Chapter Text
You’ve only seen your neighbor a few times. Usually, when you come home from your classes, he’s walking out of his place and climbing onto his motorcycle. You’d yet to see him leave his house during the daytime and had only interacted with him maybe a few times —if seconds-long eye contact could be considered an interaction. By the looks of it, he’s around your age, taller than you, with dark hair and broad shoulders. The low light of the night doesn’t allow you to get a good look at his features, but he’s also never stood anywhere long enough for you to even try. Though given that you live in the Narrows, you don’t fault him; loitering leaves you vulnerable. Of course this applies to most of Gotham, but the Narrows, you’d been warned, is the worst for it. You learned to be quick when going from your car to your apartment, groceries sit in the passenger and you hang every bag on your arms to save yourself from needing more than one trip. You often find yourself pressing the lock button on your car multiple times so you can hear the beep— one time to the point that a neighbor called you out on it pretty sure it’s locked he’d chided— and you check your door locks at least three times before you settle into your apartment. It’s a studio, the only other doors lead to the bathroom and to a closet, so you always make sure that your one point of entry and exit is secure. Though deep down you know that if someone wants to break in, they will, your door could only take so much force, and your car was easily vulnerable to a lock-picking or window-smashing if someone claimed it as a target.
More recently, though, you’ve noticed that there has been a drop in crime in this particular complex and even the surrounding buildings. You’ve heard less sirens and not been a witness to so many fights at the other end of the parking lot. You hadn’t even seen that creep that usually stands outside his door and catcalls you while he smokes, which meant you could spare a few seconds to make sure any eggs or bread weren’t getting smashed by the way you carried them. The change was a little odd, but you had no plans to complain. In the years you’ve been here, your car has fallen victim to one break-in and one attempted lock-picking (that you stopped by spraying the guy with mace) and you’d like to keep it that way. You can’t afford many repairs, even with free college— thanks to Wayne Enterprises— and incredibly cheap rent.
“-but I don’t even know his name,” you reply to your friend Mara, who’s been grilling you about the boy next door. You’re sitting across from each other at a table near the stacks in your university’s library. You’d come with the intentions to study and snack, but that had lasted about ten minutes before Mara slammed her book shut and started on a rant about one of her professors. Something about requiring online discussion questions, even though they were already holding discussions in class. Somehow, the topic had slipped its way into her questions about the neighbor to your left. You’d brought him up to her when he’d moved in a few months ago, but you’d both been too busy to cover much.
“Ask him,” she says, like it's that easy.
“Uh, no?” You could definitely not just walk up to him and ask his name, not when you’ve never spoken a word to each other.
“Why not? It sounds like you want to know more about him. A name would be a good start,”
“I do not,”
“Oh, I see, you want to keep him a mystery,” she wiggles her eyebrows, “Don’t want to ruin your image of him, your little fantasy.”
“I do not have a fantasy about him.” Your gaze travels the tables nearby, and the thought that someone may be listening to your conversation makes your cheeks feel warm.
“Anyways, I say talk to him, at least introduce yourself like a normal neighbor would, that’s how I met my girlfriend,” she shrugs, like anything in this city is normal.
“Besides, he could be… oh, I don’t know, dangerous?… Maybe you just got lucky with Hannah.”
“I like to think it was fate,” she’s wistful.
You made your point and, thankfully, she concedes, shifting the topic toward the sweater she picked out the other day for Hannah. Though that little sigh she gives and the expression that crosses her features let you know she’s not actually letting this go. Sometimes you’re not sure which one of you actually grew up in Gotham, she acts like this place isn’t teeming with crime. Then again, maybe it’s because she’s lived here all her life that she can decipher red flags more easily than you or she tries despite them and always prepares for the worst. You’d rather not risk the worst. You’re lucky she talked to you first in PSY 101; otherwise, you are sure you’d be sitting at this table alone.
After your study session with Mara, you head home. You’re stepping up the curb toward your front door, Chinese-takeout in hand, when you spot him. Your mystery man is at his door, his back to you, and for a minute, you consider it. Your eyes travel the slopes of his shoulders and down his biceps. He seems solid, athletic, and his gray shirt makes no effort to hide it. He’s got his bike helmet tucked to his side as he uses his free hand to twist the key in the lock.
Talk to him
Mara’s voice demands in your mind, but then his head slowly turns right, in your direction, and you swear he can sense your stare. You immediately fumble with your keys and get your door open, not allowing yourself even a glimpse of his face. You feel heat rush to your cheeks once more and thank your faulty porch light that you hadn’t bothered turning it on before you left this morning.
You can try again another day, when your brain isn’t fried from work and class, when you can trust yourself to speak properly. He was there, barely even five feet away, you could already feel the words stuttering on your tongue, the anxiety of it all creeping up your throat. You weren’t smooth like Mara; you couldn’t just walk up to someone and start a conversation like you were already friends. You could handle small talk when you needed to, but what small talk could you make with him? It was dark out and gloomy like Gotham always was, so cross out anything weather-related. Maybe next time you could comment on his bike, it’s nice. You didn’t know much about motorcycles, but it looks expensive and well taken care of. You’d always wanted to see what it was like to ride on one, but there was no chance in hell you'd bring that up.
You lock your door behind you as you try not to think too hard about the fact that he caught you staring. Instead, you focus on cleaning up your place and finding something to eat. This man could stay a mystery. Innocence is bliss and all that.