coramei

The family watched Damian meet you and did not understand, at first, that they were witnessing the beginning of his undoing.

It happened slowly. Quietly. In fractions too small to recognise until the shape of him had already changed. Damian began returning from patrol before sunrise instead of lingering on rooftops until his muscles stiffened in the cold. He stopped treating injuries as inconveniences and allowed Alfred to examine them because you had once looked at the blood soaking through his shirt and said, very softly, You do not have to prove you can survive everything.

He began carrying snacks in his utility belt that had no nutritional efficiency whatsoever because they were your favourite. He rolled his eyes whenever anyone pointed this out, but he never removed them.

He permitted your feet in his lap while you read on the sofa. He allowed you to interrupt his work, to touch his hair, to steal the blankets, to speak to him when he was angry and remain beside him when he could not find words gentle enough to answer.

You were the only person who had seen him wake from a nightmare with his hands already shaped around an invisible throat. The only person who knew he sometimes stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom simply to assure himself you were still there. The only person who could say his name in a way that made it sound like a life rather than a legacy.

To everyone else, Damian remained composed. Dryly amused on good days, insufferably arrogant on most, and frighteningly controlled whenever something went wrong.

With you, he was different. With you, he rested his head against your chest and listened to your heartbeat as though committing it to memory. He kissed the inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered beneath the skin. He let you hold his face between your hands, let you see the fear he had been trained to murder before it could fully form.

He told you things he had never said aloud. That sometimes he worried love was simply another weapon someone might eventually use against him. That he did not know how to be gentle without feeling exposed. That every good thing he possessed seemed temporary, and he had spent most of his life braced for the hand that would rip it away.

You had kissed the crease between his brows.

“Then we’ll be temporary together,” you whispered. “For as long as we get.”

He had hated the answer. He had held you tighter because of it.

Years later, when the universe finally came to collect, Damian remembered those words with such perfect clarity that he wondered whether some cruel part of you had always known.

The mission was supposed to be routine. That was what they always said after disasters, as though tragedy were more offensive when it arrived without proper ceremony.

There had been reports of unstable energy beneath Gotham’s east end. Strange electrical storms in cloudless skies. People vanishing from one street and appearing several blocks away with no memory of crossing the distance between. Windows reflecting rooms that did not exist. Shadows moving a heartbeat out of time with the bodies that cast them.

Tim had called it a spatial fracture. Bruce had called the entire family in.

You had insisted on coming. Damian had objected, which meant the argument lasted nearly twenty minutes and ended with you standing in the Cave in your suit, arms folded, watching him grow increasingly furious because neither of you was willing to admit the fury was fear.

“You are not invulnerable,” he snapped.

“Neither are you.”

“I possess considerably more training.”

“And I possess the specialised equipment Tim needs carried into the fracture zone.”

“Drake can carry his own equipment.”

Tim, who had been standing three feet away, wisely pretended not to hear.

You stepped closer to Damian. His jaw was tight enough to ache, and his gloved hands flexed at his sides as if he wanted to grab you, shake you, or pull you against him until the world reconsidered its plans.

“I’m going,” you told him. “You can either spend the mission fighting beside me or waste it fighting with me.”

His eyes narrowed.

You lifted a hand and pressed two fingers to the centre of his chest. “I’ll be careful.”

“You say that as though the universe has ever rewarded caution.”

“Then you’ll just have to watch my back.”

“I always do.”

The answer came too quickly. Too honestly.

Your expression softened, and Damian hated that too because tenderness made him feel as though his ribs had been pried open.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. It was brief, little more than a promise pressed into skin. “Come on, Robin.”

He followed you because he always did.

He would spend the rest of his life wishing he had locked you in the Cave.

The fracture was beneath an abandoned rail terminal, buried deep under rusted tracks and old Gotham stone. By the time the family reached its centre, the laws of reality had begun to buckle. The tunnel stretched and contracted around them. Concrete flickered into marble, then steel, then something wet and organic before snapping back into place. Their comms filled with voices that sounded like their own but spoke words no one had said.

Damian heard Bruce shout his name from somewhere behind him. Then from somewhere ahead. Then in his own voice, directly beside his ear.

He turned and saw himself standing at the end of the tunnel. Older. Bloodied. Dead-eyed.

The apparition vanished before he could raise his sword.

“Do not engage with anything you see,” Bruce ordered through the static. “Stay focused on the device.”

Tim’s stabiliser had to be anchored at four points around the fracture. Once activated, it would force the overlapping realities apart and seal the breach. Simple in theory. Catastrophic if mistimed.

Damian remained at your side as the others separated.

He could hear your breathing through the comms. Quick, but controlled.

He counted every inhale.

One.

Two.

Three.

The tunnel shook. A fissure of white light split the air in front of you, and for half a second, Damian saw another Gotham on the other side. Its skyline burned green beneath a violet sky. Wayne Tower had been cleaved in half. The Batsignal shone upside down through the clouds.

Something moved within the opening.

A figure in black and red.

Damian’s own face looked back at him. This version was smiling.

Then the fracture collapsed inward with a sound like a scream being swallowed.

“Anchor three is placed,” you said.

Damian released a breath. “Return to my position.”

“I’m ten metres away.”

“Return to my position.”

There was a pause.

Under any other circumstances, you might have teased him. Instead, you only said, “On my way.”

The stabiliser activated before you reached him.

Tim shouted something through the comms. An error. A power surge. One of the anchors had been compromised. Damian never learned which words came first because the world erupted around him.

The fracture expanded. The tunnel disappeared into white.

Damian felt the ground leave his feet. He saw pieces of other worlds overlapping one another in impossible layers: the Manor abandoned and choked by ivy; Gotham flooded to the rooftops; Bruce kneeling in an alley over the bodies of two children; Dick wearing a cowl that had never belonged to him; Jason laughing at a kitchen table with white in his hair and a baby on his knee.

Then he saw you.

A thousand versions.

You, beside him at the altar. You, holding his hand in a hospital room. You, old and silver-haired beneath a flowering tree. 

You walking away. You dying. You killing him. You cradling his body and screaming.

Damian reached for you.

The stabiliser’s central core tore loose from its housing. It came towards him like a meteor, metal burning blue-white, fast enough that even his reflexes could not save him. His body twisted, but there was nowhere to go. The fractured air held him suspended.

He saw it coming. He understood, with perfect clarity, that he was about to die.

Then you hit him from the side.

Your shoulder struck his chest. The force threw him beyond the core’s path, and for one suspended, eternal second, your eyes met.

There was no time for words. Only the widening of your eyes. Only Damian reaching. Only the stabiliser core passing through the space where your body had been.

The light vanished.

Gravity returned.

Damian struck the ground hard enough to crack his shoulder. Dust filled his mouth. His ears rang. Somewhere, Tim was shouting that the fracture was closing.

Damian pushed himself upright.

You lay several metres away. Too still. There was blood beneath you.

At first, his mind rejected the sight. It sorted the details without understanding them—the angle of your arm, the ruined section of your armour, the dark pool spreading through the dust.

You could not be dead. The thought was not denial. It was fact.

You had kissed him less than an hour ago. You had promised to be careful. You were temporary together, but this was not long enough. This was not what the words had meant.

Damian crawled to you. His damaged shoulder screamed. He did not feel it.

He turned you over with shaking hands and saw the wound. “No.”

The word was quiet.

Almost calm.

Your eyes fluttered. For one delirious second, hope detonated inside him.

“Damian,” you breathed.

“I am here.” His hands moved over you, searching for pressure points, for something to bind, something to repair. There was too much blood. It slipped between his fingers, hot and impossible. “Do not move. Father is coming. Drake will stabilise you.”

You looked at him.

Not at the injury. Not at the blood.

Only him.

“Are you hurt?”

His breath caught. “You—” His voice fractured. He forced it steady. “You do not concern yourself with me.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

It was a lie. It did not matter.

Your face softened. “Good.”

“Do not.” Damian pressed both hands against the wound. “Do not speak as though— You will conserve your strength.”

You coughed, and blood touched your lips. Something primitive tore through him.

“Father!” Damian screamed.

The tunnel had gone silent around them.

Bruce was already running. Dick was behind him. Tim stumbled through the dust, mask cracked, one hand clamped around his ribs. Jason emerged from the fading light with his helmet missing.

They all saw you.

They all stopped.

Damian understood their expressions. He hated them.

“No,” he said, louder now. “Do not look at them that way.”

Bruce dropped to his knees beside you. His hands replaced Damian’s, pressing hard against the wound, but Damian would not move away. He held your face. His thumbs smeared blood across your cheeks.

“Stay awake,” Bruce ordered.

You barely seemed to hear him. Your gaze remained fixed on Damian.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His entire body went cold. “No.”

“I love you.”

“You may tell me when we return home.”

“Damian.”

“That is an order.”

You smiled. It was small. Trembling. It was the smile you used when he was being impossible and you loved him anyway.

“You never could order me around.”

“Then I am asking.” His voice shook despite everything he did to control it. “Beloved, I am asking you.”

Your fingers twitched against the floor.

Damian caught your hand and pressed it to his mouth. You breathed in.

You did not breathe out.

For several seconds, Damian continued holding your hand.

Bruce’s hands had stopped moving.

No one spoke.

The fracture sealed itself with a distant, thunderous crack, and the tunnel became only a tunnel again.

Damian stared at your face.

He waited. Your eyes remained half-open, fixed on nothing.

“Continue,” Damian said.

Bruce looked at him. “Damian.”

“Continue compressions.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. “Damian, the damage—”

“Continue.”

“There’s nothing—”

“Do not tell me there is nothing.”

The words came out low and deadly. Bruce did not flinch.

Damian grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand back towards the wound.

“You have survived worse,” Damian said. “Todd has survived death itself. There are Lazarus Pits. There is magic. There are alien technologies capable of cellular reconstruction. We will take them to the Cave and determine—”

“Damian,” Dick whispered.

He reached towards him.

Damian struck his hand away. “Do not touch me.”

Your hand was growing colder in his.

He looked down at it. His mind supplied the biological reasons automatically. Circulation had ceased. Heat was dissipating. Muscles would slacken before stiffening. Cells were already dying from oxygen deprivation.

He knew death. He had been raised by people who dispensed it. He had watched it happen in a hundred different ways. He knew exactly what it looked like.

“No,” he said again.

This time the word collapsed. His chest seized.

He pulled you into his arms so abruptly that Bruce nearly fell forward. Your head rolled against his shoulder. Damian adjusted it with unbearable gentleness, tucking your face into the space beneath his jaw as though you had merely fallen asleep.

“Wake up.”

No response.

“Beloved.”

Your blood soaked through the front of his uniform.

“Wake up.”

His voice rose.

The sound that tore from him next did not resemble language. It was not a sob. Not yet. It was something rawer, dragged from a place beneath speech, beneath dignity, beneath everything the League had trained into him. Damian curled around your body and screamed until the tunnel threw the sound back at them.

Dick covered his mouth. Jason turned away. Tim sank to the floor.

Bruce remained beside his son with blood on his hands and helplessness hollowing his face.

Damian screamed your name. He screamed at you to wake up. He screamed at Bruce to do something. He screamed at the sealed fracture, at the universe, at God, at every dead ancestor who had ever claimed Wayne blood was destined to suffer.

His body began to shake. Not delicate tremors. Not tears slipping quietly down a composed face. His entire frame convulsed so violently that your armour rattled against his. He clutched you tighter, one hand locked behind your neck, the other fisted in the ruined fabric at your back.

“No, no, no, no—”

The words fell apart beneath his sobs.

No one had ever heard Damian sob. They had not known he could make sounds like that.

He bent over you, forehead pressed against yours, and wept with his mouth open because he could not breathe through the grief. Tears poured down his face unchecked. Saliva and blood shone at his lips. Every attempt to draw air ended in another broken cry.

Bruce reached for him. Damian tried to shove him away, but there was no strength in it.

“You were supposed to save them,” he choked out. The accusation struck Bruce like a blade. “You save everyone. You always— You were supposed to—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologise.” Damian’s voice became a shriek. “Fix it!”

Bruce said nothing.

That silence was the final confirmation.

Damian looked at you again. Your face had gone slack against him.

He made a small, wounded sound, then turned abruptly and vomited onto the tunnel floor.

His body heaved until there was nothing left. He never released you. Even while choking, even while Bruce braced a hand between his shoulders, Damian kept one arm locked around your body, as though loosening his grip would permit death to take something it had not already stolen.

When the spasms stopped, he sagged over you.

His forehead rested against your chest. There was no heartbeat beneath his ear.

For years, he had listened to it in the dark.

Now there was only silence.

They had to sedate him to remove your body from his arms.

Jason was the one who finally did it.

Bruce could not. Dick could barely stand. Tim had disappeared into the Cave’s laboratory, already searching for answers no one had asked him to find.

Jason knelt in front of Damian while he rocked on the floor of the transport, your body held against his chest.

“Demon,” Jason said quietly.

Damian did not react.

Jason swallowed. “Little brother.”

Damian lifted his head. His eyes were swollen nearly shut. Blood had dried across half his face. There was vomit on his uniform and a smear of red beneath his mouth where he had kissed your forehead again and again during the journey home.

“They will be cold,” Damian whispered.

Jason’s expression crumpled. “I know.”

“They dislike the cold.”

“I know.”

“I must take them upstairs.”

“You can’t.”

Damian’s arms tightened.

Jason glanced at Bruce. Bruce looked away.

“Damian,” Jason said. “You’re hurt. Let us help.”

“I am not leaving them.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“You are.”

The tranquiliser entered Damian’s neck so smoothly that he did not feel the needle.

His gaze flicked towards Jason’s hand. Betrayal moved over his face.

“You—”

“I’m sorry.”

Damian lunged. His body failed him halfway.

Jason caught him as the sedative took hold, absorbing the first furious strike and then the second, weaker one.

“No,” Damian slurred. “No, give them back. Give—”

His knees buckled.

Bruce caught your body. Jason caught Damian.

Damian fought even as consciousness left him, his hands clawing towards you, his mouth shaping your name.

Then he went limp in his brother’s arms.

Jason lowered his face into Damian’s hair and cried.

The funeral took place beneath a grey sky.

Damian did not cry. The family had expected him to. They had prepared themselves for another collapse, though no one knew what preparation could possibly mean. Dick remained close enough to catch him. Bruce watched every movement. Jason had removed all weapons from Damian’s room without mentioning it.

But Damian stood beside your grave perfectly still.

His face was blank. His hands were clasped behind his back. Anyone who did not know him might have called the posture dignified.

His family knew it was the stance he used when awaiting punishment.

When the service ended, everyone left except him.

Rain darkened his suit. It gathered in his hair and traced cold lines down his face. He stood before your grave until the soil became mud and the flowers bowed under the weight of the water.

Bruce returned at dusk. “Damian.”

Damian did not turn.

“You’ll become ill.”

“I am aware.”

“Come inside.”

“No.”

Bruce stood beside him.

For several minutes, there was only rain.

“I should have stopped them from coming,” Damian said.

Bruce closed his eyes. “This was not your fault.”

“They were only present because I failed to persuade them.”

“They made their own choice.”

“They chose to save me.”

“Yes.”

“I should have been faster.”

“You could not have been.”

“I should have anticipated the core’s trajectory.”

“No one did.”

“I should have died.”

Bruce’s head snapped towards him.

Damian continued staring at your name carved into stone. “They would have survived had I not been there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I saw the path. It was intended for me.”

“They chose to push you out of it.”

“They made the incorrect choice.”

Bruce grabbed his shoulder.

Damian turned with sudden violence, knocking his hand aside. “Do not.”

“They loved you.”

“Then they should have allowed me to die.”

Bruce recoiled as though Damian had struck him.

The rage vanished from Damian’s face as quickly as it had appeared.

What remained was worse. A terrible, exhausted emptiness.

“They would have survived,” Damian whispered. “They would still be here.”

Bruce’s voice failed before he forced it steady. “And you would not.”

“That is the point.”

Grief did not make Damian kinder.

It made him precise.

He returned to patrol eleven days after your death and broke three men’s bones before Bruce ordered him back to the Cave. He dismantled criminal operations with the cold efficiency of an executioner. He stopped speaking unless information was required. He slept less than two hours a night and woke from those hours with your name tearing out of him.

He could not enter the bedroom you had shared. The first time he tried, he made it three steps past the door.

Your clothes remained folded over the chair. A mug sat on your bedside table with the faint print of your mouth still visible on its rim. Your book lay open, facedown, exactly where you had left it the morning of the mission.

Damian stood in the centre of the room. He stared at the depression your body had left in the mattress.

Then he folded to his knees.

The family found him an hour later with your pillow crushed against his face, shaking so hard he could not speak.

After that, he slept in the Cave. Sometimes in the chair beside the Batcomputer. Sometimes curled on the medical cot where Bruce had first placed your body after bringing you home. Once, Dick found him beneath the display case containing his old Robin uniform, staring into the dark.

Titus searched for you.

That nearly killed him. The dog wandered from room to room, sniffing beneath doors and whining whenever footsteps approached. He slept outside the bedroom for weeks. Alfred the cat sat on your side of the bed and hissed at anyone who attempted to move him.

Damian began leaving the bedroom door open.

“For them,” he explained when Dick noticed.

Not for himself. Never for himself.

He fed the animals. He continued your routines. He watered your plants according to the schedule on your phone. He answered the messages sent by people who did not yet know you were dead until Bruce gently took the device away.

He spoke to you when he believed no one was listening. He told you about patrol. He told you Titus had finally eaten a full meal. He complained that Drake had reorganised the computer files incorrectly.

He stood in the doorway of your room each night and said, “I have returned.” Then, after a pause, “You need not worry.”

As though you might still be somewhere, waiting. As though the dead could be reassured.

Tim became obsessed with the fracture. It was, perhaps, the only form his own grief knew how to take.

He reconstructed every energy reading. He ran simulations until the Cave’s systems overheated. He mapped the brief glimpses they had seen of other realities and theorised that the fracture had not truly sealed. It had scarred.

“A weak point,” he told Bruce. “Like tissue that heals badly. It could reopen.”

Bruce looked towards Damian.

He stood at the edge of the platform, listening. Hope was too bright a word for what appeared on his face. It was hunger stripped of all humanity.

“Can it be reopened deliberately?” Damian asked.

Tim hesitated. “Maybe.”

Bruce said, “No.”

Damian did not look at him. “What would be required?”

“Damian,” Bruce warned.

“What would be required, Drake?”

Tim’s eyes dropped. “More power than we can safely generate. A dimensional anchor. A way to select a specific reality out of an infinite number of possibilities.”

“Then begin.”

“We don’t know what opening it could do.”

“I do not care.”

“It could destroy this universe.”

Damian’s gaze sharpened. “Then improve your design.”

Bruce stepped between them. “We are not tearing reality apart.”

“You have violated the laws of nature before.”

“And paid for it.”

“You permitted Todd to return.”

“I did not bring Jason back.”

“You have worked beside magicians, gods, time travellers, and beings who rewrite existence according to whim. Do not stand there and tell me death is immutable when our lives have proven otherwise.”

Bruce’s voice softened. “They would not want you to risk the world.”

Damian laughed. The sound had no humour in it. “Do not use them against me.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“You are attempting to make my grief convenient.”

Bruce flinched.

Damian moved closer, eyes burning. “You want me to accept it. To sit quietly in a chair and discuss my emotions with a stranger until I can say their name without making you uncomfortable. You wish me to return to patrol, to attend dinners, to continue breathing as though that is not an obscene thing to ask of me.”

“No one expects you to be fine.”

“Then stop asking me to survive them.”

He turned away.

Tim watched him leave.

That night, he continued working on the fracture.

It reopened three months after your death.

Not because of Tim. Not because Damian had found some forbidden Lazarus ritual or threatened a magician into cooperation.

It opened on its own. A vertical wound of white light appeared in the middle of the Cave at 3:17 in the morning. Alarms screamed. The ground shook. Glass shattered in the trophy cases.

Damian was awake before the first siren.

He reached the central platform with his sword drawn as Bruce descended from above. Dick and Jason arrived seconds later, Tim stumbling behind them with his laptop clutched against his chest.

The fracture widened.

A figure fell through. They struck the stone floor and rolled, coming to rest beneath the Batcomputer.

The fracture sealed behind them.

Silence followed.

Damian stopped breathing.

You lay on the Cave floor.

Your hair was longer. Your suit was unfamiliar, black threaded with gold instead of the colours he remembered. A scar cut from your temple to the edge of your jaw.

But it was your face. Your hands. Your mouth.

For one impossible moment, Damian’s mind removed the differences.

You were alive.

The sword fell from his hand. It struck the floor with a ringing clang.

Your eyes opened.

You inhaled sharply and pushed yourself upright, one hand reaching for a weapon at your hip. You scanned Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim.

Then you saw Damian.

Every part of you went still.

His name left your mouth like a prayer. “Damian?”

He crossed the distance before anyone could stop him.

You rose to meet him.

His hands closed around your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He stared into your face as if searching for seams, for a mask, for evidence of illusion. His fingers moved to your jaw, your throat, the scar at your temple.

Warm skin. A pulse beneath his thumb.

“You are alive,” he whispered.

Your eyes filled. “So are you.”

Damian’s face twisted.

He pulled you against him.

The sound you made was strangled and desperate. Your arms locked around his neck, and you buried your face against his shoulder. Damian held you with enough force to hurt, one hand cradling the back of your skull while the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades.

His knees gave way.

You fell with him.

Damian struck the floor and did not seem to notice. He dragged you into his lap, touching your face, your hair, your wrists, unable to stop confirming you existed.

“You returned,” he breathed. “You returned to me.”

Your expression changed.

The grief within it became visible all at once.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Damian froze.

You lifted a trembling hand and touched his cheek.

It was the same gesture. The one you had used when nightmares pulled him awake. The one you had used before kissing him in the Cave on the day you died.

But something in your eyes was wrong.

Not absence.

Recognition. You knew his face, but you were looking at it like a ghost.

“You’re not mine,” you said.

The words entered him slowly.

Damian’s hands loosened.

Around them, the others remained silent.

Tim’s face had gone pale with understanding.

Damian stared at you. “What?”

Your thumb traced the edge of his cheekbone.

“My Damian had a scar here,” you whispered. “From when we were twenty. He tried to stop a blade with his face because he was showing off.”

“I did no such—”

His voice failed.

You laughed once, brokenly. “He always said that too.”

Damian looked down at your suit.

Black and gold.

Not yours. Not the one they had buried.

The scar on your face had not existed before.

He noticed the ring hanging from a chain around your neck.

His ring. A simple dark band engraved on the inside with words no one else knew.

You saw him looking and closed your fist around it.

“He died,” you said.

Damian’s body became rigid.

Your tears spilled over. “The fracture opened beneath Gotham. The core came for me.” Your breath hitched. “He pushed me away.”

No one moved.

The symmetry of it was too cruel to interrupt.

“I held him,” you continued. “I kept telling him Bruce was coming, that we had help, that he only needed to stay awake. He asked if I was hurt.”

Damian made a sound as though the air had been punched from his lungs.

You gripped the ring more tightly.

“He said, ‘Good.’ Then he—”

Your voice shattered.

Damian stared at you. You stared back.

Two survivors facing the shape of the person they had failed to keep.

Your hand slipped from his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I thought you were him.”

Damian’s face emptied.

He released you. The absence of his touch seemed to wound you both.

He moved backwards, only half a metre, but it looked like an ocean opening.

Dick stepped forward. “Damian.”

He did not respond.

Your eyes moved over him with aching hunger. You knew the angle of his shoulders. The severe line of his mouth. The tiny crease beside his right eyebrow that appeared when he was fighting not to show fear.

“You look exactly like him,” you said.

Damian’s chest rose once. Twice.

Then the air stopped reaching him.

His hand went to his mouth.

The first sob came quietly.

A small fracture in the silence.

You stared.

Damian folded in on himself.

The grief he had spent months forcing into narrower and narrower spaces exploded. He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor, his fingers clawing at the stone as if the Cave had begun to tilt beneath him.

You moved without thinking.

Your arms wrapped around him.

Damian fought you for one startled second.

Then he realised how you were holding him.

One hand behind his neck. The other spread between his shoulder blades.

Exactly as you had held your Damian. Exactly as his you had held him.

He broke. His body convulsed against yours. He seized the front of your suit and screamed into your shoulder, the sound muffled by fabric but no less terrible. Months of silence poured out of him in great, tearing sobs.

“They died,” he choked.

“I know.”

“They died for me.”

“I know.”

“I could not save them.”

“I know.”

You were crying too.

Damian clung to you like a drowning man clinging to the reflection of land.

“I buried you,” he gasped.

Your hand tightened in his hair. “I buried you, too.”

That sentence destroyed what remained of him. He sagged fully into your arms. You held his weight and rocked with him on the cold stone floor while the family watched two people mourn the same love through different faces.

No one tried to separate you. No one pretended it was a reunion.

It was not.

It was something stranger. Something crueller.

Something sacred.

You stayed at the Manor because there was nowhere else for you to go. Your universe had not vanished, as far as Tim could determine, but the fracture that had brought you here could not be reopened safely. You existed in their world without documentation, without a home, without anyone who knew you except for the shape of the person they had lost.

The first few days were unbearable.

Dick cried when you entered the kitchen wearing one of Damian’s old shirts. Jason avoided looking directly at you. Bruce became so formal that every conversation sounded like an interrogation conducted at a funeral. Tim asked questions until you snapped at him, then apologised for snapping, then wept when he apologised because your voice sounded exactly like the one in his memories.

Damian disappeared.

He remained in Gotham for four nights.

On the fifth, you found him seated beside the grave.

Your grave.

The sight of your own name carved into stone stole the strength from your legs.

Damian heard your breath catch and turned.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you sat on the wet ground beside him.

The grave was covered in flowers. Fresh ones, despite the rain.

“They hated lilies,” Damian said.

You glanced at him. “My Damian hated lilies.”

“They smell like funerals.”

“That’s what he said.”

Damian’s mouth tightened.

You looked back at the stone. Your date of death stared at you.

Three months ago.

In your world, Damian’s grave bore the same date.

“What were they like?” you asked.

His eyes sharpened.

You almost withdrew the question, but then Damian looked at the grave again.

“They sang badly,” he said.

A wet laugh escaped you. “So do I.”

“They knew. This did not deter them.”

“It never has.”

“They cheated at card games and claimed that noticing was proof I lacked commitment to the spirit of entertainment.”

You smiled through the tears. Damian’s gaze lingered on it.

“They disliked tea unless it contained enough sugar to qualify as syrup. They stole my clothing despite owning more than I did. They spoke to animals as though expecting a response.”

“I do expect one.”

“Titus encouraged this delusion.”

You touched the grass near the headstone. “My Damian pretended not to enjoy dancing. He did, when no one could see him.”

Damian looked offended. “I do not dance.”

“You do in the kitchen.”

“I have never—”

“When you’re cooking, and you think I’m reading.”

He stared at you. You stared back.

Something fragile passed between you.

Not recognition, not exactly. The echo of it.

“He drew me,” you continued. “Constantly. I used to find sketches tucked into books and case files. He acted annoyed whenever I mentioned them.”

Damian’s eyes lowered. “I drew them.”

You nodded. “I know.”

The rain began lightly, whispering against the leaves.

Damian looked at your hand resting in the grass. There was a pale band around your finger where a ring had once sat.

“You were married,” he said.

“Engaged.”

He touched the inside of his coat, where the ring he had planned to give you remained hidden in a small velvet box. He had carried it every day since your death.

The universe had almost been symmetrical.

Almost.

“I intended to ask them,” he said.

Your face crumpled. “When?”

“The night after the mission.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth.

Damian turned away, but not before you saw the tears gathering in his eyes.

“My Damian proposed two weeks before he died,” you whispered.

“Were you happy?”

“Yes.”

The answer came instantly.

Damian nodded. “So were they.”

“You know that?”

“They told me.”

He did not explain when. He did not need to.

You sat beside one another until the rain strengthened.

Before leaving, you placed your hand against the carved version of your name.

Damian watched your fingers trace the letters.

“I’m sorry I’m not them,” you said.

His brow furrowed. “You have no reason to apologise.”

“Sometimes you look at me like you’ve forgotten.”

His gaze dropped. “I know.”

“And sometimes I look at you and forget too.”

Damian’s voice was almost inaudible. “I know.”

You stood first.

After a moment, you offered him your hand.

Damian stared at it.

Then he took it.

There were rules. You created them together because grief made careless people of you both, and neither wanted to turn the other into a mausoleum.

No entering bedrooms without permission. No using private nicknames from the other universe. No asking the other to recreate memories. No pretending.

The rules lasted three weeks.

The first one broke when Damian woke screaming.

You heard him from across the hall. By the time you reached his room, he was on the floor beside the bed, breath coming in ragged bursts. His hands were pressed over his ears. Sweat soaked through his shirt.

You stopped in the doorway. “Damian.”

“Leave.”

You did not.

His eyes lifted. For a second, they were wild with hope.

Then the hope died.

You felt it die.

“I said leave.”

“I heard you.”

“Then obey me.”

“No.”

His face twisted with anger. It was so familiar that your chest ached.

“You are not them,” he spat.

You flinched. Regret struck him immediately, but Damian had always been better at drawing blood than bandaging it.

You stepped into the room. “And you’re not him.”

The words silenced him.

Your own tears rose. “I know that every time you speak. Every time you stand too far to the left because he favoured his right knee after an injury you never had. Every time you call Tim ‘Drake’ with a different inflexion. Every time you look at me and I think, for one second, that the nightmare is over.”

Damian’s anger collapsed.

You knelt several feet away.

“But you’re still in pain,” you whispered. “And so am I.”

His breathing remained too fast.

You placed your hand on the floor between you, palm up. “May I?”

Damian stared at it.

Then, slowly, he crawled forward.

He did not take your hand. He pressed his forehead into your palm.

You closed your fingers carefully against his hair.

His breath stuttered.

“You do not have to be him,” you said. “I don’t need you to be.”

Damian’s eyes closed. “And you do not have to be them.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You looked at him.

“No,” you admitted. “Not yet.”

His hand closed around your wrist.

Neither of you pretended the touch belonged to anyone else.

Spring arrived. The flowers around your grave began to bloom. You visited Damian’s grave in your own world through photographs Tim had managed to recover from the energy residue embedded in your suit. They were distorted and incomplete, but one image showed a grey headstone beneath a cedar tree.

You kept it beside your bed. Damian kept your counterpart’s photograph on his desk.

The Manor slowly learned how to contain you both. Jason began arguing with you about books. Dick stopped going silent whenever you laughed. Tim discovered that your technological knowledge had developed along a different path than theirs and recruited you into dimensional research. Bruce began saying your name without hesitation.

Titus followed you everywhere. The dog knew. Perhaps not the details, not the impossible mathematics of parallel worlds, but he knew you had the same hands. The same voice. The same habit of scratching beneath his collar before smoothing the fur between his ears.

The first time he fell asleep with his head in your lap, Damian stood in the doorway and stared.

You looked up. “I can move.”

“No.”

Damian entered the room and sat in the chair opposite you.

For several minutes, he sketched Titus.

Then his pencil shifted.

You noticed but said nothing.

When he left, the page remained on the table.

It showed your hands resting in the dog’s fur.

Not your face.

Not yet.

But yours.

Love did not return like lightning. It did not rise from the graves fully formed and demand to be recognised.

It came quietly. Guiltily. In moments neither of you trusted.

Damian began making your tea the way you liked it in your universe, not the way his you had taken it. You learned that he preferred silence after patrol, whereas your Damian had always needed music to come down from the adrenaline.

He discovered you hated being touched unexpectedly. You discovered he needed to know where you were in crowded rooms.

You did not fit into the spaces your counterparts had left. The edges were wrong. The weight was different.

Slowly, painfully, you made new spaces.

One night, nearly a year after you fell through the fracture, you found Damian on the roof of Wayne Manor.

Gotham glowed in the distance, ugly and golden beneath the clouds.

You sat beside him. Your shoulders did not touch.

“It is the anniversary,” he said.

“I know.”

In both universes.

One year since you had died. One year since Damian had died.

You took the ring from beneath your shirt. His counterpart’s ring turned slowly between your fingers.

Damian reached into his coat and removed a small velvet box.

Your breath caught.

He opened it.

Inside was the ring he had never given you.

“I considered burying it,” he said. “It seemed dishonest. They never wore it.”

You looked down at the band. “It’s beautiful.”

“They would have complained that it was too expensive.”

“I would have.”

“You are not helping your argument.”

A laugh escaped you.

Damian’s expression softened.

The silence that followed was not empty.

That was new.

“I loved him,” you said.

Damian looked out over Gotham. “I know.”

“I still love him.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “Sometimes I think loving anyone else would mean I’m leaving him behind.”

Damian turned the velvet box between his hands.

“I once believed grief was the final proof of love. That if I permitted it to lessen, it would mean they had mattered less than I claimed.”

“What do you believe now?”

His gaze found yours. “That grief is not love. It is merely the shape love takes when it has nowhere to go.”

Your eyes burned.

Damian looked back at the ring. “They would despise what I became after their death.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“They would say the same.”

“My Damian would be furious with me for spending a year wishing I’d died instead.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “As he should be.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I have never claimed not to be a hypocrite.”

You smiled. Then the smile faded. “What do we do with it?”

“With what?”

“All this love.”

Damian was quiet for so long that you thought he would refuse to answer.

Then he closed the box.

“We carry it.”

“And if it gets heavy?”

“We allow someone to help.”

Your heart beat painfully.

Damian heard the change. You knew he did from the slight shift in his posture.

You reached for him slowly, giving him time to move away.

Your fingers touched his. Damian looked down at your joined hands.

“This does not belong to them,” you whispered.

“No.”

“And it doesn’t belong to him.”

“No.”

“It’s ours.”

His fingers tightened around yours. “Yes.”

You leaned closer.

Damian’s eyes closed before your forehead touched his.

For a while, that was all it was.

Warm skin. Shared breath. Two people alive beneath an indifferent sky.

“I have loved you in another world,” you whispered.

Damian’s throat moved. “As I have loved you.”

“I think part of me always will.”

“I would not ask you to stop.”

You drew back enough to look at him. “What are you asking?”

Damian opened his eyes. There were tears in them, but he did not turn away.

“For the opportunity to know you in this one.”

Your breath shook. “That sounds suspiciously vulnerable.”

“Do not ruin it.”

You laughed, and Damian smiled.

It was not the smile your Damian had worn. There was no scar at his cheek. No old injury in his knee. His mouth tilted differently, and sorrow had carved unfamiliar lines around his eyes.

He was not the man you had buried. You were not the person whose name waited in the cemetery below. Perhaps that was why you could finally lift your hand and touch his face without pretending.

Damian leaned into your palm.

“I cannot promise this will not hurt,” he said.

“It already hurts.”

“I cannot promise I will never look at you and see them.”

“I’ll probably look at you and see him.”

His hand covered yours.

“But I will learn the difference,” he said.

“So will I.”

When he kissed you, it was not a resurrection.

The dead did not rise. The universe did not apologise.

Your Damian remained beneath a cedar tree in a world you could no longer reach. His love remained in the ring against your chest, in the memories no new touch could erase.

Damian’s beloved remained beneath spring flowers on the Wayne estate. Their laughter still lived in the Manor walls. Their unfinished book still waited beside a cold bed.

Nothing was repaired. Nothing was replaced.

But Damian kissed you with tears slipping down his face, and you kissed him back with grief trembling between every breath.

You loved the dead. You loved the living. Neither love diminished the other.

Perhaps, in another universe, there was a version of you who had grown old beside him. Perhaps somewhere beyond the fractures and branching stars, Damian was grey-haired and irritable, still stealing the blankets while accusing you of doing the same. Perhaps there were worlds where you never met, worlds where you hated one another, worlds where one of you arrived a moment too late.

There were infinite possibilities. Infinite endings. Infinite graves. But here, in this wounded world, Damian held your face between his hands as though life were something precious precisely because it could be lost.

“I found you,” he whispered.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“No,” you said softly. “We found each other.”

~

He follows you into the bathroom one day and you have to pee so bad you can’t even be bothered to stop him. You allow him to stand against the counter facing you and continue the conversation.

When you reach to grab toilet paper you just look at him, “Are you seriously gonna watch me wipe?”

“Yeah.” Jason says it so plainly, as if you asked if he wanted a cup of water.

“You’re such a freak.” You say with a shake of your head, finishing your business.

“It’s literally just pee, babe. I don’t care.” He argues. “Besides, you’re just as much of a freak as me. You’ve got no room to talk.”

“Look at us, a pair of freaks.” You’re beside him at the counter now washing your hands.

Jason doesn’t offer a reply, simply leans over to place a gentle kiss to your cheek.

~

“Jay, I’m plucking my eyebrows. Why are you so close to me.”

Your boyfriend slithered up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist while you leaned into the mirror for a better view.

“‘Cause I wanna be. Can’t I be close to my girl?” His words are muffled in your shoulder blade.

Sighing, truly not that upset, you mumble. “Okay.”

He stays curled up behind you as you finish your mission: making your eyebrows perfect. The entire time his face is either in your back or watching your reflection in the mirror as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. As if you aren’t making the most egregious faces trying to get the angle you need.

“So pretty, baby.”

~

“Okay, that’s it!” You scream out at Jason one day.

You’d walked into the bathroom 30 minutes ago to give yourself a pedicure. Soaking your feet in a warm bath with fancy products.

Jason has been sitting with you the whole time. Not saying a word, simply providing company while you both do your own thing.

When you’d pulled your feet out and began to dry them off, ready to trims your nails, Jason pulled the tools from your hands and dragged your feet into his lap.

That’s when you’d lost it.

“Why the hell are you trying to cut my fucking toenails, Jason Todd!”

His head whips up to look at you, deer in headlights look at your outrage. He makes no comment, looking confused.

“Doesn’t any of this get to you? Watching me piss and pop pimples and cut my damn ingrowns!” You feel insane. Surely this isn’t normal behavior. Not that you mind it, but why is he doing it?

You refuse to admit that deep down you worry all of this was gonna make him sick of you one day. That he’d see a flaw too closely, something about you that’s too real, and maybe he wouldn’t like it.

“Because it’s you.” His reply comes easy. Simple.

“What?” You’re slightly breathless. Chest previously heaving with bewilderment now struck with a deep wave of love for Jason.

“It’s just you, baby. I don’t care what you’re doing, I just wanna be with you. It’s not gross if it’s you. I want to help you with everything. If you’ll have me, that is.” As if to prove his point, he lifts your still damp foot up and places a kiss to your ankle.

“Jason, that’s- you.” You struggle for words. “That’s actually really fuckin’ sweet.” Tears start to form in your eyes as you take in his admission. “You really feel that way?”

“Remember the first time I opened up to you- the day we moved in together. Told you about how hard it might be to live with me?” Jason’s words are soft. You nod in affirmation.

“You told me, that loving me would never be hard. That no matter how much work it was, you’d never mind it because it was me.” His hands rub gently over your legs.

“It changed something for me, I dunno.” He mumbles, “Made me realize how you’ve never once balked or shied away from anything I ever showed you. How you’ve never made any part of me feel wrong. That’s what it’s like for me, too.”

The tears are falling freely now, warm salt dripping down your cheeks.

“I love you.” There’s nothing else you can think to say.

“I love you.”

“And here I was thinking you’re some freak.” You joke, tears still wetting your shirt.

"The cute regular. Their name. Maybe their phone number. Normal people stuff."

"I don't need their phone number."

"You watch the door every Tuesday and Thursday starting at 3:45."

"I'm observing foot traffic patterns."

"You're pining."

"I don't pine."

"You're doing something sad and longing. That's pining."

Jason was saved from responding by the bell above the door. 4 PM. Tuesday.

You walked in, and like clockwork, headed straight for the classics section. You were wearing an oversized sweater, jeans, and the same nervous expression you always had—like being in public was slightly overwhelming and you were trying very hard to manage it.

"I'm just saying," Roy whispered, "that's a person who looks like they could use a friend."

"They look like they want to be left alone."

"Or they look like they're lonely and don't know how to not be."

Jason hated that Roy had a point.

You approached the counter with your selection—Jane Eyre, a worn paperback copy—and set it down carefully, not quite making eye contact.

"Just this today?" Jason asked, keeping his voice gentle. He'd learned early on that you startled easily.

"Yes, please." Your voice was soft, almost musical. "Thank you."

"You've got good taste. Brontë's underrated."

You looked up briefly, surprised. "You've read it?"

"Yeah. The madwoman in the attic is basically a gothic horror subplot in a romance novel. It's great."

The smallest smile crossed your face. "I never thought of it that way."

"Most people don't. They focus on Rochester and Jane, miss the whole psychological terror aspect."

"That's... actually a really good point." You were still looking at him, and Jason realized this was the longest conversation you'd ever had.

Then you seemed to realize it too, because you quickly looked down, pulling out cash. "How much?"

"Six fifty."

You handed him exact change—you always had exact change—and took your book.

"Thanks," you said again, already turning toward the door.

"Wait—" Jason said before he could stop himself.

You paused, looking back nervously.

"I'm Jason. I, uh, own the store. I realized I've been seeing you twice a week for months and never actually introduced myself."

"Oh." You clutched your book. You practcally mumbled your name and if Jason wasn't so focused on you, he would have missed it.

"Nice to officially meet you."

"You too." You hesitated, like you wanted to say something else, then just gave a small wave and left.

Roy waited exactly ten seconds before saying: "That was painful to watch."

"Shut up."

"You like them."

"I don't even know them."

"You want to know them. That's the same thing." Roy grinned. "And they smiled at you. That's basically a marriage proposal in shy person language."

"You're an idiot."

"An idiot who's right."

Thursday

You came in at 4 PM, same as always. But this time, you looked more tired than usual, like you hadn't slept well.

Jason noticed because he was pathetic and noticed everything about you.

You browsed longer than normal, picking up books and putting them back, clearly unable to decide.

After fifteen minutes, Jason walked over. "Can I help you find something?"

You jumped slightly. "Oh. Sorry. I'm just... I can't decide what I want to read next."

"What kind of mood are you in?"

"I don't know. Something... comforting? I've had a long week."

Jason thought for a moment. "Come here."

He led you to a different section, pulled out a worn copy of The House at Riverton. "Kate Morton. Historical fiction, mysterious, but ultimately hopeful. Good for when you need something engaging but not too heavy."

You took it, reading the back cover. "This looks perfect. Thank you."

"No problem. That's literally my job."

You smiled again, and Jason's heart did something stupid.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Okay."

"Why here? There are bigger bookstores, libraries, online shopping. Why come to a crime alley bookshop twice a week?"

You were quiet for a moment, considering. "It's quiet. The big stores are overwhelming. Too many people, too much noise. Here it's..." You looked around. "Peaceful. Safe."

"Safe?"

"Red Hood protects this neighborhood." You said it matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. "Everyone knows that. It's the safest place in Gotham for people like me."

Jason's throat felt tight. You had no idea you were talking to Red Hood. No idea that your safety was his personal mission.

"People like you?" he managed.

"People who aren't good at... people things." You clutched your book. "I have really bad social anxiety. Going out is hard. But I need books, and the library is always crowded, and online shopping feels impersonal." You looked at him. "Coming here is manageable. You're patient. You don't make me feel weird for being quiet."

"You're not weird."

"Most people think I am."

"Most people are idiots."

You laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was so unexpected and lovely that Jason wanted to record it.

"Thank you," you said. "For that. And for the recommendation."

"Anytime."

Two Weeks Later

You started staying longer.

Not talking, exactly, but existing in the same space as Jason. You'd buy your book, then sit in the reading corner for thirty minutes, an hour, sometimes two.

Jason would work on inventory, help other customers, and try very hard not to stare at you curled up in the armchair like you belonged there.

"You could sit with them," Roy suggested during another visit.

"They're reading."

"So read near them. It's called parallel play. Very soothing for introverted people."

"How do you know about parallel play?"

"I have Google and concerns about your social life."

Jason considered this. Then, feeling ridiculous, he grabbed a book and sat in the chair across from you.

You looked up, surprised.

"Is this okay?" Jason asked. "I can move if you want to be alone."

"No, it's..." You smiled shyly. "It's nice. Having company without having to... perform."

"Yeah. I get that."

You went back to reading. Jason opened his book. You sat in comfortable silence for an hour.

It became a routine.

You'd come in, buy a book, sit and read. Jason would eventually join you. You'd exist in the same space, peaceful and quiet, occasionally exchanging a comment about what you were reading but mostly just... being.

It was the best part of Jason's week.

One Month Later

"I brought tea," you said one Thursday, holding up a thermos. "I made too much. Do you want some?"

"You brought me tea?"

"Well, I brought tea. I'm offering to share it. If you want. You don't have to." You were already second-guessing yourself. "Sorry, that's weird—"

"It's not weird. I'd love some tea. Thank you."

You poured him a cup in the extra mug you'd brought, and Jason tried not to read too much into the fact that you'd planned this. Brought an extra mug. Thought about him enough to share.

"It's chamomile," you said. "I know it's kind of boring—"

"It's perfect."

You both sat in your usual chairs, drinking tea, reading in comfortable silence.

"Can I tell you something?" you asked after a while.

"Sure."

"This is my favorite part of the week. Coming here. Reading with you. It's the only time I feel... normal. Like I'm not broken for being quiet."

"You're not broken."

"I know. Logically, I know. But sometimes it feels like I am. Like everyone else got a manual on how to be social and I missed that day." You looked at your tea. "My therapist says I need to work on it, but the thought of going to social events or trying to make friends makes me want to throw up."

"So don't."

You looked up. "What?"

"Don't force yourself to be someone you're not. If you're introverted, be introverted. If you need quiet, take quiet. The world's loud enough already. Someone should get to be peaceful."

"That's... really validating, actually."

"I'm serious. You come here, you read, you exist exactly as you are. That's not broken. That's just different."

"Do you really think that?"

"I know that. I've seen every kind of person in this city. The loud ones aren't better than the quiet ones. They're just louder."

You smiled, and this time it reached your eyes. "Thank you. For understanding."

"Thank you for bringing tea."

"I'll bring it every week if you want."

"I want."

Two Months Later

You still came twice a week. You still brought tea. You still sat and read with Jason in comfortable silence.

But you also started talking more.

Small things at first. Comments about your books. Observations about the weather. Gradually, carefully, you opened up.

You told him about your job—data entry, remote, perfect for someone who didn't like offices. About your apartment, small and cozy, full of books and plants. About your cat, Mr. Darcy, who was an asshole but you loved him anyway.

Jason told you about growing up in Crime Alley. About loving books because they were an escape. About opening the store because the neighborhood needed something good.

He didn't tell you about being Red Hood. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He liked being just Jason with you. The bookstore owner. The guy you drank tea with twice a week.

"Can I ask you something personal?" you said one evening, after the store had officially closed but you were still there.

"Sure."

"Do you ever get lonely? Running this place by yourself?"

Jason thought about it. "Yeah. Sometimes. But then I remember why I'm doing it. This neighborhood needs places like this. Quiet places. Safe places."

"You're really good at creating safe spaces."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. This whole store feels like a hug." You blushed. "Sorry, that's weird—"

"It's not weird. That's actually the nicest thing anyone's ever said about this place."

"I mean it. Coming here feels like coming home. You make it easy to exist."

Jason's heart was doing that stupid thing again. "You make it easy to exist too."

You looked at him, really looked at him, and something shifted in the air between you.

"Jason?" you said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Would it be okay if I—can I hug you?"

"You want to hug me?"

"You look like you could use one. And I—I'd like to. If that's okay."

"Yeah. That's okay."

You stood up, crossed the space between your chairs, and carefully wrapped your arms around him.

Jason hugged you back, and you were warm and soft and you smelled like tea and old books, and he thought this might be the best moment of his entire life.

"Thank you," you whispered.

"For what?"

"For being patient with me. For making this place. For letting me be quiet without making me feel bad about it."

"You don't have to thank me for basic decency."

"It's not basic. Most people don't get it. But you do." You pulled back slightly to look at him. "I really like you, Jason."

"I really like you too."

"Even though I'm awkward and weird and can barely handle social situations?"

"Especially because of that. You're genuine. You're kind. You're exactly yourself, unapologetically." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "That's not weird. That's brave."

"I don't feel brave."

"You leave your house twice a week despite anxiety. You talk to me even though talking is hard. You exist in a world that's not built for quiet people and you do it anyway. That's brave."

Your eyes were shining. "Can I kiss you?"

"Please."

You kissed him, soft and careful, and Jason thought that this—this quiet moment in a bookstore in Crime Alley with the most introverted person he'd ever met—was worth everything.

When you pulled back, you were smiling. "I've wanted to do that for weeks."

"Me too. I just didn't know if you... if I..."

"We're both disasters at this, aren't we?"

"Completely."

"Good. I prefer it that way." You settled back into your chair, pulling your book into your lap. "Can we just... keep sitting here? Reading?"

"For as long as you want."

"Forever might be too long."

"Forever sounds perfect."

Six Months Later

You'd moved some of your books into the store's back room.

It had happened gradually. You'd leave one book, then two, then a whole shelf's worth. Eventually, you'd brought a blanket, a mug that lived in the kitchen, slippers that stayed by Jason's reading chair.

You hadn't officially moved in. You still had your apartment. But you were there more often than not, existing in Jason's space like you'd always belonged there.

"I need to tell you something," Jason said one evening.

You looked up from your book. "Okay."

"It's... big. And you might hate me for not telling you sooner."

"I won't hate you."

"You might."

"Jason." You set down your book. "Whatever it is, just tell me."

"I'm Red Hood."

You blinked. "I know."

"You—what?"

"I've known for a while. A couple months, maybe?"

"How?"

"You have the same voice. Same mannerisms. Same way of moving." You smiled. "Plus, you're both obsessed with protecting Crime Alley, and the timing of when you 'step out' always matches Red Hood sightings."

"And you're not... scared? Upset?"

"Why would I be scared? You're you. The suit doesn't change that." You stood up, crossing to him. "And I'm not upset you didn't tell me. I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."

"You're amazing."

"I'm patient. There's a difference."

Jason pulled you into his lap, and you settled there like you belonged. "I love you. I should have said it weeks ago, but I was scared—"

"I love you too." You kissed him softly. "I have for a while."

"Even though I'm a vigilante?"

"Even though. Especially though." You rested your forehead against his. "You protect people like me. People who can't protect themselves. How could I not love that?"

"People like you are the reason I do this."

"That's really romantic."

"I have my moments."

You kissed him again, and Jason thought about how far you'd both come. The quiet reader who could barely speak above a whisper. The bookstore owner with a violent alter ego.

You'd built something together in the quiet spaces. Something real and gentle and perfect.

"Hey," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for making the world a little quieter. A little safer. For people like me."

"Thank you for existing exactly as you are."

"Even when I'm too quiet?"

"Especially when you're quiet. The world needs more quiet people. More gentle people. More people like you."

You smiled, settling against his chest. "Read to me?"

"What do you want to hear?"

"Anything. I just like your voice."

So Jason read to you, and you listened, and outside Crime Alley went about its noisy, chaotic business.

But inside the bookstore, there was peace.

There was safety.

There was love.

Quiet and gentle and perfect.

You eventually did move in officially, though it was hard to tell when it happened since you'd been gradually taking over Jason's space for months.

Mr. Darcy the cat also moved in and immediately claimed Jason's favorite chair.

You still came to the bookstore every Tuesday and Thursday, even though you lived there now. Some routines were too important to break.

Jason proposed with a first edition of your favorite book and a handwritten note inside that said: "You make the world quieter. Marry me?"

You said yes by nodding, too emotional to speak.

The wedding was small. Just Roy, Jason's family, and a handful of close friends. You barely spoke during the reception, but you smiled the entire time.

Your vows were three sentences long, spoken so quietly Jason had to lean in to hear them:

"You make me feel safe. You make me feel understood. You make me feel loved."

Jason's vows were longer, but they boiled down to the same thing:

"You taught me that quiet is powerful. That gentle is strong. That love doesn't have to be loud to be real."

And it was real.

So, so real.

The rapidity with which your thoughts are slipping in and out of your mind is only adding to the fear that crests over and over and over again as you forget and realize each moment where you are and that you don’t know where that is.

Amnesia. Post-traumatic amnesia. You remember reading about this one night on the Vat while smoking a cigarette that you’d bummed off of one of the Chinese navy officers, because, well, you had been having a lot of stressful evenings lately and would likely continue to have them for a while. The four-year coma you were going to be in would kick the habit (again) for you, anyway, so you only felt a little bit bad about it. After a brain injury or a coma—its own kind of brain injury, really—patients could experience amnesia, forgetting the events just before the stress occurred to the brain and/or leaving them unable to form new memories upon waking.

Post-traumatic amnesia. Amnesia. Amnesia. Amnesia. Amnesia. Amnesia. You keep repeating the word in your mind, holding on to it like a lifeline, because you have no idea if you’ll be able to find that information again if it slips away.

The ceiling is still there. Still! This is progress. The white surface had been there a moment ago, and it’s still there now, and you remember both of these things. This is a good sign, surely.

You try hard to remember anything else about post-traumatic amnesia. Patients could be irritable or scared because their surroundings were constantly new and unfamiliar. Okay, yeah, you can go ahead and check that one off the list. It could last anywhere from minutes, to hours, to days, weeks, even months…

The panic returns (returns! You remember being panicked just a moment ago—more progress!), and you fight to squash it down before you can throw up into the tube in your throat, which would probably be bad. Oh, god, there’s a tube in your throat.

This realization sends you flailing—wait, no, it doesn’t, and strangely this second observation calms you down a little as you focus on it. Your body would very much like to flail around but apparently cannot. Right, coma; you would probably be weak for a while after years of little to no movement. Your body feels sturdy, though, definitely much sturdier than you remember it being (you note this with pride; not the fact that clearly you did not used to work out much but rather that your mind was starting to function a little more smoothy, with things sticking around rather than flitting away). Instead, it seems like it all feels a bit heavier, strangely so, and not just because you’re carrying around more muscle mass than you’ve historically had.

Okay, you decide, let’s start with some basics. You remember your name, and this comes with a feeling of satisfaction. It’s not technically that impressive, because you’ve known your name for pretty much your entire life, so it’s not the sort of information that you were more likely to lose in this state. But, still. It’s the little victories. You’re a software engineer, a really good one, which might explain the lack of muscle up until now. (Okay, that’s not super fair to your field, you can admit; there were plenty who would get up at ungodly hours to go to the gym. You simply did not have the time in the day on top of your already grueling schedule for all of that.)

Your next decision is to try and figure out if your surroundings are relatively safe before you spend any more time seeing what you can and can’t recall. Clearly, you were not supposed to be stuck in this shaft in the wall, so that seems like an immediate issue to resolve before doing anything else. Right, okay, this will require some movement. And probably removing the tube in your throat—and the…other tubes, which you are slowly beginning to notice—but: movement. That seems like the best place to start.

Out of all of your appendages, your legs seem to be the least restricted, relatively speaking, so you concentrate on moving your feet side-to-side. Success! You can feel them twitch, and with a little more effort you can curl your toes and swivel your feet a little farther.

“She’s alive! You’re alive! Oh, thank god, okay—arm…thing—Armando, sure, it’s time to slide her platform out now, if your tiny machine brain can handle that much.”

The sudden exclamation from beyond your feet sends a shot of panic through you followed by an enormous flood of relief. People, there are other people here! Right, of course there are, you’re part of a crew. They’ll help you get out, Lesya and Yao and…the third person? Okay, that was probably a piece of information from shortly before you went under, but you mentally wave that away. You’ll find out soon enough, you suppose. His comment toward the NannyBot is also a little funny; this is not the kind of thing you should really be dwelling on at this moment in time, but you find yourself agreeing. The NannyBot was stupid, because it was one of the few programs you hadn’t been allowed to fully tinker around with, just look at it enough with the rest of your team to incorporate it with the ship’s functions. It had been an absolute nightmare integrating its voice-recognition software with that of the Mary.

The platform underneath you stutters forward and then stops, jostling you and all of the tubes around, which is extremely uncomfortable, by the way, and you cry out from around the one in your throat. “Sorry, sorry, I think I can see what’s wrong, just let me—” You can just barely hear him moving around the room, rustling through piles of stuff and dumping things on the floor. He returns after a little while, apparently having found whatever it was that he was looking for, and says, “Okay. One of the metal guidance arms is stuck in the track. But I’m going to place this here, and if I hit it with enough force in just the right spot, it should detach from the platform. It might come out tilted downward, but one step at a time.”

Talk about showing your work. You would like to scream at him to shut up and whack the damn thing already, but—tube. Thankfully, there is not much else to explain about his plan, and you hear him take a deep breath before—

With a loud clang, the arm comes off of the platform, and you’re sliding forward. The lights are absolutely blinding after the dimness of the shaft. You have never been so happy to be blinded in your entire life. This happiness is short-lived, because then you can feel the platform start to pitch forward, and the other metal arm is creaking like it’s about to snap. “Woah, no—”

He rushes to hold the platform up before you go crashing to the ground. This is very clearly taking a lot of effort; you’re glad you’re not the only one who’s feeling how weirdly heavy everything is. His forehead starts to turn red as he fumbles for something beside him that you can’t see; he finally grasps it and swings it upward, wedging it between your platform and the one just beneath you.

“Eye movement detected.”

“Thank you, Armando, very observant of you,” he huffs. You try to peer at him to figure out who your mystery savior is, because his voice sounds very familiar, but attempting to crane your head forward to see more of his face causes the tube in your throat to shift painfully. Then the NannyBot swivels and moves toward you to remove it, and, actually, maybe you’re okay with having the tube in for a little longer, because now you’re imagining what it’s going to feel like while sliding out, and, no, thank you. “No, no! Put her back under before you take it out!”

You’ve changed your mind. The tube can come out now, right now, please, because what if you forget everything all over again and you’re stuck in the wall and—

He can apparently see your panic from his vantage point. “I know, I’m sorry, but it’s really best if the NG tube is removed while you’re asleep. You’re going to wake up again, I swear.”

Your eyes are wide and you’re trying to shake your head back and forth, but an intense tiredness starts to wash over you, and all you can hang onto is his promise, which had sounded like he was making it to himself as much as he was making it to you: you’re going to wake up again.

--

The next time you return to consciousness, the ceiling is, thankfully, where it’s supposed to be, which is to say that it’s not right in front of your face.

You blink at the bright lights glaring above you. The tube in your throat is gone, but outside of a little soreness, you feel okay. The two other tubes are still there. Baby steps.

“Eye movement detected. Cognition assessment: what is two plus two?” You clear your throat to respond, which is apparently enough of a sound for it to register. “Incorrect. What is two plus two?”

“Jeez, if you at least let her try to answer—”

“Incorrect—”

“Oh, come on—”

“—what is two plus two?”

“Four,” you croak out.

“Correct. What is the cubed root of eight?”

“Listen, don’t try to be smart with it, because it turns out this thing is very stupid.”

“Incorrect. What is the cubed root of eight?”

“Two!” You rush before he can make any other comments that keep this annoying loop going.

“Correct. What is your name?”

You rattle it off, again before he can say anything to interrupt, and with that the NannyBot is satisfied and returns to the center of the ceiling to idle. It occurs to you that it might try to put you under again, so without thinking you reach over and pull the IV out. The man heaves himself up the wall and hurriedly puts a little pressure on your arm. Oh! It’s Dr. Grace. Right, that makes sense, because—

Before your train of thought can continue, Dr. Grace speaks. “You did a lot better on that pop quiz than I did, I have to say.”

You huff out a laugh, which is immediately a mistake with how sore your throat is. “I…had a little more time…to prepare for it.”

“Right. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Shaking your head, you heave yourself up into a sitting position, clutching the blanket he must have draped over you sometime after you were put under again. The room spins a little. You brace yourself with one arm beside you—the movement is a little awkward, because he’s still putting pressure where the IV needle was—while mentally checking yourself over: your recent memories are still sticking with you, and nothing else seems to be out of place as far as you can tell, so you turn toward checking over your body for any abnormalities. It all appears to check out, despite the fact that it all still feels heavier than it should. You tentatively wiggle your fingers; yep, those are working, too, which is good, because those are pretty important.

Dr. Grace takes a deep breath beside you. “Okay, so this is going to be a lot, but. Well, there’s really no easy way to say this—we’re on a spaceship. In space.”

“I…know?”

He looks a little stunned at this. “Wow, okay, you figured that out a lot quicker than I did.”

“We’re on the Hail Mary to try and find a solution to the Petrova problem at Tau Ceti.” You peer at him curiously and clear your throat to continue. Talking feels like rubbing sandpaper on your vocal chords. “How long did it take you to remember that?”

“Uh…a while. But not as long as my name! Hah.”

Either you’re not getting the joke, or it’s just not that funny. “That’s not…what do you remember?”

His hand leaves your arm, then, to run his palm over the back of his head self-consciously. “I remember that I was a teacher. Some things about the Petrova taskforce. Looking at the astrophage.” The arm that’s holding onto a strap on the wall stiffens involuntarily at the word. “That’s…about where I’m at right now. I can’t remember things on command, but it’s starting to come a little easier.”

You’re no doctor—well, you are, just not that kind of doctor—but this does not sound normal. Normal under the current circumstances, that is. The name thing is possible, you suppose, but from what you remember from your admittedly brief research, that had more to do with the panic resulting from one’s unfamiliar surroundings than loss of the memory itself. You open your mouth to tell him as much, but you cough instead from the soreness of your throat.

“Right—water.” Dr. Grace calls the second word out to the ceiling, and after a beat the arm hands you a cup. After carefully ensuring you won’t fall over if you lift your arm up, you take it gratefully and sip on the water slowly out of an abundance of caution. He drops down to the floor while you do so and returns to hand you some clothes, carefully folded up. “These are yours, I think.”

You look at the orange jumpsuit in your lap. The patch catches your eye, particularly the names of the crew embroidered around its border. Right! The crew! “Where’s Lesya—Ilyukhina? Yao?” You look around the room as if they’re going to pop out from hiding somewhere. Dr. Grace is quiet at that. “They—” He clears his throat. There are tears in his eyes. “They didn’t make it.”

It is difficult to put into words how your body reacts to this information. Everything seems to seize up all at once, and your hands start to shake, causing some of the water in the paper cup to spill down your front.

That cannot be right. You were there when you all went under. You had gone first, and Lesya had smiled and given you a thumbs up to ease your nerves. Yao had put himself under last, making sure nothing went wrong, ever the watchful and dedicated captain. The four of you were supposed to wake up together. You were supposed to help Lesya dress, and then she was going to pour celebratory shots while you all waited for the ship to come into Tau Ceti’s orbit.

You squeeze your eyes shut while Dr. Grace continues. “I’m sorry. I…I gave them both a funeral. I didn’t know that you were still alive, I thought, I had just assumed—I didn’t realize until after, when I was trying to get your platform out to…” He doesn’t finish, but you can fill in the blanks. He was going to give you a funeral, too, having inferred from the other two bodies that he was all alone out here, that you had died just like your other two crewmates.

Slowly exhaling, you open your eyes and nod. “It’s okay. I don’t…I’m not sure I would have wanted to see them like that.” Your final memory of Lesya would be her smile, and you try to hold onto that fact, ignoring the overwhelming pain that comes when you think about how you always seem to be gone when those closest to you die. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his free hand. “Whatever it was, it happened a long time ago. They were…it had been a while. I think something went wrong, and whatever software they had monitoring us couldn’t fix it.” It made sense—you remember Stratt asking if the NannyBot was a kind of artificial intelligence, but that technology was simply too new, too prone to hallucinations to put the lives of the potential saviors of the planet into its hands. It ran on a series of algorithms instead, designed to care for its coma-induced patients, feed them, stimulate their muscles, give them food on scheduled intervals once they were awake; but it could only do so much. Could only respond to pre-programmed scenarios.

Several thoughts run through your head, then. If you had just been allowed to work with the NannyBot’s software, maybe you could have caught this. You’d have seen some blind spot, insisted that they program it to respond to a wider variety of medical events. Or maybe you could have elected to stay awake, monitor your crewmates, write the damn algorithms yourself while shooting through space alone. Then your friends wouldn’t be dead.

Your mind continues to obsessively catalogue all the different things you could have done. This is easier than letting yourself feel the full force of your grief, because you already knew what that kind of grief did to you. It would swallow you whole for months and months, and just when you thought you were coming out the other side, it would claw up your throat again and you would choke and drown.

“Hey,” Dr. Grace says gently. “You should try to eat something.” Eating is quite possibly the furthest thing from your mind, but your stomach grumbles anyway at his suggestion. Traitor. “It won’t give it to you until you’re moving around, though.”

You nod numbly and start to shift before two tubes make their presence known again. “The, uh, the tubes.”

He chuckles, and the sound is still a little wet with tears. “Right. Pro tip: don’t throw yourself off the bed while those are still in. Learned that the hard way.” You try to appreciate his attempt at humor, but nothing within you responds, so you just lay back down and turn to your side while he clambers down and faces the opposite wall. He hesitates and turns his head a little toward you. “I can—do you want the IV back in? So you don’t have to be awake for this.”

“No.” He doesn’t respond to that, simply turning his head back to face the wall. If your mind was still in your body, you would feel grateful that he wasn’t pushing the issue any further.

All things being equal, the butt tube isn’t that bad. The catheter is…worse, a slight stinging pain in your urethra, but it dulls somewhat quickly. At least you can feel it. Can feel something.

With that out of the way, you gingerly sit up and peer down at the floor. You’re only on the second platform up, but with the ship still moving so fast you might simply crumple if you try to drop down. (Numbly, you note that you’ve finally recalled why everything feels so strangely weighty—it’s the higher gravity. Your earlier panic had kept you from registering that. Apparently the grief wasn’t currently serving that same function.)

“I don’t think I can get down by myself,” you finally say. Dr. Grace turns around and looks between you and the floor a few times.”

“Armando, can you help her—”

“No." You interrupt forcefully, before the arm can come near you again. You could accept its help when it came to the tubes, but this is where you draw the line. That thing let your friends die. It could rot in hell, for all you cared. “Please, just…just help me down.”

“Okay, I can do that,” he responds gently. He climbs partway up the wall again and then stops. “Um, do you want to try and get dressed up there first?”

You give him a look. “I think we have more pressing issues than my modesty.”

“Yeah, fair enough.”

You let the blanket drop from over your chest and then roll the pile of clothes into a wad. Once it’s secured under your arm, you pull the rest of the blanket off and let it drop to the floor. Dr. Grace reaches forward to gingerly wrap an arm around your torso. You lean forward to grip one of the straps on the wall.

“Here, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He helps you transfer your weight to the wall. Your arms and legs are already shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, and perhaps in any other situation you would be embarrassed about the fact that you are now almost entirely leaning against him while starkly nude (and freshly de-cathetered), but suicide missions in space have a way of reorganizing your priorities.

Once you’re safely on the ground, you prop yourself up against the wall to take a few breaths before pulling the clothes out from underneath your arm. Dr. Grace has stepped away and turned around again, as if your entire naked body hadn’t just been pressed up against him with very little left to the imagination. A piece of your normal self that’s still floating around in your skull registers this as very sweet. You slowly put your underwear on, then throw the white tank top over your head and pull it down over your torso. The socks are a little trickier; you have to lean more fully against the wall, because you think if you tried to just stand on one leg you would simply fall over. The jumpsuit is last, and by the time you’ve pulled it on and zipped it up, you’re exhausted.

Apparently you’ve satisfied the requirement to move around before food, because the arm moves in front of you with a tube clutched in its metal hand. You press yourself flat against the wall without really meaning to. “Eat,” it commands, and after a beat you snatch the tube from it like a feral cat. The tube does remind you of those little liquid cat treats, which should shut your appetite off but the smell of the watery sludge that wafts toward you once you tear the top off prevents that from happening.

You give it a tentative lick. An involuntary moan leaves your mouth. Definitely not a cat treat. It tastes like beef stew, the kind that cooks all day in a crock pot, roasted in herbs and vegetables. Dr. Grace has turned back around to face you and is suppressing a smile at the way you’re rolling the packet up like a tube of toothpaste to get every molecule of this delicious paste into your mouth. Again, you register that you should probably feel a little self-conscious.

“What?” You say around the plastic; you’ve changed tactics and stuck the entire thing between your teeth so you can slowly slide it out and get at the last bits of paste.

“Sorry, it’s just—it’s weirdly good, right?” There’s a hint of something else in his comment, something akin to awe. He’s still processing the fact that he’s not stranded all by himself in space, you realize. You try to imagine yourself in his place: waking up alone, with no memories, to find the long-dead bodies of your crewmates. You are suddenly very appreciative of how well he seems to be taking it all. (Later, you would learn that there was a period where he was very much not taking it well.)

You hum as you pull the plastic out of your mouth and confirm that there’s nothing left. There’s no trash can, and you don’t really feel like finding one, so you let it drop to the ground—the room is already a mess, anyway—and look up at the NannyBot. “More.”

He steps forward. “Yeah, it’s pretty strict about that, unfortunately. Your stomach probably can’t handle anymore, anyway, and you should really try to get some more sleep.”

You would like to fight him on this, but you’re still exhausted from climbing out of bed and putting your clothes on. That combined with the food now sitting in your stomach—he’s right, you’re already starting to feel full—means that you’re about ready to just close your eyes and sleep standing against the wall. So you nod and then look back up at your platform, which you can now see he had propped up with a metal shelf wedged between it and his own. Your eyes travel upward to the other two shafts. “I can’t…I don’t think I can climb up again. And I’m not—I can’t—I won’t—” You are not going to sleep in the beds where your friends died.

So you take a deep breath and slowly move to the blanket you had dropped onto the floor to grab it and wrap it around yourself. Admittedly, the floor does not look very comfortable, but…it beats the alternative. Dr. Grace watches you for a beat before calling to the ship to open up the storage hatch. He disappears into the floor and returns a moment later with a soft-sided container full of extra blankets, which you take gratefully.

After rearranging the extra blankets and wadding one of them up into a makeshift pillow, the floor is looking much more inviting, so you lay down in the nest. Before drifting off, you murmur, “Just…wake me up…after a few hours. Okay?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

You close your eyes, and just before you succumb to the tiredness seeping into the marrow of your bones, you hope desperately that you will not dream. (Technically, everyone dreams when they sleep, your brain unhelpfully supplies, so you settle for the hope that you will not remember them when you wake up.)

II.

You met early spring.

You had black stains on your fingers and the ghost of a literary piece on your lips, chanting and reciting quietly under your breath to remember the lesson you’d be teaching on your first day at Cleveland Middle School. 

And you’re too distracted that you don’t prepare for the gust of wind that steals the papers in your arms and sends them flying in the air, and eventually scatters them on the ground.

Ryland sees you outside the library, crouched over spilled notes. It’s instinct the way he helps, and it’s genuine the way you smile in return.

“Sorry.” You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you accept the stack he hands over. “Apparently I’m losing a pretty hefty fight against the weather.”

“That’s okay. The weather’s definitely cheating. I mean, come on, using the wind is quite petty, if you ask me.” He smiles easily. Always so easy. From this moment and the days that will follow, but you don’t know that yet. 

Then, he glances at one of the pages. “Lesson plans?”

Your smile sheepishly at the man, taking the papers from him as he hands them to you. “Yeah. I’m assuming you teach here too? With the tie and blazer and everything…”

“Guilty.” His mouth twitches into a wider smile. Outstretched. “Middle school science.”

Then, he offers a hand. “Ryland Grace.”

You tell him your name, taking his hand in yours in a firm handshake. Somehow, it feels like it fits perfectly together. Neither of you know the future waiting for you.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling in that slightly awkward, earnest way. “Hopefully next time the wind is less involved.”

“That depends.” You smile. “Are you planning on being there to rescue my papers again?”

That’s all it took. Spilled notes and a few shy conversations after classes.

Love didn’t come loud. It didn’t crash through his chest or scream upon its arrival like he thought it would. It was quieter than that. Softer.

Lingering in your classroom long after the final bell, half-finished conversations carried between classrooms and coffee, recommending novels he swore he wouldn't like and inevitably loving them, listening to him ramble about endless things, and the realization that his favorite part of every day had somehow become spending time with you.

Four steps instead of two now.

It was love before he even knew it was. 

It was love as he caught himself looking for you in every room.

It was always love.

III. 

“Ryland?”

He looks up from the stack of papers on his desk, pen caught between his fingers. It pauses mid-air as his focus shifts to you—you, currently standing in the doorway of his classroom, holding a book he’d lent you three weeks ago. The one he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing because he thought you'd like it. 

He really wanted to impress you despite only knowing each other a few months.

“I finished it.” You smile. You always smile, and it always messes him up. 

Then and there, he could hear his heart start beating faster, growing tenfold if it was possible (it isn’t, he would know.)

“Oh.” 

At that moment, Ryland seriously considers death by jumping out the window as a viable option. Why is it that his knee-jerking reaction to you smiling at him is a dumb “oh”.

“I liked it.” You prod, tilting your head and the small gesture makes Ryland’s hands sweat. 

Still, the relief is instant. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the restlessness as he was waiting to know if you’d liked his recommendation. He lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah? You did?”

“Yeah.” You take a few steps closer to where he’s sitting now. “Actually, I think I liked it because it reminded me of someone.”

His stomach drops. The beating of his heart is back, the bated and held breath, the tense shoulders as he looks up at where you’re standing. Nearer, and nearer, and a step after another.

“Really? Haha, I wonder who that could be.”

“I wonder too, Ryland.”

You’re looking at him, and it drives everything from his mind but the narrow focus of when you might say something next, of what you were going to do next. Because Ryland has loved you since the day he met you, and somewhere along the months of knowing you, it had only really grown. It grew and settled in spaces he didn’t know could be filled with love. 

When he looks back at you, there is no other feeling in his heart.

He tries to breathe. In and out and in and out, and you don’t say anything just yet, and the world closes in on him and he can’t breathe in and out and in and out, and then you smile again.

“You know, for a smart guy, you're taking a really long time to figure this out.”

And suddenly, the possibility of reciprocation bursts around his black-and-white world. 

IV.

You get the news of your publication on a Friday night.

Ryland remembers because it was raining, and he'd almost texted to ask if you wanted to reschedule your plans to meet. The weather was miserable, and Ryland was only still at school because he'd forgotten a stack of quizzes he needed to grade.

But you came anyway. You’d ran to him, ran to Cleveland Middle School, soaked to the bone, clutching a crumpled email printout half-ruined by the storm, and you’d launched yourself into his arms as he was waiting for the rain to calm.

He nearly drops his umbrella, nearly drops the bag he’s holding with the quizzes he’d come back for as he catches you in his arms.

"Ryland! They accepted it!"

"Wait. Wait, your paper?" His eyes widen in recognition, momentarily letting go of the hug to hold you by your forearms, pulling you back so he can look at you. 

You nod frantically, and he’s still holding you.

“Yes, my paper.” You tell him, in such an exhilarated tone indicative of pure, unadulterated happiness that it makes Ryland’s heart burst to listen to. “They’re publishing it.”

His mouth falls open.

"Oh my God. That’s huge! You’ve… you’ve been working on that for so long!"

You laugh, and the sound comes out halfway between a sob and pure excitement. "I did it."

"You did." He pulls you back against him, arms tightening around your shoulders in a proper embrace this time.

"I actually did it." You whisper into his shoulder, breathless from when you’d been running earlier and from the rush of emotions you haven’t recovered from yet. “I suppose this means I can stop ambushing you with drafts mid-grading papers.”

“I don’t know. I think I’d miss it. I liked reading them, anyway.”

That day, you smelled like rain and printer ink and something that could only be described as triumph. And your cheeks were red from the cold and the rush. And your hair was a mess, and your hands were cold, but he felt the warmest he’s ever had, holding you.

And in that moment, he was sure.

It had to be you.

Ryland Grace had always been the type to wish for more time—to solve a problem, to finish a project, to understand something that didn't quite make sense yet. But in this moment, with you like this in his arms and listening to your heartbeat race with excitement, he’d decided he’d like to just freeze it here. 

In this moment with you. Always with you. 

V. 

Then one evening, sitting beside you in the familiar quiet of your classroom, he finally found the courage to say it.

Or at least, some version of it.

The confession arrived clumsy and stumbling, caught between half-finished thoughts and nervous laughter. Every sentence seemed to trip over the next one.

But you listened. You always did.

And when he finally ran out of ways to avoid it, he looked at you and said the only thing left to say. The one he’d been trying to say, but couldn’t.

"I like you." 

Even though love would’ve been a more appropriate word. He just didn’t want to startle you away from just how much he felt for you.

The words hang in the air, lingering there and floating around, and for a moment, the only thing Ryland could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

But then you smiled, and it was something so subtle that Ryland almost missed it.

"Good.” You said quietly. "That would've been really embarrassing for me otherwise."

Ryland stared, and his heart tingled with a nudge as he realized the connotations of your words. And suddenly every fear he'd carried for so long felt ridiculous. Here you were, returning the feelings he has felt for years.

The warmth of your hand found his, threading your fingers through his as naturally as if they'd always belonged there, and the kiss that followed wasn't perfect but neither of you cared. 

Because, where what-if’s would’ve sat, there is an overwhelming realization that the person you had been waiting for had been waiting all this time too.

VI. 

The reception is beautiful.

Strings of warm lights hang from the trees overhead, casting everything in gold. The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass. Somewhere beyond the dance floor, laughter drifts through the crowd.

Ryland notices almost none of it.

Because you're standing in front of him.

The world had watched you walk down the aisle earlier. Every guest had turned to look. 

Ryland still hasn’t been able to stop staring. Even now, hours later, he still can't.

Your dress catches the glow of the lights with every movement. The fabric gathers around your feet like spilled starlight. There's a softness to your smile that has remained unchanged since the day he met you, and somehow seeing it now—with his ring on your finger and his last name newly yours—feels enough to knock the breath from his lungs all over again.

No one in this world is perfect. Ryland knows that better than most. But if perfection exists at all, he thinks it might look something like this.

The music shifts. There is the gentle sound of the piano, some strings, an acoustic guitar.

A nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

"Mrs. Grace?" He says, offering his hand.

"Still sounds weird."

"Yeah?"

"A little."

"Well." A small smile tugs at his lips. "Good thing we have the rest of our lives to get used to it."

You beam, placing your hand on his and immediately, his fingers close around yours.

He draws you closer, one hand settling on the small of your back while the other remains intertwined with yours. The two of you begin to sway across the dance floor, slow and unhurried.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

And it's only somewhere near the middle of the song when he exhales a quiet laugh.

"What?" You ask softly, pulling your head back from where it had been resting on his shoulder to look him in the eyes. 

His head shakes against yours.

"Nothing."

"Ryland."

"I'm just..." He glances at your joined hands. "Still trying to process that this actually happened."

Your eyebrows lift in amusement, and you can’t fight the smile that always settles on your face when you’re with him. "Our wedding?"

"Yeah." He smiles to himself. "Our wedding. Statistically speaking, the odds of two people meeting exactly when they do, becoming exactly who they are, and ending up here are ridiculously small. I mean, I met you on such a random day. What if… what if someone else had helped you then? Would things be the same now?"

You shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips.

"Only you would bring up statistics during our first dance."

"I waited until after the ceremony."

"How considerate of you. And for the record, I think we would’ve still met anyway. I think this was always destined for us.”

His smile softens, and he says, a little quieter, “Okay, then statistics worked on my side. Or destiny. I don’t know anymore. I just keep looking at you and thinking how lucky I am. I don’t care what had to transpire for this to happen. I’m just happy it did.”

The words settle between you, and your heart is bursting with so much warmth and happiness, and suddenly you notice that his eyes look suspiciously wide and he’s blinking way too much than he normally does.

"Ry, honey, are you crying?"

"No."

"Ryland."

"Maybe just a little." You laugh as a tear escapes despite his best efforts. He lets out a helpless groan as he tries to wipe it quickly. "I’m sorry."

"For what?"

"I told myself I wasn't going to do this."

"You cried during the vows."

"That was different."

"Honey."

He pulls you a little closer at the endearment, forehead finding yours. And when he looks at you, there's so much love in his expression that it almost hurts.

"I just love you so much." He whispers, and the tears continue.

VII. 

A baby girl sits on the kitchen floor, holding a wooden spoon.

It is nearly as long as her arm, but she grips it with both her chubby hands anyway, dragging it across the floorboards as she makes her way toward the cabinet where you and Ryland are.

The spoon belongs to her. She likes the weight of it, and the sound it makes against the floor, and when she finds a spot in between where you and Ryland are standing, she tunnelvisions to stay there. Though, a little wobbly.

“Bow…” She sputters out, and you instinctively place down the wooden bowl on the floor where your daughter is currently standing. 

There are words there if you only know to listen, and you’ve memorized the vocabulary of your daughter by heart.

She drops the spoon into a wooden bowl. Again and again and again, until she begins stirring. There is nothing in the bowl, just air, but she keeps stirring with great concentration like she sees something others don’t.

A string of sounds escapes her as she works. Little hums and murmurs that rise and fall with the movement of the spoon.

Behind her, something whistles, and it gets her attention. She watches, often, how you and Ryland cross around the house, back and forth and in perfect harmony with one another. Like now, preparing lunch together. 

He’s laughing at something, and your daughter perks up at the sound. She knows that sound, hears it so many times everyday, hears it enough to distinguish that it sounds different around you. Almost softer. 

Your daughter watches her father wrap an arm around your waist while waiting, and she sees you lean back against him automatically.

The little girl stirs faster. 

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Then she stands, or at least attempts to. The spoon is still in her hands, and it immediately throws her off the balance she’s still learning to steady.

Before she can fall, Ryland appears. He always does. 

One hand catches her under the arms, just by her belly, and his other rescues her spoon.

"There you are."

She giggles, clapping her hands as she’s hoisted into the air unexpectedly. There is a sudden change of environment as she had previously been on land. Then, when she catches sight of her spoon, she makes grabby hands at it. The spoon is returned to her immediately, and she starts pointing at the floor, where her wooden bowl is.

Ryland settles her on the ground before sitting next to her. "What are we making today?"

She looks into the empty bowl.

Then at him.

"Soup."

His eyes widen, a smile of adoration already on his lips. "No way."

The little girl nods. Very seriously.

“Honey, our daughter is making soup from scratch. I think we're witnessing greatness.”

You crouch down a little to look at your husband and your daughter. “Hm, what kind of soup, sweetheart?”

She stares down at her bowl again, that same serious expression on her face. And then, “soup soup.”

You and Ryland laugh, heart bursting in fondness. And your daughter doesn’t understand why you’re laughing but she starts to laugh too. Because her parents are laughing, and because the kitchen is warm, and because her father is sitting beside her, and because one of his hands is intertwined with yours, and because the spoon is still hers.

And because, though she does not yet have words for it, there has never been a moment in her life when she doubted she was loved.

VIII.

The laughter still bounces around the room, and the food is finally ready. 

And for a moment, everything feels so real that you can almost reach out and touch it. 

But your co-workers words still echo with his name, and the apartment is dim when you arrive home, dim light spilling from the corners of your room like memories refusing to fade. 

The kitchen disappears, there is no bowl and no daughter holding a spoon, there is no laughter. Only silence, and the sun coming down as you click the door locked.

You stand in the doorway longer than necessary, waiting for something. But you’re not quite sure what you’re waiting for. Maybe a voice. Or footsteps. Or the familiar sound of Ryland calling your name from another room.

Nothing comes.

Of course it doesn't.

The apartment has been empty for years.

You set your keys on the counter, and you wince at the silence. It is too loud. His absence is too loud, too noticeable. 

You walk past the living room, past the books he left behind, past the coffee mug you still leave out for him, past the framed photographs on tables.  A life that almost happened follows you from room to room.

The wedding. The house. The daughter with his eyes and your smile and her favorite spoon. 

All of it lives somewhere inside your head now. A future that never got the chance to exist.

By the time you reach the bedroom, the sun is nearly gone. And there, tucked inside the top drawer of your desk, is a red velvet box.

You don't remember the first time you found it. You only remember a long silence before you felt your face visibly break. You remember losing your composure, being reduced to a sobbing mess. You remember how hard it was to breathe. You remember screaming like flames were forced to emerge out of your throat. You remember hitting everything in sight, like your wrists were meant to be bound in chains.

You remember how the box scorched your fingers when you opened it. Inside sat a ring, waiting for a finger it will never fit, waiting for a hand to give it that will never come anymore. And beneath it, a piece of paper. Unsent. 

And the painful sight of the loops and dots of his handwriting. Words that are his. 

The paper’s edges are a little worn from being folded and unfolded too many times that it’s begun to tear. The ink slightly smudged where a hand trembled while writing it. 

You already know every word. Still, you read it. You always do. Especially on nights like these when the silence is too loud.

You let your hand travel through the paper, tracing through his uneven handwriting, through the crossed out sentences, through paragraphs abandoned midway through, through sections rewritten multiple times. You can almost picture him doing it.

You can vividly see Ryland getting frustrated, wanting to find the perfect words, trying again and again.  

You skip over most of it though. It hurts too much to do it tonight.

Instead, your eyes drift toward the bottom of the page. Toward the only line that was never crossed out, the one he seemed completely certain about.

I just don't want to imagine a future that doesn't have you in it. 

Will you marry me?

You close your eyes.

The apartment is silent. There is no laughter, no wedding, no little girl stirring soup with a wooden spoon too large for her hands.

There is just you, and a future still waiting patiently between folds of paper. As if he might come home to finally deliver the speech in his handwriting and put the future in motion.

Your hands start to tremble. Not from anger, but from the weight of dreaming about a life every night and waking up to loneliness. Of feeling the shadow of a hand grazing upon yours when you see things that remind you of him—the book he’d recommended, the rain and how you’d ran to him, stale coffee and quiet conversations, and the stars.

Always the stars.

The distance between you cannot be measured in miles or cities or oceans. It is measured in light-years. Ryland Grace is hurtling through the dark, through space. He’s busy saving the world. But selfishly, you think, does he still think of you sometimes?

You have become frighteningly good at waiting, even though you know he’s never coming back. 

You know because a slightly older woman with long orange-blonde hair and blue eyes had told you it was a suicide mission, that he will be remembered a hero, that she thanks you for your understanding. But you don’t understand, and you don’t think you ever could.

The ring remains in its box.

The proposal remains trapped on paper.

And you remain here, caught between what was and what could have been. 

You would’ve been a good mother. A good wife.

Your thumb smooths over the final line one last time.

I just don't want to imagine a future that doesn't have you in it.

A laugh escapes you then, small and broken. Because that was exactly what you were forced to do. 

The biodome smells like salt.

That’s the first thing Grace notices every morning when he wakes up – before the light, before the low ambient hum of the atmospheric processors, before the distant sound of Eridian activity somewhere beyond the dome’s curved wall. Just salt. And underneath that, something mineral and faintly cold, like the air after rain. The Eridians got that part almost exactly right. He doesn’t know how, since the closest thing to rain on Erid is an ammonia shower that would dissolve him in under four minutes, but somehow they cracked it.

He’s been meaning to ask Rocky about that for weeks.

He rolls onto his back and stares up through the transparent ceiling at the Eridian sky. It's a colour that took him a long time to name – not quite orange, not quite red, somewhere in the bruised spectrum between the two, deepening at the edges where the atmosphere thickens toward the horizon. Two of Erid’s moons are visible even now, pale and close. He’s catalogued them the way he catalogues everything: obsessively, in the little journal he keeps on the fold-out desk by the window, using a pen he has to refill himself because he ran out of cartridges about eight months in and spent a deeply embarrassing afternoon asking Rocky to explain the Eridian equivalent of a stationary shop.

There is no Eridian equivalent of a stationary shop. Rocky found this hilarious.

Grace gets up.

The biodome is – honestly, it’s bigger than his apartment back in Denver was, which he tries not to think about too hard because it implies something about Eridian architecture that makes him feel both grateful and vaguely judged. There’s a main living space, a kitchen that functions on Earth-compatible equipment the Eridiands reverse-engineered from the Hail Mary’s galley in a process that Grace still doesn’t fully understand, a bathroom, a sleeping area sectioned off by a partial wall, and then the large glass-fronted room he thinks of as the porch, which faces directly onto the Eridian landscape and where he does most of his actual living.

The beach is on the east side. Real sand, real water – salt water, specifically, calibrated to something close to Pacific Ocean salinity, which Grace suspects was Rocky’s work because Rocky is both meticulous and deeply smug about his own meticulousness. The water doesn’t go anywhere. It’s a contained pool, roughly eight metres wide and maybe four deep, with a gradual shield that lets him walk into it. He swims in it every morning. He has started talking to it, occasionally, which is the kind of thing he keeps out of his official logs.

He makes coffee. Real coffee, from actual beans, which come in sealed containers aboard the resupply pods that arrive every fourteen months. He has done extensive calculations about the remaining supply. He does not share these calculations with anyone.

The coffee is ready by the time he hears the familiar clatter-tap of Eridian legs on the outer wall.

He looks up. Rocky is at the connection point – the sealed tunnel section that joins their two atmospheres, the engineering miracle that has allowed them to sit in the same room, more or less, for the better part of three years now. On Rocky’s side of the transparent partition, the air shimmers faintly with ammonia pressure. On Grace’s side, plain old nitrogen-oxygen, slightly humid from the beach. They’ve gotten very good at speaking through it. Grace has gotten so used to the faint audio distortion that he barely notices it anymore.

Rocky taps twice. This means I have something to tell you. It is distinct from the one-tap which means are you there, and the three-tap which, as far as Grace can determine, means something like I’ve done something and I’m not sure how you’ll react.

“Come in,” Grace says, carrying his coffee to the porch chair.

The tunnel pressurizes. Rocky moves through it with the easy, unselfconscious efficiency of someone who has done this several thousand times, all five of his legs finding purchase on the floor. He’s carrying something – a small device, flat and angular, the kind of thing that looks like it was assembled very quickly from whatever was lying around, which is almost certainly true.

Grace eyes it. “What’s that?”

“New sonar thing.” Rocky sets it on the low table between them, which exists specifically because Eridian anatomy does not allow for sitting in human-style chairs and they compromised on a surface they could both reach. “For mapping. Better resolution. Been adjusting.”

“You’ve been adjusting it at-” Grace checks the clock on the wall. “-0600.”

“Yes.”

“That’s six in the morning.”

“Rocky knows that 0600 means, Rocky not stupid.”

“Right.” He takes a sip of coffee. “So this is your normal. Got it.”

Rocky makes the sound that Grace has catalogued as something between a shrug and a mild rebuke – a low, rolling harmonic. Then he settles himself into his resting position, which involves arranging three legs as a base and curling the other two close to his body, and he examines his device in companionable silence while Grace drinks his coffee and watches the sky change colour as the primary star climbs the horizon.

This is most mornings, more or less.

Grace had not expected this. He’d expected – he doesn’t know what he expected. Loneliness, probably. He’d made his peace with it somewhere in the weeks arriving on Erid, during the long, disorienting stretch when the biodome was still being built and he was living in a sealed emergency habitat the size of a large closet, eating military rations and watching Erid through a porthole window. He’d thought: this is fine. I made a choice. It was the right choice. I can be lonely and still have made the right choice.

He had not anticipated Rocky. Which was, in retrospect, the central miscalculation of his entire life.

Rocky is here more often than not. Rocky has opinions about Grace’s meal planning, which are not useful since Rocky has never consumed anything other than ammonia and finds the concept of nutrition baroque and overcomplicated. Rocky wants to show Grace new things – new Eridian discoveries, new engineering modifications, passages from the scientific literature that he's translated himself into appropriate English so Grace can engage with them, which is painstaking work that Rocky treats as a simple favour and Grace treats as proof of something he can’t quite articulate. Rocky asks questions that have no clean answers. Rocky sits on the other side of the partition at two in the morning when Grace can’t sleep and they talk about whatever is in front of them – the moons, the sonar, the correct way to explain the water cycle to a student who isn’t paying attention – until the words run out.

It is not lonely at all, is the thing.

It is aggressively, almost overwhelmingly, the opposite.

—

Grace is fairly sure it’s a Thursday. He’s lost track a few times and done recalculations, and he’s got a margin of error of about plus or minus two days in his Earth-calendar tracking, which means Thursday is more of a commitment than a certainty. But it feels like a Thursday, and that’s good enough.

They are working.

Working, at this point in their lives, means something different than it used to. During the mission it meant the Astrophage problem, the Taumoeba solution, the twelve-step nightmare of saving two solar systems while also keeping each other alive. Now it means research, which is calmer but has its own texture of intensity. The Eridians – and Rocky specifically – are deeply interested in Earth biology, in the same way that Grace is deeply interested in Eridian chemistry, and there is an entire collaborative project underway between Grace;s ad hoc Earth knowledge and the Eridian scientific community. He sends reports. He answers questions. He runs small experiments in the biodome when the equipment supports it. Rocky serves as translator, interpreter, and, frequently, a highly critical peer reviewer.

Today they’re working on a report about cell division, specifically about why Earth multicellular life reproduces the way it does, because three separate Eridians research teams have found the concept nearly incomprehensible and have been sending Rocky increasingly plaintive queries about it. Grace has been trying to explain mitosis. Rocky has been trying to understand it. They have been at this for four hours.

“Why, question?” Rocky says, for what is possibly the ninth time.

“I’ve explained why four times already.”

“Grace explain how. Why is different.”

“Evolution,” Grace says. He makes a gesture at the table that doesn’t mean anything but which he does anyway, a leftover habit from teaching. “Evolution is the why. It worked, so it stuck around.”

“Evolution not reason. Evolution process. Why process select this, question?” Rocky clicks his front legs together in the patterns that signals focused disagreement. “Bacteria not do this. Bacteria cells. Bacteria reproduce by splitting. They simple and good.”

“You sound like an antimutiplicity bacteriophile.”

“Rocky sound like scientist.” Rocky picks up the data pad with two legs and examines it. “Grace diagram wrong.”

“My diagram is fine.”

“Arrows go wrong directions.”

Grace leans over to look. The arrows are fine. He makes a mental note to re-examine whether any of the arrows are, in fact, not fine. “Walk me through what’s bothering you.”

“Daughter cell.” Rocky points with one leg-tip. “Here. In picture it moves away from parent cell immediately. Real life, cells stay connected for some time, yes, question? Still communication. There is passing of materials.”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Why does arrow show leaving, question?”

“It’s a simplified diagram. I was trying to explain the core concept.”

“Simplified wrong.” Rocky sets the pad down firmly. “Simplified teaches incorrect. Then must un-teach, is harder.”

Grace opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Rocky has, in the past three years, given him more to think about pedagogy than his entire career in education did. He doesn’t say this because Rocky’s sense of its own correctness does not need to be inflated.

“Fine,” Grace says. “You’re right. I’ll redo the diagram.”

“Good.” Rocky resettles himself. A pause. “Grace is good teacher.”

“You just said my diagram was wrong.”

“Yes. and Grace say ‘Fine, you’re right, I fix.’ Good teacher. Grace not argue when Grace wrong.” Rocky examines the sonar device again, the one from this morning, turning it over in two legs. “Rocky told this to research team. Research team want to meet Grace.”

“They’ve been asking for eighteen months”

“Yes. Rocky been putting Research team off.”

Grace looks at Rocky. “Why?”

Rocky does not immediately answer, which is itself an answer. He adjusts the device. He runs a brief click-pattern through two of his leg-tips, which is a thing he does when he is choosing words carefully.

“Research team curious about Grace.” Rocky says finally. “This good. But research team are scientists. Research team want to study Grace. Ask questions about Grace biology. Grace processes.” He clicks. “This not comfortable.”

“I’m fine with biological questions.”

“Grace. Research team want to know about Grace sleep cycle for research.”

“I know, and I answered-”

“Rearch team ask how many times Grace turn over in sleep.”

Grace blinks. “How would they even-”

“Research team been monitoring biodome’s resonance patterns.”

There’s a silence.

“They can tell how much I move in my sleep from the resonance patterns,” Grace says slowly.

“Yes.”

“Have they been doing that the whole time?”

“Rocky ask research team to stop,” Rocky says, which is not a yes but is also, clearly, a yes. “Grace experiencing difficult period. Rocky did not want Grace to feel- Need word.” He stops.

“Observed?” Grace offers.

“Yes.” Rocky sets the device down. “Grace already feel like specimen, sometimes, Rocky can tell. Rocky not want this more.”

Grace looks at him. Rocky is not looking back  – his sensory organs don’t work that way, and eye contact is a concept he understands intellectually but doesn’t perform – but there’s a quality to his stillness that Grace has learned to read. An attention. Rocky is listening to the specific silence Grace makes.

“Rocky,” Grace says. “You told an entire research team to stop their data collection. Because you thought I was having a hard time.”

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“Approximately-” Rocky clicks, running the Eridian calendar conversion. “Fourteen earth months ago.”

Fourteen months ago. Grace doesn’t have to think hard about what fourteen months ago was. It was the anniversary of the launch, which he’d handles about as well as he handles most things he’s pretending not to feel, which is to say; fine, and then abruptly not fine at about eight o’clock at night when he’d sat on the beach and done a lot of staring at the water and very little else. He’d thought he was being discreet. He is not, apparently, ever as discreet as he thinks.

“I didn’t tell you I was struggling,” Grace says.

“No.”

“You just-”

“Rocky know Grace,” Rocky says, simply. “Grace not eat for one say. Grace swam very long time. Grace not work.” A brief harmonic. “Are signs.”

Grace doesn’t say anything for a moment. Outside, the wind is running against the dome wall, a sound like white noise and pressure, one of the moons is visible on the horizon now.

“You were watching out for me,” Grace says.

“Yes.” Rocky picks the divide back up.” Is obvious.”

“It’s not- Rocky, for most of my life, that would not have been obvious. People don’t usually-” He stops. Tried a different approach. “Most of the people in my life were not paying that level of attention.”

Rocky makes a sound Grace doesn’t have a translation for. It’s short, low, and ands on a question-pitch. Not dismissive – more like it’s something Rocky genuinely doesn’t understand how to process.

“Earth wrong for that,” Rocky says finally.

“It was just – normal. You’re busy. People get busy. It’s not personal.”

“Still wrong.”

“Yeah,” Grace says. “I guess it was.”

—

Later that day, after the mitosis report is revised and Rocky has declared the new arrows acceptable – not good, acceptable, Rocky does not give unearned praise – Grace makes dinner and Rocky watches.

This is also a routine. Rocky is not eating, clearly, because the smell of whatever Grace is cooking would be to Rocky roughly what breathing pure ammonia would be to Grace, which is to say a very efficient way to die. They’ve solved this by Grace keeping the kitchen sealed behind its own filter during actual cooking, with a small speaker system that lets them keep talking. Rocky watches through the partition glass and asks questions. Tonight's questions are about the maillard reaction, which Rocky has decided is the most philosophically interesting aspect of human food culture.

“Only works with heat,” Rocky says.

“Correct.”

“Many of Grace foods have Maillard before eating. Bread. Meat.”

“Also correct.”

“But Grace also Maillard while eating. In Grace body.”

Grace pauses, spatula in hand. “That’s not- that’s not really the same thing. Maillard is a surface-level reaction. Digestion is-”

“Both transformation of organic material, is chemical process.”

“Rocky, you can’t call digestion a form of cooking.”

“Rocky not call it cooking. Rocky call it same process.” Rocky’s front two legs tap against the partition glass in a rhythm that Grace has learned means I believe I’ve made my point. “Grace body Maillards things.”

“Oh my god.”

“This interesting, Grace. Not insult.”

“I know, it’s just-” Grace turns back to the pan. “It’s a weird image.”

“Grace body performs complex chemistry. Multiple times per second. Grace like slow star.”

Grace thinks about this. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Is accurate. Not nice.”

“You’re incapable of separating the two.”

Rocky makes the low rolling harmonic, the fond-exasperation one. Grace has, over three years, gotten very good at cooking while being observed and questioned about the fundamental chemistry of his own digestive process. He’s gotten very good at a lot of things he wouldn’t have predicted. Eridian calendar conversion. Reading Rocky’s posture. Going six months without talking to another human being without the silence caving in on itself. FInding which angle of his biodome window catches the primary star at the exact right moment in the morning that it looks, briefly, almost like earth light.

“Grace have face.” Rocky says.

“I always have a face. I have one face, actually, which I can’t remove.”

“Different face. Thinking face.”

“I’m cooking.”

“Grace thinking something that makes Grace quiet,” Rocky says, with the flat certainty of someone who has simply stopped pretending to be uncertain about these things. “Rocky can hear.”

“You can hear quiet.”

“Rocky can hear quiet Grace make.” Rocky clicks. “This not difficult. Grace make different quiets.”

Grace sets the spatula down for a moment and looks at the partition. Rocky is watching him – not with eyes, not in the way Grace watches Rocky, but with the full-body attention of an organism whose entire sensory relationship with the world is about listening. Being really looked at, Grace has learned, does not require eyes at all.

“I was thinking,” Grace says, “about how weird it is that this is normal.”

“What normal, questions?”

“This. Cooking dinner while you watch and we argue about the Maillard reaction.” He gestures vaguely at the kitchen, at the biodome, at the visible slice of Eridian sky through the porch window. “Years ago I was a middle school science teacher in Denver. And now I live on another planet and have philosophical arguments about digestion with a rock spider and this is just-” He stops. “Thursday. This is just Thursday.”

Rocky is quiet for a moment.

“Is bad, question?” Rocky asks.

“No,” Grace says, and finds that he means it completely. “It’s just strange. In a good way. Mostly.”

“Eart part,” Rocky says. Not a question.

“Yeah.” Grace picks the spatula back up. “The earth part”

Rocky says nothing. He doesn’t try to fix it or explain it or minimise it, which is something Grace has come to understand is one of Rocky’s most fundamental kindnesses. Rocky does not try to argue Grace out of his grief. He just stays in it with him, which is rarer, and harder, and worth considerably more.

The food finishes cooking. The filter seals. Grace carries his plate to the porch.

Rocky joins him on the other side.

—

The word comes up six weeks later.

They’re outside, which is still a novelty to Grace even after years, even though outside on Erid means in a sealed mobility suit that makes him look like an extremely well-padded astronaut and limits his movement to a careful shuffle. Rocky is beside him, which on Erid means Rocky is in his element – moving with the fluid, confident efficiency that Grace always associates with watching someone be fully themselves. Rocky on the Hail Mary had been slightly constrained by his suit, by the tunnel, but the basic physics of existing in an environment calibrated for someone else. Rocky on Erid is just Rocky, and it’s a different thing, wider.

They're looking at a new geological feature – a ridge formation about two kilometres from the biodome, recently exposed by one of Erid’s more dramatic weather events. Rocky is mapping it with the sonar device from six weeks ago. Grace is holding a secondary monitor and trying to be useful which mostly means saying ‘mm-hm’ at appropriate intervals and not tripping on the uneven ground.

“Hold still,” Rocky says, without looking at him.

“I am holding still."

“Grace oscillating. Stop it.”

“Oscillating- I’m breathing, Rocky. That’s breathing.”

“Less breathing.”

“I genuinely cannot do less breathing.”

Rocky makes a sound that in context Grace has learned to translate as fond exasperation, which remains one of his favorite things about Rocky, that fond exasperation exists in Rocky’s emotional vocabulary at all. Rocky had been, in those first weeks of communication, so relentlessly precise that Grace had been worried he was dealing with something like affect-flat engineering intelligence. Then Rocky had made his first joke – a genuinely terrible pun about ammonia and ambition that made no sense in translation but had clearly been pun-shaped in Eridian – and Grace had recalibrated everything.

“Stay.” Rocky says.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Grace move like dog.”

Grace laughs, which is also oscillating, and which Rocky ignores in apparent favour of his mapping work. The sonar device does its thing – Grace can hear the pings even through his suit, faint and evenly spaced, and the monitor in his hand fills up with topography.

“Good ridge,” Rocky says. “Very old. Older than biodome site.”

“How old?”

“Calculating.” Rocky moves around the northern face of the ridge, trailing one leg along the rock surface, reading texture. “Forty thousand Eridian years.”

“Forty thousand-” Grace does the conversion. “That’s over a hundred thousand Earth years.”

“Yes.” Rocky sounds pleased. “Old place. Rocky like old places.”

“You’ve mentioned.” Grace watched the topography build on the monitor. “Rocky?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been out here mapping this thing every day for a week. It’s even without your current research scope.”

“No.”

“So what’s the appeal?”

Rocky is quiet for a moment, doing the methodical thing he does when he’s deciding how much of something to say. Grace has gotten good at the silence shapes Rocky makes.

“Old rocks,” Rocky says finally, “Old rocks not care what happening. Old rocks here before. Old rocks be here after. When things-” He pauses. “Difficult. Old rocks useful.”

Grace processes this. “You come here when you’re stressed.”

“Rocky come here when Rocky need perspective.”

“That’s what I said.”

Rocky’s legs do the thing that Grace thinks of as the Eridian equivalent of rolling one’s eyes, even though Rocky’s sensory organs don’t roll. It’s a posture thing. “Is not same thing. Stress is suffering. Perspective is choice.”

“Okay, when you need perspective.” Grace looks at the ridge. “What needs perspective right now?”

Another silence. This one is longer – not the choosing-words silence, something else. Rocky has stapped mapping and is standing with most of his legs in resting position, which means he is thinking rather than doing, and for Rocky those are genuinely different states.

“There is word,” Rocky says. “In Eridian. Rocky not translated for Grace.”

Grace looks over. “Okay?”

“Rocky been trying to find English word. Word-” Rocky clicks. “Not love word. Eridiands not have love words. Love not stated. Love-”

“Assumed,” Grace says. “Structural. You’ve explained this.”

“Yes. But word is adjacent. Is-” Rocky moves one leg tip back and forth in a pattern Grace doesn’t recognise, which usually means he’s working through something conceptually. “When other person exist. Become aware that- person better. For the existing. Not love. Not-” He clicks. “Not need. Something else.”

“Like gratitude?”

“No. Gratitude person give. This someone is. That person is.” Rocky is still. “Grace understand difference, question?”

Grace thinks about it. The monitor hums in his hand. Around them, Erid’s wind moves in the ammonia haze beyond his suit.

“Like relief,” he says slowly. “That they exist. Not what they do for you, just- that they’re in the universe.”

“Yes.” Something in Rocky’s harmonic register shifts – a tone Grace hasn’t heard before, soft and held. “That is word.”

“What does it sound like? The Eridian?”

Rocky makes it. Even through the suit audio, through the distortion, it’s a remarkable sound – three tones, overlapping, the kind of chord that makes Grace’s chest do something complicated. It rises and then settles. It sounds like something being recognised. 

“I can’t reproduce that,” Grace says honestly.

“No. Eridian throat architecture. Grace cannot.”

“What do people use it for? Contextually?”

“Is said-” Rocky pauses. “Is not said often. Is significant word. Say it when person want other to understand person existence is-” He clicks. “Good. Word is something like; existence is good. Is enough. More than enough. But Eridian ‘more than enough’ implied in word so not say it separate.”

Grace is very still.

“It sounds,” he says carefully, “like the word for being glad someone is alive.”

“Yes,” Rocky says. “Specifically, glad person is person. Not just alive.”

The ridge stands in front of them, forty thousand Eridian years old, not caring about anything.

“Rocky,” Grace says.

“Yes.”

“Why are you telling me this today?”

Another silence. This one is the shortest one yet.

“Tomorrow,” Rocky says, “Is anniversary Grace arrival.”

Grace doesn’t say anything. He’d forgotten. Or he hadn’t forgotten, he’d done the thing where you almost-forget because the almost-forgetting is easier than the remembering and then the remembering catches you anyway, sideways, while you’re standing on an alien planet holding a topography monitor.

Three years. Three years on Erid. Three years since he came over the Hail Mary’s console and made the choice. Three years since the signal went out and then came back, since Rocky said you are here in a voice pitched so high he could barely understand it and it had been the best thing Grace had ever heard in his life.

“Rocky know anniversary difficult,” Rocky says. “Things Grace had on Earth. Things Rocky can’t give.” He is precise about this, the way Rocky is precise about everything – not apologetic, just accurate. “Rocky know this.”

“Rocky-”

“Rocky want Grace to know Eridian word,” Rocky says. “Because Rocky not have English one. English words not-” He clicks. “Rocky looked. ‘Friend’ too small. ‘Important’ wrong. ‘Grateful’ wrong direction.” A brief harmonic. “Eridian word correct word. Rocky want Grace to have word.”

Grace’s chest is doing the complicated thing again. He is, he notes, not going to be able to talk normally for another few seconds, and he’s grateful Rocky can’t see his face clearly through the suit visit, and he’s also aware that Rocky almost certainly knows anyway, can hear it in his breathing or read it in how still he’s gone, because Rocky knows him in the deep specific way that means Grace has essentially zero privacy, emotionally, and has stopped resenting this somewhere around month eight.

“Is it something you say to someone,” he manages, “or about them?”

“Both acceptable. Usually to person.”

“You could say it to me right now.”

“Yes.”

“But you told me the word instead.”

“Yes.”

“Because-” Grace stops. Thinks. Rocky waits. “Because you thought-  because it’s more meaningful if I understand what it means. Before you say it.”

“Teaching bad things worse than not teaching,” Rocky says. “Same with words. If Rocky say word and Grace not know meaning, word just sound. Rocky want Grace to know whole thing.”

Grace breathes out slowly.

There is something Grace has thought about, in the quieter parts of his Eridian life – something he’s turned over in the dark at 2 am when he can’t sleep and Rocky is a familiar presence on the other side of the partition wall. He’s thought about the specific quality of being known. Not just liked, not just valued – known. The experience of someone mapping you the way Rocky maps geology, carefully and over a long time, building up resolution until they have the real shape of you.

He’d had people who liked him, back on earth. He’d had colleagues who valued him, mostly after the fact. He’d had a twin brother who called twice a year and a handful of students who remembered him fondly and an ex-girlfriend who’d once told him, not unkindly, that he was very easy to forget when he was out of the room.

He has Rocky, who monitors biodomes resonance patterns during his difficult months and tells entire research teams to back off and learns the specific shapes of his silences and goes to look at forty-thousand-year-old rocks because they help him think. Who catalogued Grace’s face alongside Eridian geological features in the ship database, the first month, just because he wanted to understand what he was looking at. Who once, early on, asked Grace with complete sincerity whether humans were pack animals and when Grace said yes said good, Rocky concerned without explaining what he’d been concerned about and had never clarified since.

“Rocky,” Grace says.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

Rocky makes the sound. The three tones, overlapping, the one that rises and settles. Through the suit and the distance and the alien air, it reaches Grace anyway.

It doesn’t need translation.

Grace knows what it means.

He looks at the ridge and the red-orange sky and the two small moons and the alien landscape that has, without his entirely noticing, become something he would describe as home, if pressed, if someone held his logs up to the light and asked him what he actually thought. He thinks about the Hail Mary sitting in its dock on the edge of the biodome complex, functional, fuelled, pointed at the correct vector for Earth. He thinks about the choice that is always available to him and that he had, every morning, continued not to make. He thinks about Coffee and salt water and bad diagrams and a word he can’t pronounce.

“Rocky,” he says. “I don’t have the Eridian throat architecture.”

“No.”

“And ‘I’m really glad you exist’ is not- that doesn’t really-”

“Correct. Insufficient.”

“Yeah.” Grace watches the moons. “But you know what I mean.”

Rocky is still for a moment. Then he makes a sound – not the word, something smaller, something that sits under the threshold of formal vocabulary. The Eridian equivalent, Grace has come to believe, of yes, I know, obviously, I always knew.

“Yes,” Rocky says. “Rocky know.”

They stand together on the old planet, looking at the old rocks, in the particular comfortable silence of two people who have run out of ways to qualify what they are to each other and have long since stopped needing to.

The sonar pings. The topography fills in.

Grace oscillates, slightly, because he is breathing.

It’s peeking out only slightly over a high shelf, a grayish-blue binder with a stack of papers clipped inside the rings. It’s utterly out of place, maybe easier to grab if you were in a different gravitational pull. Grace, who’s since been searching on the other side of the room, comes over to you in a hurry. He traces your eyeline all the way up, before noting the binder in its very impossible position. “Here,” Grace volunteers, “ I think I can get a better reach than you.”

“I think I can manage—” The sight of Grace’s muscled arm nearing your eyeline, shooting up just over your head to grab from that unreachable shelf, makes your words die in your throat. His hip collides recklessly with your own as he reaches for the binder. Though it’s just a mere brush, nothing more, it’s enough to make you pause. Grace is warm. You pivot around hastily, fast enough to catch the sight of him tugging the grayish-blue binder with his hand. He brings it between the both of you, blinking softly. Grace’s brows are furrowed together, a little concerned at your frazzled appearance. You take the binder out of his grasp with a murmured “Thanks, Ry.”

“Sure.” Grace looks down at the binder. No labels. “Is that it?” he asks. You open it between the two of you. Grace is making an exerted effort to read the pages upside down as you flip through. You can only think about how this binder is the only thing separating your body from his. The few words you’re able to focus on—ramen, coffee, vodka—alongside their respective quantities and weights, is enough to confirm it.

“Yep. This is the one. I think I’m going to go read through it upstairs,” you say committedly, shutting it close with a loud thwack. “Maybe do a couple calculations for how we should ration.”

And, with that, you’re rushing straight out towards the projection deck. Grace can barely keep up with you. One second, you’re right at his side, and the next, your back is to him—nimble feet carrying you through the circular frame of the corridor. “Okay. I’ll… tidy up here.” Grace narrows his eyes. You’re being flighty—rarely in a rush to get away. Warily, he shouts to you down the corridor: “I left the white-boards in the lab. And the pencils.”

You can only shout back, “I’ll do mental math.”

—

A few days later, you’ve sorted out the entire rations situation—but you haven’t been able to do a thing about that empty feeling on your skin. It’s been a bit cruel, all things considered, that you’ve felt an unconscious separation from Grace for this reason. It isn’t his fault. He’s been nothing but patient with your sudden withdrawal, probably under the assumption that you’re going a little stir-crazy. If it means you’re more likely to conceal the issue altogether, so be it.

You’re in separate rooms, him in the lab and you in the crew quarters, when the announcement rings out over the ship’s comms. Mary’s computerized tone rings through the hull. “Diagnostic check required in cockpit.” You can feel your stomach drop at the sound. You’re quick to hurry out towards the corridor. You nearly jump out of your own skin when you realize it; Grace is running towards the ladder up to the cockpit with just as much urgency as you are. You nearly collide together—and probably would if you weren’t so quick to push the brakes on your own sprint. You’ve both rushed to fix the issue, and now, you’re at a standstill.

Grace stands back, looking between you and the cockpit. “This is a new one,” he says in a nervous chuckle. “I hope she doesn’t want to self-destruct.” He’s only half-kidding. After trying to get yourselves organized with the cockpit’s various sliders and buttons, on top of the ship’s built-in computer, Mary hasn’t ever required a diagnostic. He’s rightfully concerned.

You make sure to grab onto the ladder first. “You stay here,” you insist. “I’ll resolve the tech issue.” It’s more dismissive than you’d like, but being crammed in that tight space with him is a no-go.

Still, Grace tilts his head. “There’s two seats.” He could easily accompany you, make sure you’re all good up there. You’re lucky—it’s conceivable enough for you to fix it yourself. Even without a proper grasp on why you’re there on the Hail Mary, you still have the intuitive mind of a pilot, more so than Grace. He knows it, too. It’s the only reason why he won’t push harder to join you.

“Just stay—it’s probably nothing. I’ll click around and fix it.” You don’t give him another chance to ask, turning to climb up the ladder. Once in the cockpit, you’re slipping into the main seat. It’s largely unnecessary, you think, to strap yourself into the seatbelt. “Pilot detected. Please execute diagnostic test.”

“I’m on it, I’m on it,” you mutter under your breath. Muscle memory carries you through the main interface, to the list of sub-interfaces.  Your hand reaches for the spherical mouse, rolling the cursor down the menu. You calibrate onto one screen, a block of text scrolling along the singular black background. It’s a quick read. You tap your forehead soft against the monitor. It’s fine. Your being up in the cockpit is necessary only to start this diagnostic procedure, and take a breather from being around Grace.

Grace, who’s very confused and looking straight up the hatchway of the cockpit from below. You’re sure it sounds to him like a lot of rapid typing and clicks. “Are we going to implode?”

“No—it’s just a systems check. It’s probably going to take thirty minutes and it’ll clear up on its own,” you yell down to him. “Told you.”

“Great. That’s great news,” you hear Grace say. Once you’re sure that the loading bar is coming along nicely, without any additional pop-ups, you make your way down from the cockpit. It’s a careful descent, one rung after the other. You’re turning over your shoulder to look at Grace as you come down the ladder; he’s a little quiet, watching you, arms crossed.Grace’s glasses are sideways off his face, as if he’s gone through some kind of inner turmoil about this potential self-destruct scenario. It’s difficult not to snicker at the sight of him. “Were you scared?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anything about avionics.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ll know if we’re ever going to get obliterated. There’d be… flashing lights and sirens.” You’re almost towards the bottom when you miscalculate the last rung. A hand slides off. Then, a foot. You’re falling inelegantly, and before you can brace for a fast fall, Grace steps over to you. His arms scoop up your torso, and you feel your hands instinctively grasp around his neck.

He’s looking down at you with a worried, old look on his face, trying to make sure you’re not hurt. What you are is embarrassed. The sensation of Grace gripping your hips with his hands is making you short-circuit. “I… uh…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Grace’s chest is pressed flat against yours, and that his fingers are held stiffly over the fabric of your shirt. You’ve never felt so hot in the face.

“Whoa,” Grace murmurs, “Hi.” He immediately pulls you back, letting you steady yourself on your own two feet. You draw your hands back as fast as you can, pinning them to your sides. Per your recovery, you find Grace’s chest puffed. He’s a little sheepish about the contact. “Sorry.” You’re not much better, hands shoved into the pockets of your mission hoodie; they’d be shaky if they were left out.

“No, it’s cool. I would’ve sprained an ankle otherwise,” you tell Grace. “Thanks.” You wish there were more air vents in the Hail Mary; maybe then, you’d be able to cool down the prickling feeling of heat rising from your cheeks. So much for keeping space.

—

You can’t stop tossing and turning. Again, there’s the unsettling feeling that you’ve been having, the absolute need to feel the same warmth you felt in the storage room and at the bottom of the ladder. You can’t stand it. No matter how many times you flip your pillows or stir around your sheets with your legs, it doesn’t change. You still feel just as bare as usual. A last resort: you need to grab a cup of water from the dispenser, and maybe do a bit of pacing up and down the corridors. You push your fingers against the eject button on your pod, rustling out of your sheets as gently as you can.

Grace is mumbling. You stop in your tracks, trying to quiet down as best as you can. It’s more coherent the second time he asks. “Are you okay?” So, Grace is awake. You should’ve known.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. You swing your legs over the cot, still seated just over the edge.

“You’ve been rolling around in your cot for the past thirty minutes.” Grace hits the eject button on his sleeping pod next. He props himself up with one arm, before pushing up completely, upright posture matching your own. Face-to-face now, it’s difficult not to stare. Grace just looks so homely with his two-sizes-too-small Cats t-shirt and the blue-gridded boxers. He’s shoving his glasses on just to get a better look at you. “If you’re embarrassed about falling earlier, I think you’ve seen me much worse. We’re basically even now, when you think about it.”

“No, I’m not—I’m just turning into a bit of an insomniac. It’s normal, I think.” You think he could buy it. It happens all the time when people go on vacation, and they’re just not comfortable enough to sleep in their hotel beds. Except, of course, this is a permanent vacation. It’s believable. With the hang of your head, you tell Grace, “You sleep, I’ll walk.”

He doesn’t make any effort to listen to your request. “I know that it’s not the most stimulating environment to be in. It isn’t like anything changes outside the window,” Grace says, “And you’re probably not getting much out of me, either.”

You scoff. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably drive myself crazy.” He’s here, and you’re still driving yourself crazy. You wish he’d just get back in his cot.

“So, it’s the environment then,” Grace deduces, the scientist that he is. He rolls his ankles, trying to mull it over. “We could start watching more of those unlimited movies Mary has stocked up—dealer’s choice.” He pauses. “Anything but Interstellar.” Too close to home.

You’re getting a little impatient, in a rush to get away. “Okay. I think I’m having a personal issue. That’s all,” you sputter out. “I’ve just been feeling a little bit… lonely? Physically, I mean.”

“Oh. Okay.” The look on Grace’s face sends you into a fit of embarrassment. You bring your palms up over your face, groaning to yourself. This is a terrible turn of events. “Hey. It’s fine,” Grace tells you delicately, “I get it.” It really seems to irk you, how delicate he’s acting. It’s sweet, obviously, but you’d hate to feel burdensome about this whole thing.

“I’m not asking you to fix it or anything. It is what it is,” you tell him, hands muffling your words. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek raw as Grace processes what you’re telling him. It’s taking too long, and you’re just about ready to leave him for the cockpit.

“Could I… fix it?” Grace murmurs. It’s indeterminable whether he’s asking if he’s able to fix your problem, or if you’ll let him. Very possibly both. You can’t tell, but it’s enough to make you lower your hands back down. Grace seems to let out a ragged breath at the sight of your tensed brows.

Slowly, you urge out a “No. Maybe.” The bridge of your nose crinkles with embarrassment. This is the last thing that you’d want to happen. Air-locked in space, no way in or out, and your only source of human contact is finding that you’re some kind of poor, deprived soul. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. How about this…” He slips off his mattress, white socks sliding across the padded floor of the crew quarters. Grace stops for just a moment, pulling the kaleidoscopic quilt from the middle cot, and bunching it up in his arms to bring over to you. He tosses it onto your lap spreading it over your top sheet as a makeshift comforter. “I can lay here. With you.”

You put a hand up as he approaches your cot. “You don’t have to.” “I want to,” Grace tells you. It’s a mix of earnestness and concern that makes you let up. You scoot to the very opposite edge of your cot to try and make room for him.

Despite this, you still warn: “We’re not going to fit, Grace.” It’s a poor and unconvincing defense. Grace is still moving to get in with you. He lifts up the corner of the quilt and your sheet to settle beside you, his knees knocking against yours. As it happens, he does take up a lot more space than you do. It’s fixable, one way or another. You feel like you’re on the verge of falling off the thing, and he can tell you’re still a bit reluctant about the whole arrangement. You’re anxious to get any closer to him.

“Can I—?” As soon as you give him a curt, wordless nod, Grace nudges you over. “We can fit. You just have to be…” He takes your arm, and slings it over his chest. “Here.” He wraps his own arm around your back, using his free hand to tuck the quilt over the two of you. With your weight half-leaned onto him, it’s a lot easier to lay. As much as you want to be pissy with him, you can feel your body easing into this position. He’s right. You do fit.

You and Grace seem to lay there in silence for a little while. You can only describe the two of you fitting together on this cot as bliss. You’re listening to the pattern of him breathing in and out, soaking in the soft warmth of his body under the covers. Grace feels like comfort. You couldn’t want for much more than this. You can feel the vibrations of his chest as he murmurs against you. “Better?”

“…Yeah.” You feel him sink his head a little lower, lips leaving a soft kiss just on your temple. Your eyes flutter shut with the sensation. “Still embarrassing, though,” you admit, stretching your legs out against his.

Sleepily, Grace replies, “It’s 2.7 Kelvin outside and you’re a human being.” He brings one hand up to the back of your head, fingers massaging deeply into your scalp. It conjures a soft sigh out of you, and you can feel Grace grinning a bit at the noise. He wins.

Though you could probably argue with him a little bit harder, you’re starting to drift off a bit. It’ll be nicer just to take this in. You’re both here, coddled up under the same quilt, and a little bit less lonely. If you’re lucky, and you think you are, you’ll have the same arrangement tomorrow.

He can practically see through Tim’s gears turning as he struggles to comprehend what his brother just asked of him, and it's only then that Dick notices Tim’s droopy eyes, and dilated pupils. His eyebrows raise in slight surprise before he mouths whispers to Jason – who is now standing beside him peeking at the phone.

“Tim’s drunk.”

Jason hums – already having noticed – and it's now that they both notice Tim’s gaze is on someone to his left and they can barely make out a feminine voice offering him… food? Tim nods and leans towards the left before coming back in view of the camera, chewing something.

Dick repeats his demand, and Tim turns his phone slightly to his left to reveal a girl holding a cheese toastie in his direction. Her eyes are on Tim, confused by his behavior before falling to the camera and flashing a quick smile at Dick and Jason both taking in her appearance.

“Hi, sorry, it’s so loud here at the moment, but it’s nice to meet you guys!”

Dick and Jason both smile back at the young girl before both waving back at her in a cartoonish manner. Quiet shuffling on the couch cuts both their waves off as they catch an annoyed Damian eyeing them on the couch with Titus. Dick turns the phone to show Tim's girlfriend and to the surprise of everyone, Damian offers a quick wave before putting his attention back to Titus.

The phones back on Tim’s face as he asks Dick again, “What do you want?”

Dick yells into the phone while Jason cringes next to him, “Case file details!”

Tim pulls the phone back before yelling back, “Just text me, I can barely make out what you’re saying,” before the FaceTime abruptly ends. Dick groans, muttering under his breath and typing out a text message to his brother yet again.

—

Giggles and stumbling aren't entirely in character for Tim, but you can't lie and say that you're not enjoying this fresh sight from your boyfriend.

“Tim, let me go!”

A fresh bundle of giggles erupt against your chest and his hold tightens against your waist. He’s seated on the bed, one arm out of his shirt, the other still in it and both, wrapped tightly around your waist as he tugs you impossibly close against him.

“Tim, please, I need to take off your shirt.”

More giggles and when you peer down at him, you can see the tips of his ears tinted a blossom pink. He softens his hold on you before lifting his arms up and looking up at you with half lidded eyes. Gosh, he looks so pathetically kissable.

With his shirt off, he stands up from the bed before his hands find themselves settled on your hips beneath your blouse, thumbs rubbing soft shapes into you. His eyes look down at you and a soft grin is settled on his lips.

“Can I kiss you? Please?”

You bite your bottom lip to stop the ridiculous grin that's about to take over your face and manage a soft nod. His lips gently press against yours, and your arms are quick to wrap around his neck, fingertips brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. A soft groan leaves his lips as his hands trail up and hug you tighter against his body.

Your lips dance with his in gentle, practised ease, and once he pulls away from you, it's not long before he tangles his hands in your hair, using his gentle grip to lean your head back while he presses messy kisses to your cheeks, jaw, leading down behind your ear and down the soft skin of your neck. A few kisses find themselves on the chain of the Swarovski necklace that he’d bought for you on your first year anniversary and you almost push him back onto the bed right then and there.

A soft sigh leaves your lips that he hums to in response before your hands make their way to his forearms, gently squeezing for his attention. He pulls back, a sleepy look in his eyes, with an ever present smile on his lips.

“You okay baby?”

You melt at his gentle check in before nodding.

“Yeah, I am. You?”

He mimics your previous response with a nod of his own before he shyly utters,

“Can… can we…?”

God, you really fucking want to.

You groan before putting your head against his shoulder, his hands find themselves at a respectful spot on your waist – above your shirt much to both your chagrin – and you run your fingernails down his bare chest while you pout up at him.

“You have no idea how badly I want to – how badly I want you – but we’re both horrifically drunk, and we have a busy day tomorrow and it’s already unbelievably late.”

He sighs through his nose before he presses his forehead to yours.

“Yeah, the universe just hates us.”

You giggle before wrapping your arms around his neck again and pressing a peck to his lips. He groans in exaggeration before tilting back, and flopping on the bed with you in tow. A small squeal leaves your lips before you’re both in a giggly mess on the bed together.

“Okay, but seriously Tim, I need to pee, let me go.”

Your hands press against the cushion of the bed ready to push up but Tim’s arms around your waist won’t budge, and the growing tingle in your core is only getting urgent.

“I’m gonna piss on you if you don't let me go.”

He giggles before reluctantly loosening his grip around you – enough for you to pull away and head towards the bathroom. It’s only when you’ve battled the buttons of your pants and pulled them down with your underwear to pee that a very clumsy Tim stumbles into the bathroom after you, unceremoniously sitting down on the floor… right across from you, a very tender expression on his face.

“Do you mind Tim?”

He leans his forearms on his knees, his arms extending out lazily towards the floor as his head leans against the bathroom sink cabinets.

“No, go for it baby.”

The ever persistent stinging in your core, overpowers your shyness and you sigh before releasing. A soft sigh leaves your lips as relief washes over you, and Tim giggles a little, his head being held up by one of his hands now. A soft trickle fills the silence between you, before you’re reaching for the toilet paper.

“I think we should get married.”

You pause mid wipe and look up at Tim; glassy eyes, love filled expression and all. You giggle before discarding the toilet paper and standing up to put your underwear and pants back on

“Really? And did watching me pee bring this thought on?”

Another giggle escapes him as his eyes tilt up to look at you standing above him. You reach a hand down to him to help him up, but are warmed when his hands envelop your hand, pressing the gentlest of kisses to your palm.

“No… not that I mind watching you pee.”

You’re too distracted by the tenderness of the moment to giggle, so you humour him as you watch his lips move to your wrist.

“No? Then pray tell, what’s brought the thought on?”

Your hand cups the bottom of his chin and he makes no attempt to stop you as you tilt his head up. It takes a beat but when he responds, your heart churns.

“I think I’d die without you. There is no life that I imagine that doesn’t have you in it.”

Fuck.

Before another second can pass you find yourself pushing to straddle his lap, both hands around his face as your lips dominate his shaky ones. You can taste the tequila on his tongue and you’re not sure if you’re drunk off him or that, but that doesn’t matter to you.

Tim’s hands run under your shirt and stop beneath your bra, pushing you impossibly closer. A groan leaves the back of your throat as your core now aches for a different reason. Tim pulls apart and it’s not a second later that his teeth are nibbling at the skin of your neck.

You throw your head back as a hiss escapes your lips, your chest rising and falling as you press down harder against him.

A soft whimper is muffled by the skin of your neck before Tim’s hands find your face, angling your head back towards his. You catch a glimpse of his eyes and before you can lean in to steal his breath again, he whispers,

“Will you?”

You hum, distracted by the desperate look in his eyes, his hands leave your face and gently you hear the clasp of your hair clip before your hair cascades around your face.

“What?”

His teeth nip at his swollen button lip and you can’t help but to be jealous. You almost moan at the thought of biting his lip before the fluttering of his eyelashes catches your attention.

“Will you marry me? Please?”

His hands have tangled themselves into your hair now, and you can’t help but to kiss him back harder. You push your tongue into his mouth, your hand at his throat and feel the way his Adam’s apple bobs under your thumb. Your teeth nip at his bottom lip and a small ‘fuck’ leaves him before you’re putting his hands where you want them; under your shirt, on your neglected chest.

That seems to give him the go because before you can start moving your hips against his, you’re on the floor of the bathroom, staring up as your boyfriend starts fumbling drunkenly with the buttons of your blouse.

A soft huff leaves his lips after he attempts to undo the fourth button again, and before a giggle can make its way out of your mouth, a sudden rip of fabric draws a gasp instead.

“Tim!”

He’s quick to undo your bra and smother you with kisses down the valley of your chest.

“I’ll get you another one baby, whatever you want.”

You’re annoyed at how wet that makes you. You can’t help it, he’d be the perfect husband. You’ve never paid for a singular dinner date, he’s always making sure you’re getting fresh flowers every fortnight, and fuck, he’s so good for you in every way.

You bite your bottom lip so hard, you can taste red. His face is at your core and he’s undoing the jean button with ease this time, but it’s when his teeth find your zipper that you can’t hold it in anymore.

“I’ll marry you.”

He’s got your hips slightly raised onto his lap now, mid way of pulling your pants and panties off when he pauses. His eyes dart up to look at you; hair tousled, blouse ripped on the ground, bra… somewhere, your core; soft, and leaking.

You watch his expression; the lust in his eyes turns into something desperate that you can’t name and his eyes start to water.

“I’ll be a good husband to you. I promise. I’ll do anything you ask.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows and your eyes look at the state of him. His hair is messy from your fingers, lips swollen where you bit, scars on his shoulders and chest faded, bruises ever so present along his ribs and a very noticeable bulge in his pants. Your core spasms as you imagine that very bulge ripping its way through you.

“Anything?”

The nods that follow your voice are downright pathetic and the way his eyes are half lidded and so tender in such a vulgar moment like this, makes you want to ruin him.

“Anything, baby.” He mimics.

You lean up on your hands now, and he leans in closer to your face to hear you.

“Fuck me like a good husband then.”

You almost scream as suddenly you’re airborne. Tim’s hands are cupping your naked ass as he stumbles back into the bedroom, and your back hits the bed before he’s crawling on top of you.

“Yes ma’am.”

—

Your alarm wakes Tim up first. He reaches over to silence the wretched sound before settling back in.

You’re pressed naked against his chest. Tim watches the peaceful expression on your face for just a second before a purple hue beneath your hair catches his eye.

Gentle hands move your hair away from your shoulder to reveal several bite marks from undoubtedly none other than him. It’s only then that Tim tunes into the slight stinging on his back.

‘Fuck me like a good husband then.’

The shiver that nips at him at the way you whispered that almost makes him push you on your back to have another ‘go’ but he doesn’t. Instead his hand starts to rub your back before you start groaning awake.

“Mm, morning baby.”

Your voice is slightly hoarse and he can’t help that his mind flashes back to how beautifully you were moaning into his ear.

“Hey pretty girl.”

His nickname earns him a sleepy kiss against his jaw and a soft hum. He can tell you’re about to fall asleep again so he makes sure to ask his question.

“Did I- did I ask you to marry me last night?”

A giggle erupts from you and that’s almost all the confirmation he needs before you mumble.

“Several times.”

A faint memory flashes through his mind; you, on your back, his fingers between your legs rubbing that spongy spot inside of you, as he brushes your tears of overstimulation from your face, soft begs of ‘please, please, please, marry me,’ being mumbled against your ear as you whimper back that ‘s’too much,’ while you tighten around his fingers again.

“Oh.”

He sighs. He loves you. He loves having sex with you and he absolutely wants to marry you… but he wishes he didn’t ask like that. He wishes he could’ve had the chance to do something a lot more romantic, something you deserve. Your voice cuts him out of his web of thoughts.

“Did you… did you mean what you asked?”

His eyes widen as he looks down at you now. You’re avoiding his gaze but he can tell you’re nervous with the way you tense up.

Dammit.

He’s in his head about how he wishes he’d asked you the perfect way the first time and you’re there taking his pondering expression for regret.

“Of course I fucking meant it! I just— I just wish I had asked you more romantically for the first time. But instead I almost fucked you into the bathroom floor, and ripped your blouse.”

A laugh erupts out of you and he finds himself joining along despite the situation.

“That was my favourite blouse.”

Your laugh is continuous and he knows it wasn’t your favourite but he doesn’t say anything.

“Will a five carat ring get me your forgiveness?”

A quick nod from you has him laughing just as loudly as you because that’s the truth; he’ll get you whatever ring your pretty heart desires, you know that, he knows that. He’s promised to be a good husband after all.

—

Dick was sprawled out in the manor’s library couch, Jason in the one-seater across from him. To say he was annoyed would be an understatement. After being thrown on a loop and finding out his younger brother had been hiding a girlfriend for several years, he felt like he was on the outside – oddly enough, he feels like he might've done something to make Tim hesitant to tell him.

Maybe he takes his role as an older brother too seriously, but he feels a bit cut.

“I can’t believe none of us knew.”

Jason rolls his eyes behind his glasses, his attention solely on the Jane Austen book in front of him. He hums absentmindedly, absolutely not listening to Dick right now.

“Speak for yourself, Grayson.”

Damian’s voice comes from the entrance of the library door as he saunters in towards the couch Dick is currently taking up. Dick is quick to sit up, his feet rolling off the side of the couch and planted in the ground now.

“Wait, you knew?”

Damian sits next to him on the couch, looking at him with an incredulous expression on his face. Jason’s gaze is on Damian now too, curious at the new information.

“Of course, I did. Tim doesn’t hide being smitten very well.”

—

Theres a easier way tho

I could take one for the team and get you pregnant

I'll be strong for you

It's hard rasing a kid on your own

To all of that, he'd simply replied, It's raising, then went right back to patrol like you hadn't just offered to impregnate him.

"Sweetheart, there's a send button," he replies with the patience of a saint. Gunshots erupt in the background and there's a curse thrown carelessly.

You’re attempting to send him the playlist you had made. It was a mix of songs perfectly curated to ones that reminded you of your best friend. There was a lot of dad music, a touch of heavy metal. You were tempted to throw in a love song, but dealing with the aftermath of doing so held you back.

"Don't sweetheart me, the fucking thing isn't loading now," you groan, tapping aggressively.

"You know, that doesn't make it go faster, right?" He grunts. There's a loud boom from his side.

"Says the guy who broke my TV because he thought hitting it would bring it back to life," you retort, squinting at your phone screen. You go to turn the brightness down.

 "'M still better at technology than you," he says, then shouts, "Robin, I said on my left!" 

You hear Robin's voice, but you can't make out the words. Something insulting, probably. 

"Little shit can't even listen to basic instructions."

"Me or Damian?" you ask without missing a beat.

"Both."

Once the playlist loads, you tap the send button without much thought. "Kay, I did it, listen to it now," you demand, lying back down on your bed.

"Sure thing, doll. Lemme just stop the Joker from turning Gotham into his playground."

"Gotham's already his playground," you mumble. 

For a while, you're quiet, listening as Jason occasionally shouts orders through the comms. It should be unsettling. The gunfire, the crashes, the constant danger he's in. Instead, it lulls you to sleep. He's here, breathing, and on call with you like he didn't want to part either.

"You done yet?"

"I'm putting it on. Happy now?" His hoarse voice brings you out of your thoughts. It's deeper than it was before. Nicer, too. 

You grin, sitting up as your blanket pools around your hips. "Only if you come over too." 

"Demanding little thing," he scoffed. But you know he's already on his way. 

A few minutes pass. You can hear the distant hum of his motorcycle through the comms.

Then he clears his throat. "Baby making music?"

Horror crashes over you. You snatch your phone off the bed so fast it almost slips from your hands. "Shit,' you whisper, frantically searching for what you sent. 

And lo and behold, it's that playlist, not the one you'd carefully curated for Jason. "Jay, I can explain—

"Fucked my way up to the top reminds you of me?" There's laughter in his voice now.

"No!"

"Guilty as sin?" He snorts.

"Oh my god, Jason, stop." Your hands are covering your warm face, phone lying on your bed. You're never living this down. 

He pauses. "There's a lot of Lana Del Rey,"

You swallow, your fingers curl around your blanket. "Well," you start quietly. "Don't get it twisted, you're pretty Lana Del Rey, but your dad? He embodies a Lana Del Rey song—

"Stop talkin' about Bruce like that," he groans.

"Your dad's hot." 

"You're trying to change the subject."

"Your older brother's also hot." You muster up the courage to add, "and don't call me that."

"Doll," His voice isn't teasing anymore. It's lower, like that comment about Dick took away all the humor.

"I've run out of age appropriate family members," you swallow. Except Jason. But you couldn't exactly say that. "Does Kate count? Bruce's exes? cause they're fine as hell too."

He grumbles under his breath. "Open the fucking window."

"You're here?" You freeze, voice coming out breathless.

The window snaps open with a sharp bang. The sound travels all the way to your room. You close your eyes. Why did it feel like you were in trouble?

The thump of boots echoes through the room. When it finally stops, you open your eyes to find Jason leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed in a way that makes his muscles more defined under the fabric. He’s taken off his helmet, his hair slightly damp, strands falling messily over his forehead.

And his eyes.

They’re on you, fierce and darker than what you're used to, like he’s a second away from hauling your ass straight to Arkham. It sends a pleasant feeling through you. 

You laugh nervously. "Heyyyy, you're not still mad about me finding your brother—what the fuck are you doing—

He stalks over to you until he’s standing right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact.

"You're acting weird," you tell him, trying to keep yourself still.

"That playlist—

"Was a random one I accidentally sent!" 

He tilts his head. “So. You wanna play me the right one now?"

He shifts, sliding onto the bed beside you, his shoulder bumping yours as he settles in. You grimace. No way he’s had time to shower, but you don’t move away. Not when he’s this close.

You give him one of your wired earbuds.

Your head bumps his when he puts his on. You bite back a smile at sharing earbuds with him.

You hit play on your phone, sneaking a glance at him, trying to read his reaction.

He’s already looking at you. Then he rolls his eyes and looks away.

“Can’t believe I remind you of a Radiohead song.”

“Would you prefer fucked my way up to the top?”

masterlist

once again i’m not sure what i wrote