The safehouse was a disaster zone. Again. A half-dismantled assault rifle shared the coffee table with a grease-stained pizza box and three different manuals on advanced ballistics. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, terror of Gotham’s underworld, was currently on his knees, muttering curses at a tangled nest of wires leading to the security system’s central hub.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed. The place smelled of gun oil and stubborn male pride. “You know,” you began, your voice slicing through his grumbling, “most people just call an electrician.”

Jason didn’t look up. “And let some stranger with a questionable mustache see my security schematics? Hard pass.” "Besides", I rewired the Batcave’s backup generator when I was fourteen. I think I can handle a few stupid wires." He thought.

“Right. Because letting the entire system short out and potentially burning the whole building down is the much safer alternative,” you deadpanned, stepping further into the room. “You’ve got the primary lead crossed with the auxiliary bypass. You’re basically sending a ‘please rob me’ invitation to every two-bit thug in the Bowery.”

His head snapped up, a scowl etched on his face. “I know what I’m doing.” "Do I? This color-coding is a nightmare. Who uses puce for a live wire?"

“Clearly,” you said, your tone drier than the Sahara. You pointed a finger at the mess. “Move.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Scoot over. Let someone who doesn’t think a multimeter is a form of torture take a look.” You were already rolling up your sleeves.

"For real?" he thought, a wave of incredulousness washing over him. "I’ve intimidated crime lords who’ve wet themselves for less. And I'm being bossed around in my own safehouse?" A part of him, the part that was all Red Hood, bristled at the command. It was a foreign feeling, being ordered. But another part, a part he was still getting used to, was… intrigued.

Huffing, he shuffled aside on his knees, making room for you. “Fine. But if you electrocute yourself, don’t come crying to me.” "Please don’t electrocute yourself. Bruce would never let me hear the end of it."

You knelt beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You didn’t even hesitate. Your hands, so much smaller and more delicate than his, dove into the wire jungle with a confident precision that left him staring.

“Hand me the strippers,” you said, not looking up. Jason’s brain short-circuited faster than the security system. "Okay, definitely not the time for that thought. Focus, Todd." “The… what?”

You shot him a look that was pure, unadulterated ‘are you an idiot?’ “The wire strippers. Right there.” You pointed to a pair of pliers with a blue handle.

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” he grumbled, slapping them into your waiting palm. "Get it together, man. She’s talking about tools. Not… other things."

He watched, utterly captivated, as you worked. You identified the problem in seconds, your fingers moving with an efficiency that spoke of genuine skill. “Honestly, Jason. It’s a miracle you haven’t accidentally launched yourself into the harbor with some of these jury-rigged setups.”

“It’s called innovation,” he retorted, but there was no heat in it. He was too busy watching the focused line of your brow, the way you bit your lip in concentration.

“It’s called a fire hazard,” you corrected, swiftly reconnecting the correct wires. “There. Try it now.”

He reached for the main power switch, his fingers brushing yours. A jolt, entirely non-electrical, went through him. He flipped the switch. The control panel hummed to life, every light blinking a healthy, reassuring green.

“Huh,” he said, for lack of a better word. "Well, I’ll be damned." "Nice work... But don't let it get to your head."

He should have been annoyed. Instead, he felt a slow, warm curl of something entirely unfamiliar in his chest. Admiration. Arousal. A bizarre and potent mix of both.

“Too late. Now, while I’m feeling generous, what else do you need done? I can't let you blow up your apartment.” You grinned.