He'd done it again.

Barbara would find out within the hour, and she'd spend the night debating over telling Bruce—she would, of course, in the end, when the sun was allowing for its pathetic, watery excuse of light to shine through the thinnest of curtains. Bruce would find out, and then—

Jason didn't particularly want to think about what would happen. Best case, he'd be exiled to Siberia till the heat death of the universe.

You didn't know who—what—he was. To you, he'd been the guy with the leather jackets and dark sunglasses who occasionally managed to say something smart while he TA'd your Gothic lit class. The job was a courtesy of Bruce. Now, he was a little more—fuck, who was he kidding? He'd asked you out on that first date four months ago, and he'd probably go to the ends of the universe for you.

But you didn't know what he was, which meant he couldn't drag you into this. Couldn't spill into your pretty little apartment and spill apart in your arms without having to explain that he was a murderer. When had he started calling it murder instead of killing? He couldn't remember.

Not that he could ever resist you.

He knocked—heavy, though never hard—having scrubbed the blood from his jacket and drenched it in the cologne you knew far too well, back in civvies. An hour ago, his hair would have been damp with sweat, but it was just shower water now.