Exhale slow. Let it sit in your lungs a second too long.

“I hate talking about my feelings,” you mutter, eyes on the streetlight two floors down. “Hate it. Sucks. Would rather be hit by a bus.”

Jason makes a low noise in his throat. “Amen.”

You side-eye him. “This is your fault, y’know.”

He shrugs. “You're the one who started monologuing like it was a therapy session.”

“Yeah, well, you made me care. That’s on you, fuckboy."

“You care loudly.”

You bump his knee with yours. “You annoy me loudly.”

Jason grins, slow and crooked. “You threatening me, doll?”

You blow out smoke. “I could call Miles right now and have him beat your ass.”

Jason barks a laugh. “Yeah? Last time I saw your brother, I shattered his arm.”

“Jesus Christ." You blink, head tilting. "He’s going to be a dad soon, you know.”

Jason pauses. The smile fades just slightly. Something flickers across his face - uncertain, almost wary.

“… Really?”

You nod. “Imminently. I think his ex is in early labour. Got the ‘pls don’t panic but I’m panicking’ text this morning.”

Jason leans back against the brick, head tilted skyward like he’s searching for stars that haven’t fought their way through the Gotham haze yet.

“That’s nuts,” he murmurs. “Kid I slammed through a crate of amphetamines is about to be someone’s father.”

You don’t say anything right away.

Because it is nuts. It’s more than that. It’s a punch to the chest. A weird kind of grief, like watching the world change through bulletproof glass - fast and dangerous and unstoppable.

You take another drag, blinking hard against the sting. “Life comes at you fast.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, voice distant. “It fucking does.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Because it’s not just about Miles. It’s about all of it. The sudden realisation that you’re someone’s aunt. That your dumb, reckless older brother is going to be responsible for a screaming infant. That you’re not a kid anymore either, and the whole world is rearranging around you without asking.

The wind picks up, gritty and cold. You shift closer without thinking, shoulder brushing Jason’s, the warmth of him anchoring you to the here and now.

You pass him the cigarette. Your fingers graze, and it feels heavier than a kiss.

Jason presses his lips to your temple. A soft thing. A steady thing. Not asking. Not taking. Just … being there.

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to.

Instead, you mumble into the fabric of your hoodie, “Still mad at you.”

Jason smirks, voice low and dry. "I know. Makes me wanna shut you up with my tongue when you get like that.”

You snort. “You would be into that.”

But you let him kiss you again anyway.

And if it lingers this time - if it’s slower, gentler, more of a promise than a joke - you don’t comment. You just kiss him back. Eyes closed. City breathing beneath your feet. Your entire life shifting around you like scaffolding settling under pressure.

Chapter Text

You’ve thought about telling Jason you love him approximately seventy-four times.

Rough estimate.

Sometimes it’s a sharp, sudden thought - when he passes you your coffee just how you like it without asking, or when he grumbles about the mailman with his hair still wet from the shower, or when he lets you pick the music in the apartment even when it’s your “obnoxious girl playlist, volume two.”

Other times, it sneaks up slow. Creeps in like mist. Like when he’s asleep on the couch and you realise the weight of his arm across your waist has been the only thing keeping your ribs from collapsing in for weeks now.

You haven’t said it.

Not because you’re ashamed. You’re not.

But because - frankly - you don’t know what the hell this is.

Roommates that kiss?

Best friends who now casually make out over takeout containers?

You haven’t had the conversation. Not because you’re trying to avoid it exactly - it’s just ... you and Jason aren’t talkers. Not like that. You communicate through sarcastic insults and shoulder nudges and showing up when it matters. Vulnerability is not your native tongue. And you’re not sure either of you has the nerve to be the first one to translate it.

And because love makes people reckless.

It’s a nice idea, in theory - romantic, even. But it’s dangerous. Because love dulls the edge of your instincts. Makes you do things you shouldn’t. Forgive things you wouldn’t. It asks for trust, over and over again, until you're giving it away without even realising.

You’re not just thinking about Jason when that thought lands. You’re thinking about how easy it is to make excuses for people you love. How easy it is to lie to yourself - just a little - to keep loving them. To protect the version of them you want to believe in.

Because love, at its worst, is a trapdoor. A beautiful one. And you’ve already fallen through it once or twice.

Maybe that’s why you haven’t said it yet.

Because loving someone means handing them the sharpest part of you and hoping they don’t press down. And because, deep down, part of you still believes that saying it out loud might make it real. Might make it breakable.

Which is why, when it does almost slip out, it’s a complete ambush.

It’s late afternoon. Sun spilling through the living room window in wide, sleepy bands of light. You’re on the floor, painting your nails - one leg stretched out, the other bent, bottle of polish balanced on your thigh like a hazard waiting to happen.

Jason’s on the couch behind you, nose buried in one of your battered paperbacks, sprawled out like the human embodiment of "don’t talk to me unless someone’s bleeding." He’s wearing that soft black t-shirt you like. The one that clings to his arms just right, hangs a little too loose around the neck, and looks like it might fall off his shoulder if he moves wrong.

He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.

You’re not even painting your nails anymore.

You’re just watching him.

The line of his jaw, sharp and shadowed with stubble. The way he keeps furrowing his brow at the book, like he’s personally offended by the plot twist. How his pinky twitches every time he turns a page.

You’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.

You lift your hand and blow lightly across your nails, admiring your handiwork. A deep, violent red. You wiggle your fingers at him.

“What do we think? Too ‘I kill my husbands’?”

Jason doesn’t look up. “You realise I'm reading The Secret History, right? You’re not killing your husband. You’re killing a fellow Classics student to protect the aesthetic.”

You blink.

Then laugh - short and delighted and completely unguarded.

Jason finally glances up at the sound. His eyes catch yours. Something shifts - soft and sharp and unbearably fond.

And that’s when it happens.

It almost comes out. Right there.

I love you.

It bubbles up, wild and bright, like it’s sprinting straight for your tongue. It’s not even a thought - it’s a certainty, a pressure, a need to say it before it eats you alive.

You feel your mouth open.

And then panic grabs you by the throat.

You choke on it. Pivot like a goddamn gymnast.

“Okay!” you announce, way too loud. “Yep. Cool. Time for snacks. Super hungry. Really takes it out of you - the nail painting, I mean. Not the - also the sitting on the floor. Hah."

Jason raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Perfect,” you say, already scrambling to your feet. “Just overwhelmed by your deep understanding of Donna Tartt. Very sexy."

He looks amused. “You are so weird.”

“Thank you,” you say brightly, tripping over the rug.

Jason doesn’t press.

Just watches you, corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s filed the moment away for later.

You duck into the kitchen like your life depends on it and lean hard against the counter.

Jesus Christ.

You almost said it.

You almost said it.

And now your hands are shaking so bad your freshly painted nails are officially ruined.

***

The whir of the blow dryer fills the air like static. A low, bone-deep buzz that wraps around your skull and settles between your shoulders, familiar enough to ignore but loud enough to feel. Gotham traffic rattles through the front window in its usual chorus of horns and engine growls, sirens somewhere distant. The scent of bleach and rose oil curls in the air.

You glance up at the ceiling vent, eyes narrowing.

“If there are still any bugs in here,” you say loudly, aiming your voice skyward, “and you're listening right now - I will hide your helmet in the toilet tank and act surprised when it rusts."

June snorts, nearly choking on her iced coffee.

Your client doesn’t even flinch - just smacks her gum and scrolls on her phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Jason, of course, isn’t here. He’s been scarce today - not gone, exactly, just stepped out for something he wouldn’t elaborate on. But the absence feels fresh. Like a missing limb you’re still trying not to notice, even though you were the one to cauterise the wound.

You lower your voice. “Sorry. Just needed to clear the air. Metaphorically and possibly literally.”

“Honestly,” June mutters, not even looking up from her colour tray, “fair.”

She’s currently foiling Mrs. Greeves’s hair at her usual station - an exercise in both endurance and diplomacy. It’s Greeves’s second visit in as many weeks, having called yesterday to declare - without any elaboration - that her tone had been “suboptimal in natural light.” June had hung up and muttered something about toner and hellfire in the same sentence.

Now, she’s here again. Robe cinched like armour, tea in hand, and eyes sharp beneath her lashes - uncharacteristically quiet, but clearly eavesdropping with a predatory sort of interest.

You return to your client, sectioning off another weft of hair. It’s good hair - thick, coarse, dyed a rich cherry cola red that’s only slightly fried from what she swears was a DIY bleach job with pool cleaner.

Chyna - no last name given - works at Dusty’s. You didn’t need to ask. She volunteered that information roughly six seconds after sitting down.

“Extensions today,” she’d declared, tugging off her jacket with a flourish. “Long. Like, funeral-sexy. I wanna look mourned and missed.”

She’s currently chewing on a cherry-flavoured toothpick with the smugness of someone who’s survived worse than boxed dye and late-night heartbreaks. Her acrylics are violet chrome and vicious - each one shaped like a weapon, drumming against her phone screen in an erratic rhythm that doesn't match any known rhythm.

“June,” you hiss, nudging her as she passes behind you. “If I ask Jason if we’re dating, and he laughs - how long do I have to hide his body before the neighbours start to notice the smell?”

June glances at you over her shoulder, brows raised. “You gonna be normal about this, or are we spiralling?”

“Spiralling,” you say immediately.

Chyna perks up. “Oooh, this sounds good.”

From the next chair over, Mrs. Greeves speaks up - smooth and amused. “This wouldn’t be the same tall, broad young man with the motorcycle, would it?"

You blink again. “... That would be the one. You've met him?”

“He popped in to return your lunch or some such nonsense last week,” she says with a vague hand wave. "I assumed you two were together. He looked positively bereft you weren’t here.”

June grins over her tray. “She’s not wrong.”

“I just-” you lower your voice again, glancing toward the window like Jason might be peering through it. "-don’t know what this is. Like, we’re kissing, sure. Sleeping in the same bed. He makes me coffee now. But we haven’t talked about it. No labels. No ‘what are we doing.’ Just vibes. And anxiety.”

“Babe,” June says, squeezing your arm, “he spent the first week after your first kiss surgically attached to your hip. He literally haunted this salon like a sexy poltergeist.”

“He practically lives with you now, right?” Chyna adds, legs crossed, lashes batting. “Like, where’s his toothbrush?”

“In my bathroom cabinet,” you admit.

“Where’s his socks?”

“…Bottom drawer.”

Chyna leans forward, toothpick waggling. “Girl. That’s cohabitation. You don’t need a label, you need a lease.”

“Okay, but-” you press the comb into Chyna’s section and start sewing, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “What if I say something and it breaks the weird perfect thing we have going? What if he doesn’t want to define it? What if I say ‘I love you’ and he just - dies. Right there. Drops dead.”

Chyna shrugs. “Then at least you’ll look hot at the funeral.”

June howls. You smack her gently with the back of your comb.

“I’m serious!” you hiss, heat rising up your neck. “I think about saying it all the time. It’s like this little bomb in my throat. Just ticking away. Waiting for me to slip up and say something earnest like an idiot.”

From her chair, Mrs. Greeves hums thoughtfully - pretending not to eavesdrop, while absolutely doing so.

Chyna watches you with a kind of fond, feral amusement. Then, dreamy as ever: “You wanna know what this reminds me of?”

You and June both pause.

“Diamond came back from her smoke break once cryin’,” she says, voice lilting like this is bedtime folklore, “because she realised she was in love with the bartender at the same time she was fisting her tips into a G-string. Didn’t even notice. Just mid-dance, full emotional breakdown on stage. Right hand grabbing twenties, left hand sobbing into her wig.”

You stare.

June’s mouth opens. Closes.

“… Is she okay?” you ask.

“Oh yeah,” Chyna says breezily. “She married the guy. He works security at Dusty’s now. Walks her to her car like a lil pitbull.”

“That’s-” June starts.

“Adorable?” you offer.

Chyna nods solemnly. “Anyway. Love’s a bitch. But a hot one.”

You sit back, your hands idle for a moment as you eye her.

Then you glance at June.

“Okay, fuck my problems,” you say. “I need to know more about that. What’s it actually like working there?”

Chyna grins, flipping her phone face-down and cracking her knuckles. “Buckle up, baby. You’re about to hear how I once broke up a knife fight with a bottle of coconut oil and a pair of Lucite heels.”

Chyna cracks her knuckles like she’s preparing for court testimony, and launches into her story.

By the time she's finished, you're still laughing, needle poised mid-stitch, when your phone buzzes on the counter behind you. You wipe your hands quickly and reach for it.

Miles: yo u up? wait no that’s not right fuck. just come by tonight ok. need a thing. its not bad just weirdd. idk. just fuckin come

You blink at the screen. Then again.

Classic Miles. No punctuation, no clarity, no idea how to ask for help without sounding like he’s being chased by wolves. You roll your eyes, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He always does this - texts like it’s an emergency, then makes you come round to hold a flashlight while he assembles flat-pack furniture or microwaves a burrito while crying about his ex.

Still, the weirdd gives you pause.

You tuck the phone back into your pocket and glance up, just as June brushes past again. She catches the little furrow between your brows, and pauses long enough to squeeze your shoulder.

“Don’t overthink it,” she murmurs, voice low. “You and Jason are gonna figure it out.”

You blink.

Then snort. “You’ve met me. Overthinking is my brand.”

June gives you a look. “Yeah, but I’ve also met him. And he’s not going anywhere.”

The words hit something square in your chest. You look down, pretend to check the thread, but your heart's suddenly all sticky and fluttery like it’s made of honey and caffeine.

“I’m just saying,” June adds, quieter now, “I’m really glad you’ve got someone who looks at you like that. And I’m glad you let him. Even if it took you, like, a hundred years.”

Heat shoots up the back of your neck.

“Shhh,” you hiss. “Don’t say that out loud.”

June grins. “What, that you’re in love with your hot weirdo boyfriend?”

“June!”

Chyna glances up, tongue clicking. “Hot weirdo maybe-boyfriend."

You glare between them, cheeks officially on fire. Then - like you can’t help yourself - you glance toward the door and whisper, “He is hot though.”

***

You unlock the door and step inside, boots scuffing against the mat - and freeze.

Instantly.

Your heart lurches, no warning, no mercy. Because what greets you is-

Jason.

Cooking dinner. Wearing pyjamas. And the Red Hood helmet.

The brain-breaking trifecta.

He's at the stove, spatula in hand, bouncing slightly to some old Gotham punk playing low on the speaker - something with too much bass and not enough melody - and you’re hit with a sensory overload so intense it might actually kill you. Plaid pyjama pants, drawstring slung low and entirely disrespectful. A black tank top that’s clinging in ways you are not emotionally prepared for. Helmet glinting under the kitchen light like he’s cosplaying some weird vigilante porno.

Your bag drops from your shoulder with a thud.

He startles, whole body jerking like he’s just been caught doing something illegal - which, honestly, he kind of has.

His head whips toward you.

“Oh-” Jason says, voice tinny through the modulator. Then, “Shit.”

He yanks the helmet off one-handed, hair already flattened, a little wild from sweat and heat. His cheeks are flushed, like maybe he's been over that stove longer than advisable. Or maybe because of the look on your face.

“I, uh-” He wipes his hand on a towel, trying to play it cool. “There’s, uh, that drink you like. In the fridge. If you’re thirsty.”

If you’re thirsty.

You blink.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

You are so thirsty.

But you are also spiralling with the sudden, blinding, feral need to bite him like a starved raccoon.

You walk in slowly, barely remembering to kick the door shut behind you.

“Christ,” you mutter, eyes still glued to the whole ridiculous, unfair, illegal sight of him. “I could get used to coming home to this.”

It slips out before you can stop it. Like a goddamn confession on the witness stand.

Jason goes still.

Then very visibly does not react. Which means he's absolutely reacting. He clears his throat, ducks his head, flips something in the pan with more force than necessary.

You curse yourself in four different dialects.

Jason speaks - too quickly, too casual. “Yeah, well, uh. You know. Figured I’d try out this domestic shit before someone calls the fire department.”

You nod stiffly. “Sure. Right. Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Neither of you look at each other.

The music still plays softly. Something with too much kick drum and not enough lyrics. The pan hisses like it knows you’re both cowards. You step past him toward the fridge, only brushing his side a little, and Jason’s shoulder tenses like he’s made of live wire. You don’t comment. You don’t breathe.

You open the fridge. See the drink. Grab it. Like it’s proof of something you don’t have the language for.

You twist the cap.

Take a sip.

Jason’s back is still turned, head ducked. He pokes the food. The food doesn’t answer.

And both of you are stiff and silent, like you haven’t already kissed each other breathless. Like you haven’t fallen asleep curled up so tightly it was hard to tell where you ended and he began.

You lean against the counter, drink bottle clutched like a lifeline, trying not to keep sneaking glances at his arms. Or the stupid line of his shoulders. Or the way those pyjama pants are sitting, still doing unspeakable things to your concentration.

Then he says, casual: “How was work?”

You blink.

“Huh?”

Jason tosses you a look over his shoulder, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Work. The place you go. The one with the hair. Was it a good day?”

You stare at him.

“I - uh. Fine?” you say. “Chyna came back in for a tighten. June spilt coffee in the sink again. We had a conversation about strippers that devolved into a conspiracy about Dusty’s secret basement.”

Jason grunts. “Normal salon shit.”

“Exactly.”

He flips something onto two plates with practised precision. You don’t know when he learned to cook like this. Probably on some vigilante camping mission from hell. You’re suspicious of the pan until he slides a plate your way and it actually smells good.

“Sit,” he says, nodding at the table.

You do. Mostly because your legs are still traitorous.

Jason joins you, thigh bumping yours as he settles in beside you, because of course you only have a tiny two-person table. Of course your knees touch under it. Of course his knee stays there.

You stab your food with theatrical suspicion.

Jason watches you chew like a man awaiting judgment.

You sigh. “Okay. Annoyingly competent.”

He grins. “Told you.”

You roll your eyes. “Still don’t trust you with seasoning.”

“That’s fair.”

The moment stretches.

It should be easy.

But something about sitting side by side, eating home-cooked food, hearing the radiator hiss in the corner and the soft hum of the fridge - it feels too much. Like playing house. Like a dream someone else should be having.

You scramble for a safe topic.

“Did you catch the Knights game?”

Jason glances over, surprised. “We watched it together.”

“I know. But, like ... thoughts?”

He huffs. “Offence was sluggish. They’re wasting O’Neill on the bench. Dunno what the hell the defensive coach is thinking.”

You nod solemnly, chewing. “O’Neill deserves better.”

You eat together like that, knees touching, arguing about passing formations and whether or not the new left-winger’s haircut is cursing the team, and it’s nice.

Too nice.

Jason gets up to wash his plate and you catch the way he rolls his shoulder, the muscles tight. Your body moves before your brain can veto it.

“Turn around.”

He pauses. “What?”

You’re already standing. “Your back. You’re all tensed up.”

Jason looks at you like you’ve just offered him a warm bath and a therapy dog. He obeys without a word, standing still while you press your fingers into the tight lines of muscle beneath his shirt.

His breath stutters out.

You try not to melt.

You work your fingers along his shoulders, gentle but firm, finding tension you didn’t know could exist in a human body. His head dips forward with a low, appreciative groan.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Where’ve you been hiding those hands?”

“Don’t make this weird,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

“Too late.”

You press your face into his back briefly. Just to hide the expression trying to claw its way onto your face.

Dinner ends. The dishes are clean. The music is off.

Jason leans against the counter and you catch him looking at you like he’s memorising the light on your face.

It is too much.

“I should go,” you blurt, shooting upright like someone just set you on fire. “Miles texted. I should, uh - he said he needed something. Probably baby stuff. Dunno. Gonna head over.”

Jason blinks, straightening. “Now?”

“Yeah. Just - yeah. He’s probably in meltdown mode. You know him.”

Jason nods slowly. “You want me to drive you?”

“No! No. It’s cool. I’ll walk. Just down the block. It’s - uh - normal. Just normal stuff.”

You’re grabbing your coat like the apartment’s going to swallow you whole if you don’t escape right this second.

Jason follows you to the door.

And right as your hand hits the knob, he says - soft, and a little too warm:

“Hey. Thanks for coming home to me.”

You freeze.

Your chest aches.

And before you can stop it, the words spill out.

“I lo-”

You stop. Hard.

“… love how stupidly sentimental you get when you’re wearing pajama pants.”

Jason grins, slow and a little crooked.

You flee before your mouth can betray you again.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet snick.

And your heart is still screaming.

***

Miles opens the door with a twitch in his jaw and a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stepping back, “you look like someone set you to defrost on the wrong setting.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t meet your eye, either. Just mumbles, “C’mon in,” and moves aside, tugging the door shut behind you a second too fast.

Your brows pinch.

He’s still in the same hoodie he wore to the hospital. There’s a stain on the sleeve. He smells faintly like burnt toast and panic.

You wrinkle your nose. “Have you slept?”

“Yeah. ‘Course,” he mutters, already walking toward the kitchenette. “Just been a bit … busy.”

“Uh-huh.” You glance around. The place is a mess - not in the new-dad way, but in the this-might-be-an-active-crime-scene way. Bottles of cheap energy drink line the counter. The blinds are drawn. Something’s playing softly on the TV, but it’s muted and out of focus. A baby blanket is draped over the back of the couch, but you don’t see or hear the baby. Or her mother.

That prickle starts at the back of your neck.

“Where’s Wren?” you ask, stepping further inside.

Miles shrugs. “Hospital. They’re keeping her an extra day. Monitoring or whatever. She’s fine.”

He still hasn’t looked at you.

You flop onto the couch anyway, trying not to notice the weird vibe crawling up your spine. “Okay. So what’s the big emergency? Please tell me you didn’t call me over here because you couldn’t figure out how to reheat spaghetti.”

Miles wipes his palms on his jeans, moving toward the living room with all the grace of a man about to be sick. His phone buzzes in his hand, and you catch the flash of his eyes toward it before he slides it into his hoodie pocket like a hot coal.

You squint at him. “Did you just text someone?”

“What?” he says, too fast. “No. I mean - yeah. Wren. Just checking in.”

You sit up straighter. “You okay, man? You’re acting weird.”

He exhales hard through his nose and paces once, then twice. His foot taps against the edge of the coffee table.

“I need advice,” he blurts.

You blink. “What kind of advice?”

“I wanna get back with Wren.”

You stare.

Then bark out a laugh. “The fuck?”

Miles flinches.

“No, like - are you serious? You’re the one who cheated on her with someone named Jazz or Taz or God knows what. She threw a shoe at a nurse, Miles.”

“I know,” he mutters, hands twisting. “But fatherhood changes a man, you know?”

“Your kid's been alive for four days.”

“I - yeah, but-” he stammers, shoulders hunched, gaze flicking to the hallway and then back to you. “I’ve been thinking. A lot. About who I was. Who I am. I think I need to be better. And like-”

He trails off, eyes darting to the front door.

And that’s when it clicks.

A sick, grinding shift in your gut - something primal, something wrong. The pieces slot together in the worst possible way.

Your breath catches. “Miles.”

He freezes.

Not startled. Not confused.

Caught.

Your stomach turns to ice.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Your voice is low. Sharp. Danger-glass rattling in your ribs.

“Nothin’,” he says, instantly. Too quick. “Just, y’know, wanted to talk.”

“Bullshit.”

You rise slowly from the couch, spine unspooling inch by inch. Every nerve in your body goes tight. Your fingers curl into fists without asking. There’s a distant rushing in your ears - not quite sound, not quite silence.

“You don’t talk,” you say, the words slicing cleaner now. “You deflect. You lie. You disappear until the fallout settles, and then you come back asking for favours.”

Miles doesn’t answer.

And that’s all the answer you need.

Your hand moves - slow, deliberate - toward your phone, tucked in your back pocket.

He notices.

“Don’t,” he blurts out, voice cracking like splintered ice. “Don’t - please - I didn’t want this. I swear. But they’ve got Wren. They said if I didn’t - if I didn’t bring you-”

The words hit like gravel. Jagged. Rushed. Coward’s guilt packed into half a breath.

Bring you.

The blood drains from your face. Your vision flashes white at the edges. Your fingers tremble as they wrap around your phone.

Jason’s alert system. Three taps on the lock.

One.

Miles steps forward. “I’m sorry-”

Two.

“-I didn’t know what else to do-”

Three.

The silent click vibrates in your palm like a countdown.

And you step back.

Straight into something solid.

Too solid. Not furniture. Not Miles.

You don’t even get a full breath in before it’s on you.

An arm hooks across your ribs, tight and fast and wrong, dragging you backward. Your feet scrape uselessly against the floor - shoes slipping on the scuffed hardwood - and something sharp jabs up under the base of your spine.

Your body goes cold. Your lungs seize.

A voice - low, male, unfamiliar - growls in your ear: “Don’t scream.”

And you don’t.

Not because you’re brave.

But because your brain is already splitting apart beneath the weight of what’s happening. Because your brother - your blood - set this in motion. Because this is how the floor gives out: not with a warning, not with a crack, but with the casual ease of someone who knows exactly where the weak spot is.

Your knees lock. Your heart stutters.

You smell engine oil. Sweat. Something acrid and chemical in the sleeve pressed to your jaw. You try to twist, to shout, to fight - but your body isn’t listening. Your limbs are caught in syrup. Your skull pounds like it’s been cracked open from the inside.

You fall.

You fall.

Because this is the trapdoor you thought you knew. The one you thought you’d stepped around this time. But no-

Miles built a new one.

And you let him walk you right to the edge.

And now your thoughts have narrowed to two impossibly sharp points:

Miles, you dickless bastard.

And-

I didn’t get to say it. I didn’t get to say it. I didn’t say it.

Something presses to your mouth - damp, sharp, chemical-sweet - and the darkness doesn’t rush in. It seeps, like oil. Like guilt. Like everything you should have said when you had the chance.

The last thing you feel is the trapdoor slamming shut.

And this time, there’s no one left on the surface to hear you fall.

***

Everything hurts.

Not in the sharp, immediate way you’d expect - no fire in your veins, no white-hot panic - but in the slow, muddy way of a body caught underwater. Your limbs feel wrong. Slack. Boneless. Like they forgot how to belong to you.

Your eyes are crusted shut.

Or maybe it’s the dark. Maybe you’re underground, or windowless, or blindfolded. No - not quite. There’s light. Faint. Wrong. It swims when you try to look at it, sliding sideways like oil on glass.

You can’t tell if your eyes are open.

You can’t tell if you’re awake.

There’s something thick in your veins. Not panic. Not yet. Something worse. Something still chewing through your system like bleach in your blood. It buzzes under your skin, turns your thoughts gummy. Your breath comes slow. Shallow. You don’t remember lying down. You don’t remember-

You try to lift your arm. It doesn’t move. Your head lolls to the side. A distant echo rolls through your skull like thunder behind a thick wall. You think you hear voices. Two, maybe three. Muffled. Male. One with a Gotham drawl that sticks to your skin like grease.

The trapdoor opens beneath you a second time.

Not in memory. In reality.

You’re not falling. You’ve already fallen. And the landing is worse than you imagined.

Your brain reaches for Jason - out of instinct, out of terror, out of a bone-deep knowing that if he knew, he’d be here already. But he’s not. Just like the last time you lost something.

Except this time, you didn't drop it.

This time, you were the one dropped.

And that’s the thing about trapdoors. Sometimes, they’re not accidents. Sometimes, someone builds them. Boards the floor with their own hands. Hides the hinges with promises. Greases the latch with “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

You gave Miles the blueprint.

He just pulled the lever.

A wave of nausea rolls through you. Something’s pressing into your ribs - plastic? Nylon? Rope? You can’t tell. You can’t feel much of anything, except the cold seeping through the back of your shirt and the weight of dread pooling in your gut like tar.

The voices shift.

Closer now.

One of them clears his throat. And when she speaks, the tone is light. Like this is just business. Like you’re not tied up on a floor somewhere, still in your work clothes, head splitting open like a dropped bottle.

“So,” the voice clips. “Let’s talk about Red Hood.”

Chapter Text

The door clicks shut behind you, and Jason just … stands there.

For a second.

Maybe two.

Then he lets himself fall - not hard, just a soft, almost bashful slump back against the kitchen counter. Arms crossed, head tilted up toward the ceiling, like he’s trying to bite back the grin stretching across his face.

He fails, obviously.

Because he’s got a girlfriend.

An actual, warm-blooded, outrageously beautiful, pain-in-the-ass girlfriend. One who kisses him goodbye like it’s a promise and scolds him for leaving dishes in the sink and still - still - lets him tuck himself around her at night like they were carved to fit.

Jason does a little dance.

An actual dance.

Just a quick, clumsy shuffle on bare feet while he puts the clean mugs away, humming tunelessly under his breath like he’s got a record playing in his head only he can hear. He even twirls the dishtowel once like some brain-dead Broadway reject and tosses it over his shoulder, grinning like a fucking idiot.

Because you like him.

Not tolerate. Not tolerate-and-also-kiss-sometimes.

You like him.

You like him in that eyes-soft-when-he's-not-looking, snort-laughing-at-his-stupidest-jokes, calling-him-out-on-his-bullshit kind of way. Like you know he’s been broken and brutalised and stitched back together with things that don’t quite fit - and still, somehow, want him anyway.

And for Jason, that’s something close to impossible.

It hits him like a sucker punch to the ribs. Right here. In this shitty little kitchen with the crooked floorboard and the stubborn leak under the sink and the cabinet that still won’t close right - it hits him, what a goddamn miracle that is.

Because Jason Todd doesn’t get things like this.

He was never supposed to.

Love? Stability? A chance at something soft?

He wasn’t built for happy endings. Not when he went out bleeding in a warehouse at fifteen. Not when he came back wrong. Angry. Half-sharp and half-shadow. There were no fairy tales for kids like him, no promises of “better someday.” Just blood and noise and mission after mission to keep from thinking too hard about the bruises under the armour.

He’d made peace with that a long time ago - that maybe the only affection left for him would come in passing. Fleeting. Flecks of warmth between bruises. Things that left more hollow than they healed.

But this?

This dumb, domestic grinning-over-coffee-mugs version of himself?

He thought that guy stayed dead. Buried with a cracked skull and a broken laugh in some corner of Qurac.

He thought love was like fire - a blaze that came fast and unforgiving. The flames flickering around him after the car hit the tree, that scored whatever part of you still held out hope. 

But this is different. This is low heat. Constant. Steady.  Something he sinks into rather than runs from. The kind of warmth that builds beneath the surface and never quite lets go. The kind that draws you in like a hearth, like a place to rest your bones after too many winters in the cold.

And you treat him like he belongs. Like it’s normal to fall asleep tangled around him. Like he’s not a timebomb with a busted detonator. You leave your charger in his wall socket. You keep stealing his hoodies. You fought him for the last slice of pizza last night and won, and he still thinks about the way you grinned when you did it.

He's still afraid. Afraid that it’ll vanish. Afraid you’ll change your mind. That the moment he lets himself be this - soft, visible, known - it’ll all be ripped away again. He still wakes up some mornings convinced he imagined it. That the warmth will be gone, and the fire will be back to burning everything down.

But he breathes through it.

Because this time, the fire doesn’t burn. It holds.

You hold.

He exhales, lets that feeling spread through his chest. That quiet hum that says maybe - just maybe - this time the story doesn’t end in ash.

She deserves ice cream, he thinks.

Salted caramel with chocolate chunks. The good kind. From the dingy little bodega on 8th and Crenshaw with the flickering freezer light and the parrot in the corner that calls everyone “dickhead” in Spanish.

He grabs his jacket. Checks his wallet. Double-checks the time.

You won’t be back yet.

And when you are?

He’ll be waiting. With a pint of your favourite, two spoons, and the world’s most embarrassingly hopeful smile.

Jason steps out into the hallway, hoodie halfway up over his head, boots thudding cheerfully down the steps. It’s not even cold, but he likes the way the weight of it feels across his shoulders. He likes thinking about you curling into his side with a tub of ice cream and your cold toes against his leg and that sleepy smile you only get when you’re full and happy and safe.

Jason Todd’s happy.

Jason Todd’s going to get his girlfriend ice cream.

Jason Todd’s in lo-

His phone buzzes.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A specific cadence.

A code only two people know.

Jason stops cold. All that golden warmth leeches out of his chest like someone pulled the plug on his heartbeat. His fingers freeze around the edge of his jacket. He stares at the screen, waiting for it to change, hoping he read it wrong, even as he knows he didn’t.

His feet are already moving before his mind catches up.

The phone goes in his pocket. The ice cream never stood a chance. And every ounce of softness in him burns off like kindling.

Jason Todd isn’t smiling anymore.

Jason Todd is going to kill the next person he sees.

***

Jason takes the stairs two at a time.

Not because he’s in a hurry - not just that - but because running keeps the thoughts from catching up.

Three taps. Panic alert. Your alert.

It replays over and over in his skull, louder than his boots on the metal steps, louder than the thud of his pulse. His mind is skipping like a scratched record: not real, not real, she’s fine, maybe it was a mistake-

But it wasn’t.

You’re not the type to panic. Not without reason. Not without a follow-up.

He fumbles with the keys outside the apartment, misses the lock once - curses, grits his teeth, jams the key home like it’s personal - and slams the door behind him.

The lights are still on.

The sweater you wore yesterday draped over the back of the couch. Everything looks normal - like he could close his eyes, rewind two hours, and you’d come through the door laughing about some dumb thing June said, shoes kicked off, makeup smudged, safe-

But you’re not safe.

And Jason can feel it.

Like smoke in his lungs.

He’s already halfway to the wardrobe. The gear’s in its usual place - under the loose floorboard, behind a stack of old books no one ever touches. He hauls it out in one motion, the compartment scraping like it’s protesting his hands.

Helmet. Gloves. Chest plate. Holsters.

And then his hand hovers over the ammo case.

Rubber bullets stare back at him. Lined up all neat, non-lethal. The kind Bruce insists on. The kind Jason still uses more often than he admits - because you once said you didn’t like the idea of blood on his hands.

Jason stares.

Then reaches for the other case. Full metal jackets. Hollow points. No second chances.

He locks them in without hesitation. Because tonight isn’t about deterrents. Tonight is about answers. About getting you back. And if someone put their hands on you-

Jason’s jaw tics.

He swallows it down. Not helpful. Not yet.

But the fire’s already there. Creeping up his ribs like flame under a wrecked hood. That second ignition. The moment after the crash, when the engine coughs and the sparks take root. When the gasoline’s already leaking and someone lights a match.

That’s what this feels like.

Everything igniting.

He drags the helmet on. The HUD flickers to life. His heart is a war drum in his chest. His breath fogs the inside of the visor for a second - and then the calm settles.

Not real calm. Not the kind he had in the kitchen, holding your plate and planning to buy you ice cream.

This is the other kind.

The kind forged under pressure. The kind that comes when your only choices are act fast or watch the world burn.

“Okay,” Jason mutters, voice low, distorted in the modulator. “Okay. Miles first.”

He’s talking out loud now. Just to hear something that doesn’t sound like screaming.

“He probably knows where she is. Probably being a dick. Probably lying through his teeth. I’ll knock him around a little. Not too much. He has a kid now.”

A beat.

“Unless he deserves it.”

Another beat.

“And if he touched her-”

Jason’s teeth clench.

He forces himself to breathe.

In. Out.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he growls. “I have to fix this.”

Because if he doesn’t - if he’s too late, if he misses a clue, if you’re hurt because of him - it’ll all burn. Gotham. Every low-life son of a bitch in the city. He’ll torch the whole underworld just to find the pieces of you again.

He slams the apartment door behind him.

Gun loaded. Jaw tight.

Helmet glinting like a fuse about to spark.

***

The hallway reeks of stale weed and microwaved meat.

Jason doesn’t knock.

He pounds - three hard, echoing thuds that rattle the rusted number plate and silence whatever toddler cartoon was playing on a loop in the next apartment over.

No answer.

Jason’s jaw tightens. His pulse kicks harder.

The panic is starting to creep in now - slithering cold and low up the back of his spine. He pushes it down, breathes through his nose, tells himself you're fine. It’s just a misunderstanding. Maybe your phone died. Maybe you're still yelling at Miles and didn’t hear it buzz.

One more knock. Louder this time. Meaner. Steel-plated.

Still nothing.

That’s it.

With a grunt and a hard snap of muscle, Jason kicks the door in. The hinges scream as the lock gives way and the door slams open against the inside wall, the wood rebounding with a hollow thud that echoes down the grimy corridor.

He storms in, gun already drawn - only to pause for a second.

There’s a pack of newborn diapers on the floor by the shoe rack. Unopened. The pastel kind with little cartoon bears grinning up from the plastic. One corner is chewed open like maybe the dog got to it.

Jason stares.

Just for a second.

And in that second, something catches behind his ribs. A flicker of something human. He thinks of your voice in the kitchen. Your laugh against his chest. The way you kiss him like you mean it.

But then-

“MOTHERFU-!”

A blur of motion.

Jason’s already moving before Miles finishes the curse. He grabs him by the collar, yanks him out from behind the kitchen counter, and slams him back against the wall so hard the plaster cracks like ice under impact.

Miles yelps like a kicked dog.

“Shit! Shit, man - Red Hood?! I didn’t - I swear, I ain’t - I’m not in with the Maronis, okay?! I’m not running shit anymore - fuck, I’ve got a kid now, I’m not - I’m clean!”

Jason doesn’t blink.

“Where is she.”

The words are calm. Too calm. All coiled restraint and dying fuse.

Miles freezes. His eyes dart, squirrel-fast.

Jason slams him again, forearm tight across his chest. The sound that escapes Miles is closer to a sob.

“Where. Is. She.”

“Who?! Who? I don’t-”

“Your sister,” Jason growls, teeth bared.

And that’s when Miles really chokes.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again - air rasping in like he’s just realised there’s none left in the room.

“I - I ain’t seen her,” he tries. “She never - came by, swear to God-”

Jason’s gaze slides to the floor.

Stops.

There.

Your phone. Facedown. Scuffed along the edge. A faint, blinking crack in the corner of the screen.

He gestures toward it. Not frantic. Not loud.

Just murderously calm.

His voice drops to something ice-cold and subterranean. “Try again.”

“FUCK, man-!” Miles’s whole body sags under Jason’s grip. His hands go up in surrender. “They’ve got Wren, okay?! And the baby - I couldn’t say no. They said if I didn’t help, if I didn’t - bring her in - they’d take the kid. Or worse. I didn’t want to-”

“You set her up.”

Jason’s voice doesn’t rise. But it deepens. Like a door creaking open to a place no one ever comes back from.

“I had to!”

Jason steps toward him. Not fast. Not loud. Just deliberate. Like something burning steady - slow and unstoppable. Like fire caught under the wreckage of a car crash, just before it takes the whole thing down.

“I didn’t know what it was about!” he pants. “Swear to God! They just said someone was looking for her! Serious people. The kind you don’t cross. Told me to keep my fuckin' mouth shut and text if Red Hood came knocking-”

Jason doesn’t move.

For half a second, the air just … stills.

Like the city itself holds its breath.

And then, without a word, he throws Miles to the floor. It’s not a clean motion. It’s not precise or practised or even necessary. It’s pure reaction. A detonation.

Miles hits the ground with a thud that cracks through the apartment. The couch shudders. A baby bottle on the coffee table topples with a soft clink.

But Jason doesn’t hear it. Because all he can hear is the roar of white noise behind his eyes.

They knew that you mattered to him.

Because of course they knew. Of course they saw it. Of course they were watching.

You're his one blind spot. His soft target. His open wound. And he’d let them see it. Had been stupid enough - happy enough - to think he could keep something for himself and not have it used against him.

And now you're gone.

Because of him.

Because he brought you into this mess. Because he asked for your help with Kane. Because he let his guard down long enough to believe - for one flicker of a second - that maybe he could have this. That maybe he could have you without it costing you.

The thought rips through him like shrapnel. All heat and pressure and buried terror coming back up his throat like bile. Jason sways on his feet, just barely holding himself together. He fists a hand in the front of his jacket like he can physically hold in the scream forming in his chest.

His vision is tunnelled. Not with rage - yet - but with something deeper. Darker.

Because he knows what happens to women taken by men with no names and too much power. He knows what they’re capable of. He’s been in the rooms. He’s seen the bodies. And this time-

This time it’s you.

His girl.

His dumbass, brilliant, stubborn, fire-eyed girl who argued with him over the best Gotham Knights jersey and kissed him like he was alive.

He breathes.

Once.

Twice.

Barely.

The air scorches his lungs. His fingers tremble with it.

“You didn’t warn her.”

Miles scrambles - half-crawling, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other out in defence. His face is blotchy and slick with panic. Sweat clings to his temple like oil.

“I didn’t know what the fuck to warn her about!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“They said if I started poking around, they’d start sniffin' me. I’ve got a baby, man. You think I wanna die in a stairwell over something I don’t even understand?”

Jason’s hand tightens on the grip of the pistol.

He doesn’t fire.

But it’s close.

The world is heat and static and the taste of iron on his tongue.

Miles is still babbling. “They said - I had to report it. If you came. They gave me a number. It’s monitored. I was supposed to text if you showed - let ‘em know. I didn’t get the chance - you kicked in the fucking door-!”

Jason doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t even breathe.

He walks to the counter. Snatches the phone.

“Give me the number.”

“Y-you can’t just-”

Jason cocks the gun with a sharp, cold click.

“Now.”

Miles pulls up the number.

Jason doesn’t bother with any more permission.

He’s already jacked the cord from his gauntlet into the port of Miles’s burner phone, fingers flying across the screen of his wrist display as it starts pulling metadata and scrubbing the signal. Every second that ticks by is a second too long. A second closer to too late.

Miles just sits there on the floor, breath coming fast, watching like a man waiting for his own execution.

“Alright,” Jason growls. “You’re gonna call them.”

Miles flinches. “W-What? Now?”

Jason turns, slow and deliberate, and stares.

“Unless you want me to start taking fingers,” he says, voice like cooled steel dragged through gravel. “Yeah. Now.”

He holds the phone out.

Miles’s hand shakes when he takes it.

The line rings once. Twice. Clicks.

Jason taps a command to start the trace. Data starts to crawl across his screen, but it’s slow - bouncing through encryptions, false towers, proxies. He needs more time.

“Talk,” Jason mouths.

Miles stammers, “Uh - yeah. Yeah, hey. Just - just calling like you said. Guy showed. The - the Hood. Just now.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. The connection's holding. Barely.

“Yeah, he - he was asking after her,” Miles continues, voice tight. “Said she hadn’t checked in. Figured she’d be here.”

The line hisses faintly. Jason can hear a reply - low, distorted, male - but can’t make out the words. It doesn’t matter. The trace is climbing. Almost there.

Jason jerks his hand. Keep going.

Miles swallows. “He didn’t see anything, alright? Didn’t suspect nothin’. I told him she never showed. He bought it, I think.”

The data pings - a confirmed location.

Jason kills the connection and yanks the cord out.

He stands slowly.

And then turns to Miles, eyes burning like kindling’s just been dropped into gasoline.

“You know,” he says, voice low. Controlled. Lethal. “I told her once - when she was crying, trying to bail your stupid ass out of jail - that she should cut and run. Leave you behind. Let you rot.”

Miles is silent.

Jason steps closer, shadows dragging behind him like a cloak of ash.

“But she didn’t,” Jason spits. “She never does. Always finds a reason to believe in you. To save you. And this is how you repay that? You sell her out? You hand her over like a fucking package deal?”

“I didn’t know it was gonna go like this,” Miles whispers, hands braced on the floor like he’s trying to keep himself from crumbling.

Jason crouches low, eye-level now.

“You didn’t even ask what they wanted with her.”

Miles swears under his breath, eyes skittering to the side. And then, too casually, too bitterly: “Jesus - are you two fuckin’ or somethin’?”

Jason stills.

Dead still.

And then his hand moves, lightning-fast - grabbing Miles by the collar and dragging him forward until his forehead touches the barrel of the gun.

“You don’t get to ask that,” Jason snarls. “You sure as hell don’t get to talk about what she is to me. Not now.”

He lets go. Miles crumples back with a choked gasp.

Jason’s already moving. Already on his way out.

The fire’s started. And this time, it’s not gonna stop until the whole damn building’s burned to the ground.

***

The engine growls beneath him like a beast barely leashed.

Jason weaves through traffic like it’s not even there - head ducked low, body folded into the machine, eyes locked on the arrow blinking across his HUD. He’s not thinking anymore. Not really. Just moving. Just burning.

Because you're out there somewhere. Alone. Maybe scared. Maybe worse.

And if he lets himself think about that too long, his whole ribcage might cave in.

The trace leads him past the Narrows and into the industrial belt south of it - where the buildings thin out and the streetlights start to flicker like they’ve forgotten how to stay on. Factories. Scrap yards. The old docks that were supposed to be part of the city’s great regeneration push, back before the third Arkham breakout made headlines and the money vanished overnight.

It’s quiet out here.

Too quiet.

The address he pulled from the phone leads to an office building. Or something like one. Five storeys of blocky, brutalist concrete wedged between a collapsed overpass and an auto shop. It’s got a badge reader on the front door and blackout windows. No signage. No logo. Just … wrong.

Jason parks two blocks out. Kills the engine. Makes the rest of the approach on foot.

His comm crackles as he clicks it on.

“Nightwing.”

It takes a moment.

Then: “Red Hood. Wow. Thought I was still blocked.”

Jason exhales sharply through his nose. “My - my girlfriend's missing.”

The shift in Dick’s voice is instant. “What?”

“They took her. Lured her out through her brother. Got the location off a burner he was using to report back to them.”

“… Shit. You sure it’s her?”

“She left her phone. Panic alert came through. Brother admitted it.”

“Where are you now?”

“South Narrows. Secondary site. Looks corporate - maybe a dummy office front. I’m heading in.”

“Wait - Hood. Don’t go in alone-”

“Not waiting.” Jason rounds the corner of a loading dock and ducks behind a rusted skip. Scans the perimeter. Minimal patrol. No cameras outside. That’s bad. That means they don’t expect anyone to find this place.

Or worse, they don’t expect you to leave.

“Jay - wait. I’m suiting up. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Jason’s silent for a long beat.

Then, low and tight: “Don’t be late.”

He clicks the line dead.

He almost calls Bruce. He almost does.

Because some part of him knows that this - the panic prickling under his skin, the static chewing at his thoughts - this is the beginning of something big. Not a street bust. Not a one-off. The kind of thing that leaves scars long after the bodies are buried.

But he doesn’t call. Because Bruce would ask questions. And Jason doesn’t think he could say your name without cracking open right there on the concrete.

Instead, he crouches behind the side entrance, scanning the lock system. Standard keypad. Military-grade.

He feeds a bypass into the panel.

His hands are steady.

His stomach is not.

She’s alive, he tells himself. She’s alive. They want information, not a corpse.

Because if he believes anything else - if he lets the image of you bleeding, terrified, alone actually form in his mind - he’ll stop thinking. He’ll go loud. He’ll make mistakes.

He can’t make mistakes.

The panel clicks. The door hisses open.

Jason draws his sidearm.

And steps into the dark.

***

The interior is colder than it should be.

Not literally - though the air does prickle under the armour, sterile and over-filtered like a hospital basement - but emotionally. Like the place wants to be empty. To be forgotten. To feel like a sealed tomb.

Jason moves low and fast, boots whispering over tile.

The corridor opens into a lobby. Artificial lighting glows soft and white overhead, too clean for this part of Gotham. The decor is utilitarian - grey walls, laminate floors, a fake ficus already curling brown at the edges. No branding. No signage. Just cold intent. Like someone built this space for function only. Like comfort was too risky.

Jason’s pulse thunders behind the helmet.

Keep moving.

The first guard doesn’t even get a word out.

Jason grabs him mid-turn - forearm to windpipe, elbow to jaw, then slams him down with a thud that rattles the plastic furniture. He’s out before he hits the floor. Jason strips the earpiece from his collar and jams it into his own comm link.

The channel’s active.

Light chatter. Too relaxed. They don’t know he’s here yet.

Good.

He moves through the hall like a current of violence - controlled, quiet, efficient. Each corner taken in a breath. Each step calculated. Until the second guard rounds into view - and then-

Jason drops him with two shots to the knee and a third to the shoulder. Non-lethal. But not gentle. The man screams, hits the floor, reaches for his belt, and Jason crushes his hand underfoot before slamming the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple.

He keeps going.

The corridor hums with security panels. Lasers click to life when he passes the second stairwell. Motion-activated. Narrow grid.

He exhales. Counts.

Three, two-

He slides through the blind spot, shoulder just grazing the heat sensor. He rolls on the landing, straight into another guard - this one armoured, prepped.

Jason hits him low, shoulder to gut, pistol whipping up to clock him on the downswing.

The guy grabs his arm.

Bad move.

Jason pivots, slams him into the wall, and drives his elbow into the man’s throat.

The body drops.

He doesn’t slow.

There’s blood on the floor. Not his. Not theirs.

You?

No. Not the right colour. Too thin. It drips from a half-busted nose on the last guy, still groaning somewhere in the stairwell.

Jason doesn’t look back.

She’s not here.

She’s not here.

Why isn’t she here?

He vaults the railing and lands clean on the third floor.

Another corridor. Longer. Slick with fluorescent lighting. Every door identical. Every breath harder to take.

The headset crackles.

“-Level three’s gone quiet. Sweep it. Now.”

Shit.

Jason ducks behind a stack of cleaning supplies and readies a flashbang. It clicks warm in his palm - heartbeat syncing to the timer.

He throws.

It explodes - not loud, but blinding. The men rushing in go down hard, staggered and stunned, and Jason descends like an avenging god.

Cracks one’s jaw with the barrel of his rifle.

Slams a second into a wall, dislocates his shoulder.

A third tries to run - Jason doesn’t let him.

This is where he slips.

Not physically. Not tactically.

Mentally.

He grabs the last man by the front of the vest and slams him into the corner so hard the drywall splits.

“Where is she?” he snarls.

The guy wheezes. Tries to respond. Chokes on it.

“WHERE?” Jason’s voice cracks against the helmet filter, sharp and fraying. “WHERE IS SHE?!”

“I - there’s no girl down here - I don’t - I don’t know - ”

He drops the guy.

Moves on.

He’s running out of time. And you’re still nowhere.

His hands are shaking now. Not from fear. From rage. Because the last time he felt this powerless, he was lying in a pool of blood, ribs broken, watching a countdown tick to zero.

And now?

Now it’s you behind the door. You strapped to the chair. You waiting for the help that might come too late.

Jason grits his teeth, pushes deeper into the floor.

And everything ignites.

The fire’s not explosive this time - it’s internal. Slow-burning. Furious. The kind of fire that follows a crash - the kind that turns steel into smoke. That burns after the impact. Quiet. Destructive.

This isn’t just a rescue. It’s a reckoning.

The last door on the corridor isn’t locked. That’s the first thing that puts Jason’s teeth on edge.

It’s ajar - just slightly. Like someone meant for it to be found. Like they wanted him to see what’s inside.

He pushes it open with the barrel of his gun.

The hinges don’t creak. They moan - this low, warping groan like something dying, like something ancient and heavy and rotting from the inside out.

The stench hits him first.

Metal. Sweat. Something old and wet and sour. Underneath it all - cleaner. Bleach. Like someone tried to wipe something away, but not hard enough.

Jason steps inside.

It’s a holding room. Not a clean one. Not a real one.

No mirrors. No cameras. Just four crumbling walls, one cracked ceiling light, and the kind of silence that seeps into your bloodstream.

There are chains bolted into the floor.

One pair hangs loose.

The strap cuffs are open. Bloody.

The tile around them is smeared - thick with it. Not fresh. Not dry. Just there - a crime scene without a body. A horror story paused halfway through.

Jason’s lungs forget how to breathe.

He doesn’t move at first. Can’t.

Because his eyes are locked on the centre of the room - where there’s something small and delicate-looking crumpled in a corner.

It’s a shirt.

Yours.

Jason knows it like he knows his own name - threadbare and soft, with that tiny stitched tag you always complain itches at the collar. It’s streaked with blood. One sleeve ripped straight down the seam.

And near it-

His stomach turns.

Scratch marks.

Deep gouges carved into the concrete like someone clawed their way across the floor. Desperate. Animalistic.

Jason staggers.

He doesn’t even mean to. Just steps back like the grief physically knocks him off balance.

Because this-

This isn’t a trail. This isn’t a clue.

This is after.

This is what’s left behind when someone’s already gone.

He drops to one knee. Fingers brushing the marks.

The blood.

The shirt.

It’s not even cold. You were here. Not long ago.

“Fuck-”

He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until his voice cracks halfway through. Breaks off like it can’t survive the taste of it.

Then he’s moving. Fast.

He shoves back up to his feet, gun holstered in one motion, helmet thrown off in the next, his fists driving into the nearest wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Once.  Twice.  Again.

The drywall explodes under the force, flecks of plaster and blood and rage raining down in his peripheral like a blizzard.

His knuckles split.

He doesn’t feel it.

He’s not sure he feels anything - except the sound of your voice echoing in the parts of him he can’t get to shut up.

He can see it.

You.

On your knees. In chains.

Fighting. Screaming. Bleeding.

And he wasn’t there.

The fire inside him doesn’t roar anymore.

It consumes.

Because this is what’s left when the crash comes after all the warnings. After all the chances. After he let himself believe - hope - that maybe he wasn’t cursed to destroy everything he touched.

And now you’re gone.

Again.

Because he failed.

And Jason Todd doesn’t get second chances.

Chapter Text

You wake to the smell of bleach.

No - not just bleach. Bleach and something fainter underneath. Sharp, chemical. Like scorched plastic. The tang of it latches to the roof of your mouth, settles against the back of your throat like the ghost of something flammable.

Your eyelids flutter.

Nothing.

Not blackness, not shadows. Just white - flat and glaring. Washed out, like a room with overhead fluorescents turned too high. You blink, and it doesn’t shift. You blink again, and the white swims.

Your stomach lurches.

You can’t see.

Not really. Not right. The light is there, but nothing in it makes sense. Everything’s smeared. Unmoored. Like your eyes are cameras missing the lens.

You try to inhale slowly. Controlled.

Bad idea.

The air is too cold. Too dry. Tastes like dust and steriliser. Your teeth ache with it. Something metal hums nearby - a radiator? A vent? - and your fingers twitch automatically, trying to orient you by touch.

They don’t move.

Your wrists are bound.

Not tight. But close. One arm is twisted slightly behind you, tethered at an awkward angle. The floor underneath you is smooth and linoleum cold. Not concrete. Not dirt. A building, then. An office?

You shift slightly.

Bad idea number two.

Pain lashes up your side - not sharp, not broken - but deep and sour. A bruise blooming where you were dropped, maybe. Or dragged. Your body feels used. Like it’s been rolled into a corner and forgotten for a few hours.

You don’t panic. Yet.

You breathe instead. Let the other senses take over.

Your hearing returns in layers. At first, just the buzz. That low, electric hiss that vibrates in your teeth. Then footsteps - measured, purposeful. Two sets.

The first pair is light. Sharp. Heels. Maybe Louboutins. Definitely expensive. They click with an even tempo - not hesitant. Someone who’s used to walking into rooms and being noticed. Someone who thinks they own the place. You’d bet money on a precise manicure and a perfectly lined lip. Polished. Corporate. Vain. Dangerous.

The second pair is heavier. Longer stride. Dress shoes - leather, you can hear the flex in the sole. Heavier than they need to be. Like someone who wants you to know they're here. You picture gold cufflinks and a ring they use to backhand people. You’ve met people like that before. Usually not in places that serve tea.

They stop.

A chair creaks.

Then-

“So,” a woman says brightly, like she’s leading a marketing review. “Let’s talk about Red Hood.”

Your breath stutters.

She continues before you can speak. “We know you’ve seen him recently. More than once. That you’ve communicated with him. Offered assistance. Possibly shelter.”

Another voice - male this time - chimes in. Smooth. Barely polite. “We’d like you to be very honest with us, Miss…?”

He lets it hang.

You swallow. Your throat feels thick, coated with whatever they gave you. Your tongue doesn’t want to move. But your mind is still yours. Sluggish, but snapping into focus.

You’re not just in danger. You’re in a performance. And you need to nail your lines.

Immediately, your brain starts sorting through what it can still rely on. What it knows. Two captors. A man and a woman. Neither of them Gotham muscle - too clean. Too educated. This isn’t a gang basement. It's a boardroom with shackles. That tells you everything about their psychology.

The man is volatile. You can feel it in the shift of his voice. Curt. Clipped. Already annoyed. Which means he has a temper. Which means he’s probably not the one in charge.

But the woman? The woman’s dangerous. Her voice is lighter, but practised. She’s watching. Listening. Learning you.

You catalogue it the same way you’d size up a client - cutting through the varnish to the rot underneath.

And decide you're going to need two plans.

Plan One: the obvious. Stall until Jason gets here. Because if there’s anything in this world you trust blindly, it’s that Jason Todd will always come for you. The only variable is when. If your panic alert worked, he’s probably already tearing across Gotham like the nightmare he thinks he is. If it didn’t? He’ll wait maybe two hours. Tops. Then the silence will get too loud, and he’ll come looking.

Plan Two: less romantic. More rage-fuelled. And built on the simple fact that you will not prove your maybe-boyfriend right about his dramatic, stalkerish need to be everywhere you are. You are not going to be the reason he loses his mind. Again.

That spite alone is enough to sharpen your brain through the haze.

You tilt your head toward the sound. Slowly. Your voice comes out raw, but clear enough. “Are we doing introductions, then? Or do I just call you ‘Credit Score’ and ‘Trust Fund’?”

Silence.

Then: a small, amused exhale.

“Cute,” the woman says. “But unnecessary. We’re not here to hurt you. Unless, of course, you make us.”

The man again: “We simply want to understand your involvement.”

You note the difference in their tones. She’s playing chess. He’s playing whack-a-mole. You know which one will crack first. You file it away. You also file away how close they are. Where the footsteps stopped. Where the shift of air was when the chair creaked. Where not to run.

Your mouth is cotton and your pulse is racing, but you lie easily.

“I owed him a favour,” you say, letting your voice go dull. “I didn’t ask what it was for. I didn’t want to get involved.”

“You helped him infiltrate Kane Tower,” the man snaps. “Why?”

You blink. “Because he asked.”

“Why you?”

“Why not?”

The woman’s tone drops to something syrupy. Patronising. “Look, I’m sure you think you’re being clever. That if you just say the right number of sarcastic nothings, this will all go away. But this isn’t a bar. Or a salon. Or wherever it is you spend your days. This is a facility with structure. And rules. And the longer you play games, the fewer of those rules will apply to you.”

That one hits harder.

Because of the way she says salon. Like she already knows. Already saw you somewhere. Like she’s been through the doors.

Your chest tightens - but you don’t flinch.

You lie again. A half-truth, really.

“I don’t know what he’s planning,” you say. “He didn’t tell me.”

“You know his movements.”

Fuck. You haven’t been seen with Jason in the helmet. You’re sure of that. You’ve been careful.

“No, I don’t.”

“You’ve spoken with him.”

“Not since that night.”

“What night?”

You falter, just long enough to seem uncertain.

“… He wanted help with something else. Even threatened my asshole brother-”

You let your voice shake.

“You know, I’m not even sure why you’re fighting him. You’re pretty similar,” you add, trying to scoff, to bury panic close enough to the surface that they'll dig it up for you. “But I refused. Haven’t seen him since.”

"Something," the man echoes.

“He never said what,” you force a shrug. “He doesn’t … tell me things.”

That’s true, actually. Bittersweet, but useful now.

There’s a pause.

You can feel their eyes on you. You can’t see them, but you know. The way the air goes still. The way one of them shifts their weight. The heat prickling across your neck. Your mouth still tastes like battery acid and cotton. Your skin feels wrong - like it’s buzzing from the inside out, like there are ants trapped between your bones.

And through the blur of your vision, one shape finally shifts.

Then the woman moves.

Her heels pause beside your ribs. A soft exhale. Then the creak of her crouch.

You turn toward the sound. Whimper. Just a little.

And then you start to cry.

Not real tears, but the kind of trembling, hiccupping sobs that sound real. That pull sympathy from soft stomachs and weak spines.

You twist your face toward the sound of their footsteps. “Please,” you whisper. “Please - don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you what I know. I’ll tell you everything.”

You sniff, let your voice shake, press your knees together like you’re trying to fold into something smaller.

They stop moving.

The woman says nothing. The man shifts again. You hear the rustle of fabric. A button clinks. Then-

“… She’s cracking,” one of them mutters.

You press the advantage.

“I don’t know much,” you babble, “but I’ve seen him. Talked to him. I know he’s watching the tower - I know he’s planning something - please, I’ll tell you everything, I swear, just don’t - don’t-”

“Easy,” says the man, and it almost sounds like he’s talking to a stray dog.

You let yourself whimper.

They’re buying it. You think they’re buying it. You can’t tell, not with your vision all gauze and noise, but there’s a shift in the air. A pause in their voices, a lean in their weight. The woman paces. The man exhales.

Then, quietly:

“She’s stalling.”

“She’s not,” the woman says. “Look at her.”

“She’s stalling,” he repeats, lower this time. “She set off something. I told you. We should’ve gotten her out sooner. If he’s coming-”

A new voice cuts through the air like a scalpel.

“You’re lying.”

It’s cool. Crisp. Feminine.

Familiar.

And then the impact.

CRACK-

Your head whips to the side with a force so sudden it sends a shudder through your whole body. The slap lands brutal and bare, a white-hot jolt across your cheekbone that ricochets through your jaw and explodes behind your eyes.

You taste copper instantly. Your teeth clack hard together. For a second, the whole world fuzzes at the edges - ringing, tilting, pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

You gasp.

Not just from the blow itself, but from the sheer shock of it. The cold violence of it. The deliberate cruelty. It’s not rage - not wild, flailing fury. It’s precision. Measured. A punishment.

Your shoulder crashes to the floor.

It’s hard. Slick. Too clean. The kind of floor that gets scrubbed to hide what happens on it. Your elbow jars. Your ribs groan. But all you can feel is your skin lighting up with nerves, blood starting to rush hot and fast beneath the surface.

You curl, knees pulling inward by instinct alone. You’re blinking against the blur, disoriented, every inch of your body screaming for focus.

You dig your fingernails into the linoleum.

Not to fight.

To orient. To anchor. To breathe.

You don’t scream.

Not because you’re brave. Not because you’re strong. But because you’re processing. Locking yourself to the moment. Mapping the damage. Finding your footing in the agony. Your chest heaves once, twice, and you clamp your jaw shut against the surge of nausea.

Then the scent hits you.

Through the blood in your mouth and the chemical sting in your nostrils - floral. Sweet. Sharp. Familiar.

Rosewater and oud.

Your brain freezes. Because you know that perfume. And your stomach turns to stone,

No.

No fucking way.

Not her.

A hand grabs your hair, yanks you upright just enough for her voice to whisper in your ear:

“I do hope you aren’t going to make this vulgar, darling. It’s so tiresome when they scream.”

Your whole body floods with fury so fast you nearly choke on it.

Fucking Greeves.

Of course it’s her. With her prim little sneers and roped pearls and curated complaints. With her hands that always smell like rose hand cream and destruction. A woman who could kill you with a whisper and claim it was etiquette. She’s watched you every month through mirrored lenses. Let you style her hair while she mined your life for weakness.

And as your brain catalogues every time you saw her, it begins to click into place. She was there the day the suit came in asking if you knew who blew up the bar. Unrattled, of course. She gave you the Kane Tower address and you stumbled right through the door and complained about her to the secretary. She dug into your love life with Jason like it was another piece of gossip for her to slurp up.

And this is what she was looking for.

She lets go.

You let yourself fall - hard.

Your cheekbone cracks against the floor and your nose takes the full impact. Something snaps. Pain erupts behind your eyes in a burst of heat - red, not white, blooming like an overripe tulip in your skull.

And then the blood starts.

Hot and fast and blessedly messy.

It slides over your lips, drips down your chin, coils under your jaw and into the floorboards with a syrupy slowness. You gasp, and it floods your tongue - copper-sweet and grounding.

You can feel it seeping into your shirt collar. Pooling under your cheek.

Good.

You use it.

Your fingers inch outward - slow, subtle, half-dead movements. Just enough to coat your skin. Just enough to work the slickness into your shirt sleeves. You twist your wrist just a little. Test the tension. The fabric begins to shift.

Across the room, you hear Greeves sigh.

Like you’ve delayed her brunch.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she drawls, heels ticking against the floor as she circles, voice echoing through the haze. “This isn’t a job interview. There’s no need for the charade anymore. You’ve been seen. Tracked. We’ve watched you walk in step with him, lie for him, cover his mess.”

Her steps pause - closer now. A blur of white shape moving through the veil of your vision.

“We know you helped him break into Kane Tower. That you kept him informed about surveillance sweeps. And I happen to know,” her voice drops lower, syrupy with venom, “that he’s been living in your apartment. That he makes you coffee in the mornings. That he keeps one of his helmets in your bathroom.”

You freeze.

Your stomach turns to stone.

“What did you say his name was again?” she hums. “Jason?”

A cold chill races across your skin. For a heartbeat, you forget the pain.

You whisper, raw: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But your heart’s slamming now. Because she knows. She knows. And that means you’re out of time.

Across the floor, your fingers twist again. Blood coats your wrist like grease. The strap slides - just a millimetre. Just enough.

Greeves crouches. You feel her silhouette press the air around you, weight sharp and deliberate. Her perfume floods your senses again - roses and power and poison.

“Oh, but I do,” she says, her voice practically cooing. “You’re adorable together. Really. It made this harder, in some ways. You’re quite charming when you’re being stupid.”

You grind your teeth.

The edges of the room are starting to sharpen - just faintly. You can make out the blur of her knees, the shape of the man behind her. Movement. Shadows on polished floors.

You can almost see the door.

Your mind shifts.

Stalling won’t work now. Not with Greeves. She knows too much. Knows you. And worse - she knows Jason.

Which means it’s time for plan two.

You’d been watching. Listening. Filing everything away like you would behind the salon chair.

And he’s the weakness.

The man. The one pacing like a predator in a borrowed suit. He doesn’t like being ignored. Doesn’t like being doubted. He’d spoken more than the others, and his temper? Sharper. Closer to the edge. You’d heard it. Felt it. That snap of energy, just waiting for a target.

You’ll give him one.

You’ll be the target.

And when he moves to grab you-

You’ll slip the leash.

Greeves’s breath brushes your cheek, sharp and precise. And then her fingers dig in, catching the flesh between pointed nails. You flinch at the unexpected pressure.

“You think he’s coming to save you,” she murmurs. “You think that ridiculous little ping on your phone means something. But here’s what you don’t understand, darling. He’s too late. He’ll always be too late. And you don’t have anyone else.”

Her voice stills.

Then twists the knife.

“Your own brother sold you out.”

You inhale once.

Twist harder. The restraint slides a fraction more. The chain rattles slightly, masked by her movement.

You’re ready. Almost.

She tilts her head, and your blurred vision catches the glint of light on her teeth.

“So,” she purrs, rising to her feet, “shall we start again?”

***

You start to laugh.

It bubbles up like blood - raw, wet, a little broken - and at first it even scares you. Like your brain finally cracked under the pressure. Like your body’s given up.

But you don’t stop.

Tilt your head back and laugh, loud and bitter and a little too high-pitched. It slices through the room like a knife through silk. You hear them freeze. Just a half-beat pause, but you feel it. The air tenses.

Good.

Because maybe Greeves knows you’ve been lying. Maybe she knows about Jason. About your apartment. About the mugs in your cupboard that only ever get used when he’s home.

But you know her too.

You know the way her eyes spark when someone contradicts her. The way her jaw goes tight when a prettier woman walks by. You’ve seen her pride. Her sharp little insecurities. She hates being underestimated - especially by someone beneath her. And you, the lowly hairdresser, have been beneath her for months.

Let her think you’re unhinged. Let her underestimate you.

“Fuck,” you wheeze, once the laughter begins to taper. “Wow. This is what we’re doing?”

There’s movement to your left. A chair scrapes. A shoe grinds against the floor - too hard, too fast.

The air folds in on itself. Tight. Tense. Like a room watching itself combust. You still can’t see their faces, not fully, but shadows shift in the blur. A man-shaped silhouette, twitchy with rage. Greeves, standing straighter now, arms likely crossed in that way she does when she’s pretending not to be offended.

You cough, blood sliding down your throat, and snarl through your teeth:

“You guys are so fucking stupid.”

A pause. Sharp. A beat.

Then the ice in Greeves’s voice: “Excuse me?”

You grin, wide and feral and full of red. “No, really. This is impressive. Who gave you your intel? Because I’ve seen gas station tattoos with more accuracy.”

You swear you hear a chair shift. Someone leans forward.

You let the venom drip now, all lazy malice and contempt. “Red Hood? The Red Hood? And your plan was to kidnap his girlfriend and just wait here?”