Octopus Spinell

You haven't been feeling well. 

Every waking minute felt like a gargantuan effort to keep breathing, to keep blinking, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. You had a perpetual fever and a cold sweat forming rings of perspiration on your night clothes- you couldn't find the strength to change, much less shower or eat. Concerning eating, your stomach felt like a black hole consuming you from the inside out. No matter how much food you stuffed down your face (entire loaves of bread, boxes of cereal, frozen fish and shrimps, raw eggs, uncooked cuts of meat), it never quelled the ache.

Alfred had been the only one to note your deteriorating health, and when he had the time in between taking care of the rest of the family and patching them up after patrols, he tried his best to soothe your pain. The painkillers would give you five blissful hours of relief, dreamless sleep, before you find yourself startling back awake, the pain in your stomach worse than before. Maybe it was appendicitis? 

Alfred tried to do a preliminary check, but found nothing indicating illness or organ failure; you can actively see his patience for your pain decreasing. You're not making it up; you feel like you're dying. Alfred doesn't seem to think so, he's stopped giving you those little white tabs of heaven- codeine, then cocodomal, then just paracetamol, before just soothing lemon tea. You're not making up this pain. 

You haven't been feeling well. 

You've been hearing a voice in your head- auditory hallucinations from mental exhaustion, you had tried to reason-. The guttural foreign tone of the voice, the way it'd whisper to you in the dark of night as you tossed and turned, clutching your stomach, the way it promised relief from all your pain if you simply gave into it- you were starting to believe you were on the verge of psychosis. You avoided mirrors; the first time seeing those black pools of all-seeing nothingness had been enough to send your heart into overdrive and freak you out enough to start crying. 

Tim had found you shortly after, holding your knees to yourself as you wracked out tired sobs. He'd been concerned at first, trying to find out what was wrong, when he discovered no physical injury and your almost nonsensical ramblings about seeing something else's eyes in the mirror, he remembered Alfred's words about your 'illness'. 

It made sense, Tim reasoned to himself, that you were acting out to get attention; the rest of the family was very busy with vigilante life and couldn't spend much time with you, but you were eighteen now, too old for childish shenanigans like faking illnesses. He'd helped you back to your room like a parent humouring a child about checking for monsters under the bed, and tucked you in, closing the door after him- leaving you to the dark, to the pain, and to the voice that cooed at your loneliness and despair. 

You haven't been feeling well. 

It was apparent now as you stumbled slowly to breakfast. Alfred had summoned you from your room, at his wit's end with your Munchausen's act. He declared that you'd feel better after getting out of your bed and having breakfast with the rest of the family while forcing your curtains open and opening the window- the light stung, and the shrill chirping of the birds rang in your ears. He'd left your door open for you to follow. 

Maybe you were just making all this up? You thought to yourself as you held the porcelain basin with shaking, sweaty hands. Eyes downturned from the mirror, you refused to look into it even now, a nauseating feeling in your stomach forming as you thought about the monster that was waiting for you inside it. What the fuck were you thinking? There was no monster, no pain, no illness; you were fine. Alfred said so; you weren't sick. The piercing pain in your stomach was probably just hunger pangs. You could smell breakfast; your disgust with the smell of grease and cooked meat was probably hormones or something.

You shove your feet into your slippers and stumble slowly to breakfast. You were dizzy, so dizzy. Your breathing was short. The pain in your stomach was spreading to your lungs. The sounds of your family laughing and chattering made you want to cry at how much it was grating on your sensitive ears. You pushed open the door to the dining room, and no one looked your way besides Alfred, who was nodding in approval at your effort to rejoin normal activities before resuming his usual tasks. 

You wanted to cry for him to come back from the kitchen, your head was feeling fuzzy and warm, and you could barely breathe. Something is wrong! Something is wrong, and your family isn't even looking at you.

Dick is teasing Jason about the new romance book trilogy he's obsessed with. 'They're ignoring you.'

Tim is debating with Damian about some details of a case. 'You don't even exist to them.'

Stephanie is laughing as she fills Cass in on the details of her patrol last night. 'You exist to me, you're all that is.'

Bruce is reading documents on his tablet while also listening to Duke's words about his latest basketball game. 'You can be so much more, we can be so much more.'

You clutch your hands to your head. This voice- why won't it shut up! You're not crazy, you're not hearing voices, you're not in pain, you're not dying. Why won't your stupid body get the memo? You're not trying to be an attention seeker- how can you be if your family doesn't even look at you when you're standing right here? You're a good kid, the best one could ask for, the kind that doesn't even get upset that their family doesn't actually know them, the kind that understands that the needs of the many, the needs of Gotham, take precedence over their need for love, to be noticed, to be held or comforted. One kid doesn't matter in the face of an entire city. 

"-Will you sit down?" You missed the first part of Alfred's words, his impassive, perhaps slightly annoyed expression stings, he must think you're on your Munchausen's act again. You find the family looking at you, really looking at you now. Your shaking figure, the dark eye bags, the sweating and pale face. 

Bruce looks back down at his screen, "Do as Alfred says, kiddo." That's it. The first acknowledgement in months, followed by complete dismissal. The rest of the family does the same. Why won't they look at you? Resuming their previous conversations as if you're not falling apart right in front of them. Why can't they see you dying in front of them? Like one more step isn't going to make you spew onto the white marble floor.

There's bubbling rage in your stomach.  You exist, don't you? Why won't they look at you? Can't they see you? WHY CAN'T THEY SEE YOU? "WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME?!" The words spill from your lips before you can even think about stopping them, like something else is forcing them from your throat. It's all but snarled out, your voice cracking with anger and pain and everything you've been suffering over the last weeks.

The table stills in utter shock. Never once had you dared to raise your voice like that at authority figures or family members.

Bruce places his tablet down, ready to presumably lecture you or something- he doesn't know how to approach this. You'd never been a rebellious kid- well behaved to the point he'd wished you'd do something stupid like a normal kid, he just wanted you to be a normal kid like he never got to be, like your siblings never got to be. This was the first time he'd ever seen you act out, a little late for a rebellious phase, but he'd take it.

He doesn't get to even speak because you're suddenly hunching over and vomiting onto the floor. Dark red spewing from your mouth as you cough and gag on the blood. 

Jason, who's closest to you currently, leaps from his seat to avoid being hurled on. "Jesus fucking christ!"

Alfred's immediately by your side, pushing your hair back and shoving a bucket in front of you for you to empty into. Your chest is hurting more from the heaving, and you can't help the tired, pathetic sobs. Alfred's petting your hair, tone heavy with guilt, "Oh dear, oh dear, you're okay."

You think it's Bruce beside you also, big hands pulling your shirt up enough to scan over your stomach, looking for bruising- any indication of trauma which could result in internal bleeding- people don't just start throwing up blood for no reason. He finds nothing, and that worries him more. The rest of your family is whispering, watching in concern when Bruce picks you up in his arms like a little kid. "Ready the medbay, Alfred. Timothy, I want to know when this started and how." 

"On it," Tim follows after them, opening his laptop to the manor security footage. If you'd injured yourself here, he'd find out. 

"Where does it hurt?" Alfred is asking as Bruce lays you down on a bed. You gesture to your chest and up, sobbing as you choke out, "All of it, it hurts- I told you it hurt, I told you- I told you!-"

He shushes you, pushing you some morphine for the pain, "-I know, I know, I'm sorry, dear, I'm sorry." He exchanges words with Bruce over you, but the immediate absence of pain finally gives you enough relief to sleep- you've been awake for three days at the point. Your eyes flutter shut, and the dreamless void is a welcome embrace.

"Nothing?" Bruce sighs.

Tim rubs his forehead, the gesture he does when something is particularly confusing him; it doesn't happen often. "I've checked all the manor's footage from when the symptoms started, the week beforehand, the school's footage too- nothing happened which would cause this. We're gonna need Dr Thompkins, an MRI and a tox screen, most likely, because I can't tell you what happened or what to do to fix it." 

He's tucking your still form into the bed properly, like he had done weeks ago, thinking you were just pretending to be ill. God, he was supposed to be smarter than this; he, of all people, should have caught this. Now his ignorance has resulted in his baby sibling on the verge of being hospitalised or... he can't even consider that you could be dying. He won't let it happen. 

"I must personally apologise, Master Bruce." Tim glances over at Alfred. The usually stoic butler is bearing an expression he's never seen before: remorse, guilt, and anger. His hands are shaking as he clasps them together, looking over your bedridden form. "I had dismissed this as some juvenile attempt to gain attention. The progression of this ailment is a direct result of my indolence, if I hadn't failed to act, perhaps we may have sooner-"

Bruce raises his hand to stop the butler, "What is done is done. We're all guilty in part for letting someone under our roof deteriorate to such a state without notice. How quickly can Leslie have the clinic ready for us?"

"She says in five minutes, she was already working late," Tim looks up from where he's in correspondence with the doctor, "I'll come with-"

"No." Bruce picks up your sleeping figure. He remembers holding you like this when you were so much smaller, when all of you could fit on his chest entirely, little feet cupped in his hand, precious head tucked under his chin- when had he stopped holding you? "I need you to find whatever you can- if this was an attack meant for us, we'll need to know the source to find an antidote or cure. Contact Oracle if you have to."

Tim nods in understanding, even if his tensed shoulders betray his hesitation. The other members of the Bat-family who have gathered in the other atrium of the Batcave are ready to volunteer to go in his stead. Damian is particularly impassioned, arguing something about 'blood siblings' and how you're 'the heir' (everything he's refused to acknowledge you as until this very moment- if anyone realises, they don't call him out), and that means he must obviously be the one who accompanies his father to the hospital. 

Dick is the one who ends up going as the oldest; he's driving as Bruce holds you in the back seat of the Batmobile, cleaning the dried blood from the corner of your mouth. You feel too thin, malnourished, the fat of your cheeks sunken in- the more he gazes at your face, the more he realises how obvious it was that something was wrong. Why hadn't he just looked at your face and seen this? How can he hold the title of the world's greatest detective if he can't even clock a life-threatening illness in his own child? 

"Bruce. We're here." Dick's voice is pulling from his thoughts, and it's a blur as they get you inside the clinic. Leslie's waiting, and her usually steely resolve falters when she sees you. She's never met you before, which is a good thing; she's never had to stitch you back together, pump poison from your system, snap bones back into place like your other family members- you were the one kid Bruce had told her was a civilian. So why were you here now?

She's filled in on the details as you're wheeled to the MRI machine, she almost curses them out right then and there- you'd been like this for weeks, and they hadn't brought you here sooner? She manages to maintain her professionalism by a hair's thread, instructing Dick and Bruce to wait in the adjacent room as she situates you inside the MRI machine. 

She enters the observation room to Dick pacing and Bruce muttering, "How long until we can know the results?" His dark eyes watch you through the glass as Leslie begins to activate the machine, the high-pitched whirring audible as the lights flash on. 

"Usually it'd-" Her words are cut off by the sound of your screams. Bruce's blood runs cold, and Dick freezes.

It's a sound of abject torture; it's a sound he never thought he'd hear from you, never wants to hear it again- your legs, the only thing visible of you to them right now, are seizing violently- "Turn it off!" Bruce shouts, already rushing from the room towards where you are, Dick close behind. Leslie quickly powers down the machine, and the bed extends out.

You're awake now, gasping desperately as you sit up quickly. Bruce is holding you by your arms, "Hey, hey- breathe, breathe, in and out, sweetheart." You clutch onto him as you take in shuddering gasps. Dick is rubbing your back, and Leslie is the last to come in, stethoscope on and flashlight prepared to take lucidity tests. 

You follow her directions, following the light and letting her hear your heart, "Are you doing okay? Any pain, on a scale of one to ten, one being not much and ten being excruciating, describe your pain levels, please."

"S-seven," You're slumped over in Bruce's arms, stomach still aching, the pervading hunger is all that's on your mind. 'No more machine.' Oh, and the voice is back.

'We hunger. We will eat or die.' Sure, disembodied freaky voice in your head, let's eat. You don't care anymore; you just want the hurt to go away. 

You're barely there as Doctor Thompkins explains that she wants to keep you for observation as they wait for the results of the MRI, the little they managed to get, that Bruce and Dick can come back in the morning and that you'd have the very best care as you stayed here. When had you been changed into a hospital gown? You're led to a bed that's not your own, and the door closes behind the nurse after she gets you ready for bed. It's silent for a beat.

'You wish for the pain to stop, little human?' Yes, creepy voice, just make it end.

'Permit me control of the vessel.' Fine.

It's been three days since you went missing.

Leslie had been the one to break the news, apparently, the day nurses went to check on patients during the shift changes and found you absent from your room. The nurse questioned Leslie whether you scheduled to be discharged during the night as soon as the senior entered the clinic for her shift. The answer was an immediate denial and panic. One phone call later, and the Bat-family were made aware. 

CCTV footage was provided to them and showed you slipping from your bed, clad only in a hospital gown, and through the window, an unlucky blind spot of the clinic security footage, as they were unsure which direction you headed after. It completely confused your family as to why the hell you'd run away. Were you delirious from your ailment- were you being threatened- feeling neglected, did you hate them?

The first night was spent in bat costumes, searching the streets, interrogating the usual suspects for any hint of involvement, asking for favours from contacts. It all led to nowhere; it's as if you vanished off the face of the earth. The second day and night were spent the same way. Bruce tried to distract himself from all the possibilities of what could have happened to you by focusing on the investigation- trying not to imagine finally finding you in some dingy warehouse, face beaten beyond recognition, cold and still, the Joker's laugh echoing-

Jason's warm hand brings him back from the present. Bruce has been staring at the hospital footage of you for three hours at this point. He wipes the sweat from his brow, the tension is shoulders hunching them painfully. "We'll find 'em, but we ain't gonna do shit if you're exhausted; we need you at full capacity." 

He knows Jason's right, the lack of sleep was going to do nobody any favours. Before he can argue, the rest of the family is also forcing him out of the batcave and to bed. Alfred's there to make sure he actually enters his bedroom and not his study to continue the investigation.

Bruce permits himself to rest a while, lying in bed. The silence settles with the silk sheets, and for the first time in years, Bruce cries. He just wants his kid back home; he'd never let you out of his sight again when he found you. He can't sleep, not like this. So he finds himself walking to your room.

It's a mess from your weeks of hell, in pain and being dismissed about it. The bed is unmade, the floor a mess, and the place smells of you and sweat and something that might be mango-scented oils. The room is undoubtedly a reflection of you. Unlike the rest of the house, which is decorated in sleek black-and-white gothic style, your room is bright. Your bed frame is yellow, and your sheets are burnt orange.

Your decor is a burst of sunset colours, and the walls are littered with pictures, drawings and posters. Your favourite TV shows and bands, there are pictures of you smiling beside people your own age that he doesn't recognise, your friends? You have a bookcase full of books- some he'd read, some he didn't recognise. There are awards on your shelves, a little Oscar statue for drama, a metal star award for reading, a medal for first place in long jump- he'd never seen any of them before.

There's a whole thick folder of atleast forty certificates, your very first from grade school about creative writing, progressing through to 'for asking good questions all week,' effort, learning, determination, 'football skills', working well, good behaviour, 'advanced reading', 'coming up with scientific theories and how to test them', 'ambition', scripts and picure pamphlets of the school plays and musicals (you'd been in eight- he'd never been to any of them), an acceptance letter for being student principal in middle school, choir letters- a concert tour to Italy that he'd signed off on and paid for but never fully read or realised.

There's a picture of you from kindergarten, and he stares at it. Your little cheeks, big round eyes, chubby hands holding up your mess of a painting proudly, your smile wide on your little face, and god damn it- he just wants his sweet baby back. He'll show up, he promises; it's not too late. You could still need him.

He falls asleep in your bed, your picture clutched to his chest.

It's on the fourth day that you show up.

You casually stroll downstairs to where the family is having a sullen breakfast. They pause at the sight of you- fresh, no longer gaunt, alive, sitting at the table like you haven't been gone for the better part of a whole week. Alfred freezes in the kitchen doorway.

You spread some jam on your toast. "Morning."

Dick drops his fork. Jason and Tim are looking at you, mouths agape; Damian's brows are furrowed in confusion, and Duke beside you is staring wide-eyed. Stephanie and Cass exchange worried glances. 

You're taking a bite of your toast when Bruce stands and rushes to you, enveloping you in a massive hug, "Oh- hey, wow- watch the toast-"

"Watch the toast?!" Dick sputters at your blase words. "Where the hell have you been?" Damian demands. "I thought- we thought-" Stephanie blinks.

"We've been looking everywhere for you. You- you're not ill anymore?" Bruce cups your face, analysing and evaluating; he finds a healthy flush, a lack of those bruise-like eyebags from before, no fever. You seem perfectly fine, better than ever even. 

"I've- uh. I've been around. Hah." Your voice sounds strained. "I'm fine, seriously." 

"Around? Where? Answer me, clearly-" Bruce's expression becomes more suspicious and concerned. 

"I said I'm fine. Would you lay off?" You extract yourself from his grip, getting up to return to your room.

Feeling you slip from his fingers again, a wave of panic washes over him, and Bruce moves to grab your arm. Your body suddenly moves by itself, turning your back to him to judo flip him over your shoulder. Your family gasps, jaws hanging open even further. It's a movement you have no control over, and you know who's responsible.

Venom! What the hell!? We're trying to be lowkey! 'He is what you would call an asshole who has neglected his spawn. I have no sympathy.' You're gonna get me caught!

Suffice it to say, being the teenage civilian you are, being able to judo flip your two-hundred-pound father is an impossible feat, which no doubt raises even more suspicion about where the hell you've been and what has happened to you. Bruce stares up at you from where he's on his back, winded, completely dumbfounded. 

Alfred startles forward, "Master Bruce!-" 

You run past your family, who are jumping to their feet and raising their voices in alarm, and out the closest window. What the hell else can you do when you're hiding a cannibalistic alien parasite in your head? 

'Parasite?!' Sorry, symbiote.

Said symbiote is also responsible for the string of decapitated bodies that your vigilante family would soon find all over Gotham. You won't force them to make the decision to send you to jail if you never get caught by them. It's not like they'd be missing much in your absence anyway. They never did before. 

'I'd miss you.' You're just saying that cuz you'd die without your 'perfect' host.