Author's Note: This work is based on personal experience. It was originally posted on Ao3 under the same name, and I'm crossposting it here.

Title is from "Space Song".

I will warn you that this is written mostly as a segment of life, with heavy subtext and an ambiguous ending. What happened before or after is up to you. As always, reviews are loved and appreciated. 3


The city is alight with glittering lights. From the rooftop of your apartment building, you can see most of the city, spread out like a gigantic blanket over the landscape, skyscrapers lit with windows of office workers and the drudgery of the white collar.

You check your wristwatch. 7:43 p.m., it blinks at you, lit by the cheap Timex Indiglo.

The smog scrapes at your lungs, coats you in a feeling of grime. You suppose it's the punishment for being in the middle of the city on a rooftop. Sometimes, you wonder how the vigilantes do it.

Boots clunk against the ground, heavy. A masculine walk, full of purpose. You'd have spun, but you recognize the footsteps.

Red Hood.

"Hey," you say, looking over the city. Cars race along the streets; there's another police chase nearby. Sirens blare, but they're quiet this high up.

"Hey." It's his usual manner with you. Succinct. You know he has a sense of humor, have seen snatches of it in interactions with other vigilantes, but he's always unrelentingly dry with you. You wish he wasn't.

You turn, face him. Your head tilts, looks up at him. "You're early."

"I like to be punctual," he replies evenly, and you're hooked again.


Your back hits the mattress, hands shoving you down. There's no light in the room, save for the thin strip not covered by your blackout curtains.

Silver illuminates Red Hood's shoulder, neck, and a hint of jawline. It's about as much as you usually see, and you've long since given up trying to find a hint of his features in the darkness.

Warm hands slide up your inner thighs, prise them apart. His body leans forward, slips between your legs, a warm, heavy weight. Your hands find his jaw, pull him into a kiss. His teeth nip your lower lip, pull it slightly.

There's not usually much talking when you're together. You keep a spare toothbrush for him in the bathroom, and he's gone by the time your alarm rouses you.

Your hands smooth over his skin, palms snagging slightly on old scars. He makes a satisfied hum, his mouth pressing a little harder to yours. You can feel a small indent of a scar just over his left hip bone from where he'd gotten shot once. His cock presses to your stomach, warm and sticky with precum.

His fingers slide over the wetness between your thighs, getting slick. A fingertip catches on your clit, rubs slightly, and your back arches involuntarily, a muffled curse escaping as he kisses you again.

Two fingers delve into you and you make something between a moan and a sigh, hips tilting down onto his palm. There's a hint of a smirk in his kiss as he works you open, your thighs spreading wider as your hips tilt to match the pace he's set.

Briefly, you wonder about what it would be like to have him like this with the curtains fully open. To see the smirk instead of just feel it, to smooth your palms over visible scars and see just what inflicted them. A familiar weight shoves itself between your ribs and you swallow down that typical disappointment.

His hips adjust and his hands hold you up by your ass. You gasp, grabbing the sheets as Red Hood grips his cock and slides onto you.

Your thoughts peter out, but the weight remains.


You push the item back on the shelf. Your encounter with Red Hood lays heavy in your mind, but you shove it aside, focusing on your mundane retail job that pays enough for you to pay the bills. The indignity of a mandatory fluorescent orange vest aside, it's a decent job, and your coworkers are tolerable.

"I'm guessing you saw your man again?" Louisa asks beside you. A coworker around your age, she's your work best friend, and despite your occasional annoyance, she's a good one. Her butterfly locs swing as she leans down to listen conspiratorially.

"Yep," you answer shortly, shoving another box of rice back on the shelf.

"At least give me more than that," she replies, miffed. She pushes your cart aside, picking up five boxes and shoving them on the shelf at once. She turns to you, smacking the tropical flavored Trident gum she's always chewing.

"We fucked, Lou," you reply bluntly with a small smile. "Same as usual. And he's not my man."

"Sure he ain't," she shoots back. "Didn't he tell you he wasn't getting with anyone else?"

He did, once. You'd asked if he was with anyone and he'd replied shortly that he didn't need anyone else.

It made you happier than you wanted to admit.

"Well, sure," you say back to Louisa after you grab a box of premade stroganoff. "But he's not the type to commit."

She makes a displeased noise that makes you laugh. "I'd smack you upside the head personally but we're on the clock."

"You always say that, Lou." You laugh and put the stroganoff on the shelf.

"And one of these days I'll make good on it," she retorts, but a smile plays at her mouth. "Anyways, give me the details."

You laugh again. "Jesus, alright."


His palms are warm on your hips as he slams in for the final time, his cock jerking inside you. He makes a choked out sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, his breath stuttering as he comes.

Red Hood collapses onto you, his arms giving out. You accept the warmth and weight, letting it sink into you as you both catch your breaths.

His head nuzzles under your chin, almost like a cat, and you both rest together. His breathing slows, gets steady. His cock softens and he pulls out, settling beside you.

You don't cuddle, but his warmth seeps across the bed onto you as you turn onto your side and fall asleep.


You wonder why he's so brusque with you. It's not like you're humorless, hell, you spend most of your workday shit-talking with Louisa and laughing at customer antics.

He's almost icy and keeps a wall up. It stings more than you want to admit, because despite yourself, you like the snatches of personality he occasionally shows.

You want to keep chipping away at him, crack him open like a geode. Something small and stubborn tells you he's worth it. Deep down, you admit that the potential is what keeps you reeled in, but if nothing else, you're good at shoving shit aside.

"You need to add paprika," he cuts in, breaking the bubble of thought. You look down at the pot of chili you'd been making and sigh.

"Probably," you reply, leaning over to your spice cabinet and pulling out the container. You crack it open, shake out the red powder. It floats down onto the thick, bubbling chili simmering away on the stove.

It's a rare occasion where you're not fucking and just...hanging out. Red Hood leans against your countertop, occasionally providing cooking tips while you chop onions, garlic, and various other ingredients. His helmet reflects the overhead light as he tilts his head to study the pot. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar.

"My...grandfather taught me how to cook," he offers to the empty air. You turn your head and smile slightly. He doesn't usually tell things about himself like this.

"Yeah?" you say, and he nods. You fall back into silence.

You tap your fingers against the countertop, mentally noting that you're out of bread. Your short nails make small clacks as they hit the cheap linoleum. He shifts nearby, adjusting his weight. The floorboards creak as you drop back into your thoughts again.

Occasionally stirring the chili, you let it simmer while you muse. Red Hood just lingers in your kitchen, a silent statue.


Gang violence is about as common in Gotham as rats, supervillains, and exploitative landlords. You weren't usually around it, keeping to yourself and taking care not to wear certain color combinations in the wrong neighborhoods.

But this time, you were the witness.

You'd seen the men with the guns, the threats, the cock of the pistol. Walking home from work wasn't usually quite this eventful, but there was a dull terror that even Gotham City couldn't subdue. An instinct that remained even through supervillains and the daily violence of a city constantly on the brink.

Heartbeats thrummed in your throat as that survival instinct shoved itself up from the depths of your subconscious. You ducked behind a bench, eyes wide as you took in the standoff in the street. Your fingers slid between the gaps of the boards on the bench and you gripped tight. It was grounding.

There was muffled yells from the gang members, screamed words that swam through to you through something thick like honey. Everything was so slow, the seconds ticking past.

You wanted to move, but your limbs were seeping into the sidewalk, frozen.

The first gunshot cracked like a whip and you flinched, startled back as the gangsters fired at bellowed their rage.

You don't know how long you watched the carnage, seeing bullets smash through clothes, skin, bone, brain. Shootouts are messy, you realize, as a lucky shot lands on an elbow and splinters the joint into pieces. Screams mix with gunfire.

There's red turning to brown, splattered on the ground carelessly. High school biology class, your teacher droning about human anatomy.

"Five liters of blood in the human body."

A man lies bleeding out in front of the bench you're hiding behind.

You swallow and press your palms to the bench. Exhale.

In the morning, you'd have made like a good Gothamite. Shoved down the sight of men broken apart in the senseless violence. You were made of tougher stuff, like everyone else raised in the hellscape you called home. The thought is scant comfort, but you can't compartmentalize now, now when your breath is shuttering and there's a man bleeding out barely two feet from you.

Red Hood drops down into the fray and starts to fight.

Distantly, you remember how he is with your hands on your hips and how his mouth always presses to yours in a way that'd be tender if he wasn't closed off.

Here he's brutal. His hands, the ones that skate across your skin, snap wrists. Those arms that hold you up are tense and rocking back and forth in quick, jabbing punches. Noses snap under his fists.

You wonder how he manages to stay untouched in the gunfire. He's like a whirl of handheld violence, his arm pulling the pistol from the thigh holster of his left side and smashing in a gangster's nose. And a realization comes to you.

He's fucking terrifying.

His helmet turns towards you and for a fraction of a second, you lock eyes. The helmet is as impassive as he looks at your wide-eyed gaze. For a brief moment, you wonder if he'd turn that sort of power on you. If he'd snap your wrist if you fucked up enough. It passes as soon as he moves his attention away.

The gunfire stops.

Your ears ring in the stillness. Red Hood doesn't stick around. Your feet move, your thighs finally protesting their cramped, crouched position. You stand on sore legs, and emerge from the carnage.

You don't look back as you walk home.


Whiskey slides easy down your throat. You're drunk enough now that the burn doesn't register, and you turn to smile at the stranger you've been flirting with all night.

Red Hood isn't yours, and you're not his, you remind yourself, and it makes the smile the stranger sends a little more bearable. He's cute, tall with soft hair and eyes with a twinkle of mischief.

So you flirt, ordering drinks as you try to get drunk enough to not wonder if the stranger's cock would feel just as good as Red Hood's.

You toss back the rest of the whiskey and look up, coquettish, at the stranger. "Wanna get out of here?"

The stranger blinks and slides an arm around your waist, and you smile.


Rough brick presses into your back, a warm, wet mouth on your throat. Your drunken mind revels in that you can see the stranger's face, see how he wants you instead of guessing based on snatches of sound and the stutter of a breath.

It's not even heavy petting, just a palm sliding up your shirt, then he's ripped from you.

You blink at the loss of sensation and see Red Hood behind him, holding him by the collar.

"Get the fuck out of here," he snarls at the stranger with a touch too much vitriol. Your would-be hookup stares at you, wide eyed.

"You know Red Hood?" the stranger asks incredulously, and you sputter, your words slurring slightly.

"Of course not," you say, sounding incredulous.

"Go." Red Hood cuts in, shoving the stranger away.

He takes the opportunity to bolt, and you look at Red Hood. His body is tightly coiled and his shoulders are set in a way that says he's ready to snap.

"What?" you ask, stupidly.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Red Hood snaps at you, sounding pissed beyond belief.

"What, I can't have some fun?" you snap back, the alcohol in your system making you reactive.

"That's not—" he starts before he stops and his voice twists. "Were you seriously going to fuck him in an alley?"

"So what?" you retort, scraping your sneaker against the alley gravel. "Why do you care?"

"Because—" he stops short and then makes a noise in the back of his throat. A frustrated growl mixed with a groan. "You're going home."

"Fuck off," you pull away from him, stepping back. "I'm not doing this anymore."

"Doing what?" he asks, heated.

"This shit." You wave your hand between the two of you. "This possessive shit. I'm not—" You stop and groan, the words not coming out right with the whiskey on your tongue and in your head. You want to snap at him, to tell him you're not waiting around for him.

"Not what?" He says your name, demanding, yanks you forward by a wrist. "Not what? Speak up."

"Goddammit, Red, does it fucking matter?" you snap, pulling away. "Am I supposed to just wait around for you? Be your fuck buddy until you get sick of me?"

"What are you talking about?" he asks, somewhat dumbly.

You run angry hands through your hair. "You don't talk to me. All we do is fuck and then hang out sometimes, and you're just fucking distant."

"That's what we agreed on," he snaps back, regaining himself. "You know I can't let you in, don't be stupid—"

"Oh, and being seen with me is just fine?" you cut in, angry. "It's not like we're subtle for fuck's sake, don't give me that shit."

He just goes quiet and you stomp past him, your sneakers kicking up gravel and the broken glass of the alley. "I'm going home."

"At least let me walk you home," he says quietly, and you sigh.

"Fine."


You don't see him for a while after that. You're honestly glad, because you can gather your thoughts.

The sting of his silence is more piercing than you'd like to admit, because you've gotten used to his taciturn presence, the way his hands held your hips, the sound of his breath in the dark. The side of your bed he's come to occupy seems like a gaping hole.

You remind yourself that you're not a lovesick teenager anymore.

It doesn't help.

But you don't go out to that bar again.

The weeks roll by, but Red Hood stays in your head, a red and black ghost.


When you see him again, it's much the same as before.

You're on the rooftop of your apartment building again, a pair of earbuds stuck in while you listen to music and ruminate. There's a soft wind. Gotham is unusually peaceful tonight, a balmy end of summer wind that sweeps around your legs like a soft blanket.

Gravel crunches under boots, and you recognize the footsteps.

A memory flicks up, of the first time you'd fucked and he'd taken his helmet off.

"I trust you," he'd said, and the words still made warmth rise in your chest. "Just keep the curtains closed."

The silence in the present is deafening when you pocket your earbuds and spin, look at him.

He just takes your hand in his and pulls you back to your apartment, shutting the door. There's a lot of things you want to say, but they're cottony in your mouth, drying it out.

The bedroom is dark and cool as always. There's the sliver of moonlight. He pulls off his helmet, looks at you. The silvery beam lights up one eye.

Your fingers wrap around the edge of the curtains. You could pull them open. There's a tension between you and him. You're reminded, suddenly, that you don't even know his true name.

Cotton slides between your palm and fingers, the curtain soft from years of use. Your arm tenses. The precipice lingers, and you wonder if you should drop over.

His breath is soft and quiet in the bedroom. You feel something flicker in your chest. The edge of whatever lays between you and Red Hood is before you.

You take a breath and pull.