Give me my wings

He’d found the curious note in his diary planner—well, it had fallen out, to be more truthful. It was a surprise to be sure, and from the moment his eyes processed the paper’s hue, he knew it wasn’t his own. Curiosity bloomed, fingers unearthing.

Absent, he shifts in his seat as the chair scrapes against the tiled floor. The distant paranoia, which feels like a lifetime ago, flickers the lights of his mind before the whispers are silenced just as fast.

There’s no more of that.

He’s reformed, even if he does deem himself unworthy of such… a note (it was certainly a note, yes). Even if he does believe it is just that — a joke — one set up to frame him as a laughing stock. There’s no more of that behaviour.

The probability of that occurring, anyway, is slim and, once more, borders on the line of the delusions he suffered from the AI’s influence.

Yet, the thorned coils which had wrapped and solidified their insidious hold around the organ that keeps his body moving, his brain working, year and years ago, won’t let him fumble for the threads of hope; of happiness. It’s too risky. He’s at a standstill, a stalemate with his own self—a meddlesome, pitiful thing. His logical mind screams:

Occam’s Razor.

And so, the natural presumption despite external opinions of himself is that someone is enamoured. Maneuvering so that his left hand is holding the message, he places a fist against his mouth. His teeth bite into his knuckles with a tender force. His eyes remain fixated on the words, reading them over and over, expecting the mirage to dissipate—a hallucination conjured up by the deepest shadows of his mind, claws of the past.

Who—

“You alright, doc?”

Otto lets out a noise of surprise as his actuators react immediately. Taking up as much space as they can, they straighten out and he swears he can now sympathise with terrified cats.

He feels like a cartoon.

The crash next to him is wilfully ignored. His smile is half-hearted as he looks towards his co-worker, and as if caught doing something rather inappropriate, he shoves the tiny piece of paper into one of his coat pockets. “Yes! Yes, yes… perfectly fine.”

The co-worker, Matthew, looks at him like he's grown two heads, or perhaps a few more metal arms, and leaves without another word. It’s to be expected and yet Otto holds his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes with haste. They sting with the burden of sleepless nights.

While he’s been in remission for ages, has healed and had his inhibitor chip reinstated, there of course is room — the room being very spacious and able to accommodate an elephant, though a room nonetheless — for doubt. If it’s happened once, it can happen again.

And, in all honesty, Otto agrees.

There’s always going to be the stain of his background, the stain of his mishaps, the stain on his reputation as a scientist. Brilliant but reckless. Impulsive. Harbouring the grandiosity of the greats with nothing to show for...

Yes, this is his burden to bear. He's never going to be trusted again, not with the mechanical reminder attached to him for the span of forever; and since he’s never gotten his way - such a forever will be a long time.

He’s getting distracted.

Swiping his thumb to uncrumple the paper, a glance downwards determined the reality of the situation.

Real. Very real.

The walls of the establishment with each flickering glance creep towards him. Further and further they close in until that electrifying card of freedom is being wrenched out of his pocket and shoved into the lab’s clock-in system.

He’s taking his break early.

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

He notices you long before you notice him, the quickened strides you take are enough of an indication of where your head is at, and subsequently, your availability. Something settles in his chest at this conclusion, it’s not painful, though it’s not exactly comfortable either. There’s a heaviness there, a weight that he can’t quite shake.

Such a sensation deepens when you smile at one of your coworkers, making a small quip, he assumes, because they bark a laugh. It’s so surprising to you that your own amusement tangles with their own.

A lone star in the sky, tearing through the darkness with such a pertinacious conviction one’s free will to observe is obliterated. No, you demand attention, his attention, without even knowing, and it’s akin to the biological need to survive.

To breathe.

And now, it's his turn to laugh. Rehashing poetry he’s been gifted to the local librarian was not a level he would stoop to.

The sigh he breathes is automatic and he drops his stuff in his usual spot, ignoring the holes that sear into him as he passes people by.

Soon, he finds himself in queue at the cafe nestled along the library’s front, glasses up and fixed (thanks to the trusty assistance of Mo), against the bridge of his nose. His research papers take a good chunk of his attention away from the vexing length of the line and the gawking, until the loud drawl from the counter, harbouring a mirrored resentment, interrupts his sinuous arithmetic.

Without looking up, he recites his order. A black coffee, no sugar, and a blueberry muffin. Within minutes he’s tucked away at the back of the library where no one ventures. The noise is rare, the whispers unheard and the halls gloomier.

He likes it that way.

“I always wished I could do maths. Aside from how awful and traumatic the teachers were, it actually seemed fun. Though, you do make it look easy.”

Otto’s eyes widen. His gaze darts from you to the notepad he’d apparently pulled out at some point. Hovering centimetres from the page are one of his actuators with the pen that he stuffs in his coat pocket in case of emergencies. One quick scan determines that his thoughts — which were purely hypothetical — have been transcribed for him.

Ah, the pros and cons of AI.

A smile takes over his surprise, and he shifts in his seat.

“Anyone can do mathematics, no matter the setbacks. There’s always time if you put in the work.”

You roll your eyes and sit on the table, a hand’s length away from his notepad. The movement is so delicate and with such grace Otto’s breath hitches. He tries not to notice the way your grey pencil skirt rides up your thighs, the floral seduction of your perfume so close it coaxes the subtle fluttering of his eyelids.

“Oh, come on. Otto, how long have we known each other now? You know there’s no hope for me.” “Quite the contrary, my dear. I will admit the education system is very flawed, though if there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Well, for most, the will needs to be created. And considering you’re loving my muffin so much there needs to be free muffins after math classes. That’s an incentive don’t you think? Muffins and math!” you grin with jazz hands and, to him, it’s near irksome how delightful you are.

Then, your forefinger swipes at your bottom lip and he can practically see the light bulb going off.

“Hell, maybe I should pitch that to my superior. It'll get more of the kids involved in our programs.”

Once the words process — you had the tendency to shoot sentences like bullets — he gives a soft laugh. He almost wants to tell you how enamoured he is, though his mouth is pinned. The urge comes out in other ways, however, as before he can stop the movement, an actuator is giving you head pats.

Your giggles light up the near-abandoned end of the library.

To his surprise, you’re not scared of him. Sure, he’s known you for a while now, but there’s never been such an intimate form of contact.

Considering all things, it wouldn’t have shocked him if you got up and left screaming. It wasn’t too long ago he was out of his mind — and criminal — and the bad reactions have happened enough times to where he’s sure it’s to happen again in the near future. What would highlight this experience as different, setting the event in bold, red ink, would’ve been the pain. Yes, worst of all, the pain.

“You baked this?” Otto asks, opting to change the subject as he reels in the actuator with a mental tug that looks unnaturally rough—as if it had been held by a string and yanked. He’s just thankful there’s no one behind him, he didn’t want to be accused of being evil again after smacking someone into the wall by accident and ruining half the library…

Anyway…

Watching on with a fondness, your eventual nod is hesitant and shy. Slowly, it gains confidence. “We’re a family! The staff is all really close so if one of us is having trouble, then we do the best we can to help. I bake as a hobby and I think because of that I’m the only one Olivia trusts to assist whenever she doesn’t have the time.” “That’s lovely. How kind.” Your smile has a blissful sway and Otto finds himself falling into it, lingering a second too long.

“I could bake something for you! I know how hard you work, you practically kill yourself."

Ha! If only.

His lips quirk upwards.

"Oh! There's just so much to choose from. I could make you tiny cakes! Or some more muffins! Or cinnamon rolls—you kind of remind me of them, actually," you say, ending in a thoughtful tone.

The smile you wear is beaming, the passion for one of the oldest crafts humanity has engaged in, is inspiring. Words are not enough to measure the warmth he feels.

With what Otto can only pinpoint as a sudden realisation, the fear of coming on too strong about a special interest — which he immediately identifies with — your joy falls, and your eyes widen.

Freezing, your stuttering begins.

The display is adorable and sympathetic. The dull ache in his chest bubbles a series of compulsions, yet never truly do they pop free. Reaching out and lacing his fingers with yours is the most overbearing and he has to physically clasp his own together to stop them. So far, his actuators have not betrayed him and he thanks the heavens.

“Oh— uh— I mean only if you want to,” you waver. “Of course, I don’t want to force you and I don’t want to give the impression that I’m great at it. I just—” Otto releases a laugh, and he hopes it's more reassuring than seen as an interruption.

“Darling, I’d love that.”

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

Curiously, when he gets home and checks his diary planner, there’s another note. The only places he’d visited were the library and his work—meaning the prolific, perfervid poet hovers around either area.

The only thing Otto is sure of is that it’s not you. He’d been watching you the entire time and there’s no possibility you’d slipped under his radar. Either way, the idea that the notes are coming from you is wishful thinking. A hope, a yearn which should have been quashed long ago.

He’s not a foolish, young boy anymore.

It read:

“Holding this poem

Close, like a mirror,

I breathe upon it.

I watch for some sign.

There is a faint mist

Spreading across it.

It takes hold. It clings

To the lean hollows

As the sun rises,

This sun that is going

To burn the mist off.

I give you chamois

To clear the surface.

I give you this sun.”

Otto feels his consciousness, along with his reason, leave his body. He’s now convinced this is personal, the stanzas, to his very limited knowledge of poetry and his inhibited talent despite all efforts of comprehension, call to his deepest sorrows. His regrets. Broken dreams. Still, what he gets from this is redemption, the idea of rebirth—forgiveness through the metaphor of the cloth. Of the sun’s rays signalling anew.

And somehow, it evokes something he hasn’t felt in a long time. The complex coupling of pain and release, the hope for a future. Even if one person has forgiven him, just one, he can live with that. Yes, he can press on and somehow that eases the weight. In the aftermath of all he’d done, awakening from that terrible abhorrent dream — for that’s what it had been, right? A dream? (Some days he’s not so sure) — he didn’t believe he was ever going to forgive himself. It seemed that such a luxury was off the table, not in the cards. Not for someone like him. And now, this tiny piece of paper who has no name, no indication of a presence, is telling him otherwise.

Again, he could always be misinterpreting it.

His own personal bias. Typically human. Typically Otto. Perhaps, he was seeing what he wanted to see because living with the pain is too much.

Heavens.

Solving complex equations, constructing blueprints, calculus.

It’s all things Otto has no trouble with and, in fact, found himself enjoying quite often in his free time. At least you get a straight answer!

This, though?

Of poetry?

Of love?

The trials and tribulations of relation — saying the right things, doing the right things instead of standing like a dumbstruck statue — turned to stone by the infamous Gorgon herself, Medusa?

It’s overwhelming.

He’s never been good at it. Not even with Rosie, who'd had the misfortune of marrying him.

He can’t help the way his thoughts wander back to you, and he notes that their winding, spiralling, tracks aren’t making much sense right now.

At this time of night, what did you do? Did you have a family to come back to? Did you care for your kids with as much gentleness as the ones at the library?

He’s never been to your home, though he can picture you lounging on a daybed by your window, curtains pulled back with the shimmering beams of the moon trickling in. He can see the celestial light emphasising the glow of your features, he can picture it so vividly as if it’s happening right at that very moment; unfolding before his gaze while he floats from the melancholia.

Perhaps you’re the sole one awake in your household, once again — as you’ve recounted many a time — forgetting the importance of sleep, so engrossed by a novel you’re reading.

Every time he looks at you, there’s a new book in your hand. To be fair, it’s one of the many things he admires about you. You have such a thirst for knowledge, a will to learn, bestowing it to those willing to listen. Not once had he seen you bitter, resentful or condescending. You use your intelligence as a tool to help others — a pillar he very much believes in.

His thoughts are no longer focused on the papers he took home. And, like wandering insects, they have a determination of their own, no matter his pacific nudgings.

You, you, you.

It’s time for bed.

That much is clear.

With a puff of a sigh, he sheds his clothes leaving his chest bare while swapping out his slacks with pyjama pants. Once he’s in bed an actuator tugs on the thin chain of his lamp, plunging his room into darkness.

The war against insomnia is a harsh and unwilling one, creeping into the early hours of dawn. The all but few hours he spends sleeping on his stomach is the only solace his back gets.

He’s unsure where he musters up the will to move again.

But, he does.

Swallowing his painkillers with instant coffee, he leaves.

The next few days pass with some ease and it’s something he’s thankful for. There’s an incident with one of the interns, though it isn’t enough to make him entirely lose his temper. All it takes these days is a look. The things attached to his back evoke more from people than what shouting could ever do. The fear of possibility, the fear that he wasn’t who he said he was — recovered and healthy — overtakes anything.

It’s as exhausting as the sideways glances.

By the time his last day rolls around, he doesn’t have the energy to visit the library. Seeing you would have been the highlight of his week. A break between the madness. But, with the ache in his bones, the heaviness of his limbs, the resolve never crystalises.

The sleep comes easier this time, bringing with it the passing realisation that he never received a note that week.

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

In all honesty, he feels a bit ridiculous.

No different to three kids shrouded in a trenchcoat, incongruous, feigning the certainty and self-actualisation adults possessed (though, honestly, time has taught him this really is a facade), he leans against one of the rickety oak bookshelves, hat tipped downwards, nose buried in what was the nearest book he—

He never did check what he picked up.

One quick glance at the cover and his face falls in horror. With quick fingers, he slots it back into the nearest opening and finds something more… appropriate. From now on, he knows to always look at the titles he picks up—lesson learned.

So far, in the half-hour he’s stood there, no one has passed his table and his quest to find out his ‘secret admirer’ is no closer than when he started. His things lay dormant, calling to him, pleading with him to end this charade.

He’s going to have to think of something—

“What are you doing?” “Gah!” Otto drops the book he was holding and it falls to the ground with a heavy, reverberating thud. An actuator clamps on the wrist of whoever was about to touch his shoulder and he spins to meet the perpetrator with a scowl.

The techiness vaporises as soon as his eyes land on you. There’s a wince in your expression and he lets go of his hold immediately—he hadn’t even intended to be rough.

“My dear, forgive me! It seems I’m a bit on edge, I’m terribly sorry.”

With the poise of a feather, he takes your wrist in his hand observing the slight indent in the softness of your skin. It’s the first time he’s touched you, the warmth forever imprinted into the coolness of his own. He can’t help but notice how small your hand is compared to his, and following that same train of thought, how your everything is small compared to his.

If only the contact was under better circumstances.

“It’s okay,” you breathe.

There’s a shallow quality to it and Otto quirks a brow.

“Are you sure? Are you hurt?” his voice lowers to a whisper.

One of his worst fears rears its ugly head, slithering from the shadows with a treacherous grin.

It promises torture.

He can’t have you afraid of him. He could not — would not — stand for it. The hammering of his heart assaults his ribcage and for the second time in the span of an absurd couple of weeks, he feels like he’s an animation brought to life.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you reassure him, lips curling upwards into something so honeyed he melts. The soft noise of surprise that leaves him is accompanied by his own relieved elation.

“Oh. Good, good.”

“So…” you begin, sliding your hand back from his. “What’s with the get-up? You look like a spy who’s trying not to give away that he is a spy and is failing miserably.”

Otto shoots you a look before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m looking for someone,” he answers plainly. He wants to elaborate but he already feels nonsensical.

“Ooo a stakeout! I love a good stakeout,” you form your hands into tight circles, placing them around your eyes. “Any luck, commander?”

Otto rolls his eyes and with a huff, he admits defeat. He can’t believe he’s in this situation.

Nonetheless, you’re cute.

“No, nothing.”

“Who are you looking for anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Someone has been leaving me these… notes. And I’m trying to work out who it is.”

“By conducting a stakeout in the library?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Depends. What are these notes?” Otto feels a fire spreading in his cheeks and his jaw tenses.

“It’s poetry. They're love notes.”

This is humiliating.

You gasp, hands flying up to your face, voice high-pitched and whiney, “Otto you never told me you had a secret admirer. How very high school!”

“Shush, shush! You’re going to give me away!” Otto whispers harshly, arms raising up in a frantic attempt to lower your voice.

Some librarian! “Oh honey, you didn’t need my help with that,” your gaze looks him up and down and he squirms. The pet name does not go unnoticed.

“Alright, darling,” he smirks. "I’m asking again, what do you propose?”

He takes a step forward and you have to crane your neck all the way to meet him. He swears he sees you swallow, yet the hues of your cheeks he believes are delusory.

He fights the urge to take you by the chin, choosing instead to lean down.

"I-I— oh. Um. Well, I can keep watch," nervous laughter punctuates your speech. "I'll be your eyes and ears!"

With your hands on your hips, the stuttering leaves, "that way you don't have to dress like a Looney Tunes villain in the middle of my library."

"Oh, it's your library now, is it?"

"Yes," you very innocently exclaim, batting your eyelashes.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," you rock your form sideways, looking beyond him.

"I have important librarian things to do! Besides, it looks like you have a visitor!"

Otto swivels around so fast he can hear the wrinkling of his coat. When his eyes latch onto his table there's no one there and neither are you when he revolves.

As he reaches his table, he quickly finds there’s another note:

“Love starts as a feeling,

But to continue is a choice;

And I find myself choosing you

More and more every day.”

In the wise words of Sylvester himself—

Sufferin’ succotash.

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

The stinging in his eyes and the cramp in his hand could perfectly describe the day he’s having. Aching fingers release the pen from its confines and Otto stretches his back.

“Heavens,” he grunts.

He goes to return to his work and yet a tiny part of him screams to take a break, demands to be heard after being snubbed for so long. One quick glance at the pile of paper in front of him determines the small, squeaking voice is right. The dread making its home in the pit of his stomach will not ease with perseverance. Only with time.

A coffee would fix the problem.

Probably.

He’s almost on the opposite end of the library — which in the early hours of the night is a ghost-town, who would have thought? — when he realises he’s forgotten his wallet. Blaming the lack of sleep and his obsessive work ethic he makes a sharp u-turn. The lack of people is a blessing and he tells himself if he’s working late or can’t sleep this would be the perfect place to venture.

No interruptions, no weird looks, no bitter weight on his shoulders.

He’s about to take a detour, to stroll and loosen the ridged hinges of his knees when he spots movement at his desk. It’s unbelievable. Hilarious with the right dashes of irony. He’d wanted nothing more than to catch this anonymous little poet and because of such will, he had never gotten it. Not even close to it.

And now, because he’s not seeking — at least for today — to find what he desires, to solve the riddle which has been haunting him for more than a week now, he’s gotten exactly that.

Time to put an end to the cat and mouse game.

As he steps closer, he can see them better.

The hue of their hair is familiar, their frame, their body, their little idiocracies identifiable even from behind; the fidgeting of their fingers, the rocking on their heels. Movements that highlight the activity in your brain, a big beautiful world in which he wished was laid out before him and he could, with some sort of magnification, watch the magic unfold—real magic.

A childlike enamour. A true love with all the sparks and the hope.

Whimsical.

“It’s you," he whispers under his breath and he begins to walk forward, a pilgrim seeking the divine.

"It's you," he repeats once more, a means to convince himself or to announce the processing of such a fact, he's not sure. Perhaps both, sprinkled in with the desire for your attention.

It works.

You jump, knee slamming into the table followed by your shaking palms which fall onto the wood surface. You spin on your heels with a grimace, fast, harsh and evidently disorienting. He watches your form sway, eyes wider than an owl’s, blinking furiously.

He’s sure you’re in pain but you don’t voice it.

“Uh… me?” you grin and it’s tumultuous as you wring your hands.

“You’ve been leaving the notes all along,” he says, inching closer. “Oh, whaaat? Noooo… no wayyy…” you scrunch your face up in what can only be perceived as a horribly forced look of confusion. “What notes?” Otto wants to laugh, but he’s swamped by shock.

“But there’s something I don’t quite understand. How did you leave one for me yesterday? I was talking to you the whole time.”

He continues to close in on you.

“I asked someone else to do it while I had your attention. You had your back turned,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “Not even they noticed.”

You nod towards his actuators and he hums in agreement, the pieces coming together.

“Yes, it seems even they were too occupied with you.”

Otto shakes his head, finally releasing a laugh intertwined with disbelief.

“I agreed to you keeping watch, and all along… it was you," Otto muses as he closes the distance between your bodies. Pressed against the table, you look up at him.

The restraint he’d felt in all your interactions evaporates.

His thumb swipes your bottom lip and he watches as it trembles. Your shallow breaths caress the back of his hand and his wrist, its warmth shooting through him as if directly accessing his nerves and suddenly it all makes sense.

The sound of the table creaking as you lean backwards, the scraping of your nails into the wood are enough for him. With a smirk, he leans down, centimetres from your mouth. Otto fails to notice his actuators cocooning you both.

"Not so eloquent now, are we?” He chuckles deeply, pressing his chest to yours when the actuators coiling around your forms tighten. Without looking, an actuator unwinds and the arm brings the new note forward.

He reads aloud.

“I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I’m sometimes the hardest to express, but the easiest to ignore. I can be given to many, or just one. What am I?”

Otto quirks a brow before chuckling, “oh? How very highschool.”

He pauses for a moment, already knowing the answer. There’s a vulnerability to it, a hurdle he must cross for beyond is the green grass he’s always dreamt of. The dried weeds of the past have held him back long enough. In this, he realises he does want redemption, salvation—forgiveness. Nothing a God could ever provide, but a choice he has to make for himself.

“Love,” Otto breathes. "The answer is love."

When he looks back down at you, your eyes are closed. Waiting patiently—just for him.

“Otto,” you whisper with a lull so sweet he groans with fluttering eyelids.

His nose brushes against yours and he’s keenly aware of the way you hold onto him, fingers curled around his arms, nails digging into the charcoal wool of his coat.

“My dear.” Finally, he kisses you.

Lips in sync, hearts beating, the flitter of his eyelashes against your cheek. Their pairing is as tender as he’d imagined, the light almost hesitant nature of your reciprocation says more than anything he could ask—and he’s glad for it. For he, too, hasn’t done this in a while.

So long, in fact.

Your hands move from his arms and one rests against the fullness of his cheek, while the other travels through his umber curls. There’s a slight tug and he leans into the motion with a whispered, mellifluous moan. You slip in your tongue then, and Otto’s actuators unwind. Two latch onto the carpet with a carefulness to ensure no damage is done, and he assumes they’re reacting to the dizziness he feels, while the other two grip the table in a similar manner. There, he lowers you with a tilt. He hovers over you, kiss yet to be broken as you rest against the wooden surface. While your legs go to wrap around him, Otto pulls away with a lovestruck smile. It’s light and his brows are lifted at their tips, eyes hooded.

“How long?” He asks.

He’s so gentle, he can’t help it—he doesn’t want to misstep, make the wrong move or harm you in any way. There’s such a deep, intrinsic need to keep you safe it’s overwhelming. Suffocating.

Once you open your eyes, delayed as if still soaring from the kiss yourself, he feels the warm giddiness in his stomach intensify. Part of him expects the scenery to change, to morph into the darkness of his room, far from you; without a light.

“Since the beginning,” you confess.

He recalls the early days of his healing. While he had gotten his inhibitor chip fixed, the psychological damage was done. And so, for a long while he struggled. With the looks: suspicious, fearful, disgusted. He struggled with his co-workers' opinions, the hecklers, the random acts of unkindness. In a way, at the start, it was as if he hadn’t changed at all, the irritability, the impulses, minus the lack of impulse control, were still there. He wasn’t as stable as he is now, he had to get there. And so, logically, this did not make sense, for how could someone love a monster such as he?

“How were you not scared of me?” He says, honestly. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, he hangs on your every word. “Otto,” you ease, thumb reaching down to stroke his bottom lip. “I don’t believe anyone’s more fearful of you, than yourself.”

He says nothing. He knows you’re right.

With a knowing look, you cup both of his cheeks and he leans down to rest his forehead against yours. It’s easy to get lost while in the entrancement of the library; a gentle giant. It really does feel like they’re alone there, just the two of them hidden in the clearing of the secretive shelves.

“You don’t have to be so afraid anymore,” she punctuates her sentence with a kiss. “You’re so full of goodness. You’ve always tried to do your best.” Another kiss.

“You’re enough even if you think you’ve lost yourself.”

And another.

“But you don’t have to be alone anymore. We can find that, together.”

Otto is the first one to close the gap this time, and he tries to ignore the trails running down his cheeks which are swiped away by your thumbs.

Always so perceptive and so caring.

That night, he doesn’t go home alone and the blandness of his apartment doesn’t feel so bland anymore. Not with you near it.

“But whyyyyyy? My parents are harassing me! They think their daughter’s going to grow old and grey and be alone forever.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine why.” 

You shot him a look, one that only fuelled his amusement.

“J, I can’t just not show up.” 

You watched his figure rise slightly as he drew and released a breath. 

“I don’t like wed–” his tongue stuck out like he’d tasted something bad before he cleared his throat “–dings, they’re full of false hope, drunks and...” he shuddered, “romance. You see, they’ll end up killing each other in a few years. I can picture it now: dearly beloved wife kills cheating husband. Oh how could this have ever happened?” 

He scoffed.

“You’re so dramatic. I promise it would only be for a few hours.”

“And pumpkin, how exactly are you gonna sneak me into a… place like that when I look like this,” he said, hands motioning to his face – mostly his scars. 

It broke your heart. You could've sworn you heard it splinter, the downturn of your brows impossible to hold back. If only words were enough to convey complex feelings, to convey the pile of bricks nestled in your chest, to convey the desperate crave to comfort and rebut, the need to protect – even from himself. You had yet to find a way, and so you were stuck behind the thick lock and chain of language with no key in sight; restricted and bound to tools you never thought were enough, but could only hope were enough.   

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. In his eyes you saw the emotions flicker, almost as tangible as they were transparent – anger, fear, shock. Stood still and stiff, you nodded softly, giving him a smile of equal warmth. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”  

He squinted before hesitantly giving in, shifting so his cheek rested against your palm. He had to lower himself a little more to do so. 

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with how you look. They’re beautiful, and I’ll keep saying so until there’s no breath left in my lungs.”

You held him ever so gently while he flitted his eyes shut. Your heart galloped then, its swell too big for your body and for a moment, brief as the breeze, the chaos he prided himself in was absent; for a moment there was peace.

“If you weren’t The Joker, I’d say go as is. Though, I have a plan!” 

“Oh, do you now?” He said, shaking his head and returning to work. It was clear he was rapidly reaching his patience threshold.

Damn it.

“They have food!” You trailed off unsurely, as if it was a question – pinning your last hope on appealing to his raccoon inclinations.

It didn’t work.

The third, well… 

You had just about given up and accepted the fact that it wasn’t his scene, that him meeting your parents would never be an option – a reality you had started to think of as a good thing the more you thought about it. 

And so, the third day had been your acceptance. Self-care. Instead of chasing after an ideal, your hands were clutching a book, almost too hard, as the part you had been anticipating since very early had reached its finale. With your legs curled underneath you and practically asleep, your eyes flicked furiously from word to word– 

That is until a looming figure shadowed the page completely, concealing all light from the lamp next to you. 

Annoyance creased your features as you looked up at the clownish culprit. Your eyes met and a staring contest ensued, the intensity of his eyes beckoning a response until he, uncharacteristically, broke first. 

“Will this make you, uh, happy?” 

All traces of irritation were washed away by bewilderment, “sorry?” 

“My being with you.” 

“You mean to the wedding?” You asked, wide-eyed. If you hadn’t been as shocked as you were, you would have snorted at his continuous inability to say the word ‘wedding’. 

He shifted on his feet, eyes darting away for a second before he licked his lips. “Yeah.” 

“Is this a joke?”

“I’m not that cruel.”

You paused to hum obnoxiously, your finger tapping your chin to challenge the notion.

“Never mind,” he waved his hand in the air and was about to walk off before you grabbed his hand and sprung off your seat. You felt him try to wiggle out of your grasp with a grunt, but it was too late. “Thank you!” You shouted. 

You missed the way his surprise melted into a genuine curl of his lips, twitching; the muscles unused. Instead, you were too busy stuffed in his vest, with your arms swathed around him. You both stayed there for a while basking in the warmth of each other, as his hands, which you guessed were hanging awkwardly in the air and unsure of what to do, encircled your waist.

Third time’s the charm. 

Shaking fingers twirled sapphire silk, gliding over your cinched waist before finally moving up to the delicate exposed flesh of your neck. You glanced over the spaghetti straps that curved comfortably over your shoulder, and the simple silver circle necklace that laid between them, its chilled presence clashing with the heat of your skin.  

Knock knock knock!

“Just a minute!” You said, jumping at the sudden rude intrusion. 

“Not even funeral parlors take this long,” you heard J say from the other side, the distinctive departure of footsteps following promptly. They seemed faster than usual.

You puffed air at his complaint after calming your racing heart. Then you scrambled to finish up the final touches of makeup, at last winding the nude colored ribbons of your heels around your calves. Your head felt light, and your shoes only worsened the sudden gelatinous state your legs took on. Never before had you dressed up in such a way, not for years and much less in front of someone you dearly cherished. The line between fashionable and laughable was blurred and never truly had been exercised. Waving away the fuel your anxious thoughts provided, you decided to try and move. Your heels wobbled trying to avoid the flowing material pooled by your ankles, and you’d just managed to slip one foot out through the thigh-high slit. No matter how much you sighed, the pressure remained, weighing like an anvil. And so, with nothing much to lose, you made your way to the door; the dampness of your fingers leaving its foggy signature upon the knob.

This was it.

You breathed in one last time before opening the door.

“Okay, I’m re–” 

You exhaled sharply, feeling the earlier intake of air leave you – taking with it the remaining wind in your lungs. You couldn’t control the twinkle of your eyes, nor the flip of your stomach as you gazed upon him.

His form was angled against the wall and his arms were crossed – that was, until he dragged his eyes over to you. His limbs then dropped to their sides and he quickly, almost stumbling over his shoes, righted his position. The bob of his Adam's apple was clear while both of you stood meters from each other with widened eyes. You knew he had the ability to pull off a suit, but the royal blue he donned was stunning. The stark colour complemented his blond locks, while his foulard tie with its blends of pinks, purples, and its navy base matched his socks. 

It seemed you were both in the same boat, consumed by swells of giddiness and the need to fidget. The fingers that were dressed in dark brown leather gloves drummed against his thigh, while one of his cedar suede shoes tapped furiously against the floor.

“What.” He finally stated, rather than questioning. 

You dropped the necklace your fingers had started circling. 

“Nothing! You just look… really nice,” you uttered earnestly, unable to contain the sweet smile that broke through awe. 

“Yeah, yeah. Uh… you too,” he said, the last part coming out less steady. 

He avoided eye contact when you trotted over to him, fiddling with his cufflinks, though his tending to them immediately vanished when you began to accentuate the swish of your hips. 

All fidgeting stopped.

You were sure he was expecting something else, rather than the delicate cupping of his cheek once you reached him, soft lips meeting with roughened skin as you kissed his scars. You took your time with each one, whispering affection, before claiming his mouth. He growled against you, and you could feel him tighten his hold. 

The tip of his tongue traced the stain of lipstick, a wordless demand for entry which left you weak. Almost parting your lips to allow the gentle slide of his tongue, he suddenly reared back with a smirk. 

“Peach,” he cooed. 

You were going to have to reapply later. 

With a small smile you extended your arm to the couch, and knowing time was beginning to pass, he complied. As he advanced, you peeked at the orange lining in his blazer. The hue was similar to his purple coat, though slightly lighter. You smiled to yourself, the small detail so characteristically him. 

“Alright. Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, bracing himself. 

Already a step ahead, you had brought out the makeup needed just prior to getting dressed. Sitting on one of the nearby surfaces, you picked up a small translucent bag with little red hearts on it – a fact he’d snickered to himself at when he first saw it – and walked over to him. 

“As you wish, grumpy,” you simpered, “now hold still!” 

True to his new title, you heard him mutter something unintelligible under his breath. The tap-tap-tap of his foot against the floor was most of the noise for a good while, and although distracting, the fidgeting of his hands was less noisy. You knew more than anyone he needed to squirm around, some movement at the very least, and so you endured. You deduced that he’d not been this close to someone in so very long, let alone allow them to do his makeup. That task, intimate and personal within itself, was not something others could be trusted with. 

“Time to hide these little guys,” you murmured, focused as the beauty blender sat between your fingers and dabbed on concealer. “Not that they need hiding. I’ll miss them.”

“Really?” He chimed in, eyes shut while you did your work. 

“Yeah, they’re a part of you and I’d never want you to hide or be ashamed of who you are.” 

“Hmm,” he trailed off. 

Occasionally his mouth quirked, his tongue darting out to lick his scars; an involuntary movement. You were patient, and even if he wasn’t overt about his guilt of messing up your progress, you reassured him lightly with a kiss on the head, sometimes playing with the dirty blond waves that lacked any sign of green. 

The day before he’d washed out the colour in preparation for the big day, groaning until he caught sight of himself in the mirror; contemplative. Ethereal and almost delicate he seemed. How precious it was to witness such cracks in the fortress, where the basking rays of sun illuminated what once was – and still is, only shrouded by shrubbery and thorns, so overgrown and disordered that they had forgotten to take care of even themselves. Forgotten how.  

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he groaned as you finished blending the concealer on both cheeks. Grabbing the foundation you had colour matched, you dabbed a bit on your hand before applying that too.

“Honestly, me neither,” you replied, feeling no need to sugarcoat the shock from your tone. You knew he appreciated the truth. “But I’m glad you are! You’re doing so well!” 

He squirmed a little at the compliment but settled seconds later. Soon after finishing the blending, you reared back and observed your labour. Although it wasn’t perfect, and if you looked hard enough you could still see the intricate crevices in his skin, it passed. 

“All done!” 

As soon as you spoke, J pushed off his palms. He was halfway off the chair when you stopped him.

“Wait! I have to walk you through something.” 

At this, his eyebrows quirked up. You knew you had his attention. 

“Conditions!” You announced.

“Ah. Now there are conditions.” 

“Yes! I don’t want you to throw a tantrum and blow up the whole reception.” 

“My my, aren’t you a little fire stopper.” 

“Promise me.”

He flicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. With one hand on his chest and the other raised just next to his head, he bowed a little. “I swear.”

You wrinkled your nose, “I swear there will be no funny business, and I’ll be on my best behaviour – oh and no crossing your toes either!”

“You know me so well,” he sighed, admitting defeat, “Fine. I swear there’ll be no funny business and I’ll be on…” he cleared his throat and brought a closed fist to his mouth, “my best behaviour.” Then he shone his impishly wide grin, one that only intensified the pit of doubt in your stomach. 

It would have to do, though.  

“Okay,” you whispered. 

He stood up now, towering over you. 

“Okay,” he mimicked, dropping his hands at the base of your hips. 

The last few days had been full of surprises, his agreement to attend trumping all. However, his overt display of affection was a close second. Never before had he been so forthcoming and so comfortable with physical contact. 

As his hands laid there, unmoving and making their home in your curves, you inched closer to him; a specific craving only his warmth could ease. Though, those very same hands around you tightened when you tried to step forward, holding you in place. Curiously, you looked up at him, brows furrowed. 

“What are you–” 

It seemed he couldn’t help himself. The evil laughter he’d been trying to restrain bubbled from his throat and bounced off the walls. The eagerness to ask what he was doing quickly died – hard – when you could no longer feel the ground beneath your feet. It instead morphed into protests and occasional bouts of laughter as your arms dangled along his back, your pelvis against his shoulder. One gloved hand rested crudely just below the curve of your ass, occasionally squeezing your upper thigh and holding you in place, while his other arm hung unobstructed. 

“We–” he clicked his tongue, “–wouldn’t want to be late now, would we?” He finished, purring. 

The location was a couple hours outside of Gotham on the coastline in an area you’d practically never heard of. If it wasn’t for J’s gift for navigation, and his frustration when you kept leading him down wrong turns, you would have been hours late instead of just missing the ceremony. The last straw had been assuring him the early exit was your turn off despite his gut instinct, despite the countless times he asked ‘are you sure?’ and despite his sneaking glances – something he stopped doing when he almost crashed into the car next to you, too focused on craning his neck. All of this combined had resulted in the brutal demise of your map reading days. 

Stopping where he could after taking the wrong exit he held out a gloved hand, a wordless demand for the navigator. Before long, you were back on the freeway, thankfully heading the right way. The directory rested in his lap as he balanced the seemingly breezy tasks of reading and driving. 

Clearly safety was his middle name.

Once the two of you arrived at the venue, the first thing you both noticed was the heat. Warm and uncomfortable, the seabreeze made this bearable. The next notable feature was the rambunctious clamour of the crowd; music, laughter and shouting. 

After worming your way out of the van, comically wedged between two much smaller cars, you headed towards the reception, stopping short from the asphalt-sand border. J stared at it as if it had foiled his genius villainous plots, as if it was the cause of all his misfortunes, as if it was responsible for the brutal murder of his first pet. Then, he made a face – a mixture between a scowl and disgust. 

He sniffed, “it smells like...” he paused to grimace, “high society.” 

The ghastly look was then directed ahead to each moving – breathing – organism he could see. There was no doubt in your mind the crowd had already made it on his hit list.

“For once I miss the stink of Gotham.” 

“Well at least it’s at the beach!” You exclaimed, not recalling the last time you’d been. Trying to think that far back made your brain hurt, the tingle of overworked cogs and Brain Fog a lethal combination that coerced your forfeit in seconds. At the very least you were happy to be making new memories, hopefully some you’d be able to remember in the future; memories you prayed were not, later too, guarded by the merciless Brain Fog and his ravenous desire to generate headaches.  

“I hate the beach,” J delivered flatly, hatred distilled rolling off his person in waves.  

“Oh, you hate everything!” You pouted, brushing off his pessimism. 

“It’s hard not to.” 

“Well…” You stopped to think, wracking your brain to prove him wrong, “what about me?”

That had to get him. 

“You especially,” he grinned, eyes twinkling with a mischief that spoke nothing other than ‘you walked right into that one, sweetheart.’ 

You were unable to help the sigh that sailed past your hued lips, “well, come on sunshine. You can’t stare daggers at them all day.”

“I can try,” he spat sourly. 

You rolled your eyes and dragged him along but immediately dropped the act when you quickly realised it hauled unwanted eyes, like metal to magnets. Yet, J followed even though you were certain he saw the cursed asphalt-sand barrier as the very gates of hell themselves. In fact, he seemed a little bit too eager to start his anathematised exploration of the 9 circles as when you looked back, expecting to see his long limbs hanging in defeated protest, you were met with, well, nothing.

One moment he was there, the next he was gone seemingly stalking off into the unknown, hiding among the sea of people. It wasn’t like he was easy to lose either, his height and his aura of absolute discomfort is what set him apart from the rest. He protruded like a broken bone – so why couldn’t you find him?

“Damn it, J!” You harshly whispered to yourself, unknowingly stamping your foot until the insidious specks of sand tumbled their way into your shoe, under your feet and between your toes. Easily conquering your layer of protection, their coarse presence made you want to grind your teeth. 

Maybe this was a mistake.

Before you could go off and search for the lost irritating puppy, you heard shouts. At first they seemed like ordinary yells, distinctive deviations from the crowd which happened to catch your attention at the right moment. Though, the more time passed and you wandered around like a newborn giraffe looking for its mother, you realised this was not the case. Most telling was the way those vague cries morphed into the familiar syllables of your name. And then finally in view, the supposed sweet comfort of childhood embodied neared; their worn features staring into your own, different from all those years ago. 

You fought the urge to run. 

“Hey honey!” Your dad beamed.

Two pairs of smothering arms made their way toward you, enveloping. With your fingers clutching separate materials, each as scratchy and glacial as each other, your head started to spin and you felt yourself holding your breath. 

“Hey mum, hey dad, it’s nice to see you two again,” you said, feeling the slow ache from clenching your jaw starting to set in. You quickly swapped this expression for a small smile when they released you.

“How’ve you been?” Your dad inquired, the shimmer in his eyes a sight you couldn’t help but double take at. You noticed there was no glass in his hand. 

“Don’t bombard her dear,” your mum rolled her eyes, “where’s this date you were telling me about?” 

She lingered on the word with an emotion you couldn’t quite discern while her adjudicating eyes swept over your outfit. Her eyebrows then lifted, scrunching her nose with it. “Not bad.”

Her scanning forced you to shrink into yourself, the automatic motion of your palms relentless in their pursuit of wrinkles, a fact you did not pick up on until your mother cleared her throat at your unprompted staring contest.  

“My question dear, it’s rude to ignore your mother,” her thin brows creased and the folds just above them rested along her forehead in a similar fashion.  

You scrambled for an acceptable answer, the question just as ambiguous to yourself.

“He’s… um… getting us drinks! I was actually just about to go check up on–” 

“Well if a man can’t even fetch you a drink he’s hardly useful,” she scoffed, turning to her husband to whisper, “can’t imagine what this prince charming looks like.” 

Anger, lava-like and boiling, rose up in your throat. The pressure seemed unbearable as you tried to keep your mouth closed – tried not to defend the one you loved with your entire being. How dare she judge someone she had yet to even meet? She had yet to see the beauty that radiated in and out. 

It had only been minutes and you’d already been zapped of your energy for the day.

“I think I should go check on him now.” “Yes, of course. Come back to me when you have something to show,” your mother smiled. You watched her lips stretch, her wine lipstick as pigmented as the red coating your vision. 

Her hand clutched the necklace around her chest. Her fingers traced the glistening diamond which hung overtly, screaming it’s pricelessness to all passersby as she went to go have another sip of her champagne. At the corner of your eye you noticed movement, a pair of worn hands clutching suit pants. Hard. You turned automatically and when you met his eyes your dad shot you a strained smile. It almost looked like an apology. 

Your stomach turned. 

You tried your best to conceal the stomping as you promptly departed, promising yourself to at least wait until you were out of their view and blending in with the crowd. Once you merged with the patches, you quickly discovered that navigating your way out of it was going to be just as hard as trying to find J. Left and right amalgamated, looking the same no matter how many times you tried to compare differences and so did everyone’s outfits. You could have sworn you’d seen the same red dress three times, though you also could have sworn you went all different directions to the last; the truth was you were no more knowing than a sailor stranded at sea lacking a compass, the same indistinguishable shapelessness stretching out for miles and miles with no end in sight.  

Then, a miracle – a clearing of people which shrieked hope and a long portable table with flowing white lace harbouring all kinds of food. Amongst the good news, a blotch of royal blue caught your eye and a flash of blond. Focusing your view on the table and its few inhabitants, one of which was the blue wearing stranger, you quickly realised your missing date was fixed and firm in place at the snack area. No sooner than this revelation processed you dashed over, the anger returning once the relief had run its fleeting course. As you stormed your way over to him he failed to look up, too preoccupied with the food he was collecting. Lacking in subtlety, you grabbed his arm. 

“Jesus there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

J, who had been waiting to stuff his face with what you identified as another cupcake, mouth ringed with strawberry frosting, crumbs and sprinkles, dropped it in surprise and turned to you with widened eyes. They shrunk as soon as they showed an inkling of surprise and instead shifted to speckled guilt. 

“Cupcake,” he managed to mumble with a full mouth.

Your fiery frustration was immediately put out by how cute he was, and you felt a surge of guilt yourself. It wasn’t fair to be taking out your personal frustrations on him. 

After closing your eyes and taking a breath, you reset. 

“They think I’m lying about you.”

He swallowed.

“You wanna leave? I, uh, know I want to,” he said much louder than the whisper you wish he’d used.

Such a comment warranted an elbow jab into his waist as you smiled ear to ear and sickly sweet at the passing guest who had clearly heard J. The middle aged woman with short brunette hair, white pom-pom earrings and beady eyes shot you two a blazing look before rutting her nose into the air. The reek of pretension wafted off her. Now you could see what J was saying earlier. 

Pee-yew. 

Everyone here sucked. 

“I’m gonna kill her later,” he murmured, squinting after her. 

“J, you promised to be good!”

Even if she was a grandiloquent old bitch who deserved it.

His ominous response was to pour himself some punch, the clown-in-disguise bringing the plastic up to his lips. As the cup masked most of his face, the only thing visible was his deadly gaze which bounced from congregation to congregation.

“How much longer.” Again, it wasn’t phrased as a question, more a statement. 

“The bride and groom haven’t even danced yet.” 

He scrunched his nose, though dropped the subject. At least verbally.

“You’re so crabby. You do know that you’re drawing even more attention to yourself this way?” 

“Hmmph.”

It was silent for a few minutes before, without warning, he grabbed your hand. The hesitant and jagged strokes of his thumb followed and even though they belonged to a novice, the delicacy was still there.

The message was clear: 

I’m new to this. 

Your lips upturned, the gentle quirk hidden by transient hair flowing along the salty breeze. His touch was warm and paradoxically amiable; his presence a shelter cutting the chilly current that had picked up around noon. Stained lips, of which you had forgotten about until the sticky residue imprinted boldly on his glove, aimed to ease his buzzing mind. Expecting a grumble for the lipstick mark, what you got in return was the soft gaze of dark brown eyes – a sign of taming raging waters. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact the window into his soul for once could be identified as just that – a window; crystal, without the dirtied stains of camouflage and trepidation. 

Something had changed. 

Before you could get another word in, it was announced the bride and groom were going to have their first dance. The crowd gathered around the newly wedded couple as the music suddenly switched. The speakers were loud as they played a waltz, the couple’s limbs intertwined and swaying to its dramatic pace. They twirled and swayed with the grace of swans tiptoeing and beguiling the creeping ocean on the golden sands. Even though you knew virtually nothing about them, and were convinced that in fact this whole invite was your mother’s scheme to pry, the sight was a beautiful one to behold. The epitome of love – reciprocal trust and utter surrender; it had you wondering where you’d gone wrong previously, and if such a thing was as formulaic as it seemed to be, or if they were freefalling into the abyss as much as everyone else was; blindfolded, but nonetheless with each other. Welded in each other’s hearts.

How long had you projected your yearning at the couple and vicariously lived through their magical moment? You couldn’t say, though it was only the sudden grip on your shoulder that had managed to break your fixed admiration. It was firm, but nowhere near the realm of rough, and it even contained a fraction of gentleness, an action that wordlessly said ‘are you okay?’

At the sudden presence, you looked over your shoulder to find J, his guarded eyes holding a knowledge which only deepened the crawling feeling of embarrassment. Blood rushed to your cheeks. As you rounded your gaze back to the couple, you quickly saw the crowd was beginning to join them, all dancing at their own pace as the music continued its intimate lull. J’s hand slid down your arm while you watched and returned to hold your hand. Content and about to lean into him, your sudden love struck daze pounced away when he started to walk, dragging you along with him. 

“Hey– what are you doing?”

No response. 

“Let me go!” You said, your tone coming out a lot angrier than you’d expected. You guessed this alerted him because even though you were mere meters away from the rest of the crowd he stopped to explain. 

“I saw the way you were looking at them. You know, cupcake, you’re not hard to read,” he drawled.

You pursed your lips, looking away for a moment. 

“So what? What are you doing?” 

“What does it – ah – look like?” 

He’d seemingly taken your lack of response as a positive and continued forward. He grinned once he had you in position and placed his palm on the small of your back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles. He then maneuvered his other hand to grab yours and stretched it forward. From his first few steps you knew immediately it was the Viennese Waltz. The fast tempoed dance was one you weren't all too familiar with, but you’d learned its slower English counterpart.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you gasped, trying your best to conceal your astonishment. You didn’t want to seem rude, though he just didn’t seem like the person interested in such a thing. Nor have the time. You were certainly finding yourself more curious about the origin of such a talent, and all the other potential abilities that were sneakily tucked away. 

“Well aren’t I just full of surprises.”

He dipped you slightly in time with the halt of the orchestra. He held you there for a moment before the tune resumed its boisterous charm, climbing steadily to its crescendo. 

“Here’s to another,” he said, his smile widening. If you didn’t know him so well you would have believed the expression to be completely innocent and honeyed. Standing there intertwined with his limbs you knew that devilish gleam was anything but. 

And, seconds later, this suspicion proved right. 

Suddenly he lifted you, twirling you around in such a way that made you feel like you were the bride. You’d only seen such a thing in Disney movies and cheesy rom coms – to be cherished, to be loved and cared for in such a delicate way was a fantasy; a taste of nostalgia and a serenade to the hopeless romantic within.

“J, put me down! Put me down!” You felt yourself swallow when his hands tightly gripped your hips. For a moment the irritation you’d experienced all day from a full face of makeup and wandering had all been worth it. 

His laughs slipped out, too; a direct contrast from his often irked facade, a musically heart-warming phenomenon which no instrument could emulate. The whole time you kept your eyes on each other and never once did they deter, focused on drinking in the beauty of each other. The cheers from the crowd you’d gathered fell upon both your deaf ears, transfixed by each other’s magic in your own closed off bubbles. 

As you continued to dance, the act itself felt like flying. The crowd separated when you neared – that is, until everything stopped. Sharp and prompt. 

Neither of you had much regard for the abrupt bump when it happened, there were people everywhere and mistakes occurred. It was no big deal. At least that’s what you told yourself until such a collision was followed by a violent shriek and a splash. 

Loud gasps replaced the background noise of applause.  

In a few frightening seconds your brain made the connection – linking who you’d just seen in the same area minutes before, inches from the ocean. 

“Oops,” you squeaked, too scared to turn around. However, despite your better judgement you did just that. 

The groom stood in shock, evidently unable to come to terms with the sight he was seeing. One moment his new wife was safe within his arms, dancing as if it was only two of them in the universe, the next she was below him, swimming with seaweed. Then, his form began to tremble, a telltale sign that what was to come was nowhere near the realms of good. 

He turned around with searing red eyes, a wrinkled nose and bared teeth. The eyes of the bull met the petrified, and his stubby, squared and well-manicured finger pointed directly at you. 

“You fucking bitch!” He roared.

You jumped, feeling yourself cling to J. His arm wrapped around you reassuringly and although you trusted him with your life, being confronted by a raging groom was still nonetheless intimidating. The groom who apparently cared more about telling you off than helping his wife, who was still floundering in the crashing waves, began his march over to you. 

“Do you know who I am?” He continued, and you wondered if he was still aware there was a crowd around. J almost instantly stood in front of you and had to hunch further to scowl at your aggressor.

“What was that?” J grabbed the man in front of him and slipped the blade hidden in his sleeve between the groom’s lips, angling it against the crease of his mouth. 

“Hmm? Why not try your luck, princess. Say it again.” 

The groom froze, the flicker of fear evident even on your end, though he kept up his brutish facade. 

“You’re both going to be 6 feet under when my dad’s through with you.” 

“Aww… run along to daddy so he can fix all your problems,” you could hear the pout in your boyfriend’s voice, comfortable and in your eyes even elated, to spit out the toxins he’d been gathering from just being here all day.

“So you do know who I am–” “The second most spoiled kid of Gotham’s underbelly.” 

“And yet, you’re still holding the knife.” 

“Of course the first would be your brother though, hmm?” J continued, completely ignoring the man's statement.

The groom gritted his teeth. 

“I bet it stings to not be the favourite. To not even have him here on your big day.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” The groom spat, bullseyeing J’s shoe. You saw red pooling at the corner of the man’s mouth, the mere act of expectorating on your boyfriend’s shoe more urgent than self-preservation. 

Yeesh. 

“Now that’s not very hygienic,” J growled, wrinkling his nose. His grip on the knife tightened and in one quick motion, the groom was screaming. 

While you couldn’t see the infliction from where you were positioned, the blood dripping onto the sand was clear as crystal. The screams of those around you were piercing, their horror and disgust forcing you to cling tighter to your boyfriend.

“J, please! That’s enough, it’s okay!” You pulled on his blazer. Feeling the hundreds of widened eyes staring holes into your being was no longer a concern. What mattered most was him. Getting out of here. 

With a quick glance to his right, J met you, then looked back at the groom. 

He smacked his lips. 

“Seems you are lucky,” he purred, the shimmer in his eye reflecting nothing of the warmth he concealed so carefully – nothing of the warmth of when your eyes met. Instead, it was serrated and reflected jeopardy. He possessed the force of a hurricane. A gravity; the way in which he commanded the direction of things and uprooted the fortitude of the righteous, the sure, a mothernatured finesse. 

He looked back at you again before shifting his hold on the man, fisting his wrinkled and bloodied shirt, then barked, “why don’t you go join your blushing bride?” 

With the element of surprise, J raised his knee and shot it between the man’s legs, the man falling down almost as fast as the foreign presence made an impact. You could have sworn someone at the corner of your eye jolted, most likely fearing the worst while others let out shrieks. Fear of the unknown, the seduction of one’s imagination and its ability to fill in blanks was the most manipulatable aspect of consciousness. Rather than bleeding out and rocking lifeless against the cradling waves like so many had thought, the groom sat there, soaking in the shame of defeat and crimson. He hollered while his new wife crawled to his side. 

“Tell your precious father I said ‘hi.’”

All eyes now turned to you both as you speedily departed, J dragging you along once more. The colony of sand in your shoe that had begun its formation hours ago was well in its breeding season now, the leathery insole most likely buried along with the newly wed’s marriage. Before you fully exited the cooperative crowd, forever to forget the merging faces of horror, two familiar ones caught your eye. 

Hah!

“Some date, huh?” You smiled, staring at your mother straight on. The way her face twisted up in a myriad of emotions – surprise, disgust, embarrassment – was something you’d never forget. You were sure you destroyed her little snobbish social circle by the mere association. Pride swelled in your chest, a childish victory that didn’t seem so childish when you later reflected on your relationship with her. 

When the two of you escaped back to the van successfully, there was a moment of contemplation. 

“I – heh – think that went well!” J laughed to himself, rounding his body to face you, “you think your parents like me?” 

“I think I should be asking the same to myself,” you said.  

“Cheer up buttercup, at least your parents know you’re not dying alone anymore.”

“To be honest, after that shitshow they’d probably prefer it,” a sigh left your lips and you began to bite them, unconscious of the small action until the taste of metal blew up your taste buds.

“Eh. Who needs parents, anyway?” 

You began to fiddle with your hands, suddenly finding them incredibly interesting. From the lack of interruptions you concluded he knew you were miles away, trapped in the wilderness of your own thoughts.  

“So I’m guessing you only came because you found out whose wedding it was.”

It took a lot to break the silence, and the air suddenly shifted to a heaviness. You weren’t sure you were the only one tensing. 

J clicked his tongue but didn’t answer. 

“It’s okay… I think I’ve had my fill of weddings for a while, anyway. And parents. And honestly, maybe people,” you answered for him, despite the swirl of hurt brewing in your gut. 

He breathed out his amusement. The lack of transience had you swallowing, frantic to keep the growing weight on your chest from expanding – from consuming your entire being with emptiness. You didn’t know how long you had until the stampede made its mark, the thunderous thuds of terror already echoing in the distance. 

Those were only thoughts you could entertain alone, sunken in the decaying paradise of your bed. 

Silence prevailed again.

Dazed and lost of direction, you remained fixated on the lines of your palms. 

“The husband had a temper. You know, I thought they were so lovely at first.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. Their little golden castles sparkle in the sun and it’s only until the rain pours that you can see them for what they really are. Wet cardboard. Looks can be deceiving.” 

“They certainly can be,” you looked up at him, smiling softly. 

Even with the friction, you slowly reached up to cup his face. This time on his end, there was no fear or hesitation. Instead, just an unspoken mutual trust between two wandering souls. You looked down at his lips while your thumbs stroked the hidden lines of his scars. The gentle caresses wore down the makeup until finally they were visible again. 

The marks of a survivor – beautiful and bold.

“Wait,” he said, the word simple and yet so labyrinthine. He reared back and looked at his hands while your own moved to rest on your knees. Curled into fists, his slowly unclamped like a blooming flower. What they revealed had your heart thumping, dancing its rhythm in your throat. You felt your eyes widen and the sadness immediately leave you, as if all its colour had been drained from you. You felt like a 1930’s cartoon, so shaken to the core that all you could see was greyscale. 

“It wasn’t the only reason,” he whispered, the commanding presence absent.  

He cleared his throat and finally looked up at you, “in fact, these were my only reason.” 

“You son of a bitch,” you bit your tongue in awe at the binding pieces of metal in his hands. They twinkled in the holiday rays, beckoning, unuttering whispers of fabrication. Was the weight of those dual bands as heavy as his heart? As heavy as the solemn expression as he processed your jabbing words?

“I-I know it’s not much but–” he stuttered, and was promptly interjected. 

“Oh! No, no, no! I didn’t mean–” 

You both smiled. Yours wide and brazen, his small and seraphic. 

“My J. Always starting fights, always getting what he wants,” you took the ring from his finger and darted to your left hand, slipping it on its rightful throne, “how can I resist?”  

You kissed him mellowed and full of saccharine and he sighed, his reciprocation just as tender despite the usual dash of coarseness. 

“Mine,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. He fluttered his eyes shut and his breathing began to steady. 

“Mine,” you whispered. 

In all that was and all that ever could be, never would you have believed such a moment possible. Magical and idiosyncratic, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Nothing big and extravagant in front of many eyes. Just the two of you, inside what you now considered the best moment of your life. What many described as a lock and chain, a prison for the rest of one’s life, you would describe as the only thing you had ever wanted. As much as before, everything felt complete. 

Supernal.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, breathing in unison, basking in each other. All you knew was that it was all too soon when you hit the road again, starting the long journey back to Gotham. After a lot of the same scenery – trees, cars, rocks, more cars and occasional bodies of water – your eyes had become leaden. Resting became impossible to oppose and before long your eyes gave into its stinging demand. 

Somewhere within the haze of half-consciousness, a mysterious material was draped over you. It was silken on the inside, your arms softly grazing it occasionally, and linen on the outside, your chin brushing over it when passing uneven roads. Subtle ripples of cologne drifted from the fabric as you finally fell prey to sleep’s siren song.