“I swear to fucking god I hate places like this,” Jason mutters under his breath to you as you both step out of the limo, your hand wrapped around the crook of his arm, holding onto his tailored suit, a deep black that compliments his hair and makes his gunmetal grey eyes stand out. Jason’s hair is jelled back, showing off his forehead and he feels like a fucking show pony being thrust up for auction as the reporters snap pictures of you and him.

“Behave,” you mutter to Jason, guiding him towards the large entrance of the ballroom, held in one of the rich socialites numerous building in Gotham. You’re not here for pleasure — Jason would rather die than attend some rich, bullshit gala but he needs the intel on an expanding drug cartel and you’re a trusted friend of the Bats who managed to score an invite, taking him as a plus one.

Which is why his arm is around your waist, why your body is pressed against his so close he can smell your perfume, the silk of your dress under his fingers where they’re splayed over your waist.

Jason’s jaw is set, freshly shaved as he lets you guide him up the staircase, his hand on your waist, and he tries to roll back his shoulders and relax because if he’s pretending to be your boyfriend for the night to get some intel, he needs to make this shit believable.

“This is gonna fuckin’ suck,” Jason mutters as you reach the top of the stairs and the doors are opened for you both, and fuck the gala is massive. Crystal chandeliers hang above, champagne flowing in golden liquid in flutes held by the socialites of Gotham.

But still he lets you guide him around, your silk dress gliding down your body, and you fit into the scene almost deceptively well, an easy smile on your lips. Jason wants to do recon and see what shady shit these people are hiding but you’re still a civilian, and Jason isn’t that much of a dick to put you at risk, so he just follows you as you guide him through the gala.

“Jesus fuck these people are obscenely rich,” he mutters into your ear.