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The crack of his neck echoed in the empty bedchamber as he stared at the man sprawled at his feet, illuminated by the soft glow provided by the oil lamp. The only other sounds were the quiet snores of the whore, naked and asleep, and the shallow, ragged breaths of the man lying at his mercy.

He rolled his shoulders as he squatted to the floor, yanking the man by the collar. “Is your tongue feeling loose yet?” Jason tilted his head, green eyes cold. Uncaring.

The man wheezed, blood splattering from his mouth, staining his chin that ugly shade of red. Blue and purple bruises bloomed under his skin. Jason watched as he struggled but did no motion to help him, or lessen his pain in any way.

He stared at him trying not to think about the person he had become. He couldn't bare to.

Once upon a time he would have felt bad for this. For beating a man to an inch of his life. For nearly condemning an otherwise innocent man to a fate he had already suffered from. 

But not anymore. Not him. Not when he was this close to tasting the end. Not when the secrets the man held could be his salvation. 

Jason watched as the man's lips moved, trying to form words but was unable to, as he fell in and out of consciousness.

He rolled his eyes at the sight before him. Pathetic. 

He pulled the man up from the collar, immediately dragging him back to the land of the living.  

“Speak,” he demanded, ignoring the sharp sting on his fingers and the pain shooting up his spine. His fist instinctively tightened its grip, grounding him.

“Go- The Gov-” the man slurred, a stray tear trickling from the corner of his eye, mixing with the blood and soot on his face. “The Governor's wife.” he rasped, hand slowly raising, clasping over Jason's.

His eyes glinted at the answer, a small smirk gracing his face, “Wasn’t that hard, aye?” he says immediately letting go of him. 

He wiped his hands on the man’s shirt —not that it did him any good, it looked filthier than his hands had ever been— and stomped to the door, the cacophony invaded his ears when he opened it.

Jason stilled for a moment, as his hand touched the hat he had left on the door handle. The thought of calling someone to treat the poor bastard choking on his own blood crossed his mind if only for a second. It disappeared just as quickly. 

He was a pirate, not a nurse. Besides, that whore would wake up soon enough, and he liked to think she’d be gracious enough to take care of him.

He quickly left the room, placing his hat back on his head, calling his crew to make for the ship, descending the stairs two at a time.

There was no time to waste—not when the curse still clung to his bones like rot. Not when he knew how to put an end to it.

You hissed as the needle pricked your finger, drawing it immediately to your mouth sucking on the blood. Just as quickly you pulled it away, manners engraved too deep into your bones to allow yourself such an indecency. You stared at it instead, watching as the blood trickled down your finger before it stopped.

You recall your late mother saying how you’ve always seemed to recover faster than other people. Your father called it a gift from God. You never paid it any mind.

“Perhaps, if you held it like a needle, milady, and not like a dagger, it wouldn’t see fit to bite you.” the velvety voice of Margaret Reed, one of your ladies and long time friend, interrupts your thoughts, forcing you back to reality.

You raise your gaze to lay eyes on her. To anyone else she would have seemed uninterested as she sat on the settee, hand moving with precision as she embroidered yet another flower on a piece of cloth that would be forgotten as soon as she was finished with it. But to those that knew her, the glint in her eye was unmistakable, and what would have otherwise been a reprimand, was teasing words between friends.

"At least the needle possesses spirit,” you exhale as you pick up the needle again, slowly pulling on the thread, “Unlike those spineless dandies you keep calling 'prospects'." you say, your lip tugging into a smile.

“Milady!” she gasps scandalized at your words, hands falling on her lap, as she tried desperately to hide the amusement she felt.

You giggle at her reaction. You always thought it was curious how you ended up being so close to her. Sure, you run in the same social circle, but other than that you were nothing alike.

Where she was the perfect example of a high society woman, always poised and refined, you were trying everything to get away from the role fate had assigned you. You knew how to embroider—although badly— and how to play the piano and lute. You learned how to horseback ride from a very young age, and if anyone were to ask you about science, you would most likely know the answer.

You had received the education fitting to someone of your status. The problem lied with the other things you learned along the way.

Like which door creaks the least at night. Or the shift change of the guards, when your father was fast asleep –although that last one wasn't anything remarkable, everyone in the estate knew by the small earthquakes that followed.

You had also learned how to deter suitors, much to you father's disdain.

Turns out men don't enjoy being told they're lacking in intelligence, regardless of how easy some made it.

“Oh, calm yourself Margaret. There is no one here but the two of us.” you brush her off, “Besides, not a word I’ve spoken is false.” you close your eyes, awfully sure of your words.

You saw her take a deep breath in from the corner of your eye, “True or not, milady, it is your duty to behave like a proper lady—and secure a good match.” she says pointedly.

You scoff at her words, there she goes again. You discard the cloth, rolling your eyes, “And I am to do so by hemming handkerchiefs for men that think embroidery is the height of my ambitions?” you say, words sharp, “It’s pointless, wouldn’t you think?” you stand up, straightening out the blue dress your maid, Anne, had picked out for you this morning.

“The point is being a good wife.”

You offer her a tight lipped smile, as you carefully walk towards the library you had installed in your room, “As you shall be soon, I daresay.” you smirk, staring as her face turns into all different shades of red from the corner of your eye. 

"And, besides,” you continue, seeing she was too flustered to even talk, “of what use is needlepoint, when men govern a colony with half a brain and no manners?" your fingers scan the covers of the well loved books in your collection.

Her gasp filled the room, “Mind your tongue!" she exclaims, "Heaven forbid your father heard you.”

“He should recover, no doubt.” you say, tone dismissive. 

Your father had survived much worse than your words.

“You’ll set the world alight someday” she exhales resignedly, “if the men don’t throw water on you first.”

“Oh, I do hope they try! I’ve always wanted to see a powdered wig catch fire.” you giggle as you walk back to the settee, falling back onto it. Margaret shakes her head in disapproval.

“Milday, you must—” she begins to say, but the knock on the door interrupts her. You both turn towards it, seeing the bright red head of a young servant girl peeking through the crack.

“Pardon the interruption milady, Lord Smythe requests the presence of Lady Margaret.” she says, looking at the floor, too new and scared to look at either of you in the eye.

Margaret snaps towards you, her eyes bright at the sound of her betrothed's name, silently asking for permission to go. As if you would ever keep her from running to him.

Lord Smythe had asked her hand in marriage not too long ago, whilst they were on a walk in her fathers estate. And Margaret seemed ecstatic to begin her new life as a wife, and eventually, a mother. You didn’t understand her, but were happy for your friend nonetheless.

“Run along Margaret, I promise nothing will be set ablaze in your absence” you say giggling, as she hurriedly stands up and heads to the door, saying a rushed thank you and goodbye, before the door closes behind her.

Once you were officially alone you exhaled at the silence that surrounded you, the soft waves crashing against the rocks, hardly audible.

You stared at the closed door, wondering how it would feel to be excited to get married like Margaret was. How it would feel for your eyes to light up at the mention of someone's name. To be excited at the thought of seeing someone.

But all the ‘prospects’, as Margaret liked to call the men your father presented you to, were bland, to put it simply. And, besides, you weren’t keen on giving up your freedom. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Better a spinster, than a wife.

Despite your wishes, you also knew you didn’t have a choice. Not really.

You were the daughter of the Governor, every day of your life has been leading up to the moment of your wedding, to whoever that might be. 

Your feelings didn’t matter half as much as your status, if even at all. 

You tear your gaze away from the intricately carved door, as you stand up heading towards the balcony.

The salt air was a welcome sensation on your skin, your eyes locked on the horizon. You watched as the sun slowly descended to the sea, painting the sky in hues of orange and yellow.

You close your eyes, leaning against the rail. You let the sounds of the sea and the birds fill your ears, completely ridding your mind of all unwanted thoughts as you start wondering how life would be if your fate wasn't your own.

You exhale, smiling at the chance of being free. To do what? You don't know yet. But it’ll be exciting. And new. And maybe a little terrifying. But it’ll be your own.

You smile as you open your eyes, staring at the beautiful picture that had been created before you, completely missing the hooded figure staring up at your balcony ominously. 

Waiting.

Jason knew that it wasn’t very ‘piratey’ of him to sneak into the estate in the dead of the night, and while he’s sure his crew would love to ransack the place and then go get drunk, he couldn’t have anyone following his trail.

The reward was too high for the risk.

He looks around, grimacing at the sight of bust statues of men whose names he couldn’t bother to remember, littered around the hall, lifeless and judgemental, much like the guests in the countless balls his father used to host. His stomach turned at the deja vu, the governor's estate being much too similar to the one he used to call home once upon a time. 

The memories crashed into his mind, like the waves against the bow of his ship, angry and unforgiving.

He remembers the way people danced, created something akin to an illusion, leaving him mesmerized by it. Leaving him wanting, wishing to be like them.

He can almost see, his older brother amongst the dancers, some high society girl in his arms, blissfully twirling around, oblivious to how her partner seemed more interested in the sea, than her.

He can almost feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, as he looked over the party.

Jason shakes his head, being pulled back into the present by the chilly air entering through the window he left open, shoving the memories back to where they belonged, locked away and buried beneath years of grime and saltwater. All that happened in another lifetime. He’s a different man now, nothing like the boy donning silk and jewels.

Thankfully, after this was over with, he wouldn’t have to think about any of that ever again.

Slipping in the shadows was second nature to him at this point, disappearing between the paintings decorating the walls, leaving no trace of his presence behind. 

His footsteps were muffled by the velvet carpet, as he sneaked around the estate, looking for the room he found out to be yours earlier that day.

He’d be quick. Get in. Muffle you while you were asleep. Get out.

Child’s play for the man the entire Royal Navy was searching but could never find.

Jason's eyes shine in the dark once your door slips into view, a smile slowly creeping up his face.

He walks towards the ornately decorated door, reaching for the handle. He could almost taste freedom on his togue.

But the sound of footsteps, make him stop in his tracks, resembling the statues along the hall.

They are quick as they echo, bouncing against the walls.

Jason curses as he dives behind the curtains, hidden from the sight of whoever is walking the estates hall at this hour.

"Miss Anne, see to it that the young mistress is prepared in good time for Lord Whittemore's arrival” a deep voice ordered.

Lord Whittemore? Jason hadn’t heard that name in years, but he did remember the man. He was prissy, and what his crew, him included, would call a molly. Always dressed to the nines and always looking at young women, despite the fact was already greying under that God awful wig of his. 

He grimaces in disgust at the implication of his arrival.

"And might I trust you to ensure that she properly conducts herself? None of her usual antics." the man continues, not allowing the woman to answer first, "I should hate for the Governor to be met with any measure of embarrassment.”

“Yes, my Lord.” a much younger female voice answers. She sounds timid. Like she’s scared to say anything else.

Jason holds his breath as he listens closely to the footsteps growing quieter, as the pair of them leave to torment some other poor soul he assumes. 

This wasn’t part of the plan. If he takes you now, everyone will know by the morning. Every ship in the area will be searching for you.

But if he doesn’t, you’ll be basically sold off, and he’ll have to make both a new plan and bypass whatever security that prick Whittemore will have protecting you. And God forbid the old man gets you pregnant before he’s able to get to you.

So he might as well get it over with now and spare you in the process. Not that you would care. He's seen his fair share of breakdowns over failed courtships. You'd probably be mad if you didn't get to marry that geezer.

Jason takes a deep breath as he quietly leaves the safety of the curtains, his calloused hand grabbing the door handle. Your room comes into view soon after.

You are sitting at the canape, holding a book in your hands, the warm light of the candle by your side illuminates your figure. 

He holds his breath as you stop yourself from turning the page, his hand immediately reaching for his sword, ready for you to start screaming. You stare at nothing as you listen in closely to his movements. But it only seems to last a moment before you continue reading.

Jason cannot see what the book is about, but it must be interesting enough for you to not pay him any mind.

He takes a moment to stare at you, as he slowly unsheathes his sword, creeping behind you. 

He couldn’t quite understand how you could be the solution to all his problems, or how you were the cause of them in the first place. You didn't look any different from other daughters of aristocratic families. He can’t imagine you’d act any different either.

He didn’t mind that at all. Hell, it made his job easier. 

He’d lock you in a cell, get you to the Pit and break his curse. Simple as that.

Yet, he found himself stilling as he stood above you, breath ragged. Sword in hand. Ready to strike.

You hummed a tune as you turned the page of your book, eyes scanning the page.

“Miss Anne?” you called, not raising your gaze, “Might you be so kind as to see that the bed is properly prepared?” your voice was soft, thinking you were talking to your maid.

Jason watched you for a second longer, reveling at your obliviousness. Then, the hilt of his sword struck the back of your head, a sickening thud echoing in the room. You fell limp right into his arms.

He almost felt bad. 

Almost.

You don’t think you’ve had a headache quite like this before. Your whole head was throbbing, like a thousand little hammers were pounding away in your skull. And the ringing in your ears only made it worse.

You groan as you try to open your eyes, a hand immediately shooting up your face, as if that could help in any way. 

You blink, trying to focus, your hands barely visible as the dizziness hits you again, the second wave stronger than the first.

“Miss Anne?” you call out, sitting up slowly, managing to feel the hard surface beneath you. You must have fallen to the floor while you were sleeping, “Would you be kind enough to fetch me something for the pain?”

You wait for her soft voice, her usual flurry of movement as she scurries to help. But nothing comes. Just silence.

“Anne?” you call out again, ignoring how your head couldn’t stop spinning. Silence still.

You slowly move your head away from the light, ready to call out to her again, but another voice, unfamiliar and rough, cuts through the silence.

“I’m no maid lassie,” it calls and you feel your blood run cold. Why is there a man in your quarters? “And this ain’t your fancy estate.” 

Your hands scramble trying to find something to grab, but you only find wood and dust surrounding you.

You force your eyes open, the adrenaline rushing through your veins, wiping the pain away, sharpening your vision. You take a frantic look around, scanning your surroundings.

It’s dark. Darker than it should be, the only sliver of light spilling from a tiny window high above you. The floor is rough beneath your fingertips, eroded and stained with blotches you’d rather not think the origin of.

Your gaze darts to the far end of the room and that’s when you see it. Bars. Thick, rusted iron bars.

“Who are you?” you demand, the man sat on the other side, hidden by the shadows. You see him lean against the wall, his clothes covered in grime, his boots caked with mud. His face is not visible behind the layers of darkness.

A low chuckle echoes in the room, “Not important,” he says, fingers tapping on his leg, “What matters is who you are.”

You scramble to stand up, immediately noticing the room shifting from side to side as you lose your footing. 

Ship. You were on a ship. Which only means-

“I demand to be let go at once!” you yell, grabbing at the bars, all your loathing and clawing desperation directed at your captor.

But yet again, he laughs. 

“You’re aint in a position to bark orders lass.” he says and you watch him like a hawk as he steps into the light. 

You didn’t know what you expected from the assumed pirate that had captured you for no apparent reason, but a boy, barely older than you, donning a smirk, wasn’t it.

He was taller than you, he probably was taller than most people, strands of white hair falling over the red head scarf he had tied around his forehead, the rest of his hair hidden by a hat. His green eyes looking down at you in derogation.

You knew you couldn’t fight him, you didn't know how. And you definitely couldn’t outrun him, not when you’re behind bars. So all is left bargaining.

“What is it that you want? Gold? A pardon? I can arrange that for you!” you rush to get out before he can harm you. 

“It ain’t gold I seek lass.” he steps closer, his face clearer now, green eyes contrasting the filth on his skin, “I need something else entirely…” he says, and you feel the back of his fingers against your cheek. 

Your stomach turns at the sensation and the smile on his face, disgusted at what might happen to you. Before you know it, you open your mouth and bite down at his hand, dirt filling your mouth.

Jason yelps, pulling his hand away, his gaze hardened as he looks down at you,

“Wench!” he calls out and then starts laughing maniacally.

He couldn’t wrap his head around what just happened. You, dainty, aristocratic, talking with manners he had forgotten existed, bit his hand. He stared at you, eyes wide with surprise, as you seemingly mastered all your courage to look at him, a scowl decorating your face. 

Funny. 

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that.” he said, smirking.

His reaction only fills you with more rage, “Release me! Or I will see that you and your entire crew swing from the gallows!” you yell, shaking the bars that confided you. But it only seemed to encourage him.

“Ballsy!” he says, “I like that in a woman.” he smiles at you, but only gets back a disgusted look on your part.

If Jason said he didn’t find this amusing he’d be lying.

He steps closer, hands raised with the intention of leaning against the bars, but you don’t seem to notice that, recoiling at the proximity.

“Don't touch me, pirate!” you exclaim.

This got tiring too soon for his liking. A shame if you'd ask him, he hadn't had a good laugh in a while.

He rolls his eyes, arm sticking through the bars, grabbing your jaw before you can even react.

“I’ll make you a deal, savvy?” he spits, dragging your head closer, “You’ll tell me how to break the curse, I’ll make sure you get fed tonight.”

You stare straight into his eyes, gulping down the fear that seemed to cloud your head, like the mist clouded the port in the early hours of the morning. But you don’t let it show, glaring at him, keeping eye contact.

“Tongue not feeling loose yet?” he asks, expecting you to fold. 

But you don’t. Instead, he feels the warm stick of your spit on his cheek, slowly trickling down.

Jason turns his head away, trying with every fiber of his being to keep his composure. To not break the door of the cell and beat you to an inch of your life. Instead, he raises his free hand wiping his face.

You hear him chuckle as he lets go of your head aggressively, making you lose balance for a moment. 

He stays still. You see him take a deep breath and turn around, heading towards the door.

You feel like crying at the sight, more than ready to allow yourself to break down finally. But then he stops and your breath is caught up to your throat again.

“Let’s see how feisty you are when pride is all you’ve got left, milady.” he says, and before you know it, he’s out of the door.

You huff, falling as your knees give out. Your head is still spinning by the pirate's taunts. 

You would have never thought that your life you would dissolve into this. Stuck, trapped, in a cage of a pirate ship.

You let out a shaky breath, staring at the door, waiting, dreading, of someone coming in. You try to get it under control. But every breath becomes shakier than the last, and the weight in your chest only seems to be getting heavier.

You slowly reach up, your hand trembling as you search through your hair, gaze locked on the door. You breathe out in relief when you grab one of the countless pins your maids had used to keep the strands in place, making sure your head looked more like a painting than hair.

You pull it out in a rush, immediately pulling it apart, fingers working quick.

He couldn’t keep you in here. You wouldn’t allow it.

You kneel before the lock, the wood creaking beneath your knees, breath held tight in your chest.

You have to work fast. It’ll be dark soon.

Every time the ship rocked, you found yourself trying to keep the pin from falling out your hand. Trying to keep your composure despite all the failed attempts to pick the lock.

The smell of saltwater and mold clings to your lungs, much like the corset on your undergarments.

“Blasted thing!” you curse under your breath, grabbing the pin again, jamming it into the lock.

Picking locks isn’t a skill you possess, and if you were being honest, it wasn’t a skill you’d thought you’d ever have to use. 

You had tried, however, to pick the lock of your fathers study more than once, wanting to be in his presence whenever you felt lonely.

But this wasn’t your fathers study. This was the brig of a pirate ship, and behind the door wasn’t his warm embrace, but criminals that would kill you without a second thought.

Your eyebrows furrow, as you slightly bite on your tongue in concentration, moving the pin carefully, trying to hear the mechanism.

And then you do. A soft click rings in your ears, your eyes widening at the sound.

Your fingers immediately start moving slower, with more intention behind them, twisting the pin in your hands carefully. One more twist and you're out.

But the floorboards above you creak. Your blood runs cold. There’s a voice.

Someone is coming.

You can clearly hear the footsteps growing nearer to you, the voice louder. Your hands are moving in panic, trying to get it to open before whoever it is opens the door.

You stare at the lock obsessively, as if it would cower under your gaze, give up and open at last.

And then you feel it. The light resistance. 

You turn your head towards the door, terrified as you hear the handle move. And with a swift motion, you twist the pin, the characteristic sound of it opening overtaking your senses.

You feel the tears streaming down your face in relief as you scramble to the other side of the cell, leaving the cell door closed.

You hide your face in your skirts, as the person descends the stairs into the room. 

You listen as the heavy steps move closer, their sound overpowered by the ringing of your ears. 

And suddenly, it stops.

You raise your head when you feel something hitting your feet.

Before you, you see a piece of stale bread, the shadow of your captor surrounding you.

You turn your head, shocked, staring at him, as he starts heading out without saying a word.

“Thank you.” you say, grabbing it, but he only grunts before slamming the door behind him.

You sit there, slowly eating the bread he threw at you, piece by piece. By no means was it good, but your hunger overpowered whatever tastes you had grown up with and the fear of the possibility that he would try to poison you.

You sit there, ignoring the numbing pain clawing up your body, waiting for the ship to fall silent, along with its crew.

You’re sure you’ll find at least 3 people on deck, but three people is better than 50, and you need the chances to be in your favour if you are to escape this wretched ship.

You stay, still as a statue, listening closely until the footsteps cease sounding above you. 

The only thing you can hear are the waves crashing against the barrel of the ship.

You tumble on your skirts, as you rush to stand up, falling on your feet as you get to the door.

Your hands immediately reach for the cell door, pulling it wide open.

You feel hot as the adrenaline rushes through your veins, sweat trickling down your face. Your eyes sting with tears you won't allow to escape.

You tiptoe up the stairs, hand trembling as your hand touches the handle, cringing at the creaking sound. Hoping, no one is standing guard.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you find the corridor empty.

The air outside the room wasn’t much different than within it, if only for the characteristic pungent of alcohol added to it. You ignore the bile that rushes up your throat, lightly stepping outside.

You walk slowly, a hand constantly brushing against the weathered wood, splinters pricking your fingers, as you try to keep balance within the shifting ship. 

You pass by the hammocks the crew slept on, thankful their drunken snores muffled your hurried steps.

It only takes you a minute before you find the trap door leading to the deck, the cold air of the night kissing your face. You smile at the sight of it, reaching up to open it, more than ready to-

“What d’ye figure the Cap’n wants with ‘er?” a gritty voice above you catches your attention, as you immediately shoot to the side, scared he’ll come down and catch you.

You hold your breath, listening in, hoping they'll what you are here for.

“How in blazes should I know?” you hear a second voice answer, sounding much younger than the first, “Gold, mayhap.”

“Aye…” the first man sighs, “or maybe he’s longin’ for a woman’s touch.” he laughs, a wet rattling sound that makes your skin crawl.

You’re going to throw up, the sharp feeling of your corset digging into your ribs becomes more noticeable.

“ ‘thought the Cap’n were a molly.” the voice sounds farther away this time, shocked at the apparent intentions of his captain.

“Shut yer gob! He’s wedded to the sea, he is.” you hear the younger one curse as he stumbles, after being slapped probably.

You wonder if they’ll fight. 

You hoped they would. Maybe then they’d be too distracted to notice you fleeing.

“Aye, that’s what they say.” the voice fades, your breath still stuck in your throat, scared that even the slightest sound will make them come back.

You can hear the chatter in the distance still, but it's too far to decipher what they’re talking about.

Taking a deep breath in, you step under the trapdoor again, staring up at it. You slowly lay both your hands on it, sweat clinging on your palms as you push it lightly, smiling as you see it give away to pressure.

You peek your head outside, just enough to scan your surroundings. 

Clear.

You grit your teeth in anticipation as you push it further up, sliding quietly on deck.

The cold air sticks against your nerve riddled skin, relief flowing through your body. 

You could finally breathe easy again.

For a moment you stare up to the night sky, letting the sound of the sea overtake your senses. You would have loved to see the stars this clear again but under different circumstances. Sit under them, draw and study them, until the sun returns to the sky, letting light touch everything within the horizon. You immediately find the North Star. Familiarity floods you. As long as it is in the sky, you'll make it out of here.

A particularly strong gust of wind wakes you up, as if it is reminding you that you weren’t safe, that you needed to leave this place.

You rush, hiding behind the nearest mast, safe from wandering eyes. You search for a boat you could escape with.

You grin widely when you catch a glimpse of it.

Without a second thought you run towards it. Your eyes dart across, looking at all the intricate knots that kept it in place. Your hands immediately reach towards them.

You don’t know how to lower it peacefully, opting for just letting it fall to the water. Then, you could jump in, climb up and row away before anyone can see you.

Your brain buzzed with the feeling of your imminent freedom. 

One of the knots gives away. The boat tilts. You grin.

One more knot. One more knot and you’ll be free.

One more knot and—

You scream when someone picks you up, throwing you over their shoulder. You feel the rough fabric of his shirt against your face as you’re hauled away, the scent of salt and leather mixed with something darker.

You were so close to freedom. So close.

First thing you notice is the red head scarf, tears pooling in your eyes at the realization of who had caught you.

“Let me go!” you start squirming immediately and he tightens his hold on you. You hit and punch his back, as digs his fingers in your flesh in annoyance.

“You think you’re real smart don’t ya?” he says, as you continue screaming and kicking your feet. 

You can barely hear the laughing of whatever crew is awake in the background as he brings you to a room you can't recognise.

“Why me?” you yell at him, your fists hitting his back, “What is it you want?” you yelp as he throws you. 

You expect the pain that follows being thrown to the floor like a sandbag, but it never comes. You open your eyes slightly, seeing that you have been thrown on a bed, and instead of a cell you see a polished room.

“You really have no clue-” he laughs. 

You watch him rush to the middle of the room where a desk is laid, as he throws the things on it around in search of something.

Your eyes immediately dart around, in search for the door, vision blurry with tears. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him stomping towards you, dread filling you at the sight of a knife in his hand. “What are you-” You immediately scoot backwards, trying to put as much distance as possible between you.

“Wh- What is happening?” you ask as you see him pulling up his sleeve. 

You start yelling and writhing when he reaches for your arm. But you weren’t quick enough to pull away, his rough and calloused hands grabbing your wrist.

You bite your lip, refusing to let the tears of pain fall, but your whole body trembles with the force of it. Every inch of your skin burns where the blade touches, and the noise of the knife cutting through flesh feels like a jagged echo in your head.

He is precise as he cuts through your warm flesh, throwing the knife away once he’s done.

“Look.” he says, noticing your head tilted away from the injury he inflicted on you, “Look!” he screams this time, shaking you.

You tentatively turn your gaze on it, your whole body trembling. Your pained expression is quickly replaced by a shocked one.

The cut on your arm had slowly started to close, the blood ceasing to flow. The skin knitting itself closed before your eyes.

You raise your gaze to look at the man before you, but he isn’t looking at you.

The pained expression on his face is directed at his own arm. Teeth visibly gritting, jaw clenched.

You slowly look at his hand this time, restlessness cursing through you at the sight.

At the same place where he had cut your arm, blood flowed on his. Skin ripping apart, flesh slashed open. 

The surrounding area turned that rotten shade of black, a putrid scent filling your nostrils.

Where your own wound closed up, a whole new appeared on him, the knife nowhere in sight.

“This is what you have to do with this!” he says, throwing your hand away, groaning, like it pained him to even stand, “It’s between your life and mine, sweetheart,” he glares at you and you feel shivers rising up your spine at his words, eyes never leaving his. “And I choose mine.”

You spend the better part of the night sitting by the bed, staring at your feet, wondering how long it would take for someone to find you if you just jumped off deck. Maybe you should wait for another ship to appear before you do so. At least then you’ll have a vague idea of how much time it'll take for you to swim close enough to be seen and rescued.

But what if that’s days from now? What if a worse fate awaits you there. The situation at hand isn’t a good one by any means, but at least no one has tried to take advantage of you.

Yet.

You close your eyes letting your head hit the wooden wall of the cabin.

“This is what you have to do with this!” he says, throwing your hand away.

You open them as quickly as you had closed them, the memory of his hand spontaneously bleeding crossing your mind every time you did so.

You let a breath leave your lungs looking around the cabin trying to occupy yourself with anything else.

There were books on the table in front of you. Lots of them. And you could see some photographs stuck on the gaps. You turn your head up, a chandelier with little shells hanging from it. You look down, your dress. You reach and pick up the hem. You run your fingers over the black and brown spots, spoiling the light blue fabric. Any other day, you'd be annoyed at the state of it. You’d drop whatever you were doing and immediately go change. But today? Today you just stared at it unbothered. 

No use crying over spilt milk. 

You let the hem back on the floor, redirecting your gaze at the porthole, looking through it. Not that there was much to see. The North star was still shining bright and unchanged.

You don't know how many hours have passed since you got locked in the cabin, but by the darkness outside it mustn't have been nearly as long as it felt. The thought of it is comforting in a way. There's still a chance this is all a bad dream and that you’ll wake up soon. 

You startle awake from your position on the floor at the loud bang that echoes through the cabin as the door slams open.

You snap your eyes at the sound, watching as the man you had learned was the captain walks in. 

He looks… different under the morning sun. Younger. Softer almost.

Whatever you noticed as he walked in, immediately disappeared as he laid eyes on you, his features hardening, posture straightened in a way you’re all too familiar with.

His boots echoed, despite the room being filled with all kinds of things from top to bottom. 

He crosses the room standing right in front of you as he extends his hand. Only then you notice the plate he was holding.

“Eat.” he says, averting his gaze from you. Your eyes dart between him and the plate before you scoff.

“You’re mad if you think I’m touching that.” you turn your head away from his offering. 

You feel him tense up, annoyance radiating off of him, “Too rough for that silver-plated tongue of yours?” he spits out. Heat crawled up your neck.

“No, I simply have no desire to blacken it with poison.”

“If I wanted to kill ya, I would have done so already, lass.” 

You roll your eyes, turning to look at him, eyes hard trained on him, “Why have you not done so?” 

He opens his mouth but the answer dies on his tongue. His jaw clenches as he turns around. “That is of no concern to you.” he says as he throws the plate on the table and storms out of the room, the familiar jingle of keys following the shut door. 

You fall back as the sound of silence envelopes you.

You feel the corner of your lip twitch upwards as you try to suppress a smile. 

Seems like you’ve won this time. Pity you're still locked in there.

The satisfaction doesn't last for long as you remember the fact. You're still being held captive in the middle of the sea after all. Any positive emotion dims in comparison to the situation in hand. 

The fact that the captain seems to have some paranormal score to settle with you doesn't help either. What's that about anyway? 

It can't be true, that much you know. You've never seen this man before and you've never been out of town. He’s just a heathen after the gold your father will be paying to get you back.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

As for what you saw, or think you saw, it was simply your mind playing tricks on you. You have been abducted after all, and you have been scared and anxious. Yeah. It was a trick of your mind. Or the light. Or anything really. What matters is that it wasn’t real.

Regardless of tricks and magic you're still stuck on this stupid ship, sitting on the stupid bed.

That won't do. You jump off the bed, immediately losing your footing as you struggle to stand up. You haven’t been on board a ship ever. And you’ll never set afoot off land if you’ll have anything to do with it.

You hold onto the desk as you look around for anything that could possibly help you. It was a mess. Not surprising, though it made your search significantly harder. A feather was left next to a small glass bottle of ink, small black blots decorating the map it laid upon.

You take a closer look at the map. It looked a lot like maps you've seen hanging in your fathers office. Only this one was a mess. The noon observation of what you assume was yesterday's measurement is wrong. You scoff, aren't pirates supposed to be good at navigating living in a ship and all?

You look further down, a small inscription is written in the corner. It is in what seems to be Arabic. You exhale annoyed at this, your head cocking at the side. You had always thought learning the language would prove handy. Your governess disagreed. 

You move past this quickly. You raise your head, eyes skipping over the plate that was filled with what looked like porridge, instead they land on gold.

Books.

Relief floods through you as you scramble to get closer. If anything could help you out of this, it would be those.

The books were typical. Collections of maps. Astronomy. Atlas Maritimus. History. Spencer. Shakespear. Navigation.

Shakespear? Interesting. You lean closer, straining your eyes. Much Ado About Nothing.

An amused breath escapes you picking up the copy, flipping through it. Your eye catches something as you do so. Ink seems to decorate some of the pages. You stop at the next one you notice. 

A laugh escapes you as you read the line he had underlined. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?” 

You blink. Surely not. You quickly turn the page.

“I love you with so much of my heart, none is left to protest.” you read, “Well, I’ll be damned!” you exclaim, a smile threatening to break out on your face.

You stare at it. The man who surely had killed people before annotated Shakespeare. 

You close the book, your cheeks tingling upwards at this newfound information.

You look back at the porridge he had left you, the thought of eating momentarily crossing your mind before you look away again. You won't be falling for such cheap tricks.

Your stomach, however, would. A whine escapes your lips as you look at the plate from the corner of your eye, stomach growling. 

…It’s just porridge. How could he possibly have tampered with porridge?

You shake your head not willing to spend time or energy thinking of all the different ways one could. Instead you decide that possibly poisoned food is better than no food at all and sit down, reaching for the plate. Besides, he seems to think that he needs you. He wouldn’t poison you. You think.

Despite that you take a spoonful into your mouth and immediately regret it, your stomach tightening. Why does it taste like fish?

You can feel your stomach churning for all the wrong reasons this time. You go to stand up, find something to spit it out before your body decides the same. But you don't manage to.

The door slams open and you accidentally swallow the atrocity insulting your taste buds, hand flying to your mouth in disgust.

The captain stills at the door at the sight of you sitting behind his desk, his eyes traveling from you to the plate.

“You’re eating.” he notes, his eyebrows shifting before he catches his expression.

You lower your head before he catches the horror written all over your face, “I am.” you say, the words catching at your throat, the taste not subsiding one bit. His gaze lingers for a moment before his usual demeanor shifts back into place.

You look at him through your eyelashes as he closes the door behind him, “Here I thought I was trying to poison you” he says with a smirk dangling from his lips.

You clear your throat. “You said it yourself.” you move the porridge around, trying to control your face. “If that were your intent, you would have done it by now” he hums in acknowledgement leaning on the wall. “Or you’re just doing a remarkably poor job at it.” 

His eyes crinkle lightly as his cheekbones rise. A small smile appears slowly and this time he doesn’t hide it. 

Wonderful. You felt like the porridge is going to take you out and he found something amusing. He either deliberately messed with the food or the salt from years at sea had finally gotten into his brain and thought this was a proper meal. You don’t know which is worse.

The captain draws closer to you, looking at the map you dug out the mess he had left, “Ya wanna tell me why yer at my desk lassie?” he asks, any sort of amusement he might have felt long gone. You look up at him from your seat, an eyebrow raising up.

“Your map is mistaken.” you say refusing to let yourself be intimidated. Especially now that you know how he spends his free time.

“It ain’t”

“It is.”

“And ya know that, how?” he scoffs, a hand placed on the desk, as he leans over you. You can see it in his eyes clear as day that he doesn't trust you. Why would he afterall? You may as well be trying to derail his course and whatever plan he had.

But you were not. The map was wrong.

“Because your navigator seems to think that we are twenty-eight degrees north.”

“And?”

“And we are not.” you sit up straighter, pushing the plate as far away from you as possible.

“And how can ya tell?”

“Polaris.”

“What about it?” He stands straight again, crossing his arms, looking down at you.

“It’s too south.” you bite back. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of backing down, however foolish that was. If you'd let him live in obliviousness, you might have escaped easier. But it's too late now.

You hear him smack his teeth. looking at the ceiling, “Get up.” he says, grabbing the map.

It was your turn to scoff and cross your arms over your chest, "You're mad if you think- Let go of me!” you exclaim when he grabs your wrist, yanking it away. But he's quicker grabbing at your arm.

Your breath catches as he brings you close enough to his face for you to see the glint of madness in his eyes.

“Listen lass, I ain't got time for games.” he spits out, “Ya either come with or I drag you, your choice.” he says. Your eyes widen as something flashes behind his eyes for the briefest moment before it disappears as it had never been there. You blink in disbelief.

You gulp down the fear that was stricken into you, “I’ll walk.” you say simply and he lets go of you. 

“Smart.” He turns around and heads towards the door with long strides. You follow behind him, holding your arm where he had grabbed you in pain. You looked up at his back as he towered over you even from a distance. What the hell was that?

The salt in the air is the first thing you notice the moment you set foot on deck. You inhale in relief, the stuffy room you had been locked into seemed claustrophobic after having been in fresh air. 

You raise your hand over your eyes, ignoring the stares you've been getting from his crew as you tailed after their captain.

“Flynt!” he calls out as he climbs up the stairs to the wheel.

“Aye Capt’n!” you strain your eyes against the sun looking at the man that had answered. He looked sickly to say the least. His hair was thinning, and he was littered from head to toes with open wounds. You have heard about this affliction before. You take a step back not recalling whether or not it's contagious.

“The lass says we're at the wrong place.” 

The man, Flynt, turns and looks at you standing behind the captain in contempt, “We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.” he spits out still not taking his eyes off of you. Shivers rise on your back at this. 

The captain looks down at you before you speak up, “We’re too far south.” you stand straighter.

“And how do ya know?”

“Polaris.” you answer him despite the toothless smirk he throws your way. You feel the porridge inkling to come out. At this point you’ve gathered an audience.

“And ya think you know better?” he cackles, the rest of the crew following him. You cringe at the cacophony, stepping forwards, standing right next to the captain that hadn't said a word still, holding out your hand.

“May I borrow your quadrant?” you ask. You might have been held hostage on a pirate ship and dirtier than the stable boys back at your estate had ever been, but you're still a woman of your standing and you won't let a bunch of no-good heathens change that. 

He scoffed, throwing the tool at you dismissively. You manage to catch it before it falls to the ground and breaks into pieces. You clear your throat as you bring it close to your eye and point it to the sky, carefully using it.

“Thirty-one degrees.” you say offering it to the man gently, but he grabs at it and looks at your measurement dismissively. 

He grumbles something you couldn't quite understand as he copies your movements. After a moment he brings it down and looks at the measurement, his shoulders slumping.

“Thirty-one…” he grumbles, throwing an annoyed glance at you, not daring to say another word. The rest of the crew follows his silence.

You look up at the captain who seemed more annoyed than mad, “Correct it.” he says shoving the map into the man's hands before storming off. 

You follow behind him trying to escape the unwanted stares.

“Back to your posts!” you jump as he yells and everyone scrambles off.

The silence that follows the both of you on the way back to the cabin was deafening. He opens the door for you to enter the room first and out of habit you do so, "That's not a very bright crew you’ve gathered.” you say against your better judgement.

“Shut your mouth and eat your fish porridge.” he says and slams the door shut the moment you are inside, locking you into the cabin once more.

You stare at the door eyes wide. So he did give you that porridge on purpose.

You stomp around the cabin annoyed. You thought that after helping him he might have let you out of this suffocating cabin. Instead he just locked you in once again. He might as well have let you rot at this point.

The rest of the day you had managed to entertain yourself. You snooped through his stuff, which is not very ladylike, but he's a pirate so does it really matter?. You read some of his books. You analysed maps. Then you started staring out the porthole, looking at the sky, looking at the sea, then looking at the sky again.

That was during the day. But now? The sun had set a while ago and the oil had run out, leaving you surrounded by darkness. 

You were starting to contemplate if death is a good solution to boredom. 

It could be. Then you’d be off this stupid ship and you would have pissed off the captain. Two birds with one stone.

Your thoughts are halted by the sound of the door opening. You still at the sound.

Finally he’s back. He might have taken pity on you and brought some oil with him.

You turn quickly towards the door expecting to see his tall frame, “Don’t you know its improp-” but instead you’re met with a far lankier figure. One you recognise from earlier that day, on the deck. Flynt.

“What happened lass?” he spits as he draws closer, “Cats got your tongue?” 

You take a step back as he moves, hands searching for anything that could be helpful, but you find nothing.

“Get away from me!” you exclaim looking towards him, straining your eyes to see. But the room is dark and the moon shine doesn’t do much to help you out. One thing is clear however. The knife he seems to be holding. “I’ll scream!”

He cackles at your words, the disgusting sound reverberating through your skull, “Don’t worry, you’ll be doing that pretty soon sweetheart.” you feel like throwing up.

Your back hits the wall soon after. Having left nowhere to go, you stare at him, hands trembling. 

“What?” he asks, now so close to you that you can feel the heat emitting from his body in waves, “You were pretty mouthy earlier, what happened?”

You take in a ragged breath when you feel the point of the knife pressing on your chest, “You’re scared?” he says, dragging it lower, as you try your best to not let the tears fall. 

“You should be.” you feel your skirts being dragged up, and soon enough the cold metal is pressed against your thigh.

You ball your hands up as you choke back a sob, feeling the warm blood trickle down your leg.

“Still not talking?” he taunts you as you turn your head away from him, “It’s alright.” he laughs and pulls the knife away from your leg, “I’ll make you talk.”

You close your eyes awaiting for the impact. But nothing comes.

Instead you hear heavy footsteps and something being dragged against the floor.

Your eyes shoot open watching as the captain dragged the navigator out of the room.

Suddenly you feel the air return into your lungs. You fall on your knees, a hand clasping at your chest as you struggle to control your breathing.

He wanted to kill you. He would have killed you.

You almost died. You almost died. You almost died. You almost die-

“I said she’s not to be touched!” the booming voice of the captain pulls you out of your stupor. You snap your head towards the door.

You raise your arm grabbing at the nearest point, forcing yourself up, bracing yourself for the pain to shoot up from your leg.

But nothing comes. With shaking hands you pull the skirts up, fingers tracing where he had maimed you. Smooth. Not even a scar. No…

Your eyes widen in realisation, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips.

You rush outside the room and onto the deck staring at the two men. The captain and Flynt seemed to be fighting.

And surely enough, the captain seemed to have a limp.

You feel your throat swell up. He was telling the truth. 

You yelp as you see the smaller man lunge towards the captain. His eyes immediately snap towards you as he hears the sound. 

Next thing you see, the navigator is pushing the knife he had threatened you with into the captain's abdomen. His maniacal laughter following the attack.

Jason turned his attention back at him, looking between the crewmate and the knife, eyes hardening. 

Without saying a word, he lifts his sword up and cuts the navigator's neck open.

You stared in shock as he stopped laughing, taking several steps back, a hand raising to hold his neck.

Flynt chokes as blood splutters from his mouth. He is looking at the captain, his captain, as the younger man swings his sword, slicing through his abdomen, whilst holding his own wound. 

They both fall on their knees, blood pooling around them. Only one of them is groaning and the other one falls to the front and soon enough stops moving.

You watch in horror, nauseated by the scene you lean over emptying your stomach's contents on the deck.

You cough at the acidic taste as you raise your head, eyes immediately landing on the captain, who is breathing heavily looking at the night sky.

And then it hit you. He saved you. He saved you. And now he looks like he’s on death's door.

“Why would you do this!” you scramble over him, fully disregarding the newly dead body laying between you two.

“Dont ‘ya remember lass? I need you.” he says as your eyes searched frantically over him, trying to assess the damage done. 

“And that's more important than your life?” you ask as he lifts his torso, trying to get up, “Don’t move!” you say but he pays you no mind. You huff as you push your hair out of your face, and bring your arms around him, trying to lift him. Soon enough you realise that you’ve overestimated your strength. He doesn’t seem to mind however, using you as a crutch as the two of you walk into a nearby room.

“Have you no fear of death?” you ask, sweat trickling down your temple as you help him sit on a chair.

“I woulda if I could die.” he laughs, followed by a pained cough. 

You inhale in annoyance as you throw cabinets open looking for a bowl and water. “Would you stop speaking in riddles?” you ball your hands up, eyes lighting up when you find what you’ve been looking for.

“Am not.” he groans and you tread towards him, falling on your knees, “Let's be honest, no human could survive that.” Your head snaps up at him, eyebrows furrowing.

Silence falls upon you at his words. He’s right of course. Not that you’d ever tell him that. He just got stabbed. He had an open hole in his abdomen, one that was slowly closing before your eyes. He should be dead by any means.

Instead he is laughing and antagonizing you. 

You give him a strained nod as you empty the water into the bowl. You don't dare speak, your mind running a million thoughts per minute.

He was telling the truth. About his… condition. Strange as it was, you’ve seen it in action twice now. It’s the unmistakable truth.

You look down at your lap as you rip a piece of your dress off, immediately dipping it in water. 

“You were telling the truth.”

“Told ya.” you raised your head again. You see the captain looking down at you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You looked away, focusing instead on dapping the blood that stained his skin clean. 

“That shouldn’t be possible.”

 “Aye,” he hissed at the contact and your hand trembled at the sound. But you were quick to regain composure and continue as you were. 

“Thank you.” you mumble, not baring to hear the sound of his flesh getting stitched back together.

“For what?” he asks, looking at you still.

“For saving me.” you mumble ignoring his stare. You don’t want to know what human expression he might have right now, preferring to visualise him as the angry pirate that abducted you.

He laughs at your words, “I was saving myself lassie, don’t take it personally.” he moves around, throwing his head back. You hear him inhale as he does so. You look at the blackened tissue that paints his abdomen. You don’t want to imagine how painful this must be for him.

“Well, you still did,” you swallow, “I’ll repay you.”

“I don’t need no gold.”

“I know.” you raise your head, lips furrowed, “I’ll help you break this curse of yours.” you’re met with an expression that you could only describe as shock.

For a heartbeat, he simply stared. The smirk returned a second later, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, “You’ll regret that,”

You exhale, keeping your eyes on the blood stained cloth, “I know.”

After a very long wait, it's here! Unfortunately is was getting waaaay too long so i broke it in half

That was the first lesson.

The second was that someone always had to catch what was left.

Dick had built a life out of becoming that someone. He caught teammates before they hit concrete. Caught civilians before buildings collapsed. Caught the Titans when they spiralled, caught Bruce when he vanished too far inside the Bat, caught Jason’s anger when nobody else could hold it without bleeding, caught Tim’s exhaustion before it became a body bag, caught Damian’s sharp edges and pretended they did not cut.

He smiled. He joked. He opened his arms and made himself the net. It was easier that way.

People trusted nets. People did not ask if nets were tired.

You did, though.

That was one of the first things that unsettled him about you.

You always asked.

“Shoulder?” you said, appearing beside him before he had even fully made it through the medbay doors.

Dick looked down at the red line slicing through his suit, just under the joint. “Hello to you too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoulder?”

“It is deeply rude that you know that from ten feet away.”

“It’s my entire thing.”

“Your entire thing is being bossy and magical.”

“My entire thing is healing idiots who think flirting counts as a treatment plan.”

He gasped and pressed his uninjured hand to his chest. “You think I’m flirting?”

“I think you’re bleeding on my floor.”

“That’s not a no.”

You gave him a look.

Dick smiled.

It was easy with you.

That was the problem. Most things with you felt easy, even when they weren’t. Even in the aftermath of horror, with sirens in the distance and smoke still clinging to everyone’s suits, you had a way of lowering the temperature in a room. You came in with steady hands, soft eyes, and a voice like warm water over bruised skin.

You were the Titans’ miracle.

Not that you liked being called that. Gar had tried once, dramatically, from a medbay cot after you healed three cracked ribs and a bruised spleen.

“My angel,” he had declared, one hand thrown over his forehead. “My saviour. My divine little first-aid kit.”

You had thrown a roll of gauze at his head.

Vic had laughed for a full minute.

Kory had kissed your cheek in gratitude.

Raven had watched you with that quiet, knowing look of hers.

Dick had watched too. He watched more than he should have.

He watched the way your face tightened for half a second after you healed someone. The way you always turned slightly away before taking a breath. The way you flexed your fingers like you were shaking off static. The way you insisted on cleaning up alone afterwards.

At first, he thought healing took energy. That made sense. Every power had a cost. Every body had limits.

You told them yours was fatigue.

Dick believed you.

Not because he was careless.

Because he wanted to. Because after years of watching good people stay hurt, there was something dangerously addictive about watching wounds vanish under your hands.

When Raven came back from a mission with psychic backlash clawing through her mind, and you pressed your fingers to her temples until her breathing evened out, Dick did not ask why you spent the next hour sitting alone in the dark.

When Gar twisted his knee badly enough that the sound made everyone in the room wince, and you healed him before the panic really hit, Dick did not ask why you limped afterwards.

When Kory took a blast meant for a child, and her skin split gold-bright across her ribs, Dick did not ask why your own hand shook as you helped her sit up.

He noticed. But noticing was not knowing.

That was what he told himself later. Over and over. Like repetition could turn guilt into absolution.

He noticed. He just didn’t know.

Not yet.

The night everything changed began with rain.

Blüdhaven rain was different from Gotham rain. Gotham rain fell like a verdict. Cold, black, heavy with memory. Blüdhaven rain came down silver beneath neon signs, slicking the streets until every alley looked like it had been painted in oil. It turned rooftops treacherous, fire escapes slippery, windows into mirrors.

Dick loved it anyway.

It was his city. Bruised, stubborn, trying. A little ugly in the right light. A little beautiful in the wrong one.

The Titans had come because the call was too big for one vigilante and too strange for local police. A new metahuman trafficking ring had gotten its hands on alien tech and old magic, which was never a combination that suggested anyone involved had made good life choices.

By midnight, the docks were burning. By twelve-thirty, three warehouses had partially collapsed. By one, the sky above Blüdhaven was full of drones shaped like metal wasps, each one armed with sonic emitters strong enough to rupture glass and destabilise inner ears.

“Tell me again why crime can’t be normal,” Gar shouted over comms.

Dick flipped over a drone, brought both escrima sticks down, and sent it sparking into the rain-slick rooftop. “You want normal crime?”

“I want crime that doesn’t make my teeth vibrate.”

“You have teeth right now?” Vic asked.

“I have emotional teeth.”

“That tracks,” you said over comms.

Dick smiled despite himself. Your voice always did that to him. Cut through the noise. Found him.

“You’re supposed to be behind the barricade,” he said, ducking under a burst of sonic fire.

“I am behind the barricade.”

“You’re too calm.”

“I’m very calm behind the barricade.”

Raven’s voice came in, flat as ever. “They are not behind the barricade.”

Dick exhaled sharply. “Of course they’re not.”

“I’m near the barricade,” you corrected.

Kory flew overhead, a streak of orange through the storm. “Friend healer, there are many injured civilians near the west warehouse.”

“I see them.”

Dick’s attention snapped toward the west side of the docks.

Through the rain, he saw you moving below.

Not at the barricade. Not near the barricade. Running straight toward the worst of the damage, because apparently, self-preservation was not included in the miracle package.

“Absolutely not,” Dick said.

“You sound like Bruce.”

“That was cruel and unnecessary.”

“You’ll live.”

“Not if you keep sprinting into active combat zones.”

“Then stop watching me and stop the drones.”

A drone screamed toward you.

Dick moved before thought could catch up. He launched himself from the rooftop, grapple line firing, body arcing low through rain and smoke. The drone’s emitter pulsed once. Pain stabbed through his ears. His vision blurred.

He released the line. Dropped. Twisted.

His boot connected with the drone hard enough to crack the metal shell. It spun away and exploded against the side of a warehouse in a shower of blue sparks.

Dick landed in front of you, one knee down, rain streaming off his hair.

You stared at him.

He looked up with his best smile. “Hi.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly dramatic.”

“I’m a performer.”

“That was incredibly stupid.”

“I’m also Batman-adjacent.”

“Unfortunately accurate.”

Behind you, a civilian groaned.

Your expression shifted instantly.

There was the healer.

The softness vanished into focus. You moved past Dick and dropped beside a woman pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Her leg was crushed at an angle that made Dick’s stomach turn. Her breathing came in panicked sobs.

“Hey,” you said gently, all teasing gone. “Look at me. Not the leg. Me.”

The woman grabbed your wrist with shaking fingers. “I can’t—I can’t feel—”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

Dick watched you place both hands over the injury.

He watched your shoulders rise as you inhaled.

Then the woman gasped.

The beam shifted. Dick lifted it enough for Vic to pull her free.

Her leg was whole. Bruised, but whole.

She started crying.

You smiled at her.

Then, very subtly, your left knee buckled.

Dick caught it.

Not much. Just one hand at your elbow, enough to steady you.

You went stiff beneath his touch.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled too quickly. “Fine.”

There it was. That word.

Dick hated it when Bruce used it. Hated it when Jason spat it through bloodied teeth. Hated it when Tim said it without looking up from a laptop.

He hated it most from you.

Because you made it sound kind.

Another drone shrieked overhead before he could say anything.

The docks trembled.

Raven’s voice cut through comms. “Nightwing, the central warehouse is rigged. There are people inside.”

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Dick looked up. The central warehouse stood at the edge of the pier, half its roof torn open, old brick walls glowing with intermittent blasts of alien-blue light. Through the broken windows, he saw movement.

Civilians. Hostages.

The structure groaned. Then the upper floor exploded outward.

Kory shouted. Dick ran.

You called his name.

He ignored you.

He heard you following anyway.

Of course he did.

Inside, the warehouse was chaos.

Smoke. Screaming. Sprinklers raining dirty water from cracked pipes. Drones buzzing between support beams like insects. Civilians huddled behind shipping containers while armed traffickers tried to retreat through a back exit.

Nightwing moved through them like a blade wrapped in blue light.

Strike. Dodge. Flip. Disarm. Smile, because fear spread faster when people saw the hero afraid.

“Exit to the south!” he shouted. “Go! Go now!”

Kory blew a hole through a side wall for evacuation. Vic ripped open jammed doors. Raven shielded a group of children from falling debris. Gar, currently a gorilla, blocked a collapsing beam with both massive hands and yelled, “I would like everyone to appreciate my core strength!”

You were everywhere you should not be. Healing a burned firefighter. Pressing a hand to a child’s forehead. Closing the wound across a police officer’s side. Calm, quick, relentless.

Too relentless.

Dick saw your face pale. He saw the way you pressed one hand briefly to your ribs after healing the officer.

Something in him tightened.

Then the floor screamed.

Not cracked.

Screamed.

The alien tech at the centre of the warehouse pulsed, drawing power from the old magical sigils carved beneath the concrete. The combination sent a shockwave through the building.

Every support beam lit blue.

Raven’s shield shattered. Kory slammed into a wall. Gar lost his grip.

The ceiling began to come down.

Dick saw it happen in pieces.

A family trapped near the upper catwalk. A little boy separated from his mother. The metal walkway beneath them twisting loose.

No time for the grapple. No time for a plan.

Just the fall.

Dick launched himself upward, using a stack of containers as steps. His boots hit metal. His body moved on instinct, rainwater and smoke and adrenaline turning the world sharp.

He grabbed the boy first and tossed him toward Kory, trusting her to catch him.

She did. Of course she did.

The mother screamed as the catwalk tilted.

Dick caught her wrist.

For half a second, they hung there over open air.

“Don’t look down,” he told her.

She looked down.

They always looked down.

A support cable snapped. The catwalk dropped. Dick twisted, threw the woman upward with everything he had, and felt Vic’s metal hand close around her coat.

Then the world gave way beneath him.

Falling was supposed to be familiar.

This was not.

The sonic emitters went off all at once.

His inner ear shattered into static. The building spun wrong. His grapple fired but missed the broken beam by inches. His fingers closed on nothing. His shoulder clipped metal hard enough to tear a shout from his throat.

Then he hit a lower catwalk.

Pain cracked across his back.

He bounced. Fell again.

He tried to turn. Tried to tuck.

Couldn’t.

There were too many angles. Too much debris. Too much noise.

The ground rushed up.

For the first time in years, Dick Grayson did not know how to fall.

He hit concrete.

And everything stopped.

At first, there was no pain.

That was how Dick knew it was bad. Pain was information. Pain told you what was damaged and how much time you had before the body started making executive decisions without you.

No pain meant the body had gone quiet. No pain meant the damage had passed language.

He stared up at the broken ceiling. Rain fell through the hole in the roof, silver and soft against his face.

Someone was screaming his name. Maybe several someones.

Dick tried to move.

Nothing happened.

Not his legs. Not his right hand. His chest moved, barely. Breath scraping in shallow and wrong.

Ah. That was bad.

A shadow fell over him.

You.

Your face appeared above his, wet with rain, streaked with soot, eyes wide with a terror that did not belong on you.

“Dick,” you said.

He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if it worked.

“Hey,” he breathed.

It came out broken.

Your hands hovered over him, trembling.

That scared him more than the fall. You never trembled.

“Don’t move,” you said.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Your face twisted.

Bad joke. Wrong moment. Classic Grayson.

He tried to lift his hand to touch your face.

Nothing.

Your eyes flicked down.

You saw.

He saw you see.

“Talk to me,” you said.

“Can’t feel…”

He stopped.

Your lips parted.

He did not want to finish the sentence.

He had spent his life moving. Flying. Running rooftops. Dancing along edges so narrow most people could not stand on them without shaking. His body was not just a tool. It was memory. Family. Language. A living echo of the Flying Graysons.

He could not feel half of it.

“Dick,” you whispered.

The building groaned around you. Distantly, Kory shouted for you both. Vic cursed. Raven’s power surged dark and bright somewhere behind the smoke.

You cupped Dick’s face. Your hands were warm despite the rain.

“I’m here,” you said.

He believed you. That was the danger.

“Don’t,” he managed.

Your expression shifted.

He was not Bruce. He had not figured it out fully. Not yet. But something old and instinctive in him understood the shape of sacrifice when it leaned too close.

You had looked pale after healing people. You had limped after fixing Gar’s knee. You had hidden your hand after Damian broke his wrist on a mission with the Supersons. You had smiled through it all.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

You shook your head. “You’re dying.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t.”

Your eyes filled. “Dick—”

“Please.”

That word hurt more than the fall. Please was not a word Nightwing used often in the field. Please belonged to civilians, to scared children, to moments too human for masks.

Your face broke. Only for a second.

Then you leaned down and pressed your forehead to his.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His heart lurched.

“No,” he said, or tried to.

Your hands slid beneath his shoulders.

And then the pain came.

Not his.

Yours.

He knew because it came with your scream. It tore through the warehouse, raw and animal and absolute.

Dick’s body snapped back into itself. Sensation flooded his legs. His fingers. His lungs. Pain, yes, but normal pain. Bruises. Strains. Things he knew how to name.

His spine straightened. His ribs expanded. His right hand clenched.

He gasped and rolled onto his side, coughing through smoke.

For one impossible second, relief hit him.

Then he saw you.

You were on the concrete beside him, twisted at the same angle he had been. Your back arched unnaturally. Blood spread beneath you. One of your legs lay still, too still. Your hand curled against the ground, fingers shaking like they were trying to remember how to move.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Dick’s world narrowed.

“No,” he said.

It did not sound like him.

He crawled to you, hands skidding in water and blood.

“No, no, no.”

Your eyes found his.

You looked relieved. Relieved. Like seeing him move was worth what had happened to you.

Something terrible opened inside him.

“Why would you do that?” he choked.

Your lips moved.

He leaned closer.

“Caught you,” you whispered.

Dick broke.

Not loudly. Not at first. The sound that left him was small. Fractured. A child’s sound buried under a man’s voice.

He gathered you into his arms with shaking hands, trying not to jostle your spine, trying not to touch anywhere wrong, trying not to look at the blood, the angle of your body, the proof.

The proof.

He had fallen. You had become the fall.

“Kory!” he screamed.

The name tore through his throat.

Orange light flashed.

Kory landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete. Her eyes went wide when she saw you.

“Oh, beloved healer,” she breathed.

Dick looked up at her, wild. “We need medevac.”

Vic’s voice came through comms, tight with horror. “Already calling it.”

Raven appeared from the smoke, her hood torn, shadows curling violently around her.

She looked at you. Then at Dick.

Her expression went white.

Not pale.

White. Like she had felt something nobody else could.

“She took it,” Raven whispered.

Dick stared at her. “What?”

Raven’s voice shook. “The injury. She took it from you.”

The warehouse seemed to tilt.

No. No, he knew that. He had seen it. He had felt his body become whole as yours broke.

But hearing it made it real in a way his mind had been refusing to allow.

Gar, shifted back into human form, stumbled toward them. “What do you mean took it?”

Raven swallowed. “Their power doesn’t erase wounds.”

Dick looked down at you.

Your eyes were half-closed now.

No.

No.

No.

“It transfers them,” Raven said.

No one spoke. Even the burning warehouse seemed to go quiet.

Dick pressed his fingers to your throat.

Pulse there.

Fast. Weak. Too weak.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

He smiled because he did not know how to do anything else with terror.

“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”

Your lips twitched faintly.

“Net,” you breathed.

“What?”

“You’re… always the net.”

Dick’s vision blurred.

“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “Yeah, baby. I’m the net. So you don’t get to fall through. You hear me?”

Your eyes closed.

Dick’s smile vanished. “No. No, no. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”

Kory knelt beside him and placed one glowing hand carefully against your shoulder, not healing, not touching the wound, just there.

“Dick,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “They’re not dying.”

“No,” Kory agreed, though her voice trembled. “They are not.”

Dick looked down at you in his arms.

He had caught you.

Too late.

But he had caught you.

And he would not let go.

Titan Tower’s medbay had seen bad nights.

This was worse.

The room was full of people trying not to fall apart loudly.

Kory stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glow dimmed to a low, anxious pulse beneath her skin. Gar sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Vic kept running diagnostics, jaw clenched, his human eye red. Raven stood in the corner with her hood up, shadows tucked close around her like grief with teeth.

Dick sat beside your bed and held your hand.

He had been told to leave twice.

He had not.

The first time, a nurse tried gentle concern.

The second time, Donna tried command voice.

Neither worked.

Finally, Raven had looked at everyone and said, “Let him stay.”

So he stayed.

You lay still beneath white sheets and too many wires, your body strapped carefully to prevent movement. Spinal stabilizers ran along your back. An oxygen line curved beneath your nose. Your face looked wrong without expression. Too empty. Too quiet.

Dick kept staring at your mouth. Waiting for it to quirk. Waiting for you to make a joke about his bedside manner. Waiting for you to open your eyes and call him dramatic.

His suit was still on. Torn, wet, stained with your blood and his own, though technically the blood was all yours now in the ways that mattered. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders.

Probably Kory. Maybe Donna.

He did not remember.

He remembered your scream. He remembered your body twisting. He remembered Raven saying, It transfers them.

His hand tightened around yours. Your fingers did not move.

“Dick.”

Donna’s voice came from the doorway.

He did not look up.

“How long?” he asked.

She was quiet for a second. “The doctors don’t know.”

He nodded once.

Meaningless.

His gaze stayed on your face.

Donna came closer. “They said the injury may not behave like a normal spinal trauma. Their body processes transferred wounds differently.”

“May,” Dick repeated.

“Yes.”

“May not.”

“Yes.”

He laughed once. It was ugly.

Donna’s hand settled on his shoulder.

That almost undid him.

Dick bowed his head over your hand.

“I should have known,” he said.

Donna did not answer.

He hated her for that. Loved her for it too.

“I noticed things,” he continued, voice low. “After they healed people. I noticed.”

“Dick.”

“I noticed and I let it go.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.”

Donna squeezed his shoulder. “That is Bruce talking.”

His head snapped up.

She looked at him steadily.

“You are allowed to be hurt without making guilt useful,” she said.

Dick stared at her.

Then he looked back at you.

“Useful is all I’ve got right now.”

Donna’s expression softened.

Behind them, Gar made a broken sound.

“I let them heal me last week,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

He stared at the floor. “My knee. It was nothing. Like, yeah, it hurt, but it wasn’t—” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t worth that.”

Raven closed her eyes. Kory turned away sharply.

Vic’s metal hand curled into a fist. “They healed my neural interface after Psimon fried half my systems.”

“They helped me after Trigon,” Raven said quietly.

Silence fell.

Not empty.

Crowded.

Every person in the room was remembering.

Every hand you had held. Every wound you had closed. Every time you had smiled afterward and said you were tired.

Only tired.

Dick felt sick.

Not because you had lied.

Because all of them had been relieved enough to believe you.

The door opened again.

Clark Kent stepped in, rain-dark hair mussed, glasses absent, Superman suit visible beneath a jacket he had clearly thrown on in a hurry.

He looked around the room once. Then at you.

His face changed.

“Oh,” he said softly.

That was all.

Just oh.

Dick wanted to stand. Wanted to say something. Wanted to be Nightwing, team leader, eldest brother, person who knew how to make everyone breathe again.

He couldn’t.

Clark came to the other side of your bed.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.

Dick nodded.

Clark’s eyes lowered to your still hand in Dick’s grip.

“They healed me yesterday,” Clark said.

Dick’s breath caught.

“Kryptonite burn,” Clark continued quietly. “They looked pale afterwards. Bruce noticed. He told them to rest.”

A horrible laugh escaped Dick. “Of course he did.”

Clark looked at him with infinite gentleness. “Bruce didn’t know either.”

Dick shut his eyes.

He could imagine Bruce finding out. The silence. The rage. The way he would turn terror into protocols and guilt into surveillance. The way he would blame himself first, hardest, longest.

Dick had learned from the best. Unfortunately.

“Can you hear anything?” Dick asked.

Clark’s face tightened.

Heartbeats. That was what Dick meant.

Clark nodded. “Their heart is steady for now.”

For now.

The phrase lodged under Dick’s ribs.

He looked down at you.

“Good,” he said, like the word had weight, like saying it could make it true. “That’s good.”

Clark stayed for a while.

So did everyone else.

One by one, though, they drifted out. Not far. Never far. Titans did not abandon their own. They lingered in hallways, in waiting rooms, in corners with vending machine coffee and red-rimmed eyes.

Eventually, only Dick remained.

He was good at vigils. He hated that too.

Hours passed in monitor beeps and the low hum of machines.

Your hand was warm in his.

That became his whole world.

Warm meant alive. Warm meant here. Warm meant not yet.

Near dawn, your fingers twitched.

Dick nearly came out of his chair.

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “Hey, I’m here.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

He forgot how to breathe.

Then your eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Cloudy with pain and medication.

Then they found him.

You smiled. Barely.

It devastated him.

“Hi, pretty bird,” you rasped.

Dick made a sound between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re not allowed to be charming right now,” he said.

Your brow furrowed faintly. “M’dying?”

“No.”

“Then I’m allowed.”

His mouth trembled.

You blinked slowly, gaze shifting around the room. “Tower?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone okay?”

There it was. First question.

Not, Am I okay? Not, What happened?

Everyone.

Dick had never loved and hated anything more.

He leaned closer.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes came back to him.

“They’re not okay. I’m not okay. You scared the hell out of us.”

Your expression shifted with slow understanding.

Then memory returned.

He watched it happen.

The warehouse. The fall. The choice.

Your eyes filled. “Dick—”

“No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “No, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t make it easier. Please don’t make it easier.”

You went quiet.

He pressed your hand to his forehead.

His shoulders shook once. Only once.

“I watched you become the fall,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“You were—” He stopped, unable to finish. “You were on the ground. Like me. Because of me.”

“Not because of you.”

“You took my injury.”

“Yes.”

The honesty punched the air out of him.

No deflection. No lie. No, I’m fine.

Just yes.

Dick lifted his head. His eyes burned.

“How long?”

Your gaze slid away.

His stomach dropped. “How long have you been doing that?”

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

Dick understood before you answered.

“All of it?” he asked.

Your mouth trembled.

“Most of it,” you whispered.

Dick stood so fast the chair slammed backward.

You flinched.

He froze immediately.

Regret flashed through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He pushed both hands through his hair and turned away, pacing once before spinning back to you. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay.”

Your face had gone pale.

He forced himself to lower his voice. “You took Gar’s knee.”

You closed your eyes.

“Raven’s psychic backlash.”

A tear slipped down your temple into your hair.

“Kory’s burn.”

“Dick…”

“Vic’s neural damage. Clark’s kryptonite poisoning. Jason’s bullet wounds. Tim’s concussions. Damian’s broken bones. Mine.”

Your silence confirmed every word.

Dick felt like the room had tilted beneath him.

“How are you alive?” he whispered.

Your eyes opened.

There was something old in them then. Older than your face. Older than your smile.

“I heal faster than most people.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“That sounds like something Bruce would say.”

A weak breath of laughter escaped you.

Dick did not smile.

The laugh died.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.

“No kidding.”

“Dick.”

His name in your voice hurt.

He came back to the chair slowly and sat down because standing made him want to run through walls.

You turned your head toward him.

The movement was tiny. It still cost you. He saw the pain ripple over your face.

“Don’t,” he said quickly.

You stilled.

He hated this. He hated all of it. The bed. The machines. Your body trapped under injury. His body whole because yours wasn’t.

“I need to know why,” he said.

“You know why.”

“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “No, I really don’t.”

Your eyes searched his face.

He let you see it. All of it. The fear. The anger. The betrayal. The love he had been carrying like a secret too fragile to name.

You looked away first.

“I didn’t want anyone to choose pain,” you said.

Dick stared at you.

“Everyone I work with is the same,” you continued. “The League. The Titans. The Outlaws. All of you. If I told you what healing costs me, you’d refuse unless you were unconscious or dying. Maybe even then.”

“Yes,” Dick said. “Because we’re not monsters.”

“You’re martyrs.”

He went still.

You looked back at him. Softly, exhaustedly furious.

“You are,” you said. “Every single one of you. You’d let yourselves bleed out if it meant I didn’t have to feel it. You’d call that noble. I call it stupid.”

Dick let out a stunned laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”

“I am extremely serious.”

“You are lying in a medbay because you took a broken spine from me.”

“And I’d do it again.”

The room went silent.

Dick’s face crumpled before he could stop it.

You saw. Of course you saw.

Regret passed over your features.

“Dick—”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, don’t say that.”

“I can’t lie to you anymore.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to almost die for me and then tell me you’d do it again.”

“I love you.”

Dick stopped. Everything stopped.

The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere outside, someone walked down the hall. Rain tapped lightly against the Tower windows.

But inside Dick, every moving part went still.

You looked terrified now.

Not of death.

Of him. Of what he would do with the truth.

Your eyes glistened.

“I love you,” you said again, voice breaking. “And I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make lying okay. I know it doesn’t make taking the choice away okay. But it’s the reason.”

Dick could not move. He had imagined hearing those words from you more times than he would ever admit. Usually in softer places. A kitchen at two in the morning. His apartment. A rooftop under a kinder sky. Your hand in his, your smile warm enough to make the world feel less like a thing that constantly needed saving.

Not here. Not with your spine braced. Not with your blood still dried under his fingernails.

“You can’t say that,” he whispered.

Your face went blank.

Dick realised what it sounded like and reached for you immediately.

“No. No, that’s not—” He sat on the edge of the chair, one hand hovering near yours. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked at his hand.

He waited.

This time, he waited.

After a moment, you moved your fingers weakly toward him.

Permission.

Dick took your hand like it was made of light.

“You can’t say you love me like that,” he said, voice shaking. “Like it means your life is automatically worth less than mine.”

Your eyes filled again. “I don’t think that.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, gentler now. “Because I know that trick. I invented that trick. I perfected that trick. I have a whole family of emotionally repressed vigilantes who could give a TED Talk on that trick.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles.

“I know what it looks like when someone calls self-destruction devotion,” he said.

Your smile faded.

He swallowed hard. “I know because I do it all the time.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “Yeah.”

He laughed once, and this time it was almost real. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“Still rude.”

Your fingers twitched against his palm.

He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your hand.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

He held onto you tighter.

“I love you,” he said again, because now that the words were out, he could not bear to let them stand alone. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. And I am so angry at you that I can barely breathe.”

You made a small sound.

He lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I only wanted you alive.”

His face twisted.

“I know,” he said.

That was the worst part. He knew.

There was no cruelty in what you had done. No malice. No carelessness.

Only love. Misdirected. Secretive. Devastating love. The kind that looked too much like his own.

Dick leaned forward and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

Your eyes closed.

He stayed there.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“We have to tell everyone.”

Your eyes opened. Fear flickered.

“They already know some of it,” he continued. “Raven felt it. She told us what happened.”

You looked toward the door.

Dick followed your gaze.

Through the small window, shadows moved in the hallway.

The Titans.

Waiting. Hurting. Loving you.

Your mouth trembled. “They’re going to hate me.”

Dick shook his head immediately. “No.”

“They should.”

“No.”

“I lied to them.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And they’re going to be upset. They’re going to be scared. Gar is probably going to cry on you, so prepare emotionally for dampness.”

Despite everything, your lips twitched.

“Vic is going to pretend he’s fine and then build you seventeen medical devices,” Dick continued. “Raven is going to stare into your soul until you confess every symptom you’ve ever hidden. Kory might actually lift a car.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She might. For emphasis.”

Your smile faded, but some of the terror went with it.

“And you?” you asked.

Dick breathed in.

“I’m going to stay mad for a while,” he admitted.

You nodded.

“But I’m also going to stay.”

Your face cracked open.

He leaned closer.

“I’m not leaving because this is hard,” he said. “I’m not leaving because you scared me. I’m not leaving because you made a bad choice trying to save me.”

Your eyes searched his.

“I need you to promise me something,” he said.

“Dick…”

“No secret healing. Not with us. Not anymore.”

Your jaw tightened. “Emergency circumstances—”

“We’ll define them.”

“You sound like Batman.”

“I know. I’m devastated too.”

A weak laugh.

His heart nearly buckled under the sound.

“I mean it,” he said. “You have to tell people what they’re agreeing to.”

You looked down. “I know.”

“And you have to let us take care of you afterwards.”

“That’s harder.”

“I know.”

“I’m bad at it.”

“Baby, you are catastrophically bad at it.”

You huffed.

He smiled faintly, then sobered. “But we’re going to practice.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your hand. “We.”

Your eyes glistened.

“Okay,” you whispered.

It was not enough.

But it was a beginning.

Dick could work with beginnings.

He was a circus kid. A vigilante. A Robin. A Nightwing. A man who had lost the ground and learned to trust the air anyway.

Beginnings were just another kind of leap.

The Titans entered one at a time. Gar cried first, obviously. He tried very hard not to, which made it worse. He stood beside your bed with his arms crossed, lower lip trembling, eyes too bright.

“I’m mad at you,” he said.

Your face softened. “I know.”

“I’m, like, really mad.”

“I know.”

“And sad. And mad. And also really glad you’re not dead, which is making the mad part complicated.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It is.” His voice cracked. “You took my knee.”

Your eyes lowered.

Gar wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was just my knee.”

“Gar…”

“No, it was. It hurt, yeah, but I would’ve been fine. It wasn’t worth you hurting.”

You looked at Dick. He said nothing.

This was yours to answer.

You swallowed.

“At the time,” you said carefully, “it felt worth it to me.”

Gar looked stricken.

“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” you added quickly. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

Gar sniffled. Then he leaned down very carefully and hugged the top of your head.

Dick almost told him to be careful.

He did not.

You closed your eyes.

Gar whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. I already decided.”

“Okay,” you whispered back.

“Cool.”

Then he backed away, crying harder.

Vic came next.

He did not cry. He brought a tablet.

“I’ve got three ideas,” he said, voice too controlled, “for a biofeedback system that can warn before a transfer exceeds safe neurological load.”

You stared at him.

“Hello to you too,” you said.

Vic’s mouth twitched.

Dick smiled despite himself.

“Also,” Vic added, “I’m mad.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m building the thing anyway.”

“Also noted.”

Vic’s expression cracked slightly. “You should’ve told us.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve let you help,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I would’ve wanted to know when helping me hurt you.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I know,” you whispered.

Vic nodded once.

Then he set the tablet on your bedside table like an offering.

Raven came after him.

She stood beside your bed, silent and pale, shadows moving slowly around her wrists.

You looked nervous.

Raven looked at you for a long time.

Then she said, “You took more than injuries.”

Your face went still.

Dick’s attention sharpened.

Raven’s eyes did not leave yours. “Emotional pain too. Psychic pain. Fear. Grief.”

You swallowed.

“Sometimes,” you said.

Dick felt like the floor had dropped again.

Of course. Of course there was more.

Raven’s expression tightened. “Mine?”

You closed your eyes. The silence answered.

Raven inhaled sharply.

Dick started to reach for her, but she lifted one hand.

You opened your eyes. “Only when it was too much. Only when I thought—”

“That I couldn’t survive it?” Raven asked.

You flinched.

Raven looked away.

For a moment, she was very young.

Then she stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against your hand.

“I understand why,” Raven said. Your tears spilled over. “But do not do it again without asking me.”

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Raven nodded.

Then, after a pause, she added, “You are loved for more than your usefulness.”

You broke then. Quietly. Completely.

Dick stood, but Raven was already there, leaning carefully over you, touching your forehead with hers.

Not a hug. Not exactly.

Something quieter. Something sacred.

Kory came last.

She tried to be gentle.

Kory’s gentleness had always been a force of nature trying to fit through a doorway.

Her eyes shone bright green as she took your hand.

“My beloved friend,” she said, voice trembling, “you have carried pain alone when you had an army.”

You gave a wet laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds very stupid.”

“It was,” Kory said.

Everyone blinked.

Kory’s chin lifted. “It was brave. It was loving. It was also stupid.”

Gar made a tiny sound. “She said the thing.”

Kory ignored him.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You will not do this alone again,” she said.

You nodded, crying too hard to speak.

Dick watched them surround you.

Not crowding. Not demanding.

Just there. A net, woven from people who loved you enough to be angry.

For the first time since the warehouse, something inside him loosened.

Not healed. Not yet.

But held.

Recovery was slow. Not as slow as normal spinal trauma, because your body was strange and stubborn and apparently determined to give medical science a migraine.

But not fast either.

Feeling returned in fragments. Left foot. Right toes. Thighs. Hips. Pain followed each return like lightning learning your name.

You hated it.

Dick loved every sign because it meant you were still there, still fighting, still coming back.

He also hated it because every gasp from you felt like punishment.

He spent most days at your bedside.

At first, he tried to make himself useful. He brought food. Adjusted pillows. Read medical updates. Ran interference when too many worried heroes wanted to visit. Smuggled in snacks Alfred absolutely did not approve of but definitely knew about because Alfred knew everything and permitted crimes selectively.

Then you caught him reorganising the medbay supply cabinet at three in the morning.

“Dick.”

He froze with a roll of bandages in each hand.

You stared at him from the bed, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”

“Inventory.”

“This is not your medbay.”

“Organisation helps.”

“You alphabetised antiseptic.”

“Antiseptic deserves respect.”

“You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I was asleep until you started stress-cleaning gauze.”

He looked down at the bandages. Then back at you.

“You were in pain.”

Your expression softened.

He hated how easily you saw through him.

“I’m often in pain right now,” you said gently.

His hands tightened.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Make my pain your failure.”

He laughed once, humourless. “Kind of hard not to, considering.”

“Dick.”

He looked away.

You sighed. “Come here.”

He put the bandages down and came to your bedside.

You patted the edge of the mattress.

He gave you a look. “Absolutely not.”

“Sit.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not risking your spine because you want cuddles.”

“I do want cuddles.”

His expression flickered.

You smiled faintly. “That one got you.”

“Cruel.”

“Effective.”

He compromised by dragging the chair close enough that his knees touched the bed. You reached for him, and he gave you his hand.

It had become familiar now. His hand in yours. Your pulse under his fingers. Your life, stubborn and warm.

“You’re doing the thing,” you said.

“What thing?”

“The smile.”

Dick blinked. “I’m not smiling.”

“The inside smile. The fake one. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too closely, I’m very handsome and emotionally functional.’”

He stared at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

“You heard the rest.”

“I prioritised.”

Your mouth twitched.

Dick’s smile came easier this time. Realer.

Then it faded.

“I don’t know how to stop seeing it,” he admitted.

Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.

“The fall?” you asked.

He nodded.

Your face gentled.

“When I close my eyes,” he said, voice low, “I see you on the floor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you so you apologise. I’m telling you because we said no more hiding.”

You absorbed that.

Then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”

His throat tightened.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“I still feel it sometimes,” you said.

Dick went still.

“The fall,” you clarified. “Not the full injury anymore. But echoes. Like my body remembers impact that wasn’t mine.”

Dick could not speak.

You continued, because apparently both of you had chosen emotional destruction as a bonding activity.

“I don’t regret saving you.” He closed his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand that not regretting it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

His eyes opened.

You looked at him, open and tired and honest. “I’m sorry for that part.”

Dick breathed in carefully.

Then out.

“I don’t regret being alive,” he said.

Your lips parted.

“I need you to know that. I don’t regret it. I don’t wish you hadn’t saved me if the alternative was dying in that warehouse.”

Your eyes filled.

“But I hate that you paid for it alone,” he continued. “I hate that I didn’t get to say yes. I hate that you thought love meant making yourself the place pain goes to disappear.”

You nodded, tears spilling silently.

“I’m learning,” you whispered.

He kissed your hand. “Me too.”

You studied him. “What are you learning?”

Dick huffed softly. “That apparently I have control issues.”

Your brows rose. 

“I know. Shocking. Alert the media.”

“Front-page news.”

“And,” he continued, “that being the net all the time is not actually the same as being loved.”

Your expression changed.

He swallowed. “I think I liked being needed because it felt safer than being wanted.”

You went very still.

Dick looked down at your hand.

“If people need you, you have a job. A role. Something to do. Something to offer. You can earn your place over and over.” His mouth twisted. “But being wanted? Just because you’re you? That’s terrifying.”

Your voice was soft. “Yeah.”

He looked up. Your eyes were wet.

“I know,” you said.

And there it was.

The mirror. Two people who had made themselves useful enough to avoid asking if they were loved.

Dick smiled sadly. “We’re a pair, huh?”

“A disastrous one.”

“Hot.”

You laughed. This time, it did not sound broken.

Dick felt the laugh settle into his chest like sunrise.

He leaned closer, giving you time to refuse.

You did not.

His lips touched yours softly. Carefully.

There was nothing dramatic about it. No collapsing warehouse. No blue fire. No scream. Just his hand in yours, your mouth warm beneath his, and the quiet, astonishing fact that you were both still alive.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

Your eyes opened slowly. “You’re asking after?”

“I panicked.”

“Adorable.”

“I can do better.”

“I know.”

He smiled.

You tugged weakly at his hand. “Again.”

This time, he laughed before kissing you.

The first time you stood again, everyone cried.

Gar denied it. He was lying.

Vic recorded the whole thing and claimed it was for medical documentation. Also lying.

Kory hovered with both hands out like she intended to catch you, the bed, Dick, and possibly the entire Tower if necessary. Raven stood nearby, pretending calm while her shadows formed nervous little curls at her feet.

Dick stood in front of you.

Not behind. Not beside.

In front, hands open.

A net. But not the only one.

“You’ve got this,” he said.

You glared at him. “If I fall, I’m haunting you.”

“Reasonable.”

“As a poltergeist.”

“Mean, but fair.”

“I’ll move all your cereal into different boxes.”

Gar gasped. “That’s evil.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dick’s grin trembled.

You saw. Your expression softened.

“Hey,” you said quietly. He focused on you. “I’m here.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”

You took one step. Your knees shook.

Dick did not grab you. It took everything in him. Every instinct screamed. Every memory of your body broken on concrete rose up sharp and hungry.

But he did not grab you. He let you choose the step. Let you own the balance. Let you move.

You took another.

Then another.

Then your strength failed.

Dick caught you.

So did Kory.

So did Vic.

Raven’s shadows braced your legs.

Gar cheered and cried openly this time.

You ended up laughing against Dick’s chest while everyone crowded in, careful and loud and ridiculous.

The pain had gone somewhere. The fear had too.

Not away. Never fully away.

But spread out. Held by more hands.

That was the secret none of you had known at first.

Pain did not become lighter because one person carried all of it.

It became survivable when everyone carried a piece.

Later, after the others left and you were back in bed, exhausted but smiling, Dick sat beside you and traced idle circles over your palm.

“You caught me,” you said.

He looked up.

“In the warehouse,” you continued. “After.”

His face sobered. “I was too late.”

“No.” You squeezed his hand. “You caught me.”

Dick swallowed hard.

“You caught me too,” he said.

Your smile faded into something tender. “I broke all your rules when I did.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m trying not to romanticise that.”

“Good.”

“But I did catch you.”

His mouth curved despite himself.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You did.”

You looked at him in the soft medbay light. “Now what?”

Dick leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand. “Now we learn how to do the next part without almost dying.”

“Sounds improbable.”

“We can try.”

“Are there snacks?”

“Definitely.”

“Then I’m in.”

He laughed.

There it was again. That bright thing. That impossible thing.

Joy, growing stubbornly in the aftermath.

Dick Grayson still knew how to fall. He always would. But now, when he looked at you, when he felt your fingers threaded through his, when he remembered the warehouse and the scream and the terrible miracle of being saved, he understood something he had spent his whole life avoiding.

Catching someone did not mean never falling. Being loved did not mean never hitting the ground.

Sometimes love was the hand reaching down afterwards. Sometimes it was the person who stayed through recovery. Sometimes it was telling the truth when the lie would be easier. Sometimes it was a whole team gathered around a bed, furious and crying and refusing to let one person become the only place pain could live.

And sometimes, impossibly, it was you.

Alive. Healing. Learning. Smiling at him like the world was still worth saving.

Dick lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“I love you,” he said.

Your eyes softened. “I love you too, pretty bird.”

His heart stumbled. “Still not over that nickname.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You smiled wider.

Outside the Tower windows, Blüdhaven glittered beneath the rain.

Messy. Bruised. Trying.

Still standing.

So were you. So was he.

Bruce noticed. Of course he did.

He raised an eyebrow, drying his hair with the towel. “What?”

You set the coffee down carefully. “You… have hair.”

He glanced down at himself, almost self-conscious for the first time in years. “It grows back when I stop shaving. The suit chafes otherwise.” He rubbed a hand over his chest, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It’s been a while since I let it. I can shave it if—”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t. It’s… nice.”

Bruce paused, then a slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips. “Nice?”

You crossed the kitchen, unable to stop yourself. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers threading through the soft hair there. It was thicker than you expected, warm from the shower, and felt ridiculously good under your palms.

“Really nice,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. You leaned in and pressed a kiss right over his sternum, then another, then another, working your way across his chest like you were discovering new territory.

Bruce’s breath hitched. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides through your robe. “You’re… very enthusiastic about this.”

“I’ve never seen you like this,” you admitted, kissing lower, right over his heart. “It’s… hot. You look like a real person. My husband. Not the polished billionaire or the statue in a suit.”

He let out a low, surprised laugh, but it turned into a soft groan when your lips brushed one of his nipples. His fingers tightened on your waist.

“Careful,” he warned, voice rougher now. “You keep doing that and I’m going to forget I’m supposed to be resting.”

You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe I don’t want you to rest.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. He cupped your face with one hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You’re going to be the death of me, Mrs. Wayne.”

“Good death,” you whispered, rising onto your toes to kiss him properly.

The kiss started sweet but quickly turned heated. Bruce pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other slipping under your robe to rest warm against your bare back. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it — deep, slow, full of all the love and want he usually kept so carefully controlled.

When you broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he said softly. “Even when you’re ogling me like I’m a science experiment.”

You laughed, pressing another kiss to his chest, right over the soft hair there. “I love you too. Especially when you’re all… natural like this.”

He groaned, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But I’m your ridiculous,” you corrected, kissing lower, lips brushing over his abs. “And I’m keeping you exactly like this for as long as you’re benched.”

Bruce’s hands tightened on your waist. “You’re going to kill me before I’m cleared for duty.”

You looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “Worth it.”

He pulled you back up for another deep kiss, hands roaming your body with that perfect mix of reverence and hunger. The robe slipped off one shoulder. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

You shivered, pressing closer, feeling the warmth of his chest hair against your skin. It was softer than you expected, and the way it brushed your nipples when you moved made you gasp softly.

Bruce noticed. Of course he did.

He smiled against your lips. “You really like this, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, kissing him again to hide your blush.

He chuckled, low and warm, and lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. His mouth moved to your neck, then lower, kissing and nipping gently across your collarbone. One hand slipped inside your robe, palming your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arched into him with a soft moan.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “My beautiful wife.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped you with slow, deliberate kisses. The world outside the penthouse didn’t exist. There were no missions, no galas, no Batsuit waiting in the cave.

Just Bruce. Just you.

Just the two of you, tangled together in the morning light, rediscovering each other in the quiet weeks of his recovery.

When he finally pulled back, lips swollen and eyes dark with want, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he said again, voice rough but sincere. “More than the suit. More than the money. More than anything.”

You smiled, cupping his face. “I love you too. Hairy chest and all.”

He laughed — bright, genuine, the kind of laugh that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

“Brat,” he murmured fondly, kissing you once more.

The coffee went cold on the counter. The city kept moving far below.

But in the warm glow of your kitchen, Bruce Wayne held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And for once, the detective didn’t need to solve anything, and he already had everything he needed.

a/n : this is unbearably self indulgent because I like body hair. Just wait till I start writing about biceps 😊

Riding the subway late at night always made you anxious, regardless of how often you did it. You hated the unsettling feeling that crept up on you when standing alone on an empty subway platform like you were tonight. What you hated even more was the minor panic that shot through your body when you felt the eyes of a rather erratic looking man land on you as he trudged down the steps to the platform.

You tried not to look at him, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. He wasn’t just watching you; he was observing you. Observing the way you kept a straight face and stared across the tracks at the other platform, only breaking your trance to periodically gaze up at the arrival time signs. “Do you have a lighter?” He rasped out, stepping closer to you.

“No,” you answer, trying your best to keep your voice steady to avoid letting the fear rising in your chest spill out.

He lets out a huff, continuing to move closer. “You’re not even going to check?”

You take a step back as he approaches. “I’m not a smoker, sir.”

“Oh, c'mon, there has to be something in that bag that I can use,” he mutters, reaching for the straps of your purse. The man tries to tug the straps off your shoulder, smirking when he feels the resistance of you pulling the bag back towards you.

“Just let go, kid.” It was a warning that was accompanied by the click and shine of a blade as his pocket knife opened and locked into place.

The smart thing to do would be to let go, to release the straps, and avoid getting hurt, but you couldn’t. Not with your wallet, keys, phone, and laptop inside the bag. So you did the stupid thing.

You tugged the bag back towards you, shoving your hand into your pocket and grasping for your pepper spray. The man stumbles forward slightly, his glare growing more and more menacing as he lunges towards you, pointing the knife at you. “Drop it and I won’t hurt you.”

He thrusts the blade in the direction of your abdomen, and your arm stretches over the area on instinct in an attempt to shield yourself from harm’s way. The blade swings in a sweeping motion, cutting through the sleeve of your jacket and slicing the skin of your forearm.

“Fuck,” you hiss out in pain. The man attempts another swing at you, but you react quicker, pulling out the pepper spray and pressing down on the trigger.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waving the canister around to ensure the stream doesn’t miss him and to protect yourself from any blowback.

“Fucking bitch!” He bellows, stumbling back into one of the wooden benches in the middle of the center of the platform.

You can hear your heartbeat thumping in your ear as you take the chance to run, slinging the bag over your shoulder and booking it up the steps, past the turnstile, and back onto the sidewalk. Your eyes dart around the street corner, your chest heaving as you try to register your surroundings.

The coffee shop on West 4th Street, the Italian spot next to it that gave Peter food poisoning, the overpriced stationary store that tried to charge you twenty-five dollars for a singular pen, and the park.

Your body moves on autopilot as you flag down the cab cruising in your direction and breathe out the address to the Forest Hills apartment you shared with Peter as you climbed into the backseat. The driver, an older man, spared you a worried glance. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Yes,” you gasp out. “Yes, I’m okay.”

He looked far from convinced but pressed down on the gas pedal anyway, beginning the drive uptown. You tried to regulate your breathing as the adrenaline from the altercation with the mugger started to wear off and the pain from your wound became more pronounced.

The weight of the situation was beginning to sink in. You were almost mugged and now were bleeding in the back of a taxi on your way home trying your hardest not to cry. Part of you wanted to call Peter and ask him to end his night of patrolling early, but you knew he’d fixate on the fact that you were hurt and that the man who did it was out there.

You didn’t want your boyfriend the superhero tonight. You didn’t want to be questioned by him or hear about all the ways you could have avoided being in a situation like that, nor did you want Spider-Man to go on some sort of manhunt. All you wanted was Peter, your boyfriend, who would, without a doubt, be worried but refrain from asking for details to find the guy and just hold you while you sobbed into his chest.

The quietness of the cab ride provided you with a necessary stillness that helped calm your nerves after what had just transpired. You were safe, wounded, but safe, and with your bag still in your possession, and that’s all you could ask for.

One forty-five minute cab ride, eighty bucks, and five stories later, and you were finally home. “Hi, baby,” you hear the second you unlock the door.

You freeze at the threshold. Peter was rarely home before midnight. “Hi, honey. You’re home early.”

“Yeah. There’s not much happening tonight, so I figured I might as well come home and make a late dinner for us since you had class. How does pasta sound? And how was it by the way? I know you hate the professor.” His voice traveled from the kitchen to the entryway.

There was something about the soft tone he spoke in that made you break. You thought you could hold it together, that’s what you were telling yourself on the walk up to the apartment, that you could remain composed when you talked to him tonight. But hearing his voice and seeing him standing in the kitchen unraveled all the steadiness you desperately tried to hold on to.

“Peter,” you choke his name out in a sob as you hide your face in your hands.

“Baby?” The concern laced in his voice was apparent as his feet carried him out of the kitchen to meet you where you were standing. His heart sank when he saw the blood stain on the sleeve of your jacket. “Baby?” He repeats, stepping closer and gently taking you into his arms. “You’re bleeding.”

Your body trembles as he holds you against him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re home.” He assures you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you as your cries fill the apartment. “I’m here. You’re safe."

He stands with you in the doorway, letting you sob into his chest while repeatedly reassuring you that you were okay and safe. He held you tight, only loosening his grip on you when your tears subsided and turned into sniffles. “Can I look at your arm, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you croak out, trying your hardest not to start crying again.

Peter reached for your hand, gently guiding you to the bathroom. It was strange having the roles reversed in this way. You had grown used to leading him to the bathroom, helping him strip off his suit, and cleaning his wounds. But tonight it was his turn to take care of you.

His hands reached for the zipper of your jacket, pushing the material off your shoulders and sliding it down your arms. His touch was light as he lifted your arm to assess the damage. You watch as his eyebrows knit together, his fingers delicately prodding at the wound. The slash was long but thankfully not deep. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to talk about, but can you tell me what happened?”

The question gets drowned out by the sound of the sink running. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he adds as he holds your hand under the water.

“Attempted mugging,” you whisper, watching the dried blood wash away and tint the water a brownish red. “At the train station near campus.”

His eyes widened, “What!?”  

“He—” you pause to compose yourself. You didn’t want to cry anymore. “He tried to take my bag. I pepper sprayed him after he sliced me.”

For a moment, you brace yourself for the string of questions you knew would fall from his lips, but you’re only met with silence. “Pete?”

He stares at your arm, the wound now clean. “Are you hurt anywhere else, baby?”  

“Just my arm.”

“Did he take anything?” He asks, nudging you to sit on the closed toilet seat.

“No,” you shake your head. “Only tried to.”

He nods, running a washcloth under the water before shutting off and kneeling in front of you. He carefully cleans around the wound before applying a layer of ointment to it.

“Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that, sweetheart.”

“You’re quiet. I thought you’d have more of a reaction,” you admit

You watch as his shoulders rise and fall with the deep breath he takes. “There’s a lot I want to say and do. I want to find the guy who did this and deal with him myself. I want to take you to the nearest station so you can file a report. I want to rewind time and insist on picking you up after your class instead of going on patrol, so this could have never happened.”

“Honey—“

“But it did happen,” he states while unraveling the spool of bandages. “I can’t change that, no matter how much I want to. I mean, my job is to keep the city safe, and tonight the person I want to keep the safest got hurt.”

“I’m okay.” He knew you were trying to assure him and yourself, but the tremble in your voice did little to ease his nerves.

“I…” he starts as he begins to dress your wound. “I know you worry when I’m out there. I know it makes you anxious and scared out of your mind that one night I’ll leave and never come back. But I get anxious and scared, too. I see what goes on out there. I see it every day; it doesn’t matter if it’s in broad daylight or in the dead of night. And I know I can’t stop every bad guy that’s out on the streets—I know I can’t keep everyone safe, no matter how hard I’ve tried." His voice trails off, and you know exactly what, or rather who, he's thinking of.

You knew all about Gwen and the guilt he still felt from being unable to save her. Losing her was why he was so fearful of letting you in when you initially met. It was also the reason why he always held you so tight and kept close once he allowed himself to love again. He never wanted to go through the pain of losing the person he loves again, whether it was related to him being Spider-Man or not. "But I would like to think that if there’s one person I can protect, it’s you. I can’t be with you all the time. I can’t save everyone, I’ve come to terms with that. But sweetheart, I’d be a liar if I said I’m not terrified of something happening to you when you go out there, too.”

He sucks in a sharp inhale and secures the bandage in place. “I hate that this happened to you. I hate that I could have prevented it if I was with you. And I know that’s a terribly selfish way to look at this because you’re hurt, but I promise this isn’t about my ego or unresolved grief. I just want to make sure my girlfriend is safe and that she never has to be hurt or cry into my chest out of fear again.”

“I wish I had called you,” you whisper. “I thought about it when I left the science building and saw how dark it was but decided against it cause I knew you’d be patrolling and I thought about calling you when I was in the cab after everything happened to see if you wouldn’t come home so I wouldn’t be alone didn’t want to bother you or pull you away in case someone needed Spider-Man.”

"You needed Spider-Man." He states, cupping your face and stroking your damp cheeks, wiping away any stray tears that were still falling. “You can call me anytime, baby. Anytime you need me. Especially when you need me.”

“What about—“

“Anytime,” he cuts off, standing up and holding his hand out for you to take.

“Anytime,” you repeat, letting him guide you out of the bathroom.

“Good. The water should be boiling by now. I can have fettuccine alfredo ready in twenty minutes tops if you’re up for it.”

You nod your head, knowing the domestic nature of your relationship with him would continue to help regulate your feelings. “That sounds nice, Pete. Really nice, actually. Can we cuddle after?”

“You don’t even have to ask. I’m all yours. Tonight, tomorrow, and every day after that.” His sappiness makes the corners of your mouth curve into a smile.

“What about yesterday? And the day before that?” You tease, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“I was yours then too,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Good. I'll call you in a few days."

"It...it doesn't need a case?"

"No. It's better without."

Yuuji walked away. You gave Kento a side-eye, faint with horror.

"Kento, you...are you sure? I mean, I love him, too, but don't you think he's a bit--"

You heard a metal CLANK! You saw the blunt blade slipping from Yuuji's arms to tumble down the steps beneath the torii gates. You could have wept, finishing with a sigh. "...a bit clumsy."

"I'm counting on it," Kento smiled, watching fondly as Yuuji sprinted down to the spotted blade, cursing and looking left and right to check for witnesses.

"I'm...sorry?"

"He'll have trouble with it," Kento hummed, watching as Yuuji struggled to keep the blade balanced within his grasp. "It doesn't like being sharp. And it likes to help itself along the way."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

For two days, Kento and you suppressed your cursed energy, and followed Yuuji around every single corner.

Yuuji would slide the blunt blade into his backpack. His backpack would immediately tear open at the bottom, and the blunt blade would clang its way down a whole flight of stairs.

Yuuji would twirl it absentmindedly, lose his grip, and his soul would leave his body as the blunt blade clattered out of an open window that absolutely was not open before.

Yuuji would take it to bed with him, cradled in his arms in a swaddle, and would achieve little more than a completely sleepless night, as the blade slipped to the floor every five minutes on the dot.

The blunt blade would be left, growing duller by the minute, in the middle of a completely empty room upon a silk pillow, and by the time Yuuji returned, a pipe would have burst above it and water and sawdust would be seeping into its rough ferrous surface.

It was an impossible object; a veritable bastard of a piece of equipment, seeking to plunge and plummet and pummel every surface it could, until it was stained and ragged and chipped, and duller than a wet weekend. You got used to Yuuji's cries and shouts and roars of despair.

"This is cruel, Kento," you tutted, as Yuuji begged and pleaded with the blunt blade on his hands and knees ('How? How could this happen? I left you right there-- I left you right there! I'm so fucking clumsy, Nanamin's gonna kill me!').

Kento hummed to himself, satisfied. He checked his watch. "You're right. That should do it."

He pulled out his phone again. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Click--

"Yuuji. I'm home. You have my blade?"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"You took good care of it?"

"Uh-- y-yeah-- the best."

Kento stroked a finger along the (damp, dirty, chipped) blade's edge. You watched Yuuji sweat. Kento smiled.

"I can tell. Thank you, Yuuji."

Yuuji visibly relaxed. Still, his heart seemed to have aged a decade. He staggered off towards the dorms as Kento twizzled his blade in his hands, satisfied. You grimaced at it; an antique, irreparably battered, and most importantly, blunt.

"He has absolutely ruined that, Kento."

"I know. Isn't it wonderful? He's even worse than Haibara was. Extraordinary."

Kento cleared his throat, and checked his watch again. He turned and made towards his car, with a spring in his step.