The little bell chimed as we entered the tailor's shop, a wave of luxurious scents enveloping us. The walls were lined with shelves full of fine fabrics and leather, each more exquisite than the last. A far cry from my usual thrift shop escapades, where the only scent was a faint aroma of mothballs.

Nerves started doing the conga dance in my stomach as Helena dragged me inside, determined to find the perfect suit for the gala. An impeccably-clad gentleman materialized before us, all crisp lines and a mustache that looked like it had taken a dozen hours of grooming. His name tag read 'Mr. Wilson, Master Tailor', and his measuring tape was draped over his shoulder.

"Welcome to Wilson's," he greeted us. "How may I assist you?"

Helena didn't waste a moment. "We're looking for a suit for my friend here," she said, gesturing to me. "We've got an event tonight at Wayne Manor."

I stood awkwardly as the tailor took his measurements, my tattered jeans and old hoodie making me feel like a clown at a tuxedo convention. I tried my darnedest to hide the knots of anxiety writhing inside.

Helena ran her fingers over a rack of suits, admiring the different fabrics and cuts. "I still can't believe we got kicked out of the Crow's Nest last night," she mused, her eyes flitting from one suit to another. I cringed inwardly, the recollection not exactly a badge of honor.

I tried to keep my tone light. "Yeah, that wasn't our finest moment, that's for sure." I replied, chuckling.

"I never pegged you for a fighter, but you can really handle yourself. It was pretty ho–... ah, cool." she teased, catching herself. A rush of heat surged to my cheeks, even though I couldn't agree less with her assessment.

"Thanks for the backhanded compliment," I replied with a smirk. "So, what did you peg me for then?" I raised an eyebrow.

Helena met my gaze, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Oh, I had you down as a six foot teddy bear who wouldn't hurt a fly," she jabbed.

Her description hung in the air, and I let out a thoughtful sigh. My gaze wandered to the array of suits. Her insinuation about my potential for violence stirred up uncomfortable thoughts. I'd always steered clear from confrontations and I sure as hell wished it hadn't come to that.

"I don't want to be a 'teddy bear' who can't protect the people he cares about," I confessed softly. "But I also don't want to be someone who enjoys it."

Relief washed over me as her attention shifted back to the clothing. She pulled out a striking black suit. "This one is perfect," she said, holding it up to my chest. It was a work of art, sleek and stylish, like something straight out of a James Bond film. "Try it on," she added, holding it up to me. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Mr. Wilson gave his approval, and we followed him to the fitting area.

The closer we got, the tighter the knot in my gut twisted. The thought of having to change in front of Helena only adding to my unease. I had always been a master at disguising my body with baggy clothes, but now, standing in front of her, I felt stripped down to my bare bones. My abnormal metabolism only made me feel like more of a freak. It was a constant reminder that I was different, an anomaly that didn't belong in this world.

I fidgeted nervously as Mr. Wilson helped me take off my jacket, acutely aware of Helena's gaze fixed on me. I slipped off my hoodie and, through the fabric, I could swear I saw her pupils dilate, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. My neck flushed with warmth, and I swallowed nervously as her eyes locked onto my arms. Her lips parted slightly, and I wondered what she was thinking.

The sound of her heart picking up drummed in my ears. I felt uncomfortable yet oddly flattered at the same time. A part of me wanted to crawl out of my own skin, but another wanted to bask in her attention. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling. But I knew I had to snap out of it before things got any more awkward. With a deep breath, I hastily slipped on the suit jacket, hiding my fiery cheeks.

"Let me get you a size up," Mr. Wilson offered, and I was grateful for the interruption. "I have just the thing. You can try the pants on in the fitting room."

I shed my old, worn jeans, taking extra care not to rip anything. The tailor-made pants slid on like a second skin. Standing before the fitting room mirror, I adjusted the suit jacket's hem, feeling like a fish out of water. The suit hugged my body in ways that my oversized clothes never could. The thought of mingling with Gotham's elite in this outfit made my stomach churn.

Helena's eyes widened when I emerged from the changing room. "Wow, you look great," she said, beaming at me. "I knew this would be the perfect suit for you," I tried to ignore the way my face burned at the compliment. As she adjusted my tie, her fingers brushed against me, sparking a thrill I hadn't expected.

A hint of a smile tugged at Mr. Wilson's lips, and he nodded approvingly. "Perfect fit," he chimed in, admiring his handiwork. I felt a small twinge of satisfaction, a feeling that was both foreign and exhilarating, like I had momentarily stepped into another person's shoes.

We headed towards the register, and a pang of guilt hit me, knowing that Helena was footing the bill. She was distracted chatting away with Mr. Wilson about the event and the expected guests, listing off names of the who's who in Gotham society.

As if sensing my apprehension, she turned to me with a warm smile. "Don't worry about it," she said, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. "Consider it an early birthday present."

I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. "No buts," she insisted firmly. "I want you to have this. You deserve it."

Gratitude swelled inside me. "Thank you," I managed to say, "I'll make it up to you somehow." I added with a mischievous glint in my eye.

A soft pink tinted her cheeks and her heart rate whispered secrets to mine, like an unspoken dare.

I pushed open the door to the packed diner, the aroma of sizzling bacon and frying eggs wafting over me. My eyes scanned the room, searching for Pete. I spotted him at the counter, expertly balancing a tray full of food in one hand while cracking jokes with the customers. He looked up and greeted me with his trademark grin, waving me over to a booth near the window.

"Clark, my man!" he exclaimed. "What can I get for you? he took a quick glance at his wristwatch, "I can be with you in 5'," I gave him my order and settled back into my seat, glad to have a few minutes to relax before the night's events. I glanced around the restaurant, taking in the hustle and bustle of the dinner rush. The clanging of dishes and the murmur of conversation blended into a comforting hum. It wasn't long before Pete slid into the booth across from me. The waitress arrived soon after with our steaming plates of food.

"So, how's life treating you now that you're back in Gotham?" I asked, popping a hot fry into my mouth.

"Well, life as a drop-out is definitely keeping me busy." Pete let out a small chuckle. "I'm trying to make it big as a stand-up comedian, but for now, I'm working at the diner," he said, taking a fry himself and then gesturing frantically as he burned his tongue.

I couldn't help but laugh at his reaction. "A stand-up comedian, huh? I can definitely see that I said, helping myself to another fry, unfazed by the heat. "Gotham is a tough crowd, but you have what it takes to make them laugh."

Pete's grin widened. "Thanks, man. Who knows? Maybe someday you'll see me headlining at the Gotham Comedy Club," he replied, winking at me.

I raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Well, if that ever happens, I'll be there in the front row, throwing tomatoes at you," I joked, my fingers casually drumming on the table.

Pete feigned a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. "I choose life, thank you very much."

I rolled my eyes playfully. "Fair point," I conceded. "Let's not test that theory." I took another fry from the plate. "Let's spare the tomatoes for the salad."

As we dug into our plates, the conversation inevitably turned to the events of the previous night. Pete's eyes twinkled mischievously as he mimicked the drunken patrons at the Crow's Nest. His face contorted in a comical expression as he reenacted the moment I caught the guy's wrist.

"Man, those guys were a piece of work," Pete commented, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm just glad you were there to handle them."

I let out a nervous chuckle. "Thank you for having my back back there. It was quite the night," I said. "But to be honest, it was a close call," I admitted with a sigh. "I was just one step away from losing control. Can't let that happen again."

Pete looked at me intently, silently urging me to continue.

I ran a hand through my hair, recalling the feeling of every knuckle in the thug's fist that I had somehow managed to leave intact. It had taken every fiber of my being to hold back. "I fucking punched the guy I rubbed my eyes in shame, "It was reckless and stupid, I can't believe I did that. I mean, I've always managed to keep my cool. But last night, I just lost it."

Pete's expression turned serious as he listened to me. "Do you think the shots affected you somehow?" he asked, concern evident in his voice. "We did have a lot to drink,"

I shook my head. "Nah, it wasn't the shots. Alcohol doesn't affect me that way, no excuses there. I think it was just… I don't know. Seeing those jerks harass Helena and Babs, and then coming at you like that. I just…snapped." I admitted. "And you know I can't afford that," I mumbled, burying my face in my hands. "That's exactly why I'm worried about tonight's gala." I let out a deep breath and dropped my hands back on the table.

Pete nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Ah, the gala. The one where you get to rub elbows with Gotham's finest he remarked in an effort to lighten up the mood.

I smirked at his words, remembering our conversation from the previous night. "Yeah, that's the one," I replied, a hint of worry creeping into my tone. "But I'll definitely be avoiding their elbows. What if things go south like at the bar? I'm not sure I can trust myself around people anymore."

Pete's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Come on, Clark," he countered, "You handled yourself like a pro back there. You didn't let those punks get the best of you. And you would know if you had seriously injured one of them." He gave me a reassuring look, "And don't worry about tonight. You'll be among the wealthiest people in Gotham. They'll all be on their best behavior." His eyes scanned the room. "Besides, I'd bet there'll be enough security to fend off an army."

I sighed. "I know," I said softly, my eyes dropping to my plate. "But I can't afford any more fuck-ups."

Pete leaned forward, his expression serious. "Look, Clark, I get it. But you can't let one incident derail your entire mindset. You're stronger than that, and you damn well know it," he emphasized.

I managed a wry grin. "Well, that's exactly the problem, isn't it?"

Pete raised his eyes heavenward. "You know what I meant, smartass!" he flicked my hand and immediately shook his fingers wincing.

"Ouch," I teased, adding a mock grimace.

Pete continued, undeterred by our banter. "And let's not forget, you'll have Helena by your side tonight," He added a playful wink. "Speaking of which, how's that going?"

A hint of warmth crept into my cheeks at the mention of Helena. "Well, we're getting along just fine," I said with a nonchalant shrug. "Actually, I think there might be something more there." The words tumbled out. I paused, a furrow forming on my brow. "But you know how it is. I'm afraid of getting too close. What if I screw things up? What if I hurt her?"

Pete sipped his milkshake, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I get it, man," he finally said, setting his glass down. "It's tough when you're in a position like yours. But you can't let fear hold you back forever. Sometimes you've got to take a chance, roll the dice, and see what happens."

"Except my dice has a skull on it. I wish it were that simple, Pete," I sighed, nervously tracing the grain of the table. "But I'm like a loaded gun, I can't risk it," I admitted, my gaze returning to Pete. "I just don't trust myself. What if I accidentally… break her?" The thought alone sent shivers down my spine, the image of a porcelain doll shattering into pieces haunting my mind. I abruptly ceased my assault on the table as I noticed the subtle scars my fingers had unwittingly crafted in the wood. "See what I mean?" I muttered, more to myself than to Pete.

Pete leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "Clark, I understand why you're worried," he said, his eyes reflecting genuine concern. "But you're not giving yourself enough credit. You may be made of steel, but that doesn't mean Helena is a mere tissue paper. She is not some fragile flower." He leaned back in his chair, a knowing grin on his face. "And if you ask me, I think she's more than capable of handling a little roughhousing." He paused, taking a sip of his drink. "If anyone can handle you, it's her. Trust yourself, man."

I nodded slowly, absorbing his words. Pete grinned. "If you ever find yourself in a tight spot, just remember, I've got some killer stand-up material ready to cheer you up."

I chuckled. "Thanks, Pete. Your jokes might be just what I need."

"And hey," he added with a playful grin. "If you run into Barbara again, tell her I still owe her a drink."