Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet for a place where five lives had once bustled only hours ago. Nothing stirred inside the grand two-story home on Gotham's east end, not the shadows along the wainscoted hallway, not the chilled air heavy with the iron-sweet scent of death, and certainly not the dinner that still sat on the table, untouched, as though time itself had frozen.

The dining room spoke of routine and care—everything laid out with precision. Crystal glasses stood empty and clean, polished to shine beneath the dim chandelier above. Fine china cradled perfectly arranged sides: roasted fingerling potatoes glistening with herbs, buttered carrots, a sharp Caesar salad barely wilting beneath its dressing. At the center of it all, the pot roast sat in a silver dish, surrounded by vegetables that had gone limp in the cold air. The meat had congealed long ago, glistening with fat that no longer steamed. The wine bottle, uncorked and half full, sat idle near the father's seat, but no glass had been poured. The table setting remained untouched.

Not so the living room.

They found the family there—what remained of them. Moved from where they likely died, their bodies had been arranged like grotesque marionettes in a scene so surreal it bordered on performance art. A twisted parody of domestic life. Each corpse nailed into place with the precision of a madman's steady hand, arms bent unnaturally, heads tilted just so, expressions frozen mid-horror or mid-nothing. Limbs distorted. Necks too loose. Smiles carved or sewn into lips like mockeries of warmth.

It was evocative of Dirk Dzimirsky's portraits of humans, of life—but this was no graphite drawing. This was meat and bone.

The killer had taken liberties—missing parts were common in each murder, as though the bodies had been scavenged for pieces like broken dolls: fingers sliced off at the joint, tongues removed, eyelids cut away, as if to force the eyes open long after death. Sometimes the eyes themselves were gone too, scooped out like soft-boiled eggs. Organs vanished. Brains cored. Hearts gone. Bones snapped with almost surgical care.

But it wasn't just the theft of body parts that chilled the seasoned investigators to their bones. It was the fact that the bones they did find bore teeth marks—small, ragged indentations set in half-moons where no animal could have reached. These weren't the bite marks of rodents or strays.

They were human.

And worse, the bruising on some of the victims suggested the mutilation came after death, but not always immediately. In at least two cases, tissue bruised from pressure after the heart had stopped, meaning some post-mortem activity was recent. The killer didn't just kill. He returned to his work.

This wasn't a rage killing. This was curated. Composed.

And it wasn't the first.

For five months now, this predator had made Gotham his gallery, choosing families seemingly at random. There was no consistent demographic—his victims ranged from modest apartments in Old Gotham to wealthy brownstones north of Robinson Park. Lawyers. Waitresses. Police. Students. Fathers and mothers. Children. Sometimes pets were found flayed, posed beside the family like taxidermy experiments. Other times, the animals were simply gone.

What united each scene was its presentation—a sickly cheerful parody of family togetherness. A dinner party. A game night. A birthday celebration complete with paper hats still stapled to gray, deflated skulls.

He or she moved like a ghost, never leaving fingerprints. No forced entry. Security systems glitched or were bypassed with ease. Even the Bat couldn't track the scent.

Whoever this was, they didn't just know how to kill—they knew how to haunt. To drag out the death until it meant more than just a corpse. To hollow out the meaning of "home" and fill it with something foul.

Not even the veterans in the GCPD could hold their stomachs.

Because it wasn't just murder.

It was consumption.

Anything consumed in Gotham never goes unnoticed by the Bats—especially something like this. And yet, there was still no name, no face, no profile to upload to the Batcomputer. Just a trail of mutilated bodies and whispers in the dark. The media had dubbed the killer The Flesh-Eater, while in the shadowed corners of Gotham's underbelly, a colder, more unsettling name was spreading—The Hearth Ripper. A grotesque play on the word "hearth," traditionally symbolizing warmth and family, twisted now into something synonymous with evisceration and desecration. A nod, too, to London's infamous Ripper, as if the past had infected Gotham's present.

"God... another baby," one of the crime scene cleaners muttered, turning his face away as nausea clawed up his throat. His voice was hoarse, thin with fatigue and horror. His gloved hands trembled slightly, hovering over the bundle of pastel blue swaddling in the corner of the living room. He had hoped it was the family dog, as sick as that was. But this—this was worse. Much worse.

He made the sign of the cross across his chest with a shaky hand and lowered his head in a silent, private prayer. A ritual he'd repeated far too many times since this killer first surfaced five months ago. Once the words had passed, he exhaled and jotted down a note in the Gotham PD's field log:

Fifth family member confirmed. Infant.

A father. A mother. Two children. And a dog. Always the family dog.

Patchy, they'd said—small black terrier mix with a stubborn streak. Affectionate but noisy. According to the neighbor, Patchy barked like clockwork every morning at seven. Not that day. No barking. No scratchy paws against the front door. No garbage cans dragged out the night before, either—a red flag. The Kingsleys were meticulous about garbage days. Trash out by ten, like religion. It wasn't concern for Patchy or the bins that brought the neighbor to the front lawn—it was the silence.

"You sure?" another cleaner asked, still bent over the father's body. She hadn't looked up once, too focused on the grotesque artistry sprawled across the living room.

She prodded the man's torso gently, respectfully. A once-proud lawyer, the report had said. Married, no known affairs, no known enemies. His body was dressed in work clothes—button-up shirt unfastened, tie missing, one hand still clutched around the remote control. He was positioned neatly on the couch like he'd just come home late, loosened up, and started searching for something to watch.

"We haven't found the dog yet," she added, brows furrowing beneath her hooded hazmat suit.

"I'm sure," the male cleaner said, voice hollow behind the layers of plastic and filtered air. He'd peeled back the blanket on the mother's chest slowly, dreading what he'd find—and still, it hadn't prepared him. "It's not the dog."

The mother sat upright in an eerie domestic tableau. Her eyes open, face made-up with soft pink lipstick and perfectly curled hair. Her clothes were neat: a muted pink skirt down to her knees, white blouse ironed and buttoned, flats still on her feet. Not kitchen wear, not lounging attire. She had dressed for something. Dinner, maybe. Or company.

The cleaner swallowed hard, chest tight. "She's holding her baby," he said quietly. "She's cradling him...but the baby's head is gone."

The woman next to him turned, blinking behind the misted interior of her helmet. "What?"

He nodded grimly. "It's not fingers this time. Not eyelids. It's the head. A whole baby's head."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of machinery and the click of cameras from outside the crime scene barrier.

"It could be a woman doing this," she said finally, her voice low and dry. There was no humor in it. Just resignation. An attempt to stop the city from falling into a frenzy of assumptions. Gotham didn't need another witch hunt.

But the truth loomed heavy over both of them, undeniable and suffocating: this wasn't just a killer. This was someone with ritual. Someone who understood the theater of horror. Someone who knew how to leave a mark that wouldn't fade.

And this latest masterpiece? It was the most revolting one yet. The Hearth Ripper had struck again.

"You should finish looking for the dog. We haven't seen him yet," Montana said, straightening to her full height. The thick sleeve of her hazmat suit shifted as she reached down and gently pulled back the collar of the father's dress shirt. Just beneath the starched fabric, there it was—another Y-incision. Neat, practiced, the kind you see in mortuaries, not on a living man in his own home.

"Looks like he got another bite. I'm betting on the liver or the kidney again."

"That's not funny," William muttered sharply, glaring at her from across the room.

Before Montana could reply, a metallic clang echoed from the kitchen. Steel striking steel, loud and sudden. Both cleaners straightened at once, boots heavy on the hardwood floor as they turned toward the noise. The stench in the air seemed to tighten with their nerves. From the kitchen doorway, a shadow emerged, tall and calm and cloaked in the same protective suit.

[M/N] stood there, silent, composed, and holding a large, silver pot roast dish, lid sealed tight.

Montana's pen slipped from her gloved fingers, the clipboard nearly following. William froze. His knees wobbled just enough to betray his nausea. He knew what that dish meant. They both did.

"The pot roast?" Montana asked, though the answer already hung in the air.

"Cooked all the way through. Swimming in pork juices and vegetables," [M/N] replied, his tone devoid of shock or emotion. He stepped forward and set the platter down carefully, the weight of it solid in his grip.

Patchy. The family's dog.

Cooked.

Patchy had been found in the platter when [M/N] lifted the lid, the roast been written off as discarded food and the real pot roast tossed carelessly into the kitchen trash like an afterthought.

"I'll take the dog back to the lab. See if it was poisoned or drugged before... this," [M/N] said, motioning vaguely at the platter before turning back toward the scene without blinking.

William tried not to gag behind the filtered face shield of his suit. "You're taking this... really well," he said, voice thin.

"It's dead. It's a job. And more importantly—" [M/N] turned back toward them, his expression unreadable behind the clear visor, "—the dog didn't bark last night."

Montana adjusted the platter in her arms, shifting the weight so she could still cradle her paperwork without dropping either. "So?"

"They've been dead since last night."

"Exactly," [M/N] confirmed, eyes scanning the front room again, taking in the way the bodies were arranged, the frozen silence of what used to be a warm home. "And little dogs like that—terriers—they bark at everything. Especially when someone knocks. Strangers always set them off."

Montana's brow furrowed. "So the dog didn't bark... because it wasn't a stranger."

William's voice dropped, low and uneasy. "The family knew them."

"Correct," [M/N] said with a nod, leading the two toward the front door, careful to avoid the open sightlines of the media corralled just beyond the police tape. "Someone they knew came in. Maybe they drugged the family, but they didn't do the decent thing. No clean death. No quick mercy. They mutilated. Cooked. Performed."

Outside, the wind tugged at the corner of the plastic tent erected over the crime scene. Flashbulbs snapped in the distance, hungry reporters shouting questions no one would answer. The three of them kept walking until they reached the unmarked van parked by the curb—Gotham City Morgue, etched in fading black on the side.

[M/N] unzipped his hazmat suit, the thick fabric falling away from his shoulders in practiced motion.

He wasn't like the others who worked this job. Too young to be this hardened, too meticulous to just call it a career. [M/N] [L/N] was who Jim Gordon called when a body showed up where it didn't belong—or more often, when the scene felt wrong in the gut. He was the one Gotham's darkest corners feared for his precision, not because he fought crime, but because he could dissect the aftermath with surgical accuracy.

Batman had followed him once. Batgirl twice. Even the youngest Robin had trailed him through the morgue for answers once upon a time.

But to most people, [M/N] was no one special. Just a government employee with clinical hands and a too-cold stare. Blunt. Efficient. Unapologetic. His paperwork arrived before the deadline. His reports never left room for doubt.

"I want their blood tested, test for everything like the other bodies were." [M/N] orders, shooing his employees away as he walked to the front of the van. More will come for the bodies. "By tonight."

"Yes sir." Both said, both moving to do what was ordered.

++++

Jason Todd knew a cannibal.

Yeah. As insane as it sounded, he really did. He hadn’t kept in touch—no letters, no calls, no shadowy rooftop visits—but that didn’t change the truth. In a world where aliens crash through skylines, where metahumans burn holes in mountains, and literal clowns kill without blinking, knowing a cannibal somehow didn’t feel like the craziest thing on Jason’s résumé.

Still, he didn’t advertise it.

The case had started the usual way—bodies. Torn apart, devoured in parts, carved with the kind of artistry only true psychopaths seem to possess. Bruce had forced a reluctant team-up between him and the rest of the family, some sort of olive branch Jason would’ve gladly set on fire if he wasn’t so focused. At first, the usual suspects came up: Killer Croc, Robert Greenwood, Flamingo, King Shark. But every single one of them had alibis. Solid ones. Checked, double-checked. Dates didn’t match, timelines were too tight.

Which pissed Jason off.

Not because of the victims—at least not at first. These weren’t the poor or the innocent, not all of them. Some of the earliest victims were old money. People who drained Gotham of its color with silent investments and glass towers. People who took and took, boarded private jets to Monaco while the city burned. Jason wouldn’t say it aloud, but he didn’t care much for those types. The ones with no kids. No pets. No heart.

But this killer?

They didn’t discriminate.

Didn’t matter if you had a penthouse or a tenement. Pregnant, elderly, newlywed, children, pets—nothing was off-limits. A whole family found strung up like meat in a slaughterhouse, their dog curled up under the table with a broken neck and no signs of a fight.

Fourteen families so far. Each one spaced exactly ten days apart. Different times found, different times killed, all posed differently.

Jason had driven through the filthiest corners of Gotham until the grime stuck to his soul. Sleep was a joke—he’d gone longer without rest than Bruce, and that was saying something. He rode the city like a hunter on the scent, wearing Red Hood like armor and rage like a second skin.

Ten days since the last one. Jason knew what that meant. Another family would die soon or at least being hunted at the moment. Gotham held its breath. So did the GCPD. Bruce brooded harder than usual, snapping at the team, sulking in silence when he couldn’t find a lead. Everyone was waiting for the next move.

Everyone except Jason.

Jason was done waiting.

He was pissed. Ready. And just as he loaded his gear for the night, a thought cut through the haze of fury—sharp, sudden, unwelcome.

A memory. Buried, half-decayed like the skeletons they sometimes dug up in Park Row. Back when he was still Robin. Before the crowbar. Before the dirt. Before everything went to hell.

There had been a kid. A ghost, really. Not someone who spoke much. That was Jason's doing, he was a kid thinking he wa doing the right thing and never gave too much hope of a friendship that withered and died when Bruce picked up Jason.

A kid from the same broken part of Gotham Jason had been taken out of.

He didn’t know if the memory was real or just another blur from the trauma stew his brain liked to cook up. Life at the manor had turned a lot of his childhood into fog. But he remembered him. The ghost. The silence. The secret. And the favor.

Jason had kept his mouth shut about a lot back then—activities that would’ve had Batman dragging the kid to Arkham or juvie or somewhere worse. “The right thing,” Bruce would’ve called it. But Jason hadn’t ratted him out. Not then. Not ever. And in return?

The ghost owed him.

Jason had never called it in. Hadn’t needed to. But now? He was gonna cash it all in for this. A predator looking, hunting another one within Gotham's limits.

Finding him was easier than Jason expected.

All it took was a name typed into the Batcomputer and a little patience—Tim had already combed through traffic cams for weeks, chasing leads and discarding dead ends. Jason retraced the digital breadcrumbs, following a dark car seen heading toward a part of Gotham that had managed to survive both urban renewal and moral decay.

The place? A bar wedged awkwardly between the crumbling bones of Park Row and the dust-covered shoulders of the lower-middle-class districts. Not quite seedy, but not the kind of place you bragged about frequenting either. It sat there like a scar that hadn’t healed right, one of the many Gotham hadn’t managed to scrub clean in its attempt to look presentable.

Jason had raised a brow when the address popped up.

Drinking? Didn’t seem like the sort of thing his old friend would be into. Not after the childhood they’d both crawled out of. Then again, who was Jason to judge? He drank sometimes too—when it was quiet, when the ghosts got too loud, or just because the bottle was cold and no one was around to stop him.

He didn’t take the infamous red bike this time. And he left the uniform hanging in the closet like a costume he didn’t want to put on tonight. No Red Hood. No guns. Just Jason Todd.

This wasn’t an ambush. It was a conversation. A quiet one, if possible. Maybe even a reunion, if he was lucky. Not that he’d scratched the guy’s name off the suspect list. Far from it.

Jason still had questions. Too many to ignore.

He dressed for the occasion—if it could even be called that. His tall, muscular frame—six-foot-six of solid threat—was dressed down in civilian clothes that made him look more like a biker off duty than a vigilante. Dark jeans tucked into well-worn black boots. A fitted dark gray T-shirt that dipped into a modest V, just enough to show the top of his scarred chest. Over it, a black leather jacket, soft from age and use.

His black hair, messy from the helmet, still carried that streak of white that the Lazarus Pit gifted—or cursed—him with. He liked to joke that it brought out the green in his eyes. It annoyed the hell out of Bruce and made Alfred sigh.

Jason had left his phone behind—technically stashed in Demon Spawn’s bike so the family thought he was on patrol. He needed quiet. Space. A chance to breathe without a Bat whispering in his ear.

The bar’s parking lot was half-empty. Mostly cheap bikes, dirty sedans, and one ancient truck held together by sheer spite. Jason parked away from the rest, kicked the stand down, and climbed off. The helmet came off next, freeing his hair to the cool Gotham air as he walked toward the entrance.

From inside, the noise spilled out—laughter, muffled arguments, the soft thwack of a pool cue striking a cue ball.

Jason paused at the door, gaze flicking across the peeling paint and flickering neon sign above it. He adjusted his stance, straightened his jacket.

“Didn’t think he’d end up in a place like this…” he muttered to himself, voice low.

Then he stepped inside.

The bar smelled like beer, sweat, and wood polish—clean enough to not be a dive, but cheap enough to keep the regulars comfortable. Eyes turned to him the moment he entered—curious, wary, sizing him up like a predator walking into a den of other predators. Jason ignored them.

He moved to the counter and leaned a forearm casually against it. The bartender—a woman with dyed red hair and half a sleeve of tattoos—didn’t even look up as she rinsed a glass behind the bar.

“Whatever you’ve got under twenty. The shittier, the better,” Jason said.

She gave a small shrug and disappeared behind the cooler, popping a cap off something that smelled like a regret in a bottle. Jason took the beer with a nod, though he didn’t drink from it yet. His eyes scanned the bar slowly, methodically.

He was looking for a familiar face.

[E/C] eyes. [S/C] skin. [Length] [H/C] hair.

He’d left the Batcomputer without much fanfare, but not without digging up a little intel first. His job updated their ID for the city, and Jason caught a good peek at his old friend's recent picture. That picture stuck in Jason’s head. His friend looked… the same.

Not twelve years old anymore. No longer sneaking cans of beans out of corner stores with a busted coat and hollow cheeks. Now? There was weight to him. Not fat, but filled out. The kind of strength that said he didn’t need to run anymore.

Jason’s grip tightened on the neck of the bottle.

He found himself hoping this wasn’t a wasted visit. And praying it wasn’t going to end with blood on the bar floor. That was the last thing he needed was more trauma. Once he sipped the beer, he walked as if he was just enjoiying the vibe of the bar, without needing to knock together a couple heads who wanted to try him.

Jason searched the bar thoroughly, weaving through the dim space with a practiced eye. He even dipped into the bathroom, kicking open each stall after tossing his half-empty beer bottle into a nearby trash can that was already overflowing with crumpled napkins, plastic straws, and soggy receipts. The stalls were open and clean—no sign of anyone inside besides himself.

He sighed through his nose and stepped up to the mirror, leaning in slightly. The lighting was harsh, yellowed from age and flickering faintly. He brushed his fingers through his black hair, smoothing back the slightly damp strands from where the helmet had pressed them down. His eyes lingered on the faint line of foundation he had smeared earlier across the scar on his cheek—the thin, raised shape of a “J” carved by the Joker’s hand, years ago.

It wasn’t the only scar that haunted him. He knew what lay underneath his clothes: the long Y-shaped incision down his torso, from sternum to pelvis, from the night he died. When the morgue had sliced him open, they had thought he was just another dead kid from Gotham. Then came the casket, the burial, the cold silence underground. Until Talia.

But all of that felt like someone else’s life now.

Jason stared at himself. He didn’t know how his old friend would react to seeing him again. Would he care? Be scared? Angry? Indifferent?

For Jason, it was complicated. Messy. And maybe selfish. But for his friend... he hoped things hadn’t turned out as badly.

He pushed off the sink and left the bathroom. The sound of boots echoed across the floor as a new game of pool started up. The chatter in the bar had shifted slightly, and Jason paused. A vibration rang through the noise—a phone buzzing. It wasn’t his. He hadn’t brought it, anyway. It wasn’t one of the bikers’ either; none of them reached for their pockets. The bartender didn’t flinch.

Jason's eyes scanned the bar and caught sight of a black-cased phone sitting screen-down on a nearby table. He walked over and picked it up, flipping it carefully to check the screen. A notification banner was still glowing faintly—something about lab results, some workplace notification. The background wallpaper caught Jason’s attention more than the message itself. A dramatic, darkly artistic image, full of color and emotion.

It fit. Too well. The kind of thing his old friend might have liked. Or… maybe still did.

He realized, grimly, he didn’t actually know what his friend liked anymore. Did he drink? Smoke? Eat at fast-food chains like Bat Burger, or prefer quiet, upscale bistros tucked away in Gotham’s gentrified corners? Did he listen to rock? Classical? Did he even still like jeans?

Jason shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered to himself. He slid the phone into his jacket pocket and looked toward the bar’s side door—the one that led out into the alley for smokers, loners, or the occasional late-night brawl. His boots creaked softly as he crossed the room and stepped out into the cold night air.

A loud crash broke the quiet. Metal bins clattered together, a familiar noise that didn’t startle him. Jason turned the corner slowly, rounding into the dimly lit alleyway where the scent of damp trash and oil clung to the brick walls.

Then he stopped.

Two figures were ahead of him. One lay sprawled on the ground—skinny, twitching slightly, with a pool of blood forming beneath his head where it had struck the pavement. A biker, by the look of the leather and patches. Alone. Weak. Easy pickings without his gang.

The other man crouched over him.

Jason’s heart dropped.

There he was. His old friend. Same features, sharper now. Same eyes—calculating, cold in this moment. He was crouched with one knee touching the ground, head tilted as he examined the bleeding man. Fingers slick with red. Jason saw him lick the blood off absently, as if it were honey on his fingers instead of another man’s life.

“Fast food?” Jason quipped, voice casual despite the tightness in his gut.

The man didn’t look up immediately. “Funny,” he said dryly, the tone calm but laced with irritation. “What are you doing here? Finally come to collect the freak?”

He licked his lips, the blood already fading into his skin, and let his hand fall away. Then, without pause, he rolled up the biker’s shirt and pressed lightly over his abdomen, fingers testing along the skin near the kidneys.

Jason didn’t move. He just stood there, arms loose by his sides, trying to ignore the burn of unease crawling up his back.

“No,” Jason said after a beat, voice lower. “More like a collection.”

The man’s hand stilled briefly at the word.

Jason took a breath. It was hard to say, harder still to admit the reason he was even here, but he forced the words out anyway.

"You owe me."

Jason’s voice cut through the silence like the sharp edge of a blade. He didn’t move, just stood there with his hands loosely at his sides, eyes fixed on the man crouched in the alley. His dark green gaze, once bright with mischief and fire, now held a weary sort of ache.

He studied the man in front of him—not the scrappy kid he used to know, not the boy who ran with him through the broken streets of Park Row. This wasn’t the same friend who had helped him scavenge cans for coins or waited anxiously at the corner for his grandmother’s Social Security check so they could split a hot meal. This wasn’t the same boy who showed him how to read, sitting cross-legged on the church steps with a weathered paperback pulled from a donation box, grinning like a fox with a stolen prize.

No, this man was something else entirely. Taller, leaner, sharper in every sense of the word. There was a quiet menace in the way he crouched there over the biker's unconscious body, blood on his fingertips, the scent of violence still thick in the air. The boy who once had dirt under his nails and bruises on his knuckles was now Gotham’s city coroner—[M/N] [L/N]. The same man that could be responsible for the many families that were wiped out. No evidence. No leads. Only whispers.

And if it was him—if the stories were true—Jason wanted to know how. And why.

A laugh echoed off the alley’s brick walls. [M/N] stood up slowly, brushing the grime from his slacks. He licked the last smear of blood from his finger with the absent grace of someone licking honey off their hand.

"I owe you? Is that what you're saying?" he asked, the amusement curling beneath his words like smoke.

Jason tilted his head slightly, unfazed. "Yeah," he said coolly, giving the biker on the ground a small nudge with the toe of his boot. A groan escaped the man—low, broken, proof he was still breathing.

"From when I found you elbow-deep in some burglar's spine," Jason continued. "Getting your favorite snack."

"I was thirteen," [M/N] muttered, rolling his eyes as if the memory were an old family story told too many times. "And starving."

His eyes flicked to Jason, measuring. He looked at him the way someone might look at an old photo—familiar, distant, and hard to recognize all at once.

"Not all of us got kidnapped and taken in by a billionaire with a mansion and a butler," he added, brushing off the last bits of alley dust. "Got to dress up in tights and play… what was it again? Robin Hood?" He snorted. It was a laugh, but not a kind one. It wasn’t exactly bitter either—just laced with a kind of resigned amusement. But it still stung. Even now, after all these years, it struck something raw at the bottom of Jason’s chest.

Jason didn’t answer right away. The cold air hung between them, thick with memory. The stink of trash, blood, and the past clung to their clothes like oil.

They were both strangers now—strangers with shared memories. And Jason wasn’t sure which part of that hurt more. He couldn't focus on that, not that.

"Don't give me that pity shit," Jason snapped, though his voice stayed even—controlled, or at least pretending to be. He had to. He needed to be calm, to keep the upper hand. "You owe me for that night. I could’ve told Batman, and he would’ve—"

"Sent me to Arkham," [M/N] interrupted flatly, not missing a beat. His tone wasn’t angry, but it was sharp—cutting in a way that left no room for argument. "Because that’s what you do with broken kids in Gotham. Lock them up, drug them up, and let them rot in a padded cell where no one has to look at them again."

His eyes flicked to Jason, unwavering. "You’d know something about that… wouldn’t you?"

Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching at the corner. He did know. The words sat heavy between them, heavier than the blood still drying on the biker’s jacket behind them. But instead of rising to it, instead of shouting like he wanted to, Jason drew a slow breath through his nose. He had to keep cool.

"It would be a shame," he said at last, voice low, "if someone were to… disrupt your cases. Make things a little messier. A little harder."

[M/N]’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes sharpened.

"Blackmail?" he hissed. "Grow up, Jason."

There it was—the venom. Not rage, but disdain. He saw through Jason like glass, just as he always had when they were kids sharing stale chips in the stairwell of their roach-infested apartment building. [M/N] had always been too sharp for his own good. He was even sharper now, like something honed under pressure until it cut clean through everything else.

"What do you actually want?" he asked, arms crossed, standing tall in the dim alley light. The man Jason once knew had vanished entirely into the sharp lines of dark slacks, polished shoes, and a deep purple button-up, a matching vest fitted over his lean frame. Sophisticated. Unbothered. Dangerous.

Jason opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it. He ran the words through his head again and again before finally settling on the truth.

"You."

[M/N] blinked once. "Excuse me?"

Jason silently cursed himself. Smooth, Todd. Real smooth.

"I want you to help with the case," he clarified quickly, shifting on his feet. "I know you’ve already been doing some behind-the-scenes work, but I mean officially. Privately. On a more personal level."

He met his friend’s gaze, forcing himself not to flinch under the weight of it.

"You know who I am. You knew when I left Park Row. And you know who Bruce is—what he is. We have resources, tools, intel that could make your job a hell of a lot easier. And you…" He searched for a word that didn’t sound insulting. “You have knowledge in certain… areas. Special expertise.”

There was a pause. Then, a snort.

"Because I eat people?" [M/N] replied, raising an eyebrow. "On rare occasions."

Jason’s eyes flicked over him again, now that the lighting allowed for it. He wasn’t just refined—he was striking. The kind of handsome that wasn’t polished or forced, but carved from surviving everything that should have broken him. There was a confidence in his posture, the effortless way he moved, the calm edge to his voice.

Most kids from their building hadn’t grown up. They’d ended up in gangs or coffins. But [M/N] had clawed his way out—and maybe lost parts of himself along the way.

"And what exactly is in it for me?" [M/N] asked, tilting his head. "Please, entertain me. Blackmail only works on people who are stupid or insecure. I’m neither."

The first thought that jumped to Jason’s mind was simple.

"Money."

[M/N] narrowed his eyes.

"Tons of it," Jason added, shrugging with mock nonchalance. "Courtesy of Bruce Wayne’s personal accounts. I could get you out of the city, if you wanted. New job. New name. Close to cadavers, minimal questions. Easy snacking options."

It was rare for Jason to talk about Bruce without a bitter twist to his voice. But here, now, he sounded almost like a salesman. Desperate. Convincing. Maybe both.

[M/N] considered it, arms still crossed. “Interesting,” he murmured, “even though I already have a very well-paying job.”

"Student debt’s a bitch."

"Paid off. Buried with the rest of my past," [M/N] replied with a small roll of his eyes. He rubbed his fingers together absentmindedly as he studied Jason—not just looking at him, but reading him. Measuring the man who used to be a boy who always got up when he was knocked down, even if it meant standing on shaking legs.

Jason didn’t have to explain what he’d been through. He didn’t have to say what came after death. It clung to him in waves—trauma and anguish, raw and real.

"I’ll do it," [M/N] said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "If it means the money’s mine. No strings. A rainy day fund never hurts."

Jason let out a slow breath, part relief, part tension. A small nod followed.

"Deal." But as [M/N] turned away, Jason couldn’t help but wonder if he’d just made a deal with something more dangerous than he could control.

And deep down, maybe that was exactly what he wanted.

“But there’s a catch,” Jason added, voice quieter now, more deliberate. The words rolled off his tongue like they’d been sitting on it for a while—carefully thought out, chosen with intent. He’d come here for more than just a partnership. He had a plan.

Of course he did.

"I figured," [M/N] said, still not turning to look at him. He stood with one foot slightly forward, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his slacks, as if the entire conversation bored him—but Jason could see the subtle tension in his shoulders. “I'm listening.”

The alley’s single flickering light buzzed overhead, casting long, dancing shadows against the brick wall behind them. Inside the bar, laughter and off-key karaoke filtered out through the back door, a stark contrast to the cold air and the weight of their reunion. Jason watched the back of his oldest friend—the only one from Park Row who’d survived in a way that wasn’t just breathing—and wondered what the hell he was really getting into.

Still, he smiled faintly. Almost smug.

+++++

Tim Drake liked to consider himself the most balanced of his siblings—strategic, composed, occasionally slept like a log anywhere within an inch of his life. He enjoyed the occasional prank war, especially when it involved getting under Damian’s skin or making Bruce sigh loud enough to echo through the Manor. Sometimes Steph joined in. Sometimes Dick took things too far and ended up covered in glitter.

But this?

This wasn’t a prank.

He paused mid-sip of his post-workout protein shake, nearly choking as his phone lit up with a new message in the family group chat—a rarely peaceful zone of chaos and passive-aggressive memes.

A single text from Jason.

"Got married."

That was it. No emojis. No explanation. No pictures. And just as fast as the message was sent, Jason went offline.

Almost immediately, responses started pouring in. And from somewhere upstairs, there was the unmistakable sound of a chair toppling over in Bruce’s office, followed by a muttered curse.

Tim blinked. Slowly lowered his protein shake.

“Sweet,” he said aloud to no one, but the word came out half-hearted. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, rereading Jason’s message.

Then it hit him.

“Wait... Jason got married?” His brow furrowed. “Before any of us?” He sat back, a frown creeping onto his face. “Feel bad for the unlucky lady,” he muttered with a dry laugh.

But the amusement faded quickly.

Jason didn’t date. Not seriously. Not long enough for an engagement, let alone a marriage. And he definitely didn’t announce anything unless he had a reason. Tim’s fingers hovered over his phone, ready to call.

But something told him—instinct or experience—that if Jason wanted them to know more, he would’ve said it.

Chapter Text

The Wayne family had faced many things over the years—intergalactic invasions, alien warlords treating Earth like a battleground trophy, rogue AI determined to overwrite humanity, and the constant insanity of Gotham's criminal underbelly. They'd endured the Joker's reign of chaos, the Riddler's mind games, and whatever the hell Man-Bat was supposed to be. Bruce himself had flirted with death so often it felt more like a slow dance at this point.

But this? This caught them completely off guard.

Jason Todd—ex-Robin, former corpse, part-time outlaw—had gotten married.

No one had been invited. Not a single whisper of a ceremony. Not even Alfred had known, which was a miracle unto itself. When pressed, Jason casually claimed Roy and Kori were present as witnesses. But given Jason's flexible relationship with the truth, the family rightfully questioned the legitimacy of that statement.

Damian, ever the blunt tactician, pointed out the obvious in the group chat: "You are legally dead. You cannot sign government documents." To which Jason replied with a selfie.

He held up a crisp, very real-looking marriage certificate. Clear as day.

And at the bottom of the certificate, in looping, official handwriting, was the name: John Doeington the Third.

It sounded fake—comically fake, the kind of name you'd expect from a B-movie con artist or a bad soap opera. And yet, somehow, it had worked. The paperwork had gone through. Even more unbelievable, it had fooled the officiant—none other than the actual Symbol of Peace, who had apparently performed the ceremony.

Somehow, Jason Todd had managed to get married under a pseudonym while still being legally dead.

Gotham's legal system was many things, but thorough clearly wasn't one of them.

The group chat had exploded. Until Dick, somewhere between horrified and hysterical, sent a string of crying emojis followed by reply.

"Fuck sakes Jason! I could have gone with you to watch you get married! I already own a tux and could've helped or something!" He sent in the chat before waiting with a similar reply from Duke and Cass then Stephenie who would have gone to watch him get married if he needed people watching.

"Okay but seriously? Family dinner. You, him, and the family! Just one and I promise everyone but Damian would be on their best behavior!" Dick sent in as a nagging feeling rubbed against his stomach from the inside uncomfortably.

Jason didn't even leave a seen-check.

But for Dick, the name kept bothering him. It gnawed at the back of his mind like a memory just out of reach. There was something familiar about it—not the over-the-top fake name, but something underneath. Something real.

He spent the rest of the night digging through boxes in his apartment, the kind he hadn't touched in years. Old files, press clippings, dusty folders labeled with names he didn't want to think about.

Until finally, he found it. The paper was old and yellowing at the edges, the ink faded but still legible. It was Jason's obituary. A ghost of a document from the time when they had buried a teenage boy who had once laughed too loudly, rebelled too fiercely, and died too young.

It wasn't just a printed eulogy. It was a snapshot of grief—his, Bruce's, the city's.

Dick flipped through it slowly, heart heavy with memories that still stung.

And there it was. Dick back then tried to gain some sort of feeling, some sort of emotion and dig into Jason's history before Bruce took him. Dick had discovered Jason's little friend back then; [M/N] [L/N]. Just like most poor kids, he had a similar situation with Jason, grew up with Jason in Park Row. Dick had pleaded his case to Bruce, invite the kid to give his final goodbyes to Jason and Bruce in his own grief allowed it. 

The day of, [M/N] never came to bury Jason and Dick never bothered to keep track when his life gotten busy as a hero and man. Jason's friend from Park Row. A quiet kid who'd stuck by him in the worst of Gotham's gutters, when Jason was just another mouth to feed and pair of fists to raise. A name Dick hadn't heard in years.

Now he was back.

As Jason's husband.

Dick sat back, fingers curling around the paper. He wasn't sure how to feel. Surprised, absolutely. A little hurt too—he would've liked to have been there. But more than anything, he felt something he hadn't in a long time when it came to Jason.

Hope.

Because maybe Jason hadn't just married someone to prove a point or pull a fast one on the family. Maybe he'd found someone who saw past the anger and blood and walls. Someone who had known him before everything. Before Robin. Before death. Before the Red Hood.

And maybe, just maybe, that person could love him in the way they all struggled to show.

Dick's phone pinged, the sharp chime pulling him out of the fog of old memories. He set the obituary back into the box carefully, like it was something sacred, and wiped the dust from his hands before checking the message.

It was from Alfred. "Cleared Master Damian's and Master Bruce's schedules for next Sunday night. Should give us enough time to prepare properly."

Right below that, a simple thumbs-up emoji from Jason.

Dick smiled, soft and faint, the kind that didn't reach his eyes but still carried warmth. It was happening. They were doing this. From the hallway, he heard voices—muffled but intense—and then the sharp slam of a door.

They were all looking now, combing through every database and record they could access. A silent race to uncover the truth behind the mysterious husband: [M/N] [L/N].

And Tim, of course, had been the first out of the gate.

Within five minutes of Jason's announcement, Tim had already compiled a working file. He wasn't just curious—he was impressed. Maybe even a little envious. Jason had gone off and married an actual good man, a husband whose name carried the kind of academic trail that made Tim feel like he hadn't accomplished enough yet.

From what Tim could piece together, [M/N] had lived an extraordinary life—one most of them had never expected from a kid who once lived in the shadow of Park Row's despair.

The man had almost no current social media presence, which in itself was a feat. But there were digital echoes. Archives and scattered mentions going back years. A graduation photo at thirteen. Middle school to high school in record time, despite attending one of Gotham's most neglected, underfunded school districts. Somehow, [M/N] hadn't just survived—he had thrived.

Full-ride scholarships. Multiple offers from institutions around the world. He could've chosen anything—engineering, medicine, even architecture. But what he pursued was... different.

He chose to study the human body.

Tim scrolled through the flagged links with a narrowed gaze.

Mortuary science. Thanatology. Forensic pathology. The man had immersed himself in the science of death. Not just the sterile, academic side, but the intimate work of preparing the dead for rest. He had become a mortician. Tim filed that fact away into his encrypted personal database, tagging it with an alert—just in case. He wasn't suspicious.

Not exactly.

But Gotham had taught him caution. Jason had a reputation for dramatics, and they'd all seen how trauma could twist even the best intentions. So Tim did what he always did—prepared for every possibility. Including the worst.

Because there was a serial killer currently stalking everywhere, no matter the poverty line goes. One who posed victims like wax museum figures in grotesque tableaus, as if trying to recreate living moments with the dead. Hyper-realistic, uncanny. Like modern art pieces from someone with too much time and a fractured sense of humanity.

If it turned out that Jason had married that person, Tim was going to find out before the blood started spilling.

But something told him... that wasn't the case.

He didn't have proof—not yet—but as Tim stared at the photo of [M/N] accepting an award for excellence in mortuary innovation, suit crisp, polite, and eyes unreadable, he felt a strange calm.

Whoever this man was, he didn't seem like someone hiding from the world.

If anything, [M/N] [L/N] read more like a wandering soul—one of those rare people shaped by shadows, who somehow learned to walk through them with dignity. A ghost of Jason's past now cemented into his present, bound to him by vows and an official marriage certificate with a name that sounded like it came out of a satirical crime novel. John Doeington the Third. It would've been laughable if it weren't now legally tied to Jason Todd.

Tim leaned back in his chair, fingers flying over the keyboard as he dug deeper into every available sliver of information. His search had started as routine—background check, public records, academic data—but it had quickly turned into something else.

Interest. Fascination. Maybe even a little unease.

[M/N] had graduated from high school at thirteen. A prodigy, even in a city like Gotham that usually swallowed brilliance whole. He'd moved to Metropolis shortly after, gaining an apprenticeship at a reputable mortuary science institution. A few years vanished from public view after that, marked only by occasional academic contributions and a couple of certifications that appeared in medical journals.

Then he came back.

By twenty, [M/N] was not only licensed in Gotham but had applied—and been accepted—as one of the city's youngest coroners in recorded history. He'd been working in that role ever since, tucked quietly into the underbelly of Gotham's endless stream of death, just out of the spotlight, but always present.

That was all Tim could find for now. Nothing scandalous. No arrests. No hidden aliases.

Just a life lived in quiet defiance of the odds.

Still, the most unsettling detail wasn't in the credentials—it was in the photos. Sparse as they were, they painted a strange picture. Every image was formal. Award ceremonies, certificates, academic announcements.

Not one.

He stared straight into the lens, posture perfect, eyes like slate. A man carved from patience and silence. Polished but distant.

Tim scribbled into his notes without much thought: Likes expensive gifts??

A weak theory at best. His phone buzzed again. The group chat.

Dinner was officially scheduled.

Tim tapped the edge of his phone against his desk, his thoughts briefly drifting from facts and files to the impending social nightmare of a Wayne family dinner with a brand-new in-law—one none of them had met, one who could stare down a camera like it owed him money, and one who Jason, of all people, had willingly married without telling a soul.

What did he like?

The thought felt personal. Too personal, maybe, but curiosity itched at the back of Tim's mind. Knowing [M/N]'s preferences might reveal more than a background check ever could.

So he typed. "Would he like to bring a dish? Wine?"

Simple. Casual. An innocent enough question. But if he was lucky, it might just open a door. Because if Tim Drake was going to meet the man his brother married, he'd be damned if he didn't walk in prepared.

Cassandra sat quietly on the edge of her bed, the soft glow of her phone screen lighting her features in the otherwise dim room. The group chat had been buzzing for the past hour with chaos, confusion, and a hint of betrayal. Jason Todd—her brother in arms, the most guarded of them all—was married.

Married.

To a man none of them had ever met.

Her fingers hovered above the screen for a long while as she read through the flurry of messages. Dick was still mourning the lack of an invitation with dramatic emojis, Stephanie was already planning what dessert to make, and Tim had shifted into full investigation mode.

Cassie's expression remained neutral, but her thoughts drifted.

There was a small nudge in her gut. Not full-blown suspicion, but the cautious tension she always carried when someone new entered their orbit—especially someone this close to Jason. It wasn't paranoia. Just instinct.

Still, she didn't dislike the idea of this man, [M/N] [L/N].

She had no opinion to form—not yet. But she trusted Jason enough to believe he wouldn't tie himself to someone lightly. Jason was fire and fury on a leash, a man tempered by trauma, survival, and regret. Anyone who could hold their own against the storm that was Jason Todd and still choose to love him?

They were either a saint... or had the patience of one.

Cassandra sent a thumbs-up emoji into the chat in response to the dinner plans. She would be there. Of course, she would. If Jason wanted them to meet his husband, she would show up with her best behavior and sharp eyes. She made a mental note to dress nicely and maybe help Stephanie with dessert—Steph was already asking what she should bring, indecisive as usual but clearly excited.

Cass softly smiled at the screen.

Meanwhile, in the quiet stacks of the manor's library, Duke Thomas was buried in textbooks and notes when his phone vibrated across the table. At first, he ignored it. Finals were coming up fast and he had essays to finish. But the second buzz had the urgency of a group message—family chat.

With a sigh, he picked it up.

His eyes scanned the messages. The name. The photo. Jason with that smug grin, throwing up a peace sign like he hadn't just dropped a bomb on them all.

"John Doeington the Third? Really?" Duke muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes.

At first, he thought it was one of Jason's usual jokes—some elaborate prank meant to stir up confusion. Jason had done it before. Birthday texts with fake crime alerts. Deadpan pranks that lasted for days. But this time... it felt different.

Because there was a second picture. A wedding certificate. A real one. And that name at the bottom: [M/N] [L/N].

Duke's brain kicked into recognition almost immediately. He didn't need to Google the name. He'd seen it before.

Once, maybe twice, during a case that required their team to work alongside the city morgue. Not that they dealt with the head coroner often—assistants usually handled their requests—but the name had stuck. Formal. Sharp. Professional. [M/N] [L/N] had been listed on more than a few reports Duke had skimmed through, all signed with the same tight, neat penmanship. Efficient. Minimal. Just like the man in the picture.

He doubted the others had made the connection yet.

[M/N] was rarely at the front desk. Always in the background. Always working through others.

Duke leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. Well, damn. Jason hadn't just gone and married some mystery man from nowhere—he'd married the coroner. Only Jason. He chuckled to himself and went back to his studies, but he couldn't help the way curiosity tugged at the corner of his thoughts.

This dinner was going to be interesting.

Damian Wayne scowled at the glowing screen of his phone as he stood over the sparring mat, chest rising and falling with barely broken breath. Training had been the priority for the day—precision strikes, perfect balance, controlled aggression—but it had all been derailed by the sudden ping that came through the family group chat. He hadn't expected much. Maybe another pointless meme from Grayson or Stephanie rambling about brunch plans.

What he got instead was something far worse.

Jason had gotten married.

To a man.

A man none of them had ever met. A stranger. A complete unknown who had somehow wormed his way into something sacred.

Damian read the message again as if it would suddenly make sense. Then he saw the selfie. Jason, smug and proud, with his ridiculous peace sign and that idiotic alias—John Doeington the Third. And beside him, the supposed husband: [M/N] [L/N], a name Damian didn't recognize and had no desire to. That name beside the damn John.

Damian's face twisted in something between disbelief and disgust.

"Tt." 

The chat, of course, had descended into madness. Dick had flooded the thread with crying emojis—oversentimental as always. Stephanie was typing questions faster than anyone could answer them. Cass was giving her quiet approval with nothing more than a thumbs-up, and Tim had no doubt already built a database on the mystery husband.

But Damian? Damian didn't just dislike the announcement—he loathed it.

Not because he didn't think Jason deserved happiness. That would be hypocritical. No, what made Damian's blood simmer was the change. The intrusion. The fact that someone from outside their hell-forged circle thought they had the right to enter it.

To enter them.

He rolled off the mat, towel slung around his neck, watching the chat continue to explode as he dried his hands. No one asked the hard questions. No one questioned the audacity of [M/N] thinking he could just join their family without bleeding for it. If this [M/N] thought he could slip into their lives without resistance, he had another thing coming. If he wanted to be part of this family—their family—then he better be ready for it. The pain. The sharp edges. The walls built over years of betrayal and loss.

Damian didn't believe for a second that the man was ready.

But if [M/N] had somehow survived Jason's moods, his anger, his unpredictable behavior—and had willingly chosen to stay? Then maybe, just maybe, he had more grit than Damian was giving him credit for.

Still.

Damian smirked coldly to himself. He'd make sure to test that theory at dinner.

With a few well-placed jabs, thinly veiled sarcasm, and some sharpened words masked in politeness, he'd figure out who this man really was. If [M/N] wanted to be part of them, he could start by enduring him. Because in Damian Wayne's mind, family wasn't just something you were welcomed into. It was something you earned.

And so far, [M/N] had earned nothing.

In conclusion, Damian decided, he didn't like this man. Not one bit.

+++++

[M/N] had cleared his schedule with the same efficiency he approached everything in life. The weekend paperwork was handed off to his employees, most of whom were more than willing to pick up the extra load, especially after he promised a generous bump in their next paycheck. The morgue could survive a few days without its head. He needed the time.

The past week had been a storm.

Arguments laced with rising tension and old wounds. Jason, fiery and restless, had paced rooms with his voice raised in frustration, while [M/N] remained the eye of the hurricane—steady, calm, unmoved. They weren't fighting over infidelity or jealousy, nor even the exhausting nature of pretending to be married.

They were fighting over where to pretend to be married.

Jason wanted to drag them into one of his safehouses. Claimed it made more sense. Claimed it was "smarter" to keep things where no one would think to look. But all [M/N] could see was the squalor.

Jason's safehouses were not homes. They were dens. Hiding places cobbled together with mismatched furniture—if any at all—and enough weaponry to make a general blush. The one he favored most, nestled quietly in the border between Park Row and the outer edge of Gotham's deteriorating industrial zone, had barely functioning plumbing, no curtains, and broken windows patched with slabs of plywood. The fridge smelled faintly of blood. The microwave sparked if you breathed too close. A folding chair acted as a closet, and a few cardboard boxes—scuffed and water-stained—stood in as nightstands.

To Jason, that was fine.

To [M/N], it was unlivable.

"You want to sell this marriage?" he had asked on Wednesday night, voice quiet but firm. "Then we need a place that looks like two people actually live in it. Not one person and a military surplus store."

Jason had snapped back, irritated and tired. He hated feeling cornered. Hated that someone could pick apart the way he lived and not be entirely wrong. But [M/N] was unbothered. He simply folded his arms and waited, letting the silence drag out the answer Jason wasn't willing to give voice to: you're right.

By Friday night, they had found a compromise.

A modest apartment perched between the invisible border where high-rise wealth dipped into the chaos of lower Gotham. The building was secure enough, stylish enough, neutral enough. It was a place that could plausibly belong to a couple who wanted proximity to everything—Jason's crime alley activities, [M/N]'s job at the morgue, and the public image of upper-middle class comfort.

A place that could sell the lie.

So they moved in Saturday morning, dragging furniture, boxes, and a shared silence through every hallway. Jason had argued less. His resentment had cooled to brooding looks and the occasional sarcastic comment. [M/N] had simply pressed on, organizing the essentials first—cutlery, linens, furniture with actual cushioning—and ensuring the apartment looked lived in by nightfall.

Photos were hung. Blankets folded. A bottle of red wine placed on the kitchen counter like a curated detail in a staged home tour.

This wasn't love.

But it was a mission. By Sunday, they'd be ready. For dinner. For the family. For the scrutiny. For the show.

"Fix your shirt. And your face."

[M/N] didn't even look at Jason as they reached the top of the wide stone steps of Wayne Manor. His attention was focused instead on the delicate dish balanced carefully in his hands, its contents swaddled beneath a protective cover. The manor loomed above them, timeless and monolithic, a symbol of old money and older legacies. Gotham had changed a thousand times over, but this place—the Wayne estate—stood untouched by time or crime. In some ironic twist of fate, the very family that had poured billions into rebuilding Gotham could never quite purge the rot.

That thought would be unpacked another day. Right now, he was more concerned about Jason's scowl and the state of his wrinkled shirt.

"Okay, Mom," Jason muttered, rolling his eyes so hard it was almost audible. From old friend to fake husband, and now he was being scolded like a misbehaving child on the manor's front steps. [M/N] had taken to their new roles far too naturally for Jason's liking—ever the planner, ever the perfectionist.

It was always, 'Don't forget, Jason' and 'Try not to curse, Jason', in that infuriatingly calm voice. The same voice he'd used in the morgue when talking to his co-workers, to cops, to funeral owners.

Jason tugged at the hem of his dark red v-neck shirt, freshly ironed but already creased from the walk. The fabric clung to him in that effortlessly tailored way [M/N] somehow managed to convince him into wearing. His dark jeans were tucked into black boots that had only just been cleaned, and for once, he looked more like someone about to attend a family dinner than crash a weapons deal.

"You didn't need to bring anything," he muttered again, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"It's impolite to meet family and show up empty-handed," [M/N] replied, tone clipped but gentle. He adjusted the wrap on the dessert dish, his hands deft and precise. "I wasn't about to risk my fine china for this event, so this will have to do."

Jason turned toward the heavy oak door and knocked with a few loud raps of his knuckles. He had a key once—maybe it got lost during the move, or Damian lifted it during a spar, or it got knocked into a sewer grate during a rooftop scuffle. He didn't remember and didn't care.

"Besides," [M/N] added, glancing sidelong at him, "my wine wouldn't impress your father anyway."

"B wouldn't give a rat's ass about wine," Jason scoffed, shaking his head.

There was a pause. [M/N] sighed softly, eyes dropping to the dish in his hands—the lemon curd soufflé tart he'd spent half of Friday night conceptualizing and most of Saturday morning executing. Hours of effort, from a carefully timed trip to the grocery store to hand-beating the meringue into glossy peaks, and this was the thanks he got.

"You're lucky I didn't bring my preferred dish," he murmured, just as the sound of footsteps echoed from the other side of the door. Jason raised an eyebrow.

"Flesh. Organs," [M/N] added, under his breath. "You know—something to really make a first impression."

Jason smirked despite himself.

"I'm not just here to perform as a talented and thoughtful spouse," [M/N] continued, his voice lowering as the door creaked open. "They're lucky to witness my creation."

And with that, he lifted the cover just a fraction, revealing the perfectly golden crust of the tart beneath, glistening with lemon curd and torched meringue edges like a crown of sugar-kissed flames.

"They'd better appreciate it," he whispered. The door swung fully open, revealing Alfred on the other side with a composed smile and sharp eyes glancing at the two, lingering more on [M/N].

Jason straightened. [M/N] smiled—sharp, polite, and picture-perfect. Let the performance begin.

"Hello," [M/N] said warmly, his tone soft but clear as the grand door of Wayne Manor creaked open. "You must be Alfred."

His eyes didn't waver from the man before him, posture held with quiet grace despite the dish cradled in both hands. The old butler stood tall, refined, and carried himself with the kind of dignity that could make kings straighten their spines. [M/N] couldn’t offer a handshake, not with the delicate lemon curd soufflé tart balanced carefully in his grip, but his tone carried enough respect to make up for it.

“Jason’s told me all about the man behind the Wayne name,” he continued, smiling. “Decorated. Brilliant. And someone who knows his way around a kitchen. I wasn’t sure what to bring, and Jason wasn’t exactly helpful, so—” he nodded slightly toward the dessert, “I decided to make this.”

Alfred was silent for a beat too long—long enough to make Jason shift uncomfortably beside him. The butler gave a look, subtle and dry, directed at Jason. It said everything without a word: Don’t screw this up. I’ve been waiting for someone who knows how to cook for years.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, offering a sheepish chuckle.

Alfred’s expression softened into a gentle and polite smile. “Welcome,” he said, stepping aside to let them in. As they crossed the threshold into the manor’s grand interior, he closed the door behind them with a soft click. “Master Bruce and the others are in the drawing room awaiting your arrival. I’ll see this to the kitchen, and then I’ll escort you both.”

[M/N] gave a small nod, letting Alfred carefully take the tart from his hands. As the butler disappeared down the hall with the practiced grace of someone born to this kind of place, [M/N] let his eyes wander.

The manor was as magnificent as it was cold—an echo of its owner. Polished floors, sweeping staircases, chandeliers that glimmered with age and elegance. Yet despite its grandeur, there was a hollowness here, like a museum of legacies too old to feel lived-in anymore.

Jason noticed his silence. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, casually. His voice didn’t echo in the space, but it somehow felt quieter here.

But [M/N] wasn’t just admiring the wealth. He was observing. Calculating. Absorbing the curated facade of Bruce Wayne’s world. The framed photographs along the hall caught his eye next—some family, some historic, others artistic or abstract. It was almost funny how few of them actually focused on the people who lived here.

There were a handful of shots featuring a younger Dick Grayson in his early days, posed but cheerful. Tim, smiling tentatively. Cassandra, graceful even when still. Duke, recently added, judging by the newness of the frame. Damian—stern, composed, small for his age but sharp-eyed.

And then, at the far end of the hallway, nearly tucked out of sight, was Jason.

The bitterness settled low in [M/N]’s stomach like ash. The positioning wasn’t accidental. When Jason had died, the family probably didn’t know what to do with his memory—hide it, preserve it, mourn it quietly, or pretend he’d never existed. Whatever the case, that photograph was practically banished to the shadows of the hall. A ghost framed in silver.

But the picture itself wasn't off-putting, just very old, neglected.

Young Jason. His face still soft with boyhood, but the eyes already carrying a fight. His hair looked freshly trimmed, his smile was hesitant, like someone not quite sure if he belonged in the frame. Probably taken within the first few months of being brought into the Wayne household.

A small, quiet part of [M/N] wanted to shatter the glass and slam the frame over Bruce’s head. Another part wanted to steal it—because if Bruce didn’t know how to honor Jason’s past, then someone else would.

He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the frame with a reverent softness.

"You looked cute cleaned up," he murmured, just loud enough for Jason to hear.

Jason rolled his eyes, stepping beside him with a reluctant huff as he followed the direction of [M/N]’s gaze. “God,” he muttered, grimacing. “Look at that haircut. I probably had a forced bath that day too. Bruce probably had my nails cleaned like I was a stray dog being prepped for adoption.”

“A manicure, you mean?” [M/N] mused, his voice dry and teasing. Jason snorted.

They stood there for a moment longer, the soft hum of the manor filling the silence. It was strange—standing beneath the roof of a legacy built on secrets and loss, yet still managing to find brief, fragile comfort in each other. Alfred’s voice broke the quiet from the hallway ahead.

“If you’ll follow me,” he called, “the others are just through here.”

The quiet of the manor shifted as Alfred led them down the long corridor, Jason's steps heavy and firm against the polished floors, while [M/N]'s were a lighter, distinct rhythm—clicks from the low heels of his dress shoes tapping in measured grace.

[M/N] looked every bit the picture of refinement and intention. His tailored black slacks were pressed to a sharp line, the matching suit jacket snug across his shoulders. Beneath it, a dark violet button-up shirt, rich in color and texture, stood out in tasteful contrast. There was no tie, just an open collar that suggested elegance without stiffness. His shoes gleamed without a single scuff, polished to perfection.

He carried himself well—upright, quiet confidence—but what lingered more than anything was his scent. It clung to him like an aura: woody and warm, touched with the faintest hint of smoke and spice—cinders and nutmeg. It was expensive, and Jason knew without asking that it wasn’t something picked off a store shelf. It was bespoke, like him. Clean, calculated… and just strong enough to mask something darker beneath. The kind of scent that stayed with you.

It was him. And Jason could feel it in his nose, in his lungs, down to the part of him that still wondered how this man ever said yes. Even if it was a ruse, a cover up for work.

Alfred opened the grand doors ahead of them with a quiet efficiency, and the distant argument inside came rushing out like a dam had broken.

“No, I’m asking first—he’s basically family now—”

“You already asked your stupid question earlier!”

“I was asking about Jason! Not him! That doesn’t count!”

Alfred cleared his throat, unimpressed. “Sir.” Like a spell being broken, the chaos stilled. All heads turned.

Bruce sat near the center of the room, elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he was on the verge of a migraine. When he looked up and straightened, his gaze shifted immediately to the two figures in the doorway.

“Our guests have arrived,” Alfred said smoothly, his tone cool but warm, as always. “Dinner will be ready shortly. But until then, I believe some of you were quite eager to meet the newest member of the family.”

Bruce exhaled deeply, already bracing himself for whatever came next.

“Sure,” Damian muttered from the side, voice just low enough to carry but not enough to draw official attention. “Let’s call it that.”

[M/N] heard it. Of course he did. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. He simply smiled—pleasant, easy, with eyes that crinkled just enough at the corners to sell the charm. The kind of smile you wore when meeting strangers with knives behind their backs.

“It’s a pleasure,” [M/N] said smoothly, his voice even and polite. “I’m [M/N] [L/N]. I haven’t changed my name legally yet, so it’s still [L/N] for now.”

Before Bruce could respond, Dick was already out of his seat.

“It's a super-duper pleasure,” Dick chimed in brightly, practically bounding across the room. His smile was wide and infectious, filled with genuine enthusiasm as he reached for [M/N]’s hand. The handshake was firm, friendly—one of someone who didn’t just want to meet you but make you feel welcome, even if it came with a whirlwind.

“When Jason told us in the group chat that he was married? I mean, come on,” Dick laughed, squeezing [M/N]’s hand. “And not to some tragic rebound or nightmare ex who breaks his heart and runs off with his money—”

“Hey,” Jason interjected sharply, shooting him a look, but Dick powered on with a grin.

“—but to you? An actual old friend? A city success story with a solid reputation and a corner of Gotham that actually respects him? I was like, wow, maybe this time it’s the real deal.”

[M/N] gave a polite smile, nodding along as he listened, eyes flicking once to Jason who was already groaning quietly.

He knew Dick’s type well—charismatic, energetic, the perfect older brother archetype. Playful, loving, athletic, maybe a little too eager. The kind of man who tried to be everything Bruce wasn’t but still circled his shadow. [M/N] had read the old headlines, remembered the buzz around a supposed wedding between Dick Grayson and Starfire. A love story Gotham was never meant to have. Too much fire. Too much drama.

Now here he was—still kind, still smiling—but always behind Bruce's shadow.

“You’re giving me too much praise for doing the dirty work,” [M/N] replied with a quiet chuckle, one that earned a snort from Jason beside him. He nudged him with his elbow.

“You must be Dick,” [M/N] added, tone teasing. “Jason says you talk way too much and that you’re almost always over-eager.”

Dick let out a short laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he retreated to his seat, only mildly embarrassed. “He’s joking,” he said, glancing between them. Jason snorted quietly, but [M/N] elbowed him sharply in the ribs again—a quick, practiced motion that spoke volumes. Jason let out a short huff, rubbing his side, but took the silent cue. He slipped his arm around [M/N]’s waist, pulling him closer with casual familiarity. The warmth of his hand resting there was for show, but the subtle pressure said play along. So, [M/N] did.

He stood straight, a polite smile touching his lips, posture confident yet approachable. The perfect image of a charming, well-dressed spouse—clean lines, styled hair, and a glint of wit in his eyes. The smarter half of the couple, if he could help it. Or at least the one who made it clear how this "marriage" operated.

"So hypothetically," Tim said from across the room, arms folded and eyes narrowed, "you’re not terminally ill, or this isn’t some kind of cliché ‘marry for the inheritance’ scheme, right?"

[M/N] turned his head slowly to regard him, one brow raised with deliberate calm. He took a moment to study the young man: lean build, crisp posture, calculating eyes. This was the third Robin—Timothy Drake. The tech genius. Heir to the Drake name and now one of the Wayne boys. Jason had warned him that Tim would dig deep. He would find what others missed, and [M/N] respected that. But it meant the lies had to be smooth.

"You’re absolutely right," [M/N] said coolly, letting a soft smile tug at his mouth. His tone was confident, but not defensive. "I married Jason because... well, I love him. Even if the government falsely declared him dead."

A purposeful pause. A subtle jab cloaked in sincerity.

Tim’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

"Yeah," he said, chuckling in that dry, unimpressed way that made [M/N] want to rub his temples. "The government does all kinds of backward things. I heard they’ve done that to people over eighty. Real consistent system."

"Exactly," [M/N] replied, playing along with an enthusiastic nod, his smile a little too bright. "That’s what I said!"

He looked at Tim, head tilting slightly in faux curiosity. "You’re Timmy, right?"

Tim's lips twitched, the irritation quick to surface before he hid it with another chuckle. "Timothy Drake-Wayne," he corrected evenly.

[M/N] offered a look of exaggerated understanding. "Ah, of course. The full name."

Before Tim could respond, another voice chimed in cheerfully from the side.

"Stephanie Brown," the girl said brightly, already halfway into [M/N]’s personal space. Blonde hair tied back, sparkly blue eyes gleaming, and dressed in purple—a color choice that said more than her words. Spoiler. Her hero name matched her energy: loud, hard to miss, and unapologetically bold.

"Not related by blood, but they let me stick around," she added, grinning ear to ear. Then, before he could protest, she flung her arms around [M/N] in a hug.

He stiffened. The contact—unexpected, too tight, too close—made his stomach twist. [M/N] hated being touched. The instinct to shove her off nearly won, but he kept his composure. Instead, he offered an awkward pat on her back, hands moving like someone uncertain about holding a baby.

Jason’s hand slid instinctively to the small of his back again, grounding him.

"I always wanted a super cool brother-in-law," Stephanie chirped, stepping back with a bright smile.

"Correction," came Damian’s flat voice from the couch. "We are not blood related, Brown." Stephanie snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "So does half your family, but I don’t see them brooding in corners like you." She flopped back into her seat beside a silent girl who smiled softly at the exchange. Their knees bumped as Stephanie leaned in again.

"Oh!" Stephanie perked up, pointing a thumb toward the girl beside her. "This is Cassandra Wayne. She prefers ‘Cass.’ Doesn’t talk much, but she’s got a thousand ways to communicate. You'll get used to it."

Cass smiled, quiet but sincere, and gave a small nod of greeting.

[M/N] returned the smile, this one genuine. "It’s a pleasure, Cass." Her eyes crinkled slightly in return. So far, it was a circus of personalities—and he hadn’t even sat down for dinner yet.

“I’ve heard about your work,” Duke said, his tone genuinely curious as he leaned forward slightly. “Especially the ways you've been updating body preservation methods before burial. Impressive stuff.”

[M/N] turned toward him just as the tall double doors creaked open. Alfred entered with the familiar grace of a man who had seen it all and still refused to let chaos shake his poise. A silver cart rolled quietly beside him, bearing a tall pitcher of lemonade, crystal flutes, and a plate of warm scones dusted with powdered sugar.

Alfred moved with practiced ease, pouring drinks one by one with quiet dignity. No wine—not during an introduction like this. Only something light and civil to nibble on.

“Yes!” [M/N] replied with a bright, polite smile, making sure to keep his expression open and animated. “It’s something I’ve put a lot of care into. I’ve had help, of course—plenty of research partners, even some historians. I’ve learned different preservation techniques from cultures all over the world. It’s not just science, it’s respect. Sometimes a family needs the process expedited, sometimes it needs to be delayed until funeral arrangements are affordable. It’s delicate work, emotionally and physically.”

He caught Alfred’s eyes briefly as the older man handed him a flute of lemonade with a small, approving nod.

“Preserving a corpse is all you do then?” Damian asked flatly from across the room, his tone razor-sharp and unimpressed.

“Damian,” Bruce said smoothly, with that low, velvety scolding in his voice. The kind that didn’t rise but cut deep. A hint of tired irritation sat beneath the surface, a warning more than a command.

But [M/N] only chuckled, waving his hand in easy dismissal as he looked first to Bruce, then back to the boy with a flicker of wry amusement.

“It’s alright,” he said, lips curled in a soft, understanding smile. “It’s a fair question. Kids don’t always understand the sentimental side of this kind of work. It’s not just about making a body look presentable. Yes, part of my job is ensuring the body is preserved—especially in criminal cases—but it’s also about uncovering the story the body tells.”

He took a small sip of the lemonade. It was tart, refreshing, not too sweet.

“When I begin an autopsy, when I open a body, I’m not just checking for wounds or decay. I’m reading a history. I can see how that person lived, how they treated their body, what kind of life they endured. It’s intimate. It’s honest. And sometimes, it’s the only story they get to leave behind.”

He let the words settle into the space, allowing for silence to do its part.

“How unoriginal,” Damian said coolly, arms folded and face schooled into that permanent scowl he wore like a badge. His eyes, however, flicked with a gleam of interest, no matter how much he tried to mask it.

Of course he was intrigued. But he wouldn’t admit that, not now. Not in front of the others. This was a test—and not just any test. A power play. Damian Wayne wasn’t just assessing [M/N], he was making it abundantly clear where he believed [M/N] stood on the totem pole of this family: at the very bottom.

[M/N] had heard plenty about the boy over the years—through news segments, hushed conversations in morgue halls, and even the occasional barfly ranting about Gotham’s youngest menace, as Robin than Damian. Damian Wayne, the blood-born heir of a notorious assassin, and the youngest Robin. A brutal little thing with a mean streak a mile wide. More broken bones in his wake than even the Bat himself.

No, this one wouldn’t warm up easily. And judging by the cold gleam in his eyes, he wasn’t planning to welcome [M/N] anytime soon. He really didn't care if Damian liked him or not, he wasn't there for him.

That was fine. [M/N] had handled more than his fair share of unruly teenagers and unstable adults. A thirteen-year-old with a sword complex and possible an identity complex, imposter syndrome would go hard for him, wasn’t going to be the one to shake him.

Not tonight.

[M/N] sipped his lemonade with quiet ease, the chilled citrus dancing across his tongue as he nibbled on the delicate scone Alfred had placed before him. The powdered sugar clung stubbornly to his lips, and he licked it away with a slow pass of his tongue, catching Duke's scowl directed toward Damian from the corner of his eye.

"As I was saying," Duke spoke again, his tone a touch sharper before softening when his gaze shifted back to [M/N]. "I really admire your work. Especially your contributions to ongoing police investigations. The results speak for themselves."

“Oh?” [M/N] tilted his head slightly, genuinely caught off guard by the compliment. His eyes flicked over to Jason, who merely shrugged with a casual grin and slung an arm around [M/N]’s waist as they moved to sit on the couch. The contact was natural now—practiced. Even if it was all part of the act.

"Looking to join the field?" [M/N] asked with a mild smile. "We’re always open to new minds willing to learn. Forensics and post-mortem analysis can be very fulfilling."

Duke chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his own glass. "Not really. Just a personal interest. Your name came up in one of our group chats, and it sounded familiar, so I looked you up. Impressive resume."

He leaned back slightly in his seat, flashing an easy smile. "I’m Duke Thomas, by the way. One of Bruce’s kids."

"You’re very well-informed," [M/N] replied, maintaining his warm smile, though his gaze moved—almost involuntarily—toward Bruce. Slower than intended. Almost... methodical.

Bruce Wayne sat like a monarch in a dark leather armchair that probably cost more than most mortuary equipment combined. The media had always painted him with that tired brush: the idiotic billionaire, the charming playboy, the shallow philanthropist with too much money and not enough sense. But in person, Bruce was more. Taller than expected. Built like a soldier beneath that sleek black turtleneck and tailored slacks. Sharp jawline, coal-black hair that was combed back with just enough mess to appear effortless. And those eyes—icy blue and calculating.

He looked like he belonged on a throne. And [M/N], for a flickering, buried second, wanted nothing more than to drag him from it. To carve into the muscle of that perfect body and see what made him tick. First the heart, then the lungs, and finally the delicate gray meat locked away behind that smug, collected gaze—

"Right, babe?"

Jason’s voice broke the thought like a hammer against glass, snapping [M/N] back to reality. His head turned toward Jason, who was giving him a look—a pointed one, the kind that said you’re slipping.

"Right, honey," [M/N] replied, matching the act with a sweet smile, though irritation still simmered just beneath his skin. He pushed it down. There was no room for that right now. He had a role to play, and a dinner to endure.

“See?” Jason grinned proudly at his family, rubbing his stomach in exaggerated satisfaction. “My man’s got it all. Knows how to cook and say fancy shit.”

"Learning another language isn’t ‘fancy shit,’ Jason," [M/N] muttered, shaking his head with a quiet huff. He had learned plenty over the years. Ancient dialects, medical Latin, and it was good to learn another lagnauge for different customers, Jason was too loose with that kind of detail around his family.

"He should know better," Bruce added, chiming in with that deceptively calm tone of his. "All my children speak multiple languages. Especially Jason, who was a wiz at learning a new language in months."

Jason rolled his eyes, letting out a theatrical sigh as he leaned his cheek against [M/N]’s shoulder. It was a practiced gesture of intimacy, but there was something real in the comfort of it. He knew how much [M/N] disliked Bruce—had known it since their first argument about the man.

"Apologies for not stepping in earlier," Bruce continued, clasping his hands. "My children tend to be... enthusiastic when it comes to meeting new members of the family."

He smiled, and [M/N] instantly recognized it. Polished. Rehearsed. The same smile Bruce had worn since the moment they walked in—an image of charm carefully stretched across an untrusting face.

"No introduction necessary, Mr. Wayne," [M/N] replied smoothly, just as Alfred appeared again at the doorway with quiet grace.

“Dinner is served,” Alfred announced, and as he opened the dining room doors, the aroma hit [M/N] like a wave.

Roasted turkey, seasoned with a blend of herbs and rosemary, heavy with savory spice. Mashed potatoes thick with butter and cream. Sweet corn, bright asparagus kissed with lemon zest, and warm biscuits. The scent of wine, lemonade, and chilled water lingered in the air.

[M/N] smiled politely, but his thoughts didn’t soften.

How could he not know Bruce Wayne? The most revered man in Gotham. The face of charity. The city’s crowned darling.

And, as far as [M/N] was concerned, the largest piece of shit to ever crawl out of Gotham’s gutters.

"Shall we eat?" Bruce asked, rising from his chair with the quiet authority of a man used to commanding rooms. One by one, everyone followed his lead. Even Damian, who had been scowling through most of the conversation, stood with the grace of a cat preparing to strike—his sharp green eyes narrowing toward [M/N] with a scowl that practically dripped disdain. The younger boy turned his nose up with a huff and made no attempt to hide it.

+++++

Dinner, in all honesty, was divine.

Alfred's cooking wasn’t just skillful—it was art on a plate. The roasted turkey had been perfectly brined, the mashed potatoes so soft they barely needed chewing, and the vegetables sang with citrus and butter. [M/N] had to admit, he would gladly return if only to eat like this again. Ten out of ten. Hands down. The man deserved a Michelin star and then some.

But the warmth of the meal dimmed the second Jason excused himself to “take a leak.” He kissed his cheek softly, to keep up the ruse of marriage and practical affection, but the second he was out of sight, it was like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

The illusion of comfort fractured, and though everyone kept smiling, their eyes lingered on [M/N] in new ways.

Alfred returned with the final course—dessert. The lemon soufflé tart [M/N] had made himself was served with the kind of care and presentation that said these dishes weren’t touched often. Porcelain white, edged in silver, no chips or scuffs. Treasured heirlooms, no doubt.

Everyone dug in eagerly, forks scraping delicately against porcelain. Stephanie made a pleased sound after the first bite, already reaching for her second forkful. Tim offered a murmur of appreciation. Even Damian, begrudgingly, kept chewing. Bruce hadn’t touched his yet, still savoring the last few sips of his wine. His fingers curled around the stem of the glass, turning it slowly as he watched [M/N] with that unreadable gaze.

Then he tasted it.

And [M/N] caught it—that brief twitch of his lips. Subtle, but there. A signal that pleased him far more than it should.

Good. The bastard liked it.

[M/N] allowed himself a small smile, but didn’t take a bite of his own pastry. Not yet. He set his fork down with care, resting his elbows gently on the tablecloth, and let his gaze sweep over the room. They were relaxed now, lulled by good food and warm lighting. It was time.

"Jason’s time,” [M/N] said, his voice cutting clean through the haze of dessert and small talk, “is now my time. I’d appreciate it if you all respected that.”

The statement landed like a dropped wine glass, sharp and unexpected.

Stephanie blinked. She was the first to recover, clearing her throat after swallowing a rather large bite of tart. “Wait—hold on. Do you mean that in a ‘we-just-got-back-from-our-honeymoon’ way, or like an overprotective fiancé-turned-husband type of way? Because, honestly, tone matters here.”

“Oh, you misunderstand,” [M/N] said smoothly, lifting his fork and finally tasting the dessert himself. The lemon curd was bright, perfectly tart, the pastry delicate and buttery. He hummed softly in satisfaction. “Jason’s time is my time now. Time for the two of us to really get to know each other. Bond. Be a unit. You all had your years to shape him. Now it’s my turn.”

He set the fork down gently, his expression calm, but his tone left no room for negotiation.

He looked directly at Bruce.

"Isn’t that right, Brucie?”

The nickname was deliberate, bright and mocking against the soft candlelight of the table. The room stilled again. No one missed the intention behind the words. [M/N] wasn’t staking a claim out of possessiveness. No, it was something more resolute. More final. He wasn’t trying to own Jason.

He was drawing a line. A quiet but undeniable declaration: You don’t get to own him either.

And he wasn’t going to share. Not anymore.

“[M/N]... Jason isn’t an object.” Dick’s voice was soft, gentle—predictable. Always the peacemaker. Always the one trying to bridge gaps that couldn’t be closed. His blue eyes held that same earnestness he wore like armor, like a plea.

“You can’t own him. Jason really loves you, and he wouldn’t appreciate—”

[M/N] cut in, sharp as a scalpel gliding across skin, clean and without hesitation. “And yet,” he said, tone cold and deliberate, “you buried him in the yard of this home like a dog.”

The words struck the table like a thunderclap. Silence followed, stunned and thick. Dick’s mouth parted slightly, blinking as if he’d just been slapped. The others froze mid-motion. Even the clink of forks and plates seemed to have stopped.

“Jason tells me things,” [M/N] continued, his voice smooth and unbothered. His hands laced together before him, relaxed, precise. “Things I already knew… since I was a child.”

Across the table, Bruce’s eyes met his. Hard. Unmoving. The older man’s jaw clenched faintly, a flicker of tension at the edge of his temples betraying the thoughts no doubt calculating behind his gaze.

“Even a child,” [M/N] said slowly, “could see that Bruce Wayne is a man with particular habits.”

Tim shifted in his seat. The words felt like a dart aimed directly at him, and he knew it. Not many could say they’d deduced Bruce’s alter ego at a young age—but apparently [M/N] had, too. And even though he was older than Tim, the sting was there. The small, petty sting of no longer being special.

Another one who figured it out before the cowl was offered. After Jason’s death.

“You swine,” Damian hissed, the venom in his voice unmistakable. His fingers clenched around his fork like it was a weapon ready to be thrown. “Don’t speak to my father in such a cowardly manner.”

Unfazed, [M/N] turned slightly toward him. His expression didn’t change.

“My favorite part,” he mused aloud, tapping his fork lightly against the table, “was the tombstone. The butler wrote that one, right?” His eyes flicked to Alfred, who remained statuesque by the wall. “But you all went along with it.”

He leaned in slightly, voice steady and cutting. ‘Here lies Jason Peter Todd: A good soldier.’

The phrase hung in the air like smoke. “You stole him from Crime Alley,” [M/N] added quietly. “Park Row. Our home.”

Bruce’s voice finally broke the silence, calm but laced with something colder beneath.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he said. “I did what needed to be done.”

“And you gave no thought to what that disappearance did to me,” [M/N] replied, tilting his head with a curious, almost patronizing look. “You robbed a child of the only thing he had left. I could sit here all night and tell you what that did to me. The sleepless nights. The panic. What heartbreak feels like when you’re so young, so scared of the world and alone in a place where kindness is rare.”

“There were logical reasons,” Bruce began, but [M/N] silenced him with a sudden, harsh breath of a laugh.

“If Jason had stayed in Crime Alley, he would’ve been alive. He would’ve been loved. He would’ve been taken care of by me if I’d seen it through. Not dead the first time around—killed by the Joker. The fucking clown you still won’t kill to save a single life.” His voice was rising now—not in volume, but intensity. His lips curled with the edge of a sneer, and a cruel glint sparked behind his [E/C] eyes.

“But you pick and choose, don’t you?” he said with disdain. “Just like you did with your ex. What was her name again? Joe Chill’s daughter?” There was a stifled sound—Damian, half-snorting, half-choking—but the sharp glare Bruce sent him immediately wiped it from his face.

“My love life isn’t your concern,” Bruce said evenly, the shadows of the Bat beginning to surface in his tone. But [M/N] wasn’t intimidated. He sat there like the storm that refused to break, calm amidst the lightning.

“I’m not here for your romance history, Bruce. I’m here because Jason matters. And you don’t get to pretend like he doesn’t belong to the place he came from. That he wasn’t someone before you molded him into your soldier.” He was counting the seconds now. Jason would be returning from the hallway soon, unaware of what he’d missed.

Bruce sat straighter, spine like steel. “Jason is a man of his own creation,” he said coolly.

“With the pit,” [M/N] murmured under his breath, but didn’t press.

“He has his own ideals. His own ethics. Even if we don’t always agree. But he isn’t yours. And he certainly isn’t owned by anyone.” Bruce’s words hung in the air like a gavel’s final strike. But [M/N] didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

There was no fear in him. Not of Bruce Wayne. Not of the Batman.

And definitely not of a family that had buried Jason Todd before he ever got to say goodbye.

The silence that followed [M/N]’s final words was almost tangible, clinging to the air like static. No one moved. The weight of what had just been said seemed to settle over the table like a thick fog. Tim’s voice broke through it at last, hesitant but curious, a tremor of suspicion beneath his controlled tone.

“What do you want, exactly?”

All eyes shifted to him, and then back to [M/N], who didn’t react at first. He simply reached for his glass of lemonade, now nearly empty, and finished the last of it with a thoughtful sip. The ice clinked softly.

“Simple,” he said, placing the glass down with care. “Jason.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was no room for argument. No ambiguity.

“I expect you all to come to respect our time together as a couple,” he continued, his tone polite, even calm—but firm beneath its civility. “What’s rightfully back at my side. Where he belongs.”

That statement hung in the air like a loaded gun. Across the table, Dick’s brows furrowed, Alfred’s lips pressed into a tight line, and Damian’s grip on his fork somehow tightened further. Bruce remained impassive, but the slight shift in his jaw didn’t go unnoticed. Stephanie glancing at everyone as Cass was still munching on the tart. Duke watched too, playing with the dessert with his fork.

“I don’t want to blackmail you,” [M/N] went on. “I have no reason to. Consider this a courtesy—a warning, if you like. My first and only.”

He laced his fingers together again, expression unshaken. “Jason will be with me,” he said with finality, “until death do us part.”

The quiet that followed was absolute. Not a single breath dared to break it. Then he tilted his head slightly, those [E/C] eyes still fixed on Bruce with a quiet intensity that betrayed no fear.

“And I hope,” he added with a faint smile, “that you’ll grow fond of me, Bruce. And quickly.”

Before another word could be said, the heavy doors at the edge of the dining room creaked open. Jason stepped through, yawning and rubbing his neck after using the bathroom. He paused at the threshold, instantly picking up on the tension. His brows rose.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, his tone casual but wary. His gaze flicked from Damian, who looked moments away from throwing silverware, to Bruce’s unreadable expression, then finally to [M/N], who stood slowly and placed his cloth napkin neatly on the table.

Jason, oblivious to the lingering stares, yawned and stretched.

“It’s getting late,” he said, voice low and familiar as he reached for [M/N]’s hand. “You ready to hit the road, babe?”

A hum of agreement slipped from [M/N]’s throat as he stepped away from the table, letting Jason’s hand wrap loosely around his own.

“Of course. I’ve got laundry to do anyway,” he said lightly, as if the dinner had been uneventful.

Jason rolled his eyes fondly, shaking his head.

“You and that damn laundry.”

Chapter Text

Nobody in Gotham came out squeaky clean—especially not from Park Row. The ones who survived didn't make it out by being good, just by being clever, fast, or meaner than what waited around the corner.

But [M/N]?

His record was a miracle.

Or maybe an oversight.

Even the Batfamily had looked. Dug through files and whispers, ran background checks, cross-referenced every alley and name tied to Park Row. What they found wasn't much. A few old citations for stealing canned food and bruised produce from corner stores that didn't even exist anymore. But every one of those offenses had timestamps that overlapped with Jason's missing years—his lost time, the hungry time.

Slaps on the wrist. Forgotten warnings. Dust-covered reports that hadn't been touched in years. Gordon hadn't followed up. No cop had. The most striking piece? A grainy photo of [M/N] as a child, face bloodied, a skinny arm shielding his ribs from a uniformed boot mid-kick. That photo was paper-clipped to a police statement that read: "Resisting detainment."

The case was closed. Filed. Forgotten.

Until [M/N] grew up.

Until he became something dangerous. Beautiful. Blunt. Polished without ever sanding down the rage in his bones.

The Batfamily didn't like him. That much was clear.

It wasn't just the way [M/N] carried himself, all Park Row arrogance and wounded elegance. It wasn't just how sharp his tongue was, how unafraid he was to look Bruce Wayne in the eye and say, "You're the reason he died the first time."

It was how he loved Jason—without apologizing. That's what the family concluded much to Damian's disgust, Dick's hopeless romantic heart, Tim's skeptics and Stephanie's concern but second natured love for love. Bruce and Cass were still very much on the fence about the man still and Duke didn't have enough time of the day to care if [M/N] was good or bad, just happy that Jason seems happy.

Weeks passed after the infamous dinner.

Jason's time was no longer Jason's time. It belonged to [M/N].

There were still cases, of course. A string of killings—gruesome and precise, the cannibalistic pattern still unsolved—left the Batfamily scattered across Gotham. But something else lingered in their heads, gnawed at them like a second set of teeth. The absence.

Jason was harder to reach. Missed calls. Ignored texts. Excuses that came too late, if at all. It wasn't new—Jason had always been the storm that didn't circle back. But now, it was different. Now there were sightings. Awkward ones.

Like tonight.

Tim had followed a lead to the shopping district—just recon, a few blocks from a suspect's last known location. Nothing unusual, until he rounded the corner of a home goods aisle in the department store and stopped short.

Jason stood in front of a shelf lined with bed linens, holding two plastic-wrapped packages in either hand. One read olive green. The other forest. Beside him stood [M/N], expression unreadable and arms crossed as he inspected them both.

"They are not the same green, Jason," [M/N] said evenly, his tone calm but firm.

Jason grunted, his scowl more playful than angry. "It's for the guest room. Not the throne room your majesty," Jason rolled his eyes. "These'll match that boring-ass brown paint you made me put up."

"That paint was neutral."

"It was depressing."

"It was tasteful."

"They're green," Jason emphasized, shaking the packages slightly as if that would prove a point. "I want these."

Tim watched, expecting it—that cold edge, the sharp tongue. The same [M/N] who had sliced through dinner table conversation like a scalpel. Who had insulted every one of them—bluntly, with elegance and without remorse.

But it didn't come.

[M/N] only sighed, glancing at Jason's stubborn expression. Then he gave in.

"Fine," he muttered. "But don't complain when I paint the kitchen something lighter. Robin egg blue is a crime."

Jason snorted, pleased with himself, and tossed the sheets into the cart as [M/N] walked ahead without another word.

Tim's comm crackled just as the moment ended. Barbara's voice came through, clipped and focused. "Target's on the move. Two streets up. Eastbound."

Tim shook the sight from his head and darted from the aisle, footsteps silent.

He didn't say anything to Bruce when he returned to the cave. Didn't mention the department store. Or the green sheets. Or the way Jason's voice had softened in the presence of someone who'd once starved with him.

+++

It became apparent—blatantly so—that [M/N] was what many in Gotham's social circles would call inspirational and bougie in the same sentence. A contradiction wrapped in cashmere and grit, polished by struggle yet proudly bearing its scars. He didn't wear the Wayne name like Jason did, nor did he care to. But he carried himself with a kind of unapologetic confidence that made it impossible to dismiss him, especially for those trying to ignore his place at Jason's side.

The distrust from the Wayne family hadn't faded. It simmered quietly in every sharp glance and calculated word, despite the quiet understanding that Jason was content—perhaps even happy.

Still, Bruce had given them a new directive: Keep close tabs on [M/N].

It wasn't a demand, not exactly. Bruce never ordered unless lives were on the line, but the implication was clear: He's a mystery. Find the edges before it's too late.

Dick volunteered first. His charm made him the best choice for tailing someone without raising alarms. He moved like sunlight through a window—noticeable but never questioned.

He trailed [M/N] across midtown with ease, noting the casual elegance of his pace, the way people instinctively made space for him in crowds without realizing it. When [M/N] entered one of Gotham's upscale organic grocers, Dick slipped in through the opposite door, picking up a basket of his own and blending in like a bored boyfriend waiting for his partner.

He found [M/N] in the produce aisle, gently pressing his thumb against the curve of a blood orange, checking for ripeness with the discernment of someone who had once not had the luxury to be picky. The shopping cart wasn't overflowing, but everything inside spoke of balance and care. Lean meats, high-quality fish, vibrant vegetables, local honey, unprocessed snacks, and a specific brand of protein shakes Jason once swore by when he still visited the manor kitchen.

Dick only lingered a few more minutes, long enough to grab a bag of premium dog food for Harley, then walked out with his report forming in his head: He shops smart. And he shops for two.

Tim was next.

Surveillance was second nature to him—something he'd learned to master even before becoming Robin. His disguise was calculated: athletic wear with just enough logo placement to scream "casual gym rat," a hoodie to hide his posture, and his normally dark hair frosted at the tips with temporary dye for a more careless, youthful flair.

His target was the gym—a high-end one flagged by a credit card transaction [M/N] had made a week prior. Tim had cross-referenced it with class schedules, narrowed the window, and registered under a throwaway name.

He hadn't expected yoga.

Honestly, he'd assumed something more aggressive. Maybe a private kickboxing course, krav maga, fencing at worst. Not a 90-minute hot yoga session titled "Solar Renewal: Power & Core." The name sounded like it belonged in a cult.

Still, Tim adapted. He borrowed a mat, found his place in the back corner, and tried to follow the instructor's calm cadence without looking like a newborn fawn on stilts.

[M/N], by contrast, was precise. Controlled. Present.

He wore a navy pair of high-performance yoga pants made for compression and range. A deep red shirt clung to his back in all the right places, shoulders relaxed, spine aligned as he flowed from one pose into the next. Tim watched him discreetly through the mirror, cataloging each detail: the way [M/N] exhaled with intention, adjusted without prompting, remained focused even as the room pressed into silence.

He'd clearly done this before. There were no hesitations in his balance, no stiffness in his form. His body was trained, but not just for combat—he was disciplined for longevity.

By the time class ended, Tim's lower back ached. He could already feel a tightness near his tailbone from stretching muscles he didn't even know existed. But he also had what he came for.

[M/N]is a health nut. Physically grounded. Composed. Maintains a routine...Maybe due to living in Park Row and wanted better for himself? For Jason?

It wasn't what Tim expected.

And that? That made him more dangerous.

Duke had the early shift.

With his unique daylight vigilante schedule, it made sense to assign him the quieter hours. Gotham never truly slept, but the mornings were less frantic—fewer screams in the alleys, fewer rooftop chases, just a sleepy city shaking off its nightmares.

He didn't mind. Morning was when he was most clearheaded.

When Bruce had handed down the silent order to observe [M/N], Duke hadn't protested. He wasn't a fan of it, but orders were orders. Still, a part of him felt like this was overkill. [M/N] didn't strike him as dangerous—just serious. Someone who loved Jason in that quiet, relentless kind of way. The way Duke's parents used to love each other. The kind that endured. The kind that could survive Gotham.

Today, he dressed down. Loose jacket. Hoodie underneath. Dark jeans. A simple baseball cap tugged low over his curls. Enough to blend in, not enough to vanish entirely. He leaned against a lamp post across the street, sipping lukewarm hot chocolate from a street cart and biting into a donut that cost more than it had any right to.

The morning air was brisk, too clean for Gotham. Probably wouldn't last.

He'd tracked [M/N] to a quiet corner of Gotham's finest, to a dry cleaner tucked between a noodle shop and a tech repair stall. Duke had expected a quick in-and-out errand—maybe dropping off some tailored suits or picking up one of those trench coats [M/N] liked. Nothing too deep. But an hour passed.

An entire hour.

Duke's legs started to ache by minute forty. His donut was gone, and his hot chocolate had gone cold. He kept scanning the streets out of habit—scuffle here, raised voice there, a false alarm robbery that fizzled out to a guy returning his ex's ring.

But [M/N] didn't move.

Duke began to wonder: What kind of clothes take a whole hour to fetch?

Then the bell above the dry cleaner's door jingled, and [M/N] finally emerged. He said something to the owners in fluent Mandarin—Duke couldn't make it out, but the conversation sounded casual, even friendly. One of the women laughed at his parting remark.

Then came the plastic-wrapped bundles in his arms. Not one or two pieces—five, maybe six thick garment bags, all stuffed with clothes of varying weights and fabric. Silks. Wool. Cotton. Suede.

His entire closet, practically.

Duke raised an eyebrow as [M/N] adjusted the pile and made his way down the sidewalk, unlocking a sleek car parked near the curb.

Dark purple. Custom finish. Low profile.

A flash of numbers blinked on the license plate before [M/N] tucked the clothes in the backseat and pulled off like a ghost. Duke's stomach sank.

The car. Of course, the car.

He muttered a curse under his breath, realizing too late that no one had bothered running a full plate check on it yet. Their priority list had [M/N] slotted third under the ongoing cannibal case and the recent false Scarecrow sighting—so the car had fallen through the cracks.

Idiot move.

Duke fished out his phone and snapped the plate before the vehicle turned the corner, disappearing into morning traffic. Once back home, he checked online and found nothing, car bought a few years ago and was white so the paint job was clearly new. Same model and everything.

Cassandra was the next to take up surveillance, though not from suspicion or judgment. No, her interest was different—quieter, more curious. She wanted to study [M/N] in motion. Understand him the way she understood others: through patterns, posture, subtle cues that spoke louder than words.

She tracked him effortlessly that morning through Gotham's steady heartbeat. Dressed like any other jogger—loose hoodie, running leggings, trainers—she moved through the early crowd. [M/N] was ahead, earbuds in, music playing low enough for him to still be aware of his surroundings. He stopped to stretch at the entrance of Gotham Park, popping his neck, loosening his shoulders, rolling his ankles. His movements were smooth.

The park wasn't exactly safe, but it was lively today. Children swung from monkey bars, parents sipped coffee with tired eyes, and dog walkers followed their canines with bored expressions. [M/N] stepped onto the path, began to jog beside others

Cassandra followed at a distance, mimicking the joggers around her to blend in, keeping his pace in the far edges of her vision.

Nothing suspicious. No secret meetings. No clandestine phone calls. Just exercise.

[M/N] was careful with his body. He treated it like an instrument—calibrated and maintained. If anything, he was disciplined to the point of boredom.

Normal.

Jason's normal.

Damian hadn't wanted this assignment. Stalking a civilian—Jason's husband no less—felt beneath him. Especially when that civilian had made it abundantly clear during their last encounter at the manor: [M/N] had no love for the Waynes. Damian didn't need to know what toothpaste he used or what genre of literature he favored. The man was a nobody.

But orders were orders. Bruce had spoken, and so Damian found himself in ridiculous street clothes that Dick had picked out: sneakers that squeaked, jeans that bunched uncomfortably, and a cartoon character hoodie that screamed "I lost a bet."

He slipped into the small bookstore quietly, sunglasses low on his nose. The bell over the door chimed, but the clerks barely looked up. It was Tuesday. Lunch hour. Just as [M/N]'s schedule said it would be.

Damian weaved through the aisles, clutching a random orange-cover manga as a prop. The shop was cozy—dim lighting, soft jazz playing, and the smell of paper thick in the air. Familiar. Comfortable. He moved cautiously toward the nonfiction section where [M/N] had been seen browsing before. 

Laughter. Not loud, but distinctive. A sharp, rich sound, like someone who had perfected how to laugh politely while still sounding superior.

Damian crept closer.

"[M/N]!" a woman behind the counter gasped, clearly used to seeing him, her tone teasing. "This is your tenth book this week! Same as last week. That's twenty!"

"It helps me breathe," [M/N] replied, his voice smooth but casual. "Me and my husband are hopeless bookworms. Anything with words in it—we consume it."

Damian peered between the aisles, keeping his posture low and his gaze sharp. [M/N] stood relaxed, a hardback in hand, thumb grazing the page edge. His smile was polite. Charming. Too charming.

"You're so lucky," the clerk cooed. "If your husband reads and shops for books, he must be hot. Does he have a brother?"

"Five siblings, actually," [M/N] said lightly. "One sister. We don't get along."

The clerk tilted her head, curious. "Bad in-laws?"

"Something like that. Very... hypocritical. Self-important. We don't see eye to eye."

Damian tensed. His fingers curled around the manga's spine. Cowardice disguised as wit. Speaking ill of Jason's family behind his back? If [M/N] had spoken like that to Ra's—he'd have lost a tongue. And then [M/N] spoke again—softer, layered with something insidious.

"My beloved," he murmured, almost wistful. "He had a hard life. I'm just trying to give him what he wants. I love Jason... so very much."

Damian's stomach twisted. He didn't like the way it sounded—not dishonest, but performative. Like he was playing a character in a romantic play he didn't believe in.

He didn't wait around. He set the book down and slipped out the front door, face shadowed under his hoodie, throat tight. His report would be simple: [M/N] was affectionate. Overly affectionate. A civilian nerd who clearly romanticized his role in Jason's life.

Simple. Human.

And yet something lingered. The tone, the phrasing, the mask. It reminded Damian of something uncomfortably close: the way Talia used to speak, to anyone if Bruce was mentioned. Sugar-dipped devotion masking cold calculation.

He hated the way it echoed in his chest.

Inside the store, [M/N] watched Damian's reflection retreat in one of the circular theft mirrors above the corner aisle. His expression didn't change, but a flicker of amusement touched his eyes. He only spoke like that to get Damian off his back, wondering why he talked like tha? To maybe scare the boy a little too. The clerk hadn't noticed. She was still fawning over his romantic phrasing.

He placed another book in his basket, humming as he moved to the register.

Let them watch. Let them follow. They would find nothing illegal in his daily routine—nothing wrong. Just enough personality to keep them wondering.

He would always be Jason's normal.

++++

The second dinner wasn't held at the manor.

Bruce had reviewed the reports personally—each one collected by his children over the last two weeks. Barbara's summary had come in the form of a city archive dump, layered with timestamps and observations pulled from public surveillance. Dick's notes were handwritten, casual, but observant. Tim's report was efficient. Duke's—careful. Cassandra's had no written form, but she seemed okay after tracking him. No comment from her.

Spotless.

Nothing on [M/N]. Not really. A few juvenile offenses from his youth—petty theft for survival. A blurry mugshot, barely ten years old, lips split and one eye nearly swollen shut from a cop's backhand. Dust still clung to those records, untouched since Gordon had last passed them over in quiet frustration.

It didn't sit well. Not because [M/N] was clean. No one from Park Row was clean. But because [M/N] had made it out—successful, articulate, loved—and still had every reason to be cruel.

And now, Bruce wanted to see what would happen when you poked a lion with a linen napkin instead of a stick.

So he booked the reservation at a sharp white-tablecloth restaurant in Midtown. Formal setting. Polished forks. French names on the menu that could fluster the unprepared. His children arrived first, taking their seats slowly like pieces on a chessboard.

Then came Jason and [M/N].

"Sup," Jason muttered as he walked in, dragging fingers through his hair and tugging at the collar of his dark red button-up. "Did we really have to come here? I hate wearing this damn suit."

He looked like he'd walked off the cover of a noir novel—black slacks, combat boots hidden beneath crisp hems, the red shirt clashing beautifully against his skin. His black leather jacket was tossed over his shoulder, offered to the staff, who blinked when he declined to check it.

"Manners, Jason," [M/N] said under his breath as he adjusted the cuffs of his own jacket. Dark purple button-up, black vest, slacks tailored like a second skin. Class. Elegance. Restraint. He smiled easily, watching as Jason pulled out his chair for him before slumping into his own.

The greetings around the table were practiced, pleasant, and brittle as porcelain.

This wasn't hospitality. It was a test. Bruce didn't say it aloud, but everyone knew. He wanted to see just how well [M/N] wore the skin of "husband" under formal scrutiny. Whether he could play the role when the game turned long and cold.

Jason wasn't oblivious. He just didn't care. He leaned back with a familiar huff, arms crossing as he scanned the menu like he was skimming a case file.

"Wow, Jay," Dick said, lacing his fingers under his chin with a smug grin. "Never thought I'd see you play the gentleman."

"One day you'll understand what a blissful marriage looks like—if you ever stop falling in love with your coworkers," Jason shot back flatly, not missing a beat.

Tim snorted into his water. Duke rolled his eyes.

[M/N] didn't laugh. He smiled instead, opening the menu. He scanned it quickly. Bouillabaisse. Escargot. Foie gras. Expensive and complicated. None of it would satisfy the craving curled beneath his ribs. If he was still hungry later, there was a warm kidney waiting for him in the crisper drawer at home—hidden behind carrots, just where Jason had asked him to keep it.

"Do you enjoy ballet?" Cassandra's voice cut through the clink of water glasses and false pleasantries.

[M/N] perked up. He turned to her with interest, head tilting slightly. "Excuse me?"

"You seem elegant." she said, an expression unreadable. "It feels like you would watch ballet. Or opera. Music?"

A pause. Then a smile.

"Of course. Who doesn't appreciate the artistry of Tchaikovsky or the genius of Saint-Léon?" [M/N] replied, sincerity lining his words like silk. "I used to visit a theater in Metropolis during my internship. Brilliant dancers. Sometimes it made me cry."

Before Cassandra could speak again, Dick leaned forward with a grin that had too many teeth.

"How about sports?" he asked. "You a sports guy, [M/N]?"

The air shifted. [M/N] kept his smile. He inhaled slowly, exhaled through his nose, and counted down from twenty. He saw what this was—a push. A test. See where he would flinch.

"No," [M/N] answered. "Never had the patience for games. Too sweaty. Too loud. Too many people yelling over a ball."

He didn't say it, but the memories clung behind his teeth—of Park Row pavement, blood on knuckles, of running barefoot with stolen bread under his shirt. Of Jason, skinny and bruised beside him, trying to laugh through hunger. Of police boots and cracked ribs and his grandmother weeping silently at the table.

"That's too bad," Dick said with mock regret, swirling his wine. "Jay always liked... physically assertive people."

Jason stiffened beside him.

"What the hell does that mean?" he snapped, but Dick kept smiling, already playing innocent.

"I mean, come on. You are—or were—with Artemis, Rose, Helena—"

"I could say the same," [M/N] cut in coolly. His hand slid across the table, rested gently over Jason's scarred knuckles. He rubbed a slow, calming circle with his thumb, but his voice never faltered. "Starfire and Barbara? Jason tells me all sorts of stories."

A lie. But a good one.

Dick faltered just for a beat.

"Weren't you supposed to marry the Princess from the Stars," [M/N] added, "only to give backshots to Detective Gordon's daughter?"

Jason choked on his drink. Duke coughed. Tim covered his mouth with the menu, shoulders shaking.

“What’s backshots—” Damian began, brows furrowed, head tilted in genuine curiosity. He was promptly cut off by a sharp shake of Tim’s head, his face already contorting in a grimace.

“Another story for much, much later,” Tim muttered under his breath. “Hey, we’ve got kids at the table,” Tim added a little louder, giving a meaningful look toward the youngest member of the family.

“And most of us have spleens,” [M/N] replied smoothly, not missing a beat, his tone cool as he reached for his water.

Jason's hand, previously resting lazily on the table, slid down to [M/N]’s thigh under the pristine white cloth. The firm squeeze he gave wasn’t affectionate—more a silent warning. A reminder. A grip that said breathe, not bite.

Jason knew this was a test. He also knew his family hadn’t expected [M/N] to meet fire with fire. But even he didn’t anticipate just how far [M/N] was willing to go to prove a point.

“I apologize for my existence, I guess,” Tim muttered with a sigh, slumping back slightly in his chair as he crossed his arms. So much for poking the bear tonight.

Things quieted down just in time for the waiter to arrive, notebook in hand and face politely unreadable. Orders were taken with ease. [M/N] selected the lamb chops served with a fig reduction and wild rice, passing the menu back with a thank you and a faint smile.

Then the interrogation resumed. But now it was slower—more deliberate. Casual tones masking barbed hooks. “So where exactly did you get licensed?” Duke asked, tone curious but not unfriendly. “Metropolis has, like, four major certification centers.”

“Two, actually,” [M/N] corrected politely. “I attended one of the smaller private institutions—used to be part of a larger hospital network. Closed down in the late 2000s.”

Half-true. Enough to satisfy, vague enough to protect.

“What are your hobbies?” Dick followed, eyes twinkling over his wine glass.

“Gardening,” [M/N] replied without hesitation. “Reading. Yoga. And classical music appreciation, if we’re being fancy.”

“White or dark chocolate?”

“Dark.”

“How effective would you say Gotham’s legal system is, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Two. And that’s generous.”

“Super Mario or Super Mario Party?” Tim piped up, quirking a brow.

The question nearly made [M/N] chuckle. His lips twitched.

“I’ve never played either, to be honest,” he said, sipping his water. “But if I had to pick? I suppose Princess Peach sounds like the most appealing option.”

That earned him several raised eyebrows—and a grin from Jason.

“That’s why I always pick Mario,” Jason said, elbow nudging [M/N] gently.

“You said it’s because he wears red,” Dick pointed out, narrowing his eyes playfully.

“Damn right. And my husband is my princess.” Jason smirked, as if daring someone to challenge him. [M/N] didn’t bristle. He didn’t scowl or twitch or roll his eyes. He smiled. Softly. Smoothly. As if this game didn’t bore a hole into his skull.

He could feel their scrutiny like heat on his skin, burning at the edges, waiting for him to falter. But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not when they were looking for cracks.

And he knew better than anyone—when they looked too closely, he smiled wider. [M/N] gave them exactly what they thought they wanted. Then you twisted the narrative in your favor.

Let them believe you were everything they feared and nothing they expected. Jason’s hand stayed firm on [M/N]’s thigh beneath the linen-draped table, not in affection but in restraint. The kind of pressure that said, Please don't eviscerate my family with words… or worse, teeth.

It was more than possible, after all. Jason knew what [M/N] could do. Knew the rage, the hunger, the way it simmered beneath that polished surface. He’d never say it aloud, but he often imagined—feared even—that if he weren’t present, [M/N] would flip the table, gouge out Bruce’s eyes, and bite through his sternum just to spit out his heart on the fine china. All in the name of love.

And deep down… Jason couldn’t say he’d blame him.

The Waynes were lucky—blessed really—that Jason was here at all. That [M/N] had chosen diplomacy over carnage, restraint over raw nerve.

Jason, meanwhile, was distracted for entirely different reasons. His palm pressed into muscle he knew he wasn’t supposed to touch, not so casually, not in public. Not when [M/N] had warned him early on: Don’t treat me like yours.

But Jason couldn’t help it. Part of him was still trying to read between the lines, figure out where the act ended and [M/N] began.

They were fake-married. Sure. No joint taxes, no shared bed.

Jason had lost a game of tic-tac-toe weeks ago—some petty wager—and ended up in the guest room. [M/N] took the master bedroom and made it look like a minimalist’s wet dream. Clean, dark linens. Art on the walls. No chaos. Jason hadn’t seen him naked, hadn’t even caught a shirtless glimpse, despite the damn towel always being this close to slipping in the morning.

The food arrived then, silver domes lifted in unison by the servers like a quiet drumroll.

Jason pulled his hand away reluctantly to grab his fork. He didn’t bother hiding his enthusiasm. Lobster, grilled to perfection and soaked in butter, sat steaming on his plate. Paid for by Bruce? Even better.

He cracked a claw open just as Damian cleared his throat.

“Father,” Damian said, voice far too formal for his age. “I may have… neglected to inform you of an upcoming school trip.”

Bruce, mid-cut through his steak, didn’t look up. “What is it now?”

“The zoo.”

That earned him a handful of lifted brows.

“I require a chaperone,” Damian continued, ignoring the skepticism thick in the air. “The teacher insists on one-on-one adult supervision due to… the museum incident.”

Tim exhaled hard. “You mean when you stabbed a classmate with a pencil and screamed about ‘historical integrity’?”

“He was dry-humping a statue of Queen Victoria,” Damian said, utterly unbothered. “I was teaching him manners. And yet, no praise.”

“Didn’t you also break his wrist?” Jason asked with a full mouth, his voice muffled as he shoveled another bite in.

“I’m thorough.”

[M/N] didn’t speak. He delicately carved his lamb chop, each cut precise, dainty. He chewed, sipped his wine, and said nothing. This was their family drama. He merely observed—half-removed.

“Well, I can’t,” Duke said, raising a hand. “Got a shift in the morning as usual.”

Cassandra nods her head in agreement, sipping her water.

“You don’t even like it when I chaperone,” Tim said, dabbing his mouth.

“You always flirt with the other parents,” Damian retorted, as if it were a war crime.

“Don’t look at me,” Jason muttered around his lobster. “Legally dead.”

“You got married,” Damian shot back, eyeing him like a snake ready to lunge.

“Still legally dead,” Jason replied without missing a beat.

Bruce sighed heavily. “Alfred could—” Then stopped.

His eyes drifted—not to Jason—but to [M/N].

The plate in front of [M/N] was picked clean. Only a naked lamb bone remained, glossy and bare, and a few grains of seasoned rice clung to the edge like stragglers in a warzone. [M/N] wiped the corner of his mouth delicately with the napkin. He noticed Bruce’s stare and returned it with polite, expectant calm.

“Perhaps…” Bruce said slowly, tapping the handle of his knife. “You’d be willing to help, [M/N].”

“Me?” [M/N] asked, head tilting slightly, his voice light. 

“You’re an adult,” Bruce said. “You’re married to Jason, legally or not. You seem capable.”

“He’s not on any school lists,” Tim murmured but was waved off by Bruce.

“Wouldn’t be hard to fix,” Bruce said flatly. “A background check, some light paperwork. Gotham’s desperate for parental involvement. And besides…” He smiled faintly. “I would think Damian spending time with his in-law would do some well-needed family bonding,” Bruce said casually, setting his wine glass down with deliberate calm, as though he hadn't just lobbed a verbal grenade into the middle of the dinner.

“Absolutely not,” Damian hissed, his young voice sharp as he recoiled like someone had offered to shove him into a lion’s cage. He crossed his arms tightly, brows furrowed beneath the sweep of his dark hair.

For once, [M/N] silently agreed with the boy.

The idea of spending hours trapped in public with a miniature version of Bruce Wayne and all the pride and violence that came with it didn’t exactly thrill him. But Bruce waved off the protest with a flick of his hand, a practiced gesture of someone who’d long stopped pretending to take his children’s complaints seriously.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Damian,” Bruce said firmly, voice quiet but ironclad. “It’ll be good for you. A bit of family bonding—time spent with your brother-in-law. He is family, after all.”

The room stilled briefly. Family. That word again.

Damian grumbled beneath his breath; jaw locked in a scowl that could have curdled cream. His eyes cut to [M/N], narrowed and unamused, and the feeling was mutual.

Meanwhile, [M/N] kept his expression carefully neutral, his wine glass barely lifted before his lips. He’d never been to the zoo before—not as a child, not as a teen, not as a man. It wasn’t something he had avoided, but something that had simply never been possible. Money had been for food, for clothes, for bus fare. Not for sightseeing.

Even when life changed and he built himself into something stronger, sharper, more refined, the zoo had never crossed his mind. He wasn’t one for large crowds or the sound of screaming children sticky with ice cream.

But now all eyes were on him.

He turned slightly, catching Jason’s gaze.

And there it was—not warning, not hesitation. But a grin. Soft at the corners. Mischievous. Encouraging.

Jason’s lips curved upward with that easy charm of his, the kind that said, Come on, it'll be fun, even when it wouldn't be.

[M/N] exhaled lightly, shoulders relaxing just a touch as he set down his glass and folded his napkin neatly on his lap.

“I see,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “Then I will… happily accompany Damian on this… educational trip.”

Bruce gave an approving nod.

Damian looked like someone had just handed him a death sentence.

Jason, though—Jason reached over with a laziness that betrayed its deliberateness and laid a hand on [M/N]’s shoulder. His fingers were warm and calloused as they slid down to rest against the small of his back. A quiet gesture. Subtle.

But [M/N] felt it. The weight of it. The meaning behind it. He didn't move—didn't lean in like some simpering romantic or melt like a movie scene but the stillness was different now. Deliberate. Holding space for something he didn’t yet know how to name.

[M/N] wasn’t used to being touched like that. Not out of affection. Not in public. Not by someone who wasn’t trying to take something.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct Jason. He let the touch linger, let himself feel the steady press of fingers against his spine.

And slowly—almost imperceptibly—he leaned back. Just slightly. Enough that Jason’s thumb brushed once over the fabric of his shirt before falling still again.

Chapter Text

Ever since [M/N] had clawed his way out of Crime Alley—out of the grime-soaked alleys of Park Row and into lecture halls and clinical labs—he had developed two distinct tastes: one for flesh, the other for fashion. One that he  wore proudly.

His first real paycheck—when the numbers climbed past the triple digits into the realm of security—wasn't spent on parties or drinks or even furniture. It was spent on clothes. Tailored, sleek, respectable. Something that made him look like he belonged in a courtroom, or a polished lab, or a lecture theater. Anything but a boy with bruised ribs and scabs on his lips, holding stolen bread while the cops took turns beating him behind a corner store.

Slacks replaced tattered jeans. Pressed button-ups with clean lines took the place of stretched, faded T-shirts. Shoes that gleamed like fresh-polished mirrors were lined against his closet wall like trophies.

He created a persona that would never be mistaken for someone from Park Row again.

And now, that persona stood in front of his bed, lips pressed into a line as he examined the mess of "possible" outfits splayed across the covers like suspects in a lineup.

Nothing fit. It was the zoo tomorrow—Damian's class trip—and Bruce had practically dared him to say no in front of the whole family. [M/N] had agreed, of course. Pride wouldn't let him fold. But now... he was spiraling.

"Are you actually gonna wear this?" Jason's voice drawled from the doorframe.

[M/N] didn't flinch. "They're options."

Jason leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "It's the zoo, not an afternoon tea with the Queen."

"They're perfectly acceptable," [M/N] replied, smoothing down the collar of a dark navy shirt. "People go to those places wearing Crocs. I'm being merciful."

Jason snorted and pushed the door open wider, stepping into the room. He gave the bedspread a half-hearted glance before flopping belly-down on the mattress, narrowly missing a pale blue button-up that [M/N] had just finished de-wrinkling.

"Jason," [M/N] warned, eyes narrowing as he yanked the shirt out from under his arm.

Jason rolled to the side, grinning like the devil himself. "You act like you've never been to the zoo."

"I haven't." That shut him up.

Jason blinked, then sat up slowly, propped on his elbows. "For real?"

Silence. And that, from [M/N], was as much a confirmation as a written confession.

Jason studied him, gaze drifting from the rows of perfectly laid out workwear to the tense set of his jaw. [M/N] was dressed down slightly—no vest tonight, just slacks and a soft gray long-sleeve shirt—but still put together in a way Jason rarely saw outside of crime scenes or courtrooms. He dressed like a man who had something to prove. Every single day.

"You really never went?" Jason asked again, quieter this time.

"No." [M/N] shrugged one shoulder, almost too casually. "Wasn't in the budget."

Jason exhaled slowly and pushed himself fully upright. "Then let me take you shopping."

That made [M/N] freeze. His hands stilled on the shirt he was folding. His head snapped up, eyes meeting Jason's as if searching for the joke. "Seriously?"

Jason shrugged. "Soon as I find my wallet."

"You'd take me?"

"I act like I'm poor?" Jason raised an eyebrow. "C'mon, I'm legally dead. I don't even pay taxes."

[M/N] narrowed his eyes. "You didn't have a proper bed frame when we moved in. Or a shower curtain."

"I prioritize differently."

"You prioritize like a raccoon," [M/N] muttered. "And you dress like you live in an alley."

Jason glanced down at himself—cargo pants, worn but well-fitting, a clingy black T-shirt that probably hadn't been ironed once in its existence. His feet were bare, socks mismatched.

"What's wrong with this?" Jason gestured to his outfit. "It's me."

"Exactly." [M/N] sighed. He folded his arms, one hand cupping his opposite elbow while the other pressed lightly against his mouth. He stared down at the neatly organized clothes on the bed again, frowning at them now. "It's not zoo-friendly. None of it is."

Jason tilted his head. "That a 'yes'?"

A moment, a glance at the clothes on the bed and a reluctant sigh from [M/N] as if this moment held him captive.

"Fine," [M/N] said at last, voice low and reluctant. But Jason caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. A hidden smile trying not to surface.

Jason grinned. "Great. I'm thinking jeans, T-shirts, something breathable. Maybe even—god forbid—shorts."

"I'd rather be buried alive." 

Jason laughed. It was a warm, familiar sound. One that made [M/N] glance sideways—just briefly. [M/N] smiled. Just a small one—quiet and self-contained, the kind he rarely allowed himself—but it was genuine. He shook his head softly as he turned, moving to gather hangers from the end of the bed to return the clothes he'd so painstakingly laid out. Behind him, Jason shifted from where he was still sprawled across the mattress.

The bed smelled like [M/N].

Jason hadn't noticed before—hadn't let himself—but now that he was still, just observing, it hit him. The scent was subtle: sandalwood, some kind of musk, and something beneath it. Not unpleasant. Just... [M/N]. He glanced around the bedroom slowly, realizing with faint surprise that he'd never actually been inside [M/N]'s room without him present. Never lingered. Never really looked.

Now he did.

It fit him.

The bed frame was a dark, heavy oak, with a carved headboard that looked like it had been chosen with intent. The bedding was stark black—smooth, crisp comforter, perfectly fluffed pillows, and wine-red sheets Jason had only caught glimpses of. Everything was matched and meticulous: twin bedside tables, each with their own lamp, a heavy dresser, a narrow desk, and a bookshelf filled with books aligned with surgical precision.

The floor was the same rich oak as the rest of the home, softened by a plush rug that spread out under the bed's legs. The curtains were thick and dark, and the walls held paintings—not photos, never photos—of muted, wooded landscapes. They were almost too still. Almost haunting, like scenes just moments before something terrible happened. Disturbing in a way that made you want to look longer.

Jason shivered faintly. The room was elegant, quiet, and intentional. Just like its owner.

"Did you check the little table by the door?" [M/N] asked, not turning around. His voice was laced with that same calm knowing Jason always found both comforting and annoying. "You always leave your wallet there."

Jason didn't respond at first. But after a beat, he pushed off the bed and padded down the hall. Sure enough, his wallet sat neatly on the front table—exactly where [M/N] always told him to leave it.

"It wasn't there," Jason called back over his shoulder, stubborn.

"Sure, it wasn't," [M/N] murmured, a quiet chuckle slipping out as he hung the last shirt and moved onto the shoes laid out across the bench.

+++++

The mall was loud, crowded, and already stressing [M/N] out before they passed the second food court. The stop was more promising: a small, clean-cut clothing store tucked between a pretzel kiosk and a local art gallery. Jason walked in like he owned the place, immediately combing through racks of casual wear with surprising speed and precision. He plucked shirts, pants, shorts, a soft-looking hoodie, and even—God help him—socks with small foxes on them.

[M/N] stood stiffly by the fitting rooms, arms already half-filled with Jason's picks. "Are you serious with these?"

"They're comfortable," Jason said, shoving two more items into his arms. "And you've got like, two modes—funeral director and professional fuck. You need something in between."

Before [M/N] could counter, he was all but shoved into one of the changing stalls. He sighed, drawing the curtain closed behind him with a snap, and stared at the heap of cotton and fabrics in his arms. He took a breath, then began sorting through what Jason had picked, organizing them to the possible outfit ideas.

Outside, Jason dropped himself into one of the waiting area chairs. It looked plush—soft and inviting.

It lied. It smelled faintly like stale tortilla chips and moth balls. The cushion sank weird in the middle, and Jason swore it creaked when he shifted. He scowled, legs opened and man-spreading, elbows on the armrests.

Still, his lips twitched up.

Somehow, dragging [M/N] out for something as mundane as casual wear felt... good. Like the walls between them had cracked just slightly. Like [M/N] let himself be something softer than the man who argued court cases and dissected cadavers.

Jason leaned back and waited, fully prepared to tease the hell out of him for whatever outfit he walked out in. But part of him—deep down—wanted to see what [M/N] looked like in something soft.

It was quiet for a few moments—just the low hum of pop music playing over the store speakers and the rustle of clothing from the fitting room. Jason sat slouched in the too-worn chair outside the stall, half-scrolling through his phone, half-listening to the subtle sounds of shifting fabric and the soft, uncharacteristic muttering from [M/N] behind the curtain.

Inside, [M/N] examined himself in the mirror, adjusting the awkward tangle of garments Jason had picked out for him. He didn't hate himself in it—he looked...fine. Better than fine, if he were being fair. But it didn't feel like him. The fabric didn't carry the weight of his carefully cultivated armor, didn't hide the old shadows stitched into his posture.

Still, he forced the discomfort down and tugged open the curtain.

Jason glanced up from his phone and nearly dropped it. [M/N] stood there in what could only be described as a full-blown disaster of a summer outfit—baggy basketball shorts clinging in weird places, a faded tank top layered beneath a garishly tropical coconut-print button-up left open, sandals that looked like they belonged to someone's dad, and worst of all, a floppy fishing hat pulled down to hide his [H/C] hair.

Jason blinked, lips twitching. "You clean up... casually." He stood up halfway, giving an exaggerated once-over that [M/N] saw right through. "It's... definitely a choice."

"I hate this." [M/N] tugged at the collar with an irritated huff, glancing down as if the outfit had personally insulted him. The basketball shorts bunched uncomfortably around his thighs, making his skin crawl. He missed the structured weight of his usual slacks, the confidence that came from knowing he looked like someone polished and controlled. This outfit? It made him feel like a joke. Poor. Young. Vulnerable.

Jason was biting the inside of his cheek to keep his laughter in check. "You look... good," he offered, though his voice cracked at the edges and betrayed him. His hand came up to rub at his face as he tried to stifle the grin growing there.

"Veto. Absolute veto," [M/N] muttered as he waved him off and turned back into the dressing room with a dramatic rustle of fabric. The curtain shut with finality.

Jason chuckled softly, his smile lingering as he stared at the curtain. [M/N] was complaining again—quiet, pointed observations about how "this was absolutely criminal against fashion" and "the hat should be drown in Gotham River." Jason let it wash over him like music, warm and human.

His phone buzzed, and he blinked down at it, thumb swiping to check the alert. An old news link loaded—automated updates on the ongoing cannibal murder case. Still nothing. No new victims. Two days left, maybe, before another body showed up, if the pattern held. Jason tapped through a few leads, bookmarking details to revisit with [M/N] later. It was their pattern now—quiet nights, bloodless theories, case files between laundry loads.

Then the curtain shifted again.

Jason looked up—and immediately forgot what he was reading.

[M/N] stood there, backlit by the changing room's fluorescent light, wearing something so casually perfect it knocked the breath out of Jason's lungs. Baggy dark-washed jeans, a little loose at the ankles, paired with a soft white t-shirt that hugged the shape of his body just enough without looking like it tried. Over it, an oversized dark plaid flannel hung open, sleeves slightly rolled. On his feet—black Converse, scuffed and classic.

Simple. Clean. Effortless.

Jason blinked once, slowly. Then again.

It was the first time [M/N] had looked comfortable in something Jason picked out. Comfortable and real. There was no polish, no performance, no sharp edges. Just him. Softened around the shoulders. Breathable.

[M/N] raised a brow, unsure. "Better?"

Jason swallowed. "Way better."

He didn't try to joke this time. His voice was low and honest, betraying something deeper than just fashion approval. His eyes lingered for a moment too long on the line of [M/N]'s jaw, the way his hands casually pushed the flannel sleeves higher on his forearms. The warmth of that domestic image hit Jason harder than it should have.

[M/N] gave a small shrug. "I still don't love it," he muttered, glancing down as if trying to judge himself objectively in the mirror beside them. "But it doesn't make me feel like a clown."

Jason grinned. "That's a win in my book."

He wanted to say something else—something about how the shirt brought out his eyes or how the jeans made him look... really damn good. But he held it back, letting the quiet stretch between them instead. Slow-burning. Safe.

He knew now, though.

He wouldn't forget how this felt—watching [M/N] exist like this, softer than usual, wrapped in something Jason had picked, looking like he could belong in Jason's world instead of pretending to be someone in it.

“There’s one more outfit,” [M/N] called out as he tugged the curtain closed behind him. “It has a cute dog on it, too. I’m honestly surprised you managed to find clothes in here that weren’t meant for your... business.”

His voice dipped ever so slightly on that word. Not out of shame, but precaution. Too many ears, too many eyes. And [M/N], if nothing else, understood the value of secrets—the weight of what waited behind the jar of pickles and beneath the carrots in their fridge at home.

Jason didn’t respond at first. He leaned back into the seat again, shifting uncomfortably as the worn plush seat squeaked beneath him. It was an awful chair, the kind that looked cushioned but felt like sitting on a recycled couch cushion from a decades-old waiting room. He let out a low grunt of frustration, adjusted again, then finally surrendered—slouching back with arms crossed and knees wide, fully embracing the manspread of someone who’d given up on comfort.

Around him, the store buzzed with artificial cheer. The faint beat of bubblegum pop music bounced off the walls, blending with the clinking of hangers and the manufactured laughter of underpaid employees. Jason tuned most of it out. He focused on the muffled rustling of fabric from behind the curtain, the zipper hiss, the brush of denim against skin.

His thoughts drifted. Not toward the clothes, but the reason they were here. This whole “husband” charade. A favor repaid. A secret shared. Something deeper and far messier than either of them liked to admit.

He remembered the night it all started.

Back when he was still Robin, still twelve, still raw and cheeky and half feral beneath the mask. It was a night in Park Row, not far from the place Jason had once called home. He and Bruce had split during patrol—standard protocol—and Jason had tailed a bloated, red-faced burglar through the piss-stained alleys of Gotham. The guy had panicked, taken a wrong turn, and vanished into one of the abandoned buildings still clinging to the bones of Park Row.

Jason had followed, ready to strike, adrenaline buzzing in his ears like static.

But then he heard it. Wet sounds. Chewing. Guttural. The scrape of something metal. Something wrong.

He crept toward the noise, heart hammering as he clutched a batarang in one glove. When he stepped into the room, the smell hit first—rot, copper, and old beer. Then he saw it.

The man was already dead.

And [M/N]—a familiar face from across the hall—was crouched beside the corpse, his mouth slick with blood, chewing something soft and red that dripped down his chin. He looked up, dazed, startled maybe, but calm. Jason had dropped his batarang then. The metal clattered across the floor like gunfire in the quiet.

He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t run.

He remembered it all, every second. The sound of panicking, the sound of Jason threathing [M/N] and Batman could help him like Bruce did him. [M/N] begging to not be left alone as Jason fled the night and never told Bruce, the very last time until alot recently that he talked, met or even touched [M/N] that young. Both children and scared for different reasons.

Jason blinked hard, dragging himself back to the present.

“Mmm...son?” a voice asked, warm and amused. “Jason.”

His name.

Jason blinked hard, dragging himself back to the present. Jason’s head jerked up.

There [M/N] stood in the entrance of the dressing stall, one hand gripping the curtain, the other resting on his hip. Eyebrow raised, expression laced with annoyance and something more playful underneath. He looked really nice, really nice. 

[M/N] wore the last outfit and it had to be the winner. He had dark cargo shorts on and cute socks with the foxes on them, a plain white shirt with Snoopy as Joe Cool in the middle of the otherwise plain shirt. The black converse he wore with this outfit and fanny pack over his shoulder latest fashion statement now. [M/N] kept tugging on it and didn't seem to enjoy it over his shoulder as the hoodie that Jason gave him to try on was nowhere to be seen just yet.

Jason exhaled slowly, throat dry.

“You’re lucky I’m not one of those overly possessive spouses who accuse you of cheating on me in your memories,” [M/N] said, his tone sharp with just enough sarcasm to let Jason off the hook. “Disrespectful to ignore me, though. I’ll pretend it didn’t happen—for now.”

Jason swallowed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The image of [M/N] standing there, casual, calm, completely unaware of the hell he’d just stirred in Jason’s mind was a little too much. Not because of fear—but because of how normal this felt now.

“You, uh... look good,” Jason muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean... really good. The dog thing suits you.”

[M/N] snorted. “You’re deflecting.” Jason stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “I was just thinking.” His eyes traveling over the clothes on [M/N]'s body before noticing the lack of hoodie he given for the other to wear. 

“Dangerous habit,” [M/N] said, already turning to step back behind the curtain. The hoodie slipped off the wall hook behind him, landing in a soft heap on the floor with a faint whisper of fabric. [M/N] clicked his tongue quietly, turning around and bending to retrieve it. His fingers brushed over the surface, as if clearing away invisible dust. He lingered like that for a moment, half-crouched, fingertips skimming the weave of cotton, the gesture absent but meditative.

“I really do hope I look normal for this trip,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

He wasn’t going to act like some idiot. Not in front of a crowd of children, not with Damian—who still looked at him like he’d castrate him for breathing too loud. This trip wasn’t about fun. It was a stage, and [M/N] knew how to play a part when the audience demanded a performance.

He was there to be polite. Responsible. Unassuming. Harmless.

Saintly, even.

After all, if he could outwit cops as a kid in Park Row just to get a loaf of bread, then outmaneuvering the Waynes—with their forced politeness and sharpened curiosity—should be easy. Right? Right?

“I hope I look normal,” he repeated, standing now, arms folded around the hoodie. His thumb rubbed slow, even circles into the fabric like it might calm the thoughts crawling behind his eyes. “I’m going to be around Damian’s friends, his teachers, strangers. The ‘cool’ crowd. And he still looks like he’ll gut me for existing.”

He exhaled, low and steady. Then turned, hoodie still in his arms, intending to ask Jason if he had any advice. Jason had probably done something like this before. He could fake it. He knew how to handle kids. He—

[M/N] stopped.

Jason wasn’t in the chair.

The seat sat empty, the cheap foam cushion misshapen and slightly damp with body heat. No boots, no leather jacket draped on the arm. Jason—who had been there just a few minutes ago, lounging like he owned the place—was gone.

[E/C] eyes swept the dressing area, quick, practiced. Then he leaned out of the fitting stall, scanning the store. Nothing. No six-foot wall of scarred muscle. No Red Hood. No husband.

His jaw clenched tight.

No Jason.

His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the hoodie.

It hit the chair with a soft thump, the chair squeaking like a kicked dog. [M/N] tugged at the ends of his hair, his breath slowing but his pulse clawing beneath his skin. This was fine. He wasn’t going to throw a tantrum. He wasn’t some child, wasn’t a petulant beast gnawing at its own leash.

But God, he wanted to rip something apart.

This was exactly the kind of shit that chipped away at his control. Unexpected exits. Silence. Being left alone when all the voices started talking over each other in his head. It always led to hunger. Need.

One, he inhaled slowly. Held it. Let it out through his nose. Control.

Two, he smoothed his hair back, fingers still twitching.

Three, [M/N] glanced toward the security camera in the corner. Tinted dome, faint whir. Of course they’d be watching. The Waynes always watched, could be watching him.

Four, back into the stall. He stripped, movements mechanical, practiced. Back into his own clothes: the sharp lines of a button-up, the tailored comfort of slacks, the shoes he always polished before bed.

Five, he gathered the selected outfit from the floor and slung it over his arm. Left the others for store staff to retrieve. No need to linger.

He buttoned the last loop of his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. Just a man. Just an ordinary, well-dressed man. No one important. “He is such an asshole,” [M/N] muttered, pushing back the curtain and walking out of the fitting room.

He ignored the cashier’s bright greeting, pulled out his wallet before they could ask. Jason had promised to cover it, but [M/N] had already made up his mind—he wasn’t going to owe Jason for something as mundane as clothes.

He handed over his card, barely heard the total, and waited while the clerk bagged the items. The buzz of his phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He pulled it out without thinking.

Husband: Went to piss. Meet you at the food court. Buying you food. :D

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

Annoying. Inconvenient. Invasive.

But considerate.

He took the bag from the clerk with a nod of thanks, then headed out into the mall, his footsteps steady, calm. The anger had faded, not gone, but tucked back into the folds of habit and discipline.

Jason was lucky. Everyone was lucky.

But especially Jason.

+++++

The moment [M/N] bent down to pick up the fallen hoodie, time seemed to fold in on itself.

Jason hadn’t meant to stare. His gaze had shifted without thought, swept lazily across the fitting room while [M/N] spoke. He barely registered the words—some offhand comment about how he hoped he looked normal for the trip—as his eyes settled on the man’s back. Then, lower.

And stayed there.

There was nothing suggestive about it. [M/N] was simply bent over, folding a hoodie with the same careful touch he applied to everything. But the angle—the way the cargo shorts hugged the curve of his thighs, the way they stretched just enough to show the press of boxers and the suggestion of anatomy underneath—was devastating.

Jason’s heart gave an unsteady lurch.

He blinked hard, as if trying to reset his own internal feed, but the moment had already burrowed itself into his bloodstream. His mouth felt dry. Ears filled with static. Any thought he might’ve had—mundane or otherwise—slipped free and scattered like dust.

His body reacted before his mind did. Blood surged downward, hot and fast and overwhelming.

Jason froze. Not in surprise. Not even in embarrassment. But in shock. Because this—this—wasn't supposed to happen.

It hadn’t happened in a long time.

Since the Pit, his body had been... unreliable. Even the most intimate encounters over the last few years had required help—little blue pills, deep focus, the right words, the right timing. Most of the time, he didn’t bother trying. Sex wasn’t something he thought about much anymore.

Until now.

Until [M/N], bent at the waist with the light catching on the soft curve of his ass and his voice humming something about Damian’s school trip.

Jason swallowed hard, his jaw tight, and realized he had to move. Immediately.

Boots quiet, steps smooth. No one noticed as he slipped from the chair and out the store’s front, blending into the crowd like shadow. It was instinct, pure and honed—get out before anyone noticed the flush in his face or the tell-tale strain in his pants.

He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, hunched slightly, pretending to brood as he made his way through the mall. His hood came up, casting his face in shadow.

This was not happening.

This was not what today was supposed to be.

He reached the public restrooms and shouldered his way through the door without hesitation. A quick glance confirmed a mostly empty space, and he moved fast into the only unoccupied stall. The metal door clicked shut behind him, and Jason all but collapsed onto the toilet seat—pants still on, hands gripping the edge of his hood as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath.

This was absurd. Embarrassing. His body had taken the wheel without permission, like it was laughing at him. And of all people—of course it had to be [M/N]. Not from ex-girlfriends, not when Jason occasionally watched porn but not even a single twitch. No, it was the one person currently sharing a fake marriage with him. The same person who didn’t even like being touched most days. Who glared at him for not drying the sink properly or for tracking dirt in with his boots.

Jason exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

[M/N] was going to be annoyed—probably already pissed that Jason disappeared without a word. He’d likely paid for his own clothes, muttering something bitter about broken promises or “irresponsible husbands.”

Jason didn’t even blame him.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and tried to focus on something—anything—other than what had just happened. He thought about the chores he would be forced to do back home. About sports. About Alfred’s cooking. Hell, he’d even take a memory of Bruce’s lectures right now.

But nothing worked.

All he could see was the way [M/N] moved without realizing the effect he had.

And all Jason could feel was the painful reminder that, apparently, his body had just started working again—and at the worst possible time.

Jason tried to remember one of Bruce’s endless lectures—something, anything to anchor him back to Earth.  B’s voice echoed faintly in his head, some long-winded monologue about control, responsibility, “sacred duty,” or the damn guns again. Always the guns. And the bullets. And the endless list of things Bruce thought Jason needed saving from.

It wasn’t helping.

Like a blade sliding between the ribs, his thoughts cut back to [M/N]. His legal, sort-of husband. The man he married for the sake of Gotham, or so Jason told himself—told everyone. It was the mission a cover between him and [M/N], real for everyone else. That's right, right?

Right?

He grimaced, leaning forward slightly as he sat on the toilet lid, pants still intact but his posture frayed at the edges. This wasn’t about the case anymore. Not really. Not after weeks of living under the same roof. After countless morning encounters and late-night kitchen chats. After the casual nudges, the sharp glances, the mutual tolerance that had slowly turned into... something else.

Jason noticed things.

He wasn’t trying to, but that old Robin training made it hard not to.

[M/N]’s favorite tea—wild raspberry, steeped until it was just warm enough to sip slowly. Same as Bruce’s, ironically, though [M/N] couldn’t stand the man. He knew that [M/N] always started his day before sunrise, ran for miles in tight athletic gear that Jason definitely wasn’t staring at too long. The soft pull of fabric over toned muscle, the imprint that left very little to imagination if Jason looked down for too long.

Which he didn’t.

Mostly.

But [M/N] never seemed to care how he looked. He didn’t follow trends or try too hard. He just existed—and looked good doing it.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. He was still hard, painfully so, and sitting there like a statue wasn’t making it better. Sweat beaded along his brow as he adjusted slightly, trying to will the heat down with force of will.

It didn’t work. His cock throbbed again against his boxers, damp from the slow leak of arousal he’d been trying to ignore.

Goddamn it.

Jason sat there a moment longer, fists clenched on his thighs, trying to talk himself out of it. But it wasn’t going away. It hadn’t faded, like it usually did. In fact, it was worse. Stronger. He hadn’t felt anything like this for years—since the Pit, since his body had stopped cooperating altogether. He’d stopped even trying.

Viagra, stimulation, sexual frustration—he remembered it all.

But now, just the image of [M/N] bending over, the memory of his voice, of how easily he walked around like he didn’t know what he was doing to people—Jason’s body had come roaring back to life.

He cursed under his breath. The bathroom was silent, just the faint echo of foot traffic outside the door. Still empty.

He shifted, closed his eyes, and gave in.

His hands moved to his belt, undoing it quickly, letting it fall with a dull clink against the floor. He pushed his cargo pants down just enough, pulling his boxers aside as he sat forward. His breath caught as his hand wrapped around himself, the touch sharp, electric.

He wasn’t even sure if it was relief or desperation that hit harder.

His forehead dropped to the back of his other hand as he bit down, muffling a low groan. His movements were slow at first, cautious, like his body might vanish on him mid-motion. But the sensation didn’t fade. It only deepened.

He breathed heavily, jaw clenched, fingers working over himself with a rhythm he couldn’t stop.

Thoughts of [M/N] surged forward, uninvited but welcomed all the same. The way he stood with perfect posture. The cool indifference in his voice. The way he sipped tea like it was something sacred. His mouth. His hands.

Jason’s mind flickered through them all like old snapshots he didn’t know he’d kept.

[M/N] after a run, towel around his neck, sweat on his collarbone. [M/N] in slacks and a vest, lazily flipping through paperwork. [M/N] in the kitchen at 2 a.m., hair tousled, eyes half-lidded, as he sews up one of Jason's wounds from a gun, a knife, a freaking shive maybe if he was lucky. His husband working on him without a nagging tone.

His husband.

The word hit him harder than anything. Jason’s breath stuttered, a low grunt escaping against the skin of his forearm. His grip tightened as the tension in his muscles pulled taut, back curved, thighs trembling.

He hated how much he wanted him. Not just physically. That was the easy part. The part that made sense.

It was the other want that burned.

Jason bit down again, harder this time, as he chased the release he hadn’t allowed himself in what felt like years.

“Fuck, [M/N]... fuck.”

Jason’s head dropped back with a dull thud against the cool tiled wall. His breath came in ragged bursts, thighs tight, the ache in them spreading deep into his spine. His skin was flushed and slick, the aftershocks still rippling through his body as he tried to remember how to breathe properly.

His hand was sticky, his pulse thundered in his ears, and his mind was still flooded with images—raw, obscene, and all of them starring the man he’d told himself he wasn’t attracted to.

The man he’d married out of convenience. Out of necessity.

Out of a lie he was starting to choke on.

He let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, letting the fog roll in. The way [M/N] bent, unknowingly perfect. The curve of his spine under that Snoopy shirt. The soft bounce in his thigh when he stepped down from the fitting room platform. His voice. His sharp wit. That dry, dark humor that got under Jason’s skin in the best and worst ways.

He wasn’t some punk kid anymore. He wasn’t Robin with a bruised ego and a chip on his shoulder. And [M/N] wasn’t the boy from across the hall in Park Row either.

He was... a man. A mystery. Something dangerous and beautiful and real.

Jason swallowed hard, body still humming. His thoughts twisted back to the unspoken things—desires he didn’t want to admit even in his head.

What would [M/N] sound like gasping under him? What would he say in the dark? Would he like Jason calling the shots, or would he take control? Could Jason even handle that?

His cock gave a pathetic twitch at the idea of [M/N] being the one to set the pace—slow, purposeful, rough in the way Jason didn’t know he needed until now.

Would he bite? Would he leave marks? Could he do things with Jason he has never tried with any partners before? Having one of Jason's guns, no bullets, in Jason's mouth as [M/N]'s [E/C] eyes watched as Jason choked on the gun? Or good lord have Jason ride one of his knives, the handle? Shit. Everything he thought about, deplorable or not, was beautiful.

"Fuck me, fuck, fuck, [M/N]." Jason didn't cum with a cry, more like a pathetic desperate mew and whimper as he spills in his hand. He wiped himself up with rough toilet paper, breathing slower now, but the weight of it still clung to his chest like a vest that wouldn’t come off.

The way his mind had wandered… it wasn’t just about sex.

It was about him.

He cleaned himself quickly, moving like muscle memory had taken over—pants up, belt buckled, shirt adjusted. He didn’t linger in the mirror. Didn’t want to see whatever look was on his face.

The soap smelled like dollar-store pineapple. The paper towel was scratchy and stiff. Still, he went through the motions, grounding himself in the mundane. That was how you stayed in control—how you didn’t let your thoughts get ahead of you.

Jason fished his phone from his pocket as he pushed out the door, the cooler air of the mall hitting his face like a reset button.

His thumbs moved automatically, the text quick, casual, a mask like all the others.

Jason:  Went to piss. Meet you at the food court. Buying you food. :D

He hit send, tucked the phone away, and scanned the crowd.

[M/N] was probably annoyed—maybe even pissed. He’d left without a word and [M/N] wasn’t exactly the most forgiving type when it came to being brushed off, even if he didn’t always show it.

Jason sighed, shouldering past a group of teens and heading toward the food court, hoping he could find something half-decent for [M/N]’s annoyingly refined palate. Something strong, bold, and probably overpriced—just like the man himself.

Chapter Text

There had been a time, long ago—quietly buried between finals and paper deadlines during college—when [M/N] imagined what it would be like to raise a child.

It was a simple dream then, something soft in the background of his ambition. No fantasies of perfection or control—just the bare want to nurture something. Someone. He remembered wandering the children's section of the library under the pretense of researching early education psychology, but lingering too long near the parenting books. Leafing through guides on toddler milestones and behavioral patterns. Dog-earing pages about violin classes, balanced diets, and sleep routines.

A daughter. He always pictured a daughter.

She'd have green eyes and dark hair. A wide, curious stare. She'd learn music—cello, violin, flute—whichever called to her. She'd have every tool she needed to defend herself if the world proved cruel. Karate, self-defense seminars before she even hit double digits. She'd eat real food, not his food. No mistakes there. He'd cook for her. Clean for her. Manage her schedule. Tuck in each of her dolls beside her every night with precision and warmth.

He would give her everything—within reason, of course.

[M/N] had done the research. Boys, statistically, were more prone to fights, more likely to break bones, lie, scream, shatter glass for attention. Gotham's juvenile records and revolving asylum doors were filled with them. Not always their fault—but still. Girls brought a quieter kind of storm.

He wasn't picky. He promised himself he wouldn't be. It wouldn't matter who she was, what she looked like, what she believed in—just that she was his. Someday.

Not Jason's.

That was the unspoken part.

Once the case was done, once the paperwork was shredded and the ring left in the drawer, [M/N] would take the money Jason promised him and make that dream real. Adoption. Independence. Peace.

But today... today he was at the Gotham Zoo.

And he hated it.

It sprawled for acres—too wide, too open, the heat of too many bodies and too much noise pressing in on his skull. He was told to arrive ten minutes early. He had. Paid at the front kiosk, been stamped like a damn package with a blue elephant on the back of his hand. He wore the Snoopy shirt Jason had picked out and fled to take a piss which made [M/N] upset for a couple hours the other day.

Now, he sat alone on a stiff green bench near the entrance, surrounded by the migraine of synthetic jungle ambiance and the shrieks of children who had long passed the threshold of sugar tolerance. Animatronic animals roared on cue as more kids passed. A mechanical lemur chirped violently near the slushie stand every six seconds. It made [M/N] flinch by the third repeat. The air smelled like fryer grease, urine, fish, and stale bubblegum—all of it battling for dominance in his nose.

He didn't know if he had a headache or if his brain was simply beginning to short-circuit.

The other chaperones stood together across the walkway—tight-knit and cheerfully performative like an HOA meeting in yoga pants. [M/N] didn't approach. He didn't belong there. He knew it. And they seemed just as aware.

A rustle of noise drew his attention as the Gotham Academy buses pulled up to the gate. Matte black with the school's crest near the door, sleek like everything Bruce funded. Students spilled out in clumps. Their uniforms were broken today, replaced by variations of jeans and sneakers—but each child wore the same obnoxiously bright annoying neon pink and Gotham Academy emblem on the front: unmistakable. 

He sighed and rose, brushing his palms against his thighs. He cleared his throat lightly into a fist to make himself known—only to be slapped in the chest with a sticker by one of the teachers.

No "hello," no "thank you for coming."

Just a cheap, curling cornered "My name is [M/N]" badge in red marker peeling already at the edges. He stared at it in disbelief for a moment before swallowing the insult. The buses emptied in slow waves. Then, finally, like a lion refusing to exit his cage, Damian Wayne stepped down from the final bus.

He stood out immediately.

While every other child wore the same assigned Academy shirt but a neon lime green shirt, and tucked sharply into pressed dark jeans. His shoes clean and modern at least, [M/N] never thought a Wayne knew how to wear modern clothes. Arms folded across his chest, face locked in a permanent scowl.

His eyes found [M/N] the moment he stepped down. [M/N] didn't flinch under it, though his stomach gave a tiny lurch. It wasn't fear. Not really. Just recognition.

They didn't like each other. That was clear.

But today, they were stuck. On the same team.

Damian walked toward him with the quiet threat of a blade sheathed in tradition. The other children spread out in knots of giggles and games, but not him. He was quiet. Controlled. His eyes flicked to the sticker on [M/N]'s chest, then back up.

He said nothing.

And [M/N]—just as silent—gave the boy the smallest, stiffest nod in return. Let the games begin.

"You look... healthy."

The words slipped out of [M/N] casually, layered in that dry tone he'd mastered over the years. There was a pause afterward, stretched slightly longer than necessary, as the rest of the group around them busied themselves with polite small talk and shallow clipboard scribbling. The other parents and chaperones were absorbed in last-minute instructions from Mr. McGee, the science teacher, who looked like he'd wandered off the cover of a Metropolis magazine.

Not that [M/N] was looking. Just observing. Listening.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Mid-thirties maybe. Clean-shaven, in a crisp white button-down rolled neatly at the sleeves, a dark tie cinched tight around his neck. Dark blue eyes behind square black glasses. Full head of well-kept black hair, maybe a little too styled for a man in charge of children. And from the way he kept adjusting his clipboard and fumbling with the class materials, it was obvious he wasn't used to leading field trips—at least not ones with this level of chaos.

He licked his lips before he could stop himself, [M/N] imagining what this guy must really taste like-

"Stop salivating," Damian said flatly, arms crossed and scowling up at him like a judgmental cat. "You're married."

[M/N] cut him a look from the corner of his eye. "I should tell Todd," the boy added without pause.

"If you do," [M/N] murmured, voice barely above a hum, "your science teacher will end up on the ten o'clock news. Todd doesn't like competition."

Damian grunted, not quite amused, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding something back. He didn't respond right away, eyes following the group of noisy students that had begun to form loose lines.

"Todd's fought men for a lot less," he said eventually, an almost dismissive roll in his tone. "A lot less. Father, a lot less."

[M/N] exhaled sharply through his nose and looked down at the laminated handout now in his grip—Endangered Animal Bingo—a worksheet plastered in cartoon whales and fuzzy outlines of red pandas. He barely had time to read the title before Damian snatched it from him with all the courtesy of a raccoon.

"We'll start here," Damian muttered, already walking without looking up. "The aquatic area."

"You mean the aquarium," [M/N] corrected mildly, but Damian simply made a noncommittal sound—something between a scoff and a grunt—and kept going, weaving through the crowd of children and adults.

Then—suddenly—he stopped. Blocking his path was Mr. McGee himself, and the way Damian's face twisted in visible offense was immediate. His lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowed with an almost feline loathing.

"No way," Damian hissed.

Mr. McGee rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile, trying to ignore the complaints starting to build from the students stuck behind them. One of the mothers nearby loudly sighed, already fed up. The other chaperones gave the scene a slow exhale, clearly used to it.

"I know, I know," Mr. McGee said gently. "But we did agree on this, remember? You were good on the last few trips—well, except for the planetarium... and the Gotham Historical Museum—"

Damian growled. "That wax figure of Queen Elizabeth damehood should be respected and no one punished the one humping her when I interfered."

"You nearly gave your classmate a concussion and I meant your adventure on the scope at the planetarium." the teacher replied without missing a beat. He turned then to [M/N], offering a hopeful, apologetic glance that made [M/N] already feel defensive. From his belt, McGee unlatched something metallic and retractable.

[M/N] frowned. "Is that a... leash?"

"A safety tether," McGee corrected, though even he didn't sound convinced. "Per Gotham Academy protocol, when Damian attends off-campus events, he has to be physically attached to his chaperone. For his safety... and others."

[M/N] stared. So did Damian, though his glare was pure venom.

"No one told me I was being leashed to a child," [M/N] said, tone sharp.

"Mr. Wayne was supposed to inform you," the teacher added quickly, fumbling as he extended the tether with a nervous chuckle. "It was voted on at the last PTA meeting. Full approval. Parents even chipped in for it."

Of course they did.

Damian glared down at the pavement like it had insulted his lineage. There was rage in the tension of his shoulders, but also something else—embarrassment. [M/N] didn't miss it. Still, the boy didn't argue further. He huffed through his nose, wrist already outstretched in a silent, simmering surrender.

With a soft click, the tether attached. The other end was passed to [M/N].

The leash was thin but durable, high-strength wire coated in a soft rubber casing. Barely noticeable unless you were looking—but noticeable enough for the humiliation to sting.

"I suppose," [M/N] said, adjusting the cuff on his wrist with visible distaste. He gave it a light tug, and Damian's arm shifted a few inches in response.

"We really appreciate your help today," McGee said with tired optimism, smoothing his hair back again before backing into the crowd of children. [M/N] didn't respond. He just looked at the leash between him and the son of Gotham's favorite bat, then down to the bingo sheet now crumpled in Damian's hand.

This was going to be a long, long day.

++++++

They had made it through one exhibit so far—barely.

The group had blended in with another class from Gotham Academy, and [M/N] found himself apologizing to strangers he had no intention of remembering. Other parents. Some teacher with a faint blue paint on her hands, poetic about aquatic mammals like she was composing haikus instead of supervising middle schoolers. Apparently, she'd be the usual one who put Damian in detention due to creative differences.

Good luck with that.

[M/N] held the slightly crumpled Bingo sheet in one hand, its printed animal silhouettes barely marked. The only box filled in was the Polar Bear, seen briefly in the dim glow of the Arctic exhibit's false ice and chilled lights. He'd watched quietly, standing apart from the gaggle of shrieking kids pressing fingerprints onto the thick glass, too caught up in the wonder of it all to read the information plaques.

Damian, on the other hand, had barely looked up as he checked off, after yanking the sheet from [M/N], the polar bear and moved on.

[M/N] lingered a bit longer, his [E/C] eyes trailing the great white bear as it swam beneath the water's surface—an apex predator cloaked in calm. It glided silently, massive and graceful, and yet held that restrained menace beneath every stroke of its paws.

Then came the shift—the tension crackling in the air.

[M/N] heard the swell of raised voices first. Squabbling. Boys. Four of them now, not just two. No teachers intervening, no parents doing more than offering nervous laughs and half-hearted coos to the children not involved. His eyes scanned for Damian instinctively, and there—right there—was the answer.

The neon green shirt.

That was why the shirt was that color. It stood out like a flare in a dark tunnel. So when the chaos broke out, when Damian was already yanking on some unfortunate boy's hair and being surrounded by his friends, the leash didn't go limp.

It snapped taut. [M/N] nearly stumbled forward as his arm was jerked back hard enough to make his joints ache. His fingers tightened on the leash, as he whirled around.

He didn't hesitate. Not with the echo of crowding voices, not with the memory of Damian's past or the pressure of onlookers' stares.

He stormed into the fray, grabbed the boy by the waist like he weighed nothing at all, and hoisted him up with practiced precision. Damian struggled, arms pinned like a squirming toddler throwing a tantrum, as [M/N] carried him out of the Arctic exhibit.

He could feel the stares. Parents looked at him like he was a delinquent older brother or, worse, the kind of parent who "let kids act like that." It wasn't the first time [M/N] had seen eyes like that. They reminded him of families back in then—clean, well-fed, blissfully ignorant.

The kind of people who could afford to look away from the messy parts of life.

He shoved through the exit doors with his shoulder. The sound of screeching animatronic animals and cheap zoo music faded behind them as they stepped into the relative quiet of the corridor. Damian wriggled in his arms.

"Put me down!" the boy snapped, low and furious. "I had it under control!"

"You were about to punch a twelve-year-old in the face," [M/N] replied coldly.

He set Damian on his feet but kept a firm grip on the child leash's strap as the boy whipped around, jaw tight. His small chest rose and fell with each breath, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. His fingers hovered at the latch of the leash, as if he might remove it himself.

[M/N] turned him around by the shoulder before he could even try.

"What do you think you're doing—!?" Damian began.

But he was cut off.

"You don't get to act like a feral alley cat and then throw a fit when someone isn't going along. Jason told me stories." [M/N] pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, trying to stave off the migraine brewing at the base of his skull. "Why were you fighting that boy?"

"It doesn't matter," Damian muttered, arms folded tight, his nails digging into the sleeves of his own shirt. "You embarrassed me."

"For treating you like a child?" [M/N] arched a brow, genuinely surprised. "Damian, I hauled you out of there like a sack of flour because you were acting like one."

Damian's lips pressed together in a scowl, eyes shifting away. "I didn't start it."

"I didn't say you did. But you escalated it," [M/N] said firmly. "You're smart, Damian. Smart enough to know you're better than that. So act like it." The boy remained silent, back straight and posture tense. He didn't uncross his arms, but his fingers loosened a little on his sleeves.

[M/N] sighed, leaning back against the wall and letting his head rest for a second.

He could be at home. Cooking. Reading. Sleeping. Working. Anything but this.

But here he was—leashed to a pint-sized assassin with authority issues, trying to keep him from throttling Gotham Academy's future hedge fund managers. He rubbed his temples once more and pushed off the wall. "Come on," he muttered. "We've got a tiger to find. It's on the bingo sheet."

"Tigers aren't aquatic," Damian deadpanned. But made no move to spit more venom or insult [M/N] at the moment as they walked.

++++++

The zoo wasn’t exactly what [M/N] had hoped for. Gotham Academy was filled with too many spoiled, over-groomed kids, and he’d already made a mental note that his future daughter—if he ever had one—would not be attending this school. Not in a million years.

Still, he wasn’t entirely miserable. Not with Damian beside him.

They’d quietly peeled away from the larger class group, moving through the exhibits on their own. The bingo sheet clutched in Damian’s small hand slowly filled up with checked boxes. Tigers? Marked. Red panda? Done. Lowland gorilla? That one had made Damian pause, peering intently through the glass before noting its behavior in a quiet, almost clinical tone.

At each habitat, Damian corrected the informational panels without hesitation—his tone cool and matter-of-fact—and [M/N] simply nodded along, trusting every word. He didn’t bother double-checking. Damian had never needed correction. Not in the way the other kids did.

And even when the boy occasionally dragged the child leash as they walked, his sharp gaze flitting between the habitats and the people, [M/N] only found it...endearing.

They had made it to the fifth exhibit when [M/N] finally checked the time. Lunch. Thank God.

He steered Damian toward the lunch area, a breezy corner of the zoo across from a playground filled with screaming children and oversize climbing nets painted rainforest green. The cafe they were headed to was called The Flamingo Round-Up, of all things. Picnic tables dotted the area, already packed with classmates and parents alike. The food smelled decent enough—not the usual zoo mystery meat but something a little more high-end. Gotham Academy must have paid for the premium tier.

“You want to play?” [M/N] asked, tucking the folded bingo sheet into his jacket pocket.

Damian gave the playground a fleeting glance. Kids ran wild, climbing and shrieking like monkeys at the primate exhibit. Some were from his class. Most weren’t worth remembering.

“I suppose,” he said with a sigh, fingers already tugging at the Velcro cuff securing him to [M/N]. “I need to build up an appetite after so much low stimulation.”

[M/N] bit back a smile. That was Damian-code for: Yes, but I won’t admit it. Just as he was about to undo the latch on his side of the leash, a woman marched toward them, heels clicking with purpose.

[M/N] tensed immediately.

The name tag on her blazer read Mrs. Hawking, and everything about her said tight-lipped, over-polished authority. Her fake smile screamed: I’m trying to be polite, but I don’t trust you one bit.

“May I help you?” [M/N] asked, tone neutral, though his expression flattened ever so slightly. Damian, catching on, rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

Mrs. Hawking clasped her hands in front of her blazer like she was ready to deliver bad news and still get applause for it.

“Hello! I’m Mrs. Hawking, one of the faculty here, as I’m sure you know.” Her voice was overly cheerful, her words tight at the edges. “We were just hoping Damian might… remain on the leash for the remainder of the afternoon.”

[M/N] blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just—he’s been remarkably well-behaved today,” she rushed to say. “No destruction. No escapes. No grey hairs, if you can believe it. We haven’t had to call Dick Grayson even once!”

Damian looked like he might walk into the tiger enclosure just to make a point.

“I understand he’s Bruce Wayne’s son—of course, and a Wayne through and through—but we’d really prefer to minimize any... unscheduled adventures. So if you could just keep him close—”

[M/N] tuned her out halfway through the word unscheduled. He calmly reached over, unlatched the Velcro, and unhooked Damian without hesitation. The leash slid from their wrists.

“Oh,” he said coolly, slipping it into his jacket pocket beside the bingo sheet. “Oops.”

Mrs. Hawking froze. Her smile faltered just slightly, teeth clicking together before she recovered with a forced laugh.

Across the courtyard, the food trays were arriving—expensive, artfully plated lunches with carved fruit and sides that probably cost more than a week of groceries. The kids crowded toward the tables, half of them distracted by the promise of dessert.

[M/N] offered the teacher a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think Damian will be fine without it.”

Mrs. Hawking stared after him as he walked away, Damian beside him, leash pocketed like a retired weapon.

Mr. McGee, the only chaperone worth a damn, gave a low whistle from where he was sorting through the bingo sheets. "Good Job Damian." He praised as he seen the work him and [M/N] did as [M/N] barely gave the teacher a glance before looking back to the 

The afternoon sun filtered through thin clouds, warming the zoo's playground in golden patches. Children screamed and ran wild across the playground, their brightly colored shirts blending into a blur of motion. The lime green of Damian’s shirt stood out against the chaos, but only for a moment before it disappeared among the swarming sea of elementary schoolers.

[M/N] remained seated at a nearby table, a few feet apart from the main cluster of parents and teachers. The shade of the tree above offered a thin reprieve from the heat, and the condensation on his plastic water bottle chilled his hand. He sipped it idly, eyes on the equipment, not missing how Mrs. Hawkings cast him a disapproving glance as she passed. She said nothing, but her wrinkled lips pressed thin, and she turned away sharply to rejoin the knot of other PTA members clucking by the side.

Nearby, chaperones were sorting through the high-end lunches brought in for the kids. They laughed and gossiped, doling out containers into neat lines to be passed out after the kids hurried to play.

[M/N] sat quietly, eyes flicking between Damian and his surroundings. The boy hadn't joined the games. Instead, Damian stood off to the side of the playground like a statue in the wrong place, not tense—controlled. His hands rested at his sides, but they flexed subtly when another child darted too close, as if instinctively preparing for a strike.

It was only when Damian sat on the swing, feet planted firmly on the woodchips without movement, that [M/N] pulled out his phone. A single vibration buzzed against his leg.

A message from Jason.

Husband: The bastard giving you trouble?

[M/N] looked up again, glancing toward Damian. The boy hadn’t noticed him checking his phone. Instead, he was staring out across the playground, watching with those sharp green eyes that had clearly studied the battlefield of Gotham long before they were meant to navigate monkey bars and slides.

[M/N] typed a reply quickly.

[M/N]: No, we had some problems early but he's been perfectly good. 

He watched Damian from a distance, careful and thoughtful. The boy didn’t move from the swing, but his eyes were restless, following the motion of the other children. He tracked them with detached precision, noting each group, each cluster of laughter and chaos. His gaze lingered a little longer on a group of boys climbing the jungle gym, then drifted to a small circle of girls laughing under a tree. It wasn’t judgment in his face. Not really. It was more like... curiosity, edged with something bitter.

And then it happened. A girl rushed past him—too fast and careless—and bumped his shoulder. Damian’s hands clenched on the swing chain. The girl gave him a quick scowl.

“Freak,” she muttered.

[M/N] caught the word as clearly as if she’d said it right next to him. The girl moved on, rejoining her friends, who were already giggling as she sits beside them.

Damian didn’t respond. He didn’t move. But his grip stayed tight on the chains, the only part of him betraying how that word landed. A wound reopened with surgical precision. His face was unreadable, but his posture, his stillness—that said more than enough.

[M/N] looked away and checked his wallet. The concession stand on the far side of the field was open, a small pop-up shack manned by a bored teenager tapping his phone. A faded menu hung off the side, sticky with summer heat.

He stood from the bench, ignoring the watching eyes of parents as he passed. The same judgment always lingered—whispers, speculation, discomfort with his presence—but they were background noise to him now.

He approached the counter, placing an order in a calm, even tone. “One cotton candy. Blue. And another one, pink.” The teenager blinked but nodded, already reaching for the paper cones.

Back at the table, [M/N]’s phone buzzed again where it lay beside his water bottle, but he didn’t hear it. He simply stood there, waiting patiently for the sugary clouds to be wrapped and handed to him. A rare gift, maybe even a peace offering—something sweet for a boy who never got to be a child.

Not to mention Jason liked it too, the pink one for him.

When he returned to the table, two cotton candy sticks in hand, Damian was still on the swing. Still watching. Still silent.

Work: We have a problem.

Chapter Text

"What the shit is this?"

The file slapped against the autopsy table with a crack, echoing off tile and steel. A plain vanilla folder, nothing remarkable, but the sound carried all of [M/N]'s fury. It rattled the empty instruments tray, made the fluorescent lights above buzz louder. He stood over it, jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed into something that could've cut cleaner than any scalpel. His [E/C] gaze swept across the room—his subordinates frozen in varying stages of guilt, nerves, and confusion.

Carmen, perched on her rolling chair with a pair of goggles shoved haphazardly up into her dark curls, swiveled toward him. She squinted at the folder as though squinting would soften the blow of his anger.
"Uh," she ventured carefully, "a blood and DNA report?"

Malcolm piped up immediately, half-hearted, like a kid echoing an answer in class. "What she said—" He froze when [M/N] turned that withering stare on him, lips pressed into a hard line. "Sorry," he muttered, sinking lower in his chair.

Without another word, [M/N] ripped the folder open and spread its contents across the table. Polaroids and printouts slid across cold metal—spatter patterns, samples, scene photos. He tapped each with a sharp finger.

"There. And there. And there," he said, voice flat with contained rage. Each tap landed like a nail driven home. "This? This is what I get called back in for. After cutting short my day, dragging a kid back to his overpriced private school, changing into something halfway decent just to walk in and clean up your goddamn mess."

The photos didn't lie. Blood samples pulled from the scene were mismatched, mislabeled. Smears where there should've been precision. Contaminated tissue under the victim's nails, now useless. All of it reeked of sloppiness.

"Not me," Layne grunted from his station without looking up. He was elbow-deep under the fingernails of another corpse, still busy extracting trace evidence.

"Don't—" [M/N] snapped his head around, voice like a lash. "—say not me." He slapped down another sheet of evidence, the sharp sound punctuating his fury. "It doesn't matter whose hands screwed it up. The fact is someone did, and it came through this morgue. Which makes it my problem."

The silence after was thick, uncomfortable.

"Aye," Hugh finally huffed, voice gravelly with age as he leaned over the saw on his own table. "Stop shouting. You'll wake the dead."

[M/N]'s lip curled faintly, a humorless twitch. "Might be better company than you lot."

Malcolm, ever the nervous one, cleared his throat. "How much trouble are we in?"

[M/N] rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a headache pressing in behind his eyes. He could feel the tightness at his temples, that old craving gnawing at the edges—teeth grinding against flesh, something to chew through the frustration. He shoved it down with an exhale.
"Not much," he said flatly. "But Gordon's not happy. Which means I'm not happy."

He swept the papers back into the folder, movements clipped and precise, his irritation never softening. "I'll fix it." His voice was quiet, dangerous in how calm it had become. He tucked the file under his arm and started toward his office. "Get your shit done instead of wasting my breath. I've got enough to clean without babysitting you too."

"Love you too, boss!" Carmen called after him with forced cheer, trying to break the tension.

The door shut with a sharp slam.

"Love you too, boss," [M/N] muttered under his breath, mocking the sing-song as he dropped into his chair. The file thudded against the desk. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles, the fluorescent buzz grating against his skull. His hands tapped against the folder, fingers twitching, restless.

The headache pulsed harder. He pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to slow his breathing. He needed control.

"Five... four... three..." he murmured under his breath.

He pictured waves breaking against sand, imagined the pull of the tide at his ankles, the sinking of his bare feet into wet earth. A smell of salt in the air, gulls in the distance, the hiss of water retreating back into itself. Something calmer, something to drown out the gnawing edge of his hunger and the pounding in his head.

Then the shrill ring of his phone shattered it.

His flinch was small but sharp, hand twitching before curling into a fist. The phone lit up on the desk, screen glowing against the scattered paperwork. He glared at it once, then looked away.

He ignored the call.

[M/N] pressed his fingers harder against his temple, abandoning the ocean for the other refuge he'd carved in his mind. The beach was too open, too bright—too easy to intrude upon. The botanical gardens of Metropolis, though—that had always worked better.

He could see the brick paths lined with flowers in perfect rows, stretching out into glass-domed sunlit halls. Roses blooming like silent fire, dahlias in full bursts of red and white, marigolds shimmering gold at the edges of the greenery. Poppies bobbed like curious faces from the grass, wisteria draped in heavy purple curtains above him, a color meant for royalty, for someone untouchable.

In his mind, it was quiet. No shoving students, no whispering gawkers, no hands pointing at him like he was a specimen under glass. Just him, and the flowers. His fingertips ghosted over petals that should have been soft and fragile, though in memory they felt disturbingly like flesh. He saw the hands he knew too well—hands that clawed, hands that ripped. Here, though, they only brushed color and life. The sun poured over his skin, warm in a way Gotham never managed to be.

And then the phone rang again. Shrill, grating, slicing through the scene until it scattered. [M/N] growled low in his throat, a sound more suited for a predator than a man in a clean shirt behind a desk. He'd handled corpses that were less demanding than this device. He flipped the phone onto its face and leaned back, trying to reclaim the calm.

The office was full of reminders that he had lived more than just Gotham's filth: framed degrees, sealed certificates, photographs of his stiff handshakes with professors. He remembered standing there in Metropolis, younger, harder lines on his face even then. No smile, but not the scowl people had grown used to—just a flat line. It was easier that way. He hadn't needed to fake happiness; he hadn't needed to invite anyone closer.

He admitted it, though—he'd liked some of it. The work was cleaner, the food... better. Organ meat free of Gotham's toxins and cigarette stains. People ate differently there. Their bodies weren't wrecked by poverty or street drugs, at least not in the same concentration. He'd learned a lot in Metropolis: honed his technique on corpses the university lent to science, and, when that wasn't enough, bodies he procured himself. Mostly men, sometimes a woman who didn't know how to take no for an answer. If they were decent people, he didn't kill. He'd take a piece, let them limp away—kidneys, a portion of liver. It would grow back.

But if they were rapists or abusers... then he made sure they didn't walk away at all. He remembered the farm outside town, the pigs that would eat everything, bones and all. They were cleaner than Gotham sewers and left fewer questions.

The practice wasn't always just flesh. There were times he'd played the other game—seduction, sex, learning how bodies reacted when you shifted tone and touch. He hadn't cared for it, but it was a tool, and tools kept him alive.

The phone rang again. Louder. More insistent.

The fragile calm he'd been patching together shattered. [M/N] turned sharply, hand snapping forward. He grabbed the phone, thumb jamming the screen as he pressed it to his ear, words like a blade in his mouth.

"What? What could you possibly want?" His voice was sharp, cold, every syllable precise as a scalpel's edge. He didn't care who it was. Gordon. His boss. Some underling who thought this was the right time to call.

"Don't you sound like sunshine and unicorns shittin' rainbows."

Jason's voice. Familiar, gravelly with amusement, and not one bit of it cooled [M/N] down.

For a second, he stared at the floor, jaw working, caught between the urge to hang up and the twist of relief that it wasn't Gordon or worse. The tension didn't leave his body; if anything, it shifted. He exhaled through his nose, a bitter sound, and leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight.

The metal desk rang sharp when the phone hit it, the sound slicing through the morgue’s silence like a knife through bone. The crack that followed wasn’t loud, but it was final — the kind of sound that told you something had broken, even if it hadn’t yet fallen apart.

[M/N]’s jaw was locked so tight it hurt. His molars ground until the ache reached his skull, and his pulse thrummed against his teeth. Two missed calls. Both Jason. Clearly something he wanted to talk about so urgent.

Any other day, that name would’ve lit a smirk across his face. Any other day, he might’ve been quietly pleased — Jason called, Jason needed something, Jason thought of him. But now, his jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it, and the satisfaction that usually came with that name burned into something bitter.

“Jason,” he said, voice calm in the way a blade is calm before it cuts. “As much as I would love to have a pleasant conversation, or even concern myself with what’s for dinner—”

“Sure, sure, whatever,” Jason’s voice crackled through, full of that infuriating mix of ease and distraction. “Got some interesting findings after rooting around your crime scene—” [M/N] froze. For a heartbeat, everything stopped—the hum of the morgue lights, the sound of air through the vent, even his own pulse.

“You—” his voice sharpened, the word catching in his throat before snapping out. “You went to my crime scene?” There was movement on Jason’s end, a shuffle, a faint echo, then the pop of gunfire. [M/N] jerked the phone away from his ear instinctively, staring at it in disbelief.

Jason. Of course Jason would call him in the middle of being Red Hood.

“Did you touch anything?” [M/N] demanded, his tone rising before another shot rang out.

“Nah, I would never—” another three rounds cut through his words, followed by the sound of metal hitting pavement. “Maybe stepped in some blood, but I cleaned it off—”

“Jason, you’re going to screw this up,” [M/N] hissed, his patience shredding. His free hand gripped the armrest so hard his nails almost tore through the leather. “You went to my crime scene and now I’m the one getting chewed out by Gordon. You think that old bastard can tell the difference between a solid lead and a dead-end? He’ll throw me under the bus just to save face.”

“Woah, you’re moody tonight.” Jason’s tone dipped into a teasing drawl. “Didn’t get to feed, huh? No teeth, no kidneys?”

[M/N]’s teeth clicked together in warning. “Don’t you dare try me.” His voice dropped, the calm tone gone, replaced with something sharp, brittle. “I’m your husband, Jason. You could at least pretend to respect my work if we’re keeping this partnership.”

Jason laughed—short, rough, unbothered. The sound only made the tension in [M/N]’s chest coil tighter. “Please,” Jason scoffed. “I wouldn’t have married you if you were the last warm hole on Earth.”

Something slammed on his end—metal, maybe a door, maybe someone’s skull. “If you were such a great husband, maybe you’d listen when I tell you something worth hearing.”

“If you have something fucking important to say, then say it,” [M/N] snapped, rubbing at his temple, the beginning of a headache pounding beneath his skin. Okay, maybe he was being a bit too mean. Wasn't Jason's fault, maybe, kind of. “Jason, I— I apolo—”

“No, shame on me,” Jason cut in, voice dark, low. “For marrying a self-centered prick who thinks his job’s more important than—” His voice faded under the scuffle of boots and another crash, but the words still hit their mark.

You’re losing him, that calm, measured voice in [M/N]’s mind whispered. You’re pushing too hard. Soothe him. You know how he gets.

But outwardly?

“Fuck you, Todd.”

He hung up before Jason could respond. His thumb moved faster than thought, blocking the number in the same motion. Then the phone was flying, cracking against the desk as his breath came ragged.

The anger hit like a pulse — hot, sharp, devouring. His shoulders shook, muscles trembling with restraint as the hunger clawed at him from beneath the skin. He wanted to bite something, to sink his teeth through flesh and listen to the way bone crunched.

He was grateful—almost—that the door was shut. That there wasn’t anyone close enough to see the red behind his eyes.

He turned sharply, knocking a stack of papers off the corkboard behind him. His diplomas, the neat order of his world, crashed to the floor in a shatter of frames and slapping wood. For a few seconds, the noise filled the morgue like thunder, and it was almost enough.

Then he saw it.

A small photo, wedged under the clutter, tucked into the corner of the corkboard — one he’d forgotten was there. [M/N] froze, his breath catching as he reached down and carefully plucked it free.

It was old; edges frayed, glue faded. A picture from another life. On one half, a child version of him, half-buried in his mother’s arms before she’d left him behind. He’d cut her face out years ago. Didn’t need the reminder of someone who’d walked away.

The other half was a clipping from a newspaper — Jason, years ago, smiling for the camera in a tuxedo that probably cost more than everything [M/N] had owned in Park Row. The headline had been something about Bruce Wayne’s charity or his new ward. Jason had looked healthy. Whole. Loved.

He remembered spitting on the paper, on Bruce in the news clipping after cutting it, before gluing their halves together. His hand had shaken back then, too.

Jason had looked happy without him. He was being cared for, away from his mother, away from abuse.

And [M/N] had been left behind. Just another stray that no one wanted to bring home.

He ran a thumb across the photo, feeling the difference in texture — the cheap newspaper grain against the old photograph’s smoothness. For a moment, his expression softened. Then he slid it carefully back into its spot, pinning it between documents and reminders, hiding it from sight again.

His temper was gone now, burned out into something hollow. He bent down, gathering the frames one by one, setting them upright again with precise care. None of the glass had cracked. The papers were still neat.

He exhaled, long and quiet.

Then came the knock. [M/N] wiped the corner of his eyes with his sleeve—not tears, never that. Just… emotion he didn’t have time for.

“Come in,” he said, his tone steady again.

The door creaked open, and Malcolm stepped in, holding a folder close like it was a shield. “Uh… I fixed the blood test,” he said. “We still had a few samples left, so I retested them. Got clean results this time.”

[M/N] didn’t turn around, still adjusting the board. He tucked the glued photo deep into the corner, making sure it was pinned securely.

“Are you… alright, sir?” Malcolm asked, hesitating a few steps inside.

[M/N]’s arm moved before his voice—a sharp gesture backward, one finger raised. Stop. “Quite,” he said simply. “I just took my anger out on my board.”

A pause. Then, quieter, almost to himself—

“And my husband.”

The folder hit the floor with a slap that echoed too loudly in the quiet of the office. Malcolm stood frozen, his wide eyes darting between the fallen documents and the man standing before him.

“You—what do you mean you got married?” he blurted, voice cracking with disbelief.

[M/N] didn’t even glance up from his board. “The folder, Malcolm,” he said flatly, the sharp edge of command in his tone cutting clean through the younger man’s panic.

Malcolm scrambled to gather the papers, fumbling them into a messy pile before thrusting them out with both hands. “N-not that I wouldn’t think anyone would want to marry you!” he stammered quickly. “I mean—you’re smart! You’re really, uh, really cool, and detail-oriented—like… anal!”

That finally made [M/N] turn, his eyes flicking toward Malcolm with that slow, unimpressed stare that always made the younger analyst’s stomach twist. The expression on [M/N]’s face wasn’t angry—it was worse. It was patient.

“Give me the folder,” [M/N] said simply, extending a hand.

Malcolm’s throat bobbed. “Right, right,” he muttered, dropping it into his superior’s waiting palm before retreating a few steps, nearly tripping over the leg of a chair. [M/N] tucked the file neatly into his worn leather satchel, closing the brass latch with a quiet click.

“You’re leaving already, sir?” Malcolm asked, trying to recover, pushing a hand through his dark curls. “I thought—you usually stay late. You said you were finalizing the coroner’s review and f—”

“I was,” [M/N] said as he packed the last of his materials into the bag. His tone remained calm, but clipped—surgical in precision. “But I’ve decided to go home early tonight.” He paused, glancing down briefly at the stack of papers before adding, “I’d like to be with my husband.”

Malcolm blinked rapidly. “Wow, he must be really special if you’re cutting work short.”

[M/N] stopped mid-motion. Slowly, his gaze lifted, settling on Malcolm. It wasn’t a glare, not quite. But there was something still in the way he looked at people when they overstepped—a stillness like predator considering whether to attack.

Malcolm paled. “I—I didn’t mean that like it sounded—sir, I just—”

“Just give me my results,” [M/N] interrupted smoothly, his voice a cold blade of composure. “And I’ll forget you said that.”

Malcolm swallowed hard, thrusting the last of the paperwork toward him. “Of course. Right away, sir.”

[M/N] took them without another word, turned toward the door, and flicked off the light switch. The office dimmed instantly, leaving the faint blue glow of the city filtering in through the blinds. The sound of the lock sliding into place was clean and final.

As he stepped past Malcolm, the younger man managed a weak, “Goodnight, Doctor.”

[M/N] didn’t reply.

+++++

By the time he reached the street, Gotham was deep in its usual sleepless hum—sirens in the distance, engines growling, the faint hiss of rain on asphalt. He didn’t head straight home. He didn’t want to—not yet.

He drove.

For nearly two hours he let the city roll by in streaks of neon and grime, letting his mind unravel and rethread itself in the rhythm of the traffic lights. He told himself it was to think. In truth, he was avoiding the gnawing guilt that sat heavy in his chest, the echo of his own words to Jason still ringing in his head like shrapnel.

The argument had been ugly. Worse than usual.
And the part that bothered him wasn’t that Jason had snapped—Jason always snapped—it was that [M/N] had wanted him to. He’d wanted the heat, the bite, already pissed about the evidence being messy and needed to take it out on Jason because he kept bothering him.

When the rain finally broke, he pulled off into a small florist wedged between a laundromat and an old pawn shop. The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped in. The air was thick with the scent of soil and perfume, too sweet, too alive. He chose the flowers himself—pink carnations. They were delicate but stubbornly pink, the kind of bloom that thrived even in rough hands.

A silent, "I'm sorry" and a plead of, "Don't leave me."

After that, he stopped by the corner store near their apartment. The man behind the counter didn’t look up as [M/N] selected a six-pack of Jason’s preferred drink in a cold glass from the fridge. Cold bottles. Familiar label. Comfort in amber glass.

When he finally pulled into the narrow street near their building, the clock on the dash blinked 11:03 PM. He sat for a moment, the hum of the engine fading, the bouquet and bottles balanced on the seat beside him.

His fingers lingered on the wheel before he exhaled slowly, cutting the ignition.

The air outside was damp and heavy with the smell of oil and rain. He locked the car, tucked the flowers close to his chest, and hooked the drinks in his other hand. Inside the complex, life went on as usual—people collecting mail, a couple arguing softly near the stairwell, someone in a Wayne-Mobile delivery jacket tapping impatiently on their phone. He ignored them all.

The elevator was quiet, save for the low whir of machinery and the faint hum of a flickering fluorescent bulb. [M/N] pressed the button for his floor, watching the red numbers climb one by one. When the doors opened, he stepped out, the hallway dim and familiar. The same peeling wallpaper. The same faint smell of stale coffee and gun oil.

He reached their door, paused. The metal was cold under his fingertips. Slowly, he slid the key into the lock—but the latch was already undone.

He froze. Jason was home.

Hopefully.

The door gave a soft creak as [M/N] pushed it open, the familiar scent of old wood and iron filling the entryway. Some lights were on—warm, golden. A faint clatter echoed from the kitchen. He paused, straightened his posture, and quietly toed off his shoes, setting them neatly by the door. The case of beer went onto the small table where their keys and wallets usually lived. The door clicked softly behind him as he turned the lock and hung his jacket in the narrow closet, his movements deliberate, measured.

You can do this.

His mind whispered like a therapist’s voice in his head.

You can apologize. You can admit you were wrong. Jason will listen, and he’ll forgive you. He’ll stay. 

A pause.

No, that’s a lie. You always need him more than he needs you.

He swallowed that thought down and picked the beer back up, balancing it with the bouquet in his other hand. The faint shuffle of movement came again, something metallic tapping on marble, a low hum of a voice he knew too well.

He rounded the corner—quiet, cautious—and stopped.

Jason stood with his back to him, broad shoulders filling the frame of a dark red hoodie, black cargo pants hanging low on his hips, and—of all things—an apron tied around his waist. The sight almost didn’t fit; it made something in [M/N]’s chest tighten and ache with a strange warmth. Jason uncorked a bottle of [M/N]’s expensive red with an easy twist of the wrist, tossing the cork behind him into the trash can and pulling one of the crystal glasses from the cabinet—his favorite ones.

“Took you long enough,” Jason said without turning, his voice low, casual, the words wrapped in that familiar rough amusement. “I saw you drive by twice.”

[M/N] blinked, his throat tightening. “…I didn’t want to come inside.”

Jason poured the wine, the liquid catching the light before sliding smooth into the glass. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Figured as much.”

[M/N] stepped closer, eyes sweeping over the dining table before them. Two plates—steak seared and spiced perfectly, asparagus cooked through but still crisp, mashed potatoes swirled with dark gravy that had pooled beautifully along the plate’s curve. And in the center of the table—a bouquet.

White roses. Fresh, full, and impossibly perfect.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe. He nearly dropped what he was holding as his heart gave a sudden, sharp twist. The sight was disarming in a way he couldn’t explain. Jason—gruff, blunt, impossible Jason—had gotten him white roses.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” both men said at once, voices overlapping. Jason chuckled softly, shaking his head as he set the bottle down. [M/N] found himself smiling faintly despite the tension still curling in his chest.

“I was already upset about my team missing evidence, messed with tests and gotten bad results,” [M/N] began, his voice careful, contrite. “And I took it out on you. It was… unfair. I assumed you’d ruined my work at the scene, and that was my mistake.”

He moved closer, intending to rest a hand on Jason’s back, but hesitated halfway there, his hand hovering before falling instead to his side. He set the beer and carnations gently on the counter, the bottles clinking dully. Jason’s gaze flicked toward them and then back to him, eyes unreadable, waiting.

“I should’ve trusted you,” [M/N] continued, voice quieter now. “You didn’t deserve that.” His eyes met Jason’s, steady and sincere. “If you’d rather end this—this partnership—”

Before he could finish, a crystal glass pressed against his lips. The sharp scent of red wine hit his senses as Jason tilted it, forcing a small sip into his mouth. [M/N] froze, startled, then instinctively wrapped his hand around the glass to keep it from spilling. Jason’s fingers brushed his, the contact brief but made [M/N]'s stomach curl in a good way. He swallowed the wine, the taste lingering on his tongue as Jason leaned back.

“I wasn’t nice either,” Jason said, taking the glass from his hand and replacing it with one of the beers. He cracked it open with a hiss and took a slow sip. “Didn’t mean half the crap I said. I was already pissed off, getting shot at, and then you yelling at me, snappy. Not exactly a love letter.”

A small, tired laugh escaped him. “So, I came home early. Cooked dinner. Got you flowers.”

“…And I got you flowers,” [M/N] murmured, almost sheepishly. The admission softened his posture, the tight line of his shoulders easing as his gaze fell to the table. The weight that had been choking his chest finally loosened. “And I am rather hungry.”

Jason smirked faintly, lifting his bottle. “Good. Then stop standing there and lets dig in."

He reached out, his hand brushing [M/N]’s wrist before settling instead on his shoulder—firm, guiding. He turned him gently toward the table. “You know, you’re a real menace. Sitting in your car, circling the block like some lovesick stalker.”

“I—I was not!” [M/N] hissed, mortified, though his ears burned red as he snatched the carnations and added them to the vase with Jason’s white roses. The contrast—delicate pink and pristine white—was startlingly beautiful.

Jason chuckled and took his seat, setting his beer beside his plate while [M/N] adjusted the flowers to his satisfaction before sitting opposite him. The table was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.

They began to eat.