This is part of a larger continuity of stories. Please consult my profile for the master reading list if you want to read them in order.
Remember when I said in 'The Minutes Till my Heartbeat Stops' that it was done, except for a sequel that had Dick's reaction? Well, this is it. This is also my first real foray into how Dick thinks and acts. Included are also many reasons why he acts the way he does and (shock!) it's not just because he's a giant whore. Because he really isn't, and the second chapter gets into a bit of why that is.
Again, this is a direct sequel to 'The Minutes Till my Heartbeat Stops', all from Dick's PoV. I've got two chapters of this, because damnit I was not having a 20K plus single chapter.
Warnings are: non-graphic violence, and some seriously unhealthy mental coping mechanisms/patterns. Enjoy!
For me, running isn't the pound of shoes against pavement or dirt, or the pump of muscles in thighs and calves, or the shock of each impact with the ground. It's a feeling more than an action, and even though I could tell people that running has always been a comfort to me, they wouldn't understand what I mean.
It has nothing to do with the ground, and nothing to do with how fast or far I can push myself. It's not about the speed, or the distance, or getting to or away from something. To me, running is the rush of wind through my hair and against my face. It's the rush of flying, and the clench of falling, and the knowledge that I am in complete control over which one I'm at the mercy of. It's the pull of a cable in my hand, against my shoulder, and the contract and shove of pushing off a building with both legs. Each rough twist of my glove against the ledge of a building in a flip, and the roll against the gravel of a rooftop before I'm off the edge again and it all starts over.
That's running.
I knew the sky and the feeling of being completely free like this a long time before I was ever picked up by Bruce, and a long time before my first rooftop run. I knew what this felt like even as a child, being tossed into the air by my parents and feeling that one moment of being at the air's mercy before being caught again. It's in my blood, it always was. I knew it when my parents introduced me to the feeling of a spotlight, of ropes under my hand and the gasps of an audience, and that has never gone away.
Home is the sky, it's that feeling, and wherever I happen to sleep I'll never be separated from what that feels like.
When things are wrong, when the constants around me start to shatter, this is where I retreat to. When Bruce and I fought, and when I left him behind to become Nightingale, the sky is what brought me back from the edge of that. When Jason died, and then when he came back looking for answers and blood, the instinctive clench of my stomach in a freefall is what held me together. When the people I choose to share myself with scream in my face, snarl insults and demand to know how I can think of them as replaceable, it's the memory of that moment of weightlessness in the air that lets me ignore it.
When I saw the look in Jason's eyes, and knew that the man I'd always considered mine loved someone else, that he was willing to trust and believe in someone that wasn't me…
Here I am. Bludhaven. Twisting through my city's skies and letting the feeling keep me from the pain.
I couldn't stay in Gotham. I couldn't watch Arsenal smile and kiss Jason with that kind of tenderness, with that much joy. Not without slitting his throat, and then I'd lose Jason completely, wouldn't I?
Arsenal, Roy, loves Jason, and my younger brother loves him back. Whatever I might have with Jason, however much he might be mine — and for however much longer, now that he has the archer — I know he doesn't love me the way he loves Roy. If what he feels for me can even be called 'love'. We're family, and he's been mine nearly as long as he's worn a mask, and I know he's loyal because even after he died he was still mine on some level, but love? I'm not sure I could even recognize it if I saw it.
I remember the joy and the easy familiarity of being with my parents, and I know the feeling of the vicious loyalty I have for Bruce, and I know I would defend any member of my family to the end of my life, if I had to, but are any of those things love? Is it anything like what Roy feels when he looks at Jason, or what Jason feels when he looks at Roy? Did I ever feel anything like they do, or even anything I can think of as 'love,' for Jason, or did I just keep him close because he was the first person who didn't want me to change when we were together?
Jason never wanted anything from me but my touch and my presence, and at the start it was closer to worship on his part than it ever was any kind of desire for a relationship. I knew that, but Jason took the pain I dealt out — more than most people can handle — and asked for more; he enjoyed it. I could pin him down and hurt him, and he'd arch up against me — his teeth clenched and his eyes wild with adrenaline and lust — and plead for more, for me to do whatever I wanted to him. Losing that the first time, when the Jokester killed him, left a hole in my life I couldn't fill. Not with other people's blood, or their touch, or even Bruce's hand on my shoulder and his promises of making the clown suffer.
But then Jason came back, and after Bruce and I brought him back from his hatred he was one of us again. He was my brother again, and he was mine. Not the way he was, I had to learn not to put him at my mercy the way I was used to doing, but he still wanted me. Maybe the man that came back to Gotham wasn't the same as the teenager that had been taken — harder, defensive, and more dangerous than Jason ever was before — but he was still Jason at his core, and he was still the only person that struck that balance I wanted.
He didn't expect more than the familiarity and the sex, and didn't get angry and vicious that I wouldn't give that 'more,' but he didn't treat me like the disposable, single night fuck that some others did either. Jason wanted me for who I was, for the touch, the pleasure, and the loyalty between us, but he never seemed to feel the need to claim me in front of the rest of the world, or even want me to admit that I was his in any way. I could take my teeth and nails to him, carve the proof of my ownership into his skin and make sure everyone knew that he was mine, and he never asked to do the same.
Jason was mine, but he never asked me to be his. He let me claim him without ever asking more than my touch in return, and he seemed to be content with that.
I guess that's over now.
Jason has Roy, what more use does he have for me? We'll still be family, that won't ever go away, but I guess that the days of Jason being mine are done. That's alright; I'll cope. I've dealt with loss before, and it's not like Jason is dying for a second time. He'll be happy, even if it's not with me. I can learn to resist killing Arsenal; I'll just keep myself scarce and out of their way until I figure out exactly how. There are other beds I can spend my nights in, and other people I can be around, until that happens.
I won't trust any of them, and I won't give any particular favor to any of them, but they'll do well enough for keeping me occupied for a time. I can't really trust any of them, not the way I trust my family, and I know that. I don't even fully trust anyone in my family but Bruce, not even Jason. I trust them more than anyone else, but I remember what it feels like to trust someone as completely as I did my parents, and I don't trust my brothers like that.
I can believe that the other members of our team — M'gann, Koriand'r, Kon-El, to name a few — are good enough to follow my commands, and good enough to be useful to me, but that doesn't mean I trust them. Trusting is being able to close your eyes, throw yourself into the air, and know that someone will be there to wrap a hand around your wrist and keep you from the ground. It's knowing that the someone you choose will always be there to pick you up and pull you away from the impact, that they'll always be at the end of your swing or at your back. It's knowing that they're every bit as good at their job as you are, and even if you slip they can make up the difference.
The only person that I trust that absolutely is Bruce, because I know from years and years working at his side that even if we fight he'll be there. He'll always be there. At Bruce's side I don't have to even consider worrying about if he'll make it out; I know that as long as I do my job and watch his back, nothing could ever happen. It's not the same as fighting at the side of any of my brothers; they're all excellent combatants and I know it, but I'm their older brother. I'm responsible for them. I don't have that same ingrained need to worry about Bruce, not as intensely anyway.
With Bruce I can call for him, jump, and trust that no matter what he's doing, he'll stop to catch me. I know he can. I trust Jason, Tim, and even Damian to make the effort, but I'm not sure they'll actually manage it; not the way I know that Bruce will.
How could anyone else ever fill a role like that? Why would I let them even try?
I retract my cable, closing my eyes for just a second as I let my body arch and my head fall back, turning in a slow backwards fall through midair because I can. I breathe easily, flicking my eyes back open when I'm face down, and shooting the cable out again to catch in the corner of a building, letting it bear my weight at the bottom of the fall and swing me around the side of the brick and back up into the sky. Releasing its hold at just the right moment to be flung into the air with all my momentum feels natural, is natural. I know everything about the clench and release of muscle, know the weight of my own body and what it's capable of, know exactly what the curve of an arc feels like, and the distance between landings.
I didn't need Bruce to teach me how to fly, I just needed him to teach me how to land, and he did. The sky is still my home, midair and with the momentum of a swing behind me, but I know the ground now too. I know how to hit the floor and get back up, how to weather the sting of gravel and the drag of asphalt and keep moving. I know everything about a city's streets and her darker shadows. Gotham especially, but Bludhaven runs a close second.
Gotham is Bruce's, and Bludhaven is mine. I run things here, and I keep this section of Bruce's empire running smoothly. Someday, I'm sure Tim and Damian will have their own cities too. Jason would never tie himself down to a single place like that, and he already has his side life as a mercenary, but my other brothers would.
Maybe Jason will take up a place in Star City, now that he's with Roy.
My eyes close more sharply this time, breath catching for that same moment, and I twist and loop the cable around the rung of a fire escape. The swing pulls me down, only a few stories from the ground, and then up again, where I retract it and catch the edge of the building in the same second. I propel myself over, and let myself fall over the ledge into a roll that drains away the last of the momentum. My chest aches a bit, but I push it down and straighten up to my feet, tossing my head back.
Bludhaven might not be as intense as Gotham most times, but that doesn't mean it's safe to assume that I'm alone on this particular rooftop, or that I'm not being watched by someone. I'm an Owl; appearances are everything.
We're just human underneath the costumes, and the day someone truly grasps what that means is the day they bring us down. We can't afford to look like anything except perfect, and luckily that came naturally to me. It's what my parents taught me from birth, after all.
It's all about the show.
It doesn't matter what you feel, it doesn't matter if you're in pain, or exhausted. If you're in front of someone, anyone, that isn't family you have to put forward the absolute best face you have. Make it look easy, effortless, and make sure no one sees the sweat or the tremble of overtaxed muscle. Deal with what you have to in private, but make sure nothing shatters the illusion of the act. The same rules that my parents taught me also happened to apply to being Talon, Nightingale, and even to being a Wayne.
It's the show, the appearance, the act. Nothing can break the illusion that as Owls we're beyond human. Not in front of heroes, civilians, or even the people that we cautiously, or temporarily, call allies. Especially not in front of them.
People look to us as one of the most powerful crime families in the world, as the humans that stand beside gods and monsters without fear, and lead them. The Crime Syndicate is Bruce's, the younger team is mine and Tim's, Jason is a respected member of the mercenary communities, and even Damian plays his own part among the youngest of the sidekicks. I can't be the one to bring that down; I won't.
So I keep the smile on my face, stand tall even when it hurts, and spread the fear of our family through the world. It doesn't matter that the thought of Jason and Roy brings a hollow ache to my chest, or that the sight of them together, and of Tim and Bruce supporting it, hurts like the time that Jason put a knife in my stomach. The fact that I have to pretend to be alright with this, that I can't tear Roy limb from limb without losing Jason too, is the worst of it. Next to that, the fact that I have to smile to his face, that I'm going to be called on to help train the archer, is just an extra blow when I'm already down.
But it doesn't matter.
I made my decision, and I didn't think Jason would ever love the archer back but it's too late to withdraw what I said now. I thought I could get Harper to back off, back down, if I hurt him badly enough, but he didn't. Even pinned against the ground, or bleeding and choking under my hand, I could see in his eyes that he'd never let me scare him away with anything but something completely drastic. He proved to me that he was loyal to Jason, that to him 'love' was more than just a word and that he meant it. He was willing to die before hurting Jason, willing to let me torture him before he'd take the choice of what to do out of my brother's hands. To be able to tell Jason how he felt, and let him do whatever he wanted with that information.
Not to take him from me, or to demand that Jason love him back, or even to ask that anything change. He wasn't ever even intending to tell Jason, if I hadn't pushed him into shouting it at me and bringing it into the open. He was content and even happy to officially be nothing more than a convenience, for as long as he had to be.
"Why do the words matter?" Roy had asked, and I didn't have an answer.
He… impressed me, so when Tim brought up the idea of taking Harper into our family as one of us, of claiming him as an Owl, I told Bruce that Roy was devoted to Jason, and he wouldn't betray us. I didn't think Jason would return the feelings, I didn't think Roy was a threat to what I had. I never imagined Jason actually enjoying being with someone so… gentle, and his skill with weaponry aside Harper is gentle. He's good natured, kind, and generally trusting of anyone he knows. He's nothing like any of us Owls, and I never thought Jason would care for someone like that. Especially someone already involved with another person, and a woman at that.
Jason may be equal opportunity when it comes to genders — there was a time I considered that we both learned that from Bruce, though Tim pretty much sneered and raised an eyebrow at all things female — but I didn't think he was someone that would get seriously involved in a threeway like that. Koriand'r definitely isn't his type; she's entitled, commanding, and Jason doesn't take that from anyone anymore. That can't work, can it?
How is it that Harper can love two separate people so equally, with everything he is?
I resist the urge to shake my head, or close my eyes, and start moving again instead. I've been still too long, and there's too many eyes in Bludhaven. No one can even think that I'm distracted. I glance around, and take a second as I'm heading for the edge of the building to consider what's in the area around me. It's an industrial area, and there's a stash house about three blocks to the east that I could check in on. If I remember correctly there's an operation going out of there tonight, a distribution out to dealers for the next week of their trade. There should be guards, and someone overseeing it, and it might be good to remind the lower rank and file of who they work for.
When we show our faces — figuratively speaking — and remind the lower subordinates that at the top of the pyramid are the Owls, there tend to be less of them that try and steal from us. Or try and sell us out to the cops. The cops are nothing compared to us.
It will keep my mind off of anything but practical thoughts, too. I could use a distraction.
I swap directions and speed up, taking a few running steps to get me to the top of the ledge at the edge of the rooftop, and shooting my cable out and up, into the brick of another building as I leap off of mine. The fall feels good, and the draw back up is even better. It's only a few blocks, and normally I would just freerun the distance between, but these buildings are particularly inconsistent in size and height, and it just wouldn't work as well as using a cable. Knowing how to freerun, as well as how to swing, are both fine, but the important part is knowing when to use each of them, or in what combination.
Not having to think about your next movement is the absolute goal. Moving should be natural, and the planning of a route should be subconscious, the same as it is in a fight. If you're having to stop and think about where you're going — or what your next attack is — then you've already hesitated and given the advantage away.
The building the stash is in is lit from within — not ideal for my purposes, but I do better in light than Bruce or Tim do; I was designed to catch attention — and I let my cable land me on the building next door — a fifteen foot gap between their roofs — and take a look over at the edge at the security. It's not bad, but it is clearly geared towards preventing police interference, and not protection against any vigilantes out there. I keep a tight hold on my city, and very few heroes dare to actually try and fight me here. Most of the attention is on Gotham and Bruce, and that definitely makes it easier to maintain order here.
Well, time to scare the rank and file.
I pull in a shallow breath and back up across the rooftop for a running start, shoving off the edge of the building and leaping, diving and tucking down to roll when I hit the top of the other building. It's not a completely soundless landing, but it's quieter than any of these lower grunts will notice. My lip curls a bit at the fact that there's no one stationed up here, even though there's a hatch and a large electrical box that could probably be used to at least temporarily disable the power. I'll make sure they fix that.
Even if my city is short on real heroes, and this isn't anything big enough to really be damaging to operations, that doesn't mean it's alright for them to slack on the basics of security. One would do, but ideally there should be two people stationed up here, to minimize the ability to neutralize them before they can sound some kind of alarm. Not necessary just to foil police — even the people on the ground would be able to hear a rooftop entry from normal police — but absolutely necessary for the rest of us vigilantes, who almost always prefer a back door. Even better if that back door is on the roof.
I shatter the loop of the rusted lock on the rooftop hatch with a sharp kick from the reinforced heel of my boot, and test the hatch itself briefly to make sure the hinges don't squeal before propping it open all the way. It leads to a ladder built in against one wall, and I descend down enough to hang off the top rung, turning my back to it and looking out into the warehouse. It's nearly full of wooden shipping boxes, stacked high and some wrapped in a protective layer of plastic. About three quarters of it is legitimate and legal things that Bruce and I happen to have a share in. He owns this building under a pseudonym, and we might use it as one stash house of many but there's no point having the empty space go unused.
As far as our subordinates are concerned, we pay a share of the profit to use the warehouse.
There's two trucks parked at the front end of the building, in front of a closed loading door, and the activity is centered over there. The backs of the trucks are open, and there are — at first count — eight people unpacking several open crates and loading the nondescript, smaller cardboard boxes into the trucks. The boxes don't look like much more than a standard package-by-mail, by design and for a first misdirection against anyone nosy.
None of the people notice me, but that's not surprising, just a little disappointing. Then again, it's been awhile since I had any real trouble in Bludhaven. What heroes I do have here tend to come after me, not the business I run. I guess they think if they take me down — like there's a prison in the world that could hold me — then the business will crumble on its own, or at least they'll be able to really take it apart without me there to stop them.
I don't think that's totally wrong, even if Tim would probably fill in for me until I got back.
I climb down the ladder, dropping the last few feet and then starting forward through the rows of crates. It's easy to track the location of the men by their noises, even if I can't directly see them any more, and the crates are stacked neatly so it's less of a maze and more of a straight path. I come into view and lean against one of the stacks of crates in the last row before the empty space and trucks, silently watching the men loading up the packages.
It only takes about ten seconds for one to notice me, gaze passing over and then doing a quick double take, reaching inside his coat for what's probably a gun with a cry of alarm. I stay still as the gun comes up, the cry getting me the attention of the other seven men as well, and before it's even fully trained on me one of the older looking men, off to one side, steps sharply in.
"Put that down, you moron," he snaps, "before he knocks it out of your hand with your fingers still attached." The gun-wielding man pales, and then flushes impressively bright red, as the rest of the men vary, caught between wary and laughing at their friend. "Back to work," the older man — somewhere in his fifties, with a decent beard and dark blue eyes — commands, sending the collection of lower ranked subordinates scattering back to their job loading the two trucks.
I shift off the crate I'm leaning against as the leader approaches me. He has the sense to look wary, but he's not obviously scared, and his face is definitely familiar. He's not new to this, so he'll know there's no reason to be afraid as long as he hasn't messed anything up. We don't make examples out of good workers, and usually they get rewarded in one way or another. If it's not profitable to work for us, why would anyone bother? After all, working for us comes with an increased risk of running into vigilantes, so if we didn't make it worth it we'd be stuck with the insane or the people with criminal records too long to get work anywhere else.
Neither tend to be good at their jobs.
"Nightingale, sir." His voice has dropped, quiet enough that the rest of the men probably won't be able to hear it. Their chatter, on the other hand, isn't as careful. Most of it is inane, and a comment from one of them lets me know that the gun-wielder is new to Bludhaven. "How can I help you?"
"Just stopping by," I reassure, doing him the service of pretending I don't see the relief that flashes across his face. "You need someone on the roof. Ideally, two people."
"Of course." He snaps out a sharp command, with two names I don't recognize in it, and two of the other seven men immediately break off and head around and past us into the warehouse, to the ladder and still open hatch. "Routine stop, sir?"
I give a sharp smile, though not one of my more threatening ones. "No such thing; I was nearby. Why did you hire someone new to the city?"
He winces. "My usual is out sick, flu, but vouched for this guy. Said he knew him from back in Metropolis. Short notice, and it's a busy night. My other normals are all either here or working something else. It's all I could do on short notice, and the higher ups have always said to never have a shorthanded crew."
I tilt my head in acceptance, glancing back past him at the group. New-guy catches my eye, and I watch him take a long look — pausing in his work — along the line of my costume until the closest other one smacks his side to start him into working. He jumps, and the other man — looks younger than new-guy by a few years, scruffy blonde hair and a smooth jaw — hisses something into his ear. At least he has the sense to say it quietly enough that I don't hear it.
New-guy, on the other hand, doesn't have that much sense.
"Can you imagine what fucking that would feel like?"
The leader cringes, and the blonde man beside new-guy looks totally horrified. I flick my gaze, without turning my head, to watch that interaction, studying the short brown hair and stubble-lined jaw of the man, the narrow blue eyes that are somewhere close to Jason's blue-green mix of shade. He's on the shorter side, closer to Kon-El's height than mine, and he's got decent muscle in his arms but it's maybe equal to Tim's definition, with no adjustment for this man being built thicker. Decent looking enough, but not my type and not up to my standards.
Normally I don't mind comments like that. I designed my suit to catch attention, so getting it usually isn't anything but gratifying, even if it's crude. But right now, I'm not in the mood to be treated with anything but respect, not to my face.
Anyway, I needed a distraction didn't I?
The leader doesn't turn, but there's resignation in his eyes and voice as he raises one hand to scrub over his forehead. "I don't really need the extra hand," he concedes. "Loading will go slower, but I can push the rest of them harder and we shouldn't be that far behind schedule."
I incline my head a bit, returning my attention to him. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the blonde man shove new-guy back to work, hissing things under his breath and looking somewhere between terrified and furious. "You can keep him until the loading is done," I allow. "I'm in no rush. Go back to work, I'll stay and watch."
He winces again, and I get the impression he definitely doesn't want me sticking around, but I flash a slightly sharper smile at him and he thinks better of arguing. "Will I get him back?" he asks instead, still just looking resigned as opposed to really worried. "In one piece?"
I make a show of shrugging carelessly, letting my smile widen a bit. I don't feel any of it — there's a yawning pit in my chest that's starting to turn into something deadly, something cold, something furious — but why would that matter? It's the appearance, it's my persona, it's what's expected. "If he behaves," is all I offer.
I'm not in a good mood, and I'm self-aware enough to know that, but so long as he doesn't say anything I find particularly offensive I can hold back. If he irritates me I'll take my mood out on him, but if he's smart enough not to then he'll get away with nothing more than a reminder not to disrespect an Owl. He can keep his fantasies if he wants to, but he should keep them behind closed doors and off of his tongue. If I let him keep that.
The leader makes a small face, and I can read the disappointment in it, before nodding. "Yes, sir."
I shift my weight as he turns and heads back to the rest of the men, joining in loading up the trucks. They've got a few more crates of boxes to go, so I take a glance around and find a lower stack of boxes — still in the front row of the stacks filling the rest of the warehouse — to jump up on. It's only a few boxes high, about the height of my shoulders, and it's an easy flip to make to get myself on top.
I sit down and lean back on one hand, drawing the opposite foot up to balance on the edge of the box and letting my arm hook on top of my knee, letting my left leg hang over the edge. I get a few worried glances, and none of them seem real comfortable with me still being here, but that's good. I shouldn't make them comfortable.
If they were comfortable around me then they wouldn't be afraid, and if they're not afraid then I haven't done my job right. We usually don't interact with anyone who isn't running an operation, but the Owl name hangs over all of this, and they should know what that means. We don't tolerate failure, or disrespect, and we really don't operate the same as the crime operations in Metropolis. This may not be Gotham, and I might not hold the same kind of weight to my name as Bruce does, but I am not to be messed with.
It's good that this is a lesson that most people only need to learn once, and most don't need to experience it hands-on. All it usually takes is hearing about or seeing what we can do, and the kind of people who'd work for us fall right into line. Not many people are stupid enough to try betraying or disrespecting us after knowing even some of what we can do.
We call those people 'heroes.' Or 'dead.' Depends how successful they were at it.
I angle my head to be turned towards the general direction of the workers, only moving my eyes to track them individually, so as not to betray exactly who I'm looking at. I don't know if what the other one said to new-guy actually changed his mind, or if he's just decided to stop talking about it out loud, but though he's obviously the least phased by my presence he doesn't speak again. Doesn't mean that I don't catch his eyes trained up at me a few times.
The rest of them seem fine. Nothing extraordinarily good looking, or bad, good muscle on most, and they move like they know what they're doing. That would be the difference between them and the new one. The rest of this crew understands how work in my city goes; they move quickly, confidently, but everything is done precisely and accurately. It's a fine line to walk.
We advertise the policy that if a job is done ahead of schedule, everyone is welcome to go home with full payments. But, conversely, if anything isn't done right, if mistakes are made, it's a harsher punishment. Go slow enough to get it right, and only speed up once you have it down enough that added speed doesn't sacrifice the quality of the work. Better behind schedule than done wrong.
If I let him live long enough, this idiot from Metropolis will learn that too.
What's entertaining to me, a little bit, is that the manager is pretty much focusing on the new guy like a hawk. It's understandable, and totally possible he was doing it before I got here — better to watch the link in your chain you're not sure can hold up than the already tested ones — but the manager stations himself right next to new-guy and eyes everything he does. It seems to make the idiot kind of self-conscious, but he doesn't make any more stupid mistakes, and maybe it's actually the leader's proximity that makes him stay quiet.
Eventually, all the packages are loaded into the trucks, and without prompting the men split into two teams, one for each truck. They start for the doors, two men from each climbing into the back of the trucks, and I push off my stack of crates and bend my knees to catch the impact's force. My movement causes a pause, a hesitation in all of them, and I flash a sharper smile and aim my gaze towards new-guy.
"Not you," I announce, raising a hand to crook a few of my fingers and beckon him closer. "Why don't you come talk to me?"
It does feel good that two other members of the crew simultaneously make the sign of the cross over their chests, relief sharp in their eyes. The leader winces again, and new-guy just looks a little concerned and confused, but not nearly as much as he should be. He'll learn.
None of the others — as their manager gets them moving again, and radios out to the two men on the roof as well the security outside — offers new-guy anything but a few pitying glances that he doesn't seem to notice. The leader gives me a last nod and climbs into the seat of his truck, and I move a little closer to the man left behind as they pull out. He's standing still, and I get to his side and loop my arm around his shoulders. Jason, or anyone I work with, would recognize my smile as the warning it is. He doesn't.
"Let's talk on the roof, shall we?" I offer, and he looks a little taken aback, but he still hasn't realized how thin the ice is that he's standing on. Apparently he's too busy staring down the black and blue line of my closest leg, to the slight heel at the back of my boot.
"Yes, sir," he answers, jerking his gaze back up to my face.
I squeeze his shoulders briefly, a little harder than what's comfortable, and widen my smile a touch. "The ladder's back in that corner of the room," I say, raising my other arm to flick my hand the direction I'm indicating. "How about I meet you there?"
Bruce won't appreciate it if I get blood in his building, and neither will the cleanup crews that will come through in about an hour to wipe any evidence left behind; like the empty crates. They'll go over the roof too, and replace the lock I broke, but anything up there won't be as obvious as what I might leave down here. Easier cleanup on a rooftop, and more room for error, just in case.
He nods, and I let go of his shoulders and give him what he'll probably interpret as a playful shove in the center of his back. Sure it is, if you count 'playing with your food' as being playful.
Before he has the time to turn back around I'm moving, darting past his side and catching the edge of the stack of crates I was on before. It feels like second nature to push off with both legs, flinging my momentum heels-over-head as I grip the very edge of the crate and twist, letting myself stay suspended on my arms for a moment before letting go. I vaguely hear the startled gasp behind me, but then I'm up and moving again, using the lower stack to get me to higher ones. Easy jumps, but he'll be impressed. He's a Metropolis man, after all.
I don't wait for him. I just head to the back corner, where I originally came down, and lean against the wall next to the ladder. It takes him a bit, but he manages to get back to me. The crates aren't really a maze, mostly they're in straight lines, but it's certainly still faster to just go over the top of them rather than walk through.
I flash him a smirk when he comes out from between the stacks, and jerk my chin up in an indication, towards the top of the ladder and the hatch at the top of it. "Up there," I say, just to make absolutely sure he goes where I want him to.
I'm pretty sure he thinks he's being smooth when he extends a hand, tilts his head down, and answers, "After you." Honestly, all it does is piss me off a little more. No one gets to treat me like that except my family, and I only let them because they know I'm anything but fragile. They know I'm more than what I choose to look like.
If I gave Jason the smile I give this man — bright, my teeth sharp and slightly parted as if I'm about to laugh — he'd be drawing weapons into his hands and mapping out the nearest exit. I choose to hide what I feel behind my smiles, and the larger they get the more I'm using them to mask. I'm angry, and there's jealousy and fear and fury behind my smile but this man apparently doesn't know enough to be afraid. Oh, that will change.
"I don't climb ladders," I purr at him, raising my arm and firing the built in grapnel. He watches, eyes widening a little, and I get out, "See you at the top," before I feel the tug of the hook catching on the support beams, and wind my hand around the cable to support my weight as it drags me upward.
I'm just a few inches from the wall, and I watch him instead of it, or the ladder barely a foot from me. He starts climbing the ladder just a few seconds before I reach the top, and when I do I hook my foot over one of the metal rungs, catch another with my free hand, and disengage the grapnel. I take the time to glance down, once, before shoving the hatch open and climbing through. The night air feels good, and I grab a spot sitting on the edge of the electrical box, about fifteen feet from where the hatch lets out.
The men that were stationed up here are gone, called down to join when the others left, and I'm fairly certain the rest of the security is gone as well, though I don't get up to look over the edge of the roof and check. There's no sense in leaving an empty warehouse guarded; it would just be a target until the cleaners get here. Better to make it look like there's nothing in here worth looking at, which is more or less true. Empty crates and a broken rooftop lock are hardly enough for the police to form any kind of case. The cleaners are just for caution, more than any true need for their services.
Finally, the man emerges from the hatch. He looks just slightly out of breath, but that's not too surprising. It's a long climb, and he'd already been moving things.
"Close it," I order, as he straightens up. He nudges the hatch closed with one foot, and I hold my smile on my face as it bangs shut with an obnoxiously loud crash of metal on metal.
"What can I do for you?" He actually looks like he's eager about this. Oh, I'm going to enjoy proving him wrong.
I get to my feet, sliding closer to him at a slight angle so I'm not just approaching head on. I keep myself straight, tall, relaxed, with that twist of my mouth that should be a warning, but only comes across to him as an invitation. It's easy to read the attraction in his eyes, easy to see the drag of his gaze down my suit, along my legs, back to my ass and the angle of my waist and hips. I don't think he notices the way my smile widens a touch, or the way I ease a little bit further into the stalking stride that Jason — behind my back, to Tim — calls my 'sexy-as-fuck but about to murder someone' walk. That's a direct quote.
I step up close beside him, uncomfortably close if he were scared but he's not, so he just stares and swallows, head turned to the side to watch me. "You're from Metropolis, right?" I say, quietly and with a purr to my voice that I know most people can't stop themselves reacting to.
He shivers, mouth parting a little bit, and then nods. "Yeah, that's right. Got into town last week."
I reach forward, tracing my hand down the length of his arm and lingering at his elbow. "What's your name?" I ask, wrapping my fingers around his arm as I slide in a little bit closer. None of my brothers would let me get this close if I was in this kind of a mood, and none of them would let me get a grip on them. They know better.
"Toby," he answers, still not sounding nervous.
"Well, let's talk, Toby." I lower my voice a bit more, leaning in to speak almost directly in his ear. When he shivers again, I take the opening.
I slam my boot into his calf, knocking his leg out from under him, and pull his arm back — letting my fingers slide to his wrist — as he falls with a startled shout. He lands on his knees, and I bring my right foot up and shove it against his neck, driving my heel into the front of his throat and pinning his head against the gravel. I twist his arm at the same time, forcing his shoulder down and his elbow to lock, and then brace it against the back of my knee on the leg holding him down. If he moves, one hard yank should snap his elbow like a twig, and I can hold his wrist there with barely any pressure. This already hurts, he won't want to fight the hold.
I lean down, keeping my left leg steady against the ground and bending my torso to meet his wide eyes, pushing down just a little harder on his throat. He chokes, legs kicking out against the rooftop, and I ease up enough to let him breath. Not much, but I'm sure he can drag in at least a little air past that.
"Let's set a few things straight, shall we?" I purr, holding my smile but actually feeling it now. Just a little bit. "This isn't Metropolis, it's Bludhaven. This is my city, and I don't run it the way the Ultras run theirs."
"Son of a—" I cut him off, grinding my heel into his throat and allowing myself to enjoy the pain shining in his eyes and plastered across his face.
"Do you know my name, Toby?" I ask, idly, and give it another second before I draw my heel back enough to let him actually answer.
"Nightingale," he gasps out, and I let my smile flick wider.
"That's right." My tone is mocking approval, and it seems to make him angry, if the push of one of his feet against the rooftop and the narrowing of his eyes is any indication. "So now that we've established where you are, and who I am, let's move on. What makes you think I have any interest in you, or would ever even consider letting you fuck me? Yes, I heard your comment."
In some people, pain and fear make them bravely, stupidly, angry. Apparently Toby is one of them.
"Everyone knows!" he spits out, glaring even though he's breathless. "You'll sleep with anything that moves; you're the whore of the Crime Syndicate."
I break his elbow.
He screams, and I swallow away fury, and pain, and a jealous bitterness that threatens the smile splitting my face. It's all about the show, and I will not let some random man's insults influence what I show the world. He never has to know that I care what he says, and neither does anyone else. No one ever has to know that underneath the armor and the shield of a smile and a blue and black costume, I'm still capable of being hurt. No one gets to know that.
I let go of his arm, satisfied that he's not going to try and run from me now, and pull my foot from his neck to hook it underneath his shoulder and kick him to his back. He's pale, and he grasps uselessly at his arm, eyes wide and his throat arched back. There are small, gasping, noises coming from his throat, and they get sharper and a little more desperate as I step over him, crouching down over his chest with my feet to either side of his waist.
"Let me tell you a little something about sexuality," I say, keeping the low purr of my voice and the smile on my lips. "It has no effect on what someone is capable of." I lower my hand, tracing it down over his arm and across the ruin of his elbow, and he goes very, very still. "The fact that I take what I'm interested in, the fact that I'm not bound to a single person, means nothing except exactly that. You're not the first person to brand me, and I really don't care what you think of me, but you will keep it to yourself. Call me whatever you want in your own head, Toby, but keep it off your tongue."
Now he looks scared, and I withdraw my hand to rest it over my leg. "I'll clue you in on something else, too. When most species show their teeth, they mean it as a threat. It's a reminder that they could bury their fangs in your throat and rip it out." His breathing — already fast and shallow — quickens just a little bit, and I flash him a wider smile and let my anger sharpen it to a threat that's now obvious even to him. "So, while I'm making sure you remember not to judge how dangerous I am by who I choose to sleep with, I want you to understand that when I smile, Toby, when I laugh, it's not reassurance.
It's a threat."
I rest my back against the corner of the wall, pressing the edge to one side of spine and using it to dig into the slight tension between my shoulders. There's a door to my left, about twenty feet away, with a push-bar across the middle. It's not locked, but it's noisy, and I can be gone and around the corner before anyone gets far enough out to see me. I know, I've tested it.
When I need a moment to breathe, a moment to think, outside the public eye, I come here. The headquarters of the Bludhaven Police Department.
Tim mocks me for it — he thinks it's reckless of me — and even Jason doesn't like it, but this is my city, and I know how she breathes. I know how she works. I know precisely where the cameras are up here, where to sit to avoid them, how to approach without anyone seeing me, and which of the cops below come up here to smoke. Not many, and none that I'm remotely threatened by.
Sad that the list doesn't doesn't include my favorite cop. Which, speaking of...
I retrieve my phone from inside the padded, protected pocket underneath my upper left arm — not my civilian one, but a hardier, better one that circumvents the need to keep constant communication open on the earpieces — and flip it open to hit the power button for the screen. Handmade by Bruce; any kind of outside power button would get activated too much for any real kind of battery power, and with a hard outer shell there's less chance of a stray strike shattering the phone completely.
I shouldn't have the number saved to my contacts list, right below those of all my family, but above my teammates, but I do. I enter it, let it ring, and raise it up to my ear. After three rings it clicks on, and I circumvent his usual greeting.
"Did you get my present?" I ask, closing my eyes as I tilt my head back against the corner of the wall.
There's a moment of silence, and then, "You mean the man I had to get rushed to the ER, with an unlicensed gun inside the coat they had to cut off him?"
"He'll live," I comment, carelessly. "The gun's got his fingerprints on it, you shouldn't have a problem convicting him of at least that. Unless you've lost your talent, Gannon?"
"It's 'Officer Malloy' to you, Nightingale. Why should I do your dirty work for you?" He's indignant, angry, and my mouth flickers in a slight smirk.
Most of the BCPD is corrupt in one way or another — bribery or blackmail takes care of almost everyone — but Gannon is to me what the GCPD's Jim Gordon is to Bruce. Something to toy with, to keep up a public resistance and keep the belief just slightly alive that there are rare members of the police civilians can trust. If they think there's a chance they might speak to a real, law-abiding officer they're more likely to tell someone that will tell me. If a city believes its police are flat out corrupt, then they stop relying on them. That's how we get vigilantes.
There are a few other Bludhaven cops I don't keep under my heel, but Gannon's the most dangerous of them, in some ways. In other ways, he's the weakest, and I take full advantage of that.
"I've already done the dirty work," I point out, with a short laugh. "Besides, just because I happen to want him to learn a lesson doesn't mean you don't want him off the streets too. I'm sure we can come to an," I drop my voice, purr out the last word, "arrangement."
"I'm not making deals with a criminal, and especially not you."
"I'm flattered how much you hate me, really." I shift, line the corner up against the other side of my spine, and press back against it,"but we both know you're lying, Officer." I don't flinch when the door to the roof shoves open, just turn my head and smirk up at my favorite cop. "See?" I flick my phone closed, tucking it away, and get to my feet as I eye the gun leveled at my chest. "I call and you come running."
He's tall, broad in the same way Jason is, with muscular shoulders barely contained by the semi-formal white uniform dress shirt, and long legs. He's got short blonde hair that looks a little ruffled at the moment, and light green eyes narrowed down at me.
Tim, if he ever knew I do this, would probably… Well, he'd tell Bruce, and Alfred, and Jason, and then I'd be in the combined crosshairs of their displeasure. It wouldn't be a fun few months, but I'd survive it. At least I would be the focus of their attention, which would be a nice change from recent times. Even if the attention was negative.
"Hands in the air," he orders, dropping his phone inside the right-side pocket of his slacks, and bringing the now-free hand up to brace the gun and switch his grip to a more comfortable one. One leading with his dominant hand.
I consider him, and then let the smirk stay on my lips as I answer, "No, I don't think so. You know, it's a special kind of rude to hold a gun on someone who just gave you a present."
"I think you're mispronouncing 'trash to dispose of,' but nice try. What did he do, anyway? You don't do that kind of damage to your employees without good reason, I know that."
Gannon's tried turning a lot of my people, but everyone knows the simple rules of telling Owl secrets. There is no protection, you will be found, and whatever sentence you were threatened with by the police, or heroes, will be child's play compared to what spilling secrets will earn you. We pay well, we offer good deals, and we make sure our employees stay satisfied with what they get when they work for us. We don't build gang members, we build mercenaries. We pay them, we protect them, and they stay loyal to us. A little fear of punishment never hurts, of course. But only if the punishment is earned.
"I may have done more than he deserved," I admit, with a tilt of my head. "I suppose he didn't back down when I gave him the chance to." I deliberately tilt my head down to the gun in his hands, and then flash a sharp smile at him. "Does that sound familiar, Gannon?" I have very few issues with a gun being pointed at me, especially because I doubt he'll actually pull the trigger as long as I'm not overtly aggressive, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.
He hesitates, his eyes flicker down to the gun as well, and then he swallows and slowly lowers the weapon. He's not dumb enough to think that a gun will take me down, and he's not suicidal enough to think I'll let him leave this rooftop alive — or at least without something that'll put him out of play for a few months — if he tries taking a shot at me. He moves warily, and I watch him tuck the gun away into the holster at his right hip, snapping the top of it closed, movements exaggerated for caution's sake. His hands fall to his sides, and I let the smile slip a little bit.
Gannon's one of the few that knows my smiles don't mean anything but threat, most of the time, and as much as I like to challenge him I don't usually mean my threats.
"Come sit down," I offer, leaning against the corner of the wall. "There's a nice blind spot here; no one needs to know you sat around with a criminal."
I stretch my arms out over my head, arching to crack my back, but keep my eyes open to watch him react. The crack does feel good, but mostly I do it for the sharp flick of his eyes down the curved line of my arched back, and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. Gannon's weakness, as I know and exploit. He's firmly homosexual, and I know I'm attractive; I know he's attracted to me. I designed my suit to emphasize the best points of my physical build, to distract those it could and make others not take me as seriously, and oh has Gannon fallen into that first trap.
The dark lines of blue that cut across my back, brightening to a lighter blue as they end in downwards sweeping points, outline the curve of my spine. The two lines of blue that circle my wrists and sweep up the outside of my arms, ending at points just before my palms and up on either side of my neck, give a line to the arch of my throat in a flip, and the grip of my hand around a cable or my knives. The ones that start at the front of my hips, curving around to the back of my thighs and sweeping all the way down my legs, frame my ass, and draw the eye to any extension of my legs as well as the way both limbs bend and curve from the thick, two-inch heels at the back of my boots.
Bruce and Tim are shadows, but I designed myself to suit a spotlight.
Gannon pauses, and I let my arms rest above my head as I watch him, taunt him with the possibility of coming over and wrapping a hand around my wrists to hold them there. I might not even stop him if he did; assuming he didn't go for handcuffs or something at the same time. Well, I'm not entirely opposed to handcuffs, though I prefer the grip of fingers. As if I need my hands to protect myself.
"I have work to do," he says, with a strained edge, and it definitely sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"That's why you're up here?" I tease, and hold back the urge to smile. I don't want to threaten him; I'm coaxing.
He glances at the door to his right, unsure, and his left hand curls to a fist. "This isn't some kind of play to make me miss something?" he asks, sharp and wary. I suppose that's a fair thought.
I twist my hands, drawing his eyes up the lines of my arms to the press of my wrists against the wall. He twitches and yanks his gaze back down. "If I wanted you to miss something, I would have dragged you over here and tied you up the second you came through that door, Officer Malloy." It's a peace offering, and I let my smile fade almost completely off my face to make him believe I mean it. "I'm only up here to breathe; what we do past that is up to you."
And I mean it.
I'm here to take a breath away from the grime of the alleys, and out from underneath whatever eyes might be watching. I'm here, in the safest place in Bludhaven, to let my mask slip for a minute and just think. If all Gannon wants to do is sit next to me and breathe the same air, he's welcome to. If he wants to turn around, go back to work, and leave me alone on his rooftop, he's welcome to do that too. I have no interest in forcing him to stay up here, or do anything he doesn't want to, but I find the presence of someone I'm not expected to look perfect for to be calming. We might be something like enemies but Gannon's watched me, and seen me around, enough to know me almost as well as my family. My mask wouldn't fool him anyway.
His obsession entertains me, most days.
He starts forward, slowly, and I stay still and watch as he comes up beside me. He hesitates, glancing up along the line of my arms, and then down the slight arch of my back and my closer leg. There's a moment as his weight shifts closer, and he takes in a slightly deeper breath, that I think he's actually going to make a first move. That he might reach forward and press his hands down over my wrists, lean in and actually live a fantasy.
But then he's shifting away again and pressing his back against the wall next to me, gaze dragged off to the side and away from me. He looks a bit like someone who just realized how close they might have come to death — slightly parted mouth, paler skin, wider eyes — and I give a soft snort at the comparison.
"Shame," I say quietly, in reference to his decision, and allow my arms to lower back down to my sides. He looks over as I stretch out my legs and slide back down to sitting.
"Shame?" he echoes, very slowly sitting down beside me. Not sliding — wouldn't want to get that shirt dirty — but pulling away from the wall enough to fold his legs beneath him before resettling. His right arm presses defensively down along his belt and the holster for his gun, both only about half a foot away from my left hand. Like he thinks I might try and steal the weapon even though the knife strapped to my thigh is closer, faster, and much more my style.
I turn my head, meeting his gaze, and raise an eyebrow. He might be able to see the movement of muscle, even if it's hidden underneath my mask. "About your morals. Have a boyfriend somewhere, Officer?"
He doesn't. I know that. I know almost everything there is to know about Gannon Malloy. What he eats, where he lives, how he exercises, who he chooses to sleep with; all of it. The answer to that last one is casually, pickups from bars that are taken to motel rooms and given a single night and left to sleep things off. He's not proud of it, and I've watched him enough to know that he holds off until the frustration makes him seek someone out. He doesn't fuck roughly, but it's hard and long and fairly skilled. Not something I'd mind taking advantage of, with the right chance.
"No," he answers, defensively, and I smirk.
"I wouldn't hurt you, if that's what you're worried about. Not badly, anyway." I might claw at him a bit; leave a few bite marks to remind him the night happened, but I save my more painful nights for Jason. He likes the pain.
Or, he did. I guess I won't be doing that anymore, now that he has Arsenal.
"You're a criminal," he says, like that should be all the reason he needs. To him, I suppose it is.
"What's your point?" I counter.
"You're Nightingale," he stresses, and then shakes his head and remarks, almost bitterly, "Don't you sleep with enough people?"
I turn on him faster than my thoughts can follow, wrapping my fingers around his throat and shoving his head back against the wall, my other hand wrapping around his right wrist and twisting it as he gives a shocked, choked noise and starts to struggle. His left hand wraps around my wrist, trying to drag my fingers away from his throat, and I tighten my grip. I realize I'm snarling about when my thoughts catch up to my actions, and I loosen my fingers, though I still keep his right wrist painfully twisted and held away from his gun.
He gasps, and I flex my hand to get his attention and gaze back on me, ignoring the pull of his grip. "It's been a bad night," I tell him flatly, flashing him a bright smile to cover up the twist of my lips in a snarl. I am not Jason. "So I'd be really careful about the next words that come out of your mouth, Officer Malloy."
I can feel him swallow, see the slight fear, anger, wariness, and survival instinct kicking in as I watch him. He lets go of my wrist, holding that hand up in surrender, tilting his head back a bit to bare his throat to my grip. It's not exactly what I was looking for, but it does ease some of the fury swirling in the hollow of my chest.
"I'm sorry," he gets out, past the grip of my fingers. "It was a stupid comment, I shouldn't have said it." I loosen my hand, keeping it resting there but with almost no pressure, and he takes in a deeper breath and winces, his right arm twitching in what's probably pain.
"How I choose to act isn't who I am," I say quietly, to him but mostly to myself. I know there's more to me, but does anyone else? Does anyone see me past the costume and the shield of my smiles? Jason, Bruce?
"I know," he answers, voice sounding a little easier, head ducking a little bit as he holds my gaze. Still wary, but the fear is gone. "It's a weapon, all of it. You're using what you look like to make stupid people like me make dumb assumptions. I wasn't thinking, and I swear I know better than to think that just because you're attractive you're not also one of the deadliest people in the world. I really know that."
I consider him, tilting my head and watching him wince again, feeling the shudder of his shoulder from the twist of his wrist. "That's not a bad first step," I admit, flashing him a much smaller smile. "Continue."
So much of me clings to his words as validation — it's a weakness, I know it is, and I am so good at not needing it but right now, tonight… — and I wait as he swallows and wets his lips, obviously considering what he's going to say next.
"I've seen the people you leave behind," he starts, quietly. "I've seen people dead, and hurt, and scared out of their minds because of whatever you did to them. I would never make the mistake of taking you at face value, and that's—" He cuts off, and I lessen the twist of his wrist in reward, to prompt him to continue. I want to know what it is, I want to hear him say it. He hesitates, then seems to gather whatever determination he's got to continue speaking. "That's why it doesn't matter what anyone else says about you. I know you'd never do anything but exactly what you want to, including other people. You take them, not the other way around."
I let go of his wrist, sliding my hand up his bare forearm to the rolled back cuff of his shirt, just past his elbow. He winces one last time, rolling his wrist until it cracks, but otherwise stays still until I pull my hand away from his throat. He might have a few bruises, or be a little sore, but there won't be any lasting damage.
"Consider me impressed," I answer, with a teasing edge, as I pull my weight back onto my heels. "Most people don't see much past my legs, until I've hurt them once or twice."
"They're idiots," he answers, lowering his left hand from its show of surrender. "Bludhaven knows; I know."
At the moment, that's exactly what I wanted to hear. I know it of course, I know that everyone underestimates me, and that what I choose to do is my choice, not theirs, but it's so good to hear from someone else.
I lean in, brushing my hand up his arm to grip his shoulder and push him back against the wall as I press my lips in against his. He makes a shocked, protesting noise, left hand coming up to press at my shoulder, but it's at about the same time as his hand reaches my shoulder that he realizes what's happening. So what would probably have been a shove turns into a clench of his fingers, caught between his moral issues and his attraction. I ignore whatever mental debate he's having, raising my right hand to slide up his side and feel the muscle beneath his shirt. I'm already partially crouched over him, but it's only a stealthy shift of my weight and stretch of one leg to settle myself across his lap.
He makes another small, choked, noise as I make myself comfortable, and I pull away from the one-sided kiss after a moment. He's stiff, tense, and I can practically feel the threads of morality stretched tight in his mind. He doesn't open his eyes, like if he can't see me he can deny that I'm here.
"I'm not interested in any strings," I inform him, smoothing my hand out over his shoulder. His eyes crack open, and I meet his gaze with a small smirk. "But I could use the distraction. All you have to do is tell me 'no,' if this isn't something you want."
He shivers, staring at me in something between disbelief and restrained desire. "You're…? But…" His voice hardens. "I shouldn't."
I tap my fingers against his shoulder, offer him another smirk. "How about you think about it for the rest of your shift, Gannon? If you get home and don't want it, all I'll need to hear is a 'no.' " I press a little closer against him — he somehow stiffens a little further, but not in the right ways — and drop my voice to whisper, "You've got my word."
He stares at me, breathing shallowly, like he's trying not to expand his chest far enough I'll notice it. "Why are you giving me a choice?"
I tilt my head, flash him a sharp smile, and press his shoulder a little harder against the wall. "I might touch and tease, Officer, but I don't take people who don't want it. It's not my thing, and I have plenty of people to pick from if my first choice says no. I've never felt the need to force anyone."
"Does that make me your first choice?" Gannon asks, wary and still tense, but maybe a little less so.
Jason.
My smile drops for a second, and then I give an even brighter one to hide the sick swirl of anger and pain in my stomach. "No," I answer, trying not to think about narrowed blue-green eyes and the jerk of broad shoulders underneath my nails, "but you'll do for a second one." I push myself to my feet, stepping back, and I'm sure I could figure out what exactly my favorite cop is looking at me with, but I don't want to at the moment. "I'll see you at the end of your shift, Gannon," I purr, flipping him a mocking salute before turning to walk to the ledge of the roof.
The fire and pull of my cable yanks me from the edge, takes me back out the simplest way to avoid the cameras, and it might be tempting but I don't look back to see what my cop is doing. I don't.
Most people are disposable, and he's no exception.
A/N: So, for once, every single part of this was planned. With one giant, glaring exception. Gannon. Gannon was not supposed to be there at the top of the BCPD, and he was certainly not supposed to be convinced to think about having casual sex with Dick. But then I remembered that he's a canon character from Dick's days as a Bludhaven police officer, and I had to have him in here. He even spawned his own little story in my head, which we will explore eventually.
So, next up will of course be chapter two of this, where we play the game of 'Gee, what could have spawned an entire 10K words out of this finished story?' See you later!