Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one said acting in Gotham would be easy.

Sure, more than one person has told you the exact opposite, calling it near impossible. Which wasn't any more malicious than it was realistic, to be fair. 

But you owed it to yourself to try; you had decent looks, at least a modicum of charm, and more luck than the average person.

Though as you cowered in the shadows of your makeshift dressing room while the sound of fists meeting flesh, you couldn't help but think your luck had run short.

The communal dressing room wasn't really a room, just a stretch of curtain dragged across the back of the sound-stage, pinned and weighted until it pretended to be solid. A thin veneer of fabric that still showed movement and shadows if someone looked at it the wrong way. The smell of dust from the flats and stale bite of makeup still lingered in the air. 

You had stayed behind when the director sent everyone, crew included, home early, the day folding in on itself before it felt finished. You didn't tell anyone, as your role wasn't important enough for them to notice, but also not insignificant enough that you could afford to mess up. At that late hour, it was just you, a quiet stage, and the words you kept muttering under your breath, trying to make them sit right on your tongue. 

The lights out front were dimmed, but never went fully dark. Gotham's just known for shadows, not darkness, after all. The curtains glowed faintly from the spillover, smearing your silhouette against them along with the various angles of props and clutter situated around you. As for the creaking and moaning, you told yourself it was just the building settling, the bones of the place creaking in their old age.

And that was when the voices started.

They were distant, but they were enough to make you start and fall silent in the middle of a trickier line. You backed into the shadows as the yells grew louder, along with hurried yet heavy footsteps against the stage floor. 

An apology half-formed on your tongue, instinctively, but it died as soon as you heard your director start to beg.

Montgomery, or Monty as he insisted you and the young, pretty actresses call him, Davis was a well known figure in the acting community. He was head-strong and very particular in his expectations for those around him, from actors to stagehands. You had scarcely impressed him with your initial auditions, giving you the impression the man was not one to be easily put off.

So hearing him in tears pleading for his life was an unsettling shock to your system.

Your fingertips curled inward, leaving small indents in the script you were holding, as you listened.

"P-Please I'll get you the money. I just need more time-"

"And how long do you expect us to wait?" The second voice was low, but with a sort of staccato quality. Italian, maybe?

"It won't be long, I promise. I can get you the money by tomorrow-"

There was a sudden scrape of shoes against the stage floor, the sound sharp with panic.

"We can only go off promises for so long, Mr. Davis." The tone didn't leave any room for mercy.

And neither did the gunshot that followed.

It cracked through the sound-stage like it was made for acoustics. One clean, final sound. It swallowed the sound of Monty trying to run whole, and left a ringing behind it that pressed against your ears.

You weren't sure how long you stayed there. Twenty minutes? Thirty? Saying an hour would be an exaggeration. Regardless, when you finally wrenched your feet from the spot they were rooted, you decided it wouldn't be wise to linger any longer.

With the shrill shriek of the shot still ringing in your ears, you fumbled for your belongings, before quickly exiting through the back. You shouldered the door open and darted off into the unforgiving night.

They found Monty Davis in the orchestra pit the next day.

It was a stagehand that called the police when they saw him sprawled out six feet beneath the blood-stained stage. At least that's what you heard through hushed murmurs between the others while you all sat in the police precinct's stiff, plastic chairs. Your leg bounced, restless, as you sat while many before you were called into the room at the end of the hall.

It was right about when you were wondering if you could still catch the bus to your apartment that it was your turn.

The room was smaller than it needed to be, at least in your opinion. Just a table with three chairs, and the cup of coffee someone left behind on the side you sat had begun to form a skin on top. On the other side of the table, two officers sat. One with all the procedural poise of someone who had been at this for a while. 

The other one had such soft eyes and a warm smile you felt yourself cautiously reciprocate it, even if it was mostly out of politeness.

Because this really wasn't a time to be smiling.

"Name?" The older officer asked.

You told them.

"What was your relation to the deceased?"

"He was my director, sir."

The word slipped out before you could realize, like it always did when you were nervous

"And your role in the production?"

"Nothing special." You admitted. "I'm just an understudy, sir."

The younger officer’s—his uniform read Grayson—expression didn’t change, but his eyes lingered.

"How long have you been part of the production?"

"About 7 weeks now, sir. We were getting close to opening night."

The older officer scribbled something down. You tried not to fidget, though your leg bounced anyway.

“Opening night tends to run people hard,” Grayson remarked lightly.

You nodded dumbly.

“Mr. Davis dismissed everyone early?”

“Yes, sir.”

You noticed the younger officer leaning slightly forward, eyes soft, waiting. You didn’t let yourself glance at him too long—just nodded.

“About what time was that?”

You gave him your best estimate, which was around a quarter after four.

He wrote it down.

“And after that, you headed out?”

"Everyone left, sir."

“Which exit did you use?”

You hesitated only long enough to remember which answer sounded most reasonable.

“The main one.”

Grayson glanced up at that.

“You didn’t see Mr. Davis again after rehearsal?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you notice anything unusual once you left the building?”

"No, sir,” you said, and tried not to swallow the lump in your throat.

Silence settled.

“Anyone else still around when you were packing up?”

“I didn't see anyone, sir.” You said, unconsciously running a single hand over your coat pocket.

The older officer closed his notebook.

“All right. That’ll be all for now.”

Grayson leaned forward, sliding a card across the table. "If you remember anything, just call us, alright?"

"I will." You took the small, white card. "Thank you" was added as an afterthought, though you weren't sure what to be thankful for.

It just sounded like the right thing to say, is all.

You didn't see him come in. Rather, you were alone in your apartment one moment and in the next the space behind you suddenly felt occupied.

A part of your mind, the more primal one, screamed to run, to fight, to do something other than grit your teeth and brace yourself against your counter. But another part, a more practiced side of you slowly smothered the urge to act and, with all the enthusiasm of a wake, you turned to face him. Both of your hands curled timidly around the wine glass in your hand.

He was tall and big, making you shrink back slightly at how close he felt in the tiny space. The tips of his cowl nearly touched the low hanging light fixture and he was wide enough to block any escape from the tiny corner of your kitchenette. His figure ate the meager lighting from your stove light as well as the faint city lights coming from the window he more than likely entered through.

You blinked up at him, groggy, waiting for him to speak. 

However, he seemed to be doing the same for you.

“I—um.” Your voice comes out thin. “Do you want to sit?”

The words feel ridiculous the second they leave your mouth, but you can’t stop yourself. Politeness has always been easier than panic.

He doesn’t move.

“No.”

You nodded, a bit too quick. "Uh, right, sorry. I can get you something-" You gestured to the glass in your hands.

He stared at you. You couldn't see his eyes.

"...Or water?" You offered meekly.

“No.”

The second refusal lands harder.

Your gaze fell to your hands, eyeing the tinted liquid.

"You spoke to the police." He said, not asked.

Your mouth opened, then closed.

"Yes." You managed to croak out.

"You said Davis sent everyone home early."

You murmured softly as your stomach tightened, "That's what happened."

He nods, once. "But you stayed."

You only flinched slightly, it would have been a hiccup in your tipsy state, but he noticed it nonetheless.

"You said you didn't see anything." He pressed further.

"I didn't." You sighed, not out of annoyance, but just to feel the air in your lungs again.

Silence stretched between the two of you, pressing in on your ears the way the gunshot did.

“You didn’t lie,” Batman said, and that was worse.

He stepped closer, slow enough that you had time to notice every movement. He stretched out an arm, his forearm as there wasn't much space. When he opened his hand, there was something resting in his gauntlet-clad palm.

A tiny plastic ring, faded and too small to fit anyone.

Your breath stuttered before you could stop it, as you caught your reflection in the fake, murky gem.

"You dropped this." He said, just as that same primal part of you wanted to demand why he had it.

The question you wanted to ask—how did you get it—never made it past the roar in your ears.

"It was caught in the curtain near the back of the stage,” He said. “Not somewhere an audience member would be.”

He didn't stop you from taking it between your finger and thumb, his hand nearly double the size of yours. Instead, he let you have it and simply stated, "You didn't see the murder, but you heard it."

The long lull that followed that accusation wasn't a peaceful one, no matter how much you had drunk yourself into a fake sense of composure. He simply watched as you swallowed another third of your glass.

"What do you want?" You murmured through your haze, finally looking up to face his blurred form. "I-I don't know who—"

"I know." He interrupted, not softly but not harshly either. You stopped speaking abruptly, like you had forgotten how to.

“You didn’t see the shooter,” he continued. “You didn’t see the weapon. You didn’t see where he stood.”

Each sentence landed carefully, like they had been measured.

You were worried you might bend the ring, with how tightly you gripped it in your fist.

"But you heard the distance." He said. "Footsteps. Direction. You heard Davis move."

“He ran,” Batman said, and it wasn't a question.

Your breath caught. Not enough to betray you outright—just barely.

“Toward the pit,” he continues. “Not away from it.”

The kitchenette felt unbearably small and the counter dug into your spine.

“You know that,” he stated, “because you were close enough to hear his shoes change pitch when he hit the edge.”

The taste of alcohol on your tongue amplified as your mouth went dry, but he didn't stop there.

"You didn't see anything, but you heard-"

"Stop," You groaned, as if in pain, and you didn't even feel yourself stumbling forward until he caught you with his forearm."I don't want to- You can't-"

He let you ramble incoherently into his bicep. He didn't push you away, rather, he waited to catch a brief pause in between words to ask. "Why did you run?"

"You don't get it." You replied, and the flood gates opened. "You have everything and I don't have anything. I'd get arrested or killed or s-something."

He didn't respond and you weakly pounded a fist against him as you'd added, "It doesn't matter. I can't tell the police and I can't testify. I'm not important enough to protect-"

“You don’t get to decide that,” he said.

You blinked lazily up at him and asked, "Why?"

He took the glass from your hand, like the outcome had always been inevitable.

“You’re in danger.”

The threat flooded your veins with cold. "H-How? Why?"

"I'm not the only one who knows you were there." He said, confirming your worst fear as he pushed you to your feet. 

"What?" You whispered weakly.

"This location has been compromised." Your mind took a few seconds to catch up with the words but he still pressed forward. "You can't stay here."

"I-I don't have anywhere to go- I can't just leave-" You fumbled with your words, but he cut you off finitely.

"I have somewhere you can go." And it sounded like he had decided it long before you had. "It'll be safe."

In retrospect, you know now the you probably should have asked more questions. Where are you taking me? or Why were you taking me? might have been the most obvious and glaring ones that you logical side conjured long after the fact.

Instead, you had only asked if you finish your glass shyly.

Chapter Text

By the time you realized the city was watching you, it had already decided where you belonged.

It was an innocuous place, not so much hidden as overlooked, sitting wedged between a shuttered bodega and a tailor that still kept hours no one seemed to remember. People passed it every day without seeing it, the way Gotham learned to ignore certain things to keep breathing. Just ordinary enough to be forgettable, on the outside at least. That should have given you a semblance of peace.

It was more studio than home. Every inch of the space seemed to be curated. Wood flooring, more well-loved than weathered, and a spotless kitchen that had counters too perfect to touch. The recessed lighting dimmed at a touch, with the tall, imposing floor-length windows that overlooked the haze of Gotham, letting the city in without letting you out. At the center of the room sat a simple queen bed, neutral in shape and shade, unremarkable at first glance. A tentative touch revealed the comforter was softer than anything you could afford, an indulgence more than anything.

You let your fingers drift over the polished marble counter, the cool steel faucet, the supple leather of a chair, mind drifting along with your body. The luxury was impossible to ignore, but it made the air feel almost abstract.

And as you glanced over your shoulder at the towering figure in the doorway, you reminded yourself why.

“It’s… nice,” you said, because that was the word people used for things like this. Things that were clean, expensive, and not meant to be handled.

Batman didn’t look at you. His attention was on the windows, the corners of the ceiling, the way sound carried in the room.

“It’s secure.”

You nodded, even though you hadn’t asked.

Silence hung in the air, and you shifted slightly with your hand brushing against the wall beside you. It was meant to keep you steady, the dregs of inebriation still leaving you, but instead the lights dimmed half a shade when you hit the switch by mistake. You flinched and looked up at him, eyes half an inch wider.

"Oh, s-sorry." You mumbled quickly, eyes darting to the room like it had also misbehaved. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine." He said, but you still shrank back — he stepped closer, quicker than you expected. The light glinted off his opaque lenses as he corrected it with a touch and you flinched as the rough kevlar of his suit brushed your skin.

He paused, considering you, before pulling back his arm as you squirmed under his gaze.

"So... this is all for me?"

"Yes, it is," He said without missing a beat. "For now."

"It's only temporary?" You clung onto that last bit of hope.

“Yes.”

The word landed heavy. Final, without context.

You glanced at the windows, at how tall they were, how seamless. “They don’t open, do they?”

“No.”

You quietly nodded.

“And my phone,” you added, softer now. “I don’t have any signal.”

“I know.”

You hesitated, then laughed quietly. It was a thin, nervous sound. “Right. Of course you do.”

"This place isn't for living." He said firmly, reaching into his tool-belt. "It's meant to keep you safe."

When his hand reemerged from the shadowy depths of his cape, a thin yet obviously high-tech sort of watch was revealed. Wordlessly, he took your wrist in his much larger hand, with only a little resistance from you. He strapped it tightly and answered the question in your eyes, "If you need help, press this."

"If I'm in danger?" You posited, but the end rose like a question.

"You won't be." It was his only response, but he added slowly after the fact, "It's if you need me."

His thumb lingered on your pulse a moment longer than necessary, but you didn't comment on it and pulled your hand back once his grip loosened.

"I'll have someone bring you some clothes later." He half-turned slowly, reluctantly if you were to be so bold, back to the door. "And some food, too."

"Alright," You nodded, exhaustion slowly creeping up on you now that you finally noticed. Still, you made sure to add a quiet "thank you" afterwards.

He gave a nod too, gaze lingering on your form as it began to slump in your tiredness. "Get some sleep."

You heard him leave, but jolted when you heard a notable click echo in the silence of the room. Approaching the door cautiously, like a wild animal, you tugged experimentally on the door knob.

Locked.

You let out a shaky breath, slowly sinking to the floor, and the cool wood on your skin cleared your muddled thoughts. 

At least a little.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you fetched the ring and looked at it in the dim light, turning it slightly to give it the barest gleam in its fake gem. You ran your thumb over the tarnished plastic, pushing slightly to bend it. But never to the point of leaving a permanent crease or snap it.

And though it wasn't worth much, you never had the heart to go without it for long.

When you did stand up, your legs wobbled underneath you. Crossing the room in shaky steps, you sat on the edge of the bed. Not the center, as that looked too pristine to touch. Instead, you leaned forward uneasily as the bed sunk beneath you, and shrugged off your outer layers. Left in your stockings and underwear, you timidly slipped the blanket over your body, the mattress contorting to your body like it already knew your shape. You didn’t like that thought. Almost hanging off the bed, you urged your tense yet sluggish body to find some sleep, tucking the ring beneath your pillow, fingers lingering there until your knuckles ached.

Sleep took you faster than you expected.

But even then you felt it. Somewhere beyond the walls, something watched the rise and fall of your chest and decided this was acceptable.

When you woke up, it was to a hangover and the smell of takeout. The cheap smell and disorientating feeling deluded you into thinking you had awoken in your apartment, and the previous night had only been another nightmare.

However, he made you face reality. Reluctantly so.

"Hey," The voice was soft, but far too close, and you opened your blurry eyes to face the domino-masked face. You clutched the ring in your palm as you eyed him warily, leaning against the counter like he had never left. "Oh, sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"No-" You croaked slightly before starting over, "No, you're fine. I was just..."

You trailed off and he offered, "Surprised?"

You gave a nod and twisted the sheet in your hand, pinning it to your chest to hide your body from any lingering gazes. 

Though, he seemed to read the room and only looked at your face, his own quirking into a boyish grin.

"I'm Nightwing." He introduced, although there was no need, "You slept alright?"

"Yes." It wasn't a complete lie. The alcohol had given you a dreamless sleep.

"That's good." He nodded walking towards you, bright, blue, and smiling like he assumed you would smile back.

So you did, even if it was only a small and nervous one, and he perked up at that, like he’d passed some quiet test. “I brought food. B said you hadn’t eaten much last night.”

He waved a hand to the takeout, sitting starkly on the marble counter, "It's good. A little hole-in-the-wall place I know."

Nightwing gave you a disarming grin, setting a bag down between you, already opening it, already narrating."You'll like it, trust me. I also grabbed something sweet if you woke up with that kind of appetite."

You stared at him, waiting, and he seemed to get it, handing you another bag. "Oh, yeah, I grabbed you some clothes too. Figured you'd want something clean. Nothing too fancy."

He said it like a kindness. Like something obvious.

You stared at the folded fabric in your hands and wondered if you ever told them your size

"Um..."

"Yeah?" He was so attentive that you looked away.

"Can you turn around?" You muttered lowly, bashfully, "I'm not...dressed."

There was a beat and you could hear the smile in his voice before he spoke.

“You know,” he said lightly, “most people wait until at least the second date to kick me out of the room.”

Before you could respond, beyond the heating of your cheeks, he turned anyway — slow and unhurried.

“Take your time,” he added, facing the door. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and quietly dressed. The sweat pants felt odd against your sheer stockings, but they fit your body alright. The t-shirt had a faint smell of something — not cheap detergent or perfume like your usual shirts — but you didn't think you had time to wonder what it was. You quietly confessed you were dressed, and he turned back around, as cheerful as before.

"They feel alright?" He asked, probably knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"Awesome," He pulled out a seat and gestured to the one next to him, "C'mon, let's dig in. I bet you're starving, yeah?"

You had only had wine the entire night before, so it was true. Still, your empty stomach twisted slightly as you sat beside him, the pounding in your head still ringing strong. The takeout tasted vaguely familiar, though maybe all cheap Chinese food did, and it was enough to settle you both into a lull of quiet chewing. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the sunlight creep from underneath the thick veil of the curtains. 

"Did I sleep long?" You asked between careful bites, looking at the light streaked on the wooden floor.

"A little," He admitted with a grin, "But I don't think anyone will blame you."

You flinched and his grin grew a little somber. He set down his own food, and leaned in a bit closer. You fought the urge to lean back, and he seemed to take that as a sign to place a hand on your shoulder.

"Hey," He said, steady and strong like his grip, "You didn't do anything wrong."

His smile was softer now, almost earnest.

“If you’re tired, it just means you finally feel safe enough to be.”

You stiffened, then — after a breath too long — placed a hand over his and softly replied, "Thank you."

A look of awe crossed his face, before being quickly smothered by a bright smile, and you had the sudden, sinking certainty that you’d done something wrong.

Though Nightwing seemed content, and pulled away after a bit longer than necessary. You went back to picking at your food and he posted a question.

"So... you've been acting for a while?" 

"A couple years now."

"Must be pretty good if you stuck with it professionally."

You toyed with the chopsticks, "Not that good. I only do small roles right now. Anything to pay rent"

"Hey, don't sell yourself short. I bet you're great."

"Thank you, sir."

"Whoa, no need for that." He laughed, "I'm not that old."

You shrugged lamely, "I didn't want to assume."

"Well, I'm flattered you'd think I'd age that well." He added cheekily, "Are you always this polite?"

He paused before adding, "Or am I special?"

"It's..." You started speaking before you knew the answer, "It's just easier, I guess."

"Really?" He actually looked to be pondering this, "I thought it'd be harder to be polite, especially if someone isn't the same back."

"It's just how I'd like someone to treat me." You shrugged, "Even if I'm not my best."

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Then you deserve someone who treats you right all the time.”

He smiled, easy and bright.

“Good thing you landed somewhere safe, huh?”

You stared at him as he continued, "Most people don't think about being nice when they're scared, y'know?"

You swallowed the food and lump in your throat, "I guess I'm weird like that."

"Not weird," Nightwing corrected lightly with an exaggerated winking motion, at least that's what you assumed behind the mask, "Just special."

He sounded so sure you couldn't help but bob your head up and down, making him lean his chin on his open-palm with a smirk.

When you both finished the food, you thanked him again, which Nigthwing seemed to expect as he waved it off before you could finish, "Hey, it's the least I can do for you. Some food and clothes is nothing."

"You didn't have to," You replied quietly, temple still pounding, "So, yes, thank you."

He eyed you, satisfied with something he found, before leaning in and whispering loudly, "If you liked that, I know you'll love these."

He gestured to the smaller, paper bag between your bodies.

"Best dessert this side of the country" He was a respectful distance, but a hint of spearmint on his breath still reached you. 

You opened the bag, under his intense gaze, to reveal an assortment of baked goods, ranging from bars to cookies. They looked homemade, but the quality was far from anything you've seen in desserts, from a bakery or otherwise. You brushed a fingertip over one, the flavor not apparent, before locking eyes with Nightwing.

Like you needed permission.

He nodded but said, "The chocolate one is the best. Try it."

“Trust me,” he added, like it wasn’t a guess.

That flavor was more obvious to your eye, seeing as it was a deep, earthy brown bar. And when you picked it up, you noticed he was waiting for you. Almost intensely.

When you bit into the dessert — just a small bite, out of obligation — the bitterness of the dark chocolate was a shock to your system. So much so that it dispersed the fog of your mind for a moment.

Nightwing beamed when you said it was delicious.

He waited for you to finish it, you noticed after the fact, but spoke casually in the silence to distract from that, "B spoke with your landlord, and he's got the rent handled for now so don't worry too much about it."

"He's paying for it?" You asked, surprised.

"Yep, figured it'd make things easier afterwards."

You didn't think much ahead, to "afterwards". You were just trying to get through now.

"He's Batman. He's got the funds." He reassured you with humor. "I’ll make sure you don’t run out of food. Clothes, too."

"Alright," you finished the sweet and the bitter chocolate lingered on your palate.

"Taste for anything else?"

"I'm fine with anything." You admitted, sheepish, to which he chuckled.

"C'mon, don't hold back. It's no problem for me."

You realized quickly he was expecting an answer so all you could utter was, "Something light, if you could."

"Alright," He leaped on with vigor, "How about some pasta? I know the best Italian place. Nothing too heavy, and the sauce is the best you'll ever have."

"That sounds nice." You said, and it had the same effect as a praise on the man.

He beamed, "I'll be back later. Just —" He gestures to your wrist " Call if you need anyone."

When he did leave, you realized your mind was less addled than when he arrived. 

Left in the silent studio, you also noticed the taste of dark chocolate had yet to leave you.

Chapter Text

It felt too quiet after Nightwing left.

Not silent, but rather hushed. Like the sound had been turned down without telling you.

You left your hands under the lukewarm tap water for longer than necessary, watching the water bead and slide down your cupped hands. You thoughts began to slightly drift  out of sync with your body, and your head throbbed with a stubbornness that was forcing you to cave. But that wasn't new. Hangovers did that. Stress did that. Seemingly everything did that lately.

It was when you dried your hands on a towel you didn't recognize that you decided to make yourself busy.

You straightened the sheets and discarded the remains of the food Nightwing had brought, but that wasn't enough to settle you. So, you gently ran the hand towel under the tap, and set out to wipe the dust from the corners of the room. There wasn't much of it, but the thought of doing nothing made you feel on edge.

However, it was when you had knelt down to swipe at a stubborn spot that the heat started.

It wasn't sudden or sharp when you noticed it beginning to spread. You felt it low in your stomach at first, before unfurling outward, a slow bloom that made your breath hitch when you realized it wasn’t stopping. 

Planting a hand on the wood floors to steady yourself before you could visibly swoon, you tried to pull yourself to your feet. Your knees buckled when you got them underneath you, taking a good thirty seconds to stand up somewhat straight.

You leaned a hip against the counter, as the heat began to roll in waves from your stomach to your chest and even further. When it began to cloud your thoughts in a heat-induced haze, you forced yourself to sit down.

The chair scraped too loudly as you pulled it out, and you missed the seat on the first try, landing harder than you meant to. The jolt sent a strange ripple through your limp limbs. Your heart kicked up, fast and insistent, like it was trying to warn you about something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet. You came out in puffs of air as you parsed out the possibilities. As well as you could with your addled brain.

An allergic reaction? That couldn't be it, you hadn't eaten anything new or different. Were you still drunk? No, the tell-tale sign of hangover still pounded in your skull, warring with that damned heat.

As your tried to collect your scattered thoughts, the device around your wrist vibrated.

You startled, fingers curling instinctively around it. The screen lit up—white text on black—but the words refused to stay still long enough to read. Your vision began to tunnel and the edges of your sight blurred.

Another vibration. Longer this time.

"I'm okay," You murmured, to no one in particular, "I'm okay."

The second one came out more wheezy than the first and you barely stopped yourself from crumbling into the chair.

The words sounded wrong in your ears. Too thick. Too slow.

You could feel the warmth deep, pooling in every part of your body, making it impossible to tell where your body ended and the chair began. Your pulse was everywhere now—throat, wrists, behind your eyes. You swallowed and the taste of chocolate, bitter and clinging, suddenly became overwhelming.

Oh.

The realization didn't hit you all at once. It crept up on you.

The dessert.

He had watched you eat it.

How the fog had lifted—just for a second.

Your breath grew shallow and you braced yourself on the arms of the chair as you began to attempt standing up.

The device chimed softly, an innocent sound, before you heard the voice echo throughout the room.

"Stay sitting" It was boyish, but too calm and collected for such a young sounding voice.

You froze, eyes darting shakily from one wall to the other. “I—”

Your voice cracked before you tried again. "Who are you?"

A pause followed, brief and measured.

“Right now, that doesn’t matter,” the voice replied. “What matters is that your heart rate is elevated and you’re starting to feel disoriented.”

The thundering of your pulse and your hazy mind were undeniable facts, but the certainty in his voice made you feel ill. "How do you know that?"

"The device B left you," He answered, unashamed, "It tracks your biometrics."

"What?" 

“You ate the dessert,” the voice pressed, it didn't ask. “The chocolate bar. You ate all of it.”

Your stomach dropped, and you tried to think back, even as the memory slipped from your grasp.

How could he know that?

"You're okay," He said but it didn't feel right coming from him, "I need you to breathe."

"What did he give me?" You whispered, but it came out as more of a whimper.

"You're not in any danger." He didn't answer you, “I’m monitoring your vitals through the communicator. Your blood pressure’s dropping slightly, but it’s within a safe range. I need you to take slow breaths for me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

You tried, you really did, but the air felt thick, like breathing through fabric. 

Still, he said, "That's good. Now, I need you to get to the bed. Slowly."

And you complied with some hesitation, but it took a minute to force yourself to a standing position. Your legs splayed awkwardly under you for a moment before you collapsed on the mattress. 

"Turn your body to the side for me. If you feel nauseous, I don’t want you on your back."

Chapter Text

When the heat left you, it did so all at once.

Like being dropped into ice water, the gasp tore out of you was painful and involuntary.Your body contorted into itself with your fingers twisted into the cotton sheets like gnarled roots, your nails catching on the threads in their frenzy. Dimly, you wondered if you tore them. A trrch sound went off near your ear—
and then a hand, terrifyingly big and far too strong, encircled your failing limb.

"Woah, hey, careful." The voice was low and gruff but irked the back of your mind in the subtlest way that you felt you knew it–

A wave of nausea hit you without warning, with the intensity of a freight train. Before you could dredge up the memory, you were pitched forward harshly as you slapped your free hand over your mouth. As you muffled your dry-heaving, the hand traveled from your forearm to your wrist. A thumb found the right place without hesitation, and your fingers loosened before you realized they’d been told to. Taking a plastic bottle in hand, your eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and the film of blurriness over your vision slowly faded away as well. 

A mask, slick and red, stared back at you. He watched your face as your vision steadied, like he was waiting for something specific—panic, maybe. When it didn’t come, his shoulders loosened a fraction.

"Drink." The command made you realize how dry your mouth was, so you did after a beat of silence.

Despite your hesitation, your body understood the instructions before your mind and you gulped the contents greedily. Washing away the taste of bile in your mouth, the water quenched the burn in your throat and smothered any other noises that could come from you. But once you had finished the cup, you pulled it away like it had stung you with a gasp that bordered on a sob. Your fingers quivered as they curled around the cool glass, and yet the grip remained steady as a rail around your wrist.

Like you would disappear otherwise.

"Slow breaths." It was another order, although it proved more difficult than the first. Each breath staggered, despite your conscious effort to fall into some sort of rhythm. 

There was no implied rush, but the gaze of the pure white eyes from the mask made you struggle to regain some composure as quickly as you could. You were unsure how long it took you to exhaust yourself, but he remained quiet the entire time.

Red Hood only spoke up once your breathing became shaky but consistent. He let go of you only then, and he did so cautiously, "Keep drinking fluids. You're dehydrated."

Your throbbing head attested to that, but the knowing way he said made your empty stomach turn. 

And yet, despite that, you looked at him, with all the clueless innocuousness as a sheep considering its herding dog, "What...happened?"

“Your body reached its limit,” he said. After a beat: "What do you remember?"

You frowned, trying to obey the question like it was a task you could complete if you focused hard enough. You swallowed, the motion still a little painful. Gaze drifting past him, you skimmed the ceiling, the dark corners of the room, the unfamiliar shape of the furniture. Everything felt slightly out of sync, like it had been placed a few inches to the left of where it should be.

“I—” Your tongue felt thick and heavy, "I was eating."

Your paused, sluggishly shifting through blurred memories and coming up with very little, "With Nightwing."

Red Hood hummed low in his throat. Not quite agreeing, but neither correcting.

“And after?”

Your brow furrowed, making your temple pulse in pain. The space after that moment felt… smooth. Flattened out. Like a page torn cleanly from a book.

“I got tired,” you settled on finally, uncertain. “Really tired.”

He nodded once, slowly and deliberately, "That tracks."

Something about the ease of that answer made your chest tighten.

“I don’t remember much after that,” you admitted quietly, almost guilty.

“You were out of it,” he said. It wasn't unkind but not gentle either. Just factual.He didn’t look at you when he said it, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder. “Got sick and threw up.”

Heat crept up your neck in a wave of mortification. You shifted more upright, with your knees tucked under you. But it was too fast and the room tilted slightly as you swallowed hard. “I—oh god, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.”

The word landed sharp. He finally looked at you then, and the weight of it made you still. His hand lifted halfway, like he might reach for you—then stopped, fingers curling back into his palm. “You don’t have to apologize.”

You blinked at him dumbly, like the thought had never occurred to you.

“I’m just glad you didn’t choke on it.” He gestured to the sheets with two fingers, not quite touching them. “Had to change those.”

His gaze lingered on the bed for a split second longer than necessary. His jaw tightened—barely—before he looked back at you.

“And you.”

You didn't recoil, but you deep down you felt like you should have. Maybe the past days had worn you out more than you noticed.

He clarified running a hand through his dark hair, "You got some on your clothes too. Didn't want you waking up like that, so I got you changed."

"Oh," It was all you felt you could muster, but you bit your tongue and added, "Uh, thank you."

You would have said "sir", but he looked younger than you. At least six years, you guessed as your hand unconsciously slipped under the pillow.

A stab of panic shot through your heart when your fingers only met cool sheets, and it must have shown on your face. He ran his gaze over your features, before sitting up straight with a crack and fishing through his leather jacket's pocket.

He pulled out your ring—it looked so easy to snap between his gloved thumb and index finger—but didn't give it right away as you hoped. He eyed it, turning it slightly to catch the bright lights of Gotham's nightlife as you watched him.

"This important?"  He asked, raising an eyebrow, but it felt like he already knew. "Didn't know what to do with it. It just fell out when I changed the sheets."

You swallowed, already bracing yourself, "Yeah, it's...it was a gift."

He looked at you, still toying with it, "From someone you know?"

"My dad," You said quietly, the word feeling old in your mouth. "From a long time ago."

He didn’t react right away. Didn’t comment on the way your hand curled in the sheets, or how your shoulders drew in like you were bracing for something that never quite came. He just stilled the ring in his palm with an almost knowing hum.

“He still around?”

The question landed gently, but didn't sound optional.

You shook your head. “Not really. He—” You stopped, the sentence dissolving before it could take shape. “He left. A long time ago.”

Red Hood hummed under his breath, not in disbelief or surprise.

“Figured.”

That word made your chest tighten.

He held the ring out then, finally, and you took it with both hands like it might slip through your fingers if you weren’t careful. The familiar weight grounded you more than the bed beneath you ever could, with it pressed into your palm just to feel something solid.

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again.

“You worried about her?”

You looked up. “Who?”

“Your mom.”

The way he said it—like it was obvious, like there was no universe where she wouldn’t be the first thing on your mind—made your breath hitch.

"I-I just haven't seen her in a bit." You admitted clumsily, rather than ask the most obvious question. "She might be worried." You murmured, more certain than you'd like.

"Cause you haven't sent her money yet?"

Your stomach dropped ,"I—yeah, I mean. Of course. I send it when I can. It’s not much, but—”

“You don’t have to.”

The interruption was quiet, but firm.

You frowned. “What?”

“Bills,” he said. “Rent and utilities. It's covered."

The room seemed to tilt again, just slightly. You gripped the ring harder. “Covered how?”

He leaned back in the chair, forearms resting on his thighs. He didn’t loom or crowd you, but the space he occupied felt immovable.

“Anonymously.”

You stared at him, trying to piece together what that meant, what it didn’t mean. Relief came first—hot and brief—followed quickly by something colder and sharper.

“You—” You swallowed. “You talked to her?”

“No.”

That answer came instantly.

“No visits. No calls. No one knocked on her door asking questions.” He paused, watching your face closely. “Nothing changed for her. Just… less stress.”

Your hands trembled, so you pressed them into the ring's plastic and felt it bend beneath the pressure.

“You didn't have to.” you said quietly.

“I know.”

That was somehow worse.

Red Hood reached up, scrubbing a hand through his white fringe before letting it drop back down. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Not softer but steadier.

“You’ve been caring about everyone else a long time,” he said. “Figured it was okay to take something off your plate.”

You laughed weakly, the sound cracking down the middle. “You make it sound like it's easy."

You looked down at the ring in your hand, thumb tracing the worn edge of the plastic. A gift from someone who had loved you and left. A reminder you kept close, even when it hurt. He watched the motion, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“Let someone handle it for a bit,” he said.

The city lights reflected faintly in the lenses of his mask, distant and blurred.

“She won’t even notice,” he added and it was supposed to be a comfort, you knew that, but hit a somber note in you.

Regardless, you thanked him. The word slipped out automatically, familiar as a reflex and he looked at you for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes. “You say that a lot,” he said. Then, almost like an afterthought, “ ‘Thank you,’ I mean.”

You paused. Not for long, just enough for the quiet to press in.

“Well,” you said slowly, like you were choosing each word from a short list, “I guess that’s what you’re supposed to say when someone helps you. Right?”

The question wasn’t really for him.

You’d never been sure. People didn’t often stop to help, not without strings or without taking something back later. But thank you had always seemed like the correct response—the safest one.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Not many people would be thankful to be here,” he said eventually. “In a situation like this.”

You glanced down at your hands, turning the ring once, then twice beneath your thumb.

“Well—” You stopped, inhaled, then tried again. “I am thankful.”

You weren’t sure if that was true, but you needed it to be.

“For my mom,” you added quickly, as if anchoring the feeling would make it real. “And… for me. We're safe. I mean—none of you had to help. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

The words stacked up, one on top of the other, careful and practiced like balancing fine china.

“So,” you finished softly, more to the room than to him, “I think being thankful makes sense.”

It sounded reasonable enough, so you nodded to yourself, like that settled it. Red Hood stared at you, and you couldn't help but wonder what hid under the mask. His gaze was as piercing as it was paralyzing, and his jaw was set with tension, "Being safe is the bare minimum, you know."

You looked at him and then your ring, shrugging timidly, "I guess for some people it is."

He fell quiet for a moment after that. Not distant but thinking, like he was deciding how much to say.

“You doing okay?” he tried eventually, like it was just another check-in.

You nodded, because that felt like the right answer. “I think so.”

“Good.” He leaned back slightly, giving you space you hadn’t realized he was holding. “I don’t want you worrying about things you don’t need to.”

That alone made your stomach tighten.

“But,” he continued calmly, “you should understand why everyone’s being so… careful.”

You glanced at him; he was watching you for a second longer than necessary, before he shrugged—casual, almost lazy.

“It's the case.”

Your throat went dry. “The—”

“Your director,” he clarified, voice steady with no dramatics. “What happened to him.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, “I-I already told the police everything. I didn’t see much. I barely—”

“I know,” He cut in, firm. “You told them what you could. So did everyone else.”

You frowned. “Everyone else?”

“There weren’t many people around,” he said. “By the time it happened, most had cleared out. No cameras caught anything useful. There weren't any clean prints and no weapon left behind.”

Each sentence landed softly, but together they weighed a ton.

“So…” you said slowly, “they don’t know who did it?”

“They have theories,” Red Hood replied. “That’s not the same thing.”

You hugged your knees close to your chest without realizing it. “But they’re… looking, right?”

He hesitated.

“They’re busy,” he said finally. “Gotham always is.”

That wasn't an answer—you both knew it.

“Am I—” You stopped, breath hitching. “Am I in danger?”

He leaned forward then, bracing his forearms on his thighs.

“Not because you did anything,” he said immediately. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t cause it.”

That helped, if only a little.

“But,” he added, carefully, “you were the only one close enough to see anything."

Your heart skipped.

“I didn’t even realize it mattered that much,” you whispered.

“That’s usually how it is,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t.”

You stared past him, “So… what happens now?”

“For now?” he said, “You stay somewhere safe, you rest, and you remember what you can, when you can.”

“And the police?”

“If they need you,” he said evenly, “they’ll ask.”

Something about the way he phrased it made your chest tighten a bit, “And if they don’t?”

He met your eyes.

“Then nothing changes,” he said. “Except we make sure you’re protected anyway.”

The word we settled in your stomach like a bad meal, but you nodded slowly.

It felt like agreement.

Chapter Text

The cave was never truly silent; the hum of machinery—idle or active—was constant.

Yet in that moment, it felt as silent as it could be.

Bruce stood in the center of them, eyes sharp beneath his cowl. His stance radiated raw tension; the quiet, suffocating weight of a man displeased, measured, and far from surprised. He didn't raise he voice. He didn't need to, as the weight of his very presence pressed down on the air itself like cold stone.

“You all know why we’re here,” he said, each word clipped, deliberate. “I didn’t think I'd need to spell it out. But apparently… I do.”

Tim shifted on the console chair, fingers drumming lightly on the metal. “We—”

Bruce cut him off with a glance. “Do not.” His voice was low, but each syllable landed like a strike. “I want to hear no justifications, no half-explanations. Nothing. Do you understand?"

Tim shrank back, not as a soldier, but like a child caught in the wrong.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Bruce demanded, though he already knew the answer.

None of them expected the act to remain hidden for long. Biometrics could be falsified, feigning a tentative sleep, but there was only so much footage that could be looped before raising suspicion. The argument had been delayed by an influx of crime that night, giving Bruce enough reason to postpone interrogation and granting the sons a window to clean the most damning traces.

Except for the camera feed.

Tim’s chest tightened, under the piercing gaze of the man and the side-eyed glares of annoyance from his brothers. He knew, long before he had saved the video, that that would be the main point of attack for his father’s and brothers' ire, as the latter had only learned of it after the fact. The stress of being under Bruce’s judgment gnawed at him, yet despite it, he felt no regret for preserving that night’s footage.

The knowledge of that night, the evidence, the control—it had been worth it. To Tim, there had always been an allure to watching, even just through a lens; it had a pull he couldn’t entirely explain. And, in your case, there was a precision to it as well. The way a way you had moved when unaware and delirious, how your body reacted to sensations that you didn’t—couldn't—even remember afterward. He had justified it, to himself, as necessity, as vigilance. But a small, undeniable part of him reveled in the clarity of it, the way he could see everything you had not. Every wet, quiet breath, every faltering half-motion, every micro-expression—Tim catalogued them all, storing them like currency.

It was power, yes, but also… curiosity. Dangerous, yet silent curiosity.

Maybe a small, boyish part of him had felt some guilt, not so much for the act itself but how it had left you with tears while running down your flushed face. However, the tantalizing writhe of your body on the screen and stimulating sounds that filled the audio had smothered that feeling under something far more primal and insistent.

Tim just wished he could convey that reasoning to Bruce as well as his brother's but, at that moment, he chose to take their displeasure in silence.

"You knew I would find out," Bruce pressed forward mercilessly at the silence, "And you still chose to do this?"

Dick’s jaw tightened, and he opened his mouth, before closing it. A faint, uneasy laugh escaped him, more a reflex than humor. Jason leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind the red lenses. He said nothing, but the slight tilt of his head made it clear he was listening. Calculating.

"I gave you all one job." He continued, striding forward to loom over the three, "To protect her. She isn't there for you to test limits."

He shot them a steely eyed glare, "Or to see how far you could push someone too weak to fight back. "

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. None of them moved. None of them spoke.

“She’s vulnerable,” Bruce said, slowing to a stop in front of the trio. “You knew that. And yet…” His eyes scanned them, cold and unwavering. The implication—what could have happened—hung over them like a blade.

Tim’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “We—It wasn’t—”

“Quiet,” Bruce’s voice cut through him like ice. “I don’t care who did what, who touched her, who was there. I care that it happened at all. That you let yourselves—any of you—cross that line.”

Jason shifted slightly, standing up straighter as a smirk ghosted the edge of his mask. “Hey, B—”

Dick’s eyes flickered and Tim swallowed hard.

“Can’t help but feel,” Jason continued, shoving his hands in his pockets, “that’s not what this is about.”

Bruce’s glare cut him down immediately. “Jason"

"Listen, you've got us watching her 24/7, way before Mister Davis bit the dust." Jason said, flatly, his features schooling into something more serious, "You scared her into thinking playing house with us will keep her alive. She eats, sleeps, and breathes where you want her to."

He cocked his head back, looking down his nose at the taller man, "I don't think you got room to talk about 'crossing line' when you would've done the same thing given the chance."

The silence returned, as tense as a wire fit to snap any second.

“You think you understand, Jason, but you don't" He sighed, disappointed more than anything, and Jason's expression soured."All of you. You think you know about control. About power."

He schooled them with a cold look, enough to penetrate though the white lenses of his cowl, "You don't"

"I know what I'm doing." Jason snarled, hackles raised, "I can protect her. I'm not playing 'boyfriend'—" He threw a hand over towards Dick's petulant—almost angry—expression, "Or pointing a camera at her to see her squirm."

Tim sat up straighter, indignation rising, "That's not—!"

"Enough," Bruce's voice didn't raise an octave, but still echoed throughout the cave, "None of you will engage with her outside of routine patrol."

He turned from them, marching to the holographic map in the center of the cave's lower level platform. "Food, clothing, everything will be handled by me. None of you will go there, unless I give the order to. Do you understand?"  

"Bruce, listen—"

"You can't just—"

"Like hell I'm—"

There were vocal objections, of course, but Bruce chose to ignore them, in favor of the sound of the elevator hissing open. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder. The silence suggested her presence.

“Cass,” he said, voice still carrying that weight. “What did you find?”

She stepped purposefully into the light, eyes scanning the room with the scrutiny of a roving bloodhound that had captured a scent.

Dick was halfway between Bruce and the other two in the cave, a hand raised to grasp at the man. Placating? No, she concluded, it had the air of a man losing sight of a vital lifeline and being helpless to stop it. Tim was hunched forward in the console chair, fingers gripping the arms in a vice grip that left his knuckles a sickly white. His eyes were trained on his father, on Bruce, locked in place with every reason, every bit of excuse, flying past at a mile a minute for only his eyes to see. Jason was the closest to Bruce, shoulders pulled back and jaw locked into place, with his fists curled into fists like molted beetle skins.

It wasn't needed, her level of observation that is, to tell that the atmosphere was both tense and confrontational, with an underlying air of desperation.

She stopped, a few places away from Bruce. She didn’t look at the others when she spoke—she rarely did when something mattered.

Cass simply reported, "The police aren't moving."

It landed with lethal straightforwardness. Tim's head lifted a fraction and Dick's hand fell back to his side.

"Explain" Bruce said, turning to face her fully.

"They did everything by the book," She replied, "They questioned who they could. Searched where they were allowed to."

A brief pause followed, and her brow knit, just slightly. “Now they’re waiting.”

“For what?” Dick asked, too quickly.

Cass’s gaze flicked to him, finally “For something new. Evidence—" Her eyes darted to Tim, holed up by the console,

"—A mistake—" Then they drifted to Jason, still standing defiantly.

Her eyes shifted back to Bruce. “It won’t come.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “So they’ll close it.”

“Yes.”

The word landed heavier than if she’d said it outright.

Tim exhaled slowly through his teeth. “They can’t just—”

"They can," Bruce cut him off, "And they will. There was no murder weapon. No financial trails that'll hold up in court. And no cooperative witness." His eyes cut, briefly, toward the others. “One exception.”

Jason’s shoulders rolled back. “Her.”

Cass nodded once. “Only one.”

Silence—not shocked, not confused. Just resigned. They had all known it, in some shape or form, but only now was it confirmed so absolutely. 

Cass continued, voice even. “Falcone's people are being careful, but not idle.” She tilted her head, as if listening to something beneath the cave itself. “They know the investigation stalled. They know what that means.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “They know there’s a loose end.”

“Yes.”

Tim’s fingers twitched, already mapping probabilities. “If the case dies, they won’t need to rush. They’ll wait until attention shifts. Until she’s alone.”

Jason scoffed. “Or they won’t wait at all.”

“That’s also possible,” Cass said.

Bruce’s gaze hardened. “Have they made contact?”

“Not directly,” Cass replied. “But there’s been movement. New eyes near the perimeter. Not police. Not ours.”

Dick swore under his breath. “So she's in danger now.”

"She's always been in danger, Golden Boy." Jason shot back, clearly aggravated, "Now, they just got a scent."