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IT'S RAINING AGAIN, as it always does in Gotham. The splattering of rain drops on the frosted glass window casts shadows across the far wall of the dingy hotel room. The thin shadows wriggle down the wall like worms, disappearing into the splintering wooden trim at the base of the floor. Occasionally, thunder rumbles overhead, grumbling over skyscrapers.
There’s a sigh at the end of your thin and rickety bed, a small shift of movement that sends the entire frame shaking.
“Okay, is it bigger than a microwave?” Jason asks, voice scratching inside his throat. He’s still recovering from the cold he caught two weeks ago—which you told him he’d get if he kept driving his bike in the pouring rain.
He keeps himself propped on his elbows, draped over the end of the bed with his feet resting on the floorboards. The back of his head is lit with pale-yellow light from the street-lamp that trickles in through the window. The rest of him is swallowed in shadow, just as you are.
“Yes, it’s bigger than a microwave,” you answer at your spot at the top of the bed, knees tucked against your chest, your fingers fiddling with the bands of your socks.
He doesn’t say anything, though you track the gentle fluttering of his lashes as his eyes dart over the raindrop-shadows, thoughts dancing between the open gaps where plaster has darkened over time.
“Alright…so,” his voice drops, “...bigger than a microwave, not nocturnal…is it an animal you’d find in the forest?”
You return to the mental image of the animal you have in mind, and nod your head.
“It’s pretty common too,” you add quietly.
Jason’s eyes flicker over you, chin barely moving in an acknowledging, slow nod.
“A hare?”
“No, and those are nocturnal.”
“Whatever. Bear?”
“Nup.”
Jason runs a hand over his face, and you hear the gentle scratch of his fingers scraping against the stubble that’s begun to spread along his jaw. You file away a reminder to pick up a pack of razors from the corner store. You’re not sure he ever thinks to grab those sorts of things for himself until the very last minute—which doesn’t fit in the put-together, always planning, always prepared image he upholds.
There’s a shuffle of fabric as Jason sits upright, cross-legged and his elbows propped on his knees. The bed shakes before settling again.
“I’m starting to regret agreeing to this game,” he says, though there isn’t any bite to his tone.
You hum, lips twitching. “No, you don’t.”
“Oh, so you know better than I do?”
“I’m telling it how it is, unlike you.”
A low, gravel-laced chuckle scrapes against your ears, and Jason ducks his head down, eyes directly level with yours.
“Fine,” he murmurs, “I’m not regretting the game.”
“Hmm,” you smile. “I thought so.”
A pale hand moves to grab onto your fidgeting fingers, calluses running across your knuckles. His touch is cold, and you can imagine frost curling into your skin like silver ferns. It makes your nose ache even more, nearly numb from the chill in the air.
“If it’s not a hare or a bear,” Jason says beneath his breath, continuing the game while he starts to play with your fingers.
“Or a possum by the way, which are also—”
“Nocturnal?”
You bite back a smile as Jason lets the silence stretch out, punctuated by the unheard thoughts rushing behind obsidian eyes. You can feel heat bleed beneath your cheeks as Jason flips over one of your hands, palm upright. His thumb presses into the criss-crossing lines carved into your skin like roads.
He’s held your hand before. Gripped it tightly while dragging you across the street or down an alleyway. Then, it had only been necessary—an automatic grab at you to keep you close while gunshots rang out through the city. He hates it when you get caught in those messy fights of his, the ones that trail behind you like a promise.
But you’ve always been the first to let go. He holds you to him with something wrapped around his throat, eyes glinting with trapped light and an untold confession, and you’re the one that has to pry your fingers out of his iron clutch.
So…is it really just about necessity?
Your name is being called. It’s said twice, before being dragged out slowly, syllables falling onto your tuned out ears. You blink, finding that Jason’s watching you closely, gaze bemused.
“There you are,” he whispers, and your heart punches against your ribs as he brings your wrist up and close to his lips. His breath is warm, a pale puff of steam travelling across your skin. You wonder if he can feel your pulse stuttering through your veins. Maybe hear the rapid pounding of your heart.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Jason says, and you swallow thickly.
“What—uh—what question?”
Jason’s lips, chapped and rough, brush against your wrist. “Is it a deer?”
You can’t find it in you to answer, let alone breathe. Was he able to hear your thoughts? Could he see what you were thinking just by the way your eyes had slid so delicately across his face, and did he want to torture you just a bit? Just to see if you’ll break?
You clear your throat. A clap of thunder rolls in the distance.
“Yeah…it’s a deer.”
Jason’s grin feels blinding in the dark, and you could swear you’d blind yourself over and over if it meant that you could always see it.
“Thought so…” he murmurs.