ANGEL

PAIRINGS: yandere plan!batfam x neglected! billy loomis!reader | WC: 15k

SUMMARY: being the product of bruce wayne's one night stand with a stripper, a small boy had the misfortune of being born in crime alley. with an absent father, absent mother and a criminal environment, how would you think said child would turn out?

WARNINGS: SEMI-UNRELIABLE NARRATOR! the story is from the readers pov, so things will be described how he perceives them to be even if said character, or he himself, didn’t want to come across like that or actually didn’t feel that way. angst, emotional abuse, lowk only semi-canon, murder, mentions of prostitution, physical abuse, neglect, bullying, mentions of death, blood and violence.

A/N: this is my first attempt at a series and also the final thing in my drafts 🥹✌️ if this does well i’ll update regularly because i think i got a pretty good feeling about where i want this to go. honestly, this could be labeled a yan!batfam x serial killer!reader too but i took inspiration off of billy loomis’ character for the reader. i also think you could lowkey label this as soft yandere?? idk how bad i want them to be yet. also this isn’t entirely canon accurate because i aged some characters up or down to make sense of my au timeline - so some things might seem messy. also so sorry for not including duke thomas, i really have NO idea how tf to include him 💔 also this is a lot of backstory up to the present timeline, so it might be boring.

pt 1 (here) –> pt 2

rain in gotham doesn't clean shit. it just makes the garbage look wet.

talking about shit, the whole city feels like a giant toilet that forgot how to flush. you learn that fast when crime alley is your entire world since small on.

it’s a miserable fuckin’ place, honestly - and if you had the choice, you'd have ditched the damn place ages ago.

just rows of rotting buildings with mold on the walls, overflowing dumpsters, and alleys that smell like piss and the faint scent of blood. most people would look at a kid crouching in the dirt by a rusted-out car and feel sorry for ‘em, but you? you don't give a shit.

it's not because you're putting effort into being particularly cruel or unfeeling or anything, you don't know anything else, and honestly, you don't want to. the chaos makes sense, and you enjoy things that make sense - chaos in crime alley has rules. if you’re small, you hide. if you’re stupid, you get your teeth kicked in. simple.

maybe that’s the root of it. you always needed everything to make sense and for you to know it. rigidly, obsessively and instinctively. it’s how you survived up till now, from the cruel corners of your tiny apartment (the ones you scraped your knuckles on learning how to sneak out), to every backroom of every deli and dive where you cut your teeth arguing with men twice your age.

you know the language of tells, the eye-flicks, the swallow-hitches, the pulse jumps in someone’s throat. you knows the exact pressure to apply to make someone fold without pushing them so hard they break. you don’t win games by accident. nothing feels safe unless you understood it intimately, unless you held the rules in your hands.

anyways, the other street rats you run with are mostly just noise around your ears. a bunch of loud, desperate dumbshits constantly crying about being hungry or cold, acting like the world owes them something - like everyone here wasn't just as hungry or even hungrier.

they run in packs, stealing food from corner stands and getting cornered by shopkeepers with bats because they're barely making a living too. no one is above beating a kid here.

you tag along because being entirely alone makes you a target, but you aren't really there. you’re just a shadow with floppy hair, sitting on a broken crate, watching them fumble through life like idiots. they think you're just another helpless kid - which in a sense, you are, but you also consider yourself a whole lot smarter than ‘em.

needless to say, this was a godless place. hell, maybe. a place where if you speak or act out of line, you get beaten.

maybe satan was thrown out of the heavens because he dared speak up against god, too. like a slave and his master. like a rebel and a dictator. like words that spark resistance.

and god threw him out to be silenced. people say that god only puts you through what you can handle but you think thats bullshit - and like satan you're left to grovel and beg, take me back, take me back, i don't like it here, take me back. maybe god likes the fight, the blood.

when you were even younger than now, you once looked up at the storming heavens and begged for god to take you back. the sky cackled, loud and earthshaking. the storm continued and so did you. in that moment, you empathized with satan. felt his body wrap around your legs before crawling up your body and around your neck. he whispered to you - what was once evil will always be so.

maybe that was the day you stop expecting salvation from anyone or anything - because god was never there anyways.

certainly not with you.

and certainly not when the hallway of that four-walled box of an apartment flickered overhead and your mother’s heels echoed through the corridor. you spend half your life cataloguing the exact rhythm of them, if the click-clack is slow and heavy, she’s exhausted and might just pass out on the mattress. if it’s fast and sharp? well, fuck. hold your breath and count to ten.

your dearest mother… she’s a total nutcase, but she’s your nutcase. you love her with everything you’ve got, even when the madness gets heavy enough to choke you.

one night she’ll crawl into your makeshift bed of blankets, smelling like gin and heavy perfume that makes you scrunch up your nose, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she pushes your hair back.

she’ll stare at you with those wet, glittering eyes, looking completely heartbroken because some older asshole broke your nose over some stupid shit.

"mom’s so sorry for bringing you into such a cruel world, my dear," she’ll murmur, her voice shaking while she rocks you against her chest.

"it hurts my heart to see my son in so much pain everyday. there is no one that deserves a normal life more than you do."

and then, right when the warmth starts to feel real, her grip tightens until it’s suffocating. her face goes totally blank with an icy sort of sorrow, the kind of look that makes your spine run cold and your posture more straight. "i love you so much, my son. i wish you were never born."

it’s a lot to process. a normal kid’s brain would probably fry under that kind of pressure, but yours just absorbs it. you don't overthink it. she’s right, anyway. the world is an awful, bleeding joke.

(you're really not special. maybe you deluded yourself into thinking you're fine by you're fucked up childhood, but you're not. you're still just a kid).

the only person who ever manages to pull you out of that headspace is jason. jason peter todd. he’s a couple of years older. despite having a sick mom and a dad who vanished into thin air, the guy is weirdly bright. happy-go-lucky, almost. he’s the kind of kid who finds a water-damaged book in a dumpster and acts like he just struck gold, grinning from ear to ear while he reads out the big words to anyone who will listen. he's always looking out for the younger kids, sharing whatever stale crackers he manages to scrounge up. but… he also is always picking fights he has no business winning,

he still got a lot of heart and love left in him.

"hey, stop daydreaming, kid, catch!"

jason tosses a half-eaten loaf of bread at your chest, wiping car grease onto his torn jeans. you both are sitting under the flickering yellow glow of a broken street lamp, the damp air sticking to your skin. jason thinks you’re just a quiet, sensitive kid who needs a friend. he thinks your silence means you're just overwhelmed by how rough the alley can get.

"eat up," he says, giving your shoulder a playful shove, his tone warm and completely lacking the bitter edge that poisons everyone else around here. "we gotta keep our strength up. things are gonna get better, you'll see. we just gotta stick together."

you just take a bite of the dry bread, your eyes dropping down as you push your hair out of your face. you don't bother telling him the truth. you don't have the heart to tell him that his optimism is completely useless. you aren't scared of the thugs, or the dark, or the hunger. you aren't even scared of dying.

the only thing that actually messes with your head is the thought of going back upstairs, waiting in the dark to see which version of your mother is going to open the door tonight.

your chest hurts like a bitch.

every single breath feels like a piece of glass rubbing against your ribs and tearing them open. your mouth tastes like copper, the blood kind.

you knew better than to listen to those idiots. you knew tryin' to swipe that wallet down by the docks was a goddamn suicide mission, but did they listen? hell no!

the second the guy noticed, the whole world turned into a blur of flying fists, wet-blood stained concrete, and heavy work boots.

the other street rats scattered like goddamn cockroaches, but you? you weren't fast enough because you were too damn little. you took the brunt of it. now your nose is leaking and the edges of your eyes are getting all fuzzy.

you drag yourself up the rotting stairwell, leaning your forehead against the greasy wood paneling every three steps just so you don't pass out.

the hallway smells like boiled cabbage and damp mold. the usual shit... your fingers are shaking so bad you can barely twist the brass doorknob, your palms slick with sweat and grime.

you brace yourself, tensing up your shoulders for whatever mood is waiting on the other side.

the lock clicks. the apartment is pitch black, completely dead. the only sound is the pipes rattling inside the walls.

the place is empty. thank christ. for once in your life, the quiet feels like a goddamn miracle. you stumble over to your corner, collapsing face-first onto the pile of threadbare blankets that serves as your bed. your face throbs right in time with your heartbeat.

you just lie there, staring holes into the water stains on the ceiling, listening to the distant, muffled sirens echoing from the streets. honestly? you don't give a fuck. nothing really matters when your body hurts this bad.

then, the clicking starts.

it’s late as hell. footsteps in the hall are fast and the door bangs open, hitting the drywall with a loud crack and letting in the gross yellow light from the hall.

it's just another chaotic night in a long line of 'em. people are shouting, voices you recognize and some you don't, all of 'em angry and loud.

you curl into a tighter ball, pulling the smelly blanket right over your ears. just let it pass. it always passes. ma always says patience is a virtue - one she don't got.

eventually, the shouting stops. the door slams shut again. the silence that follows feels somewhat unnatural, like it's physical. you stay under that blanket for a long time, just listening to your own breathing.

breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.

you're ten years old and you've already learned that the world doesn't owe you a damn thing. fools who try to be too helpful wind up dead.

there are a million things worse than being left in the dark, and you don't have any plans of running outside. you just stay in your corner, pull the blanket over your bruised-up shoulders, and wait for the sun to come up so you can figure out where to go next.

…

hours later and your chest is still pounding like a drum, each throb of your broken nose reminding you how much of a fuck-up today was. you’re still waiting for the morning, just staring at the peeling wallpaper in the dark, when the floorboards in the hallway groan.

squeeek!

the click of her heels hits the linoleum.

her footsteps are erratic and fast.

fuck.

the door doesn't just open; it flies back and hits the wall with a hollow crack that rattles the picture frames. she stumbles in, smelling like a bottle of gin and rain, but she’s not alone.

there’s a guy right behind her. a regular from the docks you’ve seen a few times, some greasy bastard who always looked at her like he wanted to either buy her or break her in half. tonight, he looks like he chose the second option. his coat is dripping wet, his eyes wide and bulging like a rabid dog's.

"You think i’m an idiot, don't you?" he roars, his voice so loud it makes the floorboards vibrate. "I saw you! I gave you everything!"

your mother is laughing, but it’s that rough, desperate laugh she gets when she’s cornered. "get out! just get out of my house, frank. you don't own me. you paid for an hour you crazy bastard, not my life. you’re nothing to me."

"i loved you!" he screams, his voice cracking, completely unhinged. "we were supposed to be real! you lied to me!"

"real?" she spits, her voice suddenly dropping into that cold, mocking octave that always makes your spine turn to ice. "nothing in this shithole is real, you pathetic man. now get your hands off me."

you curl tighter into your corner, pulling the blanket up to your nose. your heart is beating right against your bruised ribs. you don't believe in god - you believe that if he is real, he's one world heavyweight cunt - and yet, you pray.

just let him leave. please just let the bastard leave.

but of course, god would never listen to you. children full of sin don't deserve heaven, don't you know that?

frank lunges. a chair flips over, wood splintering against the floor. there is a frantic, messy scuffle by the kitchen counter, the sound of silverware rattling, a sharp gasp from your mom, and then a heavy, wet thud that seems to suck the oxygen right out of the room.

the shouting stops instantly. the apartment goes completely silent.

the only sound left is the man’s ragged breathing. he takes two steps back, his muddy boots dragging on the rug. you peek out from the edge of the blanket. your mother is on the floor, and the life is already draining out of her. frank is staring at his own hands, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. he drops the kitchen knife; it lands with a dull, metallic clatter.

"no, no, no," he mutters, pulling at his hair, stepping away from her. "you made me do it. you shouldn't have laughed at me. it’s your fault. it’s your own fault."

you don't look at him anymore. your eyes slide over to your mom.

her eyes are wide open, staring straight at the water stains on the ceiling. her mouth is slightly parted, like she was about to say one last mean thing but forgot the words.

you wait for the panic to hit you. you wait for the tears, the screaming, the total breakdown that a normal ten-year-old kid is supposed to have.

but there is absolutely nothing. just a massive, echoing crater in your chest.

you stare at her face, and weirdly, you just think about what she said a while ago. the thing that stuck with you - even if you never acknowledged it - the most.

i love you so much, my son. i wish you were never born.

well, look at that. she got her wish, sort of. she’s out of the game now. the world finally delivered the punchline she always warned you about, and the joke isn't even funny.

the fear you usually carry around just evaporates, leaving behind a freezing, crystal-clear coldness. she was right. the world is just an awful place, and life is a punishment. seeing her like this doesn't make you sad. it just makes you realize that the rules are completely gone. death isn't a big deal. it’s just the end.

frank is still pacing, hyperventilating, his back turned to your corner as he whines like a kicked dog.

he’s completely lost it, totally blind to the rest of the room. to him, you’re just a pile of dirty laundry in the shadows. an afterthought. a nobody.

your eyes drop to the floor. the kitchen knife is sitting right there, reflecting the yellow light from the hallway.

you don't think about it. you don't analyze the math of the moment or worry about getting caught.

you slide out from under the blanket, your bare feet making no sound on the cold floorboards - your hand grips the handle. it’s heavy and warm and the knife is still wet with blood.

frank is still mumbling to the wall, his hands over his face. "what am i gonna do, what am i gonna do..."

you close the distance in three silent strides. you don't hesitate. you don't yell and with every single ounce of strength in your small, ten-year-old body, you strike.

his eyes bulge as he falls backward, gasping for air that won't come. he thrashes for a moment, his boots kicking against the floorboards, until his movements grow sluggish, then entirely still.

you wait for the guilt to ruin you. you wait to feel sick or start crying.

you keep waiting for something to happen.

for god to finally strike you dead, for your mom to sit up and scream at you, for someone to tell you that killing people is a bad thing to do.

and yet nothing happens.

frank and your mother just stay dead.

instead, a strange, intoxicating warmth blooms right in your chest. it’s the first time in your entire life you feel completely in control.

frank is dead, your mom is dead, and the apartment is finally, beautifully quiet.

you push your hair back, look at the aftermath on the floor, and realize you don't feel a thing. you walk back to your corner, pull the dirty blanket over your bruised-up shoulders, and close your eyes to wait for the morning.

two weeks is a long goddamn time for bodies to sit.

the smell started around day four, just a weird, sweet tang in your nose that wouldn't go away no matter how many blankets you buried your face under. by day ten, the air in the apartment was thick and smelled rotten. like trying to breathe through wet wool. flies started showing up, buzzing against the grease-stained window panes, completely ignoring you while they did their thing on the living room floor.

you got used to stepping around the mess. you had to, if you wanted to get to the sink for a glass of tap water. frank’s boots were still sticking out past the edge of the kitchen counter, stiff and dusty. your mom just looked smaller every day, like the alley was slowly shrinking her down to nothing. noticeably, something was eating away at their bodies too - but you didn’t want to check.

the neighbors have been pounding on the door since last tuesday, screaming about the stench through the wood. "hey! something fucking died in there! fix it!" they'd yell, their voices muffled and angry. but nobody ever actually called the cops. nobody kicked the door down. it’s crime alley. people complain, but nobody truly gives a shit. someone could rot down to the bone in this building and the landlord would probably only care if the rent check was late.

lying in your corner, listening to some old lady down the hall complain to her kid about the "rat smell," you can't help but laugh a little bit. it's funny, really. if you dropped dead right now on this mattress, you’d rot right along with 'em. nobody would come looking for you. nobody would even notice you were gone until the maggots started falling through the ceiling of the apartment downstairs.

the thought doesn't even make you sad. it makes sense in a way, the world doesn't care about street rats. nobody does.

but things are getting tight. the canned peaches ran out three days ago, the crackers, although very stale, are completely gone, and your stomach is starting to feel like a hollow fist punching you from the inside.

you tried swiping a loaf of bread from the corner market yesterday, but your ribs still ache too bad from that beating by the docks. you’re too slow right now. if you try to steal again, you’re gonna get caught, and you really don't feel like taking another boot to the face.

and while you also always have been so good at leaving well enough alone - picking which strain from the purest to the filthiest. which rat’d squeal and which would be ‘merciful’, giving a poor kid like you some scraps - you can't, and don't want to, take the chances of asking the wrong person for help either.

hard comes hard. you have to move.

you slide off the mattress, your bare feet sticking slightly to the floorboards. you don't even look at the middle of the room anymore - you just grab your old, torn backpack from behind the door and throw in a couple of oversized t-shirts, a spare pair of socks, and the small pocket knife you found in frank’s coat last week. that’s it. your entire life fits into a canvas bag that’s missing one strap.

you pause by the door, your hand hovering over the brass knob. you don't look back at your mom but there’s no point. she’s dead and you're alive, you can't afford to dwell.

you try not to think of it, you try to think of the fact that you knew this would have happened sooner or later.

that she's at peace now - better off blissfully dead than living like hell.

better yet, don't think at all.

you open the door, slip out into the dim hallway, and let the lock click shut behind you for the last time.

the air out here is barely better, but at least it isn't full of flies. you slouch your shoulders, push your floppy, ungroomed hair out of your eyes, and start the long walk down the stairs.

the nearest orphanage is about twelve blocks away, right past the edge of the theater district. it’s gonna be full of loud, crying losers, but they have soup.

and right now, soup sounds like a goddamn luxury.

the orphanage is one massive building.

you walk inside, looking around before you spot a lady at the front desk and make your way over to her.

the lady at the front desk looks at you like you’re something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. your clothes are covered in grease and dust, and your hair is a greasy, floppy, un groomed mess falling into your eyes, but you don’t give a shit.

you drop your one-strapped backpack onto the floor and stand there, staring at her with those completely blank eyes.

"name?" she asks, her voice annoyed.

you give her your name which makes you think of your mom - your mom only ever used your name when she was pissed and couldn’t be bothered for endearing nicknames or harsh insults.

the lady writes it down, grumbling under her breath about another mouth to feed, and then she points a fat finger toward the main recreation room. "go sit down, lunch is in ten minutes."

that's it? no questions about why you look like shit or where you've been or where you’ve come from?

actually, it should’ve been expected, you shake your head. of course they don't ask where you come from, shit-ass orphanage. they don't give a single fuck if you just watched someone die or walked out of a house full of flies. you're just another piece of garbage to shove into a corner until you turn eighteen and be deported off into the army or some crap.

and this looks like shit too.

the main room is chaos. it's full of loud kids running around, crying over broken toys, or just staring at the walls like zombies. the second you walk in and sit down at a long wooden table, a few kids begin to eye you though.

it’s weird. you’re ten years old, your nose is still a little crooked from getting broken a few weeks ago, and you haven't taken a real shower in forever, but for some reason, these kids start flocking to you.

within five minutes, three of the younger ones are sitting right next to you, and a couple of guys your age are leaning against the table, trying to get your attention.

maybe it’s the way you carry yourself. you don't look scared like the new kids usually do. you look like you already know how the world ends and you look tough because you look roughened up and you’re still standing - to a bunch of terrified orphans, that makes you look like a leader.

at least it did in crime alley.

you play along. hell, why not? it’s a game, and you’re pretty damn good at games.

"hey," one of the older boys says, nudging your shoulder. "where'd you come from? the alley?"

"yeah," you say, letting a small, easy smile slip onto your face. you lean back, slouching your shoulders just right, turning on that casual charm. "down by the docks. things got a little too loud down there."

"did your parents dump you?" a little girl asks, her eyes wide and pathetic.

you look right at her, your smile staying perfectly warm even though you couldn’t careless about her. "something like that. but hey, we're here now, right? we got a roof over our heads."

they eat it up. they think you're cool. they think you're strong. when the plastic bowls of mystery gray soup get shoved onto the table, you don't hesitate.

you inhale the stuff, even though it tastes like dishwater, because your stomach is practically eating itself. between spoonfuls, you keep talking to them, nodding at their dumb stories, making them laugh, and letting them feel safe around you.

you're right in the middle of laughing at some kid’s stupid joke when a heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder.

it’s the front-desk lady, and she looks pissed. she doesn't care that you're eating and she doesn't care that the younger kids are finally quiet because of you.

"up," she barks, pulling you out of your seat by your collar so hard your spoon clatters against the plastic bowl. "now."

the other kids go silent, watching you get dragged away. you don't struggle and you let your boots drag on the floor as she whisks you down a narrow, hallway that smells heavily of rubbing alcohol.

she shoves you into a tiny room with a metal chair and a counter full of medical supplies.

there's a doctor there, looking incredibly bored.

“sit," the lady orders, pushing you into the chair.

"standard intake procedure for unidentified street kids. we need a blood sample and a cheek swab for the database. look at the wall and don't move."

what kind of bullshit are they spouting? you do as you told while not bothering to voice your question aloud. its not like they would explain why anyway, or if they would ask if you're okay with this.

they grab your arm, wipe it with a cold cotton ball, and stick a needle right into your vein. you flinch slightly, more out of instinct than anything, and watch the dark red blood fill the plastic vial, thinking about how easy it is to get blood out of a body, and how much harder it is to clean it up when it's all over the kitchen floor.

they shove a cotton swab into your mouth, rub it against your cheek, and then the lady shoves your backpack into your hands and points to the door. "go to room 4B. don't touch anything."

you walk out, pushing your hair out of your eyes.

stupid bitches.

the next morning is weirdly quiet. you’re actually sleeping in a real bed for once, not just a thin mattress on the floor with spring wires poking into your back.

the blankets are scratchy, but they’re clean. you’re right in the middle of a dreamless, heavy sleep when the door to the small room flies open.

"wake up! up, right now, please, hurry."

huh? you open your eyes the tiniest bit. the voice is the one from the front-desk lady from yesterday, but her voice sounds like… totally wrong.

she’s not barking at you. in-fact, she sounds frantic, almost shaky, and her face is pale as a sheet. you open your eyes fully now, blinking against the bright morning light, and push your hair out of your face.

before you can even slide your feet out of the covers, she’s already pulling a pair of clean jeans and a new shirt out of a closet alongside an oversized jacket, laying them on the edge of the bed like you’re some kind of king.

"put these on quickly," she says, her hands trembling a little as she smooths down the fabric. she’s smiling, but it’s a fake, terrifying smile that looks like it hurts her face. "we need you looking your best. can i get you some breakfast? some juice? just let me know what you need, sweetie."

ew.. sweetie. what a joke. yesterday you were a piece of garbage, and today she’s acting like she wants to kiss your damn feet. it’s scarily polite and it makes you want to hurl. you'd rather she be a bitch again because at least that feels natural.

"what the fuck is going on?" you ask, your voice rough from sleep. you don't care about being rude to her.

she doesn't even scold you for swearing. she just gasps and clasps her hands together. "oh, you are just the luckiest boy in the world. the database flagged your test from yesterday, we found your father. he’s on his way to come get you right now."

you sit up, your brow furrowing. "my father?"

"yes!" she beams, leaning in close. "bruce wayne. you’re a wayne!"

the name rings a faint bell. you’ve heard people talk about him down in crime alley, usually when they’re reading gossip magazines or watching the news through a store window.

bruce wayne. the billionaire? the guy who owns half the city and spends his nights running around with supermodels, getting wasted, and wasting money? the total fuckboy bruce wayne?

honestly… it figures. a guy like that is the perfect match for your mother. a rich asshole who hits it once and forgets the girl even existed. it makes complete sense that you’re the byproduct of some sloppy one-night stand between a stripper and a billionaire who couldn't keep his pants zipped.

you stand up and grab the clean shirt, slipping it over your head. you don't feel excited, neither do you feel happy.

you pull the jeans up. well, at the very least, the bastard is rich.

that’s a win in your book. crime alley taught you that money is the only thing that actually matters in this world. money means food. money means power. as for what kind of man he is? you don't give a shit. if he’s a mean drunk, if he likes to throw punches when he’s angry, you can handle it. you’ve been beaten by the best thugs the docks had to offer. you can handle abuse in your sleep. if you have to trade a few bruises for a warm room and three meals a day, that’s a goddamn bargain.

you shove your feet into your dirty boots, push your floppy hair out of your eyes, and look at the front-desk lady. she’s still hovering by the door like a nervous dog.

"is he here yet?" you ask flatly.

"his butler is downstairs checking the paperwork," she whispers, looking like she’s about to faint. "mr. wayne will be here any minute."

minutes pass until you drag your dirty boots down the creaky stairs, the front-desk lady practically hovering over your shoulder like she thinks you're gonna bolt.

you aren't gonna run. why the fuck would you? there's a free meal ticket waiting at the bottom of these steps, and you're not an idiot.

standing in the lobby is an old guy in a suit so sharply worn to the tee it looks like it could cut glass. he sticks out like a sore thumb against the water-stained walls and the gross linoleum.

the second your boots hit the final step, he turns around. his face is completely calm, but his eyes slide over your crooked nose and your messy, floppy hair with a quick, tracking glance.

"good morning, young man," the old guy says. his voice is smooth, british, and weirdly formal.

"my name is alfred pennyworth. i am the butler for the wayne estate. we are here to bring you home."

he doesn't look disgusted by your dirty jacket. he doesn't treat you like a street rat.

he’s just politely holding open the heavy front door, gesturing for you to step outside into the gray morning.

you nod, slouching your shoulders as you walk past him.

you shrug then, whatever. as long as the food is real, actual, edible food you can call yourself whatever you want, old man.

parked right at the curb is a black car that costs more than every single apartment block in crime alley combined. not that you would actually know its costs - it just looks shiny and shiny things are expensive.

leaning against the side of it is the man himself.

bruce wayne.

he looks exactly like the pictures, but bigger in person. expensive coat, broad shoulders, and dark hair that looks perfectly styled even with the wind blowing. but the second his eyes lock onto you, the smooth billionaire mask slips. just for a second, his face goes tight, a genuine flash of shock hitting his features as he stares at you.

you know exactly what he’s seeing.

he’s looking at the undeniable proof of some sloppy night he forgot about ten years ago. tough luck, dad. tough luck.

bruce takes a slow step forward, his eyes scanning down your skinny frame, taking in the bruised knuckles and the way you favor your left side because of your cracked ribs.

he looks like a detective trying to piece together a crime scene, inspecting every single flaw on your body. it makes your skin crawl a little bit, but you keep your face completely blank. you give him a dead-eyed stare right back.

yeah, take a good look, asshole. you puckle up your lips, you’re his problem now.

"hey," bruce says. his voice is deeper than you expected, a bit rough around the edges, but he’s clearly forcing it to sound soft. kind, even. it’s a terrible actor job, honestly. you can hear the strain in his throat as he tries to play the nice dad.

"i'm bruce. i know this is... a lot. but you're safe now. let's get you out of the cold." he reaches a massive hand out, like he wants to touch your shoulder, but he hesitates. he pulls it back when you don't move an inch.

you look past him at the leather seats of the car, your mind turning over the options. he's trying to be nice, which is weird. usually, guys who look like him like to use their fists when they're stressed out.

maybe the abuse doesn't start until you're behind closed doors? public appearances and allat. maybe he's just worried about the press seeing him act like a dick. either way, you don't give a shit. you can play whatever game he wants as long as he provides for you. it would be hella cool if the the bedroom has a heater, you dislike the cold. which rich guy doesn’t have a heater?

“sure," you say flatly, your voice cracking a little. you push your floppy hair out of your eyes and slide into the back seat without waiting for him to invite you again. the leather is warm, it smells like money.

bruce stands outside for a second, looking at the closed car door with a conflicted expression, before he sighs and climbs into the front. alfred shuts the door with a soft click, and the car smoothly glides away from the curb, leaving the shit orphanage behind in the mist.

it wasn't good while it lasted. you hope to see them again never.

the car ride is quiet.

awkwardly quiet, and you know its because of you.

bruce gives you those slow, dragging glances that feel like someone rifling through your pockets without asking. usually you'd be basking in having such effect on someone, but right now? now you aren’t basking in it; you’re just… supremely fuckin’ uncomfortable. your jaw pops you you stare holes into the glass window.

alfred is up front, his eyes fixed entirely on the road, his hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. he isn't saying a damn word, but you can see his eyes occasionally darting to the rearview mirror, checking on you.

bruce is sitting right next to you. he keeps shifting in his leather seat, his big frame looking way too massive for the space. he’s staring out the window, then looking at his hands, completely out of his depth.

you lean back, slouching down, watching him through the hair falling into your eyes.

come on, rich boy. say something.

finally, he clears his throat. the sound is loud in the small car.

"so," bruce starts, his voice dropping into that forced, gentle tone again. "the orphanage said you turned yourself in two days ago. where... where were you living before that?"

you look right at him. you let your shoulders drop, putting on a small, tired look.

time to play the part, if you can get some pity points it’ll be easier later on. "an apartment. down on forty-second. near the docks."

bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing. "with your mother?"

"yeah," you say flatly. you look down at your bruised knuckles, tracing a scab with your thumb. "she died about two weeks ago. some guy from the docks killed her in the kitchen."

you hear alfred’s breath hitch in the front seat. the car swerves just a tiny bit before the old guy corrects it. bruce doesn’t have a massive physical reaction but his jaw goes completely tight, the color draining from his cheeks.

"i'm... i'm so sorry," bruce mutters, his voice cracking a little. he looks completely horrified. "did... did the police come? did someone help you?"

"no," you say. you look up, staring right into his eyes with a blank, wide-eyed expression. you make sure to sound completely casual about it, like you’re talking about the weather. "it's crime alley, nobody calls the cops for that stuff. i just stayed in the room with the bodies until the food ran out and the smell got too bad. then i left."

christ, the silence that hits the car after that is heavier than a lead brick.

bruce looks like he’s about to vomit. his eyes are wide, fixed on your face, full of a deep, crushing guilt. you can practically see his brain doing the math - realizing his biological son was sitting in a dark, rotting room with two dead bodies for a week and a half while he was throwing galas and playing billionaire in the upper districts.

he opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out. he just looks completely done for.

perfect, pity points acquired. you drop your gaze back to your lap, hiding a tiny smirk behind your hair. he feels like absolute shit now. good. a guilty father is a compliant father. he won't be throwing any punches at you if he's too busy drowning in his own regrets.

bruce doesn't ask another question for the rest of the ride. he just stares out his window, his fist clenched so hard his knuckles are white.

the city blocks start to change. the dirty bricks and neon signs of the lower districts give way to massive stone gates and long, winding roads lined with actual trees.

you’ve never seen this many trees in your life - so neatly lined up at least… holy shit.

the car finally rolls up a massive driveway and comes to a smooth halt. you look out the window, and your jaw almost hits the leather seat.

the place is fucking huge. it looks like a goddamn castle out of a movie, all dark gray stone, pointed roofs, and towering windows that look cold and empty. it’s absolutely massive, sitting on top of a hill like it owns the whole damn world. it’s terrifyingly quiet out here. no shouting, no sirens, no glass shattering. just the wind howling through the grass.

you slide out of the car the second alfred opens the door, your old canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. you stand on the gravel, staring up at the giant stone mansion.

well. it’s definitely better than a walk-up apartment full of flies. it’s big, it’s cold, and it looks like a fortress. you push your floppy hair out of your eyes, taking the view in. no matter how tough you pretend to be, you're still a kid.

…

the front door of wayne manor is too big. everything here is too big, and there are smells so unfamiliar it makes your nose itch.

you stand in the foyer, your cheap shoes leaving damp gray smears on marble that probably costs more than all your organs combined if you were to sell them on the black market.

bruce is right behind you, he hasn't touched you once since the orphanage, just kept this careful, awkward distance like he’s afraid you’ll snap if he breathes too hard.

then come the footsteps. quick, light, bouncing off the high walls. a kid slides around the grand staircase, skidding a little on the rug.

dick grayson. he’s fourteen, wearing a bright red sweater that looks way too expensive, his dark hair messy but still perfect? how the hell does he do that?

he stops dead when he sees you. his eyes go wide, then narrow just a fraction. "bruce," dick says, his voice cracking just a bit before he catches it. he drops his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual. "alfred said you were back. is this... him?"

you don't say a word, because what is there to say? so you just stare. you let your gaze drag over his clean clothes, his unblemished skin, his easy posture. rich kid. lucky kid. he got the big house and the billionaire dad first, even though he isn’t even a biological child.

dick shifts his weight under your stare. his smirk thins. he isn't trying to be a dick - no pun intended - but you’ve got a vibe that.. doesn’t exactly scream natural. you’re off-putting. creepy, even.

"i'm dick," he says, taking a step forward. he offers a hand, trying to be the bigger person. "nice to meet you."

your jaw pops as you look at his open palm. hell no. you don't take it. you tuck your hands deeper into the pockets of your oversized coat, staring holes into his chest until he slowly lowers his arm, his fingers curling into a fist. a little flush of heat hits dick's ears.

"right," dick mutters, flipping his hair back with a sharp jerk of his head. "cool. guess you don't talk much."

he’s already annoyed with you it seems. you turn your back on him, looking up at the massive crystal chandelier above you instead, counting the glass droplets just to have something to do.

bruce clears his throat behind you, the sound deep and awkward. "dick, show him to his room. alfred is finishing dinner."

"sure," dick says, his voice tight now. he turns toward the stairs, not waiting to see if you're following. "this way, kid."

…

the stairs are wider than your whole kitchen back on park row.

your boots make this dull, pathetic thud against the runner, and every single step feels like a personal insult to your history and everywhere else you've walked before in your life.

dick’s leading the way, his shoulders straight, chest puffed.

dick. christ. who the fuck names their kid dick? or at the very least, gives them the nickname ‘dick’? that's just sad. you’d get your teeth kicked in before breakfast in crime alley with a name like that, but here the guy walks around like it’s something to be proud of.

alfred had given you the breakdown in the car before you even crossed the gates. mr. wayne’s ward, the old man had called him, real polite and proper like a butler should be.

a ward. right. because adopting some random circus orphan before you even check if your playboy late-night fucks got you any biological kids first makes total fucking sense. bruce’s carelessness is truly an undefeated champion. he’s got his own blood running around the slums for ten years, but he’s too busy playing savior to a kid named after a dick joke.

it makes your teeth ache.

dick stops outside the door, spinning around on his heel. he isn't glaring or anything; he’s actually trying to smile, but it’s twitchy around the edges. his eyes are a little bloodshot, like he’s been up all night - maybe arguing with bruce? you figure considering how tense he has been since you both walked away.

seems like paradise ain't so perfect after all.

he tosses a set of silver keys in the air and you catch them with an easy, fluid grace that looks almost practiced.

"here," dick says, offering a lazy shrug as he leans his shoulder against the opposite wall. his voice is naturally light, bouncy, like nothing in the world can actually touch him. "it's the biggest room on this wing. bruce said you can rewrite the whole layout if you want. swap the bed, paint the walls black, whatever floats your boat. alfred spent all yesterday scrubbing it down."

the air between you is thick, sour with something that feels a lot like old grease. dick’s eyes drag down to your shoes again, that little twitch in his jaw showing he’s trying real hard not to say something smart.

totally clean-cut, got the whole world by the balls and he knows it. and he’s looking at you like you’re a stain on his shiny new floor.

fuck him. fuck this whole house.

at your silence, dick keeps talking. "tough crowd," dick mutters, flipping his dark hair out of his eyes with a quick jerk of his head. he sighs, his shoulders dropping a fraction, the carefree act slipping just enough to show how tired he actually is.

"look, i know this place is weird. it’s huge, it’s quiet, and bruce has the emotional range of a brick. but alfred’s great. and i’m... well, i’m usually a lot more fun than this. we’re just having a week."

he lets out a dry, breathy laugh, waiting for you to hit the conversational ball back. nothing. you keep looking through him, your eyes totally unblinking, tracking the tiny twitch under his left eye.

it’s a creepy fucking stare, and you know it, its why you do it.

dick’s smile completely dies this time. he shifts his weight, looking down the long, empty hallway behind him like he wishes he was anywhere else.

"right. cool. the silent treatment," dick says, his tone snapping back into that quick, defensive rhythm. he takes two steps backward, his sneakers squeaking on the polished wood. "i'll be downstairs if you decide you want to use your vocal cords. try not to get lost."

…

dick isn't used to this. the kids weird as hell. it didn't help that he had to come in during a time where his relationship with bruce was rocky - what if he gets replaced? "whatever," dick mutters to himself, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels. he takes a step back, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floorboards. "be a freak then. see if i care."

he turns on his heel and bolts down the hallway, his footsteps way too loud, way too fast. a clean break.

…

you watch him go until he rounds the corner, the house falling back into that silence.

three years in this giant stone mausoleum (you're thirteen now), and you still can’t stand the way it fucking smells.

it’s too quiet, crime alley ways had all sorts of sounds so you could exactly detect who and what was where and when.

here, you spend your days creeping around the corridors, your new, expensive boots clicking on the floorboards, waiting for something to snap.

your relationship with dick is a total mess. he’s seventeen now, and he treats you like some kind of project he keeps failing to fix.

one day he’s barging into your room to drag you downstairs for video games, laughing and tripping over his own feet, trying so hard to be the fun older brother. the next day he’s a moody bastard (or you're the one who makes him moody), snapping at you for something you've said or didn’t say, his eyes dark and exhausted.

you assume it’s a love-hate thing for him. for you? it’s eh… tolerance. you let him talk, but you never let him in. you can’t afford to be soft.

besides, he’s barely even here anymore. as the years drag on, dick starts disappearing for days. weeks, even. his room stays empty, the bed perfectly made, while you sit at the massive dining table with bruce, the silence between you two so heavy it feels like concrete. sometimes you eat all alone, too.

bruce is a whole different brand of exhausting. the guy tries, he really does. he tries his hardest to be kind, to listen to whatever you want, but he’s so damn awkward about it. he can never just look you in the eye and talk like a normal parent. there’s always this thick wall between you two, this weird vibe like he’s hiding a massive secret he’s terrified you’ll find out.

so, he avoids you. he buys you things to distract you, dumps a new gadget on your desk, and pulls away before things get too in depth. because he’s always so wrapped up running wayne enterprises, every single conversation you have gets cut short anyway. “i have a meeting,” or “we’ll talk later.” always the same shit.

your actual caretaker is alfred. but you don't do the whole cozy family thing with him either. it’s strict, formal, like a proper master and servant setup. it felt incredibly weird at first, when the old man started calling you young master, but after three years, you’ve mostly gotten used to the sound of it. he fixes your clothes, cooks your food, and keeps his distance.

then you find out what bruce was actually hiding.

it’s three in the morning, and you’re downing a glass of sink water in the dark kitchen. you hear a noise near the grandfather clock in the study - a low, mechanical click. you creep over, your bare feet making no sound on the rugs. you slip into the shadows behind a curtain just in time to see the wall slide open.

out steps dick. except he isn’t wearing his stupid high school varsity jacket. he’s covered in what seems to be an armor-suit, a bright yellow cape trailing behind him, and a green mask painted over his eyes.

he looks like some freak from a comic book. he pulls the mask off, his face bruised and streaked with sweat, cursing under his breath as he limps toward the stairs.

you stay perfectly still, your heart thudding a slow, rhythm against your ribs.

batman and robin.

so that's what bruce has been trying to hide so bad! it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots - it's not rocket science. bruce is the bat, and his circus ward is the bird.

you want to laugh with how ridiculous it is.

your old man is out there wearing a cape, pretending to be the protector of gotham, and yet crime alley is still a rotting cesspool.

he’s out there playing hero while your mother was dying in the dirt for a few crumpled dollars. what a joke. what a pathetic, sick joke.

you look down at your glass, then back up at dick's wide eyes. "you look ridiculous," you say, your voice flat but completely casual.

you take another sip of water, turn around, and walk back to your room without waiting for an answer.

the next morning, you get cornered by bruce in his study. the secret is dead out in the open by now, and dick was avoiding bruce's angry gaze. "teach me how to fight, and teach me how the computers work, i wanna know too.”

bruce looks at you for a long time, his jaw tight, his usual awkwardness freezing up.

he exchanges a tense, worried glance with dick. dick looks like he wants to say something, wants to object, but he keeps his mouth shut in the end. the guilt wins out with bruce - it always does. he agrees.

luckily, they don't keep you in the dark anymore.

they bring you down through the grandfather clock, right into the damp, cold belly of the batcave. it’s full of high-tech monitors, a giant mechanical penny, and weapons lines.

you get your training right where they do their secret work.

you make alfred oversee your form, and on the rare nights dick is actually home, you force him onto the sparring mats in the cave.

those sessions are intense. dick tries to keep it light, tossing out his usual remarks, but you play dirty - you grew up in crime alley after all.

you go for the win. you use the dirty, underhanded tricks you saw in back-alley brawls, shoving your elbow into his ribs and trying to sweep his legs out from under him.

"woah, kid, chill!" dick pants one night, blocking a wild swing to his jaw and pinning your arms behind your back on the black mats.

he’s trying to laugh, but his chest is heaving, and there’s a flicker of real wariness in his eyes. "it's just a spar. you're acting like you want to take my head off."

you twist your wrists, forcing him to let go, and take a step back. you wipe a smear of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, your expression entirely neutral. "you're just slow tonight, dickie," you tell him, your tone quiet and easygoing. "keep your guard up."

bruce watches from the massive supercomputer console, his dark eyes tracking your every move, his brow furrowed in what you assume to be in worry - but he doesn’t say anything.

dick lets out a dry, breathy laugh, shaking out his arms as he steps back onto the center of the mat. "you're getting good," he mutters.

"yeah," you say, a small smile touching your lips as you bounce slightly on your toes.

…

you think middle school is a damn joke, but bruce had sent you to one anyways.

a snobby, prep-school hellhole filled with legacy kids who look like they’ve never done a day of real work in their miserable lives, at that.

alfred drops you off every morning with the car and he picks you up right on the dot. it’s a routine. neat, clean, and totally predictable.

it's a good thing, that in school at least, you don’t even have to try. because you’ve got the wayne name stamped on your forehead and you’re naturally charismatic, the whole damn school flocks to you the second you walk through the doors.

it’s a joke. you know how to talk to people, how to flash a quick smile, but that's the most you do, really.

bruce and dick don’t have a single clue. they never check in on how you're doing at school, never show up to parent-teacher nights, too wrapped up in their own secret little crusade down in the dark to notice the kid sitting across from them at breakfast - alfred is the one doing all that stuff.

although out of what you assume is courtesy, bruce at least has the decency to ask.

and alfred always give the same old reply.

“the young master is doing well.”

alfred handles the report cards too, but that’s as far as the checking goes.

it’s funny how they can spot a sniper from three rooftops away but completely overlook what’s happening right under their noses.

because if they knew what you were up to in school, maybe bruce would finally break the nice guy act and lay a hand on you.

louie vance.

louis is someone you met in middle school, and louis is also a total trip.

he’s got this frantic, high-wire energy that makes most of the rich pricks nervous, but not you. surprisingly, he reminds you a lot of the kids back in crime alley.

he’s like a live wire, bouncing off the walls, always laughing at his own jokes, shifting his weight from foot to foot like his skin doesn't quite fit him right.

you think that there may be something wrong with him, but you don't ask him about it.

the two of you fall into the same friend group - a loud, nasty little crowd that likes to make life miserable for anyone who doesn't fit the mold.

a bully group? they don't bully people everyday, but it's enough to be considered bullying you think.

your minions do the heavy lifting, cornering some stuttering kid by the lockers or trash-talking someone until they cry in the cafeteria. very few there are the times it gets physical.

you don’t bother joining in on the actual text-book bullying, but you don’t do a single thing to stop it either. instead you sit back and watch while louis giggles beside you, his elbow digging into your ribs.

the two of you are less of a group and more of a duo anyway.

…

you don't enjoy middle school.

you don't like the kids here.

these kids are soft - sickeningly soft. they’ve grown up in high-rise penthouses all their lives, tucked safely away from the reality of the city beneath them.

they wear their pristine ugly uniforms, navy blazers with gold-threaded crests, pleated skirts, and ironed slacks without a single crease and they scream over minor inconveniences.

a cracked phone screen, a missed vacation, a B on an essay - as if their whole world is ending. they have no idea what an actual ending looks like - most of these suckers wouldn’t survive a day down in crime alley.

they don't know the sound of a lung collapsing or the heavy smell of blood pooling on the floor.

and they they flock to you like sheep looking for a shepherd, basically begging for a scrap of your attention just so they can feel important - you don't even think that it's because you're you - its the damn wayne name.

currently, you're posted up against a locker, watching a trio of freshmen scurry past, their eyes darting to your boots before they quickly look away, their posture stiffening with that familiar dread.

you know exactly what they’re thinking. they’re terrified of your group, terrified of the loud, cruel comments that your crowd spits out like venom. even though they’re just words.

you don't even have to say a word to make them sweat.

louis leans against the locker next to yours, his shoulder blades digging into the metal, his fingers restlessly snapping a rubber band against his wrist.

smack. smack. smack.

he’s staring at the exact same freshmen, a thin, crooked grin stretching his face until his cheeks bunch up.

fucking nutcase.

you let out a slow, quiet breath through your nose, your fingers curling around the straps of your backpack.

you don't hate these kids, hate takes too much effort. you just feel an immense, crushing boredom when you look at them and dislike.

most people, you find, are fucking idiots. they wander through these halls with their eyes wide open and see absolutely nothing.

a few months into the mind-numbing routine of eighth grade, the grandfather clock isn't the one opening wide - the front doors are.

you’re standing on the second-floor landing, looking down into the foyer through the marble balustrades.

bruce is there, looking as massive and awkward as ever, his heavy coat still damp from the drizzle.

but he isn’t alone…. tucked slightly behind him is a kid with scuffed sneakers, grease under his fingernails, and a jacket three sizes too big.

jason.

your throat goes dry. jason todd. the same jason who used to help you hotwire old sedans on park row just to see if the heaters worked.

the same jason who sat on the fire escape with you while the sirens wailed blocks away.

he looks a bit older now, considering he’s fifteen you think, but he still looks the same.

you stare down at him, your jaw popping in the silence.

jason looks up. his blue eyes go wide, blowing past any street-kid guard he had. he stops dead on the marble, his mouth falling open in a disbelief filled grin. "what the hell?" he blurts out, a genuine, breathless laugh pulling at his mouth. "no way. no damn' way!"

bruce looks between the two of you, his brow furrowing, his massive shoulders tensing up.

he didn't expect this. the great detective didn't calculate that his two stray dogs used to share the same alleyway. "you two... know each other?" bruce asks, his deep voice bouncing off the high ceiling, sounding genuinely lost.

"yeah!" jason says, his voice bouncing with this sudden, frantic energy as he points up at you. "yeah, we... we go back! we used to camp out by the old bakery! what's he doing here, bruce?"

"he lives here, jason," bruce says quietly. "he's my son."

you don't say a word. you just slide your hands into your pockets, letting your head tilt to the side as you walk down the grand stairs, your boots making that dull, heavy rhythm against the carpet. you give jason a loose, normal nod. "hey, jay."

"hey!" jason shoots back, practically vibrating. he’s still staring at you like you’re some kind of miracle. and maybe you are to him. a piece of home in another kind of shit hole.

dick isn’t even around to see the mess. he packed up his bags a while ago and split for blüdhaven, throwing away the red sweater for something called nightwing. a clean break away from the big bat.

you thought maybe, just maybe, with the golden boy gone, the dinner table wouldn't feel so goddamned loud.

but then you find the real punchline.

it doesn’t take long to see the red vest and the green boots sitting on the steel table in the belly of the cave.

bruce didn't just bring jason here to feed him, he offered him the mantle.

robin.

the father who neglects you, the guy who barely has three minutes to ask about your school before cutting you off for a board meeting, went out and adopted another stray - and then he gave him the keys to the kingdom.

it's not that you wanted to be robin, but you've been sweating on those sparring mats for three years. you've been cracking his encryption codes just to prove you could.

and he gives the suit to the kid who was stealing tires off the batmobile just yesterday?

bitter doesn't even cover it. it’s a sour taste in the back of your mouth, like chewing on pennies.

your own blood, and you're still the runner-up to whatever orphan bruce finds enticing that month.

but you don't make a scene, you don't throw a fit like dick used to do… and probably will once he finds out bruce gave another kid the robin mantle.

"you're up late," you say one night, leaning against the cold metal of the supercomputer console.

jason is sitting on the edge of the examination table, ice packed against his ribs. he looks small under the lights of the cave, but he’s still got that bright, eager look in his eyes - the happy little robin, thrilled to finally have a family, a bedroom, a real future.

jason shrugs, a grin instantly returning to his face despite the ice. "bruce wanted to go over the patrol logs again. said my footwork was getting better!" he looks at you through his messy bangs, his eyes entirely warm, entirely oblivious to the knot twisting in your stomach. "look, man. about the... the robin thing. i'm just so glad you're here. it’s like... we both made it out, y'know? we're a team."

"it's fine, jay," you cut him off gently, your voice completely flat, completely casual. you reach into your pocket and pull out an apple, taking a slow, crisp bite. "suit suits you. green’s your color."

jason lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping as he relaxes against the table, offering a cheerful elbow nudge to your arm. "bruce is tough, but man, he’s great. alfred’s making cookies tomorrow. you want in?"

"sure," you say, flashing him a quick, easy smile. "but hey, you're the hero now. go save the city."

you turn on your heel and walk back toward the elevator, your face going totally dead the second your back is turned to him.

as you've said… most people are fucking idiots, but jason’s your friend.

you find yourself being able to tolerate it.

…

a whole year passes by, things shift, sliding into new grooves without anyone asking permission.

dick turns eighteen, fully detached in blüdhaven, a ghost who only shows up to fight with bruce and occasionally with you.

you were right about the circus boy - he absolutely hated seeing that green-and-red vest on someone else.

the first time dick slunk back to the manor and saw jason wearing it, he didn't even spare him a glance.

just blew past the kid like he was made of glass and something to look through.

the few times after that? he tried to be nicer, sure, but it was that heavy, exhausting kind of nice that feels like it’s being delivered from miles away.

and then there’s jason. sixteen now, legally adopted, and officially carrying the wayne name. bruce didn't waste any time with the paperwork for him.

suddenly, the alley kid is walking the expensive floors of gotham academy right beside you, wearing the same stiff navy blazer.

he tries to chill with you between classes, trailing after you like a lost puppy. it forces your hand - you have to pull away from the nasty little crowd by the lockers, distancing yourself just enough to keep the peace - louis trails after you just as much though.

so it's you, jason and louis.

you really, really don’t want to deal with an angry bruce snooping through your school files because jason reported back that you were running with degenerates.

so you play the part. you keep things smooth.

everything is seemingly going well.

until the summer night the world cracks wide open.

it’s past three in the morning when the mechanical click of the grandfather clock echoes up the stairs. you’re sitting at your desk in the dark, a circuit board split open under your fingers, waiting for him.

usually, this is the part where jason bursts in, still vibrating from the adrenaline of patrol, his voice a frantic whisper as he tells you about a chase over the rooftops or some crook he managed to trip. you usually listen, chewing on a snack, giving him a loose, lazy nod while he handles the excitement for the both of you.

but the footsteps sound wrong though. they aren't light - they aren't jasons.

they’re heavy, dragging, sounding like someone pulling a sack of wet salt across the hardwood.

and then, you hear the mechanical groan of the grandfather clock sliding open which means the batcave has been opened.

you don't stay in bed. you slip out from under the covers, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards without a sound. you don't even bother putting on shoes - instead following the trail of dried gray dust and dark drops left on the expensive rugs all the way until you reach the entrance of the batcave.

the elevator ride down into the belly of the cave is entirely silent, the iron cage rattling against the stone walls. when the gates slide open, the lights hit your eyes like a slap.

there’s no frantic typing on the batcomputer - no logs being checked like there usually would be after a patrol.

there is only bruce, still clad in the heavy, dirt-caked armor, slumped over the cold steel medical table. his cowl is tossed on the floor, looking like a dead bird.

he has his head buried in his massive, scarred hands, his shoulders shaking in a way you've never seen before. a billionaire, a protector, a bat - completely reduced to nothing.

and on the table is jason.

he looks even smaller under the harsh white lights. the yellow cape is gone, replaced by a clean white sheet that only covers him from the waist down. his chest is a disaster of purple and black bruises, skin torn away by whatever blast took him out. his face is still caked in dirt, his lips parted slightly, but nothing is coming out.

no breath, no sassy comments to your sleepy appearance - just dead weight.

you walk forward until you reach the edge of the metal table, and that’s when your breath catches. it hitches hard right in the middle of your throat, a spike that refuses to let you inhale.

because you look at him, and it’s right there. that sickeningly empty, totally numb feeling drops into your stomach like a lead weight, freezing you from the inside out.

it’s the exact same vibe - you recognize it instantly. that look and vibe your mother when she was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. or frank - that delusional piece of shit john you stabbed in the neck - when he slumped against the wall.

now jason has it too.

all dead people have this same specific, hollow vibe to them. like the soul didn't just leave, but the body itself became nothing more than a piece of discarded garbage.

he’s just a dead kid who died against a villain. there won't be any doings in his favor - maybe a few pitiful messages here and there. jason didn't die a hero. he died violent, young, and desperate.

you tell yourself right then that you knew jason would end up dead. the boy was always too soft, too nice.

he was too busy smiling about food that he never got to have in crime alley and that stupid, stupid yellow cape to realize what kind of city he was actually playing in.

you don't want to think of it anymore. you don't want to think about how jason had somehow become a brother to you, how you never wanted things to go this far.

you don't want to look at bruce breaking down next to the body, crumpling at his side like a pathetic, broken old man.

you want to think of how you will be better off now, you'll have the manor to yourself again. you want to try and remember that jason would have ended up like this sooner or later anyway.

jason had lived well, and now his time had ended.

best of all, it would be best if you just don’t think. you want to blank your mind completely. don’t remember. just leave it alone.

alfred is a few paces away, his back turned to the table. the old man is moving with stiffly, his hands trembling as he folds a long, dark piece of fabric - you think thats a burial shroud. a wooden casket sits on a low cart near the shadows, ready and waiting.

bruce finally lifts his head from his hands, his face looking entirely gray, hollowed out by a kind of grief that makes him look eighty years old. his bloodshot eyes find yours.

"i'm sorry," bruce chokes out, his deep voice cracking into a pathetic whisper that echoes off the damp stone walls. "i... i couldn't get there in time. i couldn't save him."

you don't say a single word to him. you don't offer a hug, and you don't shed a tear. you stare at the grainy profile of the laughing man with green hair plastered across the main supercomputer monitor. the joker.

"is he clean?" you ask, your voice entirely flat, completely devoid of any heat.

bruce blinks, looking lost. "what?"

"the guy who did it," you say, your eyes dropping back down to jason's cold, marble-like hand. "is he still breathing?"

bruce looks back down at his own knuckles, his jaw tightening into a hard, stubborn line even through his grief. "he's... he's in custody. the police have him."

custody. a cell. another asylum. you don't want to think about it. you don't want to think about the justice, or the rules, or the stupid heroes. you don't want to think about how many times joker has escaped from arkham - and how he will do so once again even after killing jason.

it’s better to not think at all.

"right," you mutter, your expression going completely neutral, completely blanked out. you don't look at bruce again, you don't look at jason. "let me know when the funeral is."

you turn on your heel and walk back toward the elevator, leaving them alone in the white light. your face goes totally dead the second your back is turned to them. the itch in your knuckles is back, hotter than it’s ever been, but you force it down.

don't think. just leave.

the weeks after jason goes into the ground are just... grey.

everything is grey.

the manor feels like it’s underwater, the air thick and heavy and reeking and looking like grief. nobody talks to one another - bruce is more ghost than man, dick slinks back to blüdhaven without a word, and alfred tries to be the same as usual.

the funeral was exactly what you expected. small, miserable, and raining. of course it was fucking raining - seems like the sky was mourning poor jason too.

you stood a few paces back from the hole in the dirt, your boots sunk into the wet mud.

you watched them lower the wooden box into the earth.

jason was in there, someone you grew up alongside with. gone. just like that. just like your mother.

there’s were a few local authorities standing around under big black umbrellas - commissioner gordon was looking older than god, his coat had soaked through, he was coughing into his hand. then there was alfred, bruce, dick, and you.

on that day, you didn’t exchange a single word with any of them - not one. you stared at the dirt piling up over the wood.

dick’s shoulders were shaking under his coat, and bruce looks like a stone wall that’s about to cave in.

they’re so entirely caught up in their own grand, tragic sorrow that they don't even look your way. they don't ask how you feel - they just assume you're on the fine side because you aren't crying.

and you are fine.

you gave jason your final goodbye in the quietest part of your head.

see ya, jay.

then you turn around and walk back to the car alone.

a few months later, you meet the girl - barbara gordon.

she used to run around as batgirl before the joker put her in a wheelchair, and now she goes by oracle, doing all the tech work for bruce from behind a wall of monitors.

she wasn't at the funeral, and even though she’s been around since before jason even arrived, you just never crossed paths until now.

when she finally sees you down in the cave one afternoon, she barely pays you any mind. she just gives you this look - this tiny, pitiful little glance, the kind of look people give a three-legged dog on the street - before turning back to her screens.

you don't try interacting with her either. you don't need her pity. you don't need anyone's pity.

truth is, something inside your brain is hardening, turning into stone. you look at the news reports on the cave monitors, watching the red and blue lights flash over the latest crime scene in crime alley.

another body. another mother. another kid bleeding out in the dark while the bat is too busy brooding over a dead robin to actually fix anything and putting the same villains over and over into arkham asylum only to have them escape again and cause more deaths.

more and more you realize the world is just a meat grinder.

the strong eat the weak, and the people who try to be nice just end up six feet deep in the mud with rain pouring over their caskets.

your mom tried to be nice sometimes, and she got stuck. jason tried to be nice, and he got blown to pieces.

it’s a stupid game. the only way to not lose is to be the one holding the knife.

…

you sit at your desk at night, the room dark, the circuit boards laid out in front of you like a puzzle.

you look at your own knuckles, completely unbruised, completely clean.

it’s an insult to jason that you're still this clean. the itch isn't just a tick anymore - it's a demand. the city wants blood, the world takes whatever it wants, so why shouldn't you? if nobody is going to clean up the garbage, if the bat is just going to lock the monsters in a cell until they break out again, then the rules are broken. and when the rules are broken, you make your own.

…

the summer holidays finally hit, and the manor goes completely dead - bruce is out in the streets until dawn, and you’re out with louis.

the night air is hot, sticky, smelling like garbage as you two drift through the neon-lit cracks of the upper east side.

it’s late - past two in the morning - when you see them in the mouth of a damp alley. an old-looking bastard, heavy-set and greasy, pinning a woman against a brick wall. she’s whimpering, her fingers clawing at his chest, trying to push his massive weight off her, but the guy was too fat to be moved.

you stop. you look at them for a second and louis stops right beside you, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as he waits for you to do something.

if you’d looked at louis, you'd see that small, manic grin he'd carry on his lips.

but you don’t.

you don't feel angry and you don't feel righteous. you just feel this sudden, immense weight in your chest - months, maybe even years of pent-up resentment toward this godforsaken world, all rushing to the surface at once. you think of your mom, you think of jason. and you think of bruce’s stupid cape.

you walk forward.

the man doesn't even hear you until your boot cracks against the side of his knee. he lets out a wet grunt, collapsing to the brick, and then you’re on him. you don't use the clean, disciplined forms bruce taught you in the cave.

you use raw, ugly, crime alley violence. you use your fists, your knees, your boots. you let it all out - every single punch feels like a personal repayment to gotham and the shit life she gave you.

you lose track of time, the wet thwack of your knuckles hitting meat echoing off the alley walls for what feels like hours until the man beneath you stops groaning. stops twitching and stops breathing.

you didn’t mean to kill the guy when you first walked towards him, it was on a whim.

and scarcely is it that you act on whims; scarcely do you have whims. you have always planned meticulously; obsessively, even.

when you finally stand up, wiping a smear of hot red from your cheek, the woman is long gone - she ran the second the bastard hit the ground.

louis is leaning against a rusted dumpster a few feet away. the flick of a zippo cuts through the dark, a tiny orange flame illuminating his face as he lights a cigarette. he takes a long, slow drag, blowing the smoke up toward the fire escapes, a laugh bubbling out of his throat.

"hahaha! that was intense, didn't think you to be the rageful type buddy," louis says, shaking his head as his shoulders bounce. "theatrical, even. we should probably clear out before anyone else arrives, don't you think?"

looking down at the ground and then back at louis, there isn't a sense of regret. instead, there is a strange, new feeling of being completely present and energized.

from that point on, these nocturnal activities become a regular occurrence.

it becomes a routine of tracking individuals who choose to haunt the city's shadows. there is a newfound sense of control in these moments, a feeling of finally being the one who dictates the outcome of a situation.

it had gotten to the point that to refine the approach, a new interest emerges in the aesthetics of classic horror cinema.

old slasher films and thrillers become a source of fascination for you. the focus isn't just on the action, but on the craft: the use of lighting, the way silence is used to build tension, and the psychological impact of the unknown.

they prove to be quite the good murder ideas for you and louis.

three years later and you’re seventeen, and honestly? any scrap of a moral compass you used to have has completely rotted away.

you and louis have been dropping bodies so regularly it’s basically a routine at this point. you don’t even care about only killing the "bad guys" anymore. the more blood you get on your hands, the more you realize how completely fucked everything is, so you just kill whoever you want, whenever the fuck you want, with louis right there laughing by your side as it should be.

the gcpd actually tried to put a task force on your tail for a second, but they’re incompetent idiots anyway.

and thanks to being the biological son of gotham’s greatest vigilante and richest man while being entirely, beautifully neglected, you know exactly how to dodge them.

you know the blind spots in the traffic cameras, the encryption codes, the exact way to scrub a crime scene.

bruce tried to track your work for a hot minute without knowing it was you, but it’s gotham - the guy had his hands full with the joker or the riddler or whatever other freak broke out of arkham that week.

you aren't the only killer running around these streets.

high school is a completely different game than middle school was. you aren't that quiet, off-putting kid staring holes into people from the corner anymore. you grew out of the edgy, silent-freak phase a long time ago.

you’re seventeen now. you're bigger, you look better, and you’ve learned exactly how to talk to people. you’ve got this effortless, casual charisma that makes people think you’re just a chill, popular rich kid. you’re the guy who gets invited to every party, the guy people want to sit next to in the cafeteria.

you still think most of them are absolute fucking idiots, of course. you just learned how to hide it behind a nice smile - the things a smile can get you is astonishing.

over the years, you’ve even had a few girlfriends. girls from the academy who liked the mystery or the name - but none of them ever mattered. they were boring. they’d cry over a bad grade or text you twenty times a day about some stupid drama, and you’d just get this crushing, immense boredom in your chest until you let the relationship fade out.

the only person who has actually stayed persistently by your side through all of it is louis.

louis is the only one who gets it. the only one who doesn't bore you to death.

you even entrusted him with your family’s big secret.

meanwhile, the manor has turned into some kind of twisted revolving door for traumatized orphans. new people came and went, each one more ridiculous than the last.

first was tim drake, dragged into the house just a few months after jason’s body went into the dirt.

you were frustrated about it - another shiny new replacement - but you didn't bother saying a word to bruce or the kid because they didn't talk to you either. he took the red robin mantle soon after anyways.

then there was stephanie brown, who played robin for a literal week before getting fired like an intern and taking on a new mantle.

then cassandra cain showed up working as batgirl. you don’t like her because you can't read her - the girl's unpredictable. (sometimes you wonder if that’s how people feel about you… but probably not).

and now? now you’ve got damian. your actual blood half-brother, the current and newest robin, and a total nightmare.

even dick had a whole personality change after jason died, hardening up and trying to get those damn anger issues in check, but you two still don't talk. it’s probably way too awkward for him because you're the only one who remembers his dumb teen-robin phase.

none of them are close to you. they don't try to be, and you sure don't try either.

most of them don't even live in the manor, thank goodness. the only one left is damian, and you absolutely loathe the kid. you’ve completely checked out of the family dynamic.

you stopped eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner with them months ago. you eat out of gas stations with louis or grab food in your room, and you barely ever step foot in the batcave unless you need to steal some highly specific piece of tech or data for your next hunt.

about a year ago, the rumors started bleeding out of the east end. some new freak wearing a leather jacket and a crimson mask, calling himself the red hood had it out for batman specifically.

he wasn't like the typical theatrical costumed weirdos bruce usually fights. this guy was putting bullets through skulls, taking over drug routes, and splitting the heads of the local mob bosses with zero hesitation. even bruce and the circus had trouble handling the guy.

it didn't take you long to crack the cave’s encrypted security logs and find out the truth. jason was back.

apparently, he’d been resurrected. clawed his way out of the dirt or did some weird magic pool shit - you didn't really care about the details. what mattered was that it wasn't the jason you knew. the happy kid who used to vibrate with excitement was totally gone, wiped clean. he’d gone completely mad, full of rage and venom. he was violent, unstable, and ruthless - looking exactly like the cruel, predatory older kids from crime alley that he’d spent his whole childhood trying so hard to be different from.

it’s bittersweet, really. you looked at his grainy profile on the cave monitor and you realized how much the world cracks people open. you’ve changed into a lying monster, and he’s mutated into a loud, bloody one.

even after he seemingly made peace with the bats, jason is barely ever around the manor anyway, since he hates bruce's guts now and runs his own syndicates in the slums.

but even on the rare nights he slinks into the cave to steal medical supplies or argue with the old man, you two don't talk. you’ll pass each other in the dark corridors of the basement, your eyes meeting for a split second. you don't say hey, jay, and he doesn't say your name either. you just keep walking - there’s nothing left to say to a ghost who came back wrong.

and then, the present day hits.

it’s late on a thursday night, and the quiet of the manor is completely shattered. the heavy, grinding crunch of tires on gravel echoes through the window of your dark bedroom. you look out through the glass, different cars are pulling up to the grand entrance.

a massive family reunion you weren’t invited to it seems.

the heavy thump of bass from what you recognize to be dick’s car engine is still vibrating through the manor's old foundations when you decide to head down.

usually, you wouldn't give a shit. you’d lock your door, put your headphones on, and let them play their little war games in peace. but having this many cape-wearing freaks under one roof is an anomaly. you need to know what the hell is going on, if only to make sure their stupid mission doesn't block the routes you and louis use to haul bodies across the diamond district.

you pull on a loose black hoodie, slide your hands into the front pocket, and head for the grandfather clock.

the elevator clangs open into the belly of the batcave, and the sudden silence of the cavern is loud.

the whole circus is down there it seems. bruce is hunched over the main console, his cowl pulled back.

dick is leaning against the arm of the chair, arms crossed. barbara’s van must be parked outside because she’s already plugged into the auxiliary monitors, her fingers flying across a keyboard.

stephanie and tim are huddled near the weapons racks, whispering, while damian stands on the sparring mat, looking like a pint-sized dictator.

the moment the iron gate slides open, everything freezes.

six pairs of eyes snap directly to you. it’s like watching a group of deer catch the scent of a wolf.

tim actually lets out a tiny breath, his shoulders tensing up. stephanie shifts her weight, looking deeply uncomfortable, her eyes darting to dick like she’s asking why is he here? bruce just looks tired, his heavy brow furrowing as he tracks your approach.

you don't break your stride. you stroll up to the console platform, your bare feet making no sound on the metal plating. you let your eyes drag over the whole group, a lazy smile touching your lips.

"damn," you drawl, your voice totally casual, entirely flat. "didn't realize i missed the invite to the family reunion. should i have brought dip or something?"

the silence stretches for three agonizing seconds. dick is the first one to break it, rubbing the back of his neck and letting out a dry, forced laugh.

"hey," dick says, his voice trying way too hard to sound friendly, like he’s trying to bridge a gap that’s been widening for seven years. "it’s not a reunion, kid. we’re just... we've got a long-term tactical mission that requires the whole grid. we’re gonna be staying at the manor for a while."

"all of you?" you ask, eyebrows raised as you look over at stephanie, who quickly looks down at her boots.

"yes," damian snaps from the mat, his voice dripping with his usual prep-school arrogance. "and your presence in the tactical bay is a disruption. return to your quarters."

you let out a soft, amused chuff through your nose. you don't even look at the kid. "chill out, brat. i'm just grabbing some spare ethernet cables." you reach past a stunned tim drake, plucking a coiled gray wire off the workbench with total disregard for the top-secret files laid out next to it. you look back at dick, giving him a small, empty nod. "have fun saving the world or whatever."

you turn on your heel and head straight back to the iron cage. as the elevator doors groan shut and start pulling you back up into the mansion, the heavy stone walls don't completely drown out their voices.

"...god, he gives me the creeps," stephanie’s voice echoes faintly up the shaft.

"steph, don't," dick mutters, sounding exhausted.

"she’s not wrong," tim adds quietly - you can't hear the rest of what he says.

…

back in your bedroom, you toss the ethernet cable onto your desk and flop backward onto the mattress. the house is officially a birdcage, great.

you pull out your phone, the screen blinding in the dark room, and pull up your chat with louis.

you: bro you will not believe this shit the whole circus just spawned in here

you: dick, barbara etc they’re literally moving in for a mission

louis: LMAOO

louis: are they fr moving in??

you: pretty sure, yeah

you: one of em looked like she was about to cry looking at me lol

louis: valid tbh u look like shit when u do that stare thing

louis: but wait does this mean our summer plans are bricked? i already mapped out the spot

you: nah

you: we just have to play it cleaner bud

louis: bet

louis: hmu when ur ready

seen

you close your phone and toss it to the side, yawning.

things are about to get a lot more interesting round here.

omg my first ask THANK U SO MUCHH

im lowkey insecure abt it bc ive seen A LOT of writers being accused of ai and i rather u wld jst straight up tell me my writing is ass 💔💔💔

PAIRINGS: yandere!arkham knight/jason todd x reader | WC: 10k

SUMMARY: when you find out that your situation-ship you met at a bar a while back has literal trackers on you, you try to end things. only problem is that he isn't to keen on letting you go.

WARNINGS: angst, captivity, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, toxic love, emotional abuse, bittersweet ending, lowk only semi-canon jason todd bc it’s a yandere fic…

A/N: another thing from my drafts that i just tidied up. its lowk been a while since ive played arkham knight but it has always been one of my favorites lol. it may be a little ooc tho so my bad! i need more arkham knight verse fics its so good ughhhh. i know a lot of people would say that jason would be a good or at least decent boyfriend, but i feel like that's only after he made ‘peace’ with batman. jason is a traumatized, bruised man, he's not gonna have a perfect relationship with someone. esp since this is a yandere arkham knight jason, i imagine him to be particularly more unstable. if you want me to keep posting please consider hearting and/or reblogging my posts, maybe even following 🥹 i was considering writing a batfam x neglected!sis reader too but i dunno….. plsplsplsplspps send requests in tho

you’re sitting on the worn couch, the one with the springs that dig into your ass if you sit too long. the apartment is quiet, too quiet for your liking at least. it’s always like this when he’s gone. a hollow echo of his absence.

you sit and you wait, and you never fucking know when he is actually going to show up, it takes days to weeks to sometimes (albeit rarely and never more than one) a month.

you trace the faded pattern on the cushion with your finger, your mind replaying the last few months, trying to piece together how the fuck you got here.

how you got here.

it started in that dive bar, the one on the very end of crime alley. you were just trying to forget a shitty day, planning to recklessly spend your last savings on some cheap drink, when he slid onto the stool next to you. dark hair and pretty eyes, and a massive ‘J’ scar on his cheek that promised you chaos.

jason. he also had this massive, ridiculous frame that looked like it belonged on a football field, a white streak in his dark hair that made him look older than he probably was, and a grin that was way too cocky for a guy wearing a jacket with literal stains (whether those were tear or blood stains you do not know and do not want to know) on the collar.

he bought you a beer and he made a terrible joke about the smell of the pier. you laughed, and he looked at you like you were the first person who had actually listened to him speak in ten years.

even though he was cracking jokes, didn’t say much back then. he just sort of… watched you, and god, it was intense. one drink turned into another, then his hand on your arm, a spark, a pull you couldn’t ignore. you went back to your place. it was reckless, stupid, but you didn’t care. you hadn’t felt alive like that in years.

it was a good night. a really great night. after you woke up in the morning, everything felt heavy and loud and sweet that if you were a disney princess, birds would’ve surrounded you and you would've broken out into song.

after all, who wouldn’t be happy about bagging the hot bad-boy guy of their dreams? how could've you known that jason was well…

an actual fucking criminal.

because then the pattern started. the exhausting, fucked up pattern.

he stays for three days straight, sleeping like a dead man with his arms wrapped so tight around your waist you can barely breathe.

he cooks breakfast and burns the toast every single time, muttering under his breath while he scrapes the black stuff into the sink, looking slightly flustered in a way that made you giggle.

it also made you oddly aware that while jason has a strict routine he abides himself to, he really doesn’t know how to take care of himself. you took over breakfast, lunch (unless you both got take out) and dinner while teaching jason to cook meanwhile.

his arms wrapped around you, slowly kissing your neck while paying attention to your teachings with half a mind.

he kisses the top of your head before you go to work. and then, without a single word, he just disappears.

he is more like a storm, or a hurricane. you can't control neither and what they do. because when you guys are good, you're great, and if you're bad, it's fucking awful.

he’d sweep into your life, sweep you off your feet, then disappear without a trace. no calls, no texts, just gone. for days, sometimes weeks.

his phone goes straight to voicemail, that stupid, grainy recording of his voice saying ‘leave a message or don't, i don't care.’

you spent the first week he did this crying, thinking the worst. gotham is a graveyard; people get eaten alive by this city every single day. of course you fucking thought he died! he basically screams danger and danger attracts danger.

especially with that arkham knight guy being on the lose and wrecking havoc - apparently even batman struggled with him.

you checked the news reports for bodies found in alleyways. then, just when you are about to finally pack his extra hoodies into a trash bag and throw them away, he crawls back through your window at three in the morning. he is usually bleeding when he does this and he always smells like gun oil.

this is what made you figure out he probably is a criminal too.

and if you dare to ask him where he was? he snaps. he gets this ugly, defensive snarl on his face, slamming his fist against the kitchen counter until the dishes rattle in irritation. ‘don't start with me,’ he'll yell, his beautiful eyes looking more terrifying than endearing in the dark. ‘i was busy. i’m here now, aren't i? drop it.’

then he pulls you against him, rough and needy, burying his face in your hair until you give up and hold him back. he didn't even put a label on your relationship and never ever referred to you as his girlfriend. there were no promises made. you aren't his girlfriend. you are just the person he runs to when he needs some refuge, and you are so damn tired of it. why should you put up with this?

you’d try to move on each time he was gone, to forget the way his body felt against yours, the way his lips tasted like - but then he’d be back once more. a key in the lock, the heavy thud of his boots.

there was one time jason found out about your ‘moving on’ shit, and went completely off the rockers.

talking as in, he made sure you would never see the guy again as he didn't reach out to you anymore after jason ‘met up’ with him.

luckily he didn't get mad at you, although it was safe to say he was certainly irritated. fortunately (or unfortunately) he stayed a bit longer with you after that.

he’d never apologize and never explain. just took what he wanted, and you, like a fucking idiot, would let him. you’d tell yourself it was just sex… friends with benefits sort of situations to explain the affection. just a distraction, but the way he looked at you, sometimes, like you were the only good thing in his fucked-up world, made you hope. made you darn stupid, too.

to say the least, jason was a paradox. the days he stayed were usually great. he’d fix your leaky faucet without a word, leave crisp hundred-dollar bills on your nightstand, hold you in his arms at night so protectively.

he’d bring you takeout from that little chinese place you loved, remembering your order even when you more often than not forgot it yourself.

then he’d snap.

a harsh word, a possessive grip on your arm, a flash of anger in his eyes if you even looked at another man. you soon realized into this… situationship that he was one jealous bastard, but you told yourself it was just his fucked-up way of caring because you liked him.

you were a civilian, a nobody, living in crime alley. you didn’t need this drama. but you couldn’t seem to let go.

you were stuck in this hellish situationship, doing everything lovers did, but without the label, without the commitment, without the safety net.

it was exhausting, mentally draining. you felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells, waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next disappearance, the next outburst.

but today is different.

today, the tired feeling didn't make you want to cry. it just made you angry.

your eyes drop to the coffee table.

right there, sitting next to a half-empty mug of stale coffee, is the plastic back of your phone. next to it is the little green motherboard, and right in the center of the chip is a tiny, black dot that does not belong there.

it is a tracker. a real, high-tech tracking chip glued right inside the casing. you only found it because your battery was draining in two hours flat, and you took the case off to see if the battery was swelling.

hell, when you thoroughly checked all your apps, you even noticed a small, almost invisible icon.

it was tucked away in a folder you rarely open because you had a lot of apps installed on your phone, buried under a bunch of default apps.

you tapped it and what was it? a damn tracking app alongside a tracking chip. ‘find my phone.’ but you didn’t install it. you’re sure of it.

and that isn't even the worst part.

your hand goes into your pocket, your fingers curling around the cold, heavy square of metal you scraped off the undercarriage of your car an hour ago.

you had to crawl into the wet gravel of the apartment parking lot, ruining your favorite jeans, just to pull the magnetic box off the axle. it has a little red light on the side that blinks every five seconds.

blink. blink. blink.

like a little eye watching you turn every corner, watching you go to the grocery store, watching you visit your family.

the bastard was tracking you because who else could it be? the jerk is literally tracking your every move.

the anger in your throat feels hot.

how long has he been doing this? since the bar? since the first time he stayed over? you let this guy into your bed.

you let him hold you while you slept, hell, you slept with him! and all the while, he was treating you like a dog on a leash.

the lock on the front door clicks.

your whole body goes stiff and the heavy wooden door swings open, jason steps inside.

he looks… regular. he is just wearing a black leather jacket and gray jeans, his boots dark from the rain outside. he has his keys in one hand and a paper bag from the bodega in the other.

"hey," he grunts, not even looking at you yet as he kicks the door shut with his heel. "they had those stupid little powdered donuts you like. the bag is greasy, so don't put it on the-"

he stops. he finally looks up, his blue eyes taking in the posture of your body, the way your shoulders are hunched, and then his gaze drops down to the coffee table.

he sees the phone parts and then he sees the magnetic box. he takes a step back and he closes the door behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

jason doesn't flinch at the accusation. he doesn't look guilty. he just sets the bodega bag down on the kitchen counter, his movements really damn slow for someone caught red handed.

he unzips his leather jacket, tossing it over the back of the kitchen chair, revealing the tight black t-shirt underneath.

his shoulders are massive, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"you're scratching the table," he says and it irks you how casual he sounds.

"what is this, jason?" you whisper. you try to keep your voice steady, but the edge of it breaks. you pick up the metal box from your pocket and slam it down onto the wood. it makes a loud, ugly clack. “what is this?"

jason walks over. he doesn't stay across the room; he comes right into your space, towering over the coffee table. he looks down at the little black eye blinking on the wood.

then, his mouth twitches.

a sound comes out of him. a low, breathless huff. his head tilts back, and he actually starts to laugh. it is a ridiculous, barking laugh in the small living room. he rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head like you just told the stupidest joke he has ever heard in his entire life.

is he serious right now? he is laughing?

"oh, man," he mutters, his voice dripping with this dark, annoying amusement. he sets his hands on his hips, looking down at you with a grin that makes your skin crawl. "you actually crawled under the car? wow. i gotta give you credit for that one. didn't think you had it in you to get that dirty."

"stop laughing!" you scream, standing up so fast your knees hit the table, sending the coffee mug rattling. "it isn't funny! you are stalking me! you put a tracker in my phone, jason! you put a tracker on my car! who do you think you are?"

he shakes his head, still chuckling. “you’re so dramatic, doll. it’s just a little precaution. a security measure, if you will.” he walks a little closer. “for your safety, obviously.”

"a security measure?" you feel like you are losing your mind. the room feels smaller. "i am a normal person, jason! i go to work, i come home, i buy groceries. i don't need a security measure! you have no right to do this to me. we aren't even dating! we aren't anything. you're the one who didn't want the labels, remember? you disappear for weeks and you don't tell me anything, but i'm supposed to let you track me like a criminal? what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

the mention of the labels makes his jaw lock. the smirk finally vanishes from his face, replaced by a dark, sudden irritation. his blue eyes narrow, fixed on yours.

"don't use that against me," he snaps, his voice dropping, becoming rougher. "the no-label thing was your choice too. you didn't press it. and don't give me that civilian crap. do you know what city you live in? it's fucking gotham. do you have any idea what kind of people are walking these streets? i put those there to keep you alive. you think i want to wake up one day and find out some guy put a knife in your throat for ten bucks? you think i want you missing?"

"i don't care why you did it!" you yell back, the tears finally burning behind your eyes, hot and angry. "i don't care! it's over, jason. whatever this messed-up thing is between us, it's done. i’m telling you to leave or i will. pack up your boots and get out of my apartment! don't come back. i never want to see you again."

silence follows then, you can hear the rain starting to lash against the glass of the window - a frantic, tapping sound that does nothing to calm your nerves.

you expect him to explode.

you brace your body for him to throw something, to scream, to kick the coffee table across the room. you know his temper.

but jason just stands there.

he tilts his head, his blue eyes scanning your face, taking in your trembling lips, the wetness on your cheeks, the way your hands are clenched into fists at your sides.

the anger seems to drain out of him, but it isn't replaced by regret. it is replaced by this patronizing, deeply unsettling calm. he looks at you the way a parent looks at a toddler throwing a tantrum. like you are just being silly. like you are saying something impossible.

"you're emotional," he decides quietly.

he steps forward, closing the final bit of distance between you. before you can move, before you can bolt, his large, calloused hand comes up. his fingers curl around the side of your face, his palm warm against your jaw.

you flinch, trying to jerk your head back, but his grip is solid. it isn't hurting you - he isn't squeezing - but it is completely unyielding. you can't move an inch away from him.

"get off me," you hiss, your voice cracking.

"shh," he murmurs softly, his thumb moving in a slow, gentle stroke across your cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear. his eyes are dead serious now, staring straight into yours with a terrifying kind of clarity.

"you're stressed. you're not thinking clearly right now. you had a bad day, you found the gear, and now you're panicking. there is simply no way you'd leave me."

is he crazy? he has to be crazy. you are literally telling him to leave, and he is talking to you like you're a tired kid.

"i mean it, jason," you choke out, your hands coming up to push against his chest. his muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. he doesn't even budge.

"let go of me. it's over."

"you're not like him," jason whispers, his voice dropping so low it is almost a growl, but he isn't looking at you anymore. his eyes are focused on something far away, something dark inside his own head. "you're not like him. you wouldn't abandon me. that man... he replaced me before my body was even cold in the dirt. but you? you're too good for that. you're sweet. you're gentle. you wouldn't just throw me away over a couple of trackers."

his thumb presses a little harder against your skin, grounding himself.

"i know i have my issues," he continues, his voice steady, reasonable. completely unhinged. "i know i disappear. i know it's hard. but it worked up until now, didn't it? we had fun. we have a good thing here. after everything i've done to keep you safe in this city, you wouldn't just leave. you're just confused."

he pulls his hand back suddenly, leaving your skin feeling cold. he takes a step back, sighing as he checks the heavy watch on his wrist. his demeanor shifts in a second, like he is suddenly remembering he has somewhere else to be.

"i gotta go," he says smoothly, adjusting the collar of his t-shirt. "i have a lot of work to do tonight. some things to take care of downtown."

"did you hear a single word i said?" you scream at his back as he walks toward the front door. "i'm breaking up with you! i am leaving! the second you walk out that door, i am packing my bags and i am going somewhere you can't find me!"

jason stops right by the entryway. he doesn't turn around to face you. he just looks down at his boots.

"you'll understand eventually," he says calmly.he doesn't reach for the doorknob. instead, his hand goes into his back pocket, and he pulls out a sleek, thin control pad. it looks military-grade, the screen glowing with a blue light.

his thumb taps the glass three times.

thud.

the sound is massive. it vibrates right through the floorboards, rattling the bones in your feet.

you gasp, spinning around. from the top of your living room windows, heavy, solid steel shutters are slamming down. they drop with a terrifying speed, obliterating the view of the gotham skyline, cutting off the neon lights, cutting off the rain.

slam. slam. slam.

the apartment goes completely black for a split second before the dim lamps on your side tables flicker back to life.

then comes the sound from the door.

click. hiss. click.

the heavy deadbolts on your front door are moving on their own. you watch the metal knobs turn, locking once, twice, three times. a computerized hum echoes from the frame.

"jason!" you scream.

you sprint across the room, your socks sliding on the hardwood. you throw your weight against the heavy wood of the door, grabbing the handle and pulling with everything you have. it doesn't move. it feels like trying to pull open a bank vault. you twist the lock manually, but the little metal piece is stuck fast, held in place by an electronic current.

"jason! open the door!"

you slam your fists against the wood, the impact stinging your knuckles. you can hear his footsteps on the other side, slow and completely relaxed as he walks down the hall.

"just get some rest," his voice comes crackling through the apartment's small intercom system near the kitchen. it sounds smooth, completely unfazed, like he is just telling you he'll be late for dinner. "i'll be back in a few days. don't do anything stupid. don't try to mess with the shutters, either. you'll just shock yourself. don't want you getting hurt, doll."

the intercom clicks off with a dull static hiss.

the apartment is completely silent now. the heavy steel over the windows muffles even the sound of the thunder outside.

it is just you, the dim yellow light of the lamps in the apartment , and the greasy bag of donuts sitting on the counter.

you slowly slide down the front door, your back scraping against the wood until your knees are pulled up to your chest. your hands are shaking so bad you can barely interlock your fingers.

he locked you in. he actually locked you in.

your mind is spinning, a wild, chaotic mess of panic and fear. you look at the broken pieces of your phone on the coffee table.

the tracker is gone, but the battery is out, and even if you put it back together, jason probably blocked the signal somehow.

he did this. jason did this. the guy who holds you when he has nightmares. the guy who looks so small and broken when he thinks you aren't looking.

and the absolute scariest part? the thought that makes your stomach turn completely upside down?he didn't do it because he was angry because you know jason when he's angry. he didn't do it to punish you.

as you stare at the greasy paper bag on the counter, a tiny, sickening thought starts to form in the back of your brain, creeping in like poison.

he really thinks he is protecting you. he genuinely believes that this is love. he thinks that by locking you in a box, by stripping away your choices and your life, he is keeping you safe from the world that hurt him.

he thinks he is saving you.

and you're not tech savy at all, so you have no idea how you are ever going to get out.

what the hell do you do now? you sit on the floor for what feels like hours, the wood is hard and cold under your thighs.

your knuckles throb from where you banged them against the door, a dull, aching heat that matches the rhythm of your heart which is beating like crazy.

the silence in the apartment does only more to creep you out. usually, you can hear the faint rumble of the subway two blocks over, or the muffled shouts of people arguing in the street below. now, there is nothing. just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of the lamps.

jason really did it. he fucking locked you in.

your eyes drift back to the coffee table. the little green motherboard of your phone sits there like a corpse. you push yourself up from the floor, your legs shaking slightly. you walk over and pick up the battery, forcing it back into the plastic slot with clumsy, trembling fingers. you snap the back cover on and hold down the power button.

the screen lights up. thank god… the little loading logo spins and spins. you hold your breath, waiting for the home screen to pop up, waiting to call for help, to call anyone, really. except jason of course.

the screen finally loads… but there are no service bars. there is just a little x next to the signal icon. no network available. you try to connect to the apartment wi-fi. the network name is there, but when you tap it, a red box pops up: access denied by administrator.

"fuck," you whisper, slamming the phone face down onto the couch cushion repeatedly.

he didn't just block the physical door. he blocked the damn airwaves, he erased your voice from the outside world with a few taps on a damn screen. how fucking long did he have this installed anyways and you didn’t know?

you walk over to the living room window, the heavy steel shutter looks like a garage door, thick and matte black, sealing you off from the glass. you reach your hand out, your fingers hovering an inch away from the cold metal.

don't try to mess with the shutters, either. you'll just shock yourself. his voice echoes in your head, so casual, like he was warning you about a hot stove instead of literally electrocuting yourself while trying to break free from him.

you pull your hand back, pulling it tight against your chest. you want to scream. you want to kick the walls until your toes break. instead, you walk into the kitchen.

the greasy paper bag from the bodega is still sitting on the counter. you open it, your eyes burning as you look inside. three powdered donuts, white and fluffy, smelling faintly of sugar and oil.

he bought them because he knows you get a sweet tooth when it rains - knows exactly how you like to get comfortable and put on a movie and snack while listening to the rain. he bought them right before he decided to turn your life into a fucking prison.

the contrast makes you nauseous. he makes you nauseous.

you shove the bag away, throwing it into the trash can under the sink.

you spend the rest of the night pacing. you check the bathroom. no windows there, just an exhaust fan that blows cold air from a vent way too small for a person to squeeze through.

you check the bedroom. another steel shutter, solid and of course, unbreakable.

you are trapped in your own home. four walls, a kitchen, a bed, and a door that won't open.

by the time the clock on the stove says 4:00 AM, the adrenaline finally runs out. your body feels like lead. you crawl into bed, fully dressed, keeping your boots on. you don't pull the covers up. you just lie there on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling, watching the dim light from the hallway cut across the plaster.

your brain won't shut up. it keeps looping back to the bar, when you first met. to the way he laughed, to the way he held your hand when you walked through the park. how did you not see this? how did you let a guy this dangerous get so close to you?

because he was nice, the quiet voice in your head answers. because when he looked at you, he looked like he was starving and you were the only food in the world. he made you feel wanted, needed.

it is a messed up thought. you roll onto your side, burying your face in the pillow, trying to shut it out.

three days pass.

you lose track of morning and night because the shutters never go up. the only way to tell time is the digital clock on the oven. 12:00. 04:00. 08:00. the numbers just keep changing, a slow countdown to nothing.

you try to keep a routine. you wash your face. you eat cereal and snacks because you can't be bothered to cook. you watch movies on the dvds you have stacked under the tv, but you can't focus on the dialogue. your ears are always strained, listening for the door.

on the fourth day, the electronic hum changes pitch.

click. hiss. click.

your whole body goes rigid. you are sitting on the kitchen stool, a glass of water in your hand. you set it down so fast some of it splashes over the counter.

the heavy deadbolts slide back. the door swings open.

jason steps inside.

he doesn't look like the guy in the leather jacket anymore. he looks tired. really, really tired. he is wearing a dark gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick, pale scars running up his forearms. his hair is messy, sticking up in different directions like he has been running his fingers through it for hours. he carries a large paper bag full of fresh groceries in one arm.

he looks at you. his blue eyes are bloodshot, dark circles bruising the skin underneath them.

"hey," he says. his voice is a low, gravelly rasp.

not saying anything back, you just stand up and back away, until your spine hits the refrigerator.

maybe you can make it out?

your eyes slide to the open door behind him. just for a second. just a tiny glance.

but…jason notices.

of course he fucking notices because nothing can ever go your way. he doesn't get mad, though. he just kicks the door shut with his boot, and the automatic locks hiss back into place before the wood even settles in the frame.

"brought some stuff," he mutters, walking into the kitchen. he sets the grocery bag on the counter right next to where you were sitting. he starts pulling things out. milk. eggs. fresh bread. apples. a couple of steaks wrapped in butcher paper. "figure you were running low on the good stuff. didn't want you living on crackers. not good for your health, y'know?"

he talks like he just got back from a business trip. like he didn't lock you in a box for ninety-six hours.

"let me out, jason," you say. your voice is dry, barely louder than a whisper, but it makes its way through the room.

jason stops. his hand is hovering over a carton of eggs. his shoulders drop, a long, heavy sigh escaping his nose. he doesn't look at you. he just keeps his back turned, his large hands resting on the edge of the counter.

"we're still on this?" he asks, his tone leaning into that familiar, sassy irritation. "i told you, babe. it's not happening. it's dangerous out there right now. things are getting… messy downtown, you're safer here."

"i don't care about downtown!" you scream, the anger exploding out of you because the quiet was suffocating you for four days straight. you step away from the fridge, your fists clenched.

"i don't care about your stupid excuses! you can't keep me here! this is kidnapping, jason! this is a crime! the cops are going to look for me. my job... my boss is going to call the police when i don't show up!"

jason finally turns around. he leans back against the counter, crossing his massive arms over his chest. the dark circles under his eyes make him look menacing, but his expression is completely blank.

"you don't take me for an amateur, do you? that's already handled," he says calmly.

your heart drops. "what?"

"your boss got an email from your account two days ago," jason explains, his voice entirely too casual. "you resigned. family emergency out of state. handled your landlord, too. rent is paid for the next six months in advance. nobody is looking for you… and your friends won't reach you. i'll make sure of that.”

the air leaves your lungs in a painful gasp.

the son of a bitch thought of everything. he systematically erased your life while you were sitting on the couch watching movies.

"you son of a bitch," you choke out. the tears are back, hot and blurry, blinding you. "you absolute piece of shit."

you lunged at him. you don't even think about it, the pure, raw panic taking over your muscles. you swing your fist, aiming right for his arrogant face.

jason doesn't even blink. his hand moves like lightning, catching your wrist in mid-air. the impact makes a dull thud. his grip is like iron, wrapping completely around your skin.

before you can swing with your other hand, he grabs that wrist too, pulling both of your arms down, pinning them against his chest.

you try to pull away, twisting your body, kicking at his shins with your boots. "let go of me! let me go!"

“stop it," he grunts, easily absorbing your kicks. he doesn't hit back. he doesn't even shake you. he just holds you tight against his chest, locking your arms so you can't move. "stop throwing a tantrum. you're going to hurt yourself."

"it's not a tantrum!" you scream right into his face, your chest heaving against his. "it's my life! you stole my life!"

jason's face tightens. for a split second, the calm mask cracks, and you see that raw, volatile anger flashing in his eyes.

he leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.

"i saved your life," he says, his voice dropping into a harsh, gravelly register that doesn't sound like the man you thought you knew at all. "you think the system cares about you? you think this city cares? if i leave you out there, you're just a target. some freak in a mask or some low-life with a gun will take you just to get to me, or just because they can. i'm the only one who actually gives a shit about keeping you breathing."

he squeezes your wrists a little tighter, just enough to make you wince, before he suddenly lets go. he steps back, breathing heavily, running a hand through his dark hair.

the anger drains out of him as fast as it came, replaced by that weird, unsettling calm. he looks at your red wrists, then looks away, his jaw clenching.

"i'm making dinner," he decides, turning back to the grocery bag. "go sit down."

you stand there for a second, your breath hitching in your throat. your wrists ache where his fingers were.

if you could, you would fight more but your damn knees feel like water. what is happening instead is the reality of the situation settling on you.

there is no police backup coming. there is no landlord coming to check the apartment.

you are completely, utterly alone with him.

you slowly walk back to the living room and sink into the couch.

the kitchen fills with the sound of cooking. the clatter of a frying pan. the sharp hiss of meat hitting hot oil. the smell of butter and garlic starts to drift into the living room. it is your favorite meal. the one you told him about during that rainy night a while ago when you were both crammed into the booth at the diner.

you sit in the dim light, listening to him move around the kitchen.

he didn't hit you at least. he could have broken your wrists, but he didn't. it is a terrifying thought, so you try to shake it away, angry at yourself for even thinking it. you shouldn’t be grateful that he didn’t do it - it's the normal fucking thing to do.

he locked you up, he lied to your boss and he is a criminal.

but as you look at the kitchen doorway, watching his massive shadow move against the wall, a sickening wave of pity hits you.

he looked so tired when he walked in. those dark circles under his eyes... he looks like he hasn't slept since he left.

well, why should you care? your fingers are digging into the couch fabric.

let him be tired. he deserves it. but… the memory of his voice stays with you. i’m the only one who actually gives a shit. he said it with so much conviction. he genuinely, truly believes he is the good guy here. he thinks he is the hero protecting his prize or pretty little civillian.

"hey."

you look up. jason is standing in the doorway, holding two plates. the steak is perfectly cooked, steam rising from the meat, smelling incredible. at least his cooking has improved greatly.

he has washed the grocery dust off his hands, too. he looks at you, his blue eyes nervous, completely devoid of the anger from a few minutes ago. he looks almost like a little boy waiting to see if he's in trouble.

"you hungry?" he asks softly.

you don't answer, you just stare at the plate.

jason walks over, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table right in front of you, setting the plates down between you. he picks up a fork and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours. his touch is oddly gentle now. so soft it hurts.

"eat," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your face, watching for any sign of a smile, any sign that the storm has passed. "i made it exactly how you like it."

you take the fork because your stomach is hollow and you don't have the energy to fight the food. you cut a small piece of meat and put it in your mouth.

instantly, jason's whole face changes. the tension leaves his broad shoulders, a tiny, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his lips. his eyes brighten up, completely mistaking the fact that you are starving for the fact that you are forgiving him.

"good, right?" he says, his voice lighter, returning to that sassy, familiar jason from the bar. "told you i could cook. better than that greasy diner crap."

you chew slowly, looking at his bandaged forearms, at the ‘J’ scar on his cheek. your mind is a chaotic mess, twisting itself into knots just to make the air in the room breathable.

if he loves you this much, maybe it's not a cage? maybe you're just the only thing he has left to save. you know that deep down jason is a good guy… you just need to get through his head that locking you up is not okay.

you swallow the food, the warmth of the meal settling in your chest, even as the walls of the apartment feel like they are closing in forever.

the clock on the microwave says it is three in the afternoon, but it might as well be midnight. who fucking knows anymore. trying to convince him that locking you up is a literal crime? yeah, that was a massive waste of breath.

you tried screaming until your chest burned, tried crying until your eyes felt like they were full of sand, and what did he do? he just patted your head like you were some stray mutt throwing a fit over a leash.

you’ve pleaded, you’ve reasoned. you’ve pointed out every single logical flaw in his plan. that locking you up isn’t okay. that it’s illegal?? that it’s wrong. but it doesn’t work. it never works.

he just looks at you, sometimes with a flicker of irritation, sometimes with that infuriating calm he always has. he treats your arguments like tantrums. your attempts to escape, like childish games. he gets low-key pissed, you can tell, but he puts up with it. he just waits for you to tire yourself out. for you to ‘understand’. well, fuck him. you’re not understanding anything.

but the weirdest part is the anxiety. it isn't hurtful anymore. it doesn't claw at your throat the way it did during those first few awful weeks. the panic has dulled into this flat, heavy numbness.

you aren't constantly checking the door handles or looking for a way to break the steel shutters because your brain is just too fucking tired to care. you know exactly what your day looks like: four walls, the same couch cushions, and him.

and honestly? he is around all the time now. he used to ghost you for weeks, leaving you to wonder if he was lying dead in some gutter, but now he is practically glued to the apartment. he is running some massive, terrifying crime empire from your living room, barking orders into a secure radio headset while sitting in his sweatpants, but he never takes his eyes off you for long. you knew he was a criminal but you didn’t know it was this big.

should’ve left him when you had the damn chance, fuck those books for making you believe bad boys are hot.

his personality is still the exact same exasperating, moody mess it always was.

one minute he is making some sarcastic, sassy comment about the trashy reality tv show you're watching, and the next he is staring at the wall with this dark look that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

but… he is calmer. you can see it in the way his shoulders don't bunch up as much. having you under his thumb twenty-four-seven is apparently like a fucking sedative for him. he knows exactly where you are, so he doesn't have to worry about the world chewing you up.

whenever you do try to pick a fight - whenever you yell at him to give you the door code or throw a couch pillow at his stupid head - he doesn't even take you seriously.

“are you done with your little tantrum yet?" he sighs, not even looking up from the laptop where he is tracking weapons shipments. his jaw clenches, and you can tell he is low-key pissed that you are still complaining, but he just puts up with it. he treats your valid, desperate desire for freedom like a toddler's mood swing. "i told you to sit down. stop stressing yourself out over nothing."

it drives you insane, but the real nightmare hits on another day.

the deadbolts hiss and click with a frantic, messy speed. the front door flies open, and jason practically stumbles into the living room.

your breath hitches. he is wearing that terrifying, high-tech tactical gear - the dark armor, the camouflage plates, the massive arsenals strapped to his thighs. but the bright blue helmet is cracked completely open down the center, pieces of the visor missing, revealing his sweat-soaked, pale face beneath it. his shoulder is torn apart, dark, thick blood soaking through the fabric and dripping onto your rug.

you stand up slowly from the couch, staring at him. and suddenly, the pieces finally click together in your head.

the radio orders… the high-tech military lockdown on your apartment… the brutal, faceless armor.

he's the ‘arkham knight’ or at least thats what you think they call him (not that you could look it up). the psycho the news has been screaming about for months. the guy trying to tear gotham apart and who seems to have a strong vendetta against batman and robin and whatever else bat creature works with ‘em.

fuck. fuck. fuck. you’re living with a supervillain. a fucking supervillain.

you don't run to help him. you just stand there by the cushions, your face completely cold and indifferent. good. you hope it hurts.

jason stops in the middle of the room, ripping the broken helmet the rest of the way off his head and letting it heavy-drop onto the floor with a loud metallic clang. he looks up, his blue eyes bloodshot and wild, taking in your dead expression. his face twists into something incredibly upset, a raw look of betrayal taking over his features.

"you're just gonna stand there?" he asks, his voice cracking, sounding so small and pathetic despite the massive armor. "what? no sympathy? no ‘oh, jason, are you okay?’ after everything? god, you're looking at me like a piece of garbage.”

"you are a piece of garbage, jason!" you snap, the numbness finally breaking as the anger surges back into your throat. "you're killing people! you're running a fucking militia! you're out there hurting the good guys, trying to destroy the city, and you have me locked in a box like a goddamn trophy!”

"the good guys?!" jason yells, stepping toward you, his boots leaving wet, bloody streaks on the floor. his eyes have that scary look once more.

"you think batman is a fucking good guy? you don't know shit! that son of a bitch left me! he let the joker torture me in an abandoned wing of arkham asylum for over a year! a whole fucking year! i was rotting in the dark, screaming for him, and do you know what he did? he replaced me! he got a new robin before my body was even cold! he abandoned me!"

“he’s not the good guy. he’s a hypocrite. a self-righteous bastard who thinks he knows best.” the raw pain in his shout rattles the glasses in the kitchen. his chest heaves under the heavy chest plate, his lips trembling.

"and now you," he whispers, taking another desperate step toward you, his good hand reaching out, his fingers shaking. "why are you trying to abandon me too? after everything i've done to keep you safe from them? why does everyone fucking leave me?"

oh.

oh.

you feel a sudden pang of pity in your stomach. it makes you feel sick. he looks… so broken. no one ever took care of him. hell, you taught him how to cook and reminded him regularly to care for himself too and not only you. you hate yourself for it, but the thought is there.

fuck. you’re starting to feel bad for him. you’re starting to justify his cruelty because of his past torture. you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but feel bad.

you open your mouth to answer him, to tell him that keeping someone hostage isn't love, but jason violently shakes his head. he slams his eyes shut and pulls back, turning his face away.

he can't handle the truth. he never stays long enough to let you actually answer because he knows it will break his twisted reality.

instead, he forces the old normalcy back into the room like a suffocating blanket. he lunges forward, his large hand gripping your jaw to tilt your head up. he leans down and shoves his lips against yours.

it is a desperate, heavy kiss. he forces his tongue deep into your mouth, kissing you with a frantic, needy hunger, moving his mouth against yours as if this messy, aggressive display of affection can somehow make the kidnapping and the blood disappear.

he acts like you're still those two people from the bar, completely ignoring the prison he built around you.

tears finally slip down your cheeks, hot and miserable. you start to curse at him between his suffocating breaths. "fuck you... jason, stop... let me go, you psycho..."

jason pulls back a fraction of an inch. seeing you cry makes a look of genuine, agonizing heartbreak cross his face. he looks like he wants to die right there just because he made you weep. but his brain snaps out of the panic within a second, his jaw hardening into a defensive line and his eyebrows furrowing as he lets go of you and sighs.

"suck it up," he snaps, his voice rough and loud as he drops his hand from your face. he turns his back on you, gripping his bleeding shoulder. "it's for the best, you're safe here. just stop fucking crying."

he stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door hard behind him.

the apartment drops into a dead, awful silence. you slide down onto the couch, staring at the floorboards. through the thick walls, you can hear him. he isn't patching himself up yet. he is just sitting on the bathroom floor, his back against the door, completely quiet.

you can already guess what he's doing because he tends to lock himself away and sulk after he came back without telling you why - now you know.

he is sitting out there, deeply wondering why you are so unhappy, because his broken mind completely refuses to accept the obvious truth: he is the reason.

twenty minutes later, the bathroom door opens.

you don't hear him yelling or cursing anymore. instead, the clattering of bowls and spoons starts up in the kitchen. he is moving fast, working with a nervous, hyperactive energy.

jason walks back into the living room a few minutes later. he took off the heavy tactical armor, wearing just a pair of loose gray sweatpants. his left shoulder is crudely wrapped in white gauze, a fresh red stain blooming right through the middle of the fabric. in his hands, he is holding a small bowl. it's that stupidly sweet chocolate lava cake you always order when you're stressed out.

he stops in front of the couch, holding the bowl out toward you. his blue eyes are incredibly wide, practically vibrating with anxiety.

"you want a sweet treat?" he asks. his voice is so soft it sounds like a different person. he is totally desperate for you to take it.

you don't even have the energy to fight him anymore.

you are just too mentally tired to shove him away or throw the bowl across the room or do whatever. you take the small spoon and take a bite of the warm, rich cake.

instantly, jason brightens. the terrifying aura he just had a few minutes ago disappears, and the heavy tension completely drains from his massive shoulders. a small, relieved smile tugs at his lips. he leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your chocolate-stained lips, and this time, you don't even try to push him off. you just let him hold you.

as his arms wrap around your waist, you sigh.

he looks so tired… your eyes ate tracking the fresh blood soaking through his bandage as the thought from earlier creeps up once more. he was tortured for a year. and knowing that he was ‘abandoned’ (as he put it) by batman, leaves you to guess he was the past robin - which means he'd been fighting for so long. you find yourself actively justifying his cruelty, maybe it’s just your mind bending over backward just to make the captivity feel bearable.

if he is doing this because he was broken by the world, then maybe he isn't a complete monster. maybe he's just someone who went through hell, and you're the only peace he has left.

the clock on the oven says it has been four days since he crawled back bleeding from his fight with batman, and jason hasn’t moved from the couch once (except to go the bathroom or eat something, but thats barely).

the living room smells like old copper and cheap rubbing alcohol be probably used for his wounds. he looks like a giant, broken action figure slumped against your throw pillows, his knees bent because he is way too fucking big to fit on the cushions properly.

you are stuck playing nurse, and honestly? it is the most exhausting shit you have ever had to deal with. you have to change the gauze on his shoulder twice a day, and every single time you peel the sticky white tape back, he tenses up like he’s about to swing at you.

look at him. he’s a literal psycho who runs a militia, and now you’re the one scraping the dried blood out of his skin. this is so fucked.

but as you set the bowl of warm water down on the coffee table, the thoughts in your head do that weird, annoying flip they keep doing lately. you look at the nasty, puckered scars on his collarbone - not the fresh one from batman, but the old ones from, you assume, the joker.

if you were forced to fight all your life, then abandoned and tortured and replaced, no wonder he turned out like this. how could anyone be normal after that?

"you're staring," jason grunts, his voice incredibly raspy from sleep. he shifts his weight, wincing as the movement pulls on his stitches, his jaw clenching hard.

"i'm trying to see if you're dying yet," you say, your voice flat as you sit down on the edge of the couch by his hips. you reach out and pull the zipper of his hoodie down, exposing the messy, blood-stained gauze covering his left shoulder. "sit up. i need to change the wrapping."

jason lets out a sassy, annoyed huff, but he rolls his shoulders back anyway, letting his head drop against the top of the couch. "you wish i'd die. then you'd have to figure out the door code yourself, and you're waaay too dumb for military encryption."

"fuck you, jason," you mutter, but there is no real heat behind it anymore. the cuss words just slide out of your mouth out of habit, like a routine the two of you play.

ou start peeling the old tape away. your fingers are surprisingly steady. a few weeks ago, touching him like this would have made your heart hammer against your ribs in pure panic. now? you just want to get the dried blood off so he stops groaning in his sleep. you dip a clean washcloth into the warm water and start dabbing at the edge of the wound. the gash from batman's batarang is deep, a nasty purple line held together by clumsy black stitches jason did himself in the dark and you're glad that you're not the one fighting the big scary bat of gotham.

jason lets out a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth when the wet cloth hits his skin. his good hand flies up, his thick fingers locking around your wrist.

you freeze, your eyes snapping to his face. "jason. let go. i can't fix it if you're holding me."

he stares at you, his blue eyes wide and entirely too bright. he looks so young when the cocky smirk drops off his face. he is looking at you like he's terrified you're going to push the cloth into the wound on purpose just to hurt him. but then he looks down at your wrist in his grip, notices the way his fingers are squeezing your skin, and his expression instantly softens into that weird, guilty panic. he drops his hand back to his lap like he just got shocked.

"sorry," he mutters, turning his head away so he doesn't have to look at you. "just... it stings, alright? don't press so hard."

“i'm barely touching you, you big baby," you say, but you make your movements even slower, gently wiping the copper-colored crust away from the stitches.

the silence settles over the room again. it’s that heavy, suffocating quiet that used to make you want to scream. but today, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the quiet feels almost... cozy. the steel shutters are still down over the windows, blocking out the absolute hellscape of gotham outside, and for the first time, you don't feel like a hostage. you feel like you're in a bunker. he’s keeping the bad stuff out. the city is full of monsters.

if you were out there alone, who would look out for you? nobody. bruce didn't even look out for him.

you finish cleaning the blood and unroll the fresh white gauze, taping it down securely over his skin. “there, done. stop moving around so much or you're gonna rip the thread."

you start to stand up to take the bloody water back to the bathroom, but jason moves like lightning. his good arm hooks around your waist, his massive hand anchoring into the fabric of your shirt, and with one easy pull, he drags you down onto the couch right next to him.

"jason, stop, the water-"

"leave it," he murmurs softly, burying his face straight into the crook of your neck. he is so heavy, his broad shoulder pressing into your side, his breathing hot against your collarbone. his whole body relaxes the second your skin touches his, like you're some kind of medicine that stops his brain from firing.

“just stay here. i'm freezing."

you sit perfectly still, your hands hovering in the air. you could shove him. his shoulder is hurt; if you pressed your elbow right into the stitches, he'd yell and let you go, and you could run to the kitchen and grab a knife. you could try to fight him.

but as you look down at his dark hair, your fingers twitch. he still looks absolute exhausted. and during your stay here, and even before, you never noticed anyone looking for him. he has nobody else. if you leave him, it will completely break him.

your hands slowly come down, your fingers sliding into the soft, messy strands of his hair. you give a tiny, tired sigh, leaning your weight back against the pillows, completely letting him hold you. jason lets out a low, content sound in the back of his throat, his grip around your waist tightening just a little bit more, pulling you so close there is no space left between you at all.

you close your eyes in the dim yellow light of the lamp, completely numb to the trap, just letting the warmth of his body wash over you until the rest of the world doesn't matter anymore.

the apartment is so quiet it makes your ears ring. you sit on the edge of the mattress, your knees pulled tight against your chest, staring at the empty hallway. he’s been gone for five days this time. five whole days of absolutely nothing.

you catch yourself straining your ears, tilting your head toward the front door. you are listening for the heavy thud of his military boots in the corridor. you are waiting for that loud, hiss of the deadbolts sliding back. you even miss the static-heavy crackle of his army radio and the stupid, sarcastic comments he makes about the clothes you wear.

"fuck," you mutter into the dark room, slamming your forehead against your knees.

you get so pissed at yourself. the irritation burns in your chest, making you feel sick and disgusted with your own brain. you know exactly what he’s done. you haven't forgotten the trackers. you haven't forgotten the day he trapped you in this box and systematically erased your old life. he is a criminal, a psycho in a mask, a kidnapper.

yet, the apartment feels completely empty without him.

the reality is just brutal and simple: you have no other company.

jason is the only person you ever see now. he is the only voice you get to hear. he’s the one who brings the bags of groceries so you don't starve, the one who gently cleans the sparks-burns off your fingers when you get too close to the windows, and the one who provides the only warm comfort you can get in this living hell. he completely controls when the doors open and close.

after months and months of that twisted routine, not missing him would almost be stranger. your brain has been entirely re-wired by the isolation, shrinking your whole universe down until he is the sun.

you stand up, your socks padding silently across the floorboards as you walk into the living room. the dim yellow lamp throws long, creepy shadows against the walls.

you sit down on the couch, rubbing your arms against the chill in the air. the apartment feels like a tomb when he isn't here to fill it up with his massive frame and his loud, angry energy.

you stare at the front door, your heart doing a pathetic, eager flutter when a pipe rattles in the wall. false alarm. just the building settling.

you lean your head back against the cushions, closing your eyes in the dark. you hate him for what he did, but god, you just want the locks to hiss. you just want him to come home.

and suddenly, they do.

the months just blur together into one long, dark room. you stop looking at the clock on the stove because the numbers don't actually mean anything when the windows stay covered.

the shouting stopped weeks ago. you don't even remember the last time you threw a pillow at him or screamed until your throat was raw. what was the point anyway? it never changed anything.

now, when the heavy door clicks open, you don't look for a gap in the frame to bolt through. you just look at his chest, looking for the dark stains of fresh blood, tracking his posture to see where he is hurting so you can grab the medical kit before he even asks.

tonight, the deadbolts slide back with a soft, familiar hiss.

jason steps inside, but he isn't wearing the heavy, terrifying carbon plates or the broken blue helmet. he is just wearing an oversized, soft gray hoodie and dark sweatpants, his hair messy and damp from the rain. he looks completely normal, like.. civilian-like normal (as civilian like as he could be).

he doesn't say a word. he just crosses the living room with heavy, exhausted strides and slumps right onto the couch next to you. before you can even move the book in your lap, his massive arms wrap around your waist, pulling you hard against his chest. he buries his face straight into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that vibrates right through your ribs.

"missed you," he mumbles against your skin, his voice thick with a deep, crushing weariness.

your hands hover over his shoulders for a second. a few months ago, your brain would have been screaming at you to fight, to scratch his scars and make him feel pain. you would have been calculating how to steal his control pad, tracing the seams of the steel shutters, or figuring out a way to break his high-tech system.

but tonight, your mind is completely quiet. the thoughts that crawl up are different now. they are softer, maybe more dangerous than planning an escape too.

you know this is bad. you know it is totally messed up, but you just can't help it anymore. maybe it really is better to just stay. it's not like a normal civilian could outdo the damn arkham knight anyway. he ran a whole military empire from your coffee table; what chance did you ever have of outsmarting him? plus, when you really think about it, it's not even so bad anymore.

the apartment is warm, the fridge is always full of the food you like and you don’t have to worry about bills or rent or break-ins. the heavy steel shutters over the windows don't feel like a cage anymore. they feel more like a massive shield, keeping the horrific, violent streets of gotham away from the two of you. the city outside is burning, full of freaks and monsters, but in here, nobody can touch you. he keeps you safe.

your fingers slowly drop, sliding into the damp, soft hair at the back of his neck. you lean back into the cushions, letting your body mold against his chest, finding a strange, heavy comfort in the tight, bruising grip of his arms.

jason pulls back just a fraction of an inch, his blue eyes searching your face. his thick thumb comes up, nervously tracing over your lower lip, his shoulders tense as he waits for the usual cold, dead look you always give him.

instead, you look right back into his eyes. and you let out a small, tired smile.

jason gasps. it is a soft, breathless sound, and his entire face instantly brightens with a pure, childlike joy. the dark, paranoid lines on his forehead completely melt away. he smiles back - a genuine, radiant smile that makes him look completely whole, like the boy who never got loved enough.

he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, holding you as if you are the most precious thing in the entire universe.

"you finally understand," he whispers against your mouth, his voice trembling with a massive wave of relief. "you're not going to ask to leave anymore, right?"

you close your eyes, burying your face into the soft fabric of his gray hoodie, completely surrendering to the warmth of the trap.

PAIRINGS: superboy prime x reader | WC: 11k

SUMMARY: you grew up with clark on earth prime, and everything was perfect until the sky turned red…

WARNINGS: CONTAINS SPOILERS! angst, violence and blood, emotional abuse, physical assault/minor injuries, PTSD themes, dissociation, existential dread, angst with a happy ending, fluff if you squint your eyes, canon compliant (mostly), toxic love.

A/N: hey so first time posting a fic hahaha… icl this turned out longer than expected and probably isn’t all that good and a tad bit boring since this is my first time! i lowkey enjoyed writing though so i may aswell post more in the future because i got a looot of unposted stuff in my drafts. honestly, this was supposed to be a series but then i realized if it is i prolly wont finish it so forgive me if some things aren’t as fleshed out. also.. the timeline may not be accurate because its been a good while since ive read infinite crisis lol and english isn’t my first language

the sky above your beloved earth, or earth prime as you learned it was called, had always been a brilliant, beautiful, unremarkable shade of blue. it was the kind of sky that belonged to a world where the most exciting thing that could happen on a random tuesday was a pop quiz in geometry (which to note, was not the good sort of exciting, you always hated geometry), or a new issue of action comics hitting the stands at the local pharmacy.

you remember that sky so incredibly fondly. you remember the way the summer heat used to rest softly on your skin as you walked the smallville streets alongside your friends, the way the air smelled like cut grass and always a little salty before a thunderstorm came through which gave you a perfect head-start on when to prepare for rain or when not to.

but most of all, the thing you remember the clearest, was a boy named after a comic book hero and who wanted to be a hero so badly himself. clark. clark kent. not the superman, or well, superboy-prime everyone else knows (and formerly knew) him as on new earth, or the cosmic terrifying anomaly or the monster who punched reality until it shattered. just clark.

he had been a boy with messy black colored hair and glasses that always sat slightly uneven on his nose. a boy who could rant for hours and hours and hours about one topic.

the boy who would sit with you on the hood of his dad’s beat up truck, sharing a basket of chili fries from the local diner, arguing passionately about whether batman could actually beat superman in a fair fight (which you still don't believe batman could, and you will die on that hill if you must).

‘‘its about preparation,’’ clark had insisted to you one evening, waving a fry in irritation to your disagreement which made you struggle to keep in a laugh - he had always been so easy to throw off the rockers, and god did you enjoy doing it.

the grease of the fries stained his fingers, and he wiped them carelessly on his jeans as he noticed it, much to aunt naomi’s future dismay. ‘‘batman is a tactician! tactician,’’ he emphasized. ‘‘superman is just raw power. if bruce has time to plan, he wins. he always wins! thats the whole point!’’

‘‘clark, superman can literally just throw the moon at him.’’ you countered, stealing a fry from his basket. ‘‘i don’t think any planning or usage of utility belt gadgets is going to save batman from getting the full, concentrated power of the moon thrown at his ass at the speed of light. its the moon.’’

‘‘um, actually, in the comics superman is faster than the speed of light,’’ he began which made you groan and roll your eyes.

such a nerd, but still so endearing to you. at your visible annoyance, he had laughed. that bright, unburdened sound that seemed to belong to an entire different lifetime. a laugh you had adored. ‘‘you just don’t appreciate the nuance of the narrative. it’s not just about throwing the moon or that he simply could y’know? its about the psychological warfare and what's behind it—’’

‘‘i appreciate that you’re such a nerd,’’ you interrupted him before his umpteenth-ramble, teasing him and bumping your shoulder against his.

he had bumped you back in response, his cheeks flushing slightly. ’‘heeey! i’m just an enthusiast. that’s like… completely different!”

sure bud.

that was the clark you knew and adored. the enthusiast. the boy who was named after a hero and loved them so much he wanted to be one, even in a world where heroes only existed in four-color print.

clark kent, son of jerry and naomi kent. he showed you his scars and flaws, and in return, he let you pretend that you had none. he was kind and he was earnest and he was yours. you had known him since kindergarten, back when he was just a quiet kid who got picked on for having the same name as a comic book character. you had defended him then, and you had defended him every day since.

you remembered the halloween in eighth grade. he had gone as superman, (naturally, who else would clark kent go as?). aunt naomi had sewn the costume herself, and he had worn it with a mixture of pride and profound embarrassment. you had gone as lois lane after his repeated asking (you did not know back then, that they were lovers. a much similar fate you would share with lois).

you had worn a trench coat and were carrying a notepad around, mostly just to make him smile. and he had smiled. he smiled and his face was like the sun - he had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

‘‘you make a good lois,’’ he had whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

‘‘you make a good superman.’’ you had replied, fingers running along the giant ‘s’ on his chest.

soon enough after halloween, clark would confess to you and you would become boyfriend and girlfriend.

it was a simple, but happy life. a life of watching comic live action movies at the local theater after clark’s relentless begging, sneaking beers from his dad’s garage, and bowling on friday nights.

it was a life of being a normal teen, of thinking you had all the time in the world to figure out who you were going to be.

the two of you had stayed in that room standing together for several long minutes, your first awareness of each other undimmed and uninterrupted by your surroundings. slowly, clark’s face turned red and his face split even more into a smile like a burst of sunlight - a sun that would warm you for what it felt like a long time, until the day of your last farewell, when the cold that has dried out your beloved earth had suddenly gotten to him.

because then, the sky turned red.

the memory of that day was burned into your mind, like a massive jagged scar across your consciousness you are forced to live with your entire life long. it had started like any other day, as most bad days do. you were sitting on the bleachers at the highschool football field, watching clark try out for the team. he wasn’t very good, but he tried so hard to be.

then out of nowhere, the air pressure dropped. the sky, that brilliant, beautiful, unremarkable blue you so loved, bled into a terrifying, apocalyptic crimson (a shade of color you would come to hate dearly).

the clouds twisted into unnatural shapes you had never seen before, and a very low, resonant hum vibrated through the ground, rattling your teeth in your skull.

with the way the entire fucking planet was practically shaking, it felt like your teeth were about to fall out your damn mouth.

panic erupted and people were screaming, running and pointing at the sky. hell, some idiotic fucks even took out their phones to record instead of running for their lives.

you had scrambled down the bleachers, searching frantically for clark who had disappeared from the middle of the field, because of fucking course he did.

luckily, you found him near the fifty-yard line instead, staring up at the sky with an expression of absolute awe and terror… mostly awe.

‘‘clark!’’ you had screamed, grabbing his arm. ‘‘are you actually insane? standing here like some weirdo, we have to go!’’

even as you tried pulling him, he hadn’t moved. he just kept staring at the sky like a man possessed. ‘‘do you see them?’’ he whispered.

‘‘see what?’’ you demanded, still pulling on him and strangely enough, he wasn’t budging at all.

‘‘the heroes,’’ he said. and his voice sounded strange and manic in a way you had never heard it be before.

and then, the impossible happened. a man descended from the red sky, wearing the exact costume aunt naomi had sewn for him that one halloween. superman. the real superman, (kal-l from earth two. you only figured out from which earth and who he was exactly later). superman landed on the field, the ground cracking beneath his boots.

‘‘clark kent.’’ the man had said, his voice booming across the chaotic field. ‘‘we need your help.’’

clark had looked at you, his eyes wide, terrified and… exhilarated?

honestly, you should’ve seen his choice coming. it was clark afterall, your clark. the boy obsessed with becoming a superhero. why wouldn’t he accept an offer from his absolute idol to save the world? it was stupid to expect anything else.

of course, you had pleaded anyways.

‘‘i have to go.’’ he said, his voice trembling.

‘‘no,’’ you had pleaded, gripping his arm tighter. ‘‘clark, you can’t leave. please. don’t leave me! this is fucked! you don't even know those weirdos!’’

his brows furrowed and he looked sad for a moment, but that wasn’t enough to keep him. ‘‘i’ll come back,’’ he promised, pressing a desperate, fleeting kiss to your forehead. if the situation had been different, you would’ve been tripping over your shoe laces and gushing.

but you hadn’t.

this wasn’t some fairytale romance where he’d sweep you off your feet and carry you off into the horizon.

this was your damn reality, and clark was leaving you for men wearing their underwear over their damn clothes.

‘‘i’ll come back for you, okay? i promise. but i have to do this. i’m meant for this - to be super.’’

before you could even muster up a reply, he had flown away with superman who gave you an empathetic glance. fucking flown - you didn’t even know he could fly!

you couldn’t even fully process what was happening at the time, the sky turning red, literal superman taking clark away?

so to say that you were abandoned by clark would be unjust, he didn’t expect the earth to dissolve into nothingness later on, afterall, he tried to save it. but that you felt abandoned, and horribly so, is true.

the neverending garden of purity ends the second you step on a flower - your beloved earth didn’t die in a day. the gods aren’t that kind.

you had returned to your parents alone, who cradled you and held you as they cried. the world slowly turned into anti-matter around you, washing over your universe.

people were dying and the world erupted into chaos.

your parents dissolved into the anti-noise soon after everything went wrong, they tried to protect you until the very end.

then it was aunt naomi and uncle jerry, they didn’t stop looking for their son until it was their turn to dissolve.

you didn’t have the heart nor the words to explain what had happened. hell, you couldn’t even fully fathom it yourself.

yet you still had hope for some time, even after they disappeared, that clark would come back for you, as he had promised.

you sat alone in the end, watching the crimson sky as your home kept disappearing.

you closed your eyes and wondered if clark knew what was happening to his home… he probably didn’t. maybe it was to comfort yourself from the impending doom of death, but you’d like to imagine that if he knew his world was actively disappearing, he would’ve come back. for his family. for you.

he was probably out there being super alongside that weird superman guy who took him. and even in your misery, you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame him. after a while, you had stopped hoping for him to come too, only hoping he was safe wherever he was and that this wouldn’t hurt him too much. he had always felt everything so strongly, afterall.

all you could do now was wait for the end and the end came.

you had been seventeen when he left, and you had been seventeen ever since.

and for years, or what you believed to be years, you thought you were dead. or rather, you didn’t think at all. you were simply unmade, a casualty of a cosmic crisis too vast for your small mind to comprehend.

and you think you’re fine. not understanding, i mean. it’s easier to just cope with the fact that you existed in a state of non-being, a ghost haunting the mere edges of reality than some other crazy explanation.

but, of course, the multiverse is such a strange, fractured thing, isn’t it? when alexander luthor and clark shattered the walls of their paradise dimension, the resulting temporal shockwave had unintended consequences.

fragments of dead universes washed up on the shores of new earth.

and somehow, by the grace of the universe, you were one of them.

you woke up in an alleyway in metropolis, gasping for air, your lungs burning as if you had been holding your breath for a decade.

you were wearing the same summer clothes you had on the day the sky turned red. the world around you was so damn loud, chaotic and just fundamentally wrong.

the heroes here weren’t confined on the pages of comic books like back home; they flew overhead, real and really fucking imposing.

but they were so much darker than in the comics and so much angrier. the city felt so heavy with a cynicism that your home had never known and it scared you.

the news broadcasts you could see on the giant screens of sky scraping towers were filled with violence, corruption and utter despair.

it wasn’t exactly hard to figure everything out, but it still took you a while after doing your own research in public libraries and finding homeless shelters who wouldn’t try to send you into the adoption system.

thanks to this thing called ‘daily planet’, you learned what happened to your universe (not that they explicitly said it, but based on the video footages and your own experiences, you had a pretty good guess) and essentially the multiverse.

the destruction of blüdhaven, the slaughter of the green lanterns, the death of superboy, or connor kent if you remember his name correctly, and you learned the name of the monster responsible for it all.

superman-prime.

this version of metropolis was the complete opposite of what you remembered of your beloved home.

it felt more like a monument to a future that was a complete lie. to everyone else here, it was the ‘city of tomorrow’, protected by a god amongst men in a red cape.

to you, it was a graveyard of memories you weren’t supposed to have.

the butterflies of hope for a good life in your stomach have long since turned into skull moths crawling up your throat and you can’t help but throw them up.

and no matter how good superman seemed, you couldn’t bring yourself to like or trust him. remembering what happened what felt like an eternity but also just yesterday ago.

if you’re going to trust a hero just because he wears a cape, you might aswell trust a snake just because it doesn’t have hands to scratch you with.

you lived in a studio apartment in suicide slum (a name that felt far too on-the-nose for your current state of mind). the walls were so damn thin that you could hear your neighbors cough and the constant, loud ass honks of the city’s traffic.

it was a small and cramped place - absolute shithole if you were to be honest with yourself. it smelled faintly of old paper and damp wood at times due to the rain. but it was yours. or at least, this was the space you occupied. nothing felt really like ‘yours’ in this god forsaken planet.

you basically were a ghost. nothing more and nothing less.

it felt like the only plausible word befitting enough to describe your current state of mind. you walked through the streets of new earth, yes, but you didn’t belong in its soil.

you had no birth certificate, no social security number, no history and no family. you were a mere fragment of a world that had been erased, a glitch in the multiversal code.

you were all alone.

but you didn’t feel as terrible as when you first ended up here all by yourself. back then, in those first days, you were so alone that everyday was like eating your very own heart.

you had managed to secure a place at a small, local library, which was obviously how you paid for your apartment. it was an old and dusty place because most people were drawn to electronics nowadays, but it was enough.

you spent your days shelving biographies of people who probably never existed on your earth or were slightly different - and filing history books that were either completely different from what you knew or altered.

sometimes you would wander into the daily newspaper section. you would see the glossy covers of the latest ‘‘crisis’’ events, and you would feel a physical wave of nausea.

these weren’t stories to you anymore that you saw in one of clark's many comics.

they were crime scene photos. everytime you saw a drawing of superman, you didn’t see a hero; you saw the man who had taken clark away.

everytime you saw a mention of the green lanterns, you saw the victims of a boy who used to share his life with you. a boy who was a sun child once - now it seems there’s nothing left but rage.

and for what? a world he chose to leave despite your begging?

your friends (if you could call them that, they were very few), were martha and leo. martha was the head librarian who was too kind to ask you why you had no family and absolutely no history or anything else you'd usually need to get a job. she just saw how miserable (and possibly pathetic) you looked and gave you a job.

leo was the guy who ran the coffee cart on the corner. they were both nice people, but they were ‘‘new earth’’ people. they weren’t your people.

they lived in a world where the sky turning red was just another normal day.

they didn’t understand the fucking misery and ache and absolute hollowness of losing an entire universe.

you kept up with the news, of course. it was impossible not to. the giant screens in centennial park were always flickering with the latest exploits of the justice league.

you watched them with a grim, detached fascination as they rebuilt after what they had deemed ‘‘infinite crisis’’ aka the shit clark, or rather superman prime had caused.

you heard the talks of the monster they had apparently locked away in some part of the universe, the boy from another world who tried to destroy this one to ‘‘fix’’ everything.

to reassure the public, the masses were informed that the threat was safely tucked away guarded by fifty green lanterns very deep and far away in the universe.

and yet, despite all he’s done, you had hoped in a dark, selfish corner of your heart, that he was okay. and in another, louder corner, you hoped that he would never get out.

because you knew what happened when clark got angry.

even back home, he had an incredible hot temper. give a boy with a shit temper the powers of basically a god and there’s guaranteed to be wreckage.

the shift, of course, happened on a tuesday. it was always a fucking tuesday.

you were closing up the library, the sun setting behind the skyline of metropolis.

for some reason, the air felt more tense today than usual and you got random chills throughout your shift. like the hair on your arms would stand up at random which was really weird because it didn’t usually happen and shouldn’t be happening now.

deciding to brush it off because there’s nothing you can really do, you turned on the small, flickering television in the breakroom to catch the evening news, a habit born of desperate need to know where the monsters were. (if you meant the justice league or actual monsters is unknown even to you).

the screen came out as a chaotic mess of static due to the tv.

‘‘reports are coming in from across the globe,’’ the anchor stammered, her voice trembling. ‘‘it seems as though an unknown force has breached the atmosphere. they’re calling themselves the sinestro corps.’’

the camera cut to a shaky feed from the coast. the sky wasn’t red this time. it was a sickly and very ugly, blinding color of piss yellow.

thousands of streaks of light were descending like fallen stars, each one a warrior clad in black and gold, wielding massive rings.

and then, you saw him.

the camera zoomed in on a figure hovering above the wreckage of a military vessel. he wasn’t wearing the tattered remains of a blue suit anymore. he was encased in a new set of armor; yellow and giving off absolute villain vibes.

it looked like a mockery of the anti-monitor suit he had worn before, but sleeker and more predatory. on his chest the ‘‘s’’ shield was carved deep.

he wasn’t a boy anymore either. his face had hardened, his jawline sharp as a damn razor’s blade and his eyes glowing with a manic, solar-charged fury. he looked like a damn god of wrath.

‘‘superman-prime,’’ the reporter whispered, the name sounding like a death knell.

you watched in absolute horror as he reached down and tore a fighter jet out of the sky with one hand, crushing it like a soda can. he wasn’t even fighting them, he was enjoying it!

and he was laughing - the same laugh you had so adored and so missed. but there was something twisted and wrong and really fucking messed up about it.

it sounded cruel. and he was slaughtering people. real people.

you felt the bile rise in your throat at the sight, gripping the edge of the table for support so damn hard your knuckles turned paper white.

this was the boy who wanted to be a superhero.

this was the boy who promised he’d come back for you.

‘‘clark,’’ you whispered and suddenly, the television exploded into complete static. the lights in the library flickered for a second and then died, plunging the whole room into a suffocating darkness.

the fuck? you moved your hands to shield your body as the air pressure dropped so fast and hard your ears were about to pop, and the temperature in the room skyrocketed like hell.

the windows of the library fucking vaporized a second later!

a shockwave of heat and yellow light slammed into the room, throwing you back against the shelves. books tumbled down around you, but you were quick to scramble to your feet.

what the actual fuck? you coughed through the dust caused by the falling of the books, your heart hammering against your chest.

in the center of the ruined room, he was standing perfectly fine though.

the yellow piss colored armor radiated a very weird low frequency vibration that felt like it was rattling your bones.

the glow from his eyes was the only light in the room, two twins of pure, unadulterated rage. he looked like he had just stepped out of the heart of a damn star.

he didn’t move and merely stared at you.

‘‘i felt you,’’ he says finally.

his voice was so different. it wasn’t like the voice from your dreams and memories at all. it was resonant and powerful and felt like it could shatter the world. but underneath all that you could hear a tremor. a mix of relief and the innocence of joy.

‘‘how are you here? earth prime got ruined by them, didn’t it?’’ he began, ‘‘actually, it must’ve happened when we broke the paradise dimension, right? did the multiverse spit you back out? but that means you were alone for so long… m’sorry. m’so so sorry. because of those wannabe-hero-supervillains we were separated for so long, but not anymore.’’ he rambled and rambled and if you weren’t paralyzed with shock, you’d punch the air out of his lungs.

‘‘i was at the center of a sun, y’know,’’ he continued, taking a slow, heavy step toward you. the floorboards charred beneath his boots. ‘‘i was fighting the entire universe, fixing it, all the corrupted and evil stuff like a real hero, ,’’ he rambled on. god, he fucking rambled on. just like back then. and its so cruel.

its so fucking cruel.

‘‘i was killing everything that wasn’t real. actually, no not killing. fixing.. yeah. fixing everything. making things the way they were s’pposed to be. and then… then i felt a heartbeat. a real one.’’ he stopped a few feet away from you and the heat radiating off him was almost unbearable, the smell of ozone and burnt air filling your lungs.

he reached up with a gauntleted hand and unclasped his helmet. the metal hissed as it retracted, revealing his face.

you had seen his face on tv just a second ago, but the second between him putting his helmet back while he assumingely flew to you on and then seeing him take it off in front of you was immense.

he looked older, yes. there were lines of exhaustion and something you could only guess to be madness around his eyes.

but despite all that, he was still clark, wasn’t he? he was still the boy you lost all that time ago on that forsaken football field.

‘‘you’re here,’’ he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, terrifying intensity. ‘‘you’re actually here.’’

you looked at him, really looked at him - the armor, the blood on his hand, the monster he had become to ‘‘save’’ a world that was already gone. you looked at the man who had just murdered hundreds of people on live television.

‘‘clark,’’ you said, your voice trembling. ‘‘what have you done?’’

he didn’t flinch, albeit you could see his smile slightly twitching before a bigger, more terrifying one spread across his face - a burst of sunlight that felt like it was going to burn you alive.

‘‘i found you, thats what i’ve done.’’ he said, stepping into your space, and shit was his presence overwhelming. ‘‘i told you i’d come back. i promised.’’

well a tad bit too late, ain’t it? you weren’t able to get those words out as his yellow-piss colored gauntlet hand moved to hover just inches from your cheek.

he was still looking at you like you were the only thing in the multiverse that truly mattered.

‘‘now,’’ he whispered, his eyes glowing brighter. ‘‘once im done, we can finally go back home.’’

you always knew that clark was a little delusional, but holy shit. ‘‘clark, there is no home!’’ you screamed, the word basically tearing from your throat - years of repressed emotions finally pouring out like a waterfall.

you took a step back, your heels crunching on the earth he deemed ‘fake’. the earth you tried so fucking hard to live on.

‘‘our earth is gone, clark! it’s dead and it’s not coming back! you literally saw it burn, god! you saw it dissolve into nothingness from wherever the fuck you were!’’

‘‘no!’’ he yells back, the sound shattering whatever of the windows was left. hell, the glass vaporized into thin air before it could even hit the ground. ‘‘it’s not dead! i can bring it back! it’s…it’s just hidden from us by these failures who call themselves heroes!’’

he was breathing heavily. you always knew clark was fragile mentally, and he never took well to rejection. his eyes were hysterically moving across the room, avoiding direct eye contact with you before they eventually stopped on you.

if this person wasn’t your clark, you probably would’ve shat yourself seeing the look in his eyes. absolutely fucking manic.

‘‘they… they turned you against me, didn’t they? they got to you before i did..’’ he explains, more to him than you.

god, you wished he would just shut up. if anyone here should be losing it, it should be you! while you aren’t the fondest of the justice league either, you’re rational enough to know what happened to your home wasn’t their fault. clark is just…

mental.

he’s gone absolutely fucking mental.

but.. thats how he always was, wasn’t he? maybe it wasn’t as bad back then, or you pretended not to see it, but he always felt very strongly and reacted accordingly.

and yet you still adored him so. afterall, you don’t fall in love with people just because they’re good people.

you fall in love with people whose darkness you recognize. you can fall in love with a person for all the right reasons, but that kind of love can still fall apart.

but when you fall in love with someone because your monsters found a home in them, like yours did clark’s, thats the kind of love that owns your skin and bones.

it’s why you could never stop loving him either, no matter how much of a shit-show he has become.

you want to say something, but before you can, you are very rudely interrupted by said shit-show.

‘‘they filled your head with their venomous, piece-of-shit air!’’ he moved forward as he spoke, and you flinched away from the sudden movement - more instinct than actual fear.

however, clark froze.

well shit - the silence right now is definitely worse than any scream you have heard on television just now. but you’re not sure you want him to talk either.

of course, once more despite your pleas, he did.

‘‘you’re afraid of me.’’ he whispered. it wasn’t a question and more of a realization - a wrong one! you definitely did not fear clark!

but the boy in front of you hasn’t been your clark for a long time, has he? so maybe you are afraid. how could you not be?

‘‘i don’t know you,’’ you said, your voice more a mixture of desperate, agonizing grief than terror. ‘‘i look at you, and i see the face of the boy who i loved, but the person standing in front of me… he’s a stranger. he’s a monster, clark. you’re going down a path i can’t follow!’’

‘‘i am a hero!’’ he screamed, his heat vision flaring. two blinding, hot beams of red light scorched the floorboards between you, sending up a cloud of ash. ‘‘i am the only real hero left! i’m the only one who cares enough to do what needs to be done! i fought my way out of a sun for this - for you!’’

‘‘and that’s the problem!’’ you yelled, stepping forward. you don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but a sudden, definitely fueled by desperate, rage ridden, suicidal bravery, let’s you grow some guts.

‘‘yes, we’re damaged, clark! really fucking damaged! but that does not make us wise! we’re not - you’re not special! we don’t get to choose who lives or dies!’’ he stiffened, and fuck did it feel good to get this out. his piss colored weird-energy pulse in his suit even stuttered for the entire fraction of a second.

‘‘we’re just kids,’’ you finally whispered, tears finally falling out of your eyes. ‘‘we.. we were supposed to just be seventeen y’know? i know it was ages ago for you, but for me it wasn’t that long ago. we were supposed to live together and see bad movies and sneak beers and… and just be. but you’re playing god with people’s lives for some fucked up fantasy or dream!’’

you inhale and then exhale, voice slightly softening. ‘‘that’s wrong, clark. a hero doesn’t murder. look at yourself, at what you’ve become!’’

‘‘i have to!’’ he pleaded, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated lunacy.

of course he’d rather double down than to admit he was wrong. what else did you expect from him?

‘‘if you don’t come with me.. if you don’t stay… then what was it all for? why did i fight? why did i survive up until now? because i’m meant to save us. we're supposed to be together!’’ clark pleads once more, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or you.

‘‘if we're supposed to be together,’’ you replied, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘‘you would have stayed that day when i asked you to. you would have listened. you’re so damn obsessed with the past that you’re murdering the future. i won’t be a part of it. i won’t go with you.’’

‘‘that boy you want is dead!’’ he screamed, once desperate emotion turning into pure rage once more - this time with the vengeance cherry on top. ‘‘the universe killed him! and now, i’m going to kill the universe!’’

before you could process anything, he lunged forward, his movement a complete blur to your normal eyes. hell, before you could even blink, his gauntleted hand was clamped around your upper arm.

it feels like your bones are melting! who the fuck even wears arm gauntlets that hot!?

you groan in pain as he pulled you towards him, his face inches from yours.

‘‘you’re coming with me,’’ he said angrily, if a tone of voice could kill you’d be dead a dozen times over. ‘‘i’m taking you away from this filth. and then…’’ he paused, his face softening if only for a brief second.

‘‘we’ll relive being seventeen again, before our home was taken. we’ll do all the things we couldn’t.’’ clark being the hot and cold boy he is, suddenly turned angry again. ‘‘whether you want to or not. but obviously, you will.’’

‘‘clark, stop!’’ you screamed, his strength was so superior you couldn’t even properly struggle. ‘‘you’re hurting me! please, you’re hurting me!’’

he flinched at the words, his grip loosening just a fraction, but his twisted mask of love and madness remained unbroken. ‘‘it’ll.. um, it’ll be better once we’re home,’’ he promised. ‘‘you’ll see, and then you’ll understand me. you’ll love me again… and everything will go back the way its supposed to be.’’

‘‘i never stopped loving you, you fucking crazy bastard!’’ you sobbed in pain, looking into the twin suns of his eyes with a mixture of pity and horror. ‘‘but you are not who you were! not in the slightest!’’

the words must’ve hit his ego like a physical strike because, albeit barely, in your pain you could see his chest heaving, his eyes flaring a bright shade of crimson once more.

well fuck - you didn’t mean to make him even angrier (not that you knew it was possible, but then again what isn’t possible with clark?)

he stared down at you, but the desperation in his face quickly hardened into a cold, ugly sneer.

he didn’t look at you with guilt or anything like that. the guy looked fucking disgusted.

‘‘i thought it wasn’t too bad yet, but you’re already corrupted.’’ he spat, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm, venomous whisper. ‘‘look at you, you’ve been breathing their air for too long. you’ve been living in their dirt, listening to their lies, until you’ve become just as broken and fake as the rest of this garbage planet’’

he let go of your arm, shoving you away from him like you were something contaminated. the sudden release of pressure sent you stumbling backward, collapsing into the wreckage of library shelves.

you can only groan in pain while having half a mind to ponder on what the actual fuck is even happening right now. after trying to convince you like that, you’re what now? broken and fake?

you know he was only coping, but god did you want to give him a right hook so badly. if only you weren’t groaning in pain and actually had super powers.

‘‘i thought you were real,’’ clark said, looking down at you from his height, his weird piss-colored armor humming, with what you assume to be energy. and even that sounded arrogant to you.

‘‘but you’re not. you’re just another bad copy now. you want to stay in this shithole for now? fine. i’ll just cut you free myself.’’

he took a step back, the madness surging to the surface as he looked up at the ceiling. ‘‘those pretenders did this to you. superman did this. they say they protect people, but they let you rot here until you forgot who we were, i’m going to make them pay for what they stole from me.’’

he looked back at you one last time - not with despair, but with a chilling, messed up superior form of detachment.

‘‘enjoy your burning shit hole.’’ he paused, eyebrows slightly furrowing as he whispered something you couldn’t fully make out. ‘‘i will definitely rescue you, just wait for me…’’

without another word, he ignited - and gone he was.

a devastating shockwave of the piss colored yellow light and absolute heat exploded from his body, shoving the library shelves you were against and you even further back.

all you could really do right now was sit in silence. by the time the dust settled and you could open your eyes, he was already gone as fast he came. you looked down at your arm, a dark blooming bruise the shape of his fingers forming.

well, you were alone now. you can still feel the lingering heat, but that barely does anything for you.

wanting to take you ‘home’ your ass! he wanted to put you into a dead world and call that shit a life! all to.. to satisfy his fucked up fantasies!

he wanted to freeze time and make you both statues in a museum of his own making.

you should be relieved that he’s gone. you should be running to the door, screaming for help, finding a way to hide from all of this.

but for some reason, you can only sit here.

are you even real?

you are a fragment of a world that was erased, a glitch in the code, a girl who died what it felt like ages ago on a football field in smallville.

and the only person who truly remembers you - the only person who knows the sound of your laugh and how you prefer things - is a monster who just tried to kidnap you and then called you ‘another bad copy’ when you didn’t meet his standards.

the tragedy isn’t that he’s a villain with the delusions of a hero, but that he is the only thing of home you have left - and also left of him himself.

a crazed, lunatic, bastardized version of home and the boy you used to love.

but you did the right thing not going with him didn’t you? despite your hatred and pain and desire. you deserve to feel better. you deserve to grow and live. you tried to be good.

you cry, tears clearing the dust off your skin.

maybe sometimes, the only closure you’ll ever get is the quiet knowing that your intentions were pure and that you tried - that your heart was in the right place.

maybe not every ending comes with explanations or apologies or understanding.

maybe some people might walk away without even trying to understand, and situations maybe just close without justice or fairness.

but also maybe instead of grieving - constant, constant grieving, you can find peace in knowing that you finally tried. that you didn’t give up. that you gave him honesty, kindness and love - even when it wasn’t returned.

you feel a strange sense of closure form as you let your body fall back and rest, taking a breath. you did your best. you meant well. and that’s enough, right?

you open your eyes and look around the room.

it looks really fucking disgusting and if you weren’t in so much pain, you’d be aching to get out of there.

but you’ll deal with this all later, you just need to breathe right now.

alright? that was it?

you pondered as you slumped back against the jagged remains of a library bookshelf and inhaled, the dust of a thousand dead stories coating your throat before you pushed the breath out of your lungs with more force than normal.

it wasn’t that you missed him now that you’ve got a clearer mind. or to be more precise, there wasn’t anything to miss.

you hardly knew the monster he’d become, but the way your heart was hammering against your ribs maybe said otherwise.

kicking your feet forward, you outstretched them into the rubble, slamming them into the debris before using the leverage to pull yourself upright. if you couldn’t stop thinking about the piss-colored golden blur of his exit, then you’d just clutter your mind with the physical reality of the absolute wreckage that surrounds you until you could.

you’d expected the aftermath to be worse, in all honesty. not because the library exploding wasn’t bad - it was. very much so. libraries weren’t supposed to explode, much less the one you worked at.

most buildings weren’t supposed to actually. still, you’d expected something a tad bit more dramatic. a breakdown or a crisis, maybe even a conveniently (and justified) timed mental collapse.

instead, the police asked questions. lots of questions. questions you couldn’t (and for a part didn’t want to) answer. questions you utmost definitely shouldn’t answer because that would earn you a psychiatric evaluation if you answered honestly.

so you lied.

a lot.

and not particularly well, either.

still basically sitting in the midst of the rubble because you absolutely couldn’t give a shit about moving out, you watched the firefighters in your peripheral vision trying to move through it.

you would have felt bad for them if you weren’t stuck in your own damn dilemma, the only thing keeping you somewhat from thinking about clark and wallowing in your misery was the scratchy emergency blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

a certain red-caped hero, however, did not agree to let you wallow in peace much to your misfortune.

descending through the completely butchered ceiling, his boots thudded against the cracked marble floor with far too much weight for someone who claimed he was just there to ‘help’ (help your ass. you didn’t need his help. if he had just never appeared in the first place everything would have been better).

it didn’t exactly help that he looked like clark, too. hell, he had the name, the face (although to note, he looked a tad bit older than your clark did), the same dark shade of hair. but when he reached out a steady, warm hand to pull you from the ruins, you flinched.

honestly? the movement was more instinctive than outright rejection to his kindness even though it must’ve looked that way to him.

why couldn’t he just leave you be anyways? he was a total stranger and reinforcements were already here. a god playing man who stayed while your clark left, only to return some wannabe herald of absolute destruction.

superman protected people. superman comforted people. he was everything clark was supposed to be and not be, and the stark contrast made you want to vomit.

however, through his presence, you eventually understood the difference between someone who simply possessed power and someone who chose to use it responsibly.

and eventually, you like to think you found it in your heart to stop holding a grudge against every superman that exists. that the podium of believed superiority your clark believed himself to stand upon was not constructed of marble but mere dirt and sand.

your friends, leo and martha, eventually found you in the wreckage next to superman, far more frantic than you and saying, in their words, that ’‘you look like a vampire sucked the life out of you’.

thankfully though, they took over answering questions and giving statements to responders. but with the library entirely reduced to debris, your sanctuary was gone. more importantly, your only source of income was gone too.

the months that followed were a mindless grind of survival. you honestly felt like batman with the way you were existing in metropolis as if you were one of the many shadows caused by the massive sky scraping buildings.

you bounced from one dead-end job to another with absolutely nothing to your name. you weren’t even supposed to exist here for fucks sake!

to say the least, existing was exhausting. and you were done merely existing - not living. you were done feeling out of place because you were some weird multiversal glitch.

so somewhere between one cold dinner and another last sleepless night, you decided it was time to live again - even if you had to break the law to do so. the question just was.. how?

lucky for you, as if your prayers had finally been answered, you met him. evan. and he’s just a guy, really. no tragic backstory, no glowing fancy world destroying powers, and no reality-altering fists, (thank god).

as it turned out, this guy you met was a government official in charge of databases and cybersecurity, secretly keeping a double life for the state because he was also a wanted hacker. just your luck, of course.

the friendship happened gradually, the way the best ones usually do. one conversation became two, two became twenty, and suddenly, he knew your favorite drink order. life was just weird like that, y’know?

the real problem was when evan dearest became quite curious about you. and in hindsight, it was fair enough, you never shared anything about yourself and evan being the nosy-freak he was decided to look you up in the database and no records of you existed at all.

the discovery happened exactly as horribly as one would expect such a thing to happen (if one would even have the mind to expect such a situation in the first place).

he had been trying to help you secure an apartment lease, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a locked in intensity until he suddenly stopped. his shoulders tensed as he stared at the glowing monitor in silence. one moment he was looking into a standard background check, the next he was looking at you. then back at the computer. then back at you again, as if your records might magically manifest if he stared at you hard enough. they didn’t.

‘‘bro.. you don’t exist.. like, at all.’’ he said, his voice flat and final. and faced with the bleak truth, you finally let the words out. there wasn’t much point in lying anymore, was there?

so you told him about your world and the guy who became a massive multiversal threat trying to restore it.

the reaction could have been worse. you had braced yourself for a shit ton of questions, or disbelief or laughter or screaming.

instead, he just looked incredibly exhausted and then sympathetic. which, funnily enough, felt so much worse. but… he didn’t run or abandon you or call the heroes. he just took pity on you, slumped back into his chair, took a deep breath, and got to work.

he never exactly showed you the process of what he was doing because its not like you would have understood anything anyway.

he never explained which firewalls he bypassed or which databases he manipulated. but suddenly, you had a history. a pristine childhood, a highschool diploma, and graduation credentials from a good college. a life that could exist on paper, stamped and verified by the very system that should have rejected you.

years later, you would reflect on it with a grim sort of irony. you were living once more on a lie, but it was the only way to be real.

still, the counterfeit worked. years passed after that. actual, quiet years.

you finally settled into new earth, and things genuinely got better. you moved out of suicide slum into a larger, spacious apartment in metropolis where the walls were actually thick enough to drown out the neighbors.

you found stable, good work as an archivist, spending your day filing records of a world you finally were able to accept living in. you even started buying stupid little decorations, fully accepting your home as your home.

you made more friends, built a real social life, and kept in close contact with martha and leo.

evan made sure to crash by at least once a day, too.

you still bought your morning drink from leo. life was just happening, quietly. and somehow, despite everything, it was happening to you, too. you were growing. not barely existing anymore but actually living.

but of course, clark remained a permanent, haunting fixture of your mind.

the nightmares never really stopped and you don’t think they ever will. maybe with luck only get less frequent.

some mornings you would wake up utterly convinced the sky outside would be bleeding a crimson, your breath coming in short gasps thanks to memories you longed to bury.

everytime you caught a headline in the daily planet mentioning ‘superman-prime,’ you froze, your skin remembering those searing heat gauntlets on your skin.

when the news reports finally announced his definitive defeat - that the villain had been captured and ‘safely tucked away’ as the justice league had put it in a debrief conference, you felt bittersweet.

a mixture of relief and a hollow, aching grief. you sat in your apartment, staring at the white ceiling, wondering if the boy you grew up with and loved was going to die entirely alone in the dark. millions of miles away at the edge of the universe and despite you not wanting to, you grieved him.

anyhow.. life went on. you would wake up, go to work, answering boring emails, and buy groceries.

however, every now and then a strange phenomenon began occurring over metropolis. the sun would turn a deep red for an hour before returning to a normal. the constellations appeared slightly shifted one night before correcting themselves by morning. unnatural red lightning storms swept across as the city without producing a single drop of rain.

like everyone else, you simply assumed these were the typical consequences of living in a world overflowing with metahumans. you would shrug it off, kicking your feet up your desk, trying to desperately ignore the way your heart shattered at the all too familiar sight of sky crimson. (you would only figure out later that this was part 2 of clark trying to punch his way back into reality).

if the library scene had been complete horror, then whatever the fuck was happening now was something else entirely.

see, you had spent years painstakingly rebuilding yourself whole again to become a functioning member of society, while… clark was doing whatever the fuck he was doing.

point is, neither of you were the same people anymore.

the first sign that reality was fracturing once more was the sky. naturally. honestly, at this point you should have really expected it. the universe had apparently decided long ago that subtlety was for cowards and now it’s just breaking down every chance it gets.

you noticed it on the walk from after your finished shift at the archives, the sunset looked really strange that day. maybe not dramatic enough for anyone else to care, but you (justifiably) had your own sense of paranoia and danger.

people continued walking their dogs, cars drove through the standard metropolis traffic, and nobody pointed upward in absolute horror. but you noticed it.

how could you not? the sun looked really damn red. almost as red as… well, that day. the bleeding crimson that stains the absolute worst of your nightmares.

your stomach dropped. you utterly hated that a single color still had that kind of power over you. years later, and all it took was a particular shade of red to undo you.

pathetic, really. why couldn’t you just grow past this? why did he still get to control your breathing from millions of miles away? you forced yourself to keep walking, the mundane buzz of the city carrying on as normal around you. conversations drifted past, traffic lightened, and somewhere a dog barked at birds.

life continued as it always would and did.

you had just reached your apartment building when every sound abruptly disappeared. it didn’t fade out: it literally just stopped. the traffic, the conversations around you, even that distant barking - vanished in a single instant.

your breath halted and your pulse immediately started hammering against your ribs.

no.

please god, no. not here. not after everything it took to build this life. you didn’t even need to turn around, before you even dared to look, you just knew.

‘‘well that’s usually a bad sign, y’know? the sudden silence.”

the voice came from right behind you. it was older, quieter, and yet so devastatingly familiar.

you closed your eyes for a second. just one second. after all these years of nightmares, memories, and the slow, agonizing process of healing, some stubborn, desperate part of your soul had always known this day would come. you could never fully believe what you saw- the shit about your clark being ‘dead’.

slowly, you turned.

for a long, suffocating moment, neither of you spoke. you hated that seeing him still hurt this much. you hated that a part of you was desperately relieved. most of all, you loathed the fact that against all reason, logic, and common sense, you still loved him.

how could you? after what he did? after the library? the feeling was like a disease, a stubborn parasite refusing to just fucking die.

‘‘you’re fucked up, you know that?’’ you finally said.

his mouth twitched, and then, completely unexpectedly, he let out a small laugh. it was nothing like the cruel sound from the library or the terrifying rumbles from the news broadcast back then when he was destroying earth. it was just clark’s laugh. god, you absolutely hated that, too.

‘‘yeah,’’ he admitted softly, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘‘been getting that one a lot.’’

the silence returned and neither of you seemed eager to fill it. it was strange in a way. the clark you grew up with hated silence and always tried to, whether intentionally or unintentionally, fill it with his endless rambling about comic book trivia or whatever else weird tangent possessed his brain that day.

now he just stood there, watching you as if he couldn’t believe you were real - even though it should be the other way around.

‘‘you shouldn’t be here,’’ you told him, your voice tight.

his eyes lowered to the pavement. ‘‘i know.’’

‘‘you really have a really bad habit of showing up and ruining my week.’’

that earned another laugh - quieter this time, and infinitely sadder. you didn’t laugh with him. clark looked up at and you and in seemingly immediate shame or guilt or maybe a mix of both, looked away immediately.

‘‘i came to apologize.’’

what? you blinked and pursed your lips. an apology? now? after he basically made you go insane and left you to rot in that god forsaken library? a part of you had spent such a long time fantasizing about this exact conversation, dreaming up vicious arguments. the screaming and insults and curses you would hurl at him if you ever saw him again.

now he thought a few soft words could fix what he had done?

‘‘you what?’’

‘‘i came to apologize,’’ his voice remained surprisingly steady and calm, there was even a hint of certainty to it. ‘‘i was wrong.’’

you could only stare at him, the rage beginning to boil beneath your skin in an instant.

the words just simply didn’t make sense coming from his mouth - not from the guy who had hurt and killed so many people, and certainly not from the monster who had spent years blaming everyone else for his own wreckage.

and yet there he was, standing in your street, saying them anyway. i was wrong. the confession sounded painful, like something torn out of his throat rather than spoken.

“i thought i was fixing things,” his gaze shifted toward the horizon. “i thought if i fought hard enough… i’d get everything back. i thought i could get you back.”

get you back? he thought he was doing this for you? the absolute nerve of him. clark laughed again, but there wasn’t a single happy thing about it. “turns out the universe doesn’t work like comic books. well, kinda, not entirely though.”

“oh, is that what you think this is?” you spat, taking a heavy, furious step off the curb. “a comic book event? a little plot twist you get to narrate?”

clark flinched, his eyes snapping back to yours.

“you left!” you screamed, years of repressed grief, loss, and pure, unadulterated venom pouring out all at once. you stepped right into the middle of the street, your chest heaving.

“you don’t get to stand there and look sad, clark! you left me on that football field while our entire world fucking disappeared! i watched our sky turn to blood, i watched my family turn to nothing, and you weren’t there! you were out playing the cosmic savior with people who didn’t even care about you!”

“wait, i-“

“no! shut up! you don’t get to speak!” you yelled, the tears finally breaking through, hot and stinging against your cheeks, but they were born of pure, raging fury.

“you came back to new earth, you tracked me down, and what did you do? did you comfort me? did you stay? no! you destroyed the one damn place i had! you grabbed me until my bones felt like they were melting off, you threw a goddamn tantrum, and then you called me corrupted! you called me a bad copy because i wouldn’t bow down to your psychotic little fantasy!”

“i know,” he whispered, his voice cracking, his shoulders dropping under the weight of your words. “i know, i was mental, i-“

“you were a fucking monster!” you threw the word at his chest like a weapon, wanting it to leave a bruise.

“you terrified me! you became the exact thing we used to read about and hate! you butchered people, clark! real people with real lives, and you justified it by using my face! you used our dead home as an excuse to murder people!”

you were shaking now, the rage vibrating through your entire frame. you stepped directly into his space, forcing him to look at the tears on your face, forcing him to see the raw wreckage he had made of you.

“you don’t get to do this,” you said, your voice dropping to a low, vicious hiss that cut deeper than the screaming.

“you don’t get to disappear for years, let me crawl through the mud to build a fake life, and then show up on my street looking like a beaten dog, expecting me to forgive you! i buried you, clark! i buried you so many damn times! do you have any idea what that feels like? i buried the boy from our home. i buried the boy who i shared so many precious memories with. i buried you so many fucking times because it was the only way to stop the nightmares!”

clark looked absolutely, completely devastated. his chest heaved, his bare hands trembling at his sides.

good. a selfish, deeply human part of you wanted him to bleed. you wanted him to feel a fraction of the agony of the girl who had sat beneath a bleeding red sky, waiting for a savior who was actually just a herald of destruction.

look at him. the great and powerful superman wannabe, brought to his knees by a normal human girl’s rage. he deserved every ounce of this fire.

“i know,” he whispered again.

there it was. no excuses. no tantrums. no heat vision flaring to melt the pavement between you at the slightest inconvenience. just total acceptance. for the first time in his entire life, clark wasn’t trying to force reality to agree with him; he was simply facing it.

well, now you just felt pretty damn exhausted. the fire burned out, leaving nothing but ash in your throat.

he had finally grown up.

it was years too late, it was after a trail of blood and an entire shattered world, but he was finally facing reality.

you suddenly felt so incredibly tired, your knees trembling under the weight of a decade of grief. looking at him, you realized he was entirely empty, too.

“stay,” the word slipped past your lips before your brain could filter it. why did you say that? why, after everything, did you still want to crawl back into the ruins with him?

his expression shattered. just for a single, fleeting second, the weary soldier vanished, and the seventeen-year-old boy from home was staring right back at you from behind his eyes.

you could see exactly how badly he wanted to hold you. you could see the desperate urge to throw away the universe just to stay.

then, it was gone. the quiet resolution of a real hero settled over his face. he offered you a small, sad, beautiful smile.

“i’m finally doing something right.”

your chest tightened, a cold, sudden panic replacing the anger. no. not a sacrifice. he couldn’t leave you to mourn again. “clark-“

“i can’t stay,” he whispered, his voice trembling just a fraction. “i really want to.”

the finality of it stretched between you, painful and absolute. clark took a slow step backward, and the physical space between you suddenly felt like an enormous, uncrossable gulf.

“i kept my promise,” he said softly.

the words almost made you angry again because he didn’t, he came back but he didn’t stay. but instead, they just left a dull, aching hollow in your ribs.

because looking at him, you finally understood what he meant. he hadn’t succeeded, and he hadn’t fixed your dead world, but he had never stopped trying to get back to you. he was going to face the dark so you could have a tomorrow.

his smile softened, turning into the exact same smile from the boy you so adore. he reached out his hand as if to touch you, but in seemingly shame he pulled away.

he looked at you one final time, and then he flew away.

this time, you knew he wasn’t coming back. and for the first time since the sky turned red, neither of you tried pretending otherwise.

superman was gone.

just… gone. the big guy in the red cape had vanished, and for a few weeks, metropolis had been a collective, anxious wreck.

you’d been sitting in the breakroom of the archives, nursing a lukewarm coffee and trying to ignore the way the silence in the city felt like a complete threat because it always did. you visited gotham once, and you’re just glad you don’t have to put up with that.

anyway, you’d mourned clark. you’d done the whole ‘moving on’ thing. you had a proper life now.

for years, you had lived with the absolute certainty that he was dead and soon enough… you found peace with it. you had sat in your spacious apartment on new earth, watching the news reports after that final, pitch-black night against, what the justice league labelled “the darkest knight,” and you had accepted it. he was gone. he had burned himself out to save a tomorrow he wouldn’t get to see.

real damn heroic.

the first few years after his sacrifice had been a total shit-show inside your own head.

the nightmares didn’t just disappear, because it’d be waaaay to easy if they did. you’d wake up drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as if the anti-matter wave was actively swallowing your bedroom, or you’d dream of his iron-hot yellow-piss colored gauntlets bruising your flesh all over again.

sometimes you even dreamed of the football field. and every single time, you woke up crying.

but time is a weird, persistent bastard. slowly, the nightmares grew less frequent. the painful edge of the grief started to dull, shifting into something you could actually carry without choking.

you didn’t forget him - how could you? - but somehow, against all odds, you had found a quiet kind of peace with his memory.

you had buried the guy who didn’t know how to be super in the most sacred, locked-away corner of your heart and you would never forget him.

you had forgiven him in the dark. you had accepted that he died a hero (something he had always wanted to be), and you had finally learned how to breathe the air of this stupid, chaotic new earth as your own without any back thoughts.

you were a girl with a fake history and a real life, and you were finally, genuinely okay.

then the news hit the screen and blew all that hard-earned peace to total hell.

some new hero had just stopped a building from collapsing in the middle of the city and beat the shit out of a supervillain.

the reporter was stammering, the camera shaky as it zoomed in on a figure in blue and red. no yellow-piss colored armor and no jagged ‘s’ scar. just a kid - no, a man - who looked so much like the boy from all those years ago that you nearly choked on your coffee.

“the hero, calling himself superboy-prime…”

superboy-prime?

what the actual fuck?

you didn’t think. hell, you didn’t even finish your coffee. you just shoved your chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, and bolted. you ran out of the archives, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

are they serious right now? you couldn’t even have a dead boyfriend in peace? the universe just had to keep messing with you. you didn’t care about your shift. you didn’t care about the confused looks from your coworkers as you bolted. you just needed to see if reality was playing another one of its sick, twisted jokes on you.

you burst out onto the street (luckily and sometimes unluckily your work building was near the center of metropolis and its park), your lungs burning as you shoved through the crowds. people were pointing at the sky, whispering, looking up with a mixture of awe and confusion. you followed their gaze, your eyes searching the blue until you saw him.

he was hovering a few feet above the pavement in centennial park, surrounded by a small crowd of reporters and grateful citizens who were chanting ‘superboy prime’ over and over. he looked as smug as always and carried a smirk on his face, but he also looked awkward.

“hey!” you screamed, your voice cracking.

he froze. even from fifty yards away, you saw the way his shoulders tensed. he turned, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on you.

the reporters tried to swarm you, but he was there in a blur of motion, landing in front of you with a soft thud. he looked at you, and for a second, neither of you said a word. he looked older, sure, but the madness was completely gone. the rage was gone. he just looked like clark.

“you’re alive,” you panted, doubling over to catch your breath. “you’re actually alive, you crazy bastard.”

“i… yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. he looked like he was about to cry, or maybe throw up. “i’m back. i’m trying to… to help. since superman is gone ‘n allat.”

you straightened up, wiping the sweat from your forehead. you had cursed and buried him and relived him so much that you didn't have the heart to get angry anymore. you looked him up and down - the suit, the cape, the whole ‘hero’ look... at least he didn’t wear superman’s red undies.

“superboy-prime?” you asked, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat instead of anger. “seriously? you went from superman-prime, the god of fear, to superboy? what, did you lose your man-card in the dark multiverse?”

clark winced, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “it… it felt more right. i’m not superman. not yet. i’m just… me. but i’ll be just as good soon enough. i’m on my redemption arc, every sick hero gotta have one, ya know.”

“you’re a dork, that’s what you are,” you said, shaking your head. you wanted to punch him. you wanted to hug him. you wanted to scream at him for another ten years.

“you have any idea how many times i’ve had to mourn you? i’ve buried you like three times in my head, clark! you can’t just keep popping back up like a goddamn weed!”

“i know,” he whispered, stepping closer. he didn’t try to touch you, but the heat radiating off him was familiar. it didn’t feel like a threat this time. it just felt like him. “ m’sorry. m’so, so sorry for everything.”

“yeah, well, you should be,” you snapped, though the edge was gone from your voice. you looked at the crowd, at the city that was finally starting to feel okay again.

“so what now? you going to save the world and then vanish again? or are you actually going to stay this time?” you may have put up a nonchalant front, but you were nervous. really fucking nervous.

clark looked at you, and for the first time in your life, his eyes were clear, no red glow, no manic intensity and no sorrow.

“i’m staying,” he said. “if… if you’ll have me. i know i don’t deserve it. i know i’ve messed everything up. but i want to try. i want to be real. i want to be with you again.”

you looked at him, and then at the blue sky above. it was just a sky. no red suns. no impossible storms. just a clear, unremarkable blue.

“you’re still a total mess, you know that?” you said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through.

“i know,” he grinned, and it looked so much like home.

“fine,” you sighed, reaching out and finally, tentatively, taking his hand. his skin was warm, solid, and real. “but if you ever wear that ugly armor again, i’m personally going to kick your ass.”

“deal,” he laughed.

you looked down at your intertwined fingers, the heat of his palm seeping into yours.

you had spent so long telling yourself that dying under that red sky back on the football field that day would've been the perfect ending to your life.

it would have been clean and painless. but he ruined it. he had to go and survive. he had to go and drag you right back into this confusing, messy world of never-ending uncertainties.

but if that's what life truly is - this chaotic, fractured thing you had both been running from - then you'd still choose this life.

even if there's nothing perfect, beautiful, or clear about it. even if it's full of suffering and the heavy weight of dead worlds.

you would rather choose this life where you can finally be with clark, and perhaps at one other day and time, far in the future, perish peacefully under a blue sky.

you mean it, too. even if the two of you were destined to be constantly tormented by a delusion that will never truly go away. even if the ghosts of earth-prime would always linger in the corners of your eyes.

maybe if you both keep being in the dark like together like this, walking towards the light and hiding away from the grand cosmic stages and just trying to be ordinary, for a day, two days, or even several months… maybe once you've both gotten used to walking towards a new light and letting the past rest, you'll never have to let go of this hand that you grabbed on to almost miraculously again in the middle of a crowded park.

you leaned your shoulder against his, and clark seemingly to this as a sign to pick you and begin flying as he grinned down at you.

you laughed, holding onto him, your eyes closing against the brilliant, mundane metropolis sunlight. maybe this is a fairy tale romance where he ends up sweeping you off your feet after all.