The Arkham Knight, the man with a very questionable reputation.

The commander of the Militia, whose name and face nobody knows. No one but you.

You were the typical goodie two shoes. When people find out The Arkham Knight was your man, they always shake their heads, looking at you with a heavy, disappointed gaze.

"God, help them." They'd always whisper behind your back.

You were determined in proving all of them wrong. No God in the universe needs to lift a finger; you can fix Jason, or so you've told yourself. You can handle yourself a dangerous man. A man that you've known since he was Robin.

Jason wasn't necessarily the best at expressing himself to you, hence he always tries to do it through his actions.

His hands, rough and calloused from never-ending battles that mark his terrible past, gently trace along the contours of your face, your head gently resting on his lap. He's not wearing the Arkham Knight armor. There's no reason around you.