Lacey

A walk through the garden had turned into sitting beneath a tree when you grew tired, sweat clinging to your skin. You don't know how Diana still looks as put together as she did before the walk. You've been trying to will your legs to keep up for the past 20 minutes. 

You pluck some flowers from the ground as you attempt to make a flower crown, a mix of reds and yellows. 

“Can you teach me how to fight one day?” you ask absentmindedly.

She hums. “If that is what you wish.”

You grin. “You’d say yes to anything, then.”

“That is not what I said, my love.”

You drop the makeshift crown and wrap your arms around her neck from behind.

“Finished already?” She tries to turn, curious to see what you’ve done.

“Nope.” You continue to hug her, your face burrowing into her hair, taking in her scent as if it'll bring you peace.

“Would you kill a pegasus for me?”

The sudden question makes her blink, unsure whether to reprimand you or laugh.

“Pegasus are beloved creatures…”

“I’m your beloved creature.”

“Yes, that is true.” A reluctant smile graces her lips. “However, I do not kill needlessly. You, of all people, know life is—”

“Precious,” you finish for her, your arms falling to your sides.

She hums, satisfied. Her hand finds yours. “Will a kiss not suffice?” She's facing you now, her legs folded neatly beneath her

Pulling your hand back, you look for the crown. “Hmm, I don’t know. Anyone can kiss me, but can they kill a mythical creature?”

“I can do more than kiss you,” she says casually, not taking the bait. Her eyes dart to you before focusing on the flowers in your hand.

“Oh?” You ask, raising a brow. You reach up to place the flower crown on her head. “Such as?”

Diana shifts closer, near enough that her knee brushes yours. “I could spar with you at dawn.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrible.”

“You asked me to teach you to fight.”

“Yeah, but not at an ungodly hour.” You admire your poorly done crown. Definitely not a crown fit for a princess. 

But it's somehow perfect for your princess, you think, when her eyes find yours. 

Masterlist

If you asked Stephanie Brown who Batgirl was, she’d say it depends. 

Barbara’s Batgirl was strong, brave, and cunning. A pathfinder, a wonderful hero who saved countless lives and gave everything she had to the life. She was a pioneer, a champion who pathed the way for the rest of them.

Cass’s Batgirl was different, a fresh take on an old hero. Though she’s quiet, though she’s vicious in her fighting, she’s still heroic.  She brings a calm sort of comfort wherever she goes. 

But if you asked her about herself, she’s not sure what she’d say. She’s a civilian amongst gods, someone dressed in a knockoff costume playing pretend while the others do the real heroic work. A cheap imitation of the real thing.

As far as hero-ing goes for her, she already feels that she doesn’t have much going on. Not that she needs the reminder.

Entering the Batcave, already exhausted from her lack of sleep and the incredibly long day she’s had, she’s not sure what to expect. Maybe the usual arguing amongst Bats, Tim and Damian trading insults like a normal day while Cass sits quietly and reads in the corner.

Definitely not the scene that comes to play out in front of her—Barbara and Cass teaching someone new to spar, someone she’s never seen before who is very much dressed in a rendition of the Batgirl costume. She blinks, rubbing her eyes like the scene will disappear when she does.

It doesn’t.

Her lips purse into a frown. Another Batgirl? Something ugly twists in her chest. She’d fought like hell for this mantle, had done it all on her own against the will of pretty much everybody, and here’s someone new, wearing it with the support of both her predecessors.

She shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing. No, that’s not fair. She forces a smile, stepping up to the mat to watch.

She watches quietly for a few minutes while you trade blows with Cass, watches you fight as hard as you can to keep up with Cass who’s very clearly restraining herself. Cass sweeps a leg, taking you down to the mat easily, your mask bouncing off your face.

You squeak, sitting up and rubbing the back of your head where it hit the mat. 

Steph’s eyes widen slightly. You took that hit like a champ, and now, seeing you without the mask, she can’t help but think how pretty you are. That twistiness inside of her only grows heavier. 

“Hey, good timing,” Babs calls, waving her over.

Steph tugs down her hood and mask. “Hey, guys.” She strains to keep her voice as cheery as usual, “who’s this?”

Cass introduces the two of you, and Steph can’t help but note the way she already seems warmed up to you. How long has this been going on? 

You smile and step forward, offering her a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you!!”

“Hi.” She takes your hand, that same strained smile on her face, and shakes it. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

She can’t help but notice the softness of your palm against hers—not yet calloused by night after night of hard fighting and acrobatics—and the purple sheen on your nails, almost perfectly matched to her costume. Her hand lingers just a moment too long.

“She’s helping us with this drug trafficking operation at the docks,” Barbara explains, and Steph wonders if she can see through the facade she’s putting on. “Cass and I are helping her brush up on her fighting skills.”

She nods thinly, “right.”

“The Batgirl thing is just temporary,” you explain. “I just needed something to conceal my identity and Babs—”

Stephanie winces at the way the nickname rolls off your tongue, like you’ve always been friends.

“—just had this one laying around.” You finish.

You do a little twirl in the costume, the long cape splaying out as you do. Steph can’t help but look you up and down, examining the way the costume seems to fit and accentuate every curve on your body. Her eyes widen slightly. It fits you like a glove.

The three of you get back to your training, leaving Steph to watch on the sidelines. Slowly, she edges her way out until she’s back outside in the Gotham rain.

If you asked Stephanie now who Batgirl was—her version at least—she could only tell you one thing: replaceable.

The Batgirl thing, it seems, is not just temporary, and Stephanie can’t seem to escape you.

She’s gotten used to your presence now—the way you linger nearby on missions, the way you spend more time with Cass than without, the way your eyes occasionally meet hers only for you to look away quickly like it never happened. She’s never quite sure if you’re judging her, or trying to get her attention, or some other third thing she hasn’t thought of yet. 

It would almost be sweet, if it didn’t have her feeling so self-conscious. 

It’s after patrol one night, the summer sun just beginning to kiss the horizon of Gotham City, when you catch up with her.

“Steph, hey, Steph, wait up!” 

She’s tempted, if only for a moment, to speed up and pretend she hasn’t heard. And yet, for some reason, she can’t. You’ve never been anything but perfectly nice to her, and this jealous mean girl act of hers is so high school.

She tugs down her mask, turning to face you. “What’s up?”

“I think Cass and I were going to this cafe this morning for breakfast, do you want to come?” You smile awkwardly, tilting your head to the side, “they have amazing coffee.”

She considers it for a moment, gears whirring in her head. Some coffee and breakfast would be amazing right now, as well as some time with Cass. But you’ll be there, like a constant reminder of everything she isn’t, and she knows she won’t be able to keep up her positive mood the whole time.

She flashes you a weak grin, “I think I’m just gonna go to sleep.”

“Oh,” disappointment flashes behind your eyes. “No worries, sleep well.”

You turn on your heel to leave, approaching the edge of the old warehouse rooftop you’ve been standing on, when suddenly you look over your shoulder. The golden light of the rising sun reflects off your skin, making your eyes glow and your skin shimmer. You look so pretty like this, Steph can’t help but be a little grateful she only sees you at night.

“I’ll get Cass to text you the address,” you say, that familiar hope back on your face, “y’know, in case you change your mind.”

“Thanks.”

Despite what she said, an hour later Steph finds herself freshly showered and digging through her closet. 

She pulls out a casual pink sundress and tries it on, standing in the mirror and examining herself. She frowns at her reflection, smoothing her hands over the dress like that’ll make it fit better. It doesn’t.

Discarding it in the growing pile of clothes on her bed, Steph goes back to the drawing more. She pulls different garments out, trying them on only to drop them back in the pile. She always never struggles this much getting ready, least of all for a casual breakfast with friends.

Sighing, she lets herself flop onto her bed, sitting on her mountain of clothes. It’s just a casual outing, Steph, she tells herself. Just pick a damned outfit,

But she can’t, because all she can think about is what you’re going to be thinking. Are you going to look at her with those eyes like you usually do? She wonders what you’ll be wearing, if you’ll be dressed casual or cute or comfortable. Knowing you, it’s probably some perfect combination of the three.

Her eyes flutter closed as she pictures it. You, wearing some comfy practical outfit, hair perfect, sipping on some fancy drink from the cafe. She thinks about how your face will light up when she walks into the cafe, the way you’ll smile and wave at her when she approaches the table.

“Glad you can make it,” you’ll probably say, or some other line of the sort.

Her heart speeds up at the thought, stomach doing a whirlwind. You’re so…perfect, and here she is, sitting in her mess of a room, unable to pick a damned outfit. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. 

Tears prick at her eyes. One minute, that’s all she asks. One minute where you’re not constantly on her mind, where she’s not constantly wondering about what you’re doing, who you’re with or how you’ll replace her next.

She doesn’t end up going to the cafe.

Steph’s not sure how she ended up here.

The two of you, trapped in a burning warehouse, surrounded by low level lackeys. She’s not even sure who they work for, their outfits a mess of colours and patterns that she can’t quite make out through the steadily thickening smoke.

Your back is pressed to hers, the warmth of your body seeping through both of your costumes, acting as a comfort. At least, it would be a comfort, if the two of you were in any other situation.

The masked men close in, the roar of the distant fire burning gets louder. Steph’s nerves catch fire, buzzing with the impending promise of action. She bounces on her heels, loosening up her muscles just like she was taught. One more step, one more step and she’s ready.

The heel of the closest man inches forward. Steph pounces. All hell breaks loose.

It’s a blur of action, of fighting her way through the seemingly neverending wave of goons. Her muscles ache, every punch and kick only making the burning under her skin worse. The warehouse gets hotter, the smoke rises, clogging her senses.

Behind her somewhere, the sounds of your own violence echo off the walls. You’ve always been a good fighter—probably better than her—but something in the back of her mind buzzes with worry. Like something bad is going to happen, like she needs to look out for you.

She shakes it away, diving back into the action, trying to ignore the constant nagging in the back of her mind.

She finishes off the last of her men, freezing at the sudden silence. She can’t hear you fighting anymore, can’t see you through the smoky haze. Her heart hammers in her chest. Where on Earth could you have gone?

One second. That’s how long she’s distracted for, maybe less. But one second is all it takes for someone to come up behind her, a forearm pressed over her throat and a leg hooking over her ankles. She’s taken quickly to the ground, back thudding hard against the hard ground.

Stars explode behind her eyes, the wind knocked out of her. Through the haze, she just manages to make out the masked goon above her and the gun barrel shoved inches from her face. She cringes, bracing herself to duck and roll, to do anything but lay here and take it.

And just like that, he’s gone, slammed into the ground by a familiar figure. You’re breathing heavily above Steph, eyes wide behind your mask as you reach a hand to help her up.

She grabs you, letting you tug her to the feet, and the way your hand lingers on hers reminds her of the day you met. Your jaw is slack, worry written across every feature. Steph blinks, letting the air come back to her lungs.

“T-thanks,” she gasps.

“We need to get out of here.”

Steph nods curtly, letting you tug her after you as you search for the exit, only dropping her hand when you brace yourself against the emergency exit and shove hard. Cold night air greets her, filling her burning lungs with sweet relief. 

She’s dizzy from the smoke, dizzy from the hit she took. Her lips purse into frown. It’s surely going to leave a big, ugly bruise. Goodbye sundresses.

Standing on the rooftop of the burning warehouse, she watches you approach the edge, scoping out the ground below for any sign of the goons who almost overwhelmed you.

You turn to face her. “Tim called the fire department, they’re on the way.”

She braces her hands on her knees, still lightheaded from the fall. The fall. She forces herself to stand up straight, peeling off her mask and hood. “Where did you go back there?”

“Huh?”

“You—you disappeared, it distracted me. Where did you go?”

She cocks a hand on her hip, waiting for an explanation. She was too busy worrying about you, about your safety, to take care of herself. If it weren’t for your impromptu disappearance, she wouldn’t be coughing her lungs up like an amateur right now.

You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “One of them tried to get away and—”

“You couldn’t have told me that?” She snaps, walking towards you, closing the gap until you’re inches away. “We’re partners, you’re supposed to tell me these things.”

“I didn’t think I had time!”

“Or you just wanted the glory for yourself,” she spits bitterly.

You pause, lips parting in confusion. She tugs at her hair. Even now, a slight cut on your cheek and sweaty from battle, you still look perfectly cute. She’s sure she must look a complete mess, sweaty and dirty and bruised.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tucks a sweaty strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Nothing, just—nevermind.”

You shake your head. “No, what did you mean?”

“I mean it’s—it’s—” Frustration bubbles up in her chest, muscles pulling taut like she’s about to enter another fight. She’s not even sure where she’s going for it, what word vomit she’s about to shove in your face now. You’re inches away, staring at her like a deer in the damn headlights, and she’s the lone car on the road with the choice to hit you or not.

“It’s what?”

“It’s you! Always being so—so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you and—and—”

And that urge buzzes beneath her fingertips, that urge she’s always felt just beneath the surface. The one she felt that day you met, when she’d had that fear you’re replacing her. The one she’s felt every day since when you’re around, the same one she gets before a big fight.

She raises a hand and you don’t even flinch, looking up at her with those damn wide eyes. She’s not sure who’s more confused by what she’s doing—you, or her.

And then she’s kissing you, the taste of smoke heavy on both of you. Her hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb swiping over the length of your cheekbone. It’s hot and tense and she feels more that she’s trying to eat you alive than kiss you.

She pulls away, taking a big jump back like she’s been burned.

“Steph,” you breathe her name.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. “No.”

“Stephanie—”

“No, okay? I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.” She’s shaking slightly, her voice breaking on the words, “I don’t even—I don’t want to see you right now. Okay? Just…just forget it.”

She spins on her heel, bolting over to the far end of the rooftop. She can still taste you on her tongue, like smoke and leftover chapstick and something else buried beneath. She wipes at her mouth and the taste still lingers, follows her down the fire escape at the edge of the roof, chases after her on the way home.

It’s only when she’s in the shower, desperately trying to wash it away, that she feels she can breathe again. What on Earth was that?

Your soap isn’t enough to wash away the smell of smoke on your body, or the taste of Steph’s chapstick lingering in your mouth. You stand under the water for what must be an hour, scrub every inch of your body twice, and still, it doesn’t help. Stephanie’s voice still rings in the back of your head.

You disappeared, it distracted me.

You just wanted the glory for yourself.

Always being so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you.

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see you right now.

Coming from Steph of all people, someone you’ve looked up to, pined after, tried to forge a friendship with, the words hurt. They leave you cold and numbed, a new weight in your chest that wasn’t there before the mission.

She’s always been the sun in your eyes, warm and scalding, bright and beautiful, painful to look at. You’ve always gravitated closer to her, done your best to accommodate her, and this is where you end up. With a bitter kiss and more distance between you than there was to start.

You blink the thoughts away, staring into the steam rising from your kettle on the stove. Your phone buzzes, an unfamiliar number popping up on your screen.

Hey, it’s Steph. Can we talk?

You pick up your phone, contemplating opening the message and answering, and yet you can’t. What do you even say to her right now?

You turn off your phone. Let her sit with it for a while.

A while turns into a week. A week of unanswered texts and calls, of attempts by Barbara and Tim and Cass to get the two of you to talk. You shirk your duties as Batgirl, spend as much time as you can locked away at home, far far away from your double life.

Still, Stephanie isn’t one to give up.

The knock at your door comes early in the morning, so early, it rouses you from your sleep. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up in bed, the pink hue of the rising sun greeting you.

Another knock at your door sends you stumbling down the hall, slippers barely on your feet. You squint through the peephole, stomach syncing when you see who it is.

Steph stands there, dressed in low rise jeans that suit her just a little too well and a baby tee. Her hair is still wet, curling slightly at the ends where it’s started to dry. She must have showered and ran over here right after patrol.

You sigh, turning away from the door, fully intent on ignoring her.

“I can hear you,” she calls.

You stop in your tracks.

“I know I screwed up,” she says, “please just hear me out.”

“I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, I almost just died, c’mon.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath. Deep down, you know she has a point. You almost wish she didn’t, if only so you could stop seeing it from her side.

Despite yourself, you turn around and unlock the door, inviting her in.

She looks sad, undereyes sallow like she hasn’t been sleeping properly. She steps on the backs of her shoes, peeling them off before falling you inside.

“Do you want something to drink?”

She shakes her head, blonde strands falling into her face. You settle in on the chair in your living room, Steph settling in on the far end of your couch—the distance between you hurts, but you’re not sure you could take it right now if she was sitting any closer.

“I’m sorry,” she starts.

You nod, tight lipped.

“About everything.”

Everything. She doesn’t say it outright, but you can hear what she hasn’t said: I’m sorry for kissing you.

“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said what I said, I was scared and-and frustrated, and I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair.”

You always take it out on me, you’re tempted to say. It lingers on your tongue like her lipgloss from the other night, heavy and toxic and yet filled with something sweet.

“It’s hard, you know?” Her voice cracks on the word, pretty eyes brimmed with tears, “I’ve been Batgirl a while. I-I fought to be Batgirl even when nobody wanted me to be.”

You remember Barbara telling you about that, heard whispers about it from Tim. It was strange to you, you couldn’t possibly imagine a world where Steph isn’t Batgirl. Someone as wonderful and capable as her.

“But then you show up and it’s like, what’s even special about me anymore? And you do everything so well, you’re so—so perfect all the damn time, and everyone loves you and it’s like…what’s even left for me?” Tears brim at your lashes and Steph’s face drops. She frowns, reaching forward like she can stop them from coming. And then you’re laughing, the sweet feeling of relief flooding your chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make yo—”

“Do you think I don’t feel that way?”

Her lips part, shock clear on her face. “No,” she mumbles out.

“Do you think I don’t find you perfect and capable and honestly, really fucking intimidating?” You shake your head, “you left some big shoes to fill, Stephanie and—and it hasn’t been easy.”

She laughs, equally as wet and filled with emotion as your own. “You really think so?”

You rise to your feet, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down next to her. She’s so close, you can smell her strawberry scented body wash and the vanilla lotion she put over top of it. 

“Yes, god.” You giggle, and it tastes like relief, “I wish you would’ve just told me this before. We could’ve had this talk a long time ago.”

And she laughs with you, the sound like heaven and sunlight and everything you thought you could never reach, and her laugh makes you laugh more. You let your eyes flutter closed, leaning your head back on the couch, ribs starting to ache from the laughing you’re doing.

And then she’s cupping your face and kissing away the laughter, vanilla flavoured chapstick heavy on your tongue. She moves against you, body pressing to yours and pressing you further into the couch.

She pulls away, cheeks flushed. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

You press a hand on the small of her back, pulling her in again. “You might need to do that a few more times.”

dc masterlist | navigation

“I didn’t think you were ever waking up,” you muse, gently brushing a few unruly strands of hair out of his face. “Did I really tire you out that much?”

Kyle opens his mouth to speak, but his uncertainty of the situation has too many questions flooding through his mind— who are you? Where are we? How did I get here?— so he settles instead on the one thing he is sure of. “My head hurts.”

You frown, pressing the palm of your hand against his forehead. “You are really hot. Your temperature, I mean.” Shifting, you grab your water bottle and hand it to him. “Here.” You watch with concern as he hurriedly drinks it down.

Your eyes dart to the clock on your bedside table. “I have to get ready for work, but I can make you some toast before I go, yeah?”

Kyle nods, watching you gather your things as you leave the room. He sits up slowly, looking around the room as he gathers his bearings. Finding nothing out of the ordinary about it (other than the fact that he doesn’t remember ever being in it before), he shifts his attention to the nightstand, opening the drawer and rummaging through it. 

Inside he finds a surplus of loose sketches, polaroids of the two of you that he has no recollection of. He picks one up, reading the small scrawl on the bottom. Y/N’s birthday. Well, at least he knew your name now. His attention turns to the far back corner, a small box tucked safely inside. He reaches for it and pops it open, staring down at the diamond ring it holds. It isn’t till that moment that he realizes his own ring, though not as grand in design as the one he is holding, is missing from its place on his hand. 

The door opens then, and Kyle quickly closes the box and returns it to its place, shutting the drawer just as you walk in.

“Here,” you say, rounding the bed and handing him the plate. “I put extra honey on it for you. Antioxidants and all that.”

“Thanks.” Kyle forces a smile, though the voice in his head tells him that his presence here is not right.

Your eyes scan his face. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can call in if—”

“No!” Kyle coughs awkwardly as he watches a look of shock cross your face. “I mean, I’ll be fine. You go. I’ll just… rest.”

You look like you’re about to protest, but think the better of it. “Alright. Just text me if you need anything, yeah?” You’re about to place a kiss on his cheek before you pause, deciding to avoid that too, and you gently squeeze his shoulder instead. “See you.” And with that, you take your leave.

Kyle listens as your footsteps get further away, as the door shuts and the lock clicks. He waits a few more moments to ensure you are gone before beginning his search for his missing green ring, moving the pillows and checking underneath the bed and in the pockets of the clothes that lay on the floor, only to come up with nothing. He goes through the dresser drawers, pausing his search to change before resuming it, but again, no ring.

He ventures out of the bedroom, searching the kitchen and living room, but there is still no sign of his ring anywhere. Just more pictures of the two of you at places he didn’t know with people he’d never met. He stares at them , wondering for a long while before coming to a conclusion.

He was in the wrong universe. Even worse, he was in the wrong body— one that looked like his, but did not feel like, and was not his own.

What he was going to do about this, he didn’t yet know.

When you arrive home, you find Kyle sitting in the chair by the window, gazing out at the yard.

“I know I’m home early, but you didn’t answer any of my check in texts so I got Tiff to cover the rest of my shift so I could come home and make sure you’re alright.” You let out a breath. “Are you alright?”

Kyle offers you a tight lipped smile. “Sorry. I’m okay.”

“Just answer your phone next time, okay? I was really worried.” You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently, and Kyle squeezes back in apology. “I got stuff to make chicken soup.” You add, moving over the kitchen. “You just rest till it’s ready.”

He does rest, for a few minutes at least. Then he’s up again, eyes scanning the photos on the wall. A question pops into his mind, and he decides to ask it for the sake of seeing how similar this universe is to his own.

“Y/n? Why don’t we have any pictures with Guy?”

“What guy?”

“The Guy who I’m friends with. Guy Gardner?”

“Kyle, I’ve met all your friends. You don’t know anyone named Guy Gardner.”

Well.

“I do,” he starts slowly, watching you dump the sliced carrots from the cutting board into the pot. “But not here.”

“Oh, so he’s a childhood friend then?”

“No. He’s a current one.”

You turn to look at him. “How come I haven’t met him yet, then?”

Kyle’s silent for a moment, deliberating. He could keep beating around the bush, but that wasn’t all that fair to you, was it? “Because… I’m not your Kyle.”

You stare at him in confusion “Sorry, what?” 

“I’m not this universe’s Kyle Rayner. I’m from… from somewhere else. I’m a superhero over there. A Green Lantern, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of them? But I don’t have my ring with me and I don’t know how to get back. The point is… I don’t belong here.”

“Kyle, honey,” you start, hoping to sound reassuring though you feel anything but. “I think you’re still sick.”

“No, I’m—” a pained expression crosses his face and he practically crumples to the floor.

“Oh my god!” You rush over to him, eyes scanning his face as you try to assess the situation.

“Kyle!”

“Kyle?!” You shake him gently, trying to get him to look at you.

“My head…” he groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Hey, I’m gonna get you to bed, alright? I think you need to lie down.”

He nods, aiding you as best he can to get him from the living room floor to the bedroom, where he collapses into bed.

Several hours later, Kyle wakes, eyes shifting around the room before landing on you, sitting on the opposite side of the bed, your back against the headboard.

“Hey,”

“Hey.” You offer him a small concerned smile. “How’s your head feeling?”

“Better.”

You nod, staying silent for a moment. “I’m gonna heat you up some soup.” You get up, pausing in the doorway. “No matter what universe you’re from, you still gotta eat, right?”

Three weeks later, you and Kyle are sitting in your yard, staring up at the stars. You can tell from the expression on his face that he is thinking again; of a life of adventures in space with people the two of you have never met and creatures you weren’t even sure existed.

Kyle senses your gaze on him.  “You still don’t think it’s real, do you?”

“I don’t think it matters what I think, only what you do.” 

“I think…” Kyle trails off, eyes roving your face. “I think I like being here with you.”

You smile softly. “I like being here with you, too.”

It’s been five months since Kyle landed in this universe— your universe— and he can see why your version of him fell in love with you. You’re one of the most caring people he’s ever met. Never once did you tell him he was crazy when he’d bring up aliens or his life amidst the stars. You just… listened, and let him talk for as long as he needed to without any judgement.

If he was going to be stuck in this universe, he wouldn’t mind being stuck with you. And if he was going to be stuck here for the rest of forever, it was only fair to do what this universe’s Kyle Rayner had wanted, right? After all, he’d already bought the ring.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he’d proposed to you in the park an hour ago.

Now, though, listening to you gush about the ring he chose, he can’t help but feel a little guilty about it.

“It’s so pretty,”

He smiles softly, his lovestruck gaze glued to your face. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Of course I do,” you reassure him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “You picked it out for me.”

You place another kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and finally one to his lips, soft and sweet.

“Kyle? Hey!”

Kyle freezes mid kiss, pulling away from you and turning towards the direction of the sound; seeing nothing but trees. “Did you hear that?”

You blink, your brain catching up to his words. “Hear what, sorry?”

“My friends… I thought I heard them,”

“…Kyle, honey, we talked about this,”

“C’mon.” Kyle stands, his hand still in yours. He tries to pull you up with him, only you do not budge, and there is a sadness in your eyes that makes him pause.

“You have to let me go.”

His eyes widen at your words. “What?”

“I love you,” you pause, tightening your grip on his hand for a moment, “but I can’t keep doing this.” You say, shifting your hand in such a way that your ring catches the light. “You said you gave me this because you wanted to be with me, but you’re still trying to leave. And if you were right when you said you don’t belong here, then I don’t belong over there either.”

It’s then that Kyle realizes he is faced with a choice: to stay with the woman he has grown to love, or return to the life he thought he’d left behind.

It’s a choice he doesn’t want to make.

Luckily for him— or perhaps, unluckily— he never had to make the decision. It was made for him.

“Simon, help him!”

Kyle feels a shock go through his body and his eyes shoot open, violent coughs wracking his body as he rolls onto his knees.

“Easy, Rayner.” A hand pats his back. “Don’t lose yer lunch.”

“What…” he wheezes, “just happened?”

Jess glances between Guy and Simon before looking back at Kyle. “I think you died?”

“Wonderful,” he says, though the comment is not entirely in jest.

It had been wonderful, in a way. Whether it was real or just a pre (or post?) death dream, he’d gotten to meet you.

Later that day, when he’s being fussed over after his temporary death, Kyle remembers hearing somewhere that the brain can’t create new faces in dreams. He hopes it’s true; that somewhere out there, you exist. Maybe one day he’ll get to see your face again, if only in passing, if only for a moment. 

sun dividers by @honeyluvsw | reblog divider by @cursed-carmine | gl divider by @toxisyddy

do not copy, alter, repost, or translate my works. do not enter any of my works into AI. © @iridescentlightshow

No one knows what to think of him. It's obvious, from the way that their eyes dart askance of him, as though people are wary to even meet his gaze. As though he's a bomb, threatening to blow up. As though he's dangerous.

When you stare at him through the medical bay window, as J'onn presses his hands to his temples, you don't see it. Whatever worries Clark. Whatever is making Bruce so wary. Whatever is making everyone take wide berth around him.

You just see, as those blue eyes find you across the plane of the glass: a kid. And a lonely, lost, scared one at that.

You don't get to run into him until a few days later. They've decided to keep him on the Watchtower until they can figure out whatever facility that Wayne Enterprises they can shuttle him off to. As though he's going to go on a volatile rampage.

Right now, when you spot him on the other side of the mess hall, poking sullenly at a few roasted potatoes with his fork, you still don't see it.

That's why you decide to make the decision of crossing the room's perimeter to him. He can tell—he looks up immediately, with no reticence, no shyness. Not used to social strictures, like a young, ambling fawn still getting used to their legs—so he is.

But there's a mask of wariness that clouds whatever curiosity is making presence in those blue eyes as he watches you approach. As he watches you settle your tray across from him and heft your legs over the bench.

You offer him a bracing smile and cast a glance over to the tray he sports before him—potatoes. Greens. A slab of untouched Salisbury steak coated with gravy.

"You know," you offer to him, taking bearings of friendliness, "The roast chicken is a lot better."

He looks at you for the span of a whiling second; then, belatedly, his eyes dart back down to the congealing meat on his tray. There's a shuffle of movement from him—a bob of his shoulders. Not necessarily hunching in upon himself, but still battening up the walls.

"I didn't really care what I got," he responds back in gruff delivery—his eyes search you. He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Trade you," you offer pertly, displaying your tray that bears chicken and salad, a slice of cheesecake on the side with proverbial cherry on top. Your finger knuckles along the ridge of the tray, inching it his way.

Those eyes offer a flicker of something indiscernible, but then it's gone before you can really take time to acknowledge that it was there. His brow knits, his jaw sets—you wait for what he's working up the courage to say.

"Did J'onn send you here to talk to me?" He asks, and there's something defiant in the manner he asks it. Something so blatantly hateful at the idea, something so markedly vulnerable.

"No," you reply back simply. "I came over here because I wanted to talk to you."

He cycles a breath, using those fledgling, unused powers to read the data of your body, to suss out the truth from the lie. And when he can find no error, the set of his jaw relaxes. But only by a little bit.

"Why?" He asks in disgruntled manner. "Wanna ask where I come from? Wanna know what makes me tick?"

It's the lashing out of someone with no defenses save the baleful tone of his voice. Nothing but himself against the world—and something in your heart twists in agonizing manner. Something empathetic takes root and blooms.

"No," you reply back calmly, "I just thought you might want someone to eat with."

"I don't want your pity," he responds with a whip-crack response that's equivalent to being slapped. You feel your eyes widen on instinct as you regard him, at the vituperative quality of his voice—the way that it was expelled from him.

You scarcely have a second to allow it to percolate between the two of you before you catch the slump of his shoulders, the bite, the vicious quality dissipated with instantaneous departure. The kid who you saw alone in the med bay with that hollow cant to his eyes.

"Sorry," he says, and his voice is hollow, brittle like dead leaves skittering on the pavement. "I just—"

He keeps his eyes trained on the trays that run parallel to each other. "I didn't expect the outside world to be…"

There's a taut hesitation as he seeks out the sanctity of vocabulary, as he fords for something that encapsulate everything he's experienced. In such a short amount of time, in days experienced in lifetimes.

"…Different." Is what he finally settles on. The silence speaks more than the singular word alone can.

You allow him a moment to contemplate the food congealing before him. And then you make a choice.

"It doesn't have to be something you go through alone." You assert, keeping your voice sotto voce, regulated and soft.

Those eyes flick up to you, wary and low. "I don't want to be a charity project."

"Good, because I'm broke," you respond smartly—a weak chuckle bursts from his lips, involuntary. Something softens in the abyss of those eyes.

"Only if you want," you continue. "Maybe we can start small—"

"How?" He asks, and there's something sad and forlorn—but hopeful. So hopeful it burgeons inside of him.

You smile. "How about we start with lunch? I'll tell you what to avoid on the menu."

A slow instant elapses between the two of you, before he nods. A curt, deliberate movement on his part.

"Okay." He says, this boy trying to be a man. "I'd like that."

When you speak, there's no trace of a lie at all in your voice—and you're glad he knows it. "Wonderful."