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It’s not that Stella Arnett didn’t believe that her best friend in the entire world could do a good job as Mayor of Gotham. It was just that the possibility of Carson Skipper getting elected in the first place—if there was one at all—was always highly unlikely. For one, Carson was twenty-five years younger than her opponent. For two, a week before the campaign started, Carson came out as some kind of genderqueer that could only be described as ‘???’, and frankly, Stella didn’t know Gotham could be that progressive. And for three, Ole Skippy was a chronically online virgin who couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed before noon most days. Stella supposed running for political office made sense for a highly intelligent, highly likable person with a rich dad, but damn. Why would anyone want to be the Mayor of Gotham ?
“I think I like the other one better.” Stella holds her long blonde hair out of the way so she can inspect the neckline of the dress Carson bought her. She doesn’t want to know how much it cost; it would ruin her ability to enjoy how good it made her boobs look.
Carson groans, throwing himself back on his bed—-cushier than Stella’s. Matter of fact the whole penthouse was twice as nice as anywhere Stella had ever lived her entire life. “You’ve—-and I cannot stress this enough—-tried on the same two dresses eight different times.”
“It’s not my fault you couldn’t find another date to your own fucking election party. I mean, you’re the Motherfucking Mayor Of Gotham , can’t you like order someone to fuck you now?”
Carson ignores the insult and the incessant cursing, hammering down their previous point. “They’re both slutty, and they’re both red. How am I supposed to know the difference?”
“Come on now, Skip. It’s time to answer the age-old question. Are you a boob or an ass guy?”
He shrugs. “You didn’t inherit Lisa’s pornstar tits for nothing.”
“ Mmm …I think I'm going to go with the ass dress. And don’t talk about my mom’s pornstar tits. Sore subject.”
“I’ve been talking about Lisa’s tits since I saw them bouncing boobily over the horizon. Why are they sore now?”
Stella peels off the dress, struggling to balance in her ridiculous silver heels. She will feel that around approximately 5:00 p.m. tomorrow when she rolls out of bed to be late to her job as a waitress. Hopping over to the red fabric pool on the floor in her ridiculous skin-colored shapewear, she says,”It’s not her chest specifically, moreso Lisa in general.”
“ Ah ,” says Carson, well the fuck aware of Stella’s tumultuous relationship with her overbearing mother. “And how is…what’s his name? Jerry?”
Stella groans, struggling to pull the tight fitting dress over her hips. “Jared.” Her father’s name tastes slightly bitter on her tongue. “Hasn’t called me in a month. Lisa says he’s on Ozempic now. He texted me a link to a TikTok yesterday.”
“Crazy.”
“Your parents gonna be there tonight?” Stella knew they would, but maybe she needed to talk about it.
Stella’s busy applying lipstick in the mirror, but she hears Carson groan. “Yeah.”
Things have been different to say the least after Carson finally came out to the public. Carson loved their parents and vice versa, even continued to fund the campaign with that knowledge. It would be fine with time, but for now it was just…awkward.
“They’re proud of you, y’know.”
“Yeah. Will you hurry up?” Carson fluffs his short brown hair in the mirror. It’s totally hypocritical; Stella doubts he’s brushed his teeth at all today and will probably wait until the driver is out waiting.
“If my only job at this event is to be your arm candy, at least let me be good at it.”
Carson shrugs. “You don’t know any of these people and probably won’t ever see them again. Plus we’re not actually together, so…”
“No, but somebody’s bound to think we are, and I want—nay, need —the elites of Gotham to know you could pull a bad bitch. Even if it isn’t true.”
“You don’t know what I’m pulling?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it, Skip. Until then, I’ll be your date anytime.” Stella smiles, pulling her best friend into the very rare, highly sought after Stella-sanctioned hug. She mumbles onto Carson’s head. “Are there any rich old men I need to be aware of? Preferably on death’s door so I can be a sexy widow.”
“ Behave, ” Carson warns, but they don’t pull away.
***
Carson and Stella are seated at a table in the front of the room, nearest to the stage. Carson’s parents join them, making polite small talk. They are quiet, well mannered. They like Stella just fine, although she can tell they don’t really get her , whatever that means. Stella doesn’t know herself, just more of a feeling.
Carson kills the speech, of course he does. Stella already skimmed it on the way here, so she doesn’t feel the need to pay super close attention. Instead, her eyes scan the crowd, amazed at how put together this many people in Gotham of all places could be. Each of them was probably worth more than her soul. Most of the crowd is focused on Skip, at least they pretend to be. Except for one person who Stella’s eyes keeps catching for some reason.
It’s embarrassing. One of those moments when you don’t mean to keep staring at someone, but now you’re thinking about it so you can’t stop. And now he’s noticed; and he’s thinking about it too, so he can’t stop looking and it’s just—- Wait a minute . Stella knows that face, has seen him on TV and in the newspaper her whole life. Is that Bruce Wayne ?
“Holy shit,” Stella says out loud, earning a glare from Carson’s parents. She closes her lips, scrunching her nose and smiling to try and minimize her embarrassment. Of course, it doesn’t help.
Now she’s even more aware of his eyes on her, wanting to look even more. Like showing a kid a cookie and then telling them that they can't touch it. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. She looks. Bruce Wayne looks at her, expressionless, but his eyes are piercing. Stella whips her head around, but she barely lasts a minute before slowly, slowly turning her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the back of his red chair. Bruce Wayne is gone.
After Carson’s speech, she earns a well deserved round of applause, and then of course, there are a million and one reporters begging for a moment of her time. Which leaves Stella all alone and up to no good. She walks over to a bar, mostly empty now that all eyes are on Skip. Empty except for Bruce Wayne, of course, leaning casually on the bar and crossing his legs like he knows he’s the richest man in the city. He swirls a drink in his hand, but he hasn’t brought the glass to his lips yet.
“Buy me a drink.”
He’s clearly taken aback, but he peers down at her like she’s an ant. “No.”
This only fuels her fire. “Why? You look as snobby and rich as the better half of these motherfuckers.”
Against his better judgment, he smiles. “Richer.”
“Diet Coke. Ice cold. But not like, so much ice that it waters it down.”
He cocks his head slightly, the movement seeming more deliberate and planned than she felt it should. “Sober?”
Stella gets closer, brushing up against the arm of his suit jacket before leaning over the bar. Maybe she should have gone with the boob dress. “Just for the night if I can help it. Told Ole Skippy I’d behave.”
He takes a big gulp of his drink. “Jesus Christ. You know Skipper then?”
“ Someone hasn’t been paying attention.” She smiles. His expression doesn’t change. “Most importantly, Skipper knows me . Which is why I’ve been behaving.”
“Do you normally have a hard time?”
She rolls her eyes. “Getting DILFs to buy my drinks? No.”
His gaze is bordering on predatory. Just the way she likes it. “I mean behaving.”
A mischievous grin pulls at her painted lips. “Yes.”
Bruce motions to the bartender. “Diet Coke.”
“Uh, is Pepsi okay?”
Bruce flicks his eyes to her for approval. She frowns. “So much for behaving.”
He mumbles some drink orders to the bartender who starts working promptly, pouring dark liquor into a fancy glass. Then he holds out his hand. “Bruce Wayne.”
“I know,” she says, taking the drink from the bar top and strutting away.
Glad I went with the ass dress.
***
“You look like shit,” Stella’s boss says with a grin. He’s an old friend. She actually worked here before him, convinced her manager to give him a shot. Of course he got promoted before her. Figures.
She holds up her mean finger, doesn’t keep it up for too long though because she was half an hour late. Better than the projected hour that she drunk texted him about last night after Bruce Motherfucking Wayne told her to get whatever she wanted on his tab last night before he irished goodbyed Skip’s party. It was a wonder she was even alive at all. She thought she might throw up in the dish pit.
“You can be cut in 10,” he promises.
Just as the words come out of his mouth, a young hostess approaches. “Stella, you have two. Only one of them is here though.”
“Thank you, honey,” she replies in an effort to be nice to her teenage coworkers, even if the adults hadn’t afforded her the same courtesy when she was that age. Stella turns to her manager with a frown. She opens the drawer of warm breadsticks, haphazardly throwing them into a basket for whatever dickwad customer dared to sit in her section. “I’m going to crash out.”
“Poor Stella got a taste of the big bucks and can’t stoop back down to do her job,” he teases with a fake pout.
Annoyed, Stella stomps over to the asshole sitting in the booth she just cleaned. She begins her normal serving routine, save for the fake smile and customer service voice she has already turned off for the night. Hi, my name is Stella. I’ll be your server. What can I get you to drink?
But before she can even get her first sentence out, he whispers,“ Diet Coke .”
She stops herself from rolling her eyes, but can’t help but shoot him a glare. Who does he think he is wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat at night? He’s probably gonna wait for me to get off my shift and follow me home. The stranger stares at Stella, and for a moment she reads his expression as surprised.
“I’m sorry. Is Pepsi okay? The shittiest thing about Gotham is that we spend more time catering to actual coke addicts than Diet Coke addicts.”
He clears his throat. “No—-I—uh…water is fine.”
Did he just lower his voice? Fucking creep. “You’re waiting on one more?”
Not only did he sit in her section right before she was to get cut, his wife was going to take forever to join him, and he’d be sitting alone with water and breadsticks for twenty minutes before she could get the ball rolling. And then of course, she’d have to reclean the booth he was sitting in.
He checks his watch, a surprisingly nice one to wear here. He should be more careful flashing that thing. One time someone stole Stella’s stinky roller skates right off her feet two blocks down. She had to walk home in her socks, avoiding puddles and cigarette butts. She shuddered at the memory, and the stranger cocked his head.
“Yes, he should be here soon,” the customer assures.
Not a wife. Perhaps a hot new boy toy would explain the disguise. Whatever the case, it seemed that Stella had once again failed to quell her judging-your-personal-life face because the stranger stifles a snort.
He coughs. “Just the water for now.”
Freak .
Stella was considering becoming a psychic; her prediction had come true, and the man in the booth sat alone for twenty minutes, barely touching his water or complimentary breadsticks. She fakes choking herself out to her manager, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
“Is there anything I can get you while you wait?” she asks, trying to sound friendly and sympathetic.
He clenches his fist, the nice watch flashing in the light. “No,” he says through gritted teeth.
Wait a second. I know that ‘No’. I know that watch. And that voice. And that hair. “Bruce Wayne?” Stella asks loud enough to make every part of his body tense. He prepares to step out, but Stella blocks the way out of the booth. Looking around to make sure no one heard her, she leans down to whisper,”What are you doing in this shithole?”
“Please excuse me,” he says about to brush past her, but Stella places a hand on his chest.
“Look, I’d be willing to forget all about this, but I need you to promise me you won’t tell any of the Kanes that I’m a waitress and not actually a German heiress. I am this close to convincing them to invest millions into my fake business plan: physical therapy for hamsters.”
Bruce Wayne is so taken aback his jaw practically unhinges. “I—-You know it’s illegal to—-“
“Yes. I know. It’s also fucking hilarious. And you’re an accomplice now that you’re in on it. If I go down you’re going down with me, Wayne,” she threatens, but she can’t stifle a laugh. Not what she thought she needed to cheer her up from this god awful shift. Teasing Bruce Fucking Wayne after she made him buy her a drink last night? It’s ridiculous.
A smile ghosts his lips, a small one but a smile nonetheless. “Well, at least my lawyer could get us a nice cell,” he mumbles.
Stella raises an eyebrow. “We’re sharing?”
“I—-“ He opens his nice wallet, flicking through bills and throwing a few on the table. “Sorry to waste your time.”
Stella snatches the cash, counting the money. “This is five hundred dollars for water and breadsticks. I—-I can’t take this.”
Bruce worms his way out of the booth with surprising agility for a man her dad’s age. “Go find a Diet Coke somewhere,” he grumbles.
“Wait. What about the guy you’re waiting on?”
“He’s not coming.” His eyes dip to her nametag. “ Stella ,” he reads. His adam’s apple bobs as he looks her in the eye. At least she thinks he’s looking in her eye; it’s kinda hard to tell with the sunglasses indoors.
She bites back a smile. Not only did Bruce Wayne give her a five hundred dollar tip, he knows her name. It’s ridiculous, the equivalent of meeting the Geico Lizard or Flavor Flav. Somehow, yesterday it was easier to play it cool in that dress Carson bought. Maybe because it felt more like a costume. This marinara stained waitress—-that is the real her. And she can’t help but to feel a little embarrassed as she watches Bruce Wayne walk away, the patrons of the restaurant none the wiser he was here.
Stella stares at the untouched water and bread for a moment. What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened.
Stella throws her purse over her shoulder, handing a coworker cash to clean her section and finish her side work. It’s moments after she walks out the door that she realizes she has been smiling like an idiot the whole time.
I like being silly with Bruce Wayne. I think I’ll do it every chance I get. Now that Skip’s mayor I can—-
The tail end of the thought is interrupted by a hard tug on her arm. Stella cries out in pain, and her purse is yanked directly off her shoulder. The bandit has turned the corner before she can even get a good look at him. She freezes. She’d call the cops if she had her phone—-well, maybe she would if it weren’t for her fear of them. She’d screen for help if there was anyone around, but the street was so empty.
So instead, Stella just keeps walking home, wailing and crying like a kid who just dropped their ice cream. She doesn’t get very far before she hears a gunshot—-or at least what sounds like a gunshot and she’s trying to convince herself is the very loud sound of one of those big dumpsters being closed. But just after that, a man appears—-around her age and dressed in jeans and a hoodie. He’s got a white streak in his dark hair, something Stella chalks up to some TikTok e-boy trend. She wouldn’t know, she’s been off social media since the week before the election in solidarity with Skipper.
“Is this your purse, ma’am?”
Stella hates it when people call her ma’am. It makes her feel old. “Y-yes,” she chokes out, tears streaking her face.
“Here you go. Did he hurt you?”
***
Each word comes out between strangled sobs. Jason can barely understand what she’s saying, and even if he picks out the words, it doesn’t make much sense. “Bruce.” Sniff . “Wayne. Gave me.” Cry. Sigh. Gasp for air. “Five. Hundred. Dollars.” Sob. Sniff. Sob. “ And I just wanna Diet Coke. ”
Jesus this girl’s a fucking mess.
“Shhh, hey it’s okay,” he tries to mimic the soft voice Alfred would use on him when he was having a bad day. “You’re safe now. We can check your wallet for the cash.”
“I don’t have a wallet,” she says sadly. With her permission, Jason takes a peek in her purse to see that no, she doesn’t have a wallet. But she does have plenty of loose bills floating around in there amongst unlabeled chapsticks and several pairs of earrings. Jason counts the cash and informs her she has more than five hundred dollars in there. He debates scolding her for carrying around a purse full of loose cash in Gotham City but decides against it. Regardless, this fact doesn’t seem to calm her down.
And he couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he couldn’t let this little blonde waitress walk home in the dark all by herself. Not if she was going to wail in the streets. Begrudgingly he gets out,”Do you…need me to walk you home?”
The girl blinks at him a few times, her frown seeming more permanent each second. “Did you shoot that man?”
Jason clenches his jaw. “No,” he lies. “He ran away.”
“Are you going to shoot me?”
“Of course not.”
“Okay.” She sniffs a few more times. Jason digs in her purse for a tissue but comes up short. He did find a few stray, lint covered mints that he contemplates popping in his mouth.
“Can you take me to the Mayor’s office?” she asks.
Why the fuck not. “Sure.”
The two strangers walk in silence. Jason tunes into the sounds around him, the never ending hustle of Gotham coupled with the crying of this poor, weird girl. She glances at him warily a few times.
“Y’know, I used to have roller skates,” she says to break the silence, her voice scratchy and pathetic.
“That’s nice,” Jason replies. A pause. “I have a motorcycle.”
“That’s nice.”
It’s not a terribly long walk to the Mayor’s office. It’s not an inconvenience either; at least he got to shoot someone. The waitress is nice, funny too.
Jason realizes she calms down the more he can get her to talk, so he asks questions about her life. Her name is Stella. She’s twenty-one years old, and she used to go to art school. She speaks with a slight southern twang, but if he wasn’t listening for it, he might not have noticed. She mentions her best friend a lot, who she keeps referring to as a “gay loser.” He genuinely can’t tell if she’s being affectionate or homophobic until she mentions her crush on her boss’ sister. Stella has been a waitress at the Italian place for three years. Jason might have seen her there in the years since she started; he orders pick up from there on special occasions.
Jason pulls out a cigarette, offers Stella one but she declines. He didn’t always smoke, but Grayson had gently suggested that it was a better alternative to killing someone. So every time it gets bad again, Jason follows a routine.
Step one: Walk down to the art gallery by his apartment. Eight minutes. A right. Walk a couple blocks. Turn right again, and he’s there. He doesn’t care for most of their pretentious displays, and grumbles every time he has to cough up five bucks to The Man to go look at pictures he could see for free online. But they have a youth arts display year round. Damian submits something new once a month, always under a different name, but Jason can tell which ones are his without even looking at the label. When he does read the names, he always finds himself smiling. Mike Oxlong. Gabe Itches. Ben Dover.
Step two: If the swell of pride he gets from teaching his freak of nature little brother dirty jokes isn’t enough (and it often isn’t), Jason peruses the used bookstore next door, occasionally picking up something, but usually just going in just to smell the leather and paper.
Unfortunately, steps one and two are only possible Monday through Saturday between the hours of nine and five. And Jason needs them the most when it’s dark out.
Step three: Smoke.
Step four: Kill someone anyway because that’s who you are.
Now, he finds he’s Pavlov Rawdogged himself into finding someone to shoot every time he smells American Spirits. After he finishes this one and drops Stella off, that’s exactly what he’ll do.
“Do your parents live in the city?” he asks to keep her talking, taking a drag.
She’s not crying anymore, which is all he could have hoped for. “Yeah, but I don’t see them often. My mom is too much and my dad is too little. Better to avoid.”
Jason laughs. “Jesus, you sure you don’t want that cigarette?”
“What about your parents?”
His smile drops. “My dad. I guess.”
“You guess?”
“We don’t talk. He reached out last night wanting to see me and I just…I don’t know.”
“I’m not going to pretend like I know what he did for his son to stop talking to him but,” Stella gives Jason a close lipped smile. “I wish my dad would reach out to me.”
“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not so sure I know what I want.” It’s maybe the first time he’s ever admitted that out loud, and it was easier to say to a quirky little waitress than to anyone actually in his life. He’s not actually certain what he means.The only thing that he does know for sure is that he’s angry. He’s so goddamn angry, and he always will be.
“I hope your dad’s heart was in the right place when he reached out to you.”
Jason snorts, but it really isn’t funny, is it? He didn't doubt his adoptive father had his heart in the right place when he reached out to invite Jason to eat at the hole in the wall Italian restaurant he used to crave as a kid. In fact, Bruce kept his heart stored in the most righteous of places. Places that happened to be too far away for Jason to reach no matter how high he jumped.
Stella stops, slowing to say goodbye at the front gate like they are teenagers on a first date. “Thanks for saving my purse.” Her eyebrows furrow, both pleasantly surprised and weirded out that they’d had this moment, he supposes. “And for the talk. It was…nice to meet you…”
“Jay,” he says. It’s a half-admission. She doesn’t need to know the full story, and he especially doesn’t want to risk her looking him up on the internet.
Stella smiles, unaware. “Jay.”
“Question. Why are we at the Mayor’s office?”
“I have a key.” Stella reaches into her purse and pulls out a bulky mess of keys. It’s extremely loud. It not only hurts his ears; it hurts his eyes too. There are keychains of every shape, size, color and material. One included a rather obnoxiously large photo of Stella and someone with short brown hair with glasses, who he can only assume is her aforementioned “gay loser” best friend. Who looks strangely familiar.
He throws up his hands. “Now, if you go in there and murder the Mayor or something, you know it’s my duty as a law abiding citizen to report you, right?”
Stella satlues with two fingers as she unlocks the gate. “Scouts honor.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Were you actually a Scout?”
Stella laughs. “Fuck no.”
“Don’t get your purse stolen,” Jason calls over his shoulder. He doesn’t look both ways before he crosses the street.
“I’ll try!” Stella yells back. He hears someone come out and talk to her, a friend by the sound of the laughter.
The waitress becomes nothing more than a memory after he turns a few corners, running his fingers along the cool metal of a gun. The Red Hood listens closely to the sounds of the city. Just like his dad taught him.