em

The stained concrete shifts beneath your feet. The world is thrown off kilter as you’re shoved down. Hard. Onto your knees.

After at least a week (but who was keeping track anymore) of near total darkness the world is suddenly far too bright. The room is repugnant. Mould. Blood. Sweat. Dirt. The ringing in your ears is yet to dissipate.

There’s a disorientingly bright flash of light in front of your face and the punch comes near out of nowhere. A clean hit straight across the jaw, the shout of surprise leaves your lips as your head is thrust to the side. Through the ringing you can make out the voices of those around you— Makarov and company. Four other armed Russians. A challenge to take out on a good day, and next to impossible while disoriented, starved, beaten and bound.

He’s talking to you, but you only gather this as he grips your face between his cold hands, tilting your head up toward the blinding light. A camera.

There’s a pang of something that settles deep in your stomach. You know why he’s recording, and where the recordings going.

He’s still talking at you. Waiting. Expecting. There is no response to you and the slap of his palm across your cheek echoes through the room.

“Fuck you,” you croak, blinking out of your dissociative state. He clasps your cheeks between his fingers, shaking your head side to side.

“Say hello.” He repeats, and the words finally register, your gaze shifting down reflexively.

“Uh uh—“ he tuts, releasing your cheeks to clasp a handful of hair from the crown of your head, pulling it back. You cry out as your head is jerked back, face jerked up towards the camera. “Say hello.” He repeats. “Say hello to your beloved Captain.”

Your gaze fixes, albeit disorinetingly, on the camera lens, the sharp, bright light making your eyes flicker. Your head is ringing, but you know refusal and noncompliance isn’t going to go in your favour. “Hello, Captain.” You breathe out, voice a soft wheeze, tears threshing to pool in your eyes from the humiliation. Captured and tortured. Played with like a doll and now a leverage point.

“Хорошая девочка” (Good girl), Makarov replies, pleased. A beat of silence before he speaks again.

“Now tell him you love him.”

A wave of nausea wracks your body as you swallow thickly, head swimming.

“No.” You breathe out resolutely, jaw tight, tears welling in your eyes. You wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t do this to John.

He releases your hair, and for a moment you think there will be reprieve. The hope is short lived as his palm comes back into contact with your cheek. He sneers something in Russian— something you miss and one of his men steps forwards, taking the camera from his grip.

He kicks you. Hard. Straight in the ribs before you have any moment to react. You gasp out loud, doubling over as he crouches. He pulls a knight from the sheath on his ankle, positioning himself behind you. He grabs a fist full of your hair again, pulling you up straight and your head back. The knife rests against your throat.

You’re panting, a single tear falling down the side of your face. “Say it.” The Russian sneers in your ear as the cameraman puts the camera in your face. “Fuck you—“ you rasp again, trying to writhe in his grasp.

“Do you think this is what your Captain wants?” The Russian sneers, “to know your blood is spilt because of him?”

“He has nothing to do with this,” you grit, cringing as the blade kisses your throat, beading droplets of blood against your skin.

“Моя любовь (my love)” he speaks, gaze glimmering sadistically. “This has everything to do with him.”

Makarov’s gaze shifts upwards, focusing on the camera before nodding. The camera is lowered, the focus on the guards feet.

You scream, crying out as the camera cuts.

<3

“John…” Laswell breathes out, swallowing as the footage plays again. He’s been watching it on repeat since he’d received it. An untraceable email. The only proof they’d still had that you were potentially alive. Filmed 24 hours ago.

“John. Punishing yourself isn’t going to get her back.”

“She should’ve bloody said it.”

Once upon a time, they’d been street kids.

Rabid, feral, destitute and criminally inclined. But as long as they’d had each other? Never alone. But not in a cute childhood lovers who get through everything merely because they’re the main characters but rather in a I need you to survive and you need me, and that’s that.

Youth has a funny way of diggings its claws deep into your skin. Of tearing you apart and rebuilding you with the bloodied chunks of concrete you throw at passing cop cars. Youth reinvents all that you are meant to be, stains your ledger and shackles you to the lowest depths of hell simply because it can.

You’re ten and living together in some stingy apartment owned by some other addict who had just felt so felt inclined as to help the two street rats. Jasons vengeful. Bad tempered. Hurt, scared, even if he’d never admit it and you are simply grasping at anything you can get your fingers on. Grasping to him because there is no survival for one kid alone.

He doesn’t care about you, and you don’t care about him. You both know you can’t risk it. Knew that life had a certain way of tearing families apart at the seams. To lose each other was unimaginable. But to keep each other at arm’s length? To tell the other you hate them but never leave? It’s easier. But your actions are incongruent with the warning of your wild heart.

You fight for him. Fight beside him. Fight with him. Against him. You throw rocks, cuss out passing families, run from the cops together.

You take one knife for him, and he takes plenty more for you.

It is no surprise that you find solace in each other. Company to keep in the dead of night and through the beat of the day. Inseparable. Who else could understand a duo forged by blood, drugs and the stale midnight air?

So when Jason gets picked up by Bruce Wayne, the world suddenly seems so much crueller.

You’re left in the street, tucked under flea infested and stained blankets, your head pressed against a dingy pillow in an alleyway.

It’s your own fault, really. Jason pleas. Begs. Offers. A room for you beside his own, in his own, if that’s what it took. But you can’t accept. Not when living away from the street would strip you of your whole identity. Your experience, knowledge and ways of being. You tell him to fuck off. Tell him that you didn’t need to be saved by some asshole with cash.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t abandon you. Not outright, but eventually, he slips. Far enough away that he does a double take when he sees you in a distant alley one night. Uncertain and unable to discern the nuances of a faces he’d once been able to memorise like the back of his hand.

But then he disappears. Gone for weeks at a time, and it isn’t until a month has passed that you go knocking on Wayne Manor’s door in search of your friend. Only to find out that he’s died— has been dead for weeks. His funeral is long gone, his body already buried beneath the coarse ground.

You were alone before, but this was different.

Jason had still been here. Spiritually, metaphysically. He was a constant. Something you could depend on, even if the last time you’d both interacted had been a vicious fight. A fight fuelled by blood, tears, anger, jealousy and regret.

But now he was gone? The world turns into a big cliche— the rain falls harder. The planet grows warmer; crime grows out of control and people keep dying. You are bitter. Utterly alone. There is nothing to balm or coax the pain of a life gone too soon.

But adulthood has a funny way of diggings its claws deep into your skin. Of tearing you apart and rebuilding you from the tireless hours it’d taken working in a shitty little diner down the road to get your ass off the street. Adulthood reinvents all that you are, withers away the pains of time and dissipates the anger of a youth scorned, lonely and afraid; simply because it has to.

There is no place in the world for someone who has given up. No place in Gotham to pretend to be more than you are.

The loss of Jason Todd carved out a new path in your life. Devoted to preventing it from happening to other kids. Your path. His path. You don’t do it because it’s what Jason would’ve wanted you to do, rather you do it because it’s simply the way of the world. Having spent so long in the depths of hell, your sharp edges have been smoothed out by the years of torment. Softened by the falling rain and nights spent in restless regret. There is little anger or malice left, rather, something akin to hope seeds in the depths of your chest. Hope for the next generation, for something that meant more than yourself.

And maybe you can feel him watching from above. Can sense a strange sort of peace that settles in him at the sight of you. But of course, you are a realist and there was no such thing as an afterlife. How could a God exist when he had died too young?

So maybe it isn’t all that surprising when he’s in your living room when you get home from a double shift. When he says that he’s been watching for a while, unsure of whether reintroducing himself would do you any good. Had seen what good you’d done for yourself, the way you worked tirelessly to get your ass to university. How you had embraced the pains of youth and had blossomed while he had succumbed, had fallen even deeper into the pits of hell and had swum his way back up. Hes plauged by a lingering fear of leading you astray, that the mere sight of him would send you back down the path of crime. Maybe he ovestimates the importance of his presence on you, but how could he not when once you had depended on him for survival?

But this innate fear battles against the need to see you. Alive, well. Happy. Maybe it's his turn to feel jealous.

A self-centered hope that maybe if he sees you, his luck would change and suddenly his life would get better. That you'd take him in with open arms, and that things would be as simple as life was back then, without the cost of living on the street and having to be at each others throats to prove to themselves they weren't weak.

After all, it had once been you two against the world. A bond forged in the pains and struggles of the childhood of street kids.

“Talk t’ me.” He urges out, holding the office door open before she can slam it in his face. Again.

“We’ve done more than enough talking, Captain.” She breathes out, exasperated as she drops down into her desk chair. The infirmary is quiet. The calm before the storm, the lights flicker to life as she opens her laptop.

The captain sighs heavily, mulling his jaw over as he stands in the doorway. A metaphorical boundary. To cross or not?

To hell, he thinks as he takes one glance over his shoulder, no doubt ensuring they were alone before he steps into the room. The door clicks shut behind him as he crosses the room. Three easy strides to reach her desk.

He closes the lid of her laptop, and she finally raises her head to meet his gaze. “Are you serious?” She challenges, watching as he braces himself against her desk.

He looks akin to sin like this. Shirt stretched over his taut chest, those stormy blue eyes fixated on her, dark and clouded. Regretful, perhaps. “Talk t’ me.” He implored, pursing his lips together.

“As I said,” she grabs her computer, pulling it from under his hands. “We’ve done more than enough talking.”

“No, we haven’t.” He counters, prying the laptop from her grip and tossing it onto the desk beside her. The laptop clatters against the mahogany and she scoffs. “We’ve hardly spoken.”

“That’s funny— I distinctly remember briefing you this morning on the psych evals— “

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” He retorts sharply, perhaps a pang of irritation as he braces himself against her desk again.

Of course she knows. He’s talking about that night. Three weeks ago. The debrief following a particularly grating op— the way his lips had been on hers as soon as they’d been left alone in his office. The way she’s kissed back just as fervently. Only for her to suddenly ignore him at any available opportunity after.

He’d taken it in his stride initially— had brushed it off as her simply being busy. He’d bought her lunch; he’d watched as it’d moulded over in the small company fridge. Had watched her decline meeting invitations, to pass off all the team evaluation and checks to other medical staff.

He’d tried all week to corner her, but there was never an opportunity for them to be alone. Until now.

She doesn’t say anything, rather, she turns her head to the files on her desk. Picks up a pen from her own jar as she flips through the files.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He mutters, rounding the desk and pulling out her chair. “Stop— “ she grits out as he swivels her around and braces her against the chair, one hand pressed against each armrest. “John.” She grits out, anger flaring momentarily, only to be suddenly cooled by his next words.

“Vyarose. I’m sorry.”

She flusters; lips parting and brows furrowed together in synchronicity. Vyarose seems genuinely taken aback as the apology processes. “I’m sorry.” He repeats again, voice low. Gentle. Earnest.

“I overstepped your boundaries and now— “

She cuts him off, shaking her head. “Stop. John.”

“No.” He counters. “Let me fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, John— “ She counters tiredly.

“Like hell— “

“—I’m not— “ she counters, raising her voice to drown him out. “I’m not mad, okay?” The silence settles over them as she lowers her head to the side, gazing down at the tiled floors.

Stray baby hairs frame her face, highlighting the sharp structure of her face, the raven strands complimenting her olive toned skin. “I’m not mad— or upset, or angry, or uncomfortable.” She continues, seemingly unable to stop herself.

Her voice, usually so loud, self-sure and confident is instead hesitant. Uncertain. It’s a stark contrast to the woman he’s fallen in love with. “I just— “ she falters, finally raising her gaze to meet his own. “It just didn’t mean anything to me.”

She lies, he thinks. Can see that flicker in her gaze, the way she swallows and rolls her tongue over her lips. All her minute tells at once. “Bullshit.” He interjects.

“—and I didn’t want to hurt you.” She finishes as if not having heard him.

“Bullshit.” He repeats, shifting from one foot to another as he stands back up straight, raising to his 6’2 height. His hands clasp over his hips.

“It’s not bullshit, John.”

“You’ve never been able to lie to me, love.” He counters, tone taking a softer edge, almost pleading as his arms cross over his chest. Unable to stand still. Not when there’s so many different emotions flooding him. Stoically hidden under his hand-crafted poker face. “Why start now?”

“Because I don’t love you, John. Not like you love me.” The words hurt for a moment, but he sees the flicker in his gaze again, the way she’s started digging her nails into her palms.

It’s exasperating, standing in front of her. Near enough begging her to talk. He wasn’t sure how he’d imagined this little talk would go, but he certainly hadn’t placed his cards on this.

“You’re still lying, love.”

With that she stands, shoving her chair back as she does. She goes to shove past him and provides him the opportunity to grasp her upper arm. His grip tight enough to keep her still as she tries to cross him. “Don’t fucking— “ she snaps, pulling her arm back to pry it free. “Stop.” He demands, tone a little firmer as she tries to jerk.

“Fucking stop, John— “

He reaches down, grasping her other arm in his large hands, as if to shake her out of it. “Then talk to me.” He grits out, his own patience fraying as his stormy blue gaze lands on her own conflicted hazel gaze. “Why lie to me? Hm? What’s happening?”

She sighs heavily, and it’s only now that he notices the tears welling in her eyes.

“Stop.” She grits, another weak attempt to try shake his grip off as he shakes his head. “Not happenin’ love.” He replies, tone soft again, his patience seemingly renewed at the sight of her glossy eyes.

She grows still in his grip and swallows thickly, gaze tilting up towards the sky, as if to bar the tears from falling. The silence settles between them, punctuated by her sharp intakes of air. It stretches, warping, drawing them further out to sea and threatens to suffocate them.

“I’m scared.” She admits, finally. Her jaw is tight, and her bottom lip wobbles as she refuses to meet his gaze.

“I’m scared.” She repeats after a beat of silence.

He lets the silence linger for a moment, carefully teasing, drawing it out. Scared that if he prods too quickly, she’ll recoil. “Scared?” He prompts softly after a moment.

“Everyone I love dies.” She sucks in a sharp breath, her hand finally clasping around his forearm, as if to ground them, to stop him from leaving. “Everyone I love dies a horrible, horrific, death or they— they leave or they — “ her breathing increases, and he can feel her heartbeat in her desperately tightening grip.

He can’t help but pull her in against his chest. Strong, muscular arms wrap around her back, clasping her close. She folds into the touch, her cheek pressed against his chest, her fingers fisting the fabric off his tee. “S’alright,” he murmurs as the first sob wracks her body.

One hand settles firmly on the back of her head, his chin pressing atop her head. “S’alright, love. ‘M here.” She heaves against his chest for a moment, body trembling.

“Everyone I love dies— “ she repeats, voice low and raw and as vulnerable as he’s ever heard her. “Everyone and I thought— I tried — I tried so hard.” Another shaky intake of air. “Tried so hard to keepyou at arm’s length.” His hand gently carts through her hair.

“Because you— you — and this fucking job, you’re my commanding fucking officer, I’m a medic… And this fucking life. These stupid fucking missions and ops and terrorists and— “ she cuts herself off, instead opting for another sharp intake of air, unable to bring even the words into reality. And she doesn’t need to; John has no trouble reading between the lines. He lets her sob against his chest. Holds her as the sobs wrack her smaller frame.

“So, I thought…” She trails off after a beat of silence. She finally pulls her head back. Takes a step back from him as she wipes at her tears on the back of her hand. “Thought that if id ignored you or was rude for long enough, you’d give up.” Vy finally lifts her gaze to meet him. Her face has softened slightly, a slight tinge of red that circles her eyes, lips and nose. The tear-stained trails down her cheeks. Even like this, she looks gorgeous.

“That your professionalism would get the best of you— that you’d just leave it. That it’d occur to you how unprofessional this all is— how undeserving of all this I am — that you’d Leave me. Continue on as if things had never happened.”

He doesn’t say anything, rather, his hands shift, gently raising to cup her jaw. He holds her like she’s made of smooth glass, a sharp contrast to the jagged, calloused and torn skin that makes his hands. His thumb gently wipes at a stray tear before it could fall. “Firstly,” He begins. “Rules’ve never stopped me. You know that.” He’s quiet, a faint twinge of humour that eases a small, terse smile from your swollen lips. “Secondly. I’d never leave you.” He adds earnestly as he slowly leans in, his nose brushing hers.

“Not because I’m stubborn.” He tilts her head up ever so slightly, giving her the chance to pull back.

“Not because I always get what I want. But because you’re worth it. Worth it a thousand bloody times over, love.”

She doesn’t pull back and he closes the distance. His lips against her own supple lips, the certainty is shared through the gentle kiss before he pulls back again.

“Could never get over you. Could never forget you, get sick and tired of you.” His thumb grazes her cheek again and she closes her eyes, sucking in another sharp breath.

“I know I can’t promise nothing bad will ever happening.” He continues after a beat of silence. Watches as her gaze opens to meet his eyes again. “I won’t ever lie to you like that. Couldn’t.” He watches the way she swallows, the way her lip’s part to object.

“I love you, Vy.” The words are no louder than a whisper, a promise meant for them and them alone. “Always have. Nothin’ in this life could ever stop or change that.”

“I can’t, John.” She whispers back, shaking her head, trying to turn her head away.

“Don’t,” he murmurs gently, shaking his own head as he leans in, presses his forehead against her own.

“I can’t.” She repeats as his thumb caresses over her jaw. “You won’t.” He corrects.

“I can’t, John.”

“You won’t.”

“God, you’re so fucking aggravating.” She grits out, the tension thick in her tone. He can’t help but smile faintly. There’s that fire.

“Listen to me,” he breathes out, pulling his head back enough to gaze back into her tired, red rimmed eyes. “I love you, Vy. Always will.” His thumb swipes another stray tear, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I want you. Wanna take you out, worship you. Make you happy. Treat you how you deserve to be treated.” Her heart tightens at his words, her fists tightening around the fabric of his tee.

“But I’ll never coerce you into anything you don’t want.” He tilts his head softly, assessing, trying to gauge what she really wanted. “But I’m not giving up. Not because you’re scared.”

She doesn’t say anything, but he can see the hint of relief in the softening of her features, even if she’d never admit it. “Doesn’t have to be now. This week. Next week. Next year. Could make me wait six years and is still crawl through fire to be by your side.”

“Just don’t give up on me, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“Atta girl.”

-

I need someone to spray me with a spray bottle everytime I use an em dash.