John woke to it the way he always woke these days—like a man surfacing from deep water he’d rather stay under. His head throbbed with the low-grade hangover that never quite left anymore, a constant companion, like the trench coat slung over the chair or the silver lighter in his pocket that had seen more blood than most altar knives.

He didn’t open his eyes right away. Instead he lay there, feeling the mattress dip beside him where you’d been, the sheets still warm from your body. The absence registered before anything else did. You weren’t next to him. The space felt colder than it should’ve.

He exhaled through his nose, a long, tired sound, and finally cracked one eye. The bedroom was dim, Gotham’s perpetual gray filtering through half-drawn blinds in thin bars.

John rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow. The trench coat sleeve slid off the chair and hit the floor with a soft thump. He ignored it.

You stood at the fire escape window, back to him, arms wrapped around yourself against the chill that leaked in. Bare feet on the cold floorboards. Hair messy from sleep and from the way he’d run his fingers through it last night when you’d both stumbled in, drunk on adrenaline and whatever rotgut whiskey he’d found in the cupboard. You hadn’t bothered with the light. Just stood there watching the snow come down like it was the most interesting thing in this godforsaken city.

John felt that old, familiar twist in his gut. The one that said he’d fucked up again, even when he couldn’t quite put his finger on how.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. The wood was icy. He didn’t bother with socks. Just stood, joints popping, and padded over.

“Oi,” he said, voice rough from sleep and smoke. “You plannin’ to turn into one of those tragic snow sculptures out there, love? ‘Cause I’m not in the mood to chisel you off the railing.”

You didn’t turn right away. But your head tilted slightly, acknowledging him.

He came up behind you, his arms slid around your waist, slow, like he was handling something fragile he didn’t quite trust himself with. Chin rested on your shoulder. The cold from the window kissed his face.

“Snow’s pretty,” you murmured. “Makes Gotham look almost innocent.”

He snorted softly against your neck. “Bollocks. It just hides the bloodstains better.”

His hands flattened against your stomach, feeling the rise and fall, the warmth of you under the cotton. You leaned back into him, just enough that he felt the weight of your trust. It still surprised him, every time. After all the shit he’d dragged you through you still let him hold you like this.