goblin-jr

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

Chapter 3/5: Somebody's Watching Me

clark kent x gothamite! reader

masterlist

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a/n: incase you missed it, click the link to read the evidence collected so far:

📌🗂️ [EVIDENCE COLLECTED - Stolen DP Pinboard]

LexCorp’s Space Cruise | Moisturizer for Baldies | Superman or Supervillain?

---

Clark sits frozen on the edge of your couch, tie slightly askew, shoulders tense like you just dropped a grenade in his lap. The glow from your crooked desk lamp throws long shadows across the corkboard, where headlines, clippings, and scribbled notes form a web only you can untangle.

“Superman is helping the mayor and Lex Luthor kidnap orphans.”

The words land heavy. No drama in your tone, no raised voice — just the calm delivery of a journalist who knows her evidence will speak louder than any theatrics.

Clark swallows, blinking behind his glasses. “That’s… a serious claim,” he manages, though his voice is tighter than usual. “Where are you getting this from?”

You reach for a clipping pinned dead‑center on your board, sliding it across the table. Superman, kneeling among a crowd of smiling children in paper capes. Behind him, Mayor Reed grinning like Metropolis itself had just been gift‑wrapped for him.

But that’s not the only piece. From your bag, you pull a crumpled Superman™ juice box, faintly sticky, its colors faded under the lamplight. The LexCorp logo glints like a warning label. You set it down carefully between you, as if it were evidence in a murder trial.

“These don’t exist anywhere else,” you say evenly. “No listings. No distributors. Not in stores. No record of them outside that visit.” You tap your pen once against the box. “Which means they were a special run. Not a freebie. Bait.”

Clark stares at the juice box. For a fraction of a second, his expression cracks — a flash of guilt, sharp and unguarded, like a man realizing he handed poison to a child. You take the look as confirmation that he believes you. 

“I already sent one to a Gotham lab,” you continue, your tone steady. “Results should come back tomorrow. But given the timing, the disappearances, the fact that these boxes vanished along with the kids? If they were dosed with anything, even mild — that’s your delivery system right there.”

Clark leans back slightly, eyes flicking between you and the juice box. “You think Superman knowingly passed these out?”

“I think someone wanted those kids easy to move,” you counter. “And Superman was the one handing them out. That’s enough to keep him on the suspect list.”

His jaw tightens, the polite smile long gone. “Why would Superman help Luthor?”

That’s all the opening you need. You’re already pacing, notebook in hand, adrenaline running steady but controlled. “The cruise. It’s a front. They’re not just testing zero‑gravity champagne toasts, Kent. It’s spaceship testing. A trial run before Superman jets back to that… that Kardashian cryptocurrency planet he came from.”

Clark blinks. “…You mean Krypton.”

“Yeah, that,” you say without missing a beat.

He stares, deadpan. “Krypton doesn’t exist anymore.”

You pause mid‑stride, tapping your pen against your lip. “Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.”

Clark’s brows rise. “You’re suggesting Superman faked the destruction of his entire planet?”

You wave the pen vaguely. “Okay, maybe that’s a reach. I hear it.” You scribble a note anyway. “Never mind. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Clark exhales slowly, watching you with that infuriatingly steady expression, but his eyes betray him: sharp, calculating, worried.

You sit back down, crossing one leg over the other, letting the calm settle again. “Point is, the juice boxes, the mayor’s calendar, LexCorp’s big shiny cruise, they’re all threads. And I’m not stopping until I know exactly how they connect.”

Clark looks down at the juice box again, shoulders rigid. “And if you’re wrong?”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “Then I prove myself wrong. But if I’m right, and Superman’s involved? Then this city has a bigger problem than it thinks.”

The corkboard groans when you drag it back onto the table, scattering a couple of half‑empty coffee cups and a Chinese takeout container you’d forgotten about. Clark watches as you slap another cluster of sticky notes into place with surgical precision.

“Behold,” you say, stepping back with a flourish, “the Superman Response Map.”

Pinned across the board is six months of chaos. Newspaper clippings. Blurry cell phone photos. Hand‑drawn arrows connecting Metropolis landmarks in frantic red Sharpie. Columns of times, dates, distances. At the center, a crude sketch of the city grid with pins dotting the map like a sniper’s plan.

Clark leans forward, eyes scanning the mess. “You did all this… today?”

You grin, sharp and unbothered. “Please. Gotham taught me how to prioritize. Who needs sleep when you’ve got a conspiracy to crack?”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Six months of sightings. Compiled in one night.”

You tap a note near the top left corner. “Pattern recognition. Superman’s average response time? Three minutes and twenty‑seven seconds. Faster downtown, slower near the outskirts. That’s not random, Kent, that’s radius.”

He blinks. “Radius.”

“As in,” you clarify, sliding a ruler across the board, “he’s not popping out of thin air. He’s coming from somewhere. You draw enough circles, you start to see the overlap.”

Clark’s chest tightens. You’re too close. Too damn close.

You keep going, calm and methodical, like you’re presenting to a jury. “Some people theorize Superman’s got super‑hearing. That he’s just always listening for trouble. Which, okay, sure, maybe. But even if he can hear across the city, sound doesn’t tell you where to be. You can’t save someone falling from a building if you’re halfway across the state. Not unless you’ve got a base of operations close enough to hit all these points on time.”

Clark swallows, forcing a small, nonchalant smile. “That’s… impressive research.”

You smirk, pinning one last photo in place. “Since you’re his source, you’re leading me.”

His stomach drops. “Leading you?”

You point the pen at him like a gavel. “You always get the exclusives. You always know where to find him. Which means you know his haunts. The places he ‘just happens’ to show up before anyone else. So congratulations, Kent. You’re my tour guide.”

Clark forces a chuckle, though sweat prickles at the back of his neck. “Sure, I’ll, uh… show you where he… frequents.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Gross. Hookup tour. Fine. Just keep it PG, farmboy.”

He blinks, deadpan. “That’s… not what I meant.”

“Good,” you reply, scribbling something on a sticky note. “Because if you think you’re stealing this lead from me, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He leans back, adjusting his glasses to buy a second of breathing room. Internally, panic hammers through him. You’ve charted his patterns with unsettling accuracy. The circles overlap exactly where his apartment is. Another line cuts too close to the Daily Planet for comfort.

If you push a little harder, you’ll see him. Not Superman the symbol, but Clark Kent the man.

“Just so you know,” you continue, still calm, still terrifying in your precision, “if you try to feed me fluff or point me in the wrong direction, I’ll know. I triple‑check my data. Numbers don’t lie.”

Clark nods slowly, lips pressed into a tight smile. “Then I guess we’d better get started.”

“Damn right,” you say, snapping a rubber band around a stack of clippings. “Tomorrow. We hit the streets.”

He exhales, careful to keep it steady. “Tomorrow.”

You grin at him over the rim of your coffee mug. “Don’t be late, Kent. Superman wouldn’t like that.”

His heart stutters. He forces a chuckle. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

—

Metropolis morning feels like an insult. The sun’s too bright, the pigeons look too smug, and Clark Kent is walking beside you like he invented wholesome. You tighten your bag strap, notebook ready.

He’s already decided: keep you far, far away from the red‑pinned radius you nearly cracked last night.

“First stop,” he says, voice warm, casual, a little too casual. “Centennial Park.”

You glance at him, one brow raised. “Superman comes here to water the flowers?”

Clark chuckles. “He patrols here sometimes. Wide open space, lots of foot traffic. Makes sense.”

The park really does look like a postcard. The fountain gleams in the sunlight, scattering rainbows through the mist. Kids shriek with laughter as they chase pigeons, a street musician plays something bright, and joggers loop the paths like extras in an ad for health insurance.

You jot a note as you walk. “If he wanted visibility, this would be a good spot. Families, cameras, lots of eyes to watch him swoop in.”

Clark tilts his head, considering. “Maybe he just likes the fresh air.”

You look up from your notebook, lips quirking. “He can literally fly through the stratosphere. I doubt he’s here for the breeze.”

His smile twitches wider, but he keeps his tone mild. “Doesn’t hurt to enjoy both.”

You hum, not dismissive so much as thoughtful, and scribble again. High‑visibility patrol area. Strong PR value.

Clark sips his coffee, watching the kids by the fountain for a moment, before glancing at you. “You always take notes this fast?”

“Gotham habit,” you reply. “If you don’t write it down right away, it disappears with the next siren.”

Something in his expression softens, though he hides it behind another sip of coffee.

You catch the shift but don’t comment, keeping your tone even. “So. Superman does his friendly neighborhood routine here. Makes sense.”

“Exactly.” He nods, maybe a little too quickly. “Safe, familiar. People feel reassured when they see him.”

You tap your pen against the page. “Reassured, sure. But also conditioned. You see a cape in the park, you think everything’s fine. That kind of psychology matters.”

Clark blinks, impressed despite himself. “That’s… an interesting angle.”

You shrug. “That’s called journalism. Look it up.”

He chuckles under his breath, and you allow yourself the faintest smirk before tucking your pen behind your ear.

“Alright, Kent,” you say, closing the notebook. “Where to next?”

“Somewhere a little less… picturesque,” he promises, adjusting his glasses as you leave the fountain behind.

You follow, noting the way his pace subtly steers you away from the southern edge of the park. You don’t think much of it. not yet.

For now, Centennial Park goes in the book as a Superman hotspot.

--

The crosswalk at 9th and Halstead looks brand new, gleaming white paint, a sturdy new lamp post, not a trace of the scorch marks you remember from the file photos.

“This is where he stopped that bus from flipping last month,” Clark explains, gesturing like a tour guide. “Brakes failed. He got everyone out.”

You flip through your notes until you find the clipping, the black and white photo of Superman bracing the side of the teetering bus. He’d looked like Atlas holding up the sky.

Now, the intersection could be any other corner in Metropolis.

“So what you’re saying,” you say slowly, jotting the address at the top of the page, “is Superman has a thing for traffic control.”

Clark huffs softly, the sound almost a laugh. “I’m saying he saves lives.”

“Cute,” you reply, scribbling. “Add it to his resume. Flight, strength, school crossing guard.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, but his smile doesn’t waver. “Not everything has to be a conspiracy, you know.”

You tilt your head, eyeing him. “Oh, really? So I’m supposed to believe he just happened to be nearby when a bus full of kids nearly pancaked into the asphalt?”

Clark’s mouth opens like he’s about to answer, then closes again. He adjusts his glasses instead, the movement buying him a second to collect himself.

You smirk. “Exactly. He’s either got a GPS tracker on every school bus in the city, or he’s got a launch point nearby. Which is it, Kent?”

Clark’s heart gives a panicked thud. Out loud, his voice is smooth. “Maybe you’ll find out on our next stop.”

You narrow your eyes playfully, writing launch point? investigate in the margin. For a moment, the corner of his mouth quirks again, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

“Don’t look so smug,” you warn, tucking the clipping back into your folder.

“I’m not smug,” he says lightly. “Just… entertained.”

You raise a brow. “Glad I could provide your morning entertainment. Do you want me to juggle while I’m at it?”

Clark chuckles, shaking his head. “No juggling necessary.”

The sound startles you. It’s warm, genuine, nothing like the cautious chuckles he’s given in the bullpen. For a second, it almost feels like you’re just two reporters trading barbs instead of dissecting a potential child‑smuggling conspiracy.

Almost.

You glance back at the crosswalk, the shiny new paint catching the sun. Your mind flashes back to when you’d first turned toward the southern end of Centennial Park earlier. Clark had cut you off without thinking, suggesting coffee from a cart in the opposite direction. You’d chalked it up to his farmboy politeness at the time.

Now, you jot a quick note: Kent redirected me. Check later.

But you snap the notebook shut before he can see, keeping your voice light. “Alright, Boy Scout. Where to next? Please tell me it’s not a laundromat.”

Clark grins faintly, tugging his tie back into place. “Better. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, but you fall into step beside him. The city hums around you, taxis honking, chatter spilling from a café, the world moving as if nothing strange lurked beneath its perfect surface.

--

By the time you follow Clark up the last flight of stairs and push through the rooftop door, the city looks like it’s been poured out of gold. The skyline glitters in the late morning sun, and a cool breeze cuts through the humidity. You let out a low whistle despite yourself.

“Okay,” you admit, “points for the view.”

Clark smiles, a little proud despite himself. “Told you. Superman likes to meet me here sometimes. Quiet, out of the way.”

You arch a brow as you step onto the gravel. “So this is the big secret? A rooftop with a nice view?”

“Hey,” Clark says with a laugh, “not every exclusive has to be dramatic.”

You wrinkle your nose at the dusty air vents and half‑rusted pipes. “Still feels a little… sketchy. Like I should’ve brought hand sanitizer.”

He grins, playing along. “I promise, it’s not that bad.”

“Mm‑hmm,” you say, pulling out your notebook. “Sure. Who knows what you and Superman have been doing up here.”

Clark chokes on nothing. “That’s—not—”

You glance up with a mischievous smirk. “Relax, Kent. I’m just saying, if this is his idea of a romantic spot, I expected more candles.”

He groans, but his smile doesn’t fade. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, jotting something down, “you keep letting me follow you around.”

He shrugs, a little bashful. “Guess I like the company.”

That catches you off guard for half a beat, though you hide it by flipping to a clean page. “Well, don’t get used to it. I’m still writing this down as ‘Suspiciously Private Superman Rendezvous.’”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Do you ever write anything that doesn’t sound incriminating?”

“Not my job,” you say, smirking. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure to spell your name right in the acknowledgments.”

Clark pushes his glasses up, smiling down at the city instead of at you. His chest feels tighter than it should.

The breeze ruffles your hair, and for a moment, the two of you stand in companionable silence, the city’s hum drifting up from below.

You exhale and tuck your notebook under your arm. “You know what’s funny? After all this, Centennial Park, the bus intersection, this little rooftop date you clearly didn’t think through, I’m still no closer to finding out anything about Superman. All these spots just messed up my map data.”

Clark hides the rush of relief threatening to spill across his face. Internally, he’s throwing confetti, celebrating the thought of you redrawing your circles far, far from his apartment. Out loud, he musters a sympathetic shrug. “That’s… frustrating. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say lightly, but your pen’s already in hand, jotting a margin note. “It just means I’ll need to double back, cross‑reference everything again. Maybe I missed something.”

He fights to keep his smile calm, casual, not too pleased. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

And then—

A noise cuts sharp across the air.

Clark’s head tilts, ears straining before the sound even reaches you. His whole body goes still, chest tightening. He knows that tone. Trouble.

A beat later, the city catches up. Sirens wail from the east, swelling louder, joined by the faint crackle of emergency radios. You both turn as red lights strobe against a cluster of buildings a few blocks away.

Your eyes widen. “This is it!”

Clark swallows hard. “…What is?”

You’re already slinging your bag higher, the adrenaline lighting up your face. “An actual crisis. He’ll show up for this. We can go talk to Superman outright.”

Clark’s heart gives a painful lurch. He tries for casual, for calm. “That’s… a great idea.”

You glance at him, a grin tugging at your mouth. “Finally, we agree on something.”

He forces a laugh, though sweat prickles under his collar. “Yeah. We’ll cover more ground if we split up. You head that way—” he gestures toward the west “—I’ll circle from the other side. Better chance of catching him.”

You open your mouth to respond—

And he’s already gone.

Not just walking away. Gone. His tie flaps once in the breeze as he barrels down the stairs, leaving you standing there like you’d just been cut from a conversation mid‑sentence.

Your jaw drops. “Unbelievable.”

You glare after him, heat rushing to your cheeks. Clark freaking Kent. He’s back to being a snake again.

Of course. Of course he’d want Superman all to himself.

You jog down the fire escape, the sirens growing louder with every step, your notebook digging into your side from your bag. By the time your boots hit the pavement, you’re muttering under your breath.

“Split up, my ass. He just ditched me.”

You shove your notebook back into your bag, jaw tight. For a minute there, you’d almost thought Clark Kent was different — that he was more than a smug smile and a press badge. But no. He’s back to proving he sucks. Back to proving he only cares about keeping Superman to himself. And if he thinks you’re going to let him steal the story again, he’s out of his damn mind.

—

The stairwell smells like dust and old paint, each step groaning under your boots as you climb. You mutter under your breath, the words sharp enough to echo.

“Clark freaking Kent. Should’ve known better.”

After he backstabbed you at the sirens with his cheerful let’s split up routine, you’d thrown yourself into the chase. First responders had swarmed the scene, and you’d been right behind them. Superman had been there — you’d felt it, the rush of wind, the flash of color in the sky. But by the time you got close, he was gone.

You’d tried again. And again.

A collapsing scaffold in Midtown. A car pileup on 14th. A gas leak near the docks. Every time, you arrived breathless, notebook in hand, adrenaline sparking in your veins. And every time, Superman slipped away.

Not always unseen, either. Twice you could swear he’d looked right at you before bolting like you were holding a kryptonite‑laced subpoena.

Now, hours later, your legs ache, your lungs burn, and you’re done chasing ghosts.

“Fine,” you grumble, gripping the railing as you drag yourself up another flight. “If you want to play shy, let’s see how well you hide when I flip the game board.”

Because if the theories are true, if Superman really does hear everything, every scream, every whisper, then he’ll hear you. He’ll have to.

You reach the rooftop door, fingers brushing the cool metal handle, and push it open to the golden wash of late‑day sun. The city stretches beneath you, humming, waiting.

You step out onto the gravel, the air immediately catching your hair and tugging at your jacket. The skyline glitters, the river a sheet of molten light in the distance.

Without hesitation, you cross to the edge. Your boots scuff against the concrete as you climb onto the ledge, steady as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. The city yawns out beneath you — streets buzzing, sirens in the far distance, Metropolis beating like a heart that never stops.

The wind rushes over you, cool and constant, carrying the faint scent of hot asphalt and fried food from the vendors below. You let it wash over your face, breathing it in, grounding yourself.

This is it. No more chasing shadows. No more being a step behind while Clark Kent plays both sides.

You tilt your head back, speaking just loud enough for the wind to carry.

“Superman.”

The name rolls out into the air, swallowed instantly by the sprawl of the city.

“Come find me.”

You glance at the watch strapped to your wrist, its second hand ticking steady as your heartbeat.

“You have one hour,” you whisper, the words clear and deliberate. “Or I jump.”

The breeze pulls at you like an answer, tugging your jacket tighter against your frame. Below, a taxi honks, a dog barks, life goes on oblivious.

You stay still, eyes fixed on the horizon. You know he heard you. If the theories are true, if the whispers and shouts really reach him from every corner of the city, then this one will too.

And if not…

You smirk faintly to yourself, the kind of smile that feels too sharp for the golden hour. “Guess we’ll find out.”

You settle in on the ledge, bag at your side, notebook ready. One hour.

Let’s see if the man of steel is really listening.

--

The sun sinks slow over Metropolis, dragging the sky from molten gold to dusky violet. Shadows stretch long across the rooftops, the hum of the city below slipping into its nighttime rhythm.

You sit cross‑legged on the ledge, notebook balanced on your knee, scribbling half‑formed notes as the minutes tick by.

No sign. Wind picking up. Sunset visibility decent.

Another taxi horn blares somewhere below, a dog barks, a couple argues two streets over.

You check your watch. Forty‑five minutes gone.

A sigh slips out of you, half annoyance, half boredom. “Some hero.”

The theory had made sense in your apartment: Superman hears everything, always listening, always watching. But here, on this rooftop, it feels less like a sure bet and more like the setup for a Gotham punchline.

You flip your notebook shut and lean back on your hands, letting the breeze cool your face. For a wild second, you think you feel eyes on you, but when you scan the skyline, there’s nothing. Just the darkening city and the faint glow of neon signs flickering to life.

By the time the last streaks of pink bleed out of the sky, you’re tapping your boot impatiently against the ledge. You glance at your watch again.

Sixty minutes. Exactly.

You stand, brushing the gravel dust from your jeans. The city sprawls beneath you, alive and indifferent. You smooth your hair back from your face, shoulders squaring.

“Alright, Superman,” you say into the night air, your voice steady. “The hour’s up.”

You pause, giving him one last chance. Nothing.

And then you step off.

The ledge slips away beneath your boots, the city tilting up at you like a stage light.

Ugh. That’ll hurt.

The thought is dry, almost casual, as the wind claws at your jacket and your hair whips across your face. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the rush of air, the world a blur of neon streaks and headlights.

Your stomach flips, but you keep your eyes open, steady, refusing to give the city the satisfaction of seeing you panic.

You count heartbeats. One. Two. Three—

The world jerks.

An arm locks around your waist, strong and unyielding, pulling you sideways in a blur of blue and red. The rush of air sharpens, the lights smear into streaks, and suddenly you’re not falling anymore — you’re flying.

Pressed against a chest that feels like steel under fabric, you blink up, catching only fragments at first: a jawline hard as granite, a cape snapping in the wind, eyes that flick down at you with something equal parts fury and relief.

You don’t say a word. Just tilt your head, the faintest smirk tugging at your mouth.

The city blurs beneath you, a river of headlights and neon streaks, as Superman steadies the both of you high above the streets. His grip is iron‑solid around your waist, and his voice cuts through the roar of the wind.

“Are you insane?” he snaps, his jaw tight. “You could’ve died.”

You tilt your head back, meeting his glare without flinching. “Relax. I did my research.”

His brows knit, incredulous. “Research? You jumped off a building.”

“Exactly,” you counter, as if you’re pointing out the obvious. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to ignore me.”

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, the muscles in his jaw working. “That doesn’t make it less reckless.”

“It makes it effective,” you counter smoothly, tugging your recorder out of your jacket. The little red light blinks to life. “So. Do you consent to being interviewed?”

He stares at you, eyes widening like you’ve just sprouted wings. “…Now?”

“Now.” You tilt the recorder toward him, steady despite the rush of wind.

Superman’s mouth presses into a line, like he’s debating the fastest way to scold you into reason. Finally, he exhales hard. “…Yes. I consent.”

“Perfect,” you start, clicking your pen open. “Let’s begin with—”

“Wait,” he cuts in, his voice firm but not unkind. “At least let me put us down first.”

You narrow your eyes. “Promise you won’t run off the second my feet touch the ground?”

His gaze meets yours, earnest and unflinching. “I won’t run. You have my word.”

You study him for a beat, reading the truth in his face. Finally, you nod once. “Alright. Rooftop. But I’m holding you to that.”

His grip shifts, steadying you more securely, and in a blur you’re rising higher, the city falling away until the familiar gravel rooftop comes into view. He lands with careful precision, setting you gently on your feet as if you might break.

You adjust your jacket, snapping the dust off your sleeves. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He raises a brow, cape settling around him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably dedicated,” you correct, holding the recorder up again. The red light glows steady. “Now. Where were we?”

The rooftop wind howls around you, pulling at your hair and jacket as Superman lowers you onto the gravel. His cape whips like a banner, snapping against the sky. He doesn’t let go until you’ve found your footing, and even then, he hovers a fraction closer than necessary, as if ready to catch you again.

“Sit,” he says gently, gesturing to the low edge of the rooftop. His voice is still stern, but softer now, controlled. “You’ll be steadier.”

You raise a brow at the tone, but you sit anyway, recorder balanced on your knee, pen ready. “Don’t think this gets you out of answering questions.”

He lowers himself onto the ledge beside you, shoulders broad enough to block half the city behind him. The wind tears across the roof, but his presence feels immovable, like the eye of a storm.

You check to see that the recorder is still on. The little red light glows steady. “Let’s start with the orphanage,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Are you aware that children have been disappearing?”

Superman turns toward you slowly, his expression shifting from guarded to unflinching. His eyes lock onto yours, impossibly steady, impossibly blue.

“I just learned this is happening,” he says, voice low but carrying easily over the wind. “And I want to help.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them — the conviction in his tone, the weight behind them — makes your stomach twist. He doesn’t look away, not once. It’s not the kind of eye contact you can brush off. It’s the kind that pins you in place, like he’s pouring every ounce of sincerity straight into you.

Your throat goes dry. For a split second, you forget the next question.

You look down, pretending to check your notes, and clear your throat. “Right. Okay.” You jot something, though it comes out as a scribble more than words. “So… you’re saying you weren’t involved.”

“No,” he says firmly, gaze still locked on you. “Never. I’d never harm them. If someone’s using my name, my face, to gain their trust…” His jaw tightens. “They won’t get away with it.”

The sheer intensity in his voice makes your pen hesitate mid‑stroke. You force yourself to keep writing, even as your pulse hammers.

You inhale slowly, steadying your voice before the next question. “Then help me understand,” you say, glancing up only briefly before looking back down again. “Why would the mayor and Lex Luthor want them? What’s the connection?”

The wind snaps his cape sharply, the sound almost like a crack in the air. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, still watching you.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he admits. “But I swear to you. We’ll find them.”

The wind whips harder, tugging strands of your hair into your face. You brush them back with one hand, pen still poised in the other.

“Alright,” you say, recorder steady on your knee. “Then tell me this. How were you at the orphanage that day?”

Superman exhales slowly, gaze never leaving yours. “I drop by there regularly,” he admits. “It’s… one of the few places I can go where the kids don’t care about the cape. They just want someone to play tag with or help them with homework.”

You jot a note, trying to keep your voice even. “But that day wasn’t a normal visit.”

His jaw works, the line of his mouth taut. “No. The mayor was already there. I didn’t know he’d planned a visit. The staff asked if I’d stay, and it turned into a photo op.”

The image from the clipping flashes in your mind: Superman kneeling, kids with paper capes clinging to him, Mayor Reed beaming in the background.

You tilt your head. “And you agreed.”

His eyes flick down, guilt flashing across them like a crack of lightning. “I was happy to oblige. The mayor’s… a complicated man. But he took a bullet for a Metropolis resident once.”

Your brows rise. “The squirrel?”

That almost earns a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. The squirrel. Doesn’t erase everything else, but… I thought it couldn’t hurt to show support.”

The breeze tugs at his cape, snapping it out behind him like a warning flag. His voice lowers. “So I smiled. I posed. I handed out juice boxes. That’s all it was supposed to be.”

The words hang heavy between you.

For the first time tonight, you believe him. You can see it in the way his voice doesn’t waver, in the guilt pressed deep into his expression. You start to lower your pen, ready to move on—

Your phone pings.

You blink, the sound sharp against the rush of the wind. Sliding the device from your pocket, you glance at the notification.

Gotham lab.

Your pulse spikes. You swipe the screen open with a thumb that suddenly feels unsteady.

Results: The submitted juice box tested positive for an unidentified compound. Further analysis required. Expect confirmation by tomorrow.

Your chest tightens. You whip the phone around, shoving it toward him. “You handed them out.”

Superman snatches the phone, scanning the message. His eyes race across the words, his expression collapsing with each line.

For a moment, he looks wrecked. Like the ground has dropped out beneath him.

Then the wreckage twists into something sharper — fury. Not at you. At whoever dared use him for this.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice rough, clipped by the wind. He looks up, eyes blazing. “I swear to you, I had no idea.”

You cross your arms, notebook pressed tight against your chest, trying to hold onto your composure. “But you did it. You smiled, you posed, you passed those boxes straight into their hands.”

His grip on your phone tightens, knuckles white. “And I will spend every second from now until they’re safe making it right.”

The intensity in his voice makes your throat go dry. He thrusts the phone back into your hand, his expression unflinching. “I swear to you. I’ll do anything to save those kids.”

The recorder between you hums quietly, the red light blinking steady as the wind howls around you.

“I believe you,” you say finally, the words surprising you as much as him.

His shoulders ease, the tension in his jaw softening, though the fire in his eyes doesn’t dim. “Then let’s work together,” he says. “You’ve clearly done more digging than anyone else. You’re closer than I’ve been able to get.”

Something in your chest flips — nerves, adrenaline, maybe both. You nod, flicking the recorder off. “Fine. But if you try to ghost me, I’ll find you.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smirk pulling at your lips.

Then his expression shifts, thoughtful. “Say… isn’t another reporter working with you on this? Clark Kent?”

Your entire mood sours. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.” You shove your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary. “That backstabber ditched me earlier. Told me we’d ‘cover more ground if we split up’ and then bolted before I could get a word in. Classic Kent.”

Superman tilts his head, brows furrowed. “That’s… interesting. I actually spoke with him after the incident earlier today. He mentioned you were both following this.”

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You met with him? Today?”

He nods calmly. “Yes. After the rescue this afternoon. We had a brief interview.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Unbelievable. Just when I was starting to think there’s no way you and Clark are… together.”

His entire body goes rigid. “…Together?”

You gesture vaguely, exasperated. “Yeah, you know. Coordinating. Sharing intel. Fucking. Whatever.” You wave him off with a scowl. “Forget it. The point is, don’t mention Clark around me. Ever. Our partnership will be just fine if we leave him out of it.”

He blinks, still a little baffled, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. “Understood.”

“Good.” You cross your arms, facing the skyline instead of him. The city glows beneath you, neon signs flickering to life, traffic pulsing like veins. You pretend the heat in your cheeks is just from the wind.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then, quietly, Superman says, “We’ll start fresh tomorrow. Go over everything you’ve found.”

Superman stiffens suddenly, his head tilting like he’s listening to something only he can hear. His eyes flick toward the city, sharp and alert.

“What is it?” you ask, though you already know.

“Trouble,” he says, standing smoothly, the wind tugging at his cape. “I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll go over everything.”

And before you can answer, he’s gone. One blur of motion, one gust of wind, and the rooftop is empty but for you and the city’s hum.

You watch the streak of red and blue shrink against the skyline until it vanishes. The recorder sits heavy in your pocket, your notes scattered in your mind, but your chest feels lighter — and heavier — all at once.

Slowly, you step back to the ledge. The breeze greets you like an old friend, cool against your face. You glance down — and there it is.

A balcony, just one story below. Wide enough to catch a landing, solid enough that even if you’d missed your grip, the worst you’d have walked away with was a rolled ankle. You’d mapped it before you even issued your ultimatum. Gotham didn’t raise you to gamble your life, just to play the odds so no one else could see the safety net.

You smirk, the sound sharp in the night air. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, the gravel crunching under your boots as you head for the stairwell. For a second, you pause, his voice echoing in your head — steady, unshakable, close enough that the memory of it curls warm and unwanted in your chest.

You shake your head quickly, talking to yourself. “...Probably heartburn. Yeah. Just heartburn. Guess I’ll go buy some overpriced Tums.”

---

📌🗂️ [EVIDENCE COLLECTED - No New Leads :(] Superman's Launchpoint | Gotham Lab Response | Y/N's Calendar

--- taglist: taglist (please comment on the masterlist to be added <3 ) : @cloudroomblog , @animegamerfox , @iinaths , @sr-dreamss

---

a/n: watched superman again at 10PM on a work night in the middle of downtown. in other news motivation is back. also my internship manager doesnt hate me. dubs all around.

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

end of chapter 3 - Project Aegis Evidence Logs

masterlist

---

Exhibit A: Superman Response Map

Compiled by: [Y/N]

Summary: Analysis of Superman’s response times across Metropolis over the past 6 months.

Findings: - Average Response Time: 3 minutes, 27 seconds. - Faster Coverage: Downtown Metropolis (high‑visibility, family‑oriented areas). - Slower Coverage: Outskirts, industrial zones. - Overlap Radius: Multiple incidents suggest a central launch point. Close to Clark Kent's apartment. Must be convenient for hookups.

Annotation (Y/N): “Superman isn’t teleporting. He’s starting from somewhere. Clark Kent keeps nudging me off‑track. Deliberate? Need to confirm.”

---

Exhibit B: Incoming Email — Gotham Lab

From: Gotham Independent Forensics [lab@GothamForensics.org] To: y/n@TheDailyPlanet.com Subject: Preliminary Report — Juice Box Sample

Y/N,

We completed the initial screening of the Superman™ juice box sample you submitted. Results are as follows:

Findings:

- Presence of an unidentified compound not found in standard nutritional testing databases. - Residue levels unlike sedatives. Further testing needed. - Packaging shows deliberate tampering, expiration dates obscured, likely to prevent traceability.

Next Steps: Full compound breakdown expected within 24–48 hours. Recommend extreme caution until confirmation is received.

– Dr. Langford, Senior Forensic Analyst Gotham Independent Forensics We don't ask questions!

---

Y/N’s Personal Calendar (Private Notes)

Calendar for the upcoming week

Wednesday:

9:00 AM → Daily Planet bullpen. Pretend not to stab Kent with my pen 12:30 PM → Lunch → Research on LexCorp cruise finances 9:15 PM → Stakeout → Centennial Park perimeter (possible Superman hotspot) 10:00 PM → Meet Superman for information sharing

Thursday:

8:00 AM → Coffee meeting with Lois (if she doesn’t ditch me) 10:00 AM → Daily Planet → Submit draft (animal shelter follow‑up?) 8:00 PM → Fun for Guns → Pick up polish for Cynthia  11:45 PM → Rooftop of brownstone → Superman Meet up

Friday:

9:30 AM → Daily Planet → Perry check‑in (probably yelling). 2:00 PM → Gotham Lab results call. 11:30 PM → Rooftop of brownstone → Superman Meet up

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

Chapter 2: Deny, Deny, Deny

clark kent x gothamite! reader

masterlist

---

a/n: incase you missed it, click the link to read the evidence collected so far:

✉️ [ACCESS: INCOMING EMAIL - Y/N@TheDailyPlanet.com]

Subject: Project Aegis | What is the Mayor hiding?

---

You don’t bother knocking.

Perry White looks up from his desk like you just broke into his living room. He’s half‑buried in paperwork, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie crooked, a coffee mug clutched in one hand like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“You got a death wish barging in here without knocking, kid?”

You drop your laptop on his desk hard enough to make his mug rattle. “I’ve got something.”

Perry squints. “Something better be Pulitzer‑worthy if you’re interrupting me before I’ve had dinner.”

“Kids,” you say, sliding the screen toward him. “Disappearing. From the Metropolis orphanage.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Here.” You jab at the files. “The attendance logs. The numbers drop right after Superman visited, and the mayor’s tied to it.”

Perry leans back, folds his arms, and gives you a look like you just told him the moon’s made of cheese. “Our mayor? Donovan Reed?” He laughs, loud and incredulous. “The man who once took a bullet to protect a squirrel?”

You frown. “That’s… relevant how?”

“He’s got a Nobel Peace Prize, kid. He’s in his nineteenth term. This city would build him a statue tomorrow if he asked for it. You’re telling me that guy is out here abducting orphans?”

“I’m telling you my source risked her life to send me this.” Your voice sharpens. “And I’m telling you my hunches are always good.”

Perry sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. ��Your hunches are gonna give me an ulcer.”

You straighten. “Sir, if you’d just look—”

“I looked.” He taps a finger on the desk. “You’ve been here, what, three weeks? You’ve written exactly two stories in that time. And let’s talk about the first one, shall we? The feel‑good piece about the animal shelter adoptions. What did you title it again? Oh, right. ‘Vanishing Acts: Where Have All the Animals Gone?’”

You lift your chin. “It was a compelling angle.”

“It was a fluff piece, and you made it sound like we had a serial pet killer on the loose!”

You shrug. “People read it.”

Perry groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Linda warned me about you. Said you had spunk. I didn’t realize spunk translated to giving me daily heart attacks.”

“Linda also said I get results.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t mention the migraines.” He exhales, long and heavy, then stares at your laptop again. “Look. I owe Linda, and maybe chasing this wild goose will keep you out of my hair. Fine. You’ve got my blessing to dig. But you’re not going alone, I’m sending my best reporter with you.”

You sit up straighter. Finally. “Of course. Lois and I will crush this.”

Perry freezes. Then he winces. “Oh. Did I say my best reporter? I misspoke.”

Your stomach drops. “…What?”

“I meant my second‑best reporter.” He glances toward the bullpen. “Kent!”

You nearly choke. “You cannot be serious.”

Perry raises a brow. “Last I checked, I don’t crack jokes before noon.”

You want to scream. Instead, you grit your teeth. “Clark Kent? Mr. Aw‑Shucks himself?”

“Don’t call him that,” Perry snaps. “He’s a damn good reporter. Reliable. Thorough. And unlike you, he doesn’t make bake sales sound like murder trials.”

You fold your arms, glaring. “Is it too late to transfer to Star City?”

Perry smirks, already turning back to his paperwork. “Yeah. Way too late.”

Behind you, there’s the sound of a chair scraping back, and you hear that irritatingly earnest voice drift across the bullpen.

“Coming, Mr. White!”

Perry barely glances up from his desk when Clark runs in. “Meeting room. Figure it out. Don’t blow up my office.”

You gather your laptop like it’s evidence in a murder trial, and when Clark Kent smiles at you like you’re old friends—tie crooked, smile sheepish, glasses catching the fluorescent light—you wonder if it’s too late to fling yourself out the nearest window.

He holds the door open for you. Of course he does.

You don’t thank him. You march inside, drop your laptop on the table, and flop into a chair. He sits across from you, posture relaxed, hands folded politely on the table.

“So,” he says cheerfully, “what are we looking at?”

His voice is soft, easy. Too easy. You eye him like he’s a magician about to pull a rabbit out of his sleeve. “Corruption.”

His eyebrows lift. “That sounds serious.”

“No kidding.” You click open the files. “The mayor’s involved.”

Clark blinks, then lets out a low whistle. “Mayor Reed? Wow. That’s… unexpected. He’s done so much for the city. Remember the time he—”

“—took a bullet for a squirrel? Yeah, Perry mentioned it. Very heroic.” You roll your eyes. “Bet the squirrel’s still voting for him.”

He chuckles with an air of ease at the quip. However, you note that at the mention of the mayor, he straightens—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening for the briefest second. The farm‑boy posture slips, replaced by something sharper. Alert.

You file it away instantly. Gotcha. He’s interested. Too interested.

Tapping your screen, you click open the photo of Superman at the orphanage. Kids beam in paper capes, the mayor grinning in the background.

Clark leans forward, eyes scanning the image. You catch it—the flicker of emotion in his face. Concern. Worry. It looks genuine, which only makes you more suspicious.

“A day after this,” you say, tapping the screen, “the attendance logs start dropping.”

He exhales slowly. “That’s awful.”

You open the audio clip. The mayor’s shriek fills the room:

“That stupid brat sneezed on me!!! CALL HIM UP. Fuck them kids. I need a vacation and those brats gone.”

Static. Silence.

Clark sits back, eyes wide. “That—wow. That can’t be real.”

You snap your laptop shut before he can study it too long. “It’s real enough.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, blue eyes steady, filled with that infuriating earnestness. “Then we need to do something. Fast.”

We. There it is. Sliding himself into your story like it’s his by right.

You give him a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

He chuckles softly, clearly mistaking your coyness for camaraderie. “See? We’re already on the same page.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand like you’re humoring him. But in your head, the thought is loud and clear:

Play him before he plays you.

Because Clark Kent might have the whole newsroom wrapped around his polite little finger, but he’s not taking this story from you.

Not if you can help it.

---

Metropolis City Hall gleams like the rest of the city, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, brass fixtures gleaming under skylights. It’s the kind of place designed to make you feel small. Gotham’s City Hall at least has the decency to look corrupt. This one hides it under natural light and fresh flowers.

You and Clark push through the revolving doors, and you immediately scan for cameras, guards, and the best exit routes. He just smiles at the receptionist like he’s on a stroll in the park.

“Okay,” you murmur, pulling your wallet from your bag. “I got this.”

Clark blinks. “Got what?”

“The staffer we’re about to talk to. Susan, right? Low‑level, but she’ll know the mayor’s calendar. Fifty bucks should loosen her tongue.”

His head jerks toward you, scandalized. “You’re joking.”

You raise a brow. “Is that too little in Metropolis? I knew the rent is bad here but $50 is plenty for the information we need”

He stares, then laughs like you just told the funniest joke in the world. “You’re hilarious.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not,” he says gently. “You don’t need to bribe Susan. I’ll just… ask.”

You want to strangle him. “You’ll just ask.”

“Exactly.” He beams, striding off before you can stop him.

You follow, muttering under your breath. “This calculating piece of—”

Susan, the receptionist, looks up as Clark approaches. She’s middle‑aged, hair pulled into a tight bun, her desk littered with paperwork. She doesn’t even notice you; her gaze locks onto Clark like he’s the morning sun.

“Well, hiya there, Mr. Kent,” she says, cheeks warming. “What brings you here today?”

Clark leans on the counter, lowering his voice like they’re sharing a secret. “Good afternoon, ma’am. We were hoping you might help us out with a little background. Strictly off the record.”

Susan practically melts. “For you? Anything.”

You gape. He didn’t even pull out credentials. No bribe. No threats. Just a “ma’am” and a smile, and she’s ready to hand over state secrets.

Unbelievable.

“So,” Clark continues, “we were curious about the mayor’s schedule lately. Has he been taking much time off?”

Susan sighs. “Well, I shouldn’t say… but he did request some leave in a few months. Personal matters. His wife hasn’t been happy with him lately.”

Clark tilts his head sympathetically. “That must be hard. Thank you for sharing that.”

“And,” she lowers her voice conspiratorially, “he’s been meeting with Lex Luthor a lot. Not unusual, of course, but still.”

Your pen is already scratching across your notepad. Meetings with Luthor. Marital problems. Requested time off. All gift‑wrapped because Clark Kent said please.

You don’t trust it for a second.

Susan waves him off as you both step away. “Anytime, Mr. Kent! You take care now.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You too,” he calls back, polite as ever.

You fall into step beside him, fuming. “Unbelievable.”

He glances down at you, confused but still smiling. “What is?”

“You.” You jab your pen at him. “You stroll in here, say ‘ma’am,’ and suddenly Susan’s singing like a canary. You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

He chuckles softly. “I think you’re giving me too much credit. People here just… like helping.”

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of Themyscira.”

He laughs again, eyes twinkling. You grit your teeth. He’s not funny. He’s dangerous. He’s playing everyone with his farm‑boy routine, and you’re the only one who can see it.

But fine. Let him think you’re just “funny.”

Because while he’s busy smiling and collecting confessions, you’ll be the one putting the pieces together.

---

Metropolis in daylight is an assault.

Vendors line the sidewalks with baskets of fruit so polished they might as well be props. A street musician strums a cheerful tune while a little girl tosses coins into his hat, and people wave at each other like extras in a commercial. Even the pigeons look smug.

You hate it here.

Beside you, Clark Kent fits in like the city built itself around him. Which, of course, it basically did. He waves at people, smiles at strangers, and carries himself like every day is Smallville Harvest Festival 2.0.

“Morning, Mr. Kent!” calls a man from a hotdog cart.

Clark beams. “Morning, Frank. Smells great today.”

You mutter under your breath, “Probably poison.”

Clark tilts his head down at you, blue eyes puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing.” You flip your notebook open just to look busy.

Two blocks later, a woman balancing a tower of boxes stumbles off the curb. Clark’s already there, steadying the stack with a warm smile. “Careful there, ma’am.”

She exhales in relief, cheeks pink. “You’re a lifesaver, young man”

“Anytime,” he says gently, like he has all the time in the world.

You watch, jaw tight. Not a lifesaver. A strategist. He didn’t swoop in out of kindness; he swooped in because it makes him look good. That’s the play. And the worst part? Everyone eats it up.

A kid with a balloon bolts past you. Instinct has you clutching your bag, already checking for the tug of a pickpocket. Nothing. The kid just laughs and runs on. You scowl. Gotham would never let a balloon distraction go to waste.

Then, as you round the corner, a massive holographic screen lights up above a department store. Sleek LexCorp branding glitters against the sky, the kind of corporate shine that screams money.

“LexCorp Presents: The Galactic Odyssey — the world’s first eco‑friendly space cruise for the elite. Luxury among the stars. Coming soon.”

The display shows champagne glasses clinking in zero gravity, a couple floating hand‑in‑hand while Earth spins below them. Soft music swells, as if luxury itself had a soundtrack.

Clark glances up, eyebrows lifting. “That’s… extravagant.”

You stare at the ad, the voiceover echoing in your skull.

Cruise.

The audio file. The mayor screeching: “Get my wife the cruise tickets. Deluxe suite.”

Your pulse spikes.

You’re right. You know you’re right. This isn’t just a random promo, it’s connected. A thread in the web you’re untangling.

The realization hits you like a shot of espresso. You surge forward, fumbling for your notebook, heart pounding with the rush of a lead snapping into place—

And your foot catches the curb.

The world tilts. You’re already bracing for the pavement when a steady hand catches your arm, holding you upright like you weigh nothing.

“Careful,” Clark murmurs, voice low, warm, right in your ear.

You blink up at him. For a split second, the concern on his face looks so real it knocks the air out of your lungs.

Then you shove the thought down. Too convenient. Too perfectly timed. Calculated contact, gentle voice, the whole nice‑guy routine. All part of the act.

You yank your arm free. “ ’m fine.”

Clark doesn’t argue. He just gives you that damn earnest smile. “Just looking out for you.”

You glare down at your notebook, scribbling LexCorp Cruise – connection? so hard the pen nearly tears the page.

The city hums around you — horns, laughter, music drifting from a café — but all you hear is your own pulse and Clark’s easy footsteps beside yours.

This story’s yours. And no amount of “Just lookin’ out for you” charm from Clark Kent is going to take it from you.

---

The Metropolis City Orphanage looks deceptively normal. Brick façade, bright murals, a little playground out front with swings that creak in the breeze. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was a safe place.

You do know better.

You and Clark start canvassing the businesses nearby. He does it the “nice” way, smile, handshake, ma’am every other sentence. You hang back, jotting down notes, watching for tells.

At the bakery on the corner, a young clerk leans on the counter, practically swooning as Clark asks about recent foot traffic.

“Oh, we’re busy most nights,” she gushes. “But… well, I did notice something odd. Late deliveries, I guess?”

Clark tilts his head, patient and polite. “What kind of deliveries?”

She shrugs. “Big van, no markings. Always after dark. Haven’t seen it during the day. Seemed strange.”

Your pen scratches furiously. “License plate?”

The clerk frowns. “Didn’t catch it. But the drivers… kind of weird. They were all… bald.”

You pause mid‑note. “Bald.”

She nods. “Like, every single one of them. No hats, no hair. Gave me the creeps.”

You glance at Clark, expecting disbelief. Instead, he’s frowning slightly, as if filing it away.

Too smooth. Too quick. He’s already connecting dots — your dots.

You close your notebook with a snap. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Back outside, Clark falls into step beside you. “That’s concerning. An unmarked van, always at night—”

“Yeah, thanks, Detective Obvious,” you mutter.

He chuckles softly. “You’re funny.”

You want to scream.

But then you take a breath. Perry isn’t letting you run this story without Kent. Like it or not, you need him. And if you want your byline, you’ll have to play this carefully.

You slow your pace, lowering your voice. “Look. I’ll level with you. The mayor’s been meeting with Lex Luthor a lot lately.”

Clark’s head swivels toward you, his expression tightening. Not much, but enough.

You press on. “Add the van, the bald drivers… The common thread is Lex. I can feel it.”

Clark stops walking. For once, the easy smile slips completely. His eyes sharpen, jaw set. It’s like watching a mask crack.

You knew it.

“I don’t think you should chase this any further,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Luthor’s dangerous. If he’s involved, we don’t know how deep this goes. You’d be better off following another lead. Something safer. And bald van drivers doesn't mean they’re working for Luthor. Maybe it's a support group”

Your stomach drops, then hardens into fire. “Unbelievable. I knew it.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You,” you snap, stabbing a finger at his chest. “You sit there with your baby‑blues routine, collecting breadcrumbs like a good little Boy Scout, and now that the trail’s getting hot, you want me off it. Because you want it for yourself.”

Clark’s brows shoot up. “That’s not—”

“Don’t you dare play innocent.” Your voice rises, sharp enough to make a couple pedestrians glance your way. You lower it, teeth clenched. “I knew you were after my scoop. Perry saddles me with you, and suddenly you’re Mister Helpful, Mister ‘We’ll Make a Great Team.’ All just to worm your way into the byline.”

His mouth opens, closes, like he’s not sure how to answer. “Y/N, that’s not what this is about.”

“Oh, sure it isn’t. You think you can poach my story, Kent? Think again. I’m not some intern you can charm into handing over my notes.”

His voice drops, firm but calm. “This isn’t about a byline. If Luthor’s really behind this—”

You cut him off with a laugh, sharp and bitter. “There it is. You admit it. You don’t want me chasing this because you know I’m right. And you can’t stand that the Gotham transfer might actually beat you to a headline.”

Clark’s eyes flash — not anger, but something deeper. Worry. Fear.

You misread it instantly. “Pathetic,” you mutter, shoving your notebook back into your bag. “Enjoy your space cruise, Kent. I’ll find the truth with or without you.”

He falls silent, watching you like he wants to say something more. But he doesn’t.

And that silence? That’s all the confirmation you need.

You turn on your heel, already replaying the audio file in your head, the word cruise ringing louder than Clark Kent’s excuses.

If Lex Luthor’s got his hands on those kids, you’re going to blow this wide open.And when you do? Clark Kent can read about it on the front page with your name on the byline.

---

The Metropolis City Orphanage looks quieter at night, the bright murals faded in the dark. You crouch behind a row of hedges across the street, thermos of black coffee wedged against your knee, camera ready. 

Gotham instincts thrumming. Watch, wait, record. You killed time by digging through the dumpster behind the building. Pocketing an empty Superman themed juice box for evidence, you retreated behind the hedge again. 

It’s not long before headlights slice down the street. A van glides up to the curb: sleek, black, unmarked. Exactly like the witnesses described.

You zoom in with your camera, heart pounding. License plate: clear as day. Got it.

Then the passenger door opens.

And a bald man steps out.

You keep still, breath tight. But his head swivels, sharp as a hawk’s. His eyes lock straight onto the hedge you’re crouched behind.

Shit.

A flashlight beam flares in your face. “Hey! You. What’re you doing there?”

Your brain short‑circuits. And then Gotham survival mode kicks in: bullshit fast, bullshit loud, bullshit confident.

You spring to your feet, plastering on a manic smile. “Oh my god, hi! Sorry, this is gonna sound so weird, but I swear I saw your head shining from way over there and I just had to know—what moisturizer do you use? Seriously, it’s like a mirror. Are we talking coconut oil? Beeswax? Dish soap?”

The goon doesn’t blink. “What?”

You double down. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s a trade secret, I get it. Perfect sheen like that doesn’t happen by accident.”

He narrows his eyes, stepping closer. The flashlight trembles across your face.

Your hand inches towards your bag, while you shift your stance. Your pulse hammers. You’re ready. Gotham didn’t raise you soft.

Then:

“There you are!”

You nearly jump out of your skin as an arm loops gently around your shoulders. Clark Kent, smiling like he’s just bumped into you at a coffee shop, steps between you and the bald guy.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says warmly. To the goon: “Sorry about that. My sister here gets turned around sometimes when she’s exploring. Whole new city for her.”

Your jaw drops. Sister?

The goon eyes Clark — tall, calm, wearing that infuriatingly harmless grin. Something in Clark’s presence makes him hesitate. Finally, with a grunt, the man lowers the flashlight.

“Keep her out of here,” he mutters. “This isn’t a playground.”

Clark chuckles like it’s all a misunderstanding. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

He gently steers you away, his hand still on your shoulder. The van door slams behind you. Tires squeal as it pulls off into the night.

You don’t breathe until it’s gone.

Then you wrench away from him, rounding on Clark. “What the hell was that?”

His eyebrows lift. “Saving you?”

“I had it handled!” you snap.

“You were about to punch a guy twice your size in the face because you complimented his moisturizer,” he says, deadpan.

You open your mouth, then close it. Okay, fine, when he puts it like that—no. No. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand. “Following me, huh? Thought you’d swoop in and steal the scoop?”

Clark’s expression softens. “I promise, Y/N, I’m not here to take your story.”

You cross your arms. “Sure. That’s what you’d say before you—”

“I’m serious.” His voice lowers, earnest. “You can put this on the record: I don’t want the byline. Take my name off it. Just let me help.”

You blink.

“No takebacks?” you press, narrowing your eyes.

His lips twitch into the faintest smile. “No takebacks.”

Something in your chest stutters — like the tiniest crack in the armor you’ve built since Gotham.

You swallow, looking away quickly. “Fine. But if you so much as touch my notes, I’ll kill you.”

Clark chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Deal.”

You don’t look at him, scribbling the license plate number in your notebook with shaking hands. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing back toward where the van disappeared, his jaw tight, eyes sharper than you’ve ever seen them.

---

Clark follows you up three flights of stairs to your apartment housed in a Metropolis brownstone complex.

He stops dead in the doorway. “Wow.”

You ignore the note of horror in his voice. “Don’t judge. It’s practical.”

The place looks like a mob hideout. Heavy blackout curtains blot out the cheerful Metropolis skyline. A double lock and a chain dangle on the inside of the door, reinforced with a chair jammed under the knob. Empty takeout boxes line the kitchen counter. A baseball bat leans against the couch. The lighting is dim, the kind that makes every shadow feel like it’s waiting to lunge.

Clark closes the door gently, still staring around. “You know… this is a very nice neighborhood.”

“Exactly,” you say, dropping your bag on the table. “That’s what they want you to think.”

He glances at the chair under the knob. “Do you… always barricade the door?”

You raise a brow. “Do you always leave your front door unlocked because you ‘trust your neighbors’?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. “Fair point.”

You smirk, pulling out your notebook and laptop. “Sit. Time to connect dots.”

To his credit, he obeys, perching carefully on your couch like it might explode.

You drag out a corkboard you’d swiped from the Planet’s supply closet. It’s already peppered with sticky notes and newspaper clippings. Clark watches as you pin the bakery witness testimony and the bodega kid’s account side by side.

“Bald guys. Sleek van. Multiple sightings,” you narrate. Then you pin the LexCorp cruise ad you’d ripped from a magazine. “Mayor’s obsessed with this deluxe suite. Audio recording confirms.”

Clark leans forward, chin propped on his hand. “So you’re saying…”

“That Donovan Reed,” you slap the mayor’s photo onto the board, “is helping Lex Luthor kidnap Metropolis orphans to save his failing marriage.”

Clark blinks. “That’s… specific.”

“It’s logical,” you counter. “Reed gets a free space honeymoon with wifey, Luthor gets whatever he’s doing with the kids, everybody wins. Except the kids, obviously.”

He rubs the back of his neck, expression carefully neutral. “I mean, it sounds… plausible.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I just… think we should verify some of the details before we publish.”

“Working on it.” You yank another clipping from your bag, the photo of Superman at the orphanage. The scene depicts Superman laughing with kids in paper capes while handing out juice boxes. Without ceremony, you pin it at the center of the board.

Clark stiffens.

You step back, crossing your arms. “And this is the kicker.”

He swallows. “The kicker?”

“Superman.” You jab the photo. “He’s in on it.”

Clark almost chokes. “What?”

“Don’t look so shocked.” You pace in front of the board, the words spilling faster now, sharper, each one stabbing through the stale air of the apartment. “Think about it. The mayor needed someone to check out the goods, right? Superman shows up, all smiles, shaking hands with the orphans. Everyone thinks it’s just a PR stunt. But no. He’s scoping them out.”

Clark blinks at you, stunned into silence.

You slam your palm against the board for emphasis. “That’s what the visit was. Recon. Superman is helping the mayor and Lex Luthor kidnap orphans.”

---

Read the new evidence collected in this chapter:

📌🗂️ [EVIDENCE COLLECTED - Stolen DP Pinboard]

LexCorp’s Space Cruise | Moisturizer for Baldies | Superman or Supervillain?

---

taglist (please comment on the masterlist to be added <3 ) : @cloudroomblog , @animegamerfox ,

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

end of chapter 2 - Project Aegis Evidence Logs

masterlist

---

Exhibit A: Mayor Donovan Reed’s Calendar (Photographed from Reception Desk, shoutout Susan)

Details:

- Multiple recurring entries labeled “Private Meeting — L.L.” - Three blocked‑out evenings marked only as “Community Outreach” - Weekly marriage counselling sessions - Future entry circled in red ink: “CRUISE – FINAL CONFIRMATION.”

Annotation (Y/N): L.L = Lex Luthor. Cruise = Lex Luthor's Billionaire Space Cruise.

---

Exhibit B: LexCorp “Fight Cradle Cap for Adults” Moisturizer (Discovered after the unmarked van left)

Source: Moisturizer for Bald heads jar discarded behind corner bakery near orphanage. Description: - Glossy white jar, LexCorp logo embossed in silver. - Tagline: “Fight Cradle Cap for Adults — Official LexCorp Grooming Line™.” - Extra strength for extra dewey shine

 Annotation (Y/N): “Every single goon bald, every single head glowing like a lightbulb. What type of sicko makes their minions shave their heads? Lex Luthor.

---

Exhibit C: LexCorp Galactic Odyssey Pamphlet

Source: Handed out at street promo booth, downtown Metropolis.

Description: - Tri‑fold brochure, luxury branding. - Tagline: “Leave the world behind — For only $7MM.” - Image spread includes couples smiling and floating in zero gravity - Fine print disclaimer: “LexCorp is not responsible for changes in passenger health or status.”

----

Exhibit D: Superman™ Juice Box (Recovered from Orphanage Trash)

Source: Three discarded boxes, Orphanage garbage bin

Description: - Bright packaging with Superman shield and LexCorp sponsor logo - Slogan: “Drink Up! You’re Super Too!” - Expiration dates obscured with black marker - One box interior lined with powdery residue

 Annotation (Y/N): “No official record of these anywhere. Handed out ONLY during Superman’s visit. Logo + LexCorp = trust bait. Residue = ???. Sending for testing to Gotham lab

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

end of chapter 1 - Project Aegis Evidence Logs

masterlist

----

From: [REDACTED] To: Y/N Subject: urgent – PROJECT AEGIS Time: 11:47 p.m.

Y/N,

This is what I could find. Please hurry. I am not sure who is behind this but it’s important.

Do not trust anyone.

— [initials redacted]

Attachments: Exhibit_A.jpg Exhibit_B.mp3 Exhibit_C.pdf

----

Attachments:

Exhibit A – Newspaper Clipping

Source: Metropolis Daily Planet Archives Exclusive coverage by Clark Kent

SUPERMAN BRINGS HOPE TO METROPOLIS ORPHANAGE The Man of Steel delighted dozens of children yesterday, promising “a brighter tomorrow.” Mayor Donovan Reed praised the visit as “a beacon of Metropolis spirit.” (Photo: Superman kneeling with smiling children in paper capes, handing out juice boxes. In the background, Mayor Reed beams, one hand resting on the shoulder of a boy later marked absent in records.)

---

Exhibit B – Audio Transcript (Partial)

Source: Anonymous Recording. Provenance: Gotham Contact

Anonymous (Presumed: Mayor Donovan Reed): “That stupid brat sneezed on me!!! CALL HIM UP. Fuck them kids. I need a vacation and those brats gone.”

[Unidentified Male Voice]: “Sir, we should—”

Reed (interrupting): “I said gone! And make sure my wife gets the cruise tickets. Deluxe suite. If anyone asks, say the kids were adopted. Just handle it!”

[Recording ends abruptly with static and distant shouting.]

---

Exhibit C – Orphanage Record Log

Source: Internal Records, Metropolis City Orphanage

Handwritten note: “Do NOT escalate. Direct questions to City Hall.”

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

Chapter 1: Gotham City Blues

clark kent x gothamite! reader

masterlist

---

You can tell Linda’s mad by the way she lights her cigarette.

The sharp snap of her silver lighter cuts through the chaos of the Gotham Gazette newsroom. Phones ringing, printers spitting, a low rumble of reporters shouting deadlines over one another, but Linda’s exhale, a slow ribbon of smoke curling under the fluorescents, silences it all for you.

“You made a councilman cry on live television.”

That’s her opener. No hello, no sit down. Just a death sentence in stilettos.

You lean back in the chair across from her desk, crossing your arms. “He was lying.”

Linda arches one manicured brow, the kind of expression that has ended entire careers without a single word. She’s Gotham’s silver fox, half newsroom legend, half whispered rumour of mob ties, and right now, she’s looking at you like she’s deciding if you’re worth keeping or if you should be fed to the wolves.

“You think I don’t know that?” she finally says, voice smooth as ice. “The man was lying so badly even the interns could smell it. But now the city council is looking for blood, and—”

“And they want mine.” You finish for her. Your tone is flippant, but your pulse is still pounding from the adrenaline of last night’s broadcast. You can still see Councilman Hargrove’s face when you asked him where the millions earmarked for housing went, how his smile cracked under the camera lights, how the sweat beaded at his temple right before he stormed off the stage.

The clip’s been replayed on every Gotham station since. Your phone’s still buzzing with threats and anonymous “tips.” Gotham eats its heroes alive.

Linda leans forward, smoke curling between you. “They want you gone, kid. And if I hand you over, the Gazette looks like it folds under pressure. Which we don’t.”

Despite yourself, that tugs at the corner of your mouth. You’ve dreamed of working here since you were sixteen, hunched over the morning edition with ink‑stained fingers, promising yourself you’d carve your name into Gotham’s veins. And now you’ve carved it in blood.

“So what then?” you ask. “Do I keep making corrupt politicians cry until the whole council comes for me with pitchforks?”

Linda smiles, sharp and dangerous. It’s the kind of smile that says she’s got dirt on everyone in this city and could bury you with a phone call. “No, darling. You’re going on vacation.”

You blink. “A vacation?”

“Metropolis.” She flicks ash into the crystal tray like she’s sentencing you. “Daily Planet. Sister paper. Perry White owes me a favor. You’ll write a few fluff pieces, smile for the nice people, and keep that sharp little nose of yours out of trouble for a few months. Then you come back here, and we set you loose again.”

Your stomach twists. Metropolis. The land of sunshine, smiles, and caped demigods. You’ve spent your whole life clawing your way through Gotham grit, and now Linda wants to exile you to the city of optimism.

“You’re serious.”

Linda’s grin widens. “Deadly. Look, you’ve got spunk. I like that. The Gazette needs that. But right now, you’re radioactive, and I can’t have you blowing up the building.”

You stare at her. “So I’m supposed to write puff pieces about  kittens while the government buries whatever Hargrove’s hiding?”

“You’re supposed to survive long enough to come back and finish him off properly,” she says, tapping her ash like it’s punctuation. “Consider it… strategic retreat.”

The worst part? You know she’s right.

Still, the thought of trading Gotham’s jagged skyline for Metropolis’s shining glass towers makes your skin crawl. “You send me to Metropolis, and I’ll go stir‑crazy in a week.”

Linda leans back, smoke haloing her silver hair, and smirks like she already knows the ending of your story. “Then make sure you don’t get bored, kid. Find yourself a story. Just try not to make any politicians cry this time.”

---

Metropolis burns.

Not in the way Gotham burns, graffiti flames licking brick walls, trash can fires lighting alleyways, but in the blinding, sun on skin kind of way. You rub another smear of aloe down your arm as you step off the curb, wincing at the angry pink glow spreading across your shoulders. Gotham never gave you sunburns. Gotham gave you smog and shadows and maybe the occasional chemical rash, but never this.

“Free falafel?” a man calls cheerfully from a cart, waving a foil‑wrapped bundle like it’s a gift from the gods.

You narrow your eyes. Nobody in Gotham offers food unless it’s poisoned or it comes with a catch. “No thanks,” you mutter, hugging your bag tighter. The man behind you takes the falafel without hesitation, takes a giant bite, and wanders off chewing happily. No collapse, no convulsions. You glare at his retreating back. “Idiot,” you mutter, then add, “Lucky idiot.”

Two blocks later, an old woman grips her cane and looks up at you from the crosswalk. “Young lady, could you help me across?”

Every instinct screams scam. In Gotham, this is how you lose your wallet, your dignity, and sometimes a kidney. You tighten your grip on your bag. “Nope,” you say, sidestepping her with a polite smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

Her face crumples into the kind of disappointed frown that makes strangers glare at you like you just kicked a puppy. You look away, crossing on your own as horns blare in the distance. When you glance back, the woman’s already halfway across with multiple people helping her. Suspicious.

You mutter, “Nice try, grandma,” and keep walking.

By the time you reach the Daily Planet’s glass doors, you’re convinced this whole city is one elaborate sting operation designed to test how long it takes for a Gotham native to lose their mind.

Inside, the newsroom hums with life. Phones ringing, printers whirring, reporters weaving between desks. Except here, people are smiling. Not the tight‑lipped, suspicious smiles of Gotham, but big, open grins like they actually enjoy being alive. It’s… unsettling.

“Hey, you must be the transfer!”

You turn, already bracing for a scam, and find a boyish looking guy with a camera slung around his neck. His grin is wide enough to blind. “Jimmy Olsen. Photographer.”

You shake his hand cautiously, waiting for the squeeze‑and‑grab that usually comes next. None does. He just beams at you like you hung the moon. “Big fan of your Gotham pieces,” he says quickly, “especially the one about the housing scandal—”

Before you can reply, a woman in heels appears, cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Jimmy,” she says, tone sharp but not unkind, “don’t scare her off on her first day.”

He flushes. “Wasn’t—”

“Uh‑huh.” Her attention shifts to you. “Lois Lane.” She offers her hand, her gaze steady, assessing. “Linda tells me you’ve got guts.”

You blink. “She did?”

Lois smirks. “Well. Her exact words were ‘trouble magnet with a typewriter.’ Same thing.”

You almost laugh. Yeah, that tracks.

Jimmy points toward a desk tucked near the middle of the bullpen. Clean, organized, a little too welcoming. “That one’s yours. Prime spot, good view of the board.”

You sling your bag onto the chair, sliding in as the weight of the room presses in around you. People laugh. Phones ring. Keys clack. It’s too bright, too cheerful, and you can’t decide if it’s real or the world’s best long con. From your desk, you could see the top of a LexCorp tower cutting into the skyline. The glass practically glared back at you. Metropolis might smile more than Gotham, but the sharks still circled, they just wore better suits.

Then a voice cuts through the chatter like a cannonball.

“All right, people, eyes up!”

Perry White strides out of his office, suspenders sharp, voice sharper. “Congratulations are in order. Kent, another fantastic Superman exclusive.”

From across the room, a tall man with a tie slightly askew and a cowlick that refuses to behave rubs the back of his neck. “Aw, shucks, Mr. White, it was nothing.”

You almost choke. Aw shucks. No one says that unironically. He’s blushing, stammering, and half the newsroom looks at him like he’s just cured cancer. You narrow your eyes, then let it go. This is Metropolis after all, and if you’re going to get through the next few months you need to keep an open mind. 

Perry claps his hands. “All right, enough applause. Back to work. Olsen, photos on my desk by five. Lane, finish that zoning board piece. Kent, start drafting tomorrow’s follow‑up. And—” his eyes land on you, and you sit up straighter “—our guest from Gotham. Y/N, welcome to Metropolis.”

You force a professional smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve read your work,” Perry continues, and something in your chest lifts. Finally, Someone who sees you as more than a hot potato passed across city lines. “Sharp stuff. So I’ve got a story right up your alley.”

Your pulse quickens. Maybe, just maybe, this won’t be a total exile.

Perry grins. “The local animal shelter’s out of pets. All adopted. Write me a piece on how it happened.”

For a second, you think you misheard. “The… pet shelter?”

“That’s right. Big feel‑good story. Metropolis loves those.” He nods. “You’ll do great.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance down at the stack of Superman headlines, then back at Perry, then at Clark Kent still ducking his head like a choir boy.

You paste on a smile. “Of course, Mr. White. Consider it done.”

But inside, one thought cuts through the saccharine air like a Gotham foghorn.

This city is a joke.

—

Three weeks in Metropolis and you’re convinced this place is a circus.

Sure, the streets are cleaner. The air doesn’t taste like exhaust. And yes, people actually hold doors open for each other without expecting a tip or your soul in return. But peel back the glitter, and what do you find? A city obsessed with its golden boy in red underwear and tights and a newsroom that treats him like the second coming.

The Daily Planet is no better. At first, you’d tried to keep an open mind. New city, new coworkers, new beat. Maybe you could learn to tolerate it. Maybe Gotham had just hardened you too much.

Yeah. No.

This place is a shithole dressed in puppies and rainbows.

Jimmy Olsen is harmless enough, though. He plops down beside your desk between assignments with stories about his latest disastrous date. Last week, a girl ghosted him because he accidentally mentioned his stamp collection mid entrée. This week? That same girl tracked down a limited edition stamp for him because she missed the way he laughed. You don’t know how he does it. 

Lois Lane? You didn’t think you’d like her, but you do. She’s sharp, relentless, no‑nonsense. The kind of reporter you’d actually trust in a back alley at midnight. She pushes back when Perry tries to soften her stories and doesn’t flinch when people complain. You respect that.

Perry himself is fine. Gruff but fair. He buys the bullpen pizza once a week and still manages to bark orders loud enough to make interns sprint. As far as bosses go, you’ve had worse.

But then there’s Clark Kent.

Clark “Aw Shucks” Kent.

The lying, sleazy, two‑faced dirtbag in khakis.

Everyone else thinks he’s a saint. The big guy in glasses who apologizes if he bumps your chair, brings in donuts “just because,” and ducks his head like praise embarrasses him. You’ve watched him long enough to know it’s all an act. Nobody is that wholesome. Not in this industry. Not on this planet.

And yet, somehow, he’s the only reporter in the entire world Superman talks to. Not just once, not just twice. Constantly. Exclusives, interviews, sit downs. You’d bet your last Gotham bagel he’s got the Man of Steel on speed dial.

Which means one of two things.

Either Clark Kent is the luckiest damn reporter alive.

Or, he’s slutting himself out to the resident Martian for a scoop.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, watching him across the bullpen. He’s at his desk, typing like the fate of humanity depends on it. His tie is crooked, his glasses are sliding down his nose, and every now and then he chuckles politely at something Lois mutters. The interns practically swoon.

You want to throw your stapler at him.

You mutter under your breath, “Farmboy menace.”

Jimmy glances up from the photo he’s editing, grinning. “Talking to yourself again?”

“Talking about Kent,” you reply flatly.

Jimmy’s grin widens. “You’ve got a crush.”

“Yeah, sure. If by crush you mean daily urge to expose him as the fraud he is.”

Jimmy laughs, unconvinced, and goes back to his photo. You keep watching Clark, irritation simmering. You know a con when you see one, and this guy is playing the entire city like a fiddle.

The worst part? He’s good at it.

Superman swoops in, saves the day, and somehow Kent’s always there first with the details, smiling modestly like it was nothing. Meanwhile, Perry hands you assignments like, “Cover the bake sale, kid. People love a bake sale.”

Three years clawing your way up the Gotham Gazette ladder, and here you are, writing puff pieces about Metropolis residents adopting shelter puppies.

You dig your nails into your notepad, flipping a page with more force than necessary. This isn’t reporting. This is babysitting a city too high on its own sunshine to notice the cracks.

You glance back at Clark, who chooses that exact moment to look up. His eyes catch yours, and he gives you a small, polite smile before returning to his work.

The audacity.

You’re halfway through imagining the satisfaction of slapping Clark Kent’s smug farm‑boy grin off his face when your phone buzzes.

You glance down, already ready to ignore it, until you see the name flashing on the screen.

Your most trusted Gotham source.

The irritation drains out of you in an instant. You swipe to answer. “Talk to me.”

On the other end, Gotham breathes. Rain hammering pavement. Sirens wailing in the distance. Tires splashing through puddles. Somewhere, someone screams, cut off by the slam of a car door. It’s the kind of soundtrack you grew up with. Familiar. Comforting, in a way only a Gotham native would understand.

But your source doesn’t sound comforted.

“Y/N,” she gasps, her voice high, breathless. “I found something. I can’t—I don’t have time—”

Your spine stiffens. “Slow down. What’s happening?”

“You don’t understand, it’s big. Really big. I’m sending it now. Check your email.”

You hear her shoes slapping against wet pavement, the ragged edge of her breathing. Your stomach knots. “Where are you? I can get you help—”

“No time.” A crash. Glass shattering, maybe a trash can overturned. She curses under her breath. “They know I have it.”

Your pulse spikes. “Who knows?”

Silence, except for the pounding rain and her frantic footsteps. Then, sharp and close, a single gunshot.

You sit bolt upright.

“Hello?!” Your voice cracks. “Hello?”

Nothing.

The line goes dead.

For a long, frozen second, you just stare at your phone, her name still glowing on the dark screen. The newsroom hums around you, oblivious, bright and cheerful while Gotham bleeds through your speaker.

Your email pings.

Hands trembling, you yank your laptop open. A single new message. No subject line. Just an attachment. The file name blinks back at you, bold and sterile: Project Aegis.

You click. Pages unfurl across your screen, lines of text, photos, diagrams. You don’t understand all of it, not yet, but you understand enough.

Your eyes go wide.

The chair screeches against the floor as you shoot to your feet, laptop clutched to your chest. Conversations falter as you weave through desks, but you don’t slow down.

By the time you slam a hand against Perry White’s office door, your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears.

You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You push the door open, breathless.

“Perry. You need to see this.”

---

a/n: click link to access evidence:

✉️ [ACCESS: INCOMING EMAIL - Y/N@TheDailyPlanet.com] Subject: Project Aegis | What is the Mayor hiding?

---

a/n: tried writing in second person for the first time, not sure how I feel. however i think a grumpy gotham reader is so fun to write. the new superman movie taught me that i am not hating to my full potential and y/n in this series embodies that

[goblin-jr]

Is it a crime to lie?

Masterlist

---

EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! Gotham journalist crashes into sunny Metropolis! Gotham born, prodigy reporter, Y/N , has been transferred after getting a little too thorough with her last Gotham exposé. Now she’s stuck in the land of sunshine and smiles, partnered with Clark Kent, Metropolis’s favourite golden boy and (alleged) Superman booty call.

But when a late night tip ends in gunfire and a mystery, Y/N stumbles onto a conspiracy that could shake Metropolis to its core.

The Scoop: Enemies to lovers (except only one of them thinks they’re enemies), Gotham grit vs. Kansas sunshine, and the biggest headline of her career.

The Question: Is it a crime to lie, if the world depends on it?

Read all about it below: 

---

Chapter 1: Gotham city blues -> Evidence log

Chapter 2: Deny, Deny, Deny → Evidence log

Chapter 3: Somebody’s watching me → Evidence log

Chapter 4: The things you do for a headline (coming soon.....) → Evidence log

Chapter 5: Hot off the press (coming soon.....)

[goblin-jr]

would anyone like to be a beta reader or point me to fanfic writing discords...

asking for a friend (me) 💔

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

blurbs.

superman is like a brother to me

pls pls pls make sure you read the entire series before reading the blurbs!! realize this is long overdue, so if you need a refresher you can find part 1 here or the full series on my page

--

It was happening again.

Y/N, dangling from a ledge, again. Cameras rolling, again. Superman catching her at the last possible second, again.

Honestly, she should start a punch card for this.

The moment they landed, reporters swarmed. Mics were shoved in her face, camera flashes nearly blinding her. Superman stood beside her, still holding onto her waist, strong and steady, like he hadn’t just plucked her out of certain death like it was nothing.

And for the first time in her life, Y/N had to act like she wasn’t into it.

Oh, god. This is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Because she knew the second she let her real reaction slip—the second she so much as glanced at him with the usual starry eyes she saved for her very publicly known boyfriend, Clark Kent,—someone would connect the dots.

So.

She did the only logical thing.

She went full method actor.

"Y/N, Superman just saved your life again!" a reporter said, breathless. "How do you feel?"

Y/N dusted off her sleeve like she had just been mildly inconvenienced.

She shrugged. "Meh."

A dead silence settled over the crowd. Even the cameras hesitated, confused.

Clark blinked. "What?"

Y/N, already committed to the bit, gave an even bigger shrug. "I mean, he’s fine, I guess."

Clark blinked again.

The reporters exchanged confused glances.

"Wait… are you saying you’re not into Superman?"

Y/N scoffed dramatically.

"Into Superman?" She forced out a laugh. "Pfft. As if."

Clark’s brows furrowed. "I-I thought you-" 

Y/N cut him off with a fake yawn.

"I mean, yeah, sure," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "He’s got, like, good bone structure or whatever. But personally? Not my type."

Clark stared at her.

The reporters stared at her.

Y/N wanted to die.

But she couldn’t stop now.

Not with the cameras rolling.

"Wait, but didn’t you once tweet that Superman was the most attractive man alive?" one reporter asked, flipping through notes.

Y/N froze.

Her past self had betrayed her.

Think, think, THINK.

She forced a casual laugh. "Oh, that? Yeah, um… I was hacked."

Another reporter jumped in. "And what about that interview where you said he had ‘God-tier abs’?"

Y/N, heart pounding, sweating through her shirt: "…I was concussed."

The reporters narrowed their eyes.

"How do you explain the video where you kissed his cheek when he caught you?"

Y/N gritted her teeth. "Deepfake."

Clark folded his arms.

"So just to be clear…" he said slowly, voice dangerously low. "You don’t find me attractive at all?"

Y/N forced herself to look him in the face.

It was so much worse up close.

Because Jeez, he really was stupidly beautiful.

And every instinct in her body was screaming at her to blush, swoon, giggle, something-

But no.

She had a mission.

So she did the impossible.

She lied.

"Not even a little bit," she said, voice flat.

Superman’s jaw actually dropped.

"You’re sure?"

Y/N nodded, her entire soul fracturing into pieces.

"One hundred percent," she said. "Superman? Overrated."

Clark Kent, award winning journalist, literal Superman, had never been more personally offended in his life.

Y/N turned to the cameras, flashing a big, fake, forced smile.

"So, yeah," she said, voice bright and chipper. "Superman? Not my thing. He’s like…"

She hesitated. Took a deep breath.

"A brother to me."

Clark actually flinched.

"A BROTHER?"

"Yup!" Y/N said, dying inside. "Platonic! No attraction whatsoever! Absolutely NOTHING there!"

Clark looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

"…You’re joking."

Y/N patted his shoulder.

"Anyway!" she chirped. "Thanks for the save, big guy. See you never!"

And with that, she walked away.

Her dignity was in shambles.

But Clark’s secret?

Safe.

---

Clark stormed into the apartment later that night.

Y/N, sprawled on the couch, threw an arm over her face. "Don’t."

Clark held up his phone.

"‘Superman hardcore friend-zoned by pop star Y/N"

"CLARK."

"‘Superman devastated after being called like a brother by Y/N-’"

"IT WAS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD."

Clark groaned, running a hand down his face. "Y/N. You destroyed me."

Y/N sat up, pointing aggressively. "OH, I’M SORRY, WOULD YOU HAVE PREFERRED ME TO GAZE AT YOU LOVINGLY IN FRONT OF THE PRESS? DID YOU WANT ME TO START FAN-GIRLING MID-RESCUE? DID YOU WANT ME TO LOOK AT YOU AND GO, ‘OH MY GOD SUPERMAN PLEASE KISS ME??’"

Clark opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then, completely deadpan: "…I mean, that last one would’ve been nice."

Y/N grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head.

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

blurbs.

relationship hard launch on national television

pls pls pls make sure you read the entire series before reading the blurbs!! realize this is long overdue, so if you need a refresher you can find part 1 here or the full series on my page

---

Clark Kent was a man of order. Routine. Control.

His morning started the way it always did, alarm at 5:30, kiss still-sleeping Y/N’s forehead, workout, breakfast, shower. He double checked the news cycle, reviewed his notes, set up his camera for the Zoom broadcast, and logged onto CNN with exactly two minutes to spare.

A normal morning. A professional morning. A completely uneventful morning.

Until it wasn’t.

“Clark Kent joins us now for an analysis on the economic impacts of the latest foreign policy decisions,” the anchor announced. “Clark, always great to have you.”

“Good morning,” Clark said smoothly, adjusting his glasses. His tone was steady, his expression calm, his home office perfectly arranged in the background.

For the next five minutes, Clark spoke with authority. His voice was measured, his analysis sharp, his delivery that of a seasoned journalist. The conversation was weighty, nuanced, and serious.

And then-

A flicker of movement behind him.

At first, he didn’t register it. He was mid-sentence, breaking down the global ramifications of rising tariffs, laser-focused.

But the newsroom noticed.

“Oh-uh, Clark, I-” One of the anchors faltered.

The other one leaned forward. Squinted. Eyes widening.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Is that-”

Clark didn’t catch it.

The internet did.

Because Y/N, international superstar, multiple Grammy winner, global icon, had just walked into the frame.

Y/N, completely oblivious, wandered into the kitchen.

She had AirPods in, music blasting.

She was wearing Clark’s flannel and the fuzziest pj pants on earth.

She opened the fridge. Took out the orange juice. Started chugging it straight from the bottle.

Clark? Still oblivious.

CNN? FULL-BODY CRISIS.

Clark finally noticed the newsroom’s confused expressions.

Saw the way they were no longer making eye contact with him but were instead watching something behind him.

A slow, terrible feeling crept into his gut.

And then-

🎶 “SO IF YOU CARE TO FIND ME, LOOK TO THE WESTERN SKY” 🎶

Clark turned.

And froze.

Y/N had one hand on her hip, the other holding the juice, fully mid-performance.

She hadn’t even noticed the camera yet.

Clark’s soul left his body.

The anchors on CNN were no longer even pretending to focus on the segment.

One of them openly gaped. “Clark, I-uh-who is that?”

Clark’s brain crashed. Hard.

For a moment, all he could do was sit there, staring in horror as Y/N kept singing, swaying slightly like she was opening broadway instead of completely destroying his life.

🎶 “ITS MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, AAAUAHAHHAAAHHHHhhhHHHHHHhhhhh!!!” ”

Clark slammed his mute button SO FAST.

Then turned to Y/N:

“YOU’RE ON LIVE TELEVISION.”

Y/N froze mid-lyric.

She slowly pulled out an AirPod. Blinking.

“…Like, live-live?”

Clark ran a hand down his face. “CNN, Y/N.”

Y/N turned.

Saw the screen.

Saw the news anchors watching in real time.

Saw the live broadcast counter.

“Oh. Ohhhh.”

Her face went completely blank.

Silence.

A long, excruciating silence.

Then-

She dropped into a crouch like a criminal caught by the police.

Clark blinked. “What-are you hiding?”

“DON’T LOOK AT ME,” she whisper-yelled, attempting to army crawl out of the kitchen.

Clark dragged a hand down his face. “Y/N, they already saw you.”

She groaned, still face-down on the floor. “Oh my god. I’m a meme, aren’t I?”

Clark glanced at the CNN feed, where the anchors were very much still staring.

“…I don’t think they’ve fully processed it yet.”

Y/N let out an actual whimper.

Clark exhaled sharply, “Just-just get out of the frame.”

“I was trying,” she muttered, crawling behind the counter.

“Maybe try standing up like a normal person.”

“Maybe try not exposing our entire relationship to the world at seven in the morning, Clark.”

Clark made a very real effort not to pass out.

“This is your fault,” he muttered.

Y/N’s head popped up from behind the counter. “My fault?”

She peeked at the monitor. The anchors were still watching.

One of them whispered something to their producer. Someone in the background laughed. Y/N waved.

Clark wished for death.

Y/N pressed her lips together. “So, uh. Do we pretend this didn’t happen?”

Clark stared at her. Then stared at the CNN feed.

“…You sang your way into a global news broadcast.”

Y/N sighed, running a hand down her face. “Right. That did happen.”

Clark inhaled sharply. “I have to unmute now.”

Y/N winced. “Godspeed, babe.”

She patted his shoulder, then sprinted out of the frame like a war criminal fleeing the scene.

Clark, who no longer had the will to live, turned back to the screen and unmuted himself.

There was a long beat of silence.

Then-one of the anchors coughed. “So, uh, Clark… anything you’d like to share with the class?”

Clark closed his eyes.

This was it. His villain origin story.

He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and said-

“…I think we should move on.”

Silence.

Then one of the anchors actually started laughing.

“Clark, buddy,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s not happening.”

Clark wished for death.

Y/N, from the next room: “DO THEY WANNA HEAR THE SECOND VERSE?”

Clark, through clenched teeth: “Y/N.”

Her laughter rang through the apartment.

And just like that, Clark Kent, respected journalist, secret superhero, was officially a trending topic.

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

blurbs.

(yes its happening)

---

relationship hard launch on national television

superman is like a brother to me

clark kent : the world's most decorated man. no pulitzer tho :(

the smallville grandmas : a mafia noir

---

realized we are once again in a smallville renaissance and decided my google docs should finally see the light of day. please make sure you read the full series before this <3

[goblin-jr]

Masterlist

💌 💌 💌 💌

hi!! welcome to my blog <3

most of the stories below are results of procrastination, and I only ever write when inspiration strikes really hard. regardless.... i hope you enjoy <3

---

Jason Todd

A Character Study in Grief - series, complete. series overview . part 1 . part 2 . part 3

---

Clark Kent (Smallville and DCU)

Tell me, where’s your hiding place? - series, complete part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 . part 5 . blurbs

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Is it a crime to lie? - series, in progress

---

Rafe Cameron

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you. - series, complete

[goblin-jr]

PHASE III: REINTRODUCTION PROTOCOL

=============================================== CONFIDENTIAL – GOTHAM PSYCHOSOCIAL RESEARCH UNIT   CASE FILE #: JX-1989   DOCUMENT TYPE: Postmortem Longitudinal Trial Summary   TRIAL NAME: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL MASTERLIST: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL DESIGN: Three-Phase Emotional Disruption Model   STATUS: Closed   SECURITY CLEARANCE: ALPHA+   ===============================================

Study Brief

 Subject B re-entered Subject A’s life under concealed identity. Initial interactions were indirect, progressing to sustained proximity and emotional reinforcement.

Subject A developed attachment under misidentified parameters. Full identity disclosure occurred under emotionally heightened conditions. Results indicate unresolved grief, enduring attachment, and high volatility.

Read full report below.

---

(click on links to access log)

🎙️ [ACCESS: STUDENT BROADCAST ARCHIVE — HARVARDRADIO.COM] Podcast Transcript | The Crimson Hour Ep. 68 | “She Said No (And That’s the Problem)” | Host Commentary

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📎 [ACCESS: UNIVERSITY CORRESPONDENCE — HARVARD.EDU] Termination Notice | Financial Aid Rescission & Enrollment Discontinuation | Issued October 14 | Confidential Addressee

--

🚌 [ACCESS: TRANSPORTATION RECORD — GOTHAM COACHLINES] One Way Bus Ticket | Boston to Gotham | Purchased October 16

--

🏚️ [ACCESS: HOUSING CONTRACT — GOTHAM CITY RENTAL BOARD] Lease Agreement | 1448 W. Park Row, Apt #4B | Signed October 19 | Tenant: Y/N

--

📘 [ACCESS: EDUCATION RECORD — GOTHAM CITY ADULT LEARNING CENTER] Enrollment Confirmation | Bridge Track Program | Issued October 24 | Student: Y/N

--

💼 [ACCESS: EMPLOYMENT LOG — GOTHAM CITY UNIFIED LABOR DATABASE] Multiple Positions | Service & Gig Work Ledger | Active Record | Employee: Y/N

--

Subject A: Age 21 Subject B: 3 years, 4.5 months post-resurrection April 27

Jason arrives early.

For once, he’s calm.

No adrenaline. No ghost-rage in his blood. Just nerves.

The rain started earlier this year.

Jason was already at the grave when it did—hood up, hands in pockets, the crowbar long gone. He’d showered. Put on clean gear. The plan was simple:

Show up. Say hi. Let her see him. Let her believe it.

He practiced it all in his head—what he’d say, how he’d say it, how he’d wait until she smiled before falling apart.

10:45 p.m.

She shows up early.

Jason sees her silhouette first, cutting through the fog. Slower than usual. Shoulders hunched. Hoodie sagging under the weight of rain and long shifts.

Her shoes are soaked through. No blanket. No bag. No book.

Just her. Exhausted. Smaller somehow.

She stumbles once stepping over a root. Doesn’t even curse. Just keeps going.

Jason’s breath catches as she hits the clearing.

Something’s wrong.

She doesn’t talk to the grave right away. She just touches it—soft. Like she’s asking permission. Then lowers herself to her knees like her bones weigh more this year.

“Hey,” she says quietly, forehead brushing the stone. “Sorry I’m early. I couldn’t go home first.”

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just listens.

“I had a shift. Then another one. Didn’t think I’d make it if I sat down.”

A long breath.

“I got kicked out,” she says flatly. “Harvard. Rich boy temper tantrum. He made some calls. They pulled my scholarship.”

Jason’s hands spasm. His body cannot decide whether to clench or let go.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t.” A pause. Her voice drops. “Didn’t want him- Bruce- to be right about me.”

She talks for a while.

Tells him about the bus ride back. The coffee shop job. The night classes. The leak in her ceiling. The time she had to eat a granola bar for dinner and pretend it was fine.

She doesn’t cry. Not once.

She just talks.

Soft. Matter-of-fact. Like reading off damage reports.

Jason’s whole body buzzes with the wrongness of it. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to joke. Tease the stone. Curse Darcy and flirt with ghosts.

But tonight?

She just… fades.

After about an hour, she stops talking.

No goodbye. No inside joke. No “see you next year, dumbass.”

Just silence.

She curls up beside the grave. Hood pulled over her head. Shoes still wet. Breath fogging in the cold.

And sleeps.

Jason had been waiting for this all year.

She showed up soaked, empty, too tired to fake it. No jokes. No book. Just her knees in the mud and her pride holding what was left of her together.

And he knew— She would hate this.

She would never want him to see her like this. Not exhausted. Not unraveling. Not defeated.

She would rather die than be pitied.

So Jason stayed in the dark.

Because tonight wasn’t about him.

And love meant not crossing the line.

--

🕵️ [ACCESS: PUBLIC THREAD ARCHIVE — REDDIT.COM/r/GothamSightings] Community Report | “Red Hood in Southside Again???” | User Submissions Logged 

--

📣 [ACCESS: CUSTOMER FEEDBACK LOG — YELP.COM] Review | Bean & Gone Café | Reviewer: Chad R. | Entry Updated May 8

--

💳 [ACCESS: TRANSACTION RECORD — LOCAL MERCHANT TERMINALS] Receipts Logged | Excessive Tips Flagged | Bean & Gone / Munchie Mart 

--

🧾 [ACCESS: LANDLORD CORRESPONDENCE — DELVECCHIO PROPERTY MGMT] Maintenance Confirmation | Pest Control Approved | Unit: Apt #4B, Tenant: Y/N

--

Y/N snapped the tip drawer shut harder than she meant to.

Again.

The register beeped like it was offended. JoJo didn’t even flinch—just looked up from her phone with that deadpan stare that meant she was either judging her or waiting to help bury a body.

“Another hundred?” JoJo asked, not even blinking.

“One-fifty,” Y/N muttered. “On a twelve-dollar order.”

JoJo whistled low. “Okay, but at what point do you find your mystery billionaire and marry him for healthcare?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She grabbed the bills, shoved them into her apron, and stalked toward the back.

That night, she emptied every envelope under her mattress. Every absurd tip. Every impossible number scrawled on receipts. Every crisp, creased bill she couldn’t bring herself to spend.

$4,329.72.

In cash.

No name. No signature. Just guilt.

She sat on the floor and stared at it for a long time.

And then—like a switch flipping—her hands started to shake.

Of course. Of course.

Bruce Wayne.

That smug, shadow-lurking bastard must’ve found out she was back. Working double shifts. Eating gas station ramen. Sleeping under a flickering ceiling light with duct tape around the base.

And instead of calling— Instead of knocking— Instead of saying one fucking word—

He sent money.

She found an old envelope in the junk drawer. Dumped the cash in, fast and angry. Grabbed a pen. No flourish. No flourish was needed.

keep your guilt money.

She folded the note once, sharp. Taped it to the envelope. Stared at it like it had cursed her bloodline.

It was after midnight when she left.

She didn’t take the bus. Bus costs cash.

She walked.

Across half the city. Past busted streetlamps and cracked sidewalks and three of the corners she used to sleep near in high school. Past the bakery that always smelled like disappointment. Past the train station she’d once left for Harvard from.

She didn’t stop.

By the time she reached Wayne Manor, her feet hurt and her coat was damp and her fingers were numb—but her spine was made of fury.

The gates loomed in front of her, tall and polished and exactly as she remembered.

She stood there for a minute. Just breathing.

Then she crouched. Picked up a rock from the edge of the path. Slipped it into the envelope.

Weighted.

Final.

And then—without a word— She threw it over the gate.

It landed with a thunk on the gravel drive.

Y/N turned and walked away without looking back.

Let him read the note. Let him choke on it.

She didn’t want his money.

She wanted to be left the hell alone.

--

BATCAVE — May 22, 2:13 AM

Status: Debrief in progress Subjects Present: D. Grayson, T. Drake, D. Wayne, J. Todd, B. Wayne

“So, are we just not gonna talk about the fact that Killer Croc was wearing Crocs?” Dick asked, toeing off his boots near the console. “I mean, that’s commitment to the bit.”

Tim didn’t look up. “I already filed it under ‘mental warfare.’”

Damian scoffed from the corner. “You’re all idiots.”

Jason ignored them. Sort of. He was leaned back against the armory wall, picking at the edge of his gloves like they’d personally wronged him.

Until—

ALERT: PROJECTILE DETECTED. PERIMETER BREACH. LOCKDOWN SEQUENCE INITIATED.

Every screen in the cave lit red.

“Who the hell throws something at the manor?” Tim muttered, already flipping through the camera feeds.

“Someone with a death wish,” Damian deadpanned.

“Someone stupid,” Bruce corrected, stepping forward.

Jason just moved toward the screen. “Pull Sector 12. Zoom in.”

The exterior cam locked on. Gravel path. Gate lights. A single envelope lay on the drive, still spinning slightly from impact.

Not a package. Not a threat. Not a warning.

Just a rage-fueled piece of paper addressed in sharp black ink:

TO: BITCH WAYNE FROM: GO TO HELL

Underneath that, written in all-caps and vengeance:

KEEP YOUR GUILT MONEY.

The envelope had torn slightly on impact. Caught on the gravel. A few crisp bills peeked from the split. One hundred dollar note folded clean. A rock the size of a fist visible inside, for weight.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

It was his money. Every tip. Every envelope. Every silent drop at her register or mailbox or door.

He thought she hadn’t noticed.

Turns out, she had. And she walked it all the way here just to give it back.

A beat of total silence.

Then—

“…Wait,” Tim said slowly. “That’s your money?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Dick turned. “Dude. You’ve been funding her anonymously? For months?”

Jason crossed his arms. “I wasn’t trying to be anonymous.”

Damian snorted. “You failed spectacularly.”

Bruce stared at the monitor, unreadable. Still. Barely blinking. “She thinks it was from me,” he said finally.

“She would,” Tim said. “You’re the obvious choice for unsolicited financial intervention.”

“And she still threw it back,” Damian murmured, almost impressed.

Jason crossed his arms.

“I mean… you guys saw that, right?” he said. “She didn’t keep it.”

Dick smirked. “She chucked it with incredible form. Like varsity softball form.”

“Yeah,” Jason muttered. “She’s pissed.”

“You sound proud,” Tim said slowly.

Jason turned away from the screen, tugging his gloves tighter.

“Oh, I’m so proud,” he said. “Bitch Wayne got a rock in the mail. From my girl.”

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Bruce said, not impressed.

Jason ignored that.

He looked at the envelope one last time, then at the gate, then—somewhere no camera could track—toward her.

“…New plan,” he muttered.

Tim looked up. “New what?”

Jason cracked his knuckles.

“I make contact.”

--

The plan wasn’t complicated. Jason liked it that way.

He knew the alley behind her building was dirty, damp, and full of rats—human and otherwise. He also knew a low-level dealer had been working the block for weeks now, pushing light stuff to drunk college kids and the occasional night school burnout.

It wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t worth the suit. Wasn’t worth the attention.

But it was behind her apartment.

So Jason made it urgent.

He didn’t dig too deep. Didn’t check security. Didn’t run a full recon of the building. He didn’t want to know how bad it was. Not yet.

He showed up just before sundown.

Climbed up to her window. Plopped right down. Moved like smoke. Didn’t let himself look through her window—just paused long enough to slide a folded note through the small crack in the pane.

“Temporary stakeout. No danger to you. Lock your windows. —RH”

He noticed the broken latch right after. Rusted. Hanging by one screw. He made a mental note to have a second chat with her landlord. Maybe something about a crowbar this time. Or a window.

Jason repositioned on her fire escape. Cross-legged. Still. Watching the alley below like he’d done it a thousand times. He felt calm. Capable. Like this was right.

She’d come outside.She’d see the note. She’d see him.

And then, she would feel their undeniable connection, open the window, and profess her love. It was foolproof. 

Y/N got home around midnight.

Her backpack was heavy. Her jacket soaked. She had a paper bag under one arm and her keys already in hand before she even reached the stairwell.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the note. Read it. Sighed. Crumpled it in one hand.

Then, with the kind of exhausted precision Jason had only ever seen on grieving people and nurses, she reached for the curtain—

And closed it.

Not angrily. Not dramatically.

Just… done.

Lights off. Lock turned. Curtain drawn.

Jason stayed on the roof.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure what to do next.

--

STAKEOUT — DAY FOUR

This was officially the worst stakeout of his life.

Jason had done rooftop surveillance during hailstorms. He’d staked out mob hideouts in January without gloves. Once, he ate an entire protein bar that turned out to be six months expired just to avoid blowing his cover.

None of that compared to this.

Because at least in those cases, he had a target. A mission. A job to do.

Here? He was just... loitering.

Loitering outside the window of a girl who hadn’t looked at him in two days. Not since Day Two, when she peeked through the curtain for exactly 1.5 seconds and then closed it like she was doing pest control.

He hadn’t moved since sunset.

He’d counted exactly four rats, two alley cats, one dealer (still mid-tier, still boring), and zero signs that Y/N had any interest in acknowledging the helmeted vigilante nesting on her fire escape.

He was starting to take it personally.

His back hurt. His patience was thin. And his coffee had gone cold sometime around 9:00 p.m.

He was just about to call it—just about to tell himself he’d leave in five minutes, tops—when the window creaked open.

Not a curtain. Not a crack.

The full window.

Jason sat up straight, instantly alert.

Y/N leaned out.

Arms crossed on the windowsill. Hair pulled into a messy knot. Hoodie two sizes too big and sleeves pushed to her elbows.

She looked directly at him. “Listen,” she said, voice still dangerously even. “If this is about Gerald, I’m gonna stop you right there. Because Gerald literally ties his drug pouches with ribbons. He once left a baggie in someone’s mailbox with a thank-you note.”

Jason stared.

“I know this,” she continued, getting started now, “because I taught that man how to do cursive T’s a few months ago for a hundred bucks and a stale Pop-Tart. He paid in exact change and said, ‘Thank you, miss.’”

Jason opened his mouth.

She did not let him speak.

“Gerald,” she said, gesturing like she was introducing a sitcom character, “is not a threat. Gerald is a part-time dealer with a Yelp rating and mild anxiety. I could break his kneecaps in under two minutes and still make it to night class.”

Jason made a noise—could’ve been agreement, could’ve been fear.

She narrowed her eyes. “So unless there’s an actual cartel hiding in the bodega freezer, you can stop loitering on my window like a sad gargoyle and go bother someone else.”

Jason scrambled. “He’s… connected.”

Y/N tilted her head. “To who?”

Jason waved vaguely. “Bigger cartel. Out-of-town operation. Could be gun-running. Definitely not cursive.”

Y/N looked unimpressed.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, if you’re gonna keep lurking out here, just don’t scare the cats.”

Then she closed the window.

Didn’t slam it. Didn’t storm off. Just… shut it. Quiet. Final.

Jason stared at the glass, stunned.

So much for the moment. So much for the bonding. So much for the water.

Still—he smiled under the mask. She offered to commit acts of violence for him. 

The plan was working. 

--

💚 [ACCESS: VENDOR NOTICE — GERALD’S GOODS / PUBLIC MARKET BULLETIN] Store Update | Continued Operation Approved | Restrictions Applied

--

STAKEOUT — DAY ELEVEN

It was getting bleak.

Jason had been camped out on her fire escape for eleven days. Eleven. He’d missed two minor muggings, skipped one whole safehouse rotation, and was now on a first-name basis with three alley cats and one concerned mailman.

Y/N had spoken to him exactly three more times since the Gerald Incident.

None of them were what he wanted.

Day Six: “You left food on my window ledge. That’s how raccoons get in.”

Day Eight: “Could you stop tapping on the railing?, I have work in 4 hours”

Day Nine: “Stop feeding Gerald. He keeps offering me coupons.

He’d pivoted his strategy. Brought better food. Left sticky notes with dumb jokes. Tried being helpful. Nothing worked.

She hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t invited him in. She hadn't even asked his name.

So on Day Eleven, just after midnight, Jason gave up all pretense of having a plan.

He knocked on the window once, then leaned in slightly and said the dumbest possible sentence:

“…Can I use your bathroom?”

Y/N blinked at him. She was sitting on the floor with a mug in one hand and a book in the other, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, expression unreadable.

A long pause.

Then she said:

“Are you serious?”

Jason shrugged. “I’ve been out here for, like, two weeks.”

She stared. Jason stared back. Internally panicking.

Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But if you bleed on my bath mat, I will kill you.”

She opened the window.

Jason crawled inside like a very polite burglar and immediately forgot how to function.

The place was small. Lived-in. Clean in the chaotic way that meant she was too tired to fake being put together. Books stacked everywhere. Couch slightly lopsided

She pointed to the bathroom and didn’t look at him. “There. In and out. Don’t touch my stuff.”

He nodded, heartbeat in his throat.

Once inside, he immediately did not pee.

He closed the door. Locked it. Turned to the sink.

The bathroom was small. Clean. Faintly pink. The kind of space someone maintained out of habit, not vanity. The light above the mirror flickered when he flipped the switch, then steadied. There was a hair tie looped around the faucet. A half-dead succulent in a chipped mug by the window. Toothpaste cap missing. A towel slung over the back of the door with an embroidered flower on it that looked like it came from a clearance bin at Target.

Jason stood in the middle of it, helmet still on, and breathed.

Then—slowly—he reached up and took it off.

The air was cooler on his face than he expected. The mirror caught him in full: tousled hair, dark circles, and that look he always got when the silence stretched too long—like he might flinch from his own reflection.

He looked awful. Not in the way he usually did. Worse.

Like a guy who hadn’t been sleeping. Like someone who’d been sitting on a fire escape for eleven nights hoping a girl who read Pride and Prejudice to gravestones might eventually say hi.

He stared at himself for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then splashed water on his face. Twice. Rubbed his palms over his jaw like it would help somehow.

It didn’t.

There was soap in a tiny ceramic dish shaped like a shell. Glittery, pastel pink. He stared at it for a full three seconds before muttering “what the fuck” and using it anyway.

The water smelled like coconut and something warm. Maybe vanilla. Maybe whatever scent meant “someone lives here and it isn’t you.”

He dried his hands on the towel. Realized too late it was her towel. Hung it back up very gently like it might press charges.

And then—because he was already spiraling—he started looking.

Not like a creep. Not really. Just... glancing.

There was a cup full of bobby pins. A near-empty mascara tube. A jar of Vicks vapor rub. Painkillers. A pack of gum. One very battered razor and—

Her shampoo. 

He picked it up like it was evidence. Opened the cap. Took a quick sniff.

Then froze.

Yep.

That was her.

Citrus and something warm. Something he couldn’t name. Something that smelled like sleep and soft laughter and the back of her hoodie after she’d been walking all day.

He blinked.

Stared at the mirror again.

“This is insane,” he said, out loud, to the drain.

The mirror agreed. Silently. Cruelly.

He didn’t stop snooping. 

His hand reached for the chapstick next. Pink. Untwisted halfway. Sitting like a loaded weapon on the shelf. He hovered. Pulled back. Reached again.

Nope. Nope.

He could not mentally survive indirect lip contact tonight.

Instead, he turned on the sink again, splashed his face a second time, and looked around.

Panic.

He hadn’t flushed.

If he walked out without flushing, she’d know. She’d definitely know. And then what? She’d think he didn’t pee? That he had a shy bladder? That he was snooping?

Which he was.

But not in a weird way.

Just a tragic, emotionally stunted way.

He flushed.

Waited.

Washed his hands again. Overcorrecting. Citrus soap. Same towel. Same careful dry.

He stared at the door. Helmet back on.

Then—deep breath—he stepped out, greeted by the sound of rain pattering against the living room windows. 

The rain was biblical.

One of those Gotham storms that sounded like it was trying to peel the skyline off the bones of the city. Thunder in full surround sound. Water hammering the roof like it was holding a grudge. The alley behind her apartment was already pooling into something that looked vaguely like a swamp.

Y/N stood at her window, hoodie sleeves pushed up, coffee mug empty, expression flat.

She stared down at the alley like she was waiting for it to apologize.

Then, without turning her head:

“…Yo. Gerald dipped.”

Jason, stepping into the living room, gave a dignified response . “What?”

She nodded at the alley. “Lace parasol finally gave out. Rain probably took it clean off his stupid little head.”

Jason craned his neck. She was right. Gerald’s usual folding chair was empty. The cooler full of whatever he sold was gone. A crushed Monster Energy can rolled through the runoff like it was fleeing the scene.

She turned after a moment. Raised an eyebrow. “You planning to just crawl back out there and rot?”

Jason blinked. “...Kinda?”

She sighed. Loudly. Like she was annoyed at the concept of him existing in space.

“I can’t afford the liability of you slipping off my fire escape,” she muttered, walking toward the kitchen. “You fall, you sue, I end up selling a kidney. That’s not happening.”

Jason just watched her.

She didn’t look at him when she said it—just opened a cabinet, pulled out a can of generic brand cola, and set it on the counter without ceremony.

“You want to sit for a while?” she asked, like it physically pained her.

Jason nodded. Too fast. Too eager.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. I can—uh. Thanks.”

She walked back toward the window and flopped down onto the couch like gravity won a bet. Jason followed, cautiously, perching on the very edge of the opposite cushion like a man trying not to disturb a wild animal.

Then he realized the problem.

The soda was still on the counter.

And he had his helmet back on.

Y/N glanced over at him, then back at the can. Then—without a word—she stood, grabbed it, opened the drawer, pulled out a bright pink curly straw, jammed it into the can, and handed it over like this was normal behavior.

Jason hesitated.

She stared. “You gonna take it or what?”

He did. Very carefully.

And then, with all the dignity of a man in full tactical armor drinking diet cola through a Lisa Frank accessory, he took a sip.

They’d been sitting in silence for maybe five minutes when she asked, “You affiliated with the bats?”

It wasn’t aggressive. Just flat. Tired. The kind of question that didn’t come from curiosity, but muscle memory—like checking the lock twice before bed.

Jason didn’t move right away.

He could feel her watching. Not suspicious. Not fearful. Just... waiting. Like someone who’d been burned before and had learned to ask the hard questions first.

He set the soda down slowly. Let the pink straw curl on itself like a secret.

“No,” he said.

It was the truth. And a lie. Both, kind of.

But it was what she needed to hear.

He could see it happen—the slow loosening in her jaw, the unspooling tension in her spine, the way her fingers relaxed against the fabric of the couch like she’d been bracing without noticing.

“Good,” she muttered. “Those freaks never told me he died.”

The room was quiet after that.

Jason didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He just let the rain fill the silence. Let it hum against the windows like white noise. She didn’t look at him again for a long time.

When she finally spoke, it was softer.

“Sorry. That was... blunt.”

“You’re good.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back to him.

“You don’t seem like one of them anyway.”

Jason shrugged, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

“You loiter. You drink soda through a straw. You’d trip in a cave and die instantly.”

“I’m an apex predator.”

She rolled her eyes. “You brought me dumplings in a shoebox.”

He raised the can again like it was a toast. “And yet, here we are.”

She didn’t smile. Not fully.

But the corner of her mouth twitched. And for now, that was enough.

She didn’t ask for his name. He didn’t offer it. They just sat there, listening to the storm try to peel Gotham open.

Eventually, she stood. Picked up his empty can. Tossed it in the recycling like it didn’t mean anything.

--

By the third week of the stakeout-that-wasn’t, Jason had a rhythm.

He came by every few nights. Always late. Never announced. He didn’t knock. Didn’t text. He just appeared on the fire escape like a guilty habit, boots scuffed, helmet fogged, and body language trying not to look like it needed a place to rest.

And somehow—without ever being formally invited—he started staying.

Y/N never asked why he came. He never said.

She just opened the window.

Their nights followed a strange kind of pattern. Jason would crawl in like a very large, heavily armed housecat. She’d be in her usual hoodie, curled on the couch with her laptop balanced on one knee and a heating pad strapped to her lower back like a battle injury.

The apartment wasn’t really built for guests. The living room was also the kitchen, which was also the dining room, which was also just the room. But she made it work. Kicked a blanket off the couch. Cleared a corner of the table. Pretended this wasn’t weird.

At first, they just sat.

Sometimes she put on old episodes of Chopped and yelled at the screen. Sometimes he read the crime blotter and gave her commentary like a feral news anchor. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all. Just sat. Breathing in the same room.

She never asked who he was. He never offered. And that silence between them felt sacred. Like a ceasefire they didn’t dare break.

Then—one night—he brought food.

Takeout. Thai. Still warm. He said it was extra from a thing. Didn't elaborate.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Just pulled two chipped plates from the cabinet, set them on the counter like she did this every night.

Jason hesitated. Hands still full of the plastic bag.

“I already ate,” he said.

She didn’t look at him. “That’s fine. I haven’t.”

Next time, it was shawarma. The time after that, dumplings. Then pizza. Then stir fry. Always with the same line:

“I ate already.” Or: “Can’t really eat in the helmet.” Or: “Not hungry.”

And every time, Y/N would split the food between two plates. Hand him one. Sit on the floor. Eat in silence.

And every time, he wouldn’t touch his.

On the fourth night, she snapped.

“If you’re gonna sit there like a haunted statue and watch me eat, you can leave.”

Jason blinked. “What?”

She set her fork down. Hard. “I’m not doing pity dinner.”

“It’s not—”

“Then eat.”

“I can’t—”

She stood up. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I’m not your project,” she said, voice low now. “You don’t get to show up here, drop off food like some sad vigilante DoorDash, and act like that counts as caring.”

His stomach twisted. “I do care.”

“Then sit your ass down and eat something.”

Jason stared at her.

She stared back.

He sighed—quietly—but took it.

Then came the blanket.

He kept it by the window now. A faded throw with frayed corners that smelled faintly like her shampoo and dust. Jason threw it over his head with practiced ease, tucking the ends under his chin so his face stayed hidden and his hands stayed free.

Y/N called it “his little cryptid cloak.”

He couldn’t talk with the blanket on—no voice mod, no helmet, no disguise—so he didn’t. He just sat there. Eating silently. A ghost in tactical gear, chewing sesame chicken like it was sacred.

Y/N, however, did talk.

She talked the whole time.

Mostly to fill the space. Sometimes to punish him.

“…so then my boss says we can’t wear sneakers anymore, like it’s a ‘professionalism issue,’ but I know for a fact Jo-Jo showed up last week in flip-flops and nobody said a damn word.”

Jason hummed under the blanket. She took it as agreement.

“And this girl in my psych class keeps saying ‘let’s circle back’ like we’re on Zoom in 2020. I swear to God, if she says ‘let’s unpack that’ one more time I’m going to commit tax fraud on her behalf.”

Jason nodded. Fork to his mouth. Still silent. Blanket bobbing.

Y/N sighed dramatically. “This would be less one-sided if you weren’t eating like the Phantom of the Opera.”

Jason flipped her off.

From under the blanket.

She snorted. “Okay, rude.”

He kept eating.

She kept talking.

It was the most peace either of them had felt in weeks.

--

📄 [ACCESS: INTERNAL OPERATIONS LOG — WAYNE FAMILY DIVISION] Mission Report | Subject Missing Post-Injury | Filed November 25 | J. Todd (Red Hood)

--

Y/N’s fork scrapes the bottom of the takeout container.

It’s the last of the noodles. Cold, borderline questionable. Hood dropped them off two nights ago and she meant to finish them sooner, but time’s slippery lately and grocery money’s been tight. She’s sitting on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles, heating pad dead beneath her, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the room.

She doesn’t bother with music anymore. She misses Spotify Premium.

She’s halfway through another bite when it happens.

THUMP.

A sharp knock—no, a thud—against the windowpane.

She freezes.

Head snaps toward the sound. Fork clatters to the plate.

For one wild second she thinks it’s a bird. A raccoon. Gerald, reincarnated.

But then she sees it. The shape.

Helmet. Leather. Bulk.

She exhales sharply. Stands. Walks to the window and pulls it open with more annoyance than alarm.

“What—”

Then she sees the blood.

His whole right side is soaked. The dark of his jacket is darker still, and there’s a sharpness to the way he’s standing—angled, braced, like the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hood,” she breathes. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t answer.

He stumbles forward—tries to step in—and her hands shoot out automatically, catching his arm. He’s warm. Too warm. His breath fogs the glass behind him.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, voice rising. “Sit. Sit down—now.”

He doesn’t resist. Just slumps, knees buckling like he meant to collapse. She guides him down to the couch—his usual spot—and watches, horrified, as he leaves a full handprint of blood on the cushion.

She kneels beside him.

“Where are you hurt? Hey—hey, look at me.”

He doesn’t lift the helmet. Doesn’t move. Just leans back against the armrest, breathing shallow.

“Okay,” she says, standing. “Fine. Stay there. Bleed or don’t, I’m getting the med kit.”

She’s already halfway to the bathroom.

She returns with the med kit and a clean towel she’s been saving for emergencies. Turns out this qualifies.

He hasn’t moved.

Still slouched against the couch, right leg extended, gloved hand pressed loosely to his side like that’ll keep the blood in. She kneels beside him again, tosses the kit open, and gently lifts his shirt to reveal his ribs.

His breathing hitches. She ignores it. She can’t stop shaking.

“I—I don’t know how to stitch,” she says, voice raw. “I’ve never done this. I can’t—”

“You can,” he rasps, barely audible through the modulator. “It’s just thread. You’ve sewn buttons, right?”

“This is not a button.”

“Still got holes.”

She wants to punch him. She wants to scream. She wants to cry.

Instead, she grabs the suture kit with fingers that won’t stop trembling and tries to remember anything she’s ever seen in a movie.

“Talk me through it,” she says.

Jason shifts, barely. “You cleaned it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Pinch the skin together.”

She does.

“Anchor the first one deep. Just push. Don’t think.”

She pushes.

He flinches. Hisses. But doesn’t stop her.

She stabs the needle through again, then again, lips parted, breath shallow.

“There. There. Keep going,” he mutters, slurring a little now. “You’re doing fine.”

“This is fucked,” she says.

“Totally,” he mumbles.

She gets through five stitches before she realizes he’s stopped answering.

Her head snaps up.

“Hood?”

No response.

“Hood. Hey—hey, come on—”

She reaches out, touches his faceplate. Cold. Still.

He’s breathing, but only just. Out cold. Head turned toward the back cushion, body slack, arm limp at his side. The moment she’d been dreading—being alone with this—has arrived, and it’s not cinematic. It’s not brave.

It’s awful.

“Shit. Shit, shit—”

She finishes the stitches with her whole body shaking. Wraps gauze with teeth clenched. Mutters every curse she knows under her breath. When she finally leans back, her palms are slick with blood and sweat and something else she refuses to name.

She wipes the blood off his helmet with the hem of her shirt.

Pulls a blanket over him.

And sits on the floor beside the couch like a kid trying not to look at the monster in the room.

She can’t sleep.

Not with him breathing like that.

Not with the way it hitches every few minutes, shallow and wet and wrong, like his lungs are trying to argue with his ribs. Like his body hasn’t decided whether it wants to keep going or not.

The helmet is still on.

She thought it was fine. He always wore it. Said he needed it. But now, in the silence of the apartment, with the storm finally passed and the fridge humming like it knows something she doesn’t—she’s terrified.

What if he can’t breathe in there? What if he suffocates and she sleeps through it? What if she wakes up and he’s just—

She bolts upright.

Back in her room, she throws open the dresser drawer and rummages blindly until her hand hits something soft and familiar—an old sleep mask. Faded pink. Fraying elastic. One of the eye patches has a cartoon sheep on it.

Stands there for a second, breathing hard.

Then she walks back out.

He hasn’t moved. Still sprawled across the couch, chest rising in slow, irregular beats. One arm fallen off the cushion. A streak of blood drying across the side of his neck.

She kneels again. Pulls the mask on.  

Her hands find the edges of the helmet. “Don’t die,” she whispers. “Okay? You’re not allowed.”

Then—carefully, slowly, blind—she lifts it off.

It’s heavier than she thought. The inside slick with sweat. It makes a soft, awful click as it comes free. She sets it down on the floor beside her and reaches up—still blindfolded—and cups his face with both hands.

He’s still breathing. Better now. Less noise. More air.

“Okay,” she says, to no one. “Okay.”

She sits there like that for a while, hands still on his cheeks, thumb brushing a raised scar near his jaw.

Eventually, she lets go of his face . She doesn’t take off the mask. She just curls up on the floor, forehead resting against the edge of the couch.

And listens. To his breathing. To the radiator. To the silence.

And when she finally lets herself sleep, it’s with one hand still reaching up—just in case he stops again.

--

Morning comes slow.

It creeps in through the smudged windows, casting pale gold across the floor, the peeling radiator, the crumpled takeout bag on the counter. Everything smells faintly like ginger and sweat and blood.

Jason wakes with a start.

His ribs scream. His side aches. His mouth tastes like metal and dust.

And his helmet is gone.

His eyes fly open.

He’s still on the couch—blanket twisted around his legs, shirt halfway undone, gauze taped awkwardly across his stomach. The light’s too bright. His heart’s too loud. And his face is exposed.

Panic claws up his throat.

Where is it? Where’s the helmet? How long has it been off? Did she see? Did she see?

He tries to sit up too fast and immediately regrets it, pain flaring sharp under the bandages. He swears under his breath, scanning the room, chest heaving—

And then he sees her.

Y/N is curled up on the floor, still in blood stained pajamas, limbs tangled awkwardly against the side of the couch. Her head is tilted back slightly. She’s breathing soft and slow.

And over her eyes—

A sleep mask.

Cartoon sheep. Frayed elastic. Still on.

Jason freezes.

She shifts slightly in her sleep, fingers twitching near her face. Then, as if pulled by some unseen thread, her hand drifts across the floor, brushes against his boot, and pauses.

She jerks awake.

Slow. Groggy. Like the world is coming back in pieces.

Then she sits up, stretches, and reaches beside her without looking.

The helmet’s right there.

She picks it up. Holds it out.

“Put it on” she mumbles, voice hoarse. “You scared the hell out of me, by the way.”

Jason doesn’t move.

She keeps holding it.

“I didn’t look,” she adds, quieter now. “Just… heard you struggling. Figured you’d breathe better without it. Blindfolded myself. That’s all.”

Jason still says nothing.

Just takes the helmet from her hands like it’s made of glass.

Their fingers brush. He grips it tighter. Puts it on, turns the voice modulator on.

“…Thank you,” he says.

She shrugs. Leans back against the couch again.

“Don’t die on my watch, Hood. It’d really mess up my Tuesday.”

Y/N finally pulls the sleep mask off.

Blinding light. Crick in her neck. Her whole body feels like it got into a fight with a vending machine and lost. But Hood’s still alive. Still sitting upright. Still breathing.

She exhales.

“Let me see,” she says, already kneeling beside him again.

Jason stays quiet. Tilts to the side slightly so she can peel the blanket back. The gauze is still holding. The stitches are—surprisingly—not awful. A little uneven. A little swollen. But clean.

She stares at them for a second. Nods to herself.

“Not bad,” she mutters. “For someone whose only medical training came the guy getting stitched.”

He doesn’t respond.

She pretends she doesn’t care.

“Don’t pull them. No jumping off buildings for a while. No cartwheels. No gunfights unless it’s urgent.”

She stands again and heads for the kitchenette.

The fridge greets her with its usual charm: One half-empty bottle of ketchup. A jar of olives. A single carton of milk.

She opens the cabinet. Cereal. One box. Crushed.

She does the math in her head. Stares into the abyss. Then grabs a bowl.

It’s just enough for one.

She pours it. Adds the milk. Doesn’t hesitate.

Walks back over and hands it to him.

Jason stares at the bowl like it might explode.

She shrugs.

“You almost died. You get the Cheerios.”

He eats slow.

Careful.

The sound of the spoon scraping the bowl is soft, muffled beneath the low hum of morning and the fabric of the blanket he’s thrown over his head. She doesn’t watch.

She ducks into the bathroom instead.

Ties her hair up with one hand while brushing her teeth with the other. Swaps out the hoodie for her “functional” shirt—stained, slightly oversized, halfway tucked into her jeans. Her socks don’t match. One of her boots is damp from last night’s rain.

It’s fine.

She’s used to leaving chaos behind.

She grabs her bag from the chair, keys already in hand, and opens the front door halfway before she turns back.

He’s still there. Sitting in her living room. Still under the blanket. Still clutching the empty bowl like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll be back by six,” she says, voice casual, like this is normal. Like this happens every day.

He doesn’t answer.

She clears her throat. “You can stay. If you want.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, a nod.

Small. Barely there.

She closes the door behind her. Locks it with a click. And lets the day begin.

--

🧾 [ACCESS: PURCHASE RECORD — ROTHMAN'S / SUNDOWN GROCERS] Home Furnishing & Grocery Delivery | Buyer: J.T. | Delivery: Unattended Drop

--

Y/N unlocks the apartment with the usual two jabs and a kick.

Her shoulder aches. Her feet are soaked. Her last customer of the day tried to return a sandwich after eating it, and Gerald had the audacity to wink at her in the alley like they were co-workers.

She just wants five minutes to breathe.

She pushes the door open—

And stops.

Her bag slips off her shoulder.

She sees the couch.

Brown leather. Low-backed. Wide-seated. Big enough to drown in. Soft enough to hold you when you can’t hold yourself.

She stares at it like it might vanish. Then she drops her bag, walks straight up to it, and presses both hands flat against the armrest.

It’s real. Soft. Cool to the touch. The kind of expensive that doesn’t come from pity.

And that’s when she laughs.

A full-body sound, unexpected and too loud for the apartment. She laughs like someone who hasn’t had a real reason in months. Laughs like she’s going to scare the silverfish out of the drywall.

Then she spins. Right there, in her socks, on the peeling tile. A full circle. Like a rom-com idiot. Like she’s seven.

Because she knows what this is. She remembers.

“Hear me out,” Jason had said once, the morning Bruce took him away. “The penthouse. “Oh god,” she’d groaned. “The couch is leather. Brown. Like rich people brown. But not ugly. Real classy.” “No. Velvet,” she’d fired back. “Deep green. With gold buttons.” “Velvet stains.” “I won’t spill.” “You’ll definitely spill.”

It had been a joke. A fantasy. A nothing-future built on soda and sarcasm.

But now—years later— Here it is.

She’s dizzy when she sits down. Breathless. Tears on her face before she even registers them.

And the feeling hits her like thunder: This is permission. This is Jason—her Jason—telling her it’s okay to be happy again from beyond the grave.

The couch is the sign. The Hood is the messenger.

He sent her someone.

She presses her forehead to the armrest.

“You son of a bitch,” she whispers, smiling through it. “You sent me a friend.”

The couch smells like new beginnings. The lamp glows like a pulse. Her apartment—normally cold, narrow, gray—is warm now. Lived in. Soft.

Safe.

She curls up under the new blanket, legs tucked beneath her, heart still spinning in her chest.

And for the first time since he died, She doesn’t feel alone.

--

The next evening, Jason stood on the fire escape with a bag of food in one hand and a heart full of static.

He didn’t know what he expected. An eye-roll, maybe. A sarcastic comment about boundary-crossing vigilantes and unsolicited furniture. A quiet “you didn’t have to” said in that voice that meant don’t do it again.

He definitely didn’t expect the window to open before he even knocked.

Y/N stood there, framed in the fading orange light, hair pulled back, hoodie sleeves rolled to her elbows. She looked at him for a long second. No smile. No sarcasm.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

It was careful—not rushed or needy—but firm. Real. Like something being set down that had been carried too long.

Jason blinked. His arms didn’t move at first. He just stood there, stunned, feeling her heartbeat against his chest through layers of armor and hesitation.

Then he let out a breath and hugged her back.

Slow. Gentle.

Not because she was fragile. Because she wasn’t.

“…Hey,” he said, voice low in his helmet.

She gave a soft little huff of air. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

Then she stepped back just enough to look at him.

Her eyes were steady. Clear. Tired in a way that went deeper than sleep, but still soft.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Two words. No qualifiers. No jokes. Just… gratitude.

Jason didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t think he’d need to. But she just stood there, letting the silence speak for both of them.

Then she glanced at the bag in his hand.

“Are those dumplings?”

He nodded.

She opened the window wider.

“Well. Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

He climbed in, boots hitting the floor with a thud. She locked the window behind him and flicked on the lamp.

Warm light. Soft couch. Two plates already out on the counter like maybe, just maybe, she’d been hoping he’d come.

They sat. Ate (Him under the blanket). Talked about nothing. Argued about whether Gerald was a criminal genius or just terminally polite. Laughed until their stomachs hurt.

And somewhere between the last dumpling and the first yawn, they stopped being ghosts.

They were friends.

Real ones.

At last.

--

🟥 [ACCESS: SUIT DIAGNOSTICS LOG — WAYNE TECH MONITORING] Biofeedback Report | Non-Combat Physiological Spikes | Subject: Red Hood (J. Todd)

--

🟩 [ACCESS: TERMINAL HISTORY — GOTHAM PUBLIC LIBRARY, #17] Search Record | Subject A - Flagged Queries Logged Feb 12 | Accessed via Public Network | Surveillance Filter: Active

--

APRIL 25

She didn’t look at him when she asked.

She never did when it was something that mattered.

Jason was sitting on the floor beside the couch, helmet still on, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his gauntlet like it might reveal the answers to every stupid thing he’d ever done. Y/N was above him, curled sideways, eating cereal from a mug because she refused to do dishes before midnight. The lamp flickered.

“You doing anything the 27th?” she asked, casually.

Jason’s heart dropped.

He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t press. Just took another slow bite, metal spoon clinking once against ceramic.

“It’s kind of a thing,” she said after a moment. “Not, like, a party. It’s personal.”

Jason made a noise in his throat. Neutral. Encouraging. Safe.

Y/N stared down into the last third of her cereal.

“I go somewhere. Once a year. Same place, same time. Every year since I was sixteen.”

He already knew where. Of course he did. But hearing it in her voice still made something crack.

“I bring a blanket,” she went on. “And coffee. And Pride and Prejudice, because I’m a walking cliché. I stay until morning.”

Jason felt like the helmet was too tight. His breath fogged up the inner HUD. He didn’t dare move.

“I don’t usually bring people,” she added. “Not ever. But I was thinking… if you wanted to come. You could.”

Jason’s head snapped up before he meant it to.

“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “It’s dumb. Just me talking to a piece of rock for a few hours. But—” She hesitated. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had since he died. I figured… maybe you should meet him.”

Jason forgot how to breathe.

For a second, all he could hear was blood. Not in a poetic way. Literally—his pulse roaring in his ears, chest aching like something was trying to claw its way out.

Friend. She said friend. But the way she said it—quiet, steady, true—it was like being handed something breakable and sacred and entirely undeserved.

He couldn’t speak. Not yet. Just nodded once, sharp.

Y/N smiled, small and crooked. “Cool.”

She set the mug down on the floor beside him. Not on the table. Right next to his boot.

Then she flopped back down onto the couch and pulled the blanket over her face.

Conversation over.

Jason sat there, unmoving, watching the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

His helmet’s readout buzzed softly—elevated vitals. No shit.

She wanted him there. At the grave. Not as a soldier. Not as a name in her search history. As him.

And he said yes. And he meant it.

God help him.

--

Subject A: Age 22 Subject B: 4 years, 4.5 months post-resurrection April 27

She walked ahead of him, as always.

Jason let her.

The graveyard was quieter than usual—just the hush of wet grass under boots and the low, steady patter of rain trying to decide if it wanted to commit. Y/N didn’t bring a blanket this year. Or coffee. Just her hoodie, her voice, and him.

Jason followed in full gear. Hood up. Helmet on. Silent as the grave.

Literally.

When they reached the headstone, Y/N stopped. Took a breath. Then another. The kind you take before walking into a room where a version of yourself still lives.

She crouched beside the stone and brushed her sleeve across the marble like she always did. Her fingers lingered at the carved name.

Jason Peter Todd. Beloved Son.

Then she leaned forward and kissed it.

Jason looked away so fast his neck cracked.

“Hi, dumbass” she whispered. “The train was late. But I’m here. I brought someone, too. Hope you don’t mind.”

She turned slightly—looked over her shoulder, toward the shadow behind her.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Jason moved slowly, each step feeling too loud. The rain got bolder. He knelt beside her but didn’t touch the grave.

Didn’t breathe.

“This is Red Hood,” she said, gesturing between them like they weren’t already shoulder-to-shoulder. “He’s… my friend.”

She smiled at the stone. Then at him. Y/N kneeled, and pulled him down as well. They sat cross-legged facing the stone. 

“The first one I’ve had since you.”

Jason thought he might die again.

“He’s kind of awful,” she added. “But he keeps showing up. And bringing food. And I haven’t wanted to punch him in two whole weeks, which is saying something.”

The rain thickened without warning—sheets of cold cascading from the sky like someone up top had finally lost patience.

Y/N looked around, squinting at the sky. “Shit. I forgot the umbrella.”

Jason, who hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes, reached into his jacket and—wordlessly—pulled out an umbrella-adjacent object.

Y/N blinked at it.

“Is that… Gerald’s lace parasol?”

Jason shrugged. “He left it in the alley. I picked it up on the way here. Thought we might need it.”

Y/N snorted. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

Then she opened it halfway and dragged him under it without asking.

It was immediately clear that it was not built for two people—especially not two people in armor and emotional ruin. Her damp sleeve pressed against his jacket. Their knees knocked. Her hair was sticking to his cheek plate, and she didn’t even bother fixing it. The lace was already soaked through; water dripped through every delicate stitch, pooling at the rim and falling in uneven plops around their shoes.

They looked at eachother.

And then—cracked. The kind of laughter that came fast and real, unfiltered and soaked through. Y/N doubled over, face buried in the crook of her elbow. Jason shook silently beside her, shoulders trembling, the sound muffled behind the helmet.

Gerald’s parasol sagged.

They kept laughing anyway.

She looked at the grave. Then at him. Then back again. 

“I brought him,” she said slowly, easing out of laughter, “because I think you’d want to meet the guy who’s making me happy.”

Jason’s throat closed.

Y/N glanced up at him, voice dropping to a laugh-soft murmur. “You’d probably curse him out for cuddling with your girl over your grave. But you’d like him. Maybe.”

Jason couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Then—

“I love him,” she said.

The words hung in the rain like smoke.

She turned to him, expression open. Real.

“I don’t know when it happened. I just know I look for him now. In the quiet. In the space between days. I like the way he shows up. I like the way he listens.”

Jason didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The rain hit harder.

She blinked at him under the parasol. “If that scares you, it’s fine. You don’t have to say anything.”

Jason didn’t move for a second. Then—

“Don’t be mad,” he said. Quiet. Rough.

She tilted her head. “What?”

He swallowed. Inside the helmet, his hands had started to sweat. “Promise me. Don’t be mad.”

“Red—”

“Just—just promise.”

Y/N hesitated. Her brows furrowed. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I promise.”

Jason closed his eyes for a half-second. Exhaled through his nose.

Then reached up and took the helmet off.

It was quick. Clean. No ceremony. Just a click, a lift, and suddenly—

There he was.

Her Jason.

Older. Sharper. Jaw clenched like it might break. Hair longer (is that a white streak?), damp with rain, curls flattened to his forehead. The same look in his eyes. Tired. Terrified. Hopeful.

Y/N stared.

Her brain went blank. Then full. Then blank again.

She opened her mouth and made no sound.

Jason flinched. “Y/N—”

“WHAT THE FUCK,” she blurted.

She lurched to her feet. The umbrella wobbled violently. Jason scrambled up with her, hands out like he was trying to keep her from bolting.

“No—no, it’s me, I swear—”

“You’re dead,” she said, pointing at the grave. “You DIED. This is YOUR GRAVE.”

“I got better?” he tried.

She made a noise like a boiling tea kettle.

Her hands clenched and unclenched three times. She spun in a circle. Muttered something. Took a breath. Shook her head. Stared at him again.

“You—you were dead,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re real.”

“I am.”

She reached forward—touched his chest, right over the armor. “You’re breathing.”

Jason nodded, too scared to blink.

Then she did something he wasn’t ready for.

She laughed.

Wet, broken, stunned. One huff, then another. And then, she flung her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

He froze.

Then melted.

Jason wrapped both arms around her and held on like the world was still ending.

She was shaking. Laughing and crying at the same time. His hoodie was soaked through now. So was hers. Neither of them cared.

“You’re such an asshole,” she whispered. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“I’ll die happy” he said, smiling into her hair.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her hands framed his face like he might disappear again if she let go.

“You’re real.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice wrecked.

“That’s all that matters.”

--

 PHASE III — REINTRODUCTION PROTOCOL: COMPLETE. CASE FILE #JX-1989 SUBJECT A: [Y/N] SUBJECT B: [J. TODD] STATUS: RESTORED

Final Investigator’s Note:

Subject A, long believed to be mourning an unresolved loss, made direct contact with Subject B seven years post-mortem under highly unorthodox conditions involving emotional confession, weather anomalies, and a formerly owned drug-dealer parasol.

Subject B removed helmet under extreme emotional duress. Subject A speedran the five stages of grief in under 60 seconds. No fatalities. Minimal property damage. Full romantic implosion.

Both parties appear to be fully alive. Fully in love. And fully ridiculous.

----

taglist : @4rachn3 , @mercuryathens , @the-halloween-jack , @milk-unleashed , @inkedinheels , @wonderbat385 , @feralwolfkat, @kasarian

[goblin-jr]

THE CRIMSON HOUR — EPISODE 68: “She Said No (And That’s the Problem)”

INTRO MUSIC: instrumental version of “Toxic” but played on a cello.

===

HOST 1 (CELINE): Okay. Before we dive into the campus fashion roundup—yes, Max wore mesh to a comp sci lecture and I’m not ready to talk about it—we have to address what happened at the Hawthorne House party.

WEST: The Hawthorne House party. The scandal. The... no.

CELINE: So here’s the scene: velvet ropes, champagne tower, and Theo Remington-Wells the Third—

WEST: Triple name, quadruple ego—

CELINE: —sees Y/N, the scholarship girl with the terrifying GPA, six jobs, and exactly zero time for nonsense.

CELINE: He corners her by the terrace. Says something like—

(dramatic low voice) “You don’t belong here, but I could make sure you stay.”

WEST: Ew.

CELINE: So gross.

WEST: She could’ve punched him. She didn’t.

CELINE: She said—get this—

(soft voice, reenacting) “That’s very generous. But I’d rather get through Harvard on merit than favours I’ll owe forever.”

WEST: And then smiled.

CELINE: And walked away.

WEST: Leaving him standing there with a glass of Veuve and no dignity.

CELINE: But wait—it gets worse. Daddy Moneybags is allegedly on the donor board.

WEST: And a little bird told me someone’s scholarship got flagged for “re-evaluation” the Monday after.

CELINE: Hmm. Coincidence? Or did we just witness a full academic assassination attempt?

WEST: Either way, one thing’s clear:

BOTH (in unison): You don’t say no to Harvard royalty. Not without consequences.

CELINE: We’ll keep you updated. If she disappears, check Gotham.

WEST: xoxo, baby. Crimson Hour out.

instrumental version of “Toxic” but played on a cello fades out

[goblin-jr]

From: financialaid@fas.harvard.edu To: y.n@student.harvard.edu Subject: Urgent: Change to Financial Aid and Academic Standing Date: October 14, 20XX Time: 8:37 AM

Dear Ms. Y/N, We regret to inform you that, following an internal review, your financial aid package has been re-evaluated and will not be renewed for the upcoming academic term. This decision is final and non-negotiable. Additionally, the Office of the Registrar has reviewed your academic status and determined that you are no longer eligible to continue your studies at Harvard University. As such, your enrollment has been discontinued, effective immediately. Please note that this decision is based on a number of factors considered in confidence by the administration. Due to the sensitive nature of the process, no further details can be disclosed. We advise you to vacate university housing by October 17 at 5:00 PM. We wish you the best in your future endeavours. Sincerely, Office of Financial Aid Harvard University

[goblin-jr]

ONE-WAY BUS TICKET

====

Company: GOTHAM COACHLINES Date of Purchase: October 16, 20XX Departure: South Station, Boston — 11:35 PM Arrival: Gotham Central Terminal — 4:45 AM Passenger Name: Y/N Seat: Non-Reserved Fare Paid: $32.00 Payment Method: Declined once (retry successful)

"NO REFUNDS. NO LUGGAGE STORAGE. NO GUARANTEE OF BATHROOM FUNCTIONALITY."

We are not responsible for emotional damage incurred while riding.

====

[goblin-jr]

APARTMENT LEASE AGREEMENT

===

Property: 1448 West Park Row, Apt #4B, Gotham, NJ Landlord: R. Delvecchio Lease Term: Month-to-month Monthly Rent: $545 + utilities Security Deposit: Waived (verbally) Signed: October 19, 20XX

Notes: Heater only works when kicked. Kitchen window jammed. Smells faintly of ham.

"Tenant responsible for own pest control."