The sun had set hours ago, but the lights of Central City never truly went out. Neon signs flickered on brick walls, streetlights bathed sidewalks in a pale yellow hue, and the ever-present hum of electricity ran through the veins of the city like blood.
Upstairs, above a modest little bar tucked between a laundromat and an abandoned bookstore, a man lay tangled in his sheets. Black hair splayed across his pillow, a light trail of stubble shadowed his jaw. The alarm clock on his nightstand buzzed aggressively, flashing 12:30 AM in angry red digits.
Cal Maddox groaned.
He slapped the clock with a practiced hand and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The room was dimly lit, decorated in the way most single men's apartments were functional, but not exactly cozy. A few scattered records, a bookshelf that looked more like a junk pile, and a punching bag that hung unused in the corner.
Yawning, Cal dragged himself to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the weight of dreams he didn't remember. Ten minutes later, hair wet and shirt clinging to his chest, he headed downstairs.
The bar, The Bolt Hole, was quiet at this hour. It always was. Cal preferred it that way. He flipped on the overhead lights and the familiar low hum of fluorescent bulbs filled the room. One by one, he lifted the stools off the bar and set them down, the wood legs clacking on the floor. The smell of lemon cleaner and old whiskey lingered in the air.
He turned on the TV mounted above the bar, letting the hum of the Daily Planet's late-night news wash over the silence.
"Superman saved 239 people today when a passenger jet's engine failed over Metropolis—"
Cal rolled his eyes and chuckled under his breath as he wiped down the bar. "Show off."
As he polished glasses, there was a rap rap rap at the front window. He looked up, towel slung over his shoulder, and saw a familiar face grinning like an idiot behind the glass.
Cal opened the door and leaned against the frame. "Cisco, what is it now?"
Cisco Ramon pushed inside, his usual energy radiating like static. "Guess who just got hired by S.T.A.R. Labs?"
Cal smirked. "Let me guess Lady Gaga?"
Cisco gave him a look. "No, dumbass. Me. I just got hired! You know what this means…"
"That you're finally leaving and I get some peace and quiet?"
"Hell no!" Cisco plopped down on a stool and tapped the bar. "It means shots, so bring 'em around, bartender."
Cal rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He reached beneath the counter, pulled out a half-full bottle of rum, and set down two shot glasses. Pouring smoothly, he slid one over to Cisco.
"To me being the awesome," Cisco said, raising his glass.
Cal raised his. "To your inflated ego."
The glasses clinked and the rum burned its way down their throats.
Cisco wiped his mouth and checked the time on his phone. "Crap, I've got a date in an hour."
"Another one? What happened to Sarah?"
"Didn't work out."
"She no-showed, didn't she?"
Cisco hesitated, then looked down. "Yeah… but this time I'm picking her up. She can't no-show."
Cal gave him a knowing nod and Cisco says "You know, this could've been you if you just asked her out before we graduated."
Cal's eyes darkened for a second, and he looked away. "She'd just gotten out of a bad relationship. I didn't want to be that guy."
Cisco placed a hand on his shoulder, tone softening. "Yeah, I know. But it's been a year, Cal. Either go to Gotham and talk to her… or move on."
Cal didn't respond right away. He just nodded.
Cisco patted the bar. "Later, man."
"Later."
A Couple Hours Later
The bar was alive with music and chatter. Laughter bubbled up from booths, the clink of glasses filled the air, and Cal was back behind the counter, polishing yet another tumbler when the door creaked open.
A familiar face stepped in.
"You're under arrest, Jon Snow," said a deep voice.
Cal glanced up and smirked. "You gotta let that go, Joe."
Officer Joe West took off his hat and sat at the bar, eyes twinkling. "You really do look like him. And with that British accent you still haven't shaken even after 5 years in america."
"You make it sound like a crime," Cal cut in, laughing.
Joe leaned forward, grinning. "Don't act like you didn't love the attention. That Halloween party in college? People thought HBO sent a promo actor."
"I did look damn good in that fur cloak," Cal admitted.
Joe chuckled. "And you into redheads, just like him."
Cal gave him a knowing look, then lowered his eyes. "You still haven't called her?" Joe asked.
"I've been busy," Cal replied, waving at the bar's crowd like it explained everything.
"Uh huh. Can I get a beer?"
Cal handed him one without a word.
They drank, talked sports and work and mutual friends, but the conversation kept orbiting the same topic like a satellite locked in gravity.
Eventually, Joe stood up and stretched. "My shift's starting soon. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Cal said, offering a small wave as Joe left.
Later That Night
The bar was closed, stools flipped, lights dimmed. Upstairs, Cal stood at the stove, frying chicken and stirring a pot of boxed mac and cheese. It wasn't gourmet, but it was comfort food. The kind that sat heavy and warm in your stomach.
He sat on the couch, plate in hand, TV flickering quietly in front of him. But his eyes weren't on the screen.
They were on his phone.
A picture glowed against the darkness him and Barbara Gordon, her bright red hair tucked behind her ear, both of them laughing.
"Come on, you pussy… just call her."
He opened her contact. Hovered over the call button.
Then… turned the phone off and tossed it onto the couch.
He got up and started pacing. "What would I even say? 'Hey, I know it's been a year, but want to catch up? I can come over to Gotham?'"
The idea struck him like lightning.
"Cisco's right," he muttered. "I could… surprise her."
The Next Day
The sun rose over a new skyline. No longer the clean-cut towers of Central City because this was Gotham.
Gotham was old stone and iron and endless shadow. Fog rolled through the streets like breath from a sleeping dragon. Gargoyles loomed over crumbling rooftops.
Cal pulled up in his black camero, parking just down the block from an old apartment building. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Fixed his hair. Adjusted his collar.
A bouquet of fresh flowers sat in the passenger seat.
"You've got this," he muttered, grabbing the flowers and stepping out.
He walked to the building, his boots crunching gravel and broken glass. He stared up at the third-floor window. Light was on. He swallowed, forced himself forward, and knocked.
Silence.
Then a voice, muffled and familiar. "I'm coming!"
The door opened.
Barbara Gordon stood there, barefoot in an oversized hoodie, red hair in a messy bun. Her eyes widened.
"Cal?!"
He lowered the flowers to reveal his smile. "Hey, Barb."
She stared for a heartbeat, stunned. Then, like a flood breaking through a dam, she surged forward and threw her arms around him.
He lowered the flowers and hugged her back tightly.