Im Sinking In The Quicksand Of My Thoughts

You’re seven. It was your first day back to school, and now you’re walking home. The street is alive with community. Neighbours chattering on their front steps, shop keepers nattering with customers. The wind bites your cheeks, so you pull your scarf up. You were so small back then. When you open the door, Mother is there. You can’t remember the conversation, but you remember her making you your favourite dinner, and letting you watch whatever you wanted on TV. That was one of her good days. 

The wind picks up again, brushing against your finger tips and dragging a second memory forward. Ten. Your birthday. A wobbly table set for ten. Two friends showed up. The rest couldn’t make it. So they said. The birthday candles flicker as the wind from outside creeps through the window. When they’ve finished singing, you blow out the candles. What did you wish for again? It was either a puppy or a dad. 

Third. Thirteen. You don’t want to remember this one. The fight. The yelling, the screaming, the crying. She’s outside your door, screaming at you to get back out there. You’re begging her to leave you alone. She laughs. She says that no one else would ever let you talk to them the way you talk to her. No one else would ever be as patient with you. No one would ever look after you the way she did. No one would love you more than her.

“You can hate me all you want. I’m the only person who will ever love you unconditionally. From the moment you were born I put everything on hold for you. No one else would do that.”

“I never asked you to do that!” you shout back. 

“You are so ungrateful- do you know how many kids out there would kill to have what you have? I give you a roof over your head, I give you food, I buy you clothes and school shit- whatever you need, I get it. I take my pay-check, and I give it all to you. But I guess that makes me the worst mother in the world. I’m the worst mother ever aren’t I? I bet you wish I was anyone else.”

“I never said that!”

“I know you think it.”

And you didn’t respond. Last time you ever heard her voice. 

Fourth. sixteen. New years. You’re alone in the Wayne Manor Garden. In the heart of the maze with your hand wrapped around a bottle neck. While the fireworks leap into the sky and explode tremendously, you’re starting the year as you mean to go on. Drunk, right under your Father’s nose. The wind rustles the hedge and the sound of the leaves gets drowned out by the screaming pyrotechnics. Waiting for someone to search for you. Take a look out the window and see you in the ocean of leaves. The search party never comes. You woke up on the dirt ground the next morning.

Lastly, Nineteen. Crying your eyes out in bed. Two weeks ago. Feeling so incredibly low that you think you’ll never get up. You aren’t quiet. You want someone to hear. Someone, please. Just open the door and come in. Please. Just hold you and lie that everything’s okay. Find the empty bottles under the bed. Smell the smoke trapped on your clothes. Notice that you haven’t opened the curtains in a month. Anything. God please anything. The en-suite window is ajar, and the wind soothes in, brushing against your shaking body. Like a blanket. 

But then the images fade. You watch them melt away until there’s nothing left. Like snow in the rain.

Bruce watches your eyes glaze over. The light within them, the light that faltered but never went out, ebbs away. Your jaw goes slack. He roars. It’s incomprehensible, just a raw, guttural noise. His calloused hands keep trying to lift your head up, but it lulls and rolls limply. You feel so small. Like a doll in the hands of a bear. 

You were his biggest mistake. Not your existence, no he could never fault you for that. Your downfall was all his fault. For years he passively watched you destroy yourself. He saw his reflection looking back at him, and instead of building you back up he left you. In his mind, if he left, you couldn’t get any more broken. But that didn’t fix you either. No. No, stop being so noble. He didn’t face you because he was a coward. He would have to acknowledge that he did this to you.

“I haven’t got school today,” you were hoping he’d catch your drift so you wouldn’t have to keep speaking, but the way he cocked his brow told you that wasn’t going to happen, “so I was wondering if we could… I don’t know, uh, maybe spend some time together? I just, I feel like I don’t know you. At all. And I want to. I want to know you. And- And I want you to know me, I know you’re busy but I just think that-”

He raised his hand to stop you. All the courage you thought you had died instantly. 

“I’m afraid I can’t.” There had to be more. Surely. That couldn’t just be it, right? When he went back to whatever it was you interrupted, your heart sank. 

Dick feels his feet turn to stone. The little girl who used to tail him like a lost puppy, the one who would always be the first to reach out, that girl who used to look at him like he was made of gold and stardust, was gone. Eyes glass and supposedly unseeing, but he felt as though you were looking right into his soul. Last time he saw you, you were avoiding eye contact

“But it’s not right now, is it? It’s all the time.” Dick counters. He didn’t take any joy in this, but he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen. “She’s piss-drunk at eleven in the morning, that's not normal. Please tell me that’s not normal. For God’s sake she looked half dead when I walked in! She couldn’t string two words together! I’m shocked she managed to walk in a straight line!”

Now you wouldn’t look away. It took him back to that fateful day. The first domino that led to this.

When you looked up and faced him, it was like watching a horror movie. Your eyes were wider than the moon and blood trickled down to your chin. He shouted for Alfred and Bruce, whichever came first. Over and over again, you tried to say sorry, but he shushed you and pleaded with you to keep your mouth closed, not wanting any more blood to spill. 

The red stained your shirt, blooming out with fervour, and unstoppable force. Out of instinct, he tried to put pressure on the wound. It does no good. When his hands reel back, he can’t tear his eyes off the blood caked on them. 

Jason doesn’t think. He just does. He marches over to the crumpled form of the shooter and before anyone can say anything, he unloads the clip into his back. Each bullet a lightning strike, sending a deafening wave through the air. It doesn’t change anything. But it evens the score. No. No, not really. This guy was a worthless piece of shit, the bottom rung in a corrupt ladder, and you were you. You were that kid who dreamt of escaping Gotham. Who wanted to make new friends, but never seemed to get it. It would take thousands of them dead to even the score. Men like him were a dime a dozen. Cowards whose morals could be bought and sold. But people like you, people who still tried even when all the chips were down, those were hard to find. 

“I think… he’s… ashamed… of me.” you admitted, pausing to hiccup or take a breath. “And… I kinda… I like, I see why. Cus… he’s right. I’m a screwup.”

Red Hood kept his hand on your shoulder, guiding you along with a grip that felt strong but not overwhelming. “Says who? You’re gonna let them decide what you are?”.  

Bruce’s head snaps up. He wants to shout, but he can’t open his mouth. Jason storms out of the alley, when he passes Bruce a hollow voice trails out from his mask like smoke on the wind. “This isn’t finished. We’re going to talk.” His promise lingers after he leaves. 

He drifts into the night with a gun and a mission. 

Tim had this nightmare before. One where you did something stupid and killed yourself. Sometimes you fall down the stairs drunk, or you’re face down in a body of water. Whatever the path, you’re dead.

So this must be a dream. He’s asleep. He’ll wake up and everything will be fine. You’ll be asleep too. He’ll knock on your door and open without waiting for an answer. He’ll bug you till you wake up. There’ll be a pulse under your skin and breath in your lungs. The breakfast table will be alive with noise. You’ll pester Damian about something silly. Forks scrape against plates, coffee gets slurped, glasses clink against each other.

That limp body isn’t yours. It’s just his mind. His worst fears manifest. Just an image made to torture him. No, it's not you. You’re alive and well. Maybe not well, but alive. The smell of blood and gunpowder grounds him against his will, dragging him into reality. An anchor bringing him down to the darkest part of the ocean. 

He shoulders past Dick, pushing the eldest to the side. He wants to do the same to Bruce, but his grip on you is too tight. He doesn’t want to hurt you. 

Everything about you is wrong. Your eyes are way too wide, pupils blown wide open. The pupils are like space, dark, vast and unfeeling. Those eyes used to crinkle at the corners when you laughed over a bad joke, or when you teased him over something trivial. Never maliciously though, no you were better than that. He wanted those eyes to blink, to shift, to do anything but stare ahead. 

Your mouth hung open, the same way your bedroom door was always slightly ajar. An unspoken open invitation. An SOS message. Say something. Please. Shout, scream, whatever you want. 

When you were in the room, it was never quiet for long. You could pull a laugh out of him with no effort. Or ramble about some online drama he had never heard of. It wasn’t just you talking at him though, you always pulled him into the conversations. It was a gift, truly, you could make anyone feel seen and heard, no matter how trivial the conversation was. 

Just say anything. Blame him, hate him, please. 

His hands tremble when he reaches for you. Bruce’s eyes snap up, and his grip on you tightens. 

Without thinking, Tim spits out “What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice is sharp. “You never held her before, not once. Get off her.” 

Tim’s normally better than this. More composed. But now everything is upside down and inside out. The blood pouring out of you should be inside. It should be pumping through your veins and keeping you here. Not leaking out onto the filthy ground. 

“That's my sister.” He growls, and it apparently gets through to Bruce. His grip loosens but doesn’t vanish. Tim kneels to Bruce’s level, and holds you. This wasn’t the first time. 

You pushed his door open slowly and crept in. He didn’t look up. Without talking, you sat on the floor next to his bed. Your front faced the door, and your back was in front of him. The memory is cloudy now, you don’t know if he asked you to stay, or if you offered, but you remember waking up on the floor with your head on a cushion and a comforter draped over your body. 

It got a little easier after that. You checked in on him every couple days. Small talk was awkward but you still tried. Eventually, with enough persistence, you managed to get through to him. You met him where he was at. It wasn’t instant, it took time, but you got close enough to confide in him. About your fears, your dreams, your Mother.

But it hits him then that this is the last time. He wishes he was still in denial, to believe that you were going to miraculously leap up and everything would be okay. 

You are dead. 

Gone. 

Your last words played in his head over and over again. When did you ever get what you wanted? All you asked for was a home, and you had been given a guest room and a one way ticket to your demise. Resentment simmered in his chest, bubbling against his ribs. It felt boiling. 

While Tim was mentally spiralling, Damian could only stand there and watch. His feet wouldn’t move. He had seen death before. People had died by his hand. Blood wasn’t a stranger to him. But everything felt new now. 

He felt small. 

You always made him feel small. Just by breathing. When he found out that he wasn’t the sole heir, and that his competition was a drunk with nothing to show for herself, he felt confident that he could get you out of the way. But whenever he was around you. he was furious, because it made him feel so small. Despite not having anything going for yourself, you had a warmth and charm he didn’t. 

Now, watching the chaotic scene unfold, he had never felt smaller. 

This was his fault. He had written your death warrant and performed it for an audience. He wrote that school presentation for Father, to prove that he was superior. To compare and contrast the two of you. He felt he had to prove his superiority. 

In the storm of discord, he remained still. Dick hovered next to him after being muscled aside by Tim. The eldest kept his hand on the youngest with a terror fueled grip. A tether, a wordless promise that he wouldn’t let Damian go into the storm. 

The night felt never ending. The hospital lights stung, unnaturally bright. They stayed in the waiting room. In their own little bubble in the corner of the room. No one spoke. The air was pregnant with dread. 

In a few seconds, someone would come out and confirm what they all knew to be true. It was just about waiting. 

“The Trust is doing well.” Tim spoke out to the air. It was a bright day, the kind you would’ve liked. Your headstone was recently polished. Must’ve been Alfred again.

“Another clinic’s set to open next month. Near Birch street.” He fiddled with the petals of the flowers he had bought you. “I, you’ll find this funny, I forgot my words in the middle of the meeting- the one ironing out the opening ceremony details, so I just gave them a bunch of corporate buzzword slop. Ate it up.” His laugh is forced and gravelly. 

He notices the packet of cigarettes left on the top of your tombstone. Someone kept leaving them no matter how many times they threw them out. It felt gross. Like a cruel joke. He pocketed the packet, still sealed, and made a mental note to bin them as soon as he could. 

“Damian’s got his med school entrance exams soon. Give him some good luck, yeah? He’s too proud to ask.” It never got less awkward. It had been three years now, but it still felt stiff. “I haven’t spoken to him in a while, but I'm sure he’d appreciate it.”

In the last three years, the family drifted apart. Bruce was slowly driving himself to an early grave, working even harder as Batman. He nailed the trafficking ring shortly after you were taken. But it didn’t ease the hole in him. 

Dick came home more often. Touching base with the others incessantly. It never felt authentic. His guilt and fear was so obvious they could smell it. No one pointed it out, or spoke up about it. It was easier that way. 

When he thought no one could see him, he’d dip into your room. Just to sit there. He wouldn’t touch anything, he didn’t dare to. It was a museum to him. Front row seats to an exhibition of the life he never saw. The bottles under the bed. The diary left on the desk. He never opened it. Too afraid of finding his own name in there. 

Jason doubled down. Not speaking to the others unless absolutely necessary. He came to the funeral at least. Small turnout. A couple of people no one recognised came. Said they were your friends from college. It took everything in him not to lose his cool and lash out at them. What right did they have to saunter in when they were nowhere to be seen when you needed them? His anger was evident in his guarded posture. 

“I thought I’d be better at this by now.” He admits. “People keep saying ‘time heals wounds’ but it's not true. I’m not healed. Maybe the wound’s closed over but it’s not healed. It’s like a scar.” 

“I keep thinking you’re gonna come back.”

There was a fight the night after … the incident. About the lazarus pit. The idea of bringing you back came up. Tim, driven by grief and desperation, was adamant that it would be okay. He could rehabilitate you, he wouldn’t let you become something you didn’t recognise. Damian was on his side. The two never saw eye to eye. But you changed them. The other three were vehemently against it.

The fight lasted three hours. It got physical at one point. In the end, you stayed dead. It was kinder that way. 

“Sometimes I come back to the Manor, and when I pass your room I think about knocking. Out of habit, y’know? I go to ask if you’re okay in there, and it just hits me. It doesn’t feel like you’re here”. He runs his hand over the stone to make his point. The body under the dirt didn’t feel like yours. The coffin six feet under never felt full. But it was. 

His watch beeped once and he sighed. “I gotta run.” he reluctantly lets go of the flowers and lets them fall onto the ones from yesterday. He isn’t sure who left them, his guess is Alfred. He always came to clean your stone. There was a period of time where he couldn’t bring himself to confront your grave. But now cleaning the stone had become one of his morning rituals. Often bringing small offerings for you. 

Y/N Wayne. Beloved sister and daughter.

He always hated that carving. It kept you tied to them, like a branding. You were more than just a sister or daughter. You had dreams, passions. But to the world, you'd only ever be Bruce Wayne's personal failure.

“Goodbye, I love you.” 

How are we feeling guys?

So, life has been hectic as hell for me atm. Moved in to the new place, only to have no wifi (wifi order delayed), have a HUGE leak two days ago RIGHT OUTSIDE MY ROOM AT 3 IN THE MORNING- fix the leak myself bcs landlord is away on holiday, and then make the commute back to my hometown to visit family. BUT WE'RE BACK WITH WIFI.

I got a little emotional toward the end bcs I haven't seen my sister in two years and I'm seeing her in 2 days. She moved halfway across the world and I couldn't afford to fly out and visit her, so i was in my 'little sister missing big sister and forcing everyone to suffer' mindset.

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“M’not the suit type,” he mutters, leaning down to whisper in your ear, his voice rough against the room bathed in gold and shimmer. The gala he forced you into.

“Then why’d you ask me to come?” you hiss, just as uncomfortable as he is.

Not even Jason attends the galas Bruce hosts, but for some reason, Roy wants to be here. The question nags at the back of your mind, begging to be answered. Why ask you to be his fake date when you’re sure his heart belongs to someone else?

Someone he told Dick was his life.

You’d heard it a second too early. They hadn’t known you were standing there, and before they could notice, you’d scurried away, your heart pounding painfully against your ribs. Ever since then, you’ve avoided him like the plague.

“Thought we’d try somethin’ new. Dick’s always raving about these things,” he replies easily, tugging you closer.

The we warms your heart despite every reasonable thought.

“Yeah? Why drag me along? Don’t you have plenty of options?” you grumble, looking away.

If you look at him, really look at him, you’ll lose all restraint. The way strands of ginger hair stick out despite his effort. The sharp line of his jaw. The broad set of his shoulders under the suit. You want to trace your fingers along him, memorize the shape of him.

You’re so not ready for that.

But it happens anyway when his thumb brushes over your knuckles. Goosebumps erupt across your skin.

“Well, baby, you’re the only one who’d go along with it,” he jokes.

You pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. The words hit you harder than they should. It should have been gentler, after all you'd known. Yet you can feel the walls pressing in, his warmth slowly suffocating you.

You let out a quiet laugh because otherwise you’re sure you’ll cry. “Wow. I feel so special.” Your voice is sharp and bitter. 

He reaches for you again, his hand hovering midair before stopping. “That’s not—”

“I’m convenient, is that it, Roy?” You turn to face him fully. His brows lift in surprise, and a few nearby guests glance over, already whispering.

“Trouble—”

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper yell. “And don’t act like you’re not just using me to get what you want.”

His hands settle on your shoulders, steadier now. He doesn't argue. 

Instead, he quietly ushers you toward an empty room. The murmurs follow. Across the hall, Dick shoots Roy a look before flashing you an overly bright smile.

When you’re finally alone, the silence feels heavy, and you glance at him, knowing you shouldn't. 

He looks unfairly good. The suit hugs his broad shoulders, his tie slightly loosened like he can’t stand feeling restrained. He runs a hand through his hair, making it messier, and you long to reach up and smooth it back into place.

“What I meant,” he says slowly, like he’s handling something explosive, “is that you’re the only one I trust.”

“You’ve got plenty of people,” you reply

“You’ve got Dick. You’ve got—” You swallow. “Whoever’s your life.”

“You,” he says immediately, brows furrowing. “I’ve got you.”

You’re in love with an idiot. That has to be it.

“We aren’t actually together.”

He throws his hands up. “You mentioned Dick and me—and him and I aren’t together.”

“That’s different, and you know it!”

“What the hell’s gotten into you today?!” He crowds you enough that you’re forced to look up, his eyes boring into your own, jaw clenched with frustration. His hands come down to your hips, pulling you closer.

Your throat bobs, the fire being doused by whatever he’s doing.

He seems to realise it too and swears under his breath, trying to take a step back, but you don't let him. 

Filled with need and desperation, you grab his tie and pull him until your lips hover over his. You give him a moment to stop you, but when his eyes widen, and his large hands slide up to your waist, you kiss him.

He doesn’t waste time, his lips moving against yours, fast and hungry, like he wants to devour you too. The taste of him is smoky and minty, and you gasp when he grinds against you. 

He mutters your name every time he pulls away for air, as if he can’t bear a single second of not being fully consumed by you.

“Roy,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed when his lips move over your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive curve there.

His heartbeat thuds so closely you can feel your own in sync with his. “Fuck, I love you,” he groans against your jaw, pressing tiny kisses there.

You still. And he feels the exact moment your heart stutters.

"Shit—m'sorry."

"Why're you apologising?" you ask.

He looks away. "Thought you hated me or something." 

"Wish I could," you mutter, softly. But even that softness didn't stop the wounded look on his face. His hands fall against his sides.

"Yeah? How'd I fuck up this time?" He gives you a wry smile, leaning his head down close to you. 

"Well, can you even be in love with two people at the same time?"

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, voice rough. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, spit it out. Cause this is the second time tonight you’ve said something, and I haven’t got a clue what you mean."

Your cheeks heat up. "You called someone your life…I'm guessing you love them," your words came out slowly as embarrassment crept over you. Nothing like his own confession earlier, but this meant you cared.

Understanding passes through his face, and his lips tug upwards. "You were jealous."

"Roy."

"You were so jealous over a—

You glare. "Roy."

"—kid," he finishes.

You peer at him. "Sorry, what?"

"I was talkin' 'bout Lian." He explains, his previous emotions wiped away by a cocky look.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." He snickers and then leans in to kiss your jaw, then the bridge of your nose. 

"There's no one else I'm in love with, baby," he whispers, then kisses your lips while you were too caught up in your revelation. 

You put your hands on his chest, stopping him.

"Wait, so why ask me to be your fake date to a gala?" 

He shrugs. "Wanted to be with you in any way I could," his fingers brush your hair back, then go to cup your jaw. 

"Guessing you love me too?" he asks.

You stay silent, feeling like you are drowning in a sea of emotions. His eyes search yours.

Finally, you whisper, “Yeah… I do.”

“Knew it,” he mutters, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before letting his lips find yours again.

"No, you didn't, you thought I hated you," you mumble against his lips.

He doesn’t answer, but when his hands slide under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist as he kisses you, it says everything you need to know.

The sound of the lighter sparking to life is music to your ears. You lean against the side of Roy’s car, watching the sparks fly from under his thumb as he tries to get it to light. 

“Ah, shit,” he curses when the cold night air snuffs it out once again. 

Cigarette pressed between your lips, you can’t help but smile just a little. 

When you’d first called him twenty minutes ago, you’d been a complete mess. Crying, dressed in yesterday’s sweatpants, moaning to him about your problems. 

You hadn’t even wanted to leave the house, but with the promise of a fresh pack of darts and a joyride around the city, you couldn’t possibly resist. 

Finally, Roy manages to get a solid flame going, the orange light casting shadows over his face like sunlight. He’s pretty like this—pretty all the time—but especially with flames dancing in front of him. 

You lean in, Roy cupping a gentle hand over your face and bringing the lighter to the end of your cigarette. You inhale, the end turns amber and the sweet taste of nicotine fills your mouth. 

You cock your head back and sigh in relief. “Thank you.”

Roy joins you in leaning against his car, the side of his shoulder brushing yours. “Anything for you.”

The stars glimmer over head, Roy having drove the two of you far enough out of the city to actually make out the lights. 

Another puff of smoke and you find the tension in your shoulders easing. 

“Feeling any better?” He asks.

“Felt better the minute I got in the car,” you admit. 

Roy’s suddenly grateful for the darkness, if only so you can’t see the way his face is hearing up. He hums in acknowledgement, jabbing a thick finger up towards the starry sky. 

“Is that the big dipper?”

You squint, waving away another murky cloud of smoke. “Which one?”

He grabs your hand, pointing your own finger up towards the constellation. You close one eye, trying to focus. 

“That one, right there.”

You laugh slightly, “I don’t think so, that’s a circle.”

“Is it not a circle?”

Your slight laughter turns into full on giggling, the sound falling easily from your lips. Roy laughs with you, albeit quieter so he can hear you better. He thinks, if only for a moment, that it might be his favorite sound in the whole world. 

You finish off your cigarette, dropping the butt to the ground and snuffing it out beneath your foot. “Ready to go?”

Roy nods, and you pluck the butt off the ground and run it over to a nearby trash bin. 

Getting back into the passenger seat of his car, the heat is on and quiet music is playing. You lay back against his seat, head turned on your side so you can face him. 

He’s drumming a beat on the steering wheel, nodding his head along in concentration. He hasn’t put the car in gear yet, too focused on his song. 

Your heart flutters at the sight. 

“Roy?” You ask before you register what you’re doing. 

“Hm?”

“Can I—can you kiss me?”

And he pauses then, a lull in the beat he’d been mimicking. “Right now?”

You shake your head and a goofy sort of smile falls over his face. He nods, just once, and then he’s leaning in, cupping your face the way he does when he lights your cigarettes. 

His lips are soft on yours, the lingering taste of smoke and spice and something sweet on his mouth. You lean into him, give yourself to him, falling the rhythm he makes with his mouth. 

He pulls away, still smiling, “come home with me?”

You nod. 

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