Chapter 30: Roman catches Reese by the hips as he stumbles forward, his grip firm enough to bruise. 'You should be resting,' Roman growls, but Reese just grins, fingers tangling in Roman's blood-matted hair. 'Couldn't miss seeing you like this,' Reese murmurs, pressing a reckless kiss to Roman's jaw, tasting iron and sweat.
The click of the elevator doors parting was as sharp as a bone breaking in the silent foyer. Reese heard it from the depths of the sofa, where he’d been dozing fitfully, a dull ache radiating from his side with every heartbeat.
He knew the rhythm of Roman’s steps. This was different. Not the measured, controlled pace of a man surveying his domain, but something heavier, punctuated by a slight drag. Reese opened his eyes, pushing himself up on an elbow. The movement tugged at his sutures, a bright spark of pain that cleared the sleep fog instantly.
Roman stood just inside the penthouse, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city’s neon blush painted him in sickly pinks and greens. He was breathing—not heavily, but with a deliberate, open-mouthed rhythm Reese recognized. The adrenaline dump. The post-fight hum.
His suit was ruined. The expensive charcoal wool was darkened in patches, one sleeve nearly black and clinging to his forearm. Blood. Not a spray, but a soaked-in saturation. A vivid, brutal slash of crimson streaked across his white collar. More speckled his jawline, dried to a rusty brown.
He wasn’t wearing the mask.
That was the first thing Reese’s brain latched onto. The raw, sharp-planed face was exposed, his blue eyes glittering with a focused, banked fury. He was standing perfectly still, as if listening to the echo of the violence he’d just left behind still ringing in his muscles.
Reese sat all the way up, the blanket pooling around his waist. He didn’t think. The thought was a luxury his body didn’t allow. He just moved, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa, biting back a grunt as his abdominal muscles clenched.
“You look like shit,” Reese said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
Roman’s eyes cut to him, the movement slow, predatory. He didn’t speak. He just watched as Reese, moving with a stiff, wounded care, pushed to his feet. Every step was a negotiation with pain, but Reese crossed the cold marble toward him anyway, drawn like iron to a magnet.
The smell hit him halfway. Copper, salt, sweat, and beneath it all, the sharp, clean tang of ozone—like the air after a lightning strike. Gunpowder. Electricity. Death.
Reese stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Roman’s body, to see the fine spray of blood misted across his cheekbone. Up close, the damage was clearer. A fresh, deep split in Roman’s lower lip. The knuckles of his right hand were raw and swollen, the skin split over the bones.
“Who won?” Reese asked, his voice lower now.
A muscle ticked in Roman’s jaw. “There was only ever one possible outcome.”
His voice was a dry rasp, stripped of its usual polished timbre by shouting or smoke.
Reese smirked. He didn’t ask for details. The evidence was painted across the man in front of him. He reached out, his own fingers steady despite the ache in his side. He didn’t go for the wound, for the blood. He placed his hands flat on Roman’s chest, over the ruin of his suit jacket. He could feel the furious, racing heartbeat beneath the layers of fabric and gore.
Roman remained statue-still, his breath warming the space between them.
Then Reese leaned in, closing the final inch, and threw his arms around Roman’s neck, pressing his face into the blood-stiffened collar. He held on, ignoring the flare of agony from his own injury, ignoring the wet, metallic smell, ignoring everything but the solid, living reality of the man.
For three seconds, Roman didn’t move. He was a pillar of granite and carnage.
Then, with a sound that was almost a sigh, his arms came up around Reese’s back. One hand, the injured one, settled carefully between Reese’s shoulder blades. The other clamped possessively over the nape of his neck, fingers digging into his short hair. It wasn’t a gentle embrace. It was a claim. An anchoring. Roman buried his face against Reese’s temple, his breath hot and harsh.
They stood like that in the silent, neon-washed foyer, two damaged things holding each other upright. Reese could feel the fine tremors running through Roman’s frame—not fear, but the system coming down from a lethal high.
“You’re getting blood all over me,” Reese mumbled into his shoulder, his words muffled.
“It’s my blood on you,” Roman muttered back, his voice vibrating through Reese’s bones. “That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Reese didn’t argue. He just held on tighter, his fingers tangling in the hair at the base of Roman’s skull. The bite mark on his own shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse, a sympathetic echo.
Finally, Roman pulled back, his hands sliding down to grip Reese’s biceps. He held him at arm’s length, his gaze scanning Reese’s face, then dropping to the bandage visible under his thin t-shirt. “You should be horizontal.”
“So should you. You’re leaking on the marble. It’s a bitch to clean.”
A ghost of something flickered in Roman’s eyes. Not a smile, but the memory of one. He released one of Reese’s arms to shrug out of his ruined jacket. It fell to the floor with a wet, heavy slap. His shirt beneath was scarcely better, the crisp white linen stuck to his skin in dark, damp patches.
“I need a shower,” he said, turning and walking toward the bedroom, his stride regaining its usual command, though a slight stiffness remained.
Reese followed, a shadow drawn to the source of the heat. “You need stitches. Your hand’s a mess.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’ll get bone infection. It’ll rot off. Then you’ll be Black Stump. Less intimidating.”
Roman paused at the bedroom door, looking back over his shoulder. The neon from the main room caught the blood on his face, painting him in stark, monstrous relief. “Your bedside manner is atrocious.”
“Yeah, well, I learned from the best.” Reese gestured vaguely at his own bandaged side.
In the bathroom, the clinical white light was unforgiving. Roman stood at the sink, staring at his reflection. Reese leaned against the doorframe, watching as Roman peeled the blood-soaked shirt off. The skin of his torso was a map of old, silvery scars and fresh, angry marks. A long, shallow slice ran from his ribcage to his hipbone, oozing steadily. More bruises were already flowering across his ribs, deep purple against the pale skin.
“See?” Reese said, pushing off the frame and moving to the vast glass-walled shower. He turned the taps, steam beginning to billow. “You’re a fucking mess.”
Roman didn’t answer. He was methodically cleaning the blood from his knuckles under the cold tap, his face a mask of detached concentration. Reese walked over, took his wrist, and guided him toward the shower. Roman didn’t resist.
Under the scalding spray, the blood loosened its grip. It sluiced off Roman’s body in pink-tinged rivers, swirling around the drain. Reese stayed outside the glass, leaning against the counter, a towel in his hands. He watched as Roman braced his hands against the tile, head bowed, letting the water pound the tension from his neck and shoulders.
The violence was washing away, but the man beneath it remained—all hard angles and ruthless intent.
When the water shut off, Roman emerged, steaming and clean, water sheeting off him. Reese tossed him the towel. Roman caught it one-handed and began to dry himself with the same efficiency he did everything.
“The lip needs glue,” Reese said, nodding at Roman’s face. “The hand needs stitches. The side… might just need a stern talking-to.”
Roman scrubbed the towel over his hair. “There’s a kit. In the mirror cabinet.”
Reese found the small, professional-grade medical kit. He pointed to the closed toilet seat. “Sit.”
For a moment, he thought Roman would refuse, would reassert the vast, unbridgeable distance between them. But Roman sat, dropping the towel around his hips, presenting his split knuckles.
Reese stood between his spread knees, his own injuries complaining as he bent to the task. He cleaned the wounds with antiseptic, his touch deliberately firm. Roman didn’t flinch. The silence was thick, charged with the aftermath.
“Who were they?” Reese asked quietly, as he threaded the curved needle.
“Does it matter?”
“Just making conversation. Distracting you from the pain.”
“I don’t feel pain.”
“Bullshit,” Reese said, and pushed the needle through the torn flesh of his knuckle.
Roman’s breath hissed in, but that was all. His other hand came to rest on Reese’s hip, not gripping, just resting there, a point of contact. Reese worked carefully, pulling the silk thread tight, sealing the split skin. He tied it off and clipped the ends.
“The lip,” Reese said, tilting Roman’s chin up with two fingers.
He applied the surgical glue to the cut, pressing the edges together. He was close enough to see the faint stubble on Roman’s jaw, the fatigue in the lines around his eyes. This was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen him—clean, wounded, sitting half-naked in a cloud of steam.
Roman’s eyes, clear and blue and terrifyingly direct, watched him the entire time.
“There,” Reese murmured, pulling back slightly. “Almost pretty again.”
Roman’s hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, pulling him incrementally closer. “You’re still standing. I told you to rest.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I didn’t get shot.”
“No, you just decided to fistfight a butcher shop. Big improvement.”
A faint, real smirk touched Roman’s glued lip. It was there and gone, a crack in the armor. His hand pressed more firmly against Reese’s back, urging him closer until their bodies were almost touching. Reese could feel the heat coming off his skin.
“You hugged me,” Roman said, his voice low.
Reese felt a defensive shrug forming, but he stopped it. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Seemed like you needed it.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Okay,” Reese said, not moving away.
Roman’s gaze held his, searching for something—mockery, pity, weakness. Reese just looked back, his own expression open, tired, and devoid of guile. He was hurting. Roman was hurting. That was the simple, unadorned truth of it.
Roman’s other hand came up, cupping the side of Reese’s face. His thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made Reese’s breath catch. The touch was at odds with everything—the blood on the floor, the fresh stitches, the cold void of the penthouse around them.
“You are a complication I did not anticipate,” Roman said, almost to himself.
“You don’t strike me as a guy who likes simple.”
Roman’s thumb stroked once more, then his hand fell away. The moment broke. He stood up, forcing Reese to take a step back. He walked out of the bathroom, leaving Reese standing amidst the steam and the scent of antiseptic.
By the time Reese limped into the bedroom, Roman was pulling on a fresh pair of black trousers. He moved with his usual economical grace, the injuries seemingly forgotten. He didn’t look at Reese.
“Sleep,” Roman commanded, buttoning his cuffs. “I have to go out.”
“Now? You look like you just went twelve rounds with a woodchipper.”
“Business doesn’t sleep. And neither do the vultures who think a few bruises make me weak.” He turned, his eyes now cold and focused, the brief vulnerability locked away. “You will stay here. You will heal. That is not a request.”
Reese opened his mouth to argue, but Roman cut him off with a look.
“The next time you step out of this apartment without my express permission,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “I will not be gentle. I will break both your knees. You will heal in a bed you cannot leave. Do you understand?”
It wasn’t a metaphor. Reese saw the absolute certainty in his eyes. He nodded, once.
Roman walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He didn’t turn back. “The jacket on the floor. Burn it.”
Then he was gone, the soft click of the lock echoing in the vast, silent space.
Reese stood alone in the bedroom, the smell of blood and ozone slowly being replaced by the sterile, empty scent of conditioned air. He looked at the tangled, blood-stained towel on the floor, then at the closed door. He slowly made his way back to the foyer.
Roman’s ruined suit jacket lay where it had fallen, a dark, shapeless heap on the polished marble. Reese bent, groaning at the protest in his side, and picked it up. It was heavy, damp, reeking of violence and sweat.
He carried it to the industrial incinerator chute in the kitchenette, opened the small, fortified door, and shoved the jacket in. He watched as the automatic mechanism engaged, swallowing the evidence of the night whole.
For a long time, he just stood there, leaning against the cold metal of the chute, listening to the distant, phantom sound of the city. The ghost of Roman’s touch still burned on his cheek. The threat about his knees felt like a promise.
He was a complication. And complications, in Roman Sionis’s world, had a habit of getting simplified.
He stared at the closed incinerator chute for another minute. The penthouse felt different now, emptier and louder at the same time. His side throbbed in a dull, persistent rhythm that seemed to sync with the flashing neon signs across the street.
A shower. That was a practical thought. He needed to wash the dried sweat from his own skin, the ghost of Roman’s blood from his hands.
The master bathroom was still steamy, smelling of Roman’s soap and the sharp medicinal tang of antiseptic. Reese avoided looking at the spot where he’d stitched Roman’s knuckles. He stripped slowly, each movement a careful negotiation. He studied his reflection in the fogged mirror. The person looking back was pale, with dark circles under wary eyes. The bandage on his side was stark against his skin.
He looked like what he was: a weapon that had been used hard and put away damaged.
The hot water was a shock at first, then a relief. He let it beat directly on his neck and shoulders, loosening muscles held rigid with pain and tension for days. He washed his hair with Roman’s expensive, sandalwood-scented shampoo, working the lather through the short, choppy strands. The ritual felt alien, almost indulgent.
He took his time. He soaped every inch of himself, his fingers tracing the lines of his own body—the lean muscle of his arms, the familiar landscape of tattoos, the sharp angles of his hips. He was careful around the bandage, patting it dry with a soft towel after he turned the water off.
Wrapping another towel around his waist, he went back to the bedroom. Roman’s walk-in closet was a curated museum of menace: row upon row of identical black, grey, and charcoal suits. Dress shirts hung like ghosts. Reese bypassed them. In a drawer, he found soft things. Black sweatpants. A grey henley made of a cotton so fine it felt like silk.
He pulled them on. The clothes were slightly too large, the sleeves hanging past his wrists, the hem of the shirt brushing mid-thigh. He rolled the sleeves up carefully, twice. The fabric smelled faintly of Roman—the crisp, clean scent of his laundry service, devoid of the gun oil and ozone that clung to the man himself.
Back in the main living space, he didn’t lie down. He paced, the silence grating on him. The emptiness was a physical presence. He stopped at the panel by the door, studying the touchscreen interface for the penthouse’s concierge and services. He found the menu for the brutalist steakhouse two blocks over, the one Roman used when he didn’t want to be seen in public.
Reese ordered without overthinking it. Two ribeyes, bloody. Roasted potatoes with too much garlic. A kale salad, because the thought made him smirk. He added a bottle of the Burgundy Roman kept in the climate-controlled unit, the one he’d pointed to once and called “adequate.”
He didn’t set the table. He left everything in the insulated delivery bags on the kitchen island. He poured one glass of the wine, a deep ruby red, and carried it to the sofa. He sat. He didn’t sprawl. He sat upright at one end, tucked his feet underneath him, and took a slow sip.
The wine was complex and smoky, tasting like old money and damp earth. He held the glass by the stem, watching the light from the city catch its edge.
He waited. He didn’t turn on the television. He just watched the lights of Gotham, a silent, chaotic galaxy below. The simple act of sitting there, in clothes that weren’t his, waiting with food and a drink, felt more vulnerable than facing down a barrel. It was a different kind of exposure. He wasn’t projecting strength or defiance. He was just… there. Available. He’d made an effort, a quiet one, and the possibility that Roman would either ignore it or weaponize it sat heavily in his stomach.
The elevator’s arrival was a soft, metallic sigh. Reese didn’t get up. He took another sip of wine, his heartbeat picking up just slightly.
Roman stepped into the foyer. He’d changed again. A fresh, dark suit, his hair still damp at the temples from a second shower taken elsewhere. The cut on his lip was a dark line. He carried the night’s cold air in with him, along with a new tension, a different kind of weariness behind his eyes.
His gaze swept the room, missing nothing—the delivery bags on the island, the open bottle of wine, Reese seated on the sofa. His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in assessment. He shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a chair, and walked toward the kitchen.
“You ordered from Goliath,” Roman said, his voice flat. He opened one of the containers, releasing the rich, fatty scent of seared steak.
“Figured you’d be hungry,” Reese said from the sofa. “I was.”
Roman poured himself a glass of wine. He didn’t bring his food to the table. He came to the living area, standing over Reese, looking down at him. His eyes traced the lines of the borrowed henley, the careful roll of the sleeves, the way Reese was deliberately, pointedly, staying seated.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” Roman observed.
“Mine smell like alley,” Reese said, meeting his gaze. “These were clean.”
Roman took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving Reese’s face. He was looking for the angle, the play, the usual defensive sarcasm. Reese didn’t offer any. He just sat, allowing the scrutiny, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the hard set of his own jaw.
“You’re sitting,” Roman finally said.
“You told me to rest. It’s… rest-adjacent.”
A long, silent moment stretched between them. The city’s light bled across the space, painting Roman in monochrome. He reached out with his free hand, not towards Reese’s face, but to the collar of the henley. His fingers brushed the fabric where it lay against Reese’s clavicle.
“This is new,” Roman murmured, more to himself.
Reese didn’t know if he meant the shirt or the quiet compliance. He didn’t ask. He just held still, feeling the faint drag of Roman’s knuckles against his skin.
Roman’s hand retreated. He took another sip of wine, then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “The steak will get cold.”
He turned and walked back to the island, pulling out a stool. He sat, his back to Reese, and began to eat straight from the container, efficient and focused. It was a dismissal, but not a cruel one. It was an acceptance.
Reese let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He settled back into the cushions, the tension in his shoulders easing. He took another sip of the adequate wine, watching the rigid line of Roman’s back as he ate alone in the vast, dark room. He’d shown a piece of something fragile. Roman had seen it, had touched it, and hadn’t chosen to break it.
For now, that was enough.