Eight weeks after the Iceberg Lounge incident, Matthew Gordon stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, listening to Gotham breathe beneath him. The city had changed since that night—fear permeating previously safe neighborhoods as Penguin and Black Mask's war spilled from the shadows into public view.
Three drive-by shootings this week alone. Two warehouses torched. A neighborhood bar frequented by Cobblepot's people bombed in broad daylight. Matt had followed it all through police scanners and his father's increasingly haggard demeanor.
He smiled, genuine happiness mixing with a bittersweet undercurrent. Their paths were diverging, him to Columbia, her to Harvard, a necessary separation for their respective futures. at least in his opinion. Matt typed a quick congratulatory reply, then returned the phone to his pocket.
Their friendship had shifted since the Iceberg Lounge. Eliza hadn't directly questioned his actions that night again, but he'd caught her studying him when she thought he wouldn't notice, comparing the blind classmate she'd known for years with whatever she'd glimpsed in that moment of darkness and violence.
And beneath her scrutiny lay something else—hormonal shifts, altered breathing patterns, subtle cues that Matt had pretended not to notice for months now. Eliza had feelings for him that went beyond friendship... yeah.
Feelings he couldn't reciprocate, not because he didn't care for her, but because their futures held different shapes.
His enhanced senses detected someone approaching the building—familiar footsteps, deliberately casual but with the controlled efficiency of extensive combat training. Rose Wilson. She'd been increasingly present in his awareness since that night at the Iceberg Lounge.
Matt adjusted his position, moving away from the rooftop edge before she spotted him. He had perhaps three minutes before she reached the roof. Time to decide how much of himself to reveal.
These past weeks had been a careful dance, training with Ted Grant for the final time (the old boxer giving him a warm hug and a gruff "you've learned all I can teach"), researching options for advancing his combat skills (a promising lead on a kung-fu master named Richard Dragon), and maintaining his cover as Commissioner Gordon's dutiful son preparing for Columbia Law.
All while the pulse of vigilantism beat stronger in his blood each night.
The rooftop door opened with a barely audible creak. Rose's heartbeat. Steady, controlled, slightly elevated from the climb, announced her presence before she spoke.
"Thought I might find you up here," she said, approaching with measured steps. "You have a thing for heights, don't you?"
Matt turned toward her voice, maintaining his blind persona despite knowing she had seen through it. "Rose. How did you find me?"
"Please." The dismissal in her tone was almost affectionate. "I've been tracking Black Mask's lieutenant all week. Finding a high school senior wasn't exactly challenging."
"I'm graduating next week, actually."
"Congratulations." She moved closer, coming to stand beside him at the roof's edge. "Columbia Law, right? Following in Murdock's footsteps."
Matt stiffened slightly. "Stalker much?"
"Know your allies. Know your enemies." She shrugged. "Haven't decided which category you fall into yet."
The night air shifted between them, charged with unspoken acknowledgments. Neither had directly referenced their coordinated takedown at the Iceberg Lounge since it happened.
"Why the meta-brawl?" she asked finally. "You clearly don't need the money. Is it the thrill? Testing your limits?"
Matt considered deflection, then rejected it. Rose had earned some measure of truth. "It's simpler there. No pretending. No hiding what I can do."
"And what can you do, exactly? Besides fight like someone who's definitely not blind."
A wry smile tugged at his lips. "I am blind. My eyes don't work. But everything else... compensates."
"Enhanced senses." She nodded, unsurprised. "So you're just 'refining' your other senses?"
"Something like that."
Silence stretched between them, comfortable despite the tension of revelations. Rose's heartbeat remained steady—no fear, no anxiety, just curiosity and something more complex underneath.
"Walk with me," she said suddenly. "I'm starving, and there's a decent Thai place three blocks over."
The invitation surprised him. "It's almost midnight."
"They're open till two. Come on, Gordon. Let's see how you navigate the real world."
He followed her down the fire escape, abandoning the pretense of needing assistance. Rose noticed, of course—her satisfied hmm confirming she'd been right about his capabilities.
They walked side by side through Gotham's streets, a peculiar pair. The commissioner's blind son and Deathstroke's daughter, each carrying legacies neither had chosen.
"You never answered my question," Matt said after they'd ordered pad thai and spring rolls to go. "Why are you in Gotham? Why work for someone like Cobblepot?"
Rose's heartbeat fluctuated subtly—the first genuine emotional response he'd detected from her. "You know who my father is."
Of course he did, ever since the lounge incident, Matt has gone down some rabbit holes. It all started with Rose, but then became something even more interesting, yet concerning.
Deathstroke, her father, the guy was grade-A filth. But incredibly skilled. Simply incredible. But Matt wasn't going to tell Rose that...
"I've made educated guesses."
"Slade Wilson. Deathstroke." She said it flatly, without pride or shame. "The world's deadliest assassin, depending on who you ask."
Matt simply nodded.
"I came to Gotham to prove something," she continued. "That I could operate in Batman's city without drawing his attention. That I could build my own reputation separate from my father's shadow."
"By working as Penguin's enforcer?"
Rose laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "It's a starting point. Everyone needs one."
They collected their food and continued walking, Rose leading them through side streets and alleyways with the confidence of someone who'd memorized Gotham's labyrinthine layout. Matt followed easily, aware they were heading toward her apartment in one of Gotham's few genuinely neutral territories, a small neighborhood too insignificant for the crime lords to fight over.
"What about you?" she asked, turning down a narrow street lined with pre-war buildings. "Why become a lawyer? You could do more direct good with your abilities. If that's what you care about."
The question echoed thoughts that had haunted Matt for months. "Law provides structure. Boundaries. Something I need."
"Because you're afraid of what you might do without them?" Her perception was uncomfortable in its accuracy.
Yes, Matt thought.
"Maybe." The admission felt significant, a truth he'd rarely acknowledged even to himself. "Or maybe because justice needs both kinds of fighters, those who work within the system and those who work outside it."
"Justice, huh.."
Rose stopped before a nondescript brownstone, keys jingling in her hand. "This is me. Third floor." She hesitated, then added, "You want to come up? We could eat."
Matt hesitated. The invitation carried implications beyond conversation—her pheromones had shifted subtly, her heartbeat accelerating just enough to register interest beyond just talking...
If he was honest with himself, he felt the pull too.
"Just to talk," he said, knowing the statement was both a boundary and a lie.
Rose's smile was audible in her voice. "Of course."
Her apartment was spartan but not austere—functional furniture, minimal decorations, but touches of personality in unexpected places. A collection of antique weapons displayed with obvious care. Books ranging from military history to classic Russian literature. Plants on the windowsill, carefully tended.
They ate directly from the containers, trading observations about Gotham's underground war and carefully avoiding personal revelations that cut too deep. Rose described Black Mask's operation with clinical precision. Matt shared insights about the GCPD's response limitations gleaned from his father's late-night phone calls.
It was strangely comfortable, this exchange of intelligence between two people who should, by all rights, be enemies.
"Your graduation is next week?" Rose asked, setting aside her empty container.
Matt nodded. "Friday. Then three months before Columbia starts."
"You'll be back in Gotham for breaks, though."
"Planning to keep tabs on me?" He meant it as a joke, but it emerged more serious than intended.
"Maybe." Rose moved closer on the couch, her body heat radiating against his side. "You're interesting, Matthew Gordon. Not many people can say they've surprised me."
The tension between them shifted, molecules rearranging in the air. Matt was acutely aware of her proximity, the subtle changes in her breathing, the scent of her skin beneath the overlay of Thai spices.
"We're on opposite sides of a line," he said quietly.
"Are we?" she challenged. "Last time I checked, you're not wearing a bat symbol and I'm not wearing my father's colors. Maybe the line isn't as clear as you think. Maybe, you're just pretending..."
Matt could list a dozen reasons why what came next was a bad idea. Could articulate every potential complication and consequence. But when Rose's hand touched his face, tracing the contours of his jaw with unexpected gentleness, rational thought receded.
Her lips met his with a certainty that belied the complexity of their situation. Matt responded instinctively, one hand moving to the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair. She tasted like spice and possibility.
They broke apart briefly, both breathing harder than the kiss alone warranted.
"This is probably a mistake," Matt murmured against her lips.
Rose laughed softly. "Probably. Want to stop?"
..."No."
He answered by pulling her closer, surrendering to the moment.
They moved from the couch to her bedroom in stages, clothing discarded along the way.