AN: So sorry that this is late again guys ðŸ˜. I love all of you deeply and I hope you enjoy the chapter! Also, please be aware that there are descriptions of self-harm in this chapter.
"See something you like?"
Roman's smiling, and I react on instinct, that primal need to survive, to stop what I know will likely come next. I refuse to live through that, transfixed as terror rages through my veins.
Never again.
Driving my elbow back, I hit him in the ribs. He wheezes, doubling over and giving me enough leverage to put some distance between us. My muscles shake from going down all those stairs and the high of getting ready for a fight, my breathing heavy as I press my back against the wall. He's holding his chest and coughing, but he's still smiling.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
I'm ready to hit him—I don't care who he is. Everything he said upstairs is fresh in my head: the sick insinuations and the way he spoke to that woman, the knowledge that he did something to Bruce's car, and that he has something on the side with Strange. All it does is fuel the napalm burning through me until I'm ready to breathe fire.
Stay calm—he wouldn't have rigged Bruce's car if he was planning something else. Use your head.
Roman isn't angry—he's amused, holding out his hands in a placative gesture as he straightens, the corner of his lips twitching and a laugh on the tip of his tongue. "No need for so much hostility, darlin'. I know there's that whole saying about curiosity killing the cat, but…"
I tighten my hands into fists as if it'll banish the memory rising like bile, the echo of his voice in my head.
But it doesn't.
'Cat. Mir-cat.'
He closes the distance between us, walking slowly with his hands still raised while angling himself so that I can't run past to get around the corner, only stopping when he's a foot away. He looks to me expectantly, like he thought I'd finish the saying, but he seems just as pleased with my silence, as if this is a typical party game for him.
He might not suspect anything, even if he does already have it out for you. Stay calm, Miri. Attacking him won't get you anywhere.
"Satisfaction brings it back, no?" He stares at my neck, mouth curling further into a grin some might think charming.
Yeah. If they've been knocked on the head one too many times.
I hold my ground, standing straighter so that my height is equal with his. "I don't know what that has to do with manhandling your guests, but it's certainly unbecoming of a host." His smile shrinks and I take it as a victory, my head high as I summon what's left of my tattered sense of dignity and brush past him, adjusting my dress to hide the widening split that exposes my thigh.
But turning my back on him was a mistake—he wraps a hand around my bicep, spinning me around to face the disturbing painting again. "Oh, but you haven't answered my question."
Before I can wrench my arm away, he releases me, draping his over my shoulder to sidle closer. I breathe through my nose, eyeing up his position and running through which moves will take him down the hardest if I move quick enough. Just having his body touching mine has my skin vibrating like it intends to separate itself from the muscle.
'When I tell you to do something, you do it. Or are you that wet for me to teach you somethin' else?'
From the way the woman reacted, he wasn't referring to something good. I've learned to recognize the threat of degradation, and I was right—the man is a creep. A dangerous and powerful one. And he's trying to scare me.
Then don't let him. You've lived through worse—stay calm, breathe.
Even if it's true, it doesn't stop the way my stomach twists, how my scalp is damp with sweat.
"Do you like it?" he asks, pointing to the painting. "I have it on loan from the Detroit Institute of Arts. There's just… something about it that draws the eye."
Showing fear to men like Roman is like signing your own death warrant—a painful lesson I learned in Amusement Mile. I keep standing tall, quelling the tremor starting in my hand and infecting my body, imagining that I am wearing that moretta mask after all. It might keep me from speaking the way I want, but it'll also hide what's underneath.
"That's one way to put it," I say, my eyes fixed on the woman's face, her slightly parted lips and her eyes shut in helpless slumber.
He laughs, jostling me as he squeezes my shoulder, making a point of ignoring how I stiffen. "There's just something so—so satisfying about it. The infatuation, the obsession, the dark corners of the mind becoming real. It's…" he looks to me as if he's still expecting to find an enthusiastic participant in this odd conversation, but the smile is entirely gone, and his gray eyes are shards of steel waiting to cut and tear, "almost erotic, isn't it?"
He stares at the painting again, at the prone woman splayed out and defenseless, dress almost opened enough to expose her breasts. Coupled with the demons and darkness surrounding her, I only see an image that mirrors too many of my own life experiences. Is that what it is to him, something to be consumed, gotten off to and nothing more?
"I don't know much about art," I finally say, clearing my throat and failing to keep out the revulsion.
He chuckles. "You'd think someone like you would've been taught more of the classics. Learned some refinement."
He takes his arm away to lean against the wall, blocking me from heading back to the ballroom. There are maintenance doors behind me, but going somewhere even more secluded is a last resort.
"Is it your mother or your father that you get your exotic looks from? I can't for the life of me remember."
Any thought about how to run past him and find Bruce leaves me. I'm imagining what it would be like to see his fancy suit stained red, how it would feel to coat my fingers with his blood after hitting him again and again, until he swallows on his own tongue, chokes on the words people like you and fucking exotic.
The only thing holding me back is the faint reminder that I need to control the impulses, that I can't let them hold total sway over me.
How long can you keep that up?
"Is that it? You wanted to lob some thinly-veiled and petty insults because your friends are so dull that this is how you alleviate the boredom?" I'm deadpan, but I've never been good at hiding how I feel and, from the mirth in his expression, he can see it for himself.
"Why are you all the way over here and not with Bruce?"
This is a game—one I'm not very good at. I need to toe the line, outsmart him before I terribly miscalculate and end up dead. It wouldn't be hard for him to do it here—it's his hotel, I've already tampered with the cameras, and something tells me that there aren't very many people that would care if I went missing. Bruce has money and influence, but having me in the family—and him cementing the image of a man who spends with reckless flagrancy and lives like a debauched lunatic—put the Wayne name in a place of ridicule and dismissal. The only consolation I have is that Roman's planning on seriously maiming—maybe even killing—Bruce and me in a car crash.
"I didn't read anything on the invitation about it being against the rules to go for a walk. There's been a distinct lack of signage."
"Oh, but you were gone for over twenty minutes. Bruce was worried," he simpers.
My eyes narrow, mouth forming into a grimace. Roman's not so good at hiding his feelings either.
He's not trying to.
"He'll live." I mirror his casual posture and examine my nails like I actually care what they look like, hoping he doesn't see the slight shake. "Hate to be the one to break it to you, but your party's pretty stuffy."
"It's the kind my parents loved throwing. Guess it rubbed off." He turns bitter for a moment, his expression that of a spoiled child pouting until he laughs, holding his side where I elbowed him, but this time he sounds genuinely mirthful. There's something vicious about it, a hidden violence that he's waiting to let loose. "And what kind of parties do you like going to? One's a little more dangerous than this? Or, is it the absence of a few… certain individuals that make it so dull?"
Any illusion that I was trying to maintain falls to the wayside.
'I didn't lie, Miri! I'm no-t leaving you, and you just, ah… can't get rid of me!'
The hall darkens, lights dimming and air turning cold. Fingers that I know aren't there curl around my throat, tightening with every short breath, skin splitting and all semblance of warmth draining from gashes that have long since closed.
Leave. Now.
"Move," I hiss, sidestepping around him only for Roman to block my path again. He stands straighter, squaring his shoulders. It was easy to dismiss before because of the sleek suit, but he has more muscle mass than I do. Even if we are the same height and I've had more training, the damage he could do if he wanted makes my throat tight.
"Why would I do a thing like that?" he asks, voice low as he herds me back toward the painting. "You know, I got an interesting call from security. One of my guest's nose was broken." He taps a finger against his chin, contemplating something before holding my gaze, the corner of his lip twitching as he tries to keep himself from smiling when my skin turns ashen. "He's blaming you. Now, why would that be?"
Oh, fucking hell.
I didn't have time to mess with the feeds, to retroactively erase what I did to Ryder. Roman knows. Either the guard told him or he saw it for himself.
"Are you planning on having me arrested?" I try to hold my ground, but he keeps coming closer, making me bump into the wall when I try to keep our chests from touching.
He smirks, cocking his head to the side. "Nah. That's a hassle we don't need, right?"
There's a catch. There always is with people like him. But, instead of fear, white hot rage replaces my blood, giving my anger the intensity of a burning sun, alive and ready to incinerate.
I don't stem them this time—the thoughts on the best ways to make him hurt. Hitting Ryder was a carnal thrill, a violent reclamation of what had been stolen from me. Something tells me that doing the same to Roman would give a similar high. It builds until I can barely grasp it, a storm brewing into a typhoon.
Roman chuckles through his nose, still trying to maintain the impression of a suave gentleman rather than a slimy eel in an overpriced suit. "I'll let it slide, but in exchange…" He looks at me up and down, eyes lingering on my exposed thigh. But I don't see desire. Not even attraction. It's the rush of a cat toying with a mouse, enamoured with the action of watching it squirm before the kill rather than being driven by hunger. "I want to see them."
But he doesn't realize that I'm no mouse.
"See what?"
A muscle twitches in his jaw, and I'm surprised to see a sick fascination in his eyes. "Rumour going around town is that the Joker left you some… mementos to remember him by."
All too suddenly, I understand what he means.
There's nowhere to back up, nowhere to escape the feeling of a knife being pressed against my chest, his voice and the cold and the inability to move, to think, to breathe.
"So, how about it, sugar?" Ice forms under my skin when a finger touches my thigh, drawing up from above my knee, where the slit widened when I tripped, to land on one of the many scars that Joker left. It takes everything I have not to heave. "Or, is brown sugar a more fitting term—"
Roman might have more muscle than me, but he's never been in a fight, not a real one—men like him don't know what it's like to be afraid. He's unaccustomed to pain, and I'm all too eager to acquaint him with what I feel every day.
And I have the element of surprise.
Gripping his wrist and twisting, I wrench it until I hear it crack and, even then, I don't let go when Roman's face screws up in pain, barely muffling a yell as he tries to relieve the pressure. I want to go further. I want to twist it until it looks like the arms of the statue in his bedroom, until he's on the ground so that I can beat him bloody, pour out every feeling of malice as my already bruised knuckles break.
You can't be like them, Miri.
"Don't you ever touch me again," I snarl, releasing his arm with a shove and slipping past him before he can right himself and pay me back for almost breaking his wrist.
Ignoring his curses and fowl threats, I barely hold onto the objective of finding Bruce, calming my boiling blood and the surging violence that makes my muscles spasm. I need a drink, pills, something to make it go away, to push it back down until it can't choke me anymore, constrict my vision, so that I can calm the throbbing behind my eyes, burn the unspoken threats from my tongue. This is too much like it was all those years ago when I confronted Ivan, when I made a reckless choice that altered the entire trajectory of my life, when I ended Parker's.
No, you can't think about him here. Not here.
Out of the consuming hate comes a swell of enveloping emptiness, silencing everything except for the ringing in my ears, cancelling out the world and disconnecting me from it. I welcome it for a fragile moment—I need to be numb, for the pain and hate and rage to be quiet for just a few minutes.
"Miss Kane?"
It sounds like it's coming from three different directions all at once, each a different pitch creating a dizzying dance my head can't keep up with.
It's not real—try to think, focus.
When I blink hard, willing my mind to clear, Lucius materializes in front of me. His brows screw up in concern as his eyes flit from me back down the hall, the sounds from the hotel, the muted conversations audible through the walls, faded music bleeds out from behind him as reality returns, and the invasive memories creep back into the shadows of my mind.
Seeing Lucius smothers any of the fire left, submerging me instead in the icy waters of guilt, of knowing just how badly I let him down, how I couldn't work up the courage to apologize to his face. I haven't seen him since that day of hell at Wayne Enterprises, and I still don't know what to tell him, how to say just how sorry I am.
Don't think about it right now—you need to find Bruce.
My empty stomach cinches tight, tongue thick in my mouth. Smoke fills my lungs, heavy and acrid, my body going cold as I was so close to release, for all of this to be done, my throat being crushed as he did his best to end it—end me. The urge to laugh bubbles up like bile. I swallow it, but it doesn't die—it expands in my chest, seeking escape even if it means ripping me open.
"Are you alright?"
I squeeze my eyes shut before opening them and blinking rapidly, forcing myself to focus on the concrete—how the hardwood floors feel under my flats, how my skin is raised from the cool air, the smell of food and too much wine, expensive cologne and stifling perfume. I force the present to come back in, to remember where I am and what I'm doing, who I'm talking to.
It's someone else you failed.
"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine," I say, backing up and almost tripping when he comes forward to steady me. "Have you seen Bruce?"
Lucius lets out a long breath, shaking his head slightly. "We were looking for you." He doesn't say what he's really thinking either, and I'm glad for it, even if it is a different kind of pain. He glances over his shoulder, half grinning, "But it seems like we didn't have to search for long."
When I look past Lucius, I see that it's Bruce who's heading our way. And he's fuming.
Perfect. Just perfect.
He's got that look on his face, the one I've come to associate with Batman—where his head's bent forward and his fists are curled at his sides, shoulders tense with purpose and his mouth in a tight, grim line. I try to nonchalantly hide the rip in my dress with my clutch, God knows that he's already going to lose it later, and I keep my posture relaxed, even if I feel wound up like a too-tight spring.
He nods to Lucius and all but glares at me, and it's when he's close that I see his regret, how he wishes now that he never agreed to let me come in the first place.
"Come on, we're leaving," he says, moving to put an arm around my shoulders before I duck away from him, my skin still crawling from Roman's touch.
"Probably for the best," I say, taking the initiative to start heading for the exit and letting Bruce and Lucius follow behind. "What happened to the whole fire alarm solution of yours?" I'm trying to sound glib, like I didn't just sprain Roman's wrist or listen in on a conversation and make off with a hoard of stolen data that he'd, more than likely, kill me for. Bruce's eyes narrow when he catches up, keeping pace with me as I avoid eye contact.
I'm hyper-aware of the paintings around us, how they focus on the bloody and the macabre, and they take on sick, new meanings when I think about the case being built around Black Mask. If Roman is moonlighting as a crime lord, he isn't worried about subtlety.
Which begs the question as to why they haven't been linked before.
I'd like to chalk it up to police corruption and incompetence, there's only so much that Gordon can do, but it has to be more than that. The files on the memory stick in my clutch can shed some light, but I need to do it without Bruce hovering over my shoulder. I still have to think about what I tell Naomi, what information I can give her that she can pursue without poisoning the whole case —not that she hasn't bent or worked around the law herself, and I'm usually the one doing the dirty work for her.
"I decided to go with something more subtle," Bruce says, earning a laugh from Lucius. "I went looking first, and the security room seemed like a good first step," the tone of mirth disappears when I glance at him out of the corner of my eye; he looks like a disapproving parent, "and then I ran into Jack Ryder. He's angry, and he had a broken nose."
So much for avoiding your fuck-ups until later…
"He deserved a lot more than that," I mumble, ignoring how Bruce glares. "Did he give you an earful about how he's going to have me finally shipped off to prison?"
I'm surprised when Lucius laughs and the gloom breaks when Bruce smirks for a brief second. "Yes. And he'd have a shot at it if I hadn't fried the hotel's security servers."
"You did what?"
So much for having an in with their systems.
Bruce urges me forward, paying extra mind to the catering staff passing by and the pockets of guests drinking in the alcoves along the hall. "The EMP emitter that I used for the cameras came in handy."
"Glad to hear it," Lucius pipes in, looking way too entertained.
That's because you haven't told them that they need to be worried.
When we come to the lobby, it's only when Bruce starts reaching into his coat pocket that I remember why it was so urgent to find him in the first place. Grabbing his arm, I drag him to a far corner, away from the front desk, and search for signs of Roman or any of his security. My attempts at seeming relaxed fail, just like it did with Roman, and I hold onto what's left of my nerves.
"You need to act drunk."
Bruce and Lucius exchange glances with one another, the latter shrugging when the former looks at him in confusion.
"Why?" Bruce asks, suspicious.
Because Roman is insane and a petty, spoiled sociopath who hates us both for reasons unknown.
"Because we can't take your car home." It's stupid to think that would be reason enough for him to listen to me. They say nothing, waiting for me to elaborate with raised brows. "I made it upstairs, and I…" Lucius still looks confused, like I might've hit my head again, but Bruce's face dawns with understanding. "I heard Roman say that he's done something to it," I finish in a whisper, my eyes darting around the room like Roman's about to appear behind me.
"He's done what, exactly?" Lucius asks, his tone gentle but prodding.
Cut the brake lines probably, disabled God knows what, and seems to be riding on the hope that we both die in a fiery wreck.
"It doesn't matter." I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Pretend to be drunk, Bruce. It's something you're good at isn't it? Be convincing and then call Alfred to get you. Have someone look at the car tomorrow, and just—just don't get in it, OK?"
Claustrophobia and exhaustion make my mind race, but I still feel sluggish, like my limbs are too heavy and time's moving too slow. The room shrinks, and the darkness encroaches on the edges of the light. I need fresh air, to be alone, to sleep for ten hours without having any dreams to haunt me.
"Are you planning on going somewhere else, Miss Kane?"
Lucius seems doubtful, and I realize that he doesn't believe me. Or, doesn't believe that I'm telling the whole truth—and I can't blame him. What can I say to them now when I know nothing for certain myself, that won't prompt Bruce to overreact and treat me like a child or go off galavanting across rooftops and putting himself in the line of fire?
You need to start having answers instead of just coming to Bruce with questions.
"I'm taking a cab back to the apartment."
"No, you're—"
"My laptop is there and I need it to look at all the files I ripped off his computers, it'll be faster. I'll tell you about everything after I have some solid leads."
I pull away when Bruce comes too close, already seeing his decision on his face, how he wants to take me back to hide—to stay safe. But Bruce can't drag me to the Manor like he did after Arkham, and I won't let him try.
"I'll come back in a few days, don't get so worked up, I'm… I'm not going to do anything rash. I promise. I just… need some quiet."
Lucius might not believe me, but I need Bruce to have a little faith. When he doesn't say anything, only carefully searching my face for the tell-tale hints that I'm on the brink of doing something foolish, and I force myself to hold his gaze, holding my breath.
He smooths his hair back, air rushing out of him in a stressed exhale. "You call me as soon as you have something."
It's not a request, but it's a small price if it means being alone for a few blessed hours. When I nod and smile, burying my unease and fears, Bruce's shoulders relax.
"You and Naomi will be the first people I call, don't worry."
It's a useless sentiment—he's going to worry plenty, and it won't be long before he starts installing cameras in the apartment to start monitoring me there, too, or something just as crazy. But that's a problem for another day, when my head isn't throbbing. I wave to them both when I hear Lucius offer to give Bruce a lift, eager to leave and shower off the feeling of Roman touching me, the visceral fear that clings to my skin. I'm already writing off getting anything productive done tonight, mentally counting how many glasses of wine it'll take for me to stop feeling anything at all.
"Miri?"
I freeze, afraid that this is where Bruce tells me he changed his mind, where he holds something over my head in the hopes that it'll make me cling to him harder, that I'll find my only refuge in him. I might've done that a decade ago, looked to him as I always used to as the only person who could chase all of my problems away. But Bruce doesn't seem to realize, as I have, that there is no going back, and even if there are promises that go unbroken, that doesn't mean they will always be fulfilled.
He opens his mouth once before closing it, and I think that he's going to prove me right, that we'll have to fight and the progress we've made will crumble.
"Your form's improved," he says, surprising me. "If you want me to show you how to do it without hurting your knuckles, it'll save you some pain for the next time you knock someone out cold."
I finally laugh, but it's different from the kind that was tearing at me before. It's genuine, there is no hint of madness, no backbiting irony, and it helps, just a little, when Bruce smiles back.
It seems like an entire day has passed since Roman's party, but it's only been just over two hours since Bruce and I first arrived at nine. After I got back to the apartment, I stripped off the dress and threw it in a corner to be forgotten until I have to move, eager to never smell the traces of Roman's cologne ever again. My skin still doesn't feel clean, even after a thirty-minute shower with the water cranked to the hottest setting. I've managed to put off opening the bottle of wine sitting in the fridge, grabbing a tub of Oreo ice cream instead and eating it by the spoonful straight from the container, my laptop perched precariously on my thighs. It doesn't have the same effect as booze would, but it feels good to indulge in something, to sit in my sweatpants and begin to unwind.
But there's too much nagging on my mind to relax completely. Why would Roman be meeting with Strange, and what did he mean about being owed a favour? Does that mean he's involved somehow with the string of murders linked to Arkham? But, if Roman is Black Mask, why would he be interested in an asylum of all places when he's in the midst of a brutal gang war?
"Maybe this will tell me," I mutter to myself, holding up the memory stick and twisting it in my fingers.
I know that even if I manage to get enough information to link Roman to the Black Mask syndicate, it won't solve the other problems entwined with this mess. The other half of the puzzle lies in Arkham and, if there's one thing that's become abundantly clear, I can't do it alone.
Who else is there? Can't ask Bruce—things are already complicated enough…
My options are limited, and the alternatives that rise above the murky waters that is this case is an idea that's almost as foolish as attempting to do it all on my own.
You won't always have Bruce there to help just in time, Miri.
Going back to Arkham is a guarantee—Strange said it himself—and there are too many barriers for me without access to their systems and knowing where to look in the first place. That means that I need the help of three people.
Jahan, Eugene Klein, and the Joker.
Fuck, even thinking about it is enough for me to develop a migraine. He'd use it to leverage me somehow, try to dig his hooks in a little more, alleviate his boredom by being a malicious asshole, manipulate me in any way he could. Being around him is like willingly drinking poison, but… there was something off about him. If anything was going on with the patients and staff, he'd know. Jahan wouldn't be any better, but if he's working for Red Hood, then he's bound to know something. It's just the part of getting him to talk in the first place.
What other options do you have?
I could tell Gordon, but that's a whole other mess, one that will only be entangled with what Naomi needs to be done and, once again, I need something solid, not just conjecture and theories and bad feelings. But Eugene has been consistently eager to help, he might be easier to convince, and I need him if I want any hope of accessing the asylum's servers.
No harm in looking into him, right?
Finding Eugene on Facebook isn't difficult, and his privacy settings are so poor that I can see all of his 'liked' pages, his old posts, and look through his photos. It's not hard to come up with some potential keywords to start running through my cryptographic sequencer. It'll take some time to for it to find his password, so I search through his photos and download them. People would be surprised at the GPS information embedded in the things they upload. For the next twenty minutes, I scrub his profile for consistent and current addresses, cross-referencing them with online maps and making careful notes. Calling him would leave a record with the phone company, and that either means waiting until I'm at Arkham in two days or going to his place directly.
Either way… you sound like a stalker. Jesus.
I take another heaping spoonful of ice cream and nearly choke on it when there's a gentle tap against the apartment door, so faint that I might've been able to dismiss it if it didn't start again a few seconds after the first. Dropping the melting ice cream on the coffee table, I spring off the tattered couch, grabbing a kitchen knife on the way. My stomach's in my throat, heart beating too fast and the knuckles on my right hand aching.
Taking a steadying breath, rationalizing with myself that if it was someone Roman sent, they wouldn't have knocked first, and that it's probably Bruce or Zareen, I push down the fear. But it's still not enough for me to put down the knife.
"Sunshine, it's me," a voice calls from the other side of the door.
I was wrong—there is something to be worried about. It's Jason's voice, and looking through the peephole confirms it.
Oh no, oh no, no, no.
He's here to confront me about lying, he must be. He must know everything now—there's enough online to paint an ugly picture of who I am, what happened to me. I don't want him to look at me like Ryder and Roman do, I don't want him to think less of me.
Can't avoid him forever.
But I want to—I want to disappear, for me to have never met him at all.
You know that isn't true.
It's just as he starts walking away that I open the door, feeling small and wholly inadequate. "Hey, Jason." My voice is so quiet, faltering toward the end, but he still hears me even though he's standing by the stairs, his motorcycle helmet in hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and his leather jacket dripping with rain. It hurts when his face brightens, when he smiles so widely. And it hurts precisely because it gives me too much hope.
"Sorry I'm dropping by so late. You weren't answering your phone and after… Well, I just wanted to make sure you were OK," he says, coming to stand in my doorway as I realize with sudden horror that I look like a complete slob—completing the image with small spots of ice cream on my hoodie.
Crawling in a hole and never coming out sounds like a swell idea right now.
I was right—I shouldn't have invited him over after that first Arkham visit, shouldn't have left myself so open for things just like this to happen. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his smile to disappear, for him to call me a liar.
'He's a crook, just like the rest of the hypocrites dressed up in Gucci suits. Fucking rich people like him are what's killing this place.'
What would he say if he knew that I was part of the class of people he hated the most, that I was pretending to be something that I'm not? He'd hate me—he'd see another cog in the machine that's slowly eating Gotham alive.
But Jason doesn't stop smiling like I'm the best thing he's seen all day.
"For a while there, I was starting to worry that you'd ghosted me." He laughs nervously, running a hand through his hair.
"No—no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry." I feel that nervousness, too, the guilt of continuing to lie and the uncertainty of what I should say.
You could start by letting him in and not standing there like a gobsmacked idiot.
"You can come in if you want—the place is a bit of a mess." I try laughing it off when I let him in, hiding the knife behind my back so he doesn't think I'm nuts, darting for the tub of ice cream, shoving the knife under the couch cushions, and hastily shoving the melting tub into the freezer. He dutifully looks the other way, hiding his smile and keeping his chuckles to a low rumble in his chest. "Work's been… Well, it's been a bit of a disaster, and I've been dealing with some—some family stuff on top of that."
It's not a lie, just a vast understatement. I don't think I have the energy to lie tonight, not with him.
He raises a brow and takes a seat at the table as he nods, considering. "You seem… off. Everything OK?"
The dark voice in my head tells me that this is a set-up, that he knows I lied, saw that God-awful broadcast, read one of the dozens of articles about how I'm a fucking sociopath, and that he's waiting to trap me in a contradiction. Social media is everywhere, would he really be able to avoid hearing anything about it?
Jason's made it no secret that he doesn't like cell phones—he told me as much the second time we were together at the diner. He doesn't like the internet, is frustrated by celebrity culture, and usually works by himself doing smaller construction jobs. Would that really be enough of a buffer to shield me?
"Just… feeling a little suffocated right now, that's all." Caution is my friend until I know for sure, but my secrets threaten to pour out even as I fight to keep them in. Is it stupid of me to hope that he doesn't know, that we can keep going in our own little sphere of reality? Would it be so bad to keep pretending?
You know it's going to blow up in your face soon enough, Miri.
"Seems like you need something to take your mind off it," he says at the precise moment that my thoughts begin to drag me into the endless spiral of doubt and the desperate need to be alone, but Jason keeps grinning, melting everything else away until my chest feels warm. "If you want to, of course. I don't wanna be part of the problem."
That's something I love—no, like about Jason; he asks, he doesn't presume and is always ready to respect what I say. It's so foreign that my brain wants to reject it outright, call it a form of deception, but my heart says that it's true, that Jason means it, that he won't let me down.
And what makes you think you deserve to be around someone like that?
Maybe it's because it's been a long night, or that I simply don't know what to do when someone displays such earnest caring, but I fight back tears, struggle to find the right words. I don't flinch when he stands up and comes close. He waits for my reaction first before rubbing my arms, leaning down so that I'll meet his eyes.
"Adina, I'm—I'm not gonna force anything. If you're busy, you're busy. If you need space, I completely get that, but…" he trails off, rubbing his forehead in frustration, "fucking fuck, I'm bad at this."
He holds his chest like I've mortally wounded him when I start to laugh, and maybe it's because things feel so easy with him, how my heart races but it's never in fear, like the past really doesn't exist, that I can be this new person—Adina instead of Miriam—that makes me feel so bold, but I stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His eyes pop open, smirking when he looks at me, and my stomach does an unfamiliar flip.
"So am I."
My hands linger on his shoulders, tracing the hard muscle and bone. Being with Jason like this feels better than anything I could ever drink, any high a pill could ever give me. It's a dangerous place, leaving me so open to making mistakes.
I know it'll hurt more later, but I can't find it in me to push him away.
"Did you have something in mind?" I ask.
Jason keeps smiling like it's effortless, and I meet him half-way when he leans in to kiss me. It's the feeling of his lips against mine, the warmth that ignites something deep in my belly, that makes the risk seem all the sweeter, like maybe it won't burn me whole.
"I thought you were saying something about Thai food before?" I ask, adjusting in my seat when we leave Gotham's city limits. We're on a freeway heading in a direction I'm not familiar with, the black night only illuminated by the passing headlights and overhanging lamps. The rain stopped, but when I look out the window, I still can't see the stars.
"Yeah, we can do that another night. This is too good to pass up."
Jason told me that he wanted to show me something special. I thought it was about food because that seems to be one of the things he thinks about the most, but now I'm not so sure. I was banking on it being a late-night restaurant—I even put on a long skirt and one of my nicer turtlenecks, but now I feel like I'm over-dressed for whatever it is that Jason has in mind. We're in the car Homeland provided—here's hoping Naomi doesn't decide to lecture me again—and I let Jason drive. That sense of doubt creeps back to the forefront of my mind, how my stubborn naiveté is only going to bite me in the ass.
"You're not taking us out somewhere to murder me, are you?" I thought the sardonic grin with the deadpan delivery would be enough, but Jason tears his eyes away from the road to look at me with genuine shock.
"W-Wait—wait, what? No, I'd never—"
Real smooth. Fucking hell, Miri.
"Oh, no, no—no, I'm sorry. It was a bad joke—I don't know why I thought it was funny."
I laugh nervously, like I'm still trying to convince myself that there is a joke in there if you squint hard enough. Jason alternates between watching the road and looking at me with worry. I sit up straighter, unsure of what to do with my hands—should I touch his arm to assure him? Hide my face in them as the whole too awkward to function point really drives home?
"No, don't worry, I…"
I what?
It's like the kiss back at the apartment's infected my brain, making me more honest than I've ever consciously been with anyone. "I feel safe with you, Jason."
The shock and urgency to assuage any perception of malintent leaves and Jason is quiet. My cheeks get hot, the pleasant fluttering in my chest turning into a frenzy that makes me wish I hadn't said anything at all.
'What are you so afraid of, Miri? Tell your new friend all about it.'
His voice is quiet, but I can still hear it like he's whispering in my ear, feeling the sensation of gloved hands running through my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut, banishing him back to where he can't reach me, blocking out everything else until I just feel the vibrations of the car speeding down the freeway, the heat coming through the vents and licking my skin.
"Adina?"
I flinch without thinking when a hand lands on my arm, pushing myself against the door as my eyes readjust to the dark. Jason draws back, still looking concerned, and guilt presses down on my chest.
"Sorry, I—my mind was somewhere else for a minute."
I try my best to smile, and he nods as he turns his attention back to the road.
"Oh. Yeah—I can understand that. Happens to me from time to time." He clears his throat, one hand gripping the steering wheel tight and the other rubbing the back of his neck. "Have you been out this way before?"
I never went on dates in high school—hell, I can count on one hand how many times I did as an adult, and I don't know if what I'm doing is normal or not, if there's some central ingredient to feeling comfortable sitting next to someone else, free of expectations. When I moved to Chicago, old habits of self-harm became a fucked-up form of comfort for me, poisonous and degrading as it was. Nothing really changed, though, from when I was seventeen. No one ever really saw me, most of my clothes always stayed on, especially now that my chest… Well, it never lasted more than an hour. They'd get what they wanted and leave, and I'd lay there, blissfully numb, unable to tell whose touch I was remembering until I fell asleep. And, if it was after a particularly rough night, when his taunts were too loud to kill on my own, I'd always have a bottle of something to find oblivion for me.
Jason isn't anything like those men. Other than his gender, he shares nothing with them. I'd almost describe Jason as self-conscious right now, with the way his lips are pressed tightly together, running his hand through his hair and his leg bouncing up and down, and how he sneaks glances my way with a tentative smile. When I'm close to him, what I feel for Jason isn't what I've searched out before. I don't want to be numb—a terrifying concept on its own—I want to feel all of him, to just have him near, have his arms around me, and it makes me feel better thinking that this might be not often travelled territory for him, too, that he's also feeling some uncertainty.
"No, I don't think so."
"Lived your whole life in Gotham and you barely know the outskirts? Sunshine," he tuts, shaking his head as he clicks his tongue in mock disapproval.
"You make it sound like every Gothamite needs its map tattooed on their arm," I say, making my shoulders drop from their position by my ears, concentrating on each muscle until they unwind.
"Spent a lot of time on the streets as a kid." I nod, remembering what he told me about his mom and growing up in foster care. "Got to know the city until it became a part of me. Exploring the perimeter came later after I… well. I used to boost cars. Sometimes I'd risk going for drives before I sold 'em."
He says it matter of factly: That's just the way it was. I don't hear regret.
"Why?" I ask.
He laughs, but it's bitter, almost resentful. "Money, that's why. Only so much a poor kid can earn legally in this town. You just… do what you have to. Even if it's ugly sometimes."
Foster care is a nightmare in any city, but it's especially so in Gotham. Not for the first time, I feel ashamed of how much I've had when so many had to get by with so much less. Even though we share many similarities, I know there's a gulf in life experience where he's known what hell was a lot longer than I have. He understands it, and he's just as angry as I am, but there's an uncomfortable truth in what he's saying, parallels that are difficult to ignore.
"You didn't… didn't hurt anyone, did you?"
I can all too easily imagine someone with Jason's build decimating an opponent, but I can't put his face to the kind of violence I know. He was a soldier, a kid who grew up relying on crime when there was nothing else, but when I look at his hands, I don't see someone who would do what someone like Ivan Dimitrov or the Joker would do, I don't see cruelty and viciousness.
'Do you ever think some people deserve to die?'
Jason's expression hardens, and he stares straight ahead, the planes of his face rough and jagged contrasts between the dark and the fleeting glances of light that pass through the car before shrouding us in shadow again. "Not… always," he says eventually. A muscle in his jaw jumps and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "If I could avoid it, I did. And it was only with the sick fucks who deserved it. Johns, dealers, neighbours beating on their wives and kids. Other degenerates."
He sounds angry, and I can't blame him. It was only a few hours ago that I was so eager to deal out my own retribution, was high on the thought of how much I wanted to hurt Ryder, hurt Roman.
"Did it feel good?"
I didn't mean for the question to escape, for me to sound so distant. My thoughts centre around the memories of pooling blood, the ache of bruises forming, how it was both pleasure and agony to inflict suffering on the men who hurt me. It's hypnotizing, getting lost in that heady cloud, the smell of rust and the sticky warmth seeping between my fingers when the skin would split and my battered knuckles hurting a little more and the feeling of a knife in my hand giving me what I've so often been stripped of—power, control.
"Did what feel good?" he asks, turning off the freeway to go down a smaller road heading toward a black cluster of trees, empty fields flanking us on either side.
"Hurting them. Did it feel good?" I sound empty without meaning to, like my own imaginings hollowed me out, consumed what was left.
"That's… a tricky question." Jason sounds distant, too, but I focus on his voice, the deep timbre, letting it tether me when the world becomes a cacophony of white noise.
"I thought it was pretty straightforward," I say, my eyes growing heavy. I thumb the seams of the long skirt I changed into, paying close attention to each bump and loop.
He sighs. "Sometimes yeah, sometimes no." He takes a deep breath, turning down another road that takes us deeper into the woods. I joked about him murdering me, but, even though he's taking us further away from Gotham, fear isn't something that finds me. "And sometimes… it felt good knowing the world would be better with one less of those fucks wasting air."
There's an unspoken implication in his words. One less, indicating that they aren't wasting oxygen anymore. I… still don't feel afraid of him, and maybe it's foolish of me not to. I turn to violence as a first line of defence, protecting what's left of me, and, from what I can tell, Jason used it as a shield, a way to help, to survive. I have a hard time finding any good that my savage impulses ever brought.
"Guilt doesn't play into it?" I ask, folding the fabric in my hands into tight pleats before smoothing it out to start again.
"Not unless I fucked up royally."
He laughs, and I smile in the dark.
"Fair enough."
A beat passes and we come up to a clearing, the grass tall and bright green under the headlights, and Jason pulls in just enough that we're clear from the trees obstructing any view of the sky. The car has a sunroof, and he opens it up and rolls the windows down before cutting the engine and taking out the keys. Out here, the sky is clearer than I'm used to, the moon half full and casting silver light on the waves of grass, the tops of the trees and the fields beyond. I can't remember the last time I did something like this, even at the Manor. I always preferred being indoors, only eager to be out when the sun was warm and shining. Mom loved the city, and there's too much smog to see anything past the light pollution, and we only ever left for trips or when we'd stay with Bruce and Alfred, but even then we didn't go outside just to stargaze. A lump forms in my throat when I remember that I never did use the telescope Bruce bought me, that I won't be able to show it to Jason.
"C'mon, it'll be more comfortable if we sit in the back," Jason says, pulling my attention from the heavens back down to what's in front of me.
He opens his door and pushes his seat forward. I follow his lead, pushing it as far as it'll go before climbing into the back. The air is damp and cool, flooding into the car through the open windows, and I hold my sweater more tightly around me. It's tight quarters in the backseat even with the extra room—Jason's taller and broader than I am, but he encourages me to sit close to him, checking to see if it's alright before draping an arm over my shoulders, pulling me closer until my head's resting against him. It doesn't feel claustrophobic, like I'm trapped. It feels… I'm not sure how to describe it, but I chase the feeling as we peer up through the sunroof.
"It's cleared up nice, that should make it easier to see…" he mumbles to himself, his foot tapping in anticipation.
"You said there was something that was 'too good to pass up'?" I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of his face, and his hand rubs up and down my arm.
"Yeah, watch for a second, they're supposed to start in a few minutes. Once they really get going, we can go outside for a bit if you want—just didn't want you to freeze too much." I can guess what we're waiting to watch, but I still raise a brow and nudge his ribs gently with an elbow. He rolls his eyes playfully. "Meteor shower. Supposed to be a pretty good one, too. That's why I didn't feel too bad stopping by so late—you said you were a night owl, right?"
Nodding, I return to rest against him, my body forming to his. It's relaxing enough that I could fall asleep, my eyes captivated by the sea of light above. It's like we're on a different planet, or even in a different country. It's so quiet here, the only sounds apart from our breathing are the crickets and croaking frogs in the distance. I'm not sure why I never thought to do this before, why I never searched out the night sky.
"Why?" he asks. My senses return a bit, becoming more alert as I blink and look at him in confusion. "Why did you want to know?"
Because I want someone to tell me that how I feel isn't wrong.
"Sometimes I wonder… how much it helps to hold onto hate. To just… be driven by that I guess. If it makes things easier," I say instead, hiding my face from him.
"It's like I said before, Adina." His hand trails up from my arm to my neck, his thumb brushing against my skin. It feels good, so different and foreign from what I'm used to, and I lean into his touch. "Nothing takes that away. Not really." He takes a deep breath and I feel his chest expand, his muscles taut as they tense and relax, and I place a tentative hand on his chest, feeling warm when he takes it in his, the tips of his fingers gently touching my swollen and bruised knuckles. "Feeding it, though… that's a guarantee that it's all you'll ever feel."
My heart beats so fast I think it'll stop when he brings my hand to his lips. It's a different fire from wrath that's pooling in my stomach, different from the hateful, self-inflicted burns I'd give myself with each random encounter. Being close to Jason makes me feel like all those parts of me never died, that they're alive and teeming in my chest, like I was never broken.
"Maybe…" He keeps my hand by his neck, and I slowly trace the lines of his throat, feeling the small remnants of stubble close to his jaw and the contours of his collarbones. "Maybe some things help."
We're quiet for a moment, content with being close and watching for the streaks of light to rend the sky. We don't have to wait for long—faint and fleeting trails of light flash before disappearing, leaving no trace behind as they're swallowed back up as others rain down. There are gaps between them as one fades and another appears, but each one feels novel, exciting.
"It's beautiful."
I didn't realize I was holding my breath, that I'm smiling. It's something so simple—sitting out in a car and just being, but it's the most peace that I can ever remember feeling. When I look at Jason, he's not watching the stars; he's watching me. His face is softer, the small tuft of white at his widow's peak and his blue eyes turned silver, and if it wasn't for the rising and falling of his chest, the steady beat of his pulse, I'd almost think he wasn't real, that I couldn't have something like this.
Don't think about anything... don't think at all.
I pull away to readjust, turning so that I can face him. My hands shake, but I place them on his shoulders, summoning the courage to hold his gaze. He's waiting to see what I'll do, patient and expecting nothing, but when I press my lips to his, I can feel his want through the way he places a hand on my hip, giving it a small squeeze, how the other gently runs through my hair when our tongues meet, the kiss deepening and our breathing becoming heavy.
I could do this forever, I think—touch him like this, have him hold me. Our chests press together, and I only break the kiss for him to move closer to the middle seat, helping me swing my leg over his so that I can straddle him. We keep kissing, a moan I don't mean to make quietly escaping me when he runs a hand down my thigh, tracing my bare skin when my skirt hikes up toward my waist.
"Jason," I pant, forcing myself to draw back, to rest my head against his shoulder as I catch my breath.
"Yeah, sunshine?"
He's just as out of breath as me, and I can feel the restraint in his arms, how he keeps them from holding me too tight, from climbing too high, even though I can feel him hardening against me. He wants to continue as much as I do, but this is important. I don't want Jason to feel used, I don't want him to think that this doesn't mean something to me.
"Do you… do you want me?" I ask, hesitantly meeting his gaze, my teeth worrying over my swollen bottom lip.
His grip tightens, holding me like an anchor but never clawing, never trying to trap me in place. "Yeah, I—" He swallows, his eyes burning like the sky above us, blue and clear and full of something that I can feel resting low in my belly but can't name. "Yes, I want you, Adina."
I nod, that feeling of being alive heightening to the point where every nerve ending sparks where our bodies touch. It's intoxicating, intimate in a way that's always terrified me, a kind of closeness I've never felt with anyone else. I card my fingers through his black hair, struggling to hold onto and understand what's constricting my heart.
"I—I need you, Jason," I whisper. "Please."
He cups my face in his hands and kisses me again. It's more urgent, our desire chasing away the cold and turning every touch electric.
"Is this OK?" he asks when he places a hand under my shirt to rest on my stomach.
"Yes," I murmur against his lips, feeling the hard muscles of his chest under my fingers, my hips rolling and making him groan.
"Is this OK?" he asks again when his hand climbs higher, the other pulling up my skirt. I stop his hand at my ribs and adjust my weight to grind against his length.
"Y-Yes," I pant, gasping out breathless affirmations with every repeated confirmation for consent.
He doesn't move to pull off my sweater, but he takes off his own shirt, his skin hot under my touch. His chest is more scarred than mine—cuts, long and deep, are scattered across his stomach and shoulders, his skin marred and torn on his left side, the scar tissue twisted and tight. It's from shrapnel. Poorly healed and an angry pink, I touch them gently, kissing his shoulder and being careful of the large bandage on his side. My own wounds pale in comparison, but they don't have an explanation he would understand. So, I don't think about why I can't show him mine, why I can't feel him pressed against me, and drop my hands to the waistband of his jeans.
"Is… is this alright?"
I wait for him to nod before I undo the button, his hips rising when I trace my fingers over his stomach, light and teasing. He does the rest, digging into his jacket until he finds a condom. I pull my panties to the side, eager to feel him, my breathing stuttering when I sink onto his length, the air stopping in my lungs when we're flush against one another.
We both can't find any words, both of us getting lost in the other. One hand has a steadying hold on my hip as I control the pace, the other gripping my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple through the thin fabric of my sweater and bra. I gasp and moan, the heat in my belly building in a way I've never felt, relishing the sweet ache of him inside me, my teeth lightly tracing his neck. Jason's breathing just as hard, his control slipping once or twice when I move my hips a certain way, when I pant against his skin and dig my fingers into his shoulders. He kisses my throat when my spine arcs, my head thrown back and eyes shut tight, sucking on the skin and gently biting.
It feels good. Good in a way I've never experienced, and something else builds alongside the pleasure, each laboured breath growing too close to a sob. I hold him harder, move faster as I lose my mind, let it drift instead of drowning me. It's just Jason and me, our bodies pressed together, his hips rising to meet mine, his hand moving from my waist to press his thumb against my clit, every touch a small bit of addictive, electrifying fire.
My muscles ache, thighs close to giving out and trembling, but I don't want to stop—for this to ever stop. But my climax comes swiftly, unexpectedly—I almost don't recognize the feeling. I yelp, barely suppressing a scream as I cling to Jason, urging him not to stop when he slows, my body a shivering mess that convulses around him. He holds me tight, riding me out through the first orgasm and into a second, and tears come that I can't explain, but I hold him like I'll break if he lets me go. When he cums, his muscles tighten and seem to ripple, his groans turning into a muffled roar as he pushes up into me one last time.
I collapse against his chest, both of us spent, and my eyes close when he kisses my hair, lingering as he inhales deeply. Our sweat makes my sweater damp, but I can't convince myself to push him away, letting my mind float just a little longer. And Jason doesn't rush me, waiting for me to move first. He kisses me and it's almost chaste compared to what we just did, and I make myself stay lost in the sensations, not letting anything else in that might confuse him. It's hard when he finally helps me move to sit beside him, my legs shaking as I fix my underwear and pull my skirt back down, that feeling of coming undone persistently nudging my heart.
Don't think about it here.
I stare out at the sky while he cleans himself off with something he pulls from his backpack, handing me a bottle of water as he buttons his pants up and takes a long drought from another bottle in his hand. I'm not sure what to say—no one ever stayed longer than to put their clothes back on when they finished, but Jason isn't going to leave, and I don't know why it's something that feels heavy in my lungs and tight in my heart.
No, you do. You're afraid. You're always afraid.
How I feel now, my head light and the world taking on an unreal haze, almost makes me think that I'm high—it's a similar sensation, but there's nothing in my system other than the chemical rush of endorphins. It felt good. Jason felt good. So why do I feel sad?
"Do you ever feel lost?" I ask, watching as another meteor falls across the sky, the black space between the stars starting to lighten. Dawn is at least another two hours off, but the spring sun's reach is long, and, for once, I wish that the night would last a little longer.
"Not if I have a compass."
He laughs and so do I, but my smile quickly fades. His arm brushes against mine, and I can't help but wonder if he regrets being with me, if this didn't mean much after all, that I'm the only one too stupid to have thought it meant something more.
"No, not literally." I shake my head, my throat getting tight. "Sometimes it's like… like I'm falling. Everything's always just—just so quiet, like my heart's heavy enough to drown me, and I…"
Jason's quiet. I can't bear to look at him now. The last time I told anyone how I felt, it led to the never-ending nightmare that defines so much of my life. But I'm not concussed, and Jason isn't a murderer. I want to tell him, but an equal part of me wishes I'd never agreed to see him that first night we met, that I'd been smart enough to never put myself in a place where anyone could hurt me again. It's almost more terrifying to think that I might always live with the doubt that one day Jason might than if it happened outright. It would save me from grappling with doubt and uncertainty, like the pain would be easier if I knew when to brace for it.
But still, I keep trying, searching for something that might not exist.
"I always feel so…"
'Do you ever just—just feel like you can't do anything right? That everything's too hard, it won't get easier and… and there's no point in trying at all? It's… Grandma said that my heart is too heavy, that it weighs me down.'
Parker's voice is unexpected. The memory of his face when we were in the basement of the Manor holding hands in the dark is enough to wind me. I thought I understood him then, but it feels oh so real now, a misplaced wish that might keep me safe. But the thought of it makes my chest hurt. I wipe at my eyes, but the small trails of tears don't stop.
"Feel so what?" Jason asks softly, his voice just above a murmur.
"Alone."
I wince when my voice breaks, when the tears come faster. What a sad, depressing scene I must make. If I wasn't in the middle of nowhere and Jason didn't have the keys, I would've run away, disappeared with the hope that he'd forget about me quickly.
"You're not alone, sunshine." Jason leans over me until I finally look at him. But he doesn't look at me with pity, not with contempt the way he would have. His eyes are sincere and honest. I want to believe him just like I did that first night in the rain, I want to believe that he cares, that he knows I feel the same. "Not with me."
I reach up and brush my thumbs across his sharp cheekbones, affirming that this is real, and I search his eyes for a lie and find none.
"Do you mean that?"
His hands are calloused and rough, but they're also gentle, they aren't taking anything, they hold no expectations. Hands are what hold you close or push you away, and I don't know what I want mine to do, if I should hold him like he's holding me, or if I should let go, leave him before I'm left alone wondering why I expected any different.
"I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to."
I want to believe him; I want it to be true.
Let it be. Just for tonight.
It's like my arms don't know what to do, like I missed some vital lesson on how to hold and love, like I never learned it at all. But I move through the unfamiliar, embracing his warmth, the smell of him, his faint remnants of aftershave and our sweat, and wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face where it meets his shoulder, our chests pressed together as our two heartbeats become one. And I let this be enough, let myself believe that I deserve this, let Jason be all I've ever known.
AN: Stay safe out there, everyone, and thank you for being so amazing. I appreciate all of you so dang much! 💖
I'd also like to give a special shout-out to Jasminau for all her help and support with this chapter - it means the world! And I'd also like to thank JohnJoestar and clv44 for being such great and steadfast friends even though I really suck to replying to anything in a timely manner. I couldn't do this without you guys! ðŸ˜ðŸ’–