Chapter Text
You’d never been in Gotham before.
Until today, thanks to Deathstroke.
You’d told him this wouldn’t be a good idea, and in classic Slade fashion, he ignored every word.
Granted, all your warnings came from a place of self-preservation and the fact that you really just didn’t want to do this. Still, all the assassin had to say was “Gotham,” and it was more than enough for you to say no.
As if that would have mattered.
The least he could do was leave you alone for a few hours to settle into what was supposed to be your new home for the next few months. One of his few charming qualities was respecting the little agency you had and letting you exercise it through whatever loophole you could find. And tonight, that meant getting a taste of what nightlife the country’s crime capital had to offer.
You knew the city well enough, not counting the briefings you had over the last few weeks. Everyone knew about Gotham; no one wanted to be in it. You were familiar with the heroes and the villains and the vicious, never-ending cycle of violence she suffered. If there was anything else you desired besides escaping your own cycle, it was to never set foot in this city, regardless of the reason, whether duty or anything else.
Well, too damn bad, according to your superiors.
The bar you’d picked out on your maps app had 2.5 stars in ratings. Perfect.
The air was thick with both cigarette and weed smoke, mixing unpleasantly with cheap cologne and perfume. It was packed with a crowd that leaned middle-aged, though a small group of twenty-somethings occupied one of the booths. If you wanted, you’d be able to feel them all—their individual auras, as you’d dubbed it. But there was no reason for that tonight, and you avoided that headache whenever possible. Every blip was muffled by your mental blanket.
The colorful, flashing lights were bright but low-key, allowing you to still read faces, tell who was drunk and who was getting there. The music’s bass vibrated in your chest as you pushed through patrons, ignoring the eyes that dragged up and down the short black number you’d thrown on under a leather jacket, not knowing what the place’s dress code was like (no thanks to the lack of photos in their online listing). You blended in, though, looking just like every other college-aged woman—just without the group of friends and drink in your hand.
At least the latter could be fixed.
You claimed an opening at the bar between two different patrons, one of whom was nursing what could’ve been his fourth gin and tonic.
You ordered a whiskey sour from the bald bartender and, as you waited, analyzed the venue. What did it feel like to be one of these people, oblivious—or desensitized—to the chaos in their home?
The first sip of the drink made you flinch. You could see now why the place was rated so low. Yet you downed it anyway, and then another one, people watching your new neighbors and pretending you were able to lose your inhibition as easily as they could. That you weren’t on a leash that was choking the ever living shit out of—
“You’re way too pretty to be alone.”
Your spine stiffened.
For once, you decided you weren’t going to engage. Drink in hand, you shoved past the guy, who reeked of vodka and sported a cheap trench coat.
Just for him to reach out and snag your other wrist.
Wrenching it out of his grip, you stepped toward him, close enough to see his drunken gaze and smell it on his breath. Your voice was sharp and cutting through the music.
“You wanna lose a hand tonight?”
He made the mistake of trying to reach for you again.
In a flash, the drink was in his eyes and your hand on his wrist. Your other one took his fingers and bent them backward—most likely spraining them—making him cry out, then shoved his elbow into his waist. A hard knee to his groin sent him face-first into the sticky floor.
Nearby patrons gaped and pointed, some laughed. One of them shouted for security, who came pushing through the gathering crowd to yank the man to his feet. When he asked if you were alright, you brushed it off as a mild convenience—only because the few drinks you’d had helped take the edge off.
You were still annoyed though at your last drink’s sacrifice, stepping back up to the bar again. More eyes on your back, but you buried the feeling under the tipsy.
The bartender already had another one prepared for you.
“On the house,” he said apologetically, and you smiled your thanks.
You felt a presence appear beside you, and you had to bite down on the urge to turn and deck yet another fool. Hadn’t they seen what literally just happened?
A snarky comment rose on the tip of your tongue as you took a big gulp and turned—but the words died in your throat.
“You handled that well,” the stranger said, tone low and tinted with amusement.
You didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked over your dress first, then legs, before landing on your face. Unlike the way you felt about the asshole from a minute ago, you didn’t mind. He was tall—probably six-foot, love that—with a broad frame that, for a moment, you imagined being pinned under if just for a few minutes. Not a pretty boy, not even the traditional bad boy type you usually gravitated toward. No, he looked like someone who’d been through more than a few fights and won—but not unscathed. Like he’d crawled through hell, maybe been dragged. And it wasn’t even because of the smattering of scars or the faint dark circles or the bruise blooming across his knuckles.
There was something in his eyes and around his mind that felt familiar, like he was stuck in some sort of war that was never going to end.
Or maybe you were just projecting because alcohol always did that to you.
The peculiar J-shaped mark drew your eyes but only for a second. You’d seen worse.
Everyone had their scars.
“A girl’s got to know how,” you drawled smoothly, “especially in this city.”
Something like a smirk—almost imperceptible, but definitely there—tugged at his lips.
“Pretty and smart.”
The words were so quiet, muttered under his breath, that it was genuine confusion when you knitted your brows together. “Mm?”
He scoffed a little, the smirk deepening. “Nothin’. Just… didn’t think I’d have any entertainment tonight.”
You raised a brow and let out a light laugh. “You thought that little scenario was fun to watch?”
“No. I think you are.”
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, with that tinge of Jersey in his voice, stunned you for a moment. Long enough that he noticed and saw it as an opening. He shifted closer—slowly, until you could feel his body warmth.
No, you hadn’t considered having any kind of hookup on your first night in the city, but you were nothing if not a little impulsive. Even if you didn’t have the alcoholic buzz swaying you.
“Careful,” you murmured, holding his heated gaze. “I might think you’re flirting and you’ll end up like him.”
He huffed a laugh but it hardly broke the intensity of his stare or the thickening tension in the space between you.
“We both know he wasn’t flirting,” he said. His voice dipped, and so did his eyes. To your mouth.
“Besides… not sure I’d mind.”
The first room you burst into was empty, thankfully. Some kind of lounge for small get-togethers. It had a couch, which was about all you could notice with your attention span that was otherwise occupied. You didn’t know what you’d have done if someone had been there—maybe kicked them out because the knot in your gut couldn’t wait any longer.
He was all teeth and heat and calloused hands. The dress had been a good choice; it didn’t take much effort for him to hike it up to your waist, fingers digging almost painfully into your hips and ass as he walked you further into the room. His mouth was hot on yours as you fumbled for his zipper, and when he bit down on your bottom lip, a surprised gasp left you.
“Sorry,” he mumbled against your lips, though he didn’t quite sound like it.
In response, you just bit him back, smiling in satisfaction at his grunt.
The back of your legs found the edge of the couch. You broke the kiss long enough to tug him down by the front of his jacket, your back hitting the cushion.
His arm then wrapped around your torso to hoist you up against it. Legs wrapping effortlessly around his waist, you pulled him in once more, lips crashing against his. He smelled faintly of smoke—firewood, not the green kind—and cologne, and for some odd reason, you were kind of digging it.
His mouth started dragging from yours down, down, to where he closed his teeth at the slope of your neck. The sharp sensation inflamed the pulsing need between your legs, making your breath stutter and fingers clutch at him under his hoodie. His skin was warm, abs unmistakably defined beneath your hands. You could feel that his body was dotted with marks similar to the ones on his face, but it didn’t deter you. Something about it, all of it, actually turned you on even more.
He was relentless on your neck; you were absolutely going to end up bruised there. Before you could pull him back up for a kiss, his fingers yanked aside your thong with shameless impatience, and the resulting pleasure at them parting you pulled a moan from your throat.
Some unknown but undeniably blissful amount of time passed as he kept going, watching you fall apart at his fingertips.
You tangled your hand into his hair to bring him closer. “You, in me, now,” you hissed.
Maybe he would snap back, but to your surprise—and pride—he simply obeyed. The second his head pressed against you, his darkened eyes latched on to yours, you tightened your ankles on instinct.
He was too much to take, but you did anyway because it felt too damn good not to. You couldn’t help the whine as he pushed in, hands gripping your thighs. Once he was all the way in, he stopped to kiss you past his groan, hand closing gently but firmly around your neck. And the moment he started moving, your head fell back and your hips fell into a rough but rhythmic pace with his.
If you’d known earlier that you’d end up here, you might have gotten on the plane a little sooner.
It was like he needed the release for some reason other than lust, the way he moved faster, deeper. Maybe stress, maybe whatever haunted his magnetic blue eyes. Same as you, to be honest. You found it easy to lose yourself in it, in him, forgetting why you were there, how you got there, who you were.
But it didn’t last forever like you wanted. When you finally peaked and cried out to the ceiling, your nails dug into his back and his hold tightened on your waist. You were still riding out the waves of it as he finished soon after, with an unrestrained groan in your ear and a few rough thrusts.
The room was warm and quiet, the rest of the world reminding you it still existed with the music thumping through the wall and distant shrieks of laughter.
He finally disentangled himself from you, allowing you to fix your now-soaked underwear and dress. There was a slight tremble in your legs as you stood—he caught it, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Just so you know,” he said, low and gravelly, “I don’t do second dates.”
You eyed him, chest still heaving as you caught your breath. “That your way of saying we’re never gonna see each other again?”
Would you actually cross paths again?
You doubted it. Over six million people in this city and you had no plans to form any attachments anyway, not even in the form of a sneaky link or whatever the kids called it nowadays. Slade would kill you for just thinking about it.
But if you ever did decide a regular, no-strings-attached hookup was in the cards, he’d probably be your first pick—
No. Now that was definitely the alcohol and afterglow getting to you.
He shrugged lazily. “We might run into each other, if the universe wants. I'm just saying—don’t be offended that I’m not gonna ask for your name or number.”
You shouldn’t have said it, but you heard yourself suggest,
“How about… if we do see each other again, out of pure coincidence, we reconsider?”
“Pure coincidence,” he echoed, staring at you.
“Because of the universe, not because of anything we did.”
The slight smirk he gave you had your gut twisting with want again.
“Deal.”
If it wasn’t shitty enough that you had to forget him, he proved considerate enough to wait with you on the curb for the next cab. And, God, he even opened the door.
Definitely one of your better hookups, which, now that you thought about it, wasn’t all that impressive.
The bar was low, too damn low.
There was that electricity again between your bodies as your gaze roamed his face, trying to memorize everything about him… As if you’d somehow forget those eyes and that scar.
You smiled a little. “See you never,” you said, voice soft.
“See you never,” he muttered back, not-so-subtly staring at your lips, pink and puffy from making out.
The last thing you saw was that damn smirk of his as you shut the cab door behind you.
The safehouse was tucked into the outskirts of the Bowery, in some half-rundown complex that wasn’t deserving of second glances. But, as you’d noticed in both your briefing and in-person experiences, not much of Gotham was. The walls inside were peeling, and half the windows were broken. It felt like a ghost town. You wrinkled your nose at the sharp stench of dust and solder as you and Slade entered the place barely big enough for two.
It was pretty bare-bones: a small kitchenette with a mini-fridge and coffee pot, a workbench in the corner with various tools and a desk lamp, and a few storage boxes holding who-knows-what. The walls had a couple holes in them, complementing the scratches in the faded wooden floor nicely.
The road beyond the reinforced window was quiet, the orange-yellow light of the streetlamps washing over the wet pavement. Despite what you knew of the district, you hadn’t seen a single soul in the area when you and Slade had ridden in. Though he hadn’t explained, you could guess why. Hard to tell how you felt about that.
You’d managed seven hours of solid, dreamless sleep last night after making it back to one of Slade’s safehouses (thankfully, much cozier than this one). Decent sex usually did that but, sadly, it wasn’t as common an occurrence as you wanted. Nonetheless, Slade heard fewer complaints from you the next morning than usual as he prepped you for the mission and took you on an impromptu tour of the city.
The heat must have been turned off in the safehouse or maybe it just didn’t work. The night chill seeped through the tactical bodysuit, and you absentmindedly rubbed at your arms.
You were about to ask Slade about ETA, sitting on the corner of the desk, when there was a sound outside the other window. In response to the spike in your mental peripheral and whatever potential threat the suit was sensing, your helmet whizzed over your head.
The window slid open to reveal the man you’d both been expecting.
What, was he allergic to front doors?
He barely slipped through, his frame almost too broad, but still landed quietly on his feet. There was something ironic about it, considering his stature.
The subtle HUD in your helmet warned you to approach him with caution.
You didn’t need it to; you could feel the shift in the air around him, something dark but out of reach flaring in your senses.
Six-foot, two-hundred pounds, just like the dossier had said. Your eyes gravitated from the high-tech helmet down to his boots, mentally comparing everything—the plated armor, twin Glocks, combat knife—against the intel Slade had dropped into your lap a few weeks ago. You knew every detail down to his background, known associates, psychological profile, and habits. In fact, you’d barely made it through the surveillance data and known skills and potential threats when you finally understood exactly why Slade wanted you.
The Arkham Knight moved with a lethal sort of elegance that lined up with what you’d learned. It was predatory, controlled, the way he stalked into the safehouse toward them. Slade was closer to him, arms crossed as he stood in the middle of the room. You stayed back, taking steady breaths beneath the helmet.
He reminded you of a wolf, but a lone one by choice.
“You didn’t tell me to expect company.”
“If I did, you wouldn’t have come.”
He didn’t respond, which Slade acknowledged with a small smile.
Slade gestured toward you, then to the Knight. “Knight, this is Andromeda. Andromeda, meet the Arkham Knight.”
Hands clasped behind your back, you remained in your stance and nodded once.
The Knight just turned to the assassin. “What is this?”
Even the rough, mechanical distortion of his modulator wasn’t able to hide the irritation.
“I knew you wouldn’t even glance at the files I sent. So… I brought her for you to see for yourself.”
“I told you I didn’t need any more help.”
Slade inclined his head. “Yes. But you also said you’d consider it. And as your advisor, I think you’d be remiss to not have another trick up your sleeve, especially if that trick is provided to you. For free.”
In that moment, you were glad your helmet was on. Your gaze drilled holes into the floor while you listened to him drone on about your skills and why you were qualified for the job. “A trick up the sleeve” and “secret weapon” were overused at this point. It was a pitch that had been done many times before, but the hundredth time didn’t sting any less.
The Knight scoffed. “‘Cause you think my plan—everything I’ve had in place for months—isn’t sufficient.” His voice was flat, edged with ice.
“Not what I said, kid,” Slade answered with a shake of his head. “Like I told you before: think of her as auxiliary support, supplemental to what you’ve planned. Not a replacement of any tactic or piece of the operation. Everything stays the same—the retainer, the alliances. All of it.”
The distant wail of a siren was the only sound for a few long moments.
“Well?” Knight said, gesturing impatiently at you.
Slade’s stare landed on you. “Andromeda.”
You took a few steps forward at his call, unsheathing the combat knife at your hip. Knight looked at you for one second before tilting his head in curiosity or maybe amusement.
Then his posture changed—weight shifting forward, preparing for whatever you were going to bring.
Your dagger sliced for his neck. He dodged it, barely. You swung again just as he leaned back, and you heard the resonant scrape of another knife.
His blade whipped toward your chest—you parried and gripped his gauntlet. Knight went low and dropped the knife, recovered it with his free hand, then swiped lightning-fast at your knees.
You pivoted away, out of reach.
He didn’t hesitate, lunging again, more brutally.
Your shin blocked the blade: an opening to pin his wrist to the floor.
He tried to rise to his knees, hand still trapped. Without hesitation, you grabbed the back of his collar and lifted him higher, almost like you were helping him—but then delivered a flat-palmed shove at his chest.
Slade’s eyes were on you. That meant he’d caught the little pulse you popped between your hand and Knight’s armor.
“Just a little push” as you liked to call it.
The Knight skidded across the floor until he crashed into the workbench, knocking over the gadgets spread across it.
They clattered to the floor as he pushed to his feet with an angered growl.
You almost smiled as he pulled another blade and lunged.
But the knives went spinning out of both your hands as you clashed together, trading more blows—fast and vicious. Knight aimed for center mass; you slipped each strike by a hair.
He swung for your jaw—you blocked it.
You continued to grapple, circling, matching speed for speed. He pushed harder, feinting left, then right—then charged low. You shifted—but he caught your balance and, with a precise motion, pinned you to the floor.
The electric eyes seemed to taunt you as your chest pressed against his, arms trapped under his weight. Resisting the urge to propel him off, you forced yourself to breathe through the discomfort until the Knight finally got up.
He turned to Slade, lifting his hands as if he was unimpressed.
Ass.
“Is this what you’re supposed to wow me with?”
Slade didn’t answer, glancing from the Knight toward you. Knight noticed, turning to see you were standing again.
Your voice came softly, lightly modulated compared to his, as you met his electric-blue stare.
“No.”
He started moving toward you again.
And when you lifted your hand, the Knight stopped in his tracks, as if some invisible force held him there. Pale blue tendrils of smoke swirled around your fingers, evidence of the fact that you weren’t just some highly trained fighter.
You wished you could see his face but the way he struggled against the strange power was obvious.
“What the—?”
You cut him off with a hand twitch, launching him backward and into the wall. The impact caused static to ripple across his faceplate. His hands went for the pistols—you tilted your head and concentrated, pinning the armored gauntlets to the wall like magnets to a fridge.
The smugness practically radiated from Slade when he stepped in, “That’s not all of it. Andy…”
At his nod, you kept going.
With your other hand, you raised two fingers and plucked the pistols from their holsters. They floated into the air. A few practiced rotations and they were out of his reach, barrels pointed directly at his crackling helmet.
Knight tried to pull his arms free, which were still immobilized at his sides. You could feel his strain and strength beneath the power but maintained energy on the gauntlets.
His frustrated growl roared through his helmet. “What the hell is this? Let go of me!”
He struggled for a few more seconds until you heard Slade say to let him go.
A flick and twirl of your hands—the pistols flew across the room and the Knight peeled himself from the wall, freed.
He made a beeline for you, shoulders tight with violence.
Again, he didn’t succeed.
You threw up a shield at the last second, and he stumbled back a step. Even through the faint blue shimmer of the bubble that surrounded you, his displeasure was almost tangible. You didn’t need to use your power to know that.
And as he stood there, fists clenched and every line of his figure taut with irritation… you knew he understood it now. What Slade was trying to show him.
You allowed yourself a grin under the helmet.
Regardless of your earlier feelings, there was no denying the sweet taste of victory in the short fight. The Knight’s attitude left a lot to be desired—because what did Slade mean you had to work for him? But even though the stunt proved exactly why Slade wanted you here, seeing how people reacted to your abilities never got old. Plus, there was something especially gratifying about doing it to the Knight.
You half-expected him to initiate a do-over—some people wanted one to nurse their bruised pride—but the Knight moved within arm’s reach of Slade instead.
“Explain. Now.”
Slade smiled. “It’s alright to be embarrassed, kid. You get used to it eventually.” He glanced pointedly at you.
The lack of response told you that Knight didn’t seem to like that answer, and Slade had to have realized it, too. His fun for show-and-tell was over.
“Give us the room,” Knight said lowly, and it took you a full three seconds to realize he was talking to you.
Oh?
Your shield dissolved.
“Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of me,” you countered before thinking.
Both men looked at you: Slade with that look of warning you’d seen a thousand times, the Knight with the glowing blue eyes that were suddenly annoying to look at.
“Andromeda, give us the room,” Slade ordered. His tone left no room for argument.
He might as well have told you that the adults needed to talk. Fucking typical.
Clenching your jaw, you made your way out into the hallway. The door shut instantly, and you leaned in to see if you could catch anything. If they happened to catch you, they could try to shoot you. Whatever.
But no, not even a damn whisper because of course it’d been soundproofed.
The door reopened a few minutes later, Slade joining you where you’d been sulking against the wall, arms crossed.
The look on his face told you enough. You recognized it.
“Oookay. What’d you say to him?”
“What he needed to hear.”
He’d told the walking trauma dumpster fire what he needed to hear. Riiight, right.
You scoffed in disbelief. “You’re gonna get me killed, Slade,” you said dryly, though your tone held a sliver of accusation.
“Well, then that’d defeat your purpose. And I—we would be out of a lot of money.”
It could’ve been funny. Maybe on another day.
But the humor didn’t hit, and he noticed, even with your helmet still hiding you.
“You’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere,” he reminded you. “I bet your bunker is practically down the hall from mine.”
You did not believe him for one second.
“And I bet you’re not even on the same island as HQ.”
And Slade, the bastard, let out a gruff laugh.
“Damn right I’m not.”
You shoved at him—he didn’t budge.
“The knee pin was a neat trick. You should’ve let him overcome it though.”
He had always preferred you set yourself up as a “normal” but skilled fighter before bringing out the big guns. But he was also the same man who taught you how to fight dirty.
“You want fair or you want me to win? Can’t always have it both ways, old man.”
He shook his head in feign disappointment.
Then nodded his head at the door. “Go. I told him you should introduce yourselves without the masks.”
You sighed then grumbled, "Fine," pushing off the wall.
When you re-entered, the Knight’s back was toward you, his own visor raised on his head. He must’ve been deep in thought because Slade had to clear his throat twice before the guy noticed.
Then he turned… and by then it was too late.
Your helmet had already whizzed back.
He saw your face. You saw his.
Sharp nose, strong jaw, vivid blue eyes, and that J-shaped scar.
The same face that had lured you in with a well-placed compliment, the same mouth that had kissed yours swollen, the same eyes that had watched you take him easier than you’d ever let him know.
The one you were sure you’d never, ever see again… but had wished since last night that you would.
“Oh, fuck.”