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"This downpour's probably gonna make us radioactive," you murmur, squinting as you look up at the darkened sky.
The rain in Gotham is borderline terrifying given the city's colourful history of various substances polluting the waters. You sincerely hope that none will be leeching through your skin and into your bloodstream after being drenched like this, caught in a heavy rain with no sign of ending. A clap of thunder in the distance instinctively makes you step a little closer to your companion.
It's late. You'd give an estimate of "somewhere in the unholy hours past midnight" considering you've sort of lost track of the time. But you know for certain that you can count on most normal people to be asleep by now, which means Waylon Jones — Killer Croc, as he's more commonly known — is standing by your without fear of attracting too much attention.
He's vaguely entertained by you, you'd like to think. It's the only reason that he lets you visit the sewers to chat and waste his time, the reason he's walking you home now, in the middle of a thunderstorm, at this ungodly, unknown hour of the night — you must be good entertainment. It's a funny conclusion to reach considering you don't get along with most people you stumble across. Not that you mind. You've have found yourself quite fond of your new friend, the wanted cannibal criminal. Maybe too fond.
"You know, I've always wanted to do one of those Hollywood kisses in the rain. Shit probably sucks." You're beginning to ramble. It's a charming habit, sure, but it's clear that you're just trying to ignore how your clothes are dripping with rainwater.
Waylon lets out a grunt, too used to listening to your tangents to actually question whatever the fuck you're talking about. He's not telling you to shut up or anything, which is nice. You've really managed to draw out his soft side.
You continue after a beat, more contemplative as you say, "...but it must be great. Y'know, if they're doing it so often in the movies."
"...you askin' to try?"
You're unsure of what possesses you in the next moment. He leans down slightly and you're on the tips of your toes in an instant to meet him, his strong hands grasping at your waist to support you. It's all very sudden.
The actual contact of kiss is clumsy — less of the soft press of lips meeting that you had always dreamt of, and more of an awkward collision of your faces. You think you're being suave when you attempt to slowly easing the kiss into an opened mouthed one — slipping tongue is fine, right? — but what you really end up doing is... less cute. Ignore the fact that your tongue totally missed the seam of his mouth and somehow travelled to his cheek. Yikes.
You pull away after the blunder, but Waylon freezes in place. Suddenly, you're both stuck, unable to fully leave each other's grasp, but also now unable to meet each other's eyes. You're ashamed and soaked — not in the aroused sense, either.
"...I—" Your face feels several degrees above the normal temperature as you fumble for words, "I'm sorry."
"The fuck was that s'posed to be?"
"A kiss!" You defend, managing to pull away finally. You tug the hood of your jacket over your head needing to hide yourself away — preferably forever after that) — because God, that was the worst kiss you've given. EVER. Not like you've had a long history of kissing people to begin with, but you've never licked across anyone's face before.
To your surprise (and mild horror) he snorts. Waylon could be mad about it — all that subtle "oh, wouldn't a kiss in the rain be nice?" and flirting for a terrible, failed make-out — but your awful kissing skills are now being laughed at.
"Y' gotta say sorry to everyone y' ever kissed if ya kissed 'em like that. 's like you were tryin' to eat my face."
"Hey! that's— that's not fair! You literally eat peoples faces!"
"12 stepped my way outta that habit years ago."
"Seriously?"
"Nah."
Your knee-jerk instinct to laugh lands you with the response of a very undignified, "HAH—!" before you manage to shut yourself up, mortified with the situation that only seems to worsen every time you open your goddamn mouth.
And now the silence. You're at Waylon's side, getting drenched by the rain, this time hoping that some sort of toxin in the Gotham water would poison you and finish you off.
Your little train of thought is interrupted by Waylon's voice, gravely and quiet.
"Still got plenty of rain. don't seem like it'll be stoppin'," he comments, shielding his eyes with a clawed hand to stare up at the pitch black, stormy sky.
"Uh-huh," you reply dumbly, trying not to veer the conversation into anything else.
"Couldn't hurt to try again — proper this time."
Waylon glances back at you — you and your shivering, rain-soaked, pitiful form — and grins at you, his sharp teeth on full display. It might've been menacing to anyone else, but your heart races instead.
"Are you…" your voice catches in your throat when you ask, searching for any sign of mockery in his face, "…are you sure?"
You stand on your toes again when he nods.
Take two!