It's when the waitress remembers my name that I realize how absolutely nuts this is.
"Why are you here, Miri?" I chide under my breath, head in my hands as I breathe in the freshly cooked waffles and burnt coffee wafting from the diner counter. This is my third time here in as many days, and I don't even really know what I'm doing, what I'm expecting.
"You want a top-up, Adina?" Maria asks, nodding towards my cup of tea. I've been sitting here for hours at a time, doing work that doesn't require the internet for much, and just as they learned my name, I learned theirs. I shake my head, smiling like I mean it and picking at the plate of waffles in front of me with a fork, eating small bits of the strawberries on top. "Alright, just shout if you need something."
Once she's out of earshot, I sigh, feeling especially pathetic.
You could just call. You know, like a normal person.
But what am I supposed to say? Hey, Jason, sorry for trying to jump your bones like that. I don't have issues, promise!
I groan, digging my fingers into my temples like it'll get rid of the headache I've given myself.
Fucking hell—it sounds bad enough in my head, speaking it out loud would kill me.
It was a longshot in the first place, waiting around at regular eating times to see if he'd show up. What was I even imagining? A meet-cute situation? For this to seem genuine rather than a stalker origin-story?
Idiot. You're an idiot.
Ignoring the knots in my stomach, I force down the waffles and remainder of my tea. I told myself this would be the last day, that I'd either grow a spine and call to apologize or leave it. Guilt overshadows both choices.
Placing two twenties on the counter and waving in thanks to Maria and the cook, Sam, I pull up my jacket hood and head out into the rain. Almost every day in Gotham is miserable, but it seems to take on a new meaning this year. I can't remember a spring where it rained this heavily, and the brief spots of sun every few days make what greenery Gotham possesses grow at an intense rate. It makes the entire city smell like garbage cans left out for too long. Gotham might be cleaning up its act after what happened—or, at least they're trying to—but the city doesn't seem to want to let go of the filth and mud as readily, not even when there's an offering of providence to wash it all away.
Keeping my head down as I'm pelted with rain and going around the block, someone knocks into my shoulder. I twist away quickly—expecting to see Jack Ryder or a disgruntled stranger—but my mouth falls open.
"Babba?"
I bite my tongue, angry that even after everything that happened, I can't seem to call him Jahan to his face, falling back on a term of endearment he doesn't deserve.
His eyes widen in surprise, taking in my face and pushing his own hood back. "Habibti?" he breathes, almost like he doesn't think I'm real.
I recover before he does, glancing up and down the street in search of his entourage, but I don't see any other discernible Arabs.
Since when does a crime boss walk alone in Gotham in the rain?
The bitter memory of the last time we talked leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I can't make myself feel angry with him for long. He looks worse than he did eighteen months ago—leaning heavily on a cane, face gaunt and skin ashen. Thick lines of silver mix with the black of his hair, but it's his eyes that strike me most. Jahan looks afraid.
"Why are you here?" I ask, making myself stand my ground and speak rather than run. It isn't long until I start fidgeting.
"I—" He cuts himself off, shooting a glance at his wristwatch and then over his shoulder. "I have a meeting." His accent's still thick, carrying that lilt I never had the chance to emulate.
"What, can't afford a driver anymore?" Failing to keep the snark out my voice, I avoid his eyes. He's another person who didn't call after what happened, when I moved, not even after I was in the hospital the last time recovering from surgery. Nothing. But I shouldn't be surprised by that, either.
Setting yourself up for disappointment, Miri. Best to expect nothing at all, isn't it?
"You changed your hair."
My head snaps up, and Jahan looks… emotional. This is not an expression I've ever seen on his face—not that I could ever remember. The fact that he noticed shakes me, and my hand gently pulls on a lock, as if to confirm his words.
"Ah—yeah. A while ago, I guess."
He nods, looking down like I just had. Our feet shift, splashing the shallow pools of water at our feet. Punching him would be easier than this, but my body feels heavy, tired.
"Maryam—Miriam," he shakes his head with the correction, still not looking at me, "I—"
'I'm sorry.'
That's what it sounded like he was going to say, but it's like he doesn't know how to say it, like it might not be something he ever learned. He's visibly different from before—not just physically. I felt no temptation to pilfer his digital life again after I saw him in the Amaseena—which I now realize is only five blocks from here—but I don't need that, either, to tell me this is a different man. I'm not the only one who changed.
"I… You shouldn't be on the street." I don't know why I say that—he shouldn't be out here, he's on several police watchlists and I'm certain that any rival gang worth their salt would be itching for the chance to put him down—but what do you say to someone who shares half your blood yet might as well be a complete stranger? "I—I have a car, I can… drive you, if you want."
Heat burns my chest, and I don't know why I offered that, either. Thinking of him brings the memory of buying that gun—the arcade, trying to save Parker and failing, how it felt when a bullet tore through my side. But, even still, the desire to take the words back doesn't come—I mean it when I didn't think I would. He seems just as surprised by it as I am.
"You look stronger now, habibti."
Where is my father's anger? Where is his spite, the pride that defined him in my mind? I don't recognize this man in front of me, the one filling my chest with something other than resignation and hate.
It hurts more than I thought it would.
"You're a lion, but you did it all without me, eh?"
His words hit deep, evoking a memory I wanted to leave with everything else. I think of the hot sand under my fingers, the feeling of rough cotton against my skin, the curls wrapping around his ears. When he grins, I see a ghost of who I knew as a six-year-old girl—a man who shone like the sun, the one who could make me feel special with a smile and the smallest bit of attention. Those glances were rare, and yet they're what I remember him most by.
"No, I'm not a lion." I don't know what I am, but it isn't that. I feel… vicious, sometimes. Savage. Confused. Damaged. But not strong; not fierce.
He laughs through his nose, sardonic and quiet. "Maybe not, habibti, but perhaps you're more djinn than I ever was."
"What does that mean?" The cold chill from the wet spring air finally seeps in, and the shaking travels up until I'm vibrating.
Shifting again, he looks away—like facing me is too much for him. "It took me twenty years to realize that… ya Allah." Digging in his pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Shielding it from the rain with his hand after he puts a stick in his mouth, the flame lights as he glances over his shoulder again.
"Realize what?"
I shouldn't ask, I still don't know if I want the answer—and self-reflection isn't something my father's ever been good at—but what do I really know besides what Mom told me and the bits and pieces I remember as a child, what I gleaned from the news?
Jahan finally meets my gaze, and it almost looks rueful and I don't know why. "Djinn outlast the world of men even if they are part of it. You already showed that, didn't you?"
What's he implying?
"No, babba, you're wrong again."
I shake my head, unsure of where he's going with this and rebelling against the idea that he's trying to somehow impart revelations or words of parental wisdom—and I don't even know for what. Why say this now, why acknowledge me after years of purposeful forgetting?
Then why won't you walk away?
I should, and yet it's like when I was little again—drawn into my father's world, still searching for that sun to gravitate toward. But there's another sun now—one that's hidden but still drags me closer, singes the edges of my being. There are no buffers between me and it—him. It'll corrode, even from a distance, and I don't know how to protect myself from it. I laugh, hard and biting, at the realization that I had compared him to djinn once, too.
'So different, but the same in all the ways that matter.'
Maybe he was right; maybe we aren't so different.
No—I shake the thought out of my head. I'm not like him.
You're not.
Then why does it feel like I'm lying?
"I'm no jinniyah. I met one of those—a djinni, and he wasn't like you or me. Didn't you tell me about majnun, once? Seems more fitting, really."
Majnun. 'Crazy', 'insane'. It also means possessed by a djinni. It's at its worst when my body feels like it belongs to a stranger, when my mind betrays and cripples me, when my dreams aren't my own. They feel shared—something that used to be familiar but has changed into something I haven't found the key to understanding.
"Djinn are not good or evil, they just… are," Jahan says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Rain trails down my nose and I resist the urge to wipe it away. "Capable of great and terrible things, yes, but they are neutral, following no plan but their own."
I stare at him with blank confusion. Did he not choose that name to inspire fear in others, to adopt the visage and power of ghouls? "Didn't… didn't you say they were 'beings wreathed in smokeless flame'? A—a demon or—"
"No, no. Djinn, they… what is the word…" He trails off again, but I find myself aching to hear the rest. Where is this coming from, what's prompted the change? Seeing fear and sadness on his face is never something my mind could conjure before. "They oscillate. They are not static, bound to one nature. We just do not understand them—they lie outside of that."
His words shake me, rattle my body like a blow. How do Jahan's words seem to fit more than what I had originally applied to him back at Garcia's house? Mercurial, capable of embodying dual natures while never bowing to either, lying beyond our ability to rationalize; everything about how I conceptualize him, firmly placing him in the category of pure, unadulterated evil—was that ever entirely right?
You have the scars and nightmares to prove it. There's a small graveyard's worth of the dead that he's responsible for. He is evil. He is.
Isn't he? But am I not also culpable in that?
"Then why—"
"Adina?"
The voice behind me stops the words in my throat. I know it, but outside of the diner, I'm unprepared as to what to say. Turning, it feels like I'm caught in a glitch—phasing back and forth between the confusion and pain of my father with the guilt and shame wrapped up in what I've been avoiding.
"Jason—what… what are you doing here?" I stutter, trying to smile, but it twitches into a grimace.
Motorcycle parked beside him and helmet under his arm, Jason looks at us with curiosity. The timing couldn't have been worse—why did today have to be the day where my problems coalesced?
"Well, by now you know I have a kink for waffles, so there's that." He nods to where I came from, the direction of the diner. "Been a few days and my waffle skills aren't up to par."
Of all the goddamn times he decides to show up…
The complete lack of judgement or apprehension and Jason's half-smile make it hard to think. Unable to master my expression, I turn away, panicking about how the hell I explain who Jahan is, and I'm pissed that he's staring between the two of us with poorly hidden bemusement. The look on his face from before never leaves. Cars zip down the road, splashing our shoes and pants as the tires hit the potholes full of water.
What if Jahan says your name? Your real name? How the fuck do you explain that then? Why are you so fucking stupid—
But I need to say something, "Um, this is—"
"I am Adina's uncle, Ibrahim," Jahan interjects, moving past me and extending his hand toward Jason. He stares at Jahan, hesitating for a moment before shaking his hand and smiling. I'd be relieved if it didn't look forced. "Don't worry, I was just leaving. I'm… I'm late as it is."
Why did he lie?
Seeing that Jahan had the awareness to not only use my middle name, but also refrain from identifying himself as my father steals my voice from me. Whatever I was going to say washes away with the rain, and that feeling of being a child again returns.
"Pleasure."
Jason's voice is cordial enough, but something in his face is strained, manifesting in the tense muscles in his jaw, the jumping tendon at his jugular. He stares at me out of the corner of his eye, and I look everywhere but at him—searching the sidewalks for eavesdroppers, scouting for the best exit routes, and debating whether it would be easier to throw myself in front of a car and avoid outing myself as a goddamn liar.
Jahan looks from Jason to me again, and something… I don't know how to name it—it's the same look I'd see on Alfred's face when Parker and I would hang out at the Manor, when he'd laugh when he saw Parker tease me. It's… fatherly. A knowing look he shouldn't be able to give. The sight of it feels like a betrayal, like something Jahan never earned to express but I'm happy he is anyway.
Where is my own hatred, where is my anger? He's another man who did nothing—who knew what was happening to me, knew what was coming, and left me to die anyway. He left me to be tortured, nearly raped—he left me to suffer, and I'm still looking for someone to blame. Maybe it's because I reached a tentative truce with Bruce—because I've finally loosened my grasp on one string of hate that the entire tapestry is coming undone—but I feel lost without its comforting embrace, the notched teeth that dug into my skin as I gripped it for dear life.
Jahan doesn't smile, doesn't try to hug me goodbye. When he left after Mom gave him the ultimatum, he winked and smiled, filled me with promises that he'd be back. Today he has the decency not to lie. The fear in his face ebbs, replaced with something I recognize as resignation.
"Fi Amanillah, habibti."
Unable to find the words to reply, I watch him leave in silence. My fingers go numb, and memories overlap with reality. I can't decide if this—talking with him, not giving him the middle finger and storming off—is something I'll add to my never-ending list of regrets.
"You look a lot alike." I glance up at Jason, remembering that not all my problems disappeared with Jahan. It's true—I look like a much younger version of him, but I barely recognize him just like I can barely recognize myself. Jason starts to stutter, rubbing the back of his neck when I don't reply, but winces in pain and drops his arm down. "Well, I mean, you're clearly prettier—goddamnit."
A laugh bursts out and I don't know why. It dies quickly, but it's enough to make Jason smirk. I'm reminded of the last time I apologized to someone like this—but I don't have flowers and pink Pop-Rocks this time. I'm just soaked and broken, offering nothing to try and repair what I will always inevitably damage.
Sometimes I can convince myself, when it's quiet and I'm half-asleep, that Parker isn't really gone, that he's just waiting for me at his parents' house, listening to music too loud and goofing around on his computer, to come and say I'm sorry. It's like I can feel him now, nudging me still to be different—to be better—even when all I want to do is run very far away.
Don't leave things like this, Miri. Take a deep breath.
Despite the silent repetitions, the words still tumble out of my mouth. "I—it's… I'm glad I ran into you."
Why do I have to sound so bashful—so goddamn idiotic? It's like my tongue is twisted in my mouth, the blood rushing to my head speeding up time and making me clumsy. I'm surprised when he smiles.
"I mean, it's more like I ran into you. A happy coincidence, right? I was thinking you ghosted me." He's chuckling, but I hear what he isn't saying aloud: I really screwed up.
"No—I… I should've called, but I—"
But I what?
The tongue-tied feeling intensifies, foreign and belonging to a time when things were good, when there was still the chance to go back and do things differently. It doesn't belong here—I don't get to feel these things.
I struggle to find the right words, still rattled by talking with Jahan, and Jason reaches up and slowly pulls my hood up a little more so it covers my hair. "Hey, you're soaked. C'mon, I'll buy you a hot chocolate or something," he says, nodding in the direction of the diner.
"You don't—don't have to do that."
Jesus—how are you supposed to tell him you were waiting out for three days to see if he'd show up?
"I want to." He's smiling widely, motioning like he's going to put his arm around me when he seems to think better of it, letting out a small hiss when his arm goes too high, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket instead. "So, you wanna tell me what happened to your face?"
"Huh?"
It takes me a minute to understand his meaning when he points to his own face; it's the same area I have that bruise on my jaw. It's only been a few days, and it's gone green with blotches of purple, and no amount of foundation makes it disappear completely. I touch it self-consciously, struggling to come up with another lie and hating myself a little more.
"Your makeup's good, but not that good." He cocks a brow and I struggle to meet his eye. "I know what the aftermath of getting sucker-punched looks like," he says when I laugh awkwardly, waving my hand to dismiss it without having to explain. The look on his face tells me I'm just not that convincing.
When I started working for Naomi, I had to have a crash course on a lot of things—how to drive, how to properly shoot a gun, how to understand bullshit governmental hierarchies—but what she emphasized the most was keeping the details of what I do to myself; protecting state secrets and all that. There wouldn't be any repeated mistake of telling anyone things they shouldn't know ever again. Part of that was learning how to blend lies with truth.
"I do kickboxing. Me and another girl were sparring—I didn't have my guard up and she clipped me." None of that was a lie—it just didn't cause this specific one. "I bruise easy," I add, shrugging. "What about you?"
He looks at me with confusion and cocks an eyebrow. "What about me?"
"Why are you wincing?"
He slows for a minute before resuming his pace and smiles. But now I'm the one who's not convinced. "Workplace injury. Cracked a rib when I fell off some scaffolding." My mouth drops open, ready to give him some misplaced lecture on safety when he throws up a hand. "Nah, I know—a real dumbass move. Should've had my harness on. I'll be feeling it for a while, but nothin' permanent, sunshine."
It's the only reply he seems willing to give, so I drop it, uneager to stay on the topic of injuries when we can both tell the other isn't being forthcoming.
Maria and Sam smile as we enter the diner, giving me knowing looks and raised eyebrows that make me want to melt into the floor and disappear. We find a quiet booth in the back corner, and my jaw locks up, trapping the words I need to say in the maze of thoughts my mind's created.
This would be easier if you had two or three glasses of something…
No, it wouldn't be—I'd just make this even worse. I shove the urge to drink out of my mind; dealing with that on top of everything else is a recipe to spiral.
Breathe then—you can't freak out like you did last time.
But, just like with everything else, that's easier said than done. I flinch back when something dark comes closer in the corner of my eye, hand going up to block anything incoming. It takes an unreasonable amount of time to fight my brain and see it's just Jason extending his jacket towards me.
"You're shivering, take it."
He extends it again, slower this time, and it's not until he says it that I notice how the cold has clung to me, but I shake my head and wave the jacket away. Having him be doting of all things after what I did makes my side ache.
"I'm fine—really."
He rolls his eyes, trying to come off as playful. "Or you could just not be stubborn. You're gonna catch a cold—even with all those sweaters on," he says gesturing to me, and I pull them closer. "I'm not a nurse, and there won't be any chicken noodle soup coming your way, sunshine, so warm up." Now he's chuckling for real and it lightens his face, taking away the shadows from before.
I laugh, trying to imagine him in a kitchen making soup from scratch. My grin fades as burning fire sears under my skin, but I relent and take his jacket, sitting opposite me at the table.
Clearing my throat, I take a deep breath. "Jason, I… I wanted to say I'm sorry."
Now it's his turn to wave my words away. His expression keeps changing, and I find myself wanting to just… watch. See how his eyes harden and soften, try to decipher what he's thinking from the changes in his posture alone. And, right now, I don't think he wants to talk about what happened, either.
"You don't have to say it." The smile isn't there, not the real one, even if its ghost still pulls at his lips.
Breathe.
Lions, djinn, and revolving images of different versions of my father rotate in my mind. Even as some thoughts change, others stay the same: I don't want to be like him.
Just breathe.
"No—I need to. I…" My voice falters but I make myself find it again; I still can't meet his eyes. "I shouldn't have acted like that. It was a shitty thing to do, and I… I reacted badly."
Understatement of the year, don't you think?
But I still think about kissing him—how he felt… safe to be around. How his lips felt against mine, the warmth of his hands on my waist. "I shouldn't have… have used you like that." It makes me burn up for another reason, but it's all tempered by the knowledge that my selfishness is never far behind—that it warps whatever it touches, that it hurts people when all I ever wanted was to hurt myself. "And I mean it—I'm sorry," I breathe, finally finding the courage to meet his gaze.
Jason doesn't say anything; he just stares, considering me. My knees bounce, my hands try their best to strangle the other, and it's like a thousand ants are crawling all over my skin, but I don't move away—I don't run like I tried to the last time we were here.
"Punching you in the face, what… what happened last time—I don't… I don't even know why you're still talking to me, honestly."
My voice is quiet and riddled with confusion, and I draw into myself like I can make my body shrink. I don't understand why I… want to keep talking with him. Being around me would be enough to wear down anyone—that he's still here gives me hope that I have no right to feel.
His arms rest on the table, hands stretching out until they're half-way across it. They're loose, relaxed, almost inviting me to take them.
And I want to.
"You've got issues, yeah—but who doesn't? Just because you haven't seen mine doesn't mean they're not there." He grins, flashing a sharp canine, and, once again, my voice leaves me. "If you wanna… I don't know, keep doing this sort of thing—whatever this is—I want it to be because you want to. That it's something good for you and me, not… whatever you were using it for."
I went twenty-three years without ever discussing something like this. Fucking hell, I've never even really dated anyone. Yes—there were… the others. Jason's right even if he doesn't know the scope of it—I was using them, those other boys, and I tried using him, too. Do I even know how to do something healthy—is this already doomed to end in disaster?
You've never really tried.
Maybe I inherited Mom's terrible ability to have anything long-term with a partner. Her longest relationship was four years—and, even then, it was on-again-off-again so often that I lost track. The weight of it—him leaving it as a choice, as something I decide to move forward or not—is foreign, and I'm struggling to understand what exactly it is that I do want.
I think of Bruce, Alfred hugging me. That feeling of home, that maybe things don't have to be so bad. The voices on the edge of my mind are quiet, not intruding to remind me of those deep truths I still haven't accepted entirely.
Jason's hands are still on the table. Slowly, with hesitant motions forwards before drawing back, I place mine down, just touching the back of my fingers against his. "Can we—Jesus, saying let's start over sounds so cliché, doesn't it?" I laugh, still feeling hot in the face.
"Yeah, it does." He smirks playfully and that goddamn feeling of bashfulness returns, making my heart skip in a way that hurts in its unfamiliarity. "But I don't mind that. Who doesn't want a reset button in life?"
Now it's my turn to stare at him. Everything goes quiet—I don't hear the clicking of cutlery against plates, glasses sliding along tables, the idle chatter of the few others in the diner or the staticky voices coming from the TV in the corner. His hair's a little long, almost obscuring the tops of his ears, and his eyes are steady—certain. I don't know if mine have ever looked like that. Jason still doesn't move, and I tentatively take his hand in mine, half-expecting him to rip it away, tell me this was a joke and reaffirm all of my worst thoughts, the voice that never really leaves.
But he doesn't. Instead, he smiles. It's like that first night in the rain when he walked me home—entirely genuine in a way I'm not used to seeing. I feel warm, like maybe I was looking for the sun in all the wrong places before and only finding shadow.
I can't bear the contact for long—how it's so different than what I usually invite—and let go, picking up a menu and studying like I didn't memorize it yesterday. "Have any more waffle recommendations?" I cringe as the words leave my mouth, but he laughs, one hand going to press against his side, and my shoulders relax.
It's like the first time we were here together, how he reminded me of Parker, but it doesn't hurt like it did then—it's not unwelcome. And, just like before, it feels like I've known him longer than I have. Except, this time, I don't push that feeling, or him, away.
We talk until the sun goes down, telling stories about our first broken bones as kids and creating hypothetical scenarios of what would you do. Our hands stay on the table the whole time, only moving when we'd really get into a joke, gesturing wildly as our enthusiasm grew. He tells me about his sister Izzy, and he smiles in a gentle way I haven't seen yet. Regret's there, too, but I know that feeling—familial love and guilt creating something new, something that weighs heavy on the heart.
Unlike when Parker and I first became friends—when he poured out his secrets and spoke every thought that came into his head—I don't keep everything to myself. I'm surprised that I want to tell Jason things; I want to talk with someone who understands. I tell him about Mom, but never about Bruce or Alfred, editing out their presence—and every other detail that would point to what I'm hiding—would not only show me for being a liar, but being related to a Wayne makes even simple things complicated, and nothing about this is simple.
"So, anyway—that's how I set the oven on fire," he finishes, his chest rumbling with laughter.
"I don't know how you're still alive with a mouth like that," I say in between giggles. Maria's shift ended an hour ago, and Jason and I are among the few left in the diner. The thought of going home to work more on my Black Mask assignment and do more digging into Arkham comes, an insistent nudge in my mind, but I ignore it—just for a while longer.
"It's 'cause I'm a charmer." He smirks, giving me a purposely bad wink that looks more like a twitch. It renews the giggles again, and I put a hand over my mouth to stem them. Jason gets a mischievous glint in his eye, rubbing his hands together and leaning over the table. "I guess there was one time I thought things might end decidedly bad for me."
"Oh? What, don't tell me Jason, The Debonair said something smart to the wrong person?" I ask, putting a hand over my heart in mock incredulity and mirroring him to lean closer. The smell of his cologne almost makes me forget he's speaking.
"It was basic training and we were going over some emergency drills," he begins, waving a hand in the air as if to paint the scene for me. Resting my chin on my closed fists, I watch with rapt attention, smirking all the while. "The Sarge is listing off all these scenarios—what do you do if you get shot? Who's ass do you kiss first on a full moon? What's the protocol for saving kittens in trees?" He breaks off laughing. His voice had been deeper and rigid, mocking the unnamed Sarge, and I keep myself from joining in just yet.
"Saving kittens? Who knew the military could be so heroic." From how my cheeks ache, I'm smiling widely again. I haven't been able to make myself stop, and I don't remember the last time I had a moment like this, something that went so long without being marred, and I'm determined for it to last.
"Of course—what do you think all those howitzers are for?" We both laugh, and he waves a hand, clearing his throat to continue. "Then, he starts asking about safety. In the case of a fire, what steps would you take?"
He's trying not to smile and failing. "And?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"I found out the hard way that, apparently, 'fucking large ones' wasn't the right answer."
Nobody's made me laugh this hard since Parker died. A part of my mind's looking for things to go wrong, for the dark edge to show itself and make me a fool, for my world to cloud over again. It's what I've known for so long that this is its own form of terror—uncharted territory that I never thought I'd be able to travel.
Jason's face transforms, and it's like he's younger—like the world wasn't so unkind. When it changes again, it's like hitting a brick wall—knocking the air out in a different way than our laughter had. Dread creeps in, the voice getting a little louder.
"You do realize, don't you, that you did all of that for… nothing. It all came back to nothing."
His eyes are focused above my head in a far corner. Swallowing hard and pushing back the urgent feeling that I fucked up again—that I really can't go long without ruining something, someone—I look over my shoulder. Jason's staring at a TV playing the news. Seeing Jack Ryder's face is enough for rage to burn any joy I felt into cinders, but the banner running below his sycophantic toad-face diverts my anger.
JANUS COSMETICS WINS $37 MILLION LAWSUIT OVER ALLEGED CHEMICAL CONTAMINATION. ROMAN SIONIS FILES COUNTERSUIT FOR LIBEL AGAINST—
I've heard of the makeup brand before and never bought it, but why it's turned Jason into a near paroxysm of wrath confuses me. He looks ready to kill someone, and for the first time, he scares me. Not in a way that makes me want to run, but in a way that's so familiar. Instead of reminding me of Parker, Jason's reminding me of someone else. I've seen that look before—on his face—and something ugly always followed. Death, pain, and agony—that's what he brought.
"What? Is… is something wrong?" I ask, gritting my teeth when my voice shakes. It's irrational—being afraid of Jason. He isn't anything like him, he hasn't hurt me—he wouldn't.
…Right?
"No, sorry. Just… distracted," he replies, barely tearing his eyes away to meet mine. When he sees my face his expression changes, turning into a wall of stone and burying the anger behind it. Hints of what's underneath ripple through, and he can't keep it from his eyes. They might be blue, but they're sharp as knives.
"Alright." He looked more than distracted; Jason looked furious—angry enough to make the hair on my arms rise. Swallowing again, I ask, "Who's Roman Sionis?"
A muscle in his neck jumps, and he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers like he just hit something hard. I make myself stay in place. "Cosmetic mogul from Chicago. Moved his headquarters here after the Siege, touting some fucking bullshit about rebuilding Midtown."
I look at the TV again as they flash a picture of Roman. Brown hair slicked back, a white suit that borders on silver, cold eyes and five o'clock shadow, he's good-looking in the same way Bruce looks handsome when he's dappered himself up for public events—suave, charming, but ultimately empty underneath it all. They aren't showing something real.
But why would Jason react like that to him?
"You don't like him?" I think of what he told me about his sister, but he didn't mention anything about chemical burns or personal injury. What other reason would Jason have?
He shrugs, not looking at me. "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."
He sounds cold and bitter, unlike anything I'd heard before. Us joking and laughing fades, and Jason's anger becomes suffocating. I think of my own family—how I come from wealth exactly like what he's critiquing. I've seen what Wayne Enterprises does. Yes, they help—Bruce funds dozens of different shelters, clinics, half-way houses and children's homes around Gotham, but it was only after everything that happened before that I can see that they funnel the bulk of their money into fighting one fire while neglecting the others.
"Do you ever think some people deserve to die?" he asks quietly.
My mind struggles to pull away from that maze again, the mess of images and memories that juggle my meeting with Jahan, my struggle to reconcile Bruce and Batman fully, and Jason's question is… unsettling. Not in the sense of what he's inferring, but because I agree.
"I—I guess it depends."
The brick wall shakes and electric fire lights up Jason's body. "On what? You don't think there are people out there who shouldn't exist, that need to be dealt with for the good of everyone else?" he snaps.
The muscles in his arms tense and draw him up, turning him into an image of barely restrained anger. I don't think he'd unleash it on me, but that familiarity surfaces—it makes me wonder if that's what I look like when I start to lose control, when my own anger gets the better of me.
"It's… not that simple." But isn't it? Did I not do one thing of my own conscious, free will back when Gotham was tearing itself apart? "We shouldn't get to decide that. Not you or me." My mind flits back to Bruce and his cause, to the man in red and the trails of bodies and blood he leaves behind. "Not even vigilantes. They do more harm than good—one person shouldn't get to decide who gets a bullet and who doesn't."
Looks like you're one of the hypocrites. Still a liar, too.
"Then who does, Adina?" he asks, expression different again. He's trying to get me to understand, but he doesn't know that I already do. "The world's changing and the bastards looking to profit off the suffering of others deserve to pay."
The bitterness is still there, but so is conviction. I agree with him—but what I used to believe in before is gone. Certainties and clear lines between right and wrong don't exist—they're a moving line in the sand that we tell ourselves is fixed and visible. I want things to be as simple as he's making them, but I know they're not. Nothing's ever simple. Nothing.
"Won't ever see me crying that someone's doing what should've been done since the beginning," he says, jerking his head back to the TV. A shadowy silhouette GCN claims is Red Hood flashes up with a headline about a shoot-out in Crime Alley. Twelve people are dead—all of them have gang ties. Speculation about rising tensions only confirms what I've been investigating for Naomi. "The world's better off when people like that are six feet under."
Deep down, I know I don't entirely believe what I said. When I doxxed all those people—the same ones on trial for incitement and accessory to murder for participating in the voting he orchestrated—I wanted them to get what they deserved. I wanted them to get what was coming—just like I wanted Zsasz to die. Like I still want him to. Shit, I even tried to do it myself—shoving a shard of glass in his side, beating him with a pipe just like I did to that man back at the warehouse, almost shooting him in the head—I made every wrong decision and meted out who deserved what based on wrath and vengeance when no one else would do it for me.
And look where that got you.
Jason clears his throat, hiding the dark rage underneath forced casualness. I try to hide my own expression, but I'm not as successful. For the first time, it seems to cross his mind that maybe he went a little too far, revealed too much of himself. "Sorry, sunshine—didn't mean to get intense there."
He's half-smiling in apology, and the nickname brings warmth back to my skin; I draw his jacket closer around me. "It's alright, Jason."
I mean it and wish I could tell him why, but I don't. Stretching my hands out across the table first this time, Jason doesn't have the same hesitation about taking them in his, and his thumb runs over the back of my knuckles. I shiver for another reason besides being cold.
He walks me to my car in amiable silence, but the rest of the city is loud. Horns honk, sirens blare, and the quiet I found to focus just on him is left behind in the diner. He's still holding my hand, and I don't want him to let go. I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight, and I still can't decide if I want to. Dreams are still dangerous, even when there's something good to focus on when I'm awake, but, for the first time in a long while, I don't have the overwhelming urge to drown them.
"Goodnight," I say when we finally get to my car, pushing a frizzy curl behind my ear. It's like I'm fifteen or something again—some virginal teen in a movie—but I don't feel angry about it this time, only nervous. My stomach's flipping and contracting, a source of pain and nausea that I can't bring myself to find completely unpleasant. "And thank you again for…" I clear my throat and make myself not look away—to take in how the passing headlights sharpen and soften the planes of his face. "Well, thank you for everything."
Jason's not smiling, his entire face serious and his eyes filled with want—but it's not the same kind I'm used to. It's hungry, but it's not looking to devour me; it's reserved, but it tells me he's genuine. "Can I kiss you?" he asks.
My face doesn't go hot but I still feel warm, starting from my scalp down to my toes. "Yes."
He kisses me and it doesn't feel like it's part of a dream—it feels entirely real. The pressure of his lips on mine, how his hand goes to my throat, thumb brushing along my jaw—it's electric; a burning touch my body rises to meet, wanting more. My hands go to his shoulders, giving me a bit of leverage to deepen the kiss. It's nice—no, more than that—I don't want it to end. Nothing else comes up, and what I wanted before is finally achieved—the world does stop.
I'm the one to pull away first this time. Our breathing is heavier, and so is the weight of his eyes, but I meant what I said: I won't push this. His smile is brief, a flash of some private happiness, before it disappears.
"Can I see you again?" he asks, thumb tracing over my ear, gently pushing back more of the hair that's fallen from place.
I try to hold back my own smile that wants to grow, and kiss him quickly on the cheek, letting my lips linger only for a second just above his jaw before drawing away slowly. "Yes," I breathe, clearing my throat and finally making a choice—of what I want, of what direction to follow to find my own sun.
When he kisses me again, the world stays quiet, and my mind finds a reprieve it forgot it ever knew.
Thank you for tuning back in, everyone, and Happy New Year! I hope you had a great holidays, and if you're still interested in reading the short stories I did for it, you can find it on my profile under A Not So Wonderful Life.
I know things are still going slower in terms of the build-up, but I hope you're enjoying things so far ❤. There's still lots of craziness to happen because this is me we're talking about (lol). I'd love to hear what you guys think!
Just a translation note (if I got anything wrong, please feel free to correct me! Arabic isn't a language I speak and I try my best to research and verify everything, but there are nuances I just won't get without studying from a native speaker):
Fi Amanillah means "be with the safety of Allah" or "may Allah protect you." It's usually used (from my understanding) as a more final form of goodbye - when you know you're not going to see the other for a long time or there's going to be a large distance between the speaker and the recipient.
Habibti is the feminine form of "beloved."
Also - the story Jason has about the safety course comes from an "incorrect quotes" blog that I saw on Tumblr. I tried finding the original source but seem to have no luck - if you know where it's from originally, let me know! It just seemed way too funny to me to not have it included - it makes me giggle way too dang much 😂. And I want to shout-out to minstorai for their kind reviews and the inspiration that I worked into the chapter ❤.
I'll be back again in a couple of weeks! ❤
