echo

His hunters had come back with you a month ago in a cage of a few dozen others. Dwarf rabbits—nothing special. Cute though, like any other bunny breed.

You didn't need any taming nor much training. You were the first of your batch to make it out onto the floor. In fact, he’s sure you made record timing if only they kept track of such things.

But you’re not broken. No, that would suggest there was something there for them to break. No, with you there wasn’t any pride or dignity for them to strip away. You were just slaphappy from the get go, showing no resistance, going with the regime like resisting wasn’t even an option. Of course, it wasn’t an option. But most animals, even docile ones such as rabbits, will put up some type of fight, however meaningless. You, however, remind him more of moon jelly—no matter the harsh waves, it’s still going to continue to do what it always does and drift along like nothing matters.

He’s never seen anyone be so casual about being treated like dirt. Looking at you, it doesn’t make any sense to him.

He’s well-aware of how plenty among his slaves try to fake it the best way they can, eager to avoid the bitter bite of unsatisfactory customers, while some have had their bodies trained for so long they enjoy it now—but in either case, he’s still able see the defeat and animosity behind their painted expression, if not anything at all. Others who’ll play along all sweet and nice such as you do ultimately prove themselves to be dumb little things who thought that if they could just bide their time with good behaviour, they would somehow make his handlers lower their guard enough to create an opportunity of escape, only to test their luck and fail miserably or come to the conclusion that such an opportunity would never exist, then be left with nothing but that same catatonic look of utter brokenness.

But there’s none of that in your eyes. You’re not trapped in the moment like the others, nor do you hoard any such silly agenda as trying to escape it.

For you, it seems somehow like you’re simply at ease with it. It’s almost as though it falls natural to you, but he’s not sure what to call it. You’re just… happy-go-lucky about it—like a doll come to life, programmed to do what a doll does—eyes round and blank like two polished marbles, only ever looking far off into the distance as though you can’t see the things around you. 

At the same time, he gets this annoying feeling as though you’re seeing something no one else can.

In all honesty, he’s got no idea what you are. And it bothers him like you would not believe.

Which is why he’s decided he needs to keep you closer. Friends and enemies and all that. Though, he doesn’t find it prudent to give you so much credit as to call you his enemy as that would imply you pose a threat. Still, he doesn’t enjoy things he doesn’t understand, and you, well, even though you’re nothing scary, he’s taken by this desperate need to put his finger on you for some reason. And to do that, he figures he’ll just put you under his thumb and be done with it in the best way he knows how.

He’s certain he’ll feel better about it all after he’s had you beneath him. Then, all these thoughts he’s been having will be proved as nothing more than a waste of time after he’s reduced you to what he knows is true for all bunnies. Prey at his mercy, and nothing more.

The girls that get handpicked for the mezzanine are usually all on their knees trying their best to earn their keep and not get sent back down to the den where customers get to do what they please with them any way they want. Being on the risen floor is like a blessing in that way—a chosen few, honored ones, saved from the fray below given an opportunity to please just one man instead of a dozen a day. 

Typically they’ll be rare breeds, red-listed, and now, even though you don’t stand out as anything special, mundane dwarf rabbit that you are, you’re going to be one of them. You should see it as a fucking godsend.

And yet, you don’t seem to grasp the value of it in the slightest. 

Two girls a little way from you are putting on a show for him, kissing and touching each other all for his viewing pleasure. Despite their performance, from where he sits on his comfy throne of pillows and throws, his eyes look past them onto you where you’ve placed yourself before the balustrade, peacefully staring passed it into the thin air, beyond the cesspit below, ahead at something unknown like always.

Only this time, he demands to have his answers.

“What’s got you looking so pleased?”

It seems you hadn’t noticed his approach, and yet you don’t spook by it either, that way your head slowly turns, looking up at him for the first time with those very big eyes, to where he looms above, stone-faced with his hands down his pockets.

Being a polar bear, he’s used to his size and presence invoking fear in everyone around him. It’s a natural response to the largest predator. He’s always viewed it as a sign of respect. A fact that everyone knows he’s not the one you should test your luck against.

You, however, don't regard him any differently than you would a fellow bunny. Giving him no signs of being in a rush to please him. You just stare, as though waiting for him to explain himself.

“You seem like you' got something you’re looking forward to.” His voice is brisk, demanding, “I want to know what it is.”

You blink then. Slow in your answer—way too slow to understand the dire situation you’ve landed yourself in, or maybe, simply unbothered. He really can’t tell, and it’s beyond frustrating at this point—trying his very hardest to read your mind and failing so miserably in the pursuit he has no other option but to wait oh-so-patiently for you to indulge him.

“We’re getting stew for supper today,” you say at last, looking back through the guardrail at his workers, flooding through the gate on the ground floor, carrying sacks of potatoes over their backs.

His nose scrunches at the prospect. You're really looking forward to that slop? Suppose you have to be that humble when you’re at the bottom of the food chain. Even so, he hasn’t heard any single one of his bunnies, of which he’s had hundreds, ever show any type of enthusiasm regarding the food.

“You like stew?” he asks. Patience tested, but curiosity unsated.

You shake your head then, a small smile of all things gracing your face, contradicting yourself, “Not really.”

His brows furrow. Is this a game or something? If so, it’s not amusing. His teeth grind. “Not really? Why are you so cheery then?”

You look up at him once more, blinking again, both like you’ve never really thought about it as well as though you think it’s obvious—so obvious that you find it odd to even be sparing it a thought.

“Well, you see… When there’s stew, they serve carrots on the side. And I really like carrots.”

You look back to the potato sacks just in time to catch sight of the crates of carrots now being brought in, and the smile on your face as you watch them is unlike anything he’s ever seen—warm, excited, blissful even. 

Affronted by it, he leaves you abruptly, thinking an expression like that has no right in a place like this. 

Content slaves are never a good thing. Content slaves forget that which they are—slaves. They start taking what little they have for granted. They become ungrateful, and demanding, and then the uproars happen. That’s it. That’s what he dislikes about you. That’s what’s been making him so uneasy. You don’t beg or scramble. You’re nonchalant, and that type of sangfroid is nothing short of insolent. What’s worse, it could inspire others.

He won’t have that. 

You think you have something to be happy about? Perhaps it’s time he reminded you—you have nothing.

He regards you keenly from the mezzanine, watching you enter the dining hall down below. The spring in your step is pitiful to behold and so is the dead still you come to when you're wandering eyes can’t find the tub of chopped carrots usually on display right next to the potatoes.

You keep the metal dinner bowl to your chest, this tiny rumple between your brows as your eyes become more searching the farther up the line you get. And then, when it’s finally your turn, you cock your little head over the display, voice softly inquiring to the workers on the other side, “Are all the carrots finished already?”

“No carrots today. Dietary restrictions. Boss-man’s orders,” is the strict reply that returns, given like a slap to the face.

“Oh…”

You blink then, as you do—that very empty type of blink like you’re resetting yourself the way he’s seen you do with other customers.

And then, just as always, you slip right back without a hiccup. “I guess I’ll just have some potatoes then.”

It’s disappointing. He’d thought for sure you’d give him a little more grief than that. But no. You even tack on a polite little “Thank you,” after being served, before hopping out of line like there was never anything more to be wanted.

You don’t make moves to sit with any of the others, he notices. Instead, you make your way alone up the stairs to where he is like you’ve already accepted the mezzanine as your new place.

He’s not sure why, but for some reason he hides himself so as not to spook you into going somewhere else. And from behind the coverage of a pillar, he continues his stalking, observing you as you sit yourself in the same spot as before, in front of the balustrade.

You proceed like earlier to look through the bars down at the burrow below. It’s empty and quiet now with everyone busy in the dining hall, and he realizes he’s never actually spared it a glance during supper before. It’s a strange sight. Like a battlefield after the battle.

You don’t eat in a mad hurry like the others. Actually, it takes five minutes before you even touch the potatoes, and when you do, it’s one piece at a time, calmly, taking your sweet time, like you’re trying to enjoy yourself. 

He finds himself wondering if you’d eat carrots the same way. And before he even knows it, he’s standing right behind you once more with the same question as earlier.

“What’ you looking at now?”

And just as before, you don’t spook by his presence. This time, you don't even bother turning to acknowledge him as though you might have known he was there all along.

“The burrow,” you answer. “How different it looks when it’s empty.” His thoughts exactly. “It’s sort of peaceful like this, don't you think?”

No. Peaceful is not the word that came to mind. “I think you’d have to be mad to find peace in a place like this when in your position,” he states plainly, as if in an attempt to shake you out of whatever sordid outlook you were trying to impose on him.

“That might be,” you agree, a soft smile gracing your face. “But I think… you have to find beauty in the dark when you can, or else dark will be all there is.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end listening to you. “It’s like, sometimes good madness will save you from bad madness. You know?”

“No.” And that’s the problem. He doesn't know. He has no fucking clue. And he’s starting to realize it’s not because you’re withholding the answers.

“Why aren’t you upset?” he asks then. A fair question, he thinks. But you only look at him oddly, making him explain once again just like you did earlier. The gumption of you is unbelievable, he thinks as he supplies the requested context on your behest, “I took away the thing you were looking forward to. Typically, that would make someone upset.”

You look as though you still don’t quite understand, but then a light breaks across your face. “Oh, you mean the carrots?” You don’t seem any more upset by understanding he’d removed them on purpose. Instead, you just give your head a tiny shake. “It was only a small thing.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His fists ball at his sides.

“But I didn’t.” Your head tilts, gesturing down at your tray. “I should have told you I liked potatoes. Then you’d have taken those away instead.” You then snort with a giggle, but he doesn’t get why or how you would find it funny. 

And again, he’s left with the same question. “Then why aren’t you more upset?”

You think about it for a moment—a moment like another eternity to him. 

“Well, I… I am upset…” you admit—the smile on your face positively unnerving. Perhaps you really have gone crazy. But then that would mean you were crazy from the start, from before ever even coming here. “But… I can’t exactly let my life fall apart over carrots. That would just be silly. Wouldn't you say?”

He swallows thickly, trying to stifle the many foreign things he’s feeling inside, finding that he can’t exactly argue with your answer, even though it makes little sense. People get upset over smaller things all the time. 

Just look at him and how upset one bunny is making him.

He turns away and starts walking then, muttering under his breath, “Silly, indeed.”

He goes to his bedroom alone that night. Some of the chosen had tried cheering him up, but they all failed miserably. You were not one of them. No, you made zero effort trying to earn your keep.

He knows you’d come if he called for you. You’d have to, and you’ve never been one to refuse a direct order. Still, somehow, even though he’s the one with all the power, having to call on you makes him feel like you’re stripping him of it.

The next couple of days pass all the same, with you continuing to drive him nuts.

At this point, he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why. Lounging on his throne, his chin resting on his palm as he appraises you with jaded eyes. Having come up with a new strategy—if robbing you of your small delights doesn’t enact a response, maybe he’ll have better luck in spoiling you…

“Eat,” he says, but like always you don’t seem to take it like an order, standing there, in front of the big platter of carrots he’d had his workers bring up. 

It’s not the same kind they serve with the stew—flecked and spotted with mold, boiled to get rid of the bugs. No, these are quality. Crisp, bright, freshly plucked and washed just this morning.

And still, instead of throwing yourself at them, you have the nerve to act calm, asking, “Where’ the other girls?” while looking around like you’d feel ashamed starting without them.

“They’re for you,” he clarifies, sanctioning your approach.

Still, you stay put. Chewing your lip with your buck teeth. “Is that really okay?” 

He can’t believe it. Are you really feeling guilty—in a place like this that only ever takes and gives nothing back?

No one in their right mind would be asking about others when standing in your shoes. He knows for a fact that all the other girls you seem so concerned with would have been halfway finished gorging that platter without sparing you a single thought.

Suppose he’ll make it easier for you. “Eat it all, or I throw it out.” 

With that, a new smile takes your lips—one of which he’d not seen before or expected—small, bashful, coy, like you’re having a different conversation than the one you’re having. Bowing your head with a soft-spoken, “Thank you.”

You’re quiet as you eat. Slow with it like you’d been with the potatoes. Taking your time, enjoying yourself, savoring it, eating like he’s not right there observing you. It’s like you’re back in the wild. You, an oblivious little thing in a carrot field, and him, stalking you through the long grass.

“Aren’t you gonna ask?” he questions after a while.

“Ask about what?” you wonder, peering up at him from where you sit.

“Why I’m being nice.”

You seem to find that funny. “I don’t ask you why you’re cruel.” 

That’s fair, he thinks. Though he’s never really thought about it like that. 

And then you say, “I’m sure I’d have little luck understanding the mind of a man like you anyway.”

“A man like me?” he repeats, finding it interesting—wanting to arrest you on it. “And what kind of man do you think I am?”

It’s a dangerous question—you seem to understand that—taking your time to answer it just like you were with the carrots. “I suppose… a confusing one.”

You’re not wrong, though it’s a cleverly safe answer. He’s sure you’d have liked to have said something different if only it weren't for the likely threat it would pose to your life.

“Do you want me to ask?” you say then. And this time, he’s the one waiting for you to explain, looking at you with a halfway raised brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He scoffs. You’re proving to be a little more cheeky than what he was expecting. “I’m fattening you up to eat you.”

You laugh again. This time from your chest, bursting with it. He’s not sure a genuine laugh like it has ever rung out through the chamber. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever even heard one like it whatsoever.

“Well, it’s a pretty good final meal.”

He dismisses you after you finish. 

Days pass without the two of you speaking. And he, stewing in it, is more confused than ever.

He used to lord over his palace like a king, fuck all day and watch his subjects with gold coins and power in his eyes. Now, he can’t remember the last time he spared even a single glance over the mezzanine without it being to look for you. He still hears the squeals and sighs of pleasure. But he can’t even picture the scene. No, his mind is otherwise busy.

Busy doesn’t even cut it. Plagued might. Yes, he’s plagued by you.

Plagued by you and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. It’s a joke. He’s never been one to edge himself. But now he hasn’t fucked in ages. And you’re to blame.

What’s the matter with him? All his life, he’s known what’s been what. People like to complicate things, make it sound like more, make it sound different from what it actually is. They romanticize and they fetishize, but at its core, it’s always been basic. Bunnies are weak and easily broken, and deserve to be treated accordingly. There’s nothing more to it than that.

He’s going to find you, and when he does he’s going to do to you what he should have done from the very start—break you like the weak and breakable thing you are.

“Know your place, slut,” a catty voice bites out. “You might have been popular down on the ground, but up here, I'm the fucking favorite.” 

From behind the pillar he witnesses the scene, forgetting his objective. Five chosen ones all stand in a ring around you, who’s pinned to the ground by three others, two holding your arms down and the last of them on top of you with a fist wrapped tightly around the root of your ear. She’s got something in her hand—a shiv, fashioned from some scrap-piece of metal with unknown origins—pointed with a poke up under your chin, looking just shy of drawing blood.

“If any of us see you trying to take my spot again, I’m gonna fucking gut you from cunt to belly button—understand?”

You don’t say anything—unable to with the make-shift blade threatening to slice your throat open. But your silence is an answer in and of itself, if it weren’t interrupted by him clearing his throat and stepping into view.

“Master–” all eight of them gasp, those standing shuffling away with a bow whilst the three others remain deadly still, waiting for his verdict with eyes wide.

“Get up. All of you,” he says, passing his judgement swiftly, not giving any one of them room to plead innocence or condone their crimes with silly reasonings, “There’s customers downstairs in need of attending. Go make yourselves useful.” 

A wave of displeased moaning followed, nearly amounting to a protest. Even so, their disgruntled pouting was premature. He wasn't finished. 

“And once you’re done, you can all stay down there.”

Pouting turned to pleading fast, all of them shaking their head with hands clasped together in prayer, “But, master, please—she had it coming, she never does anything, she—”

“One more word,” he stops the tangent, closing the gap with a slow saunter, standing multiple heads taller than all of them, even the one who thought herself so high and mighty just a moment ago. He makes sure to return her look of entreaty without mercy, saying, “And I’ll be the one gutting you.”

They all scurry shortly after that, tears in their throat as they hurry down the stairs.

You get up to join them—never one to make the wrong assumption, probably thinking he’s one to tar everyone with the same brush. And normally, he’d do just that, because in his eyes, there’s no telling people apart in any other way aside from separating product from customer, with himself being the only outsider. But then came you.

“Not you, Carrots,” he says, stopping you. “You stay right there.”

You remain still as he approaches. You don’t flinch, your eyes don’t flitter—it’s utterly uncanny, he’d believe it if you told him you were without senses, like a ghost.

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

It’s the question that’s been on his mind since you first showed up here—not a lick of resistance in you.

“I’m not fond of pain,” you answer. “So, I try my best to avoid it.”

His teeth grit, very nearly growling. “You have a bad habit of not answering the question being asked.”

You chew your lip, looking as though you’re not quite sure how to explain yourself. “Well… fighting it would only make it worse, wouldn’t you say? And besides… I don’t want to do to others what I don’t want being done to me.”

So, you believe in karma. That’s an interesting mental state—not one he’s ever understood too well. It’s always seemed like a comfort to those who don’t have the strength to take their own revenge, hoping that some higher power will do it for them. 

“Also, we bunnies have a saying,” you continue, now with that unseemly smile of yours. “If you’re at first getting fucked, you might as well try to enjoy it.”

Something violates him at that—a chill of all things. Thinking, that’s not karma. No, not at all. 

That’s resignation. An even odder mental state.

“Though… I don't think most of us take it to heart,” you add with a small laugh.

It makes no sense to him. In fact, it shocks him like you’ve just pulled out a knife and stabbed him with it. And yet, he thinks he might finally get you now. Any moment might be your last and you’ve accepted that as a fact of life. The same way he accepts and expects his stomach to growl, you accept and expect yourself to be the one to sate it. 

You’re the only one so far. The only one to successfully internalize that truth without breaking under the pressure.

“Will you bring the girls back?” you ask then, seemingly taking his silence as an invitation, and using it as an opportunity to think about others as if you can afford it.

He doesn’t know why it angers him the way it does. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Like always, you don’t quiver under his growl like others would have. No, instead you keep insisting, “It’s cruel to send them back down after—”

“I thought you said you didn’t question cruelty.” he cuts you off.

And still, it’s like you don’t even care. “Well, I'm only asking because… it sort of feels like my fault, is all. I don’t want to be the reason they’re punished—”

“I’m not punishing them for you,” he interrupts, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I'm punishing them because they were cocky enough to think they could create a hierarchy not governed by me.”

He picks the shiv up from the floor, holding it up and inspecting it with a grimace like its very existence is an insult. 

“Tch—I should have killed them, and you’re asking me to save them.” He shakes his head, then finds your face again.

“You wanna know what bores me more than anything? When beggars start thinking they can be choosers.”

Gracing your jaw with the blade, he sneers. “Do you think you can be a chooser?”

And just like expected, you reset yourself with a blink, then utter a passive, “No.”

“And that’s why you’re up here, and they’re down there.” 

In all your time up here, he hasn’t once touched you, but within the next passing second he’s got your small body caged in his, trapped between himself and the balustrade where he always finds you, sitting, staring, thinking about things hidden from him.

“You’re the only one who gets it.” Knife cast aside, he uses his paw instead, dwarfing your chin and cheeks as he aims your head out to look across the den below. Fangs by the lop of your ear, blowing on the soft fur with his whispers, “You’re the only one who understands the laws of true wilderness. The rightful order of things. You know what you are and have accepted your place—made nature your common sense.”

Your feet dangle below, toes gracing the floor just barely, slipping in their stance where he has you hoisted against the guardrail, clutching onto it with your hands—knowing if he’d let go, you’d go toppling over it. And yet you don’t fight back. Knowing it’s all out of your hands, you remain just like putty in his.

“Look at them,” he continues, a disgust in his voice and in his narrowed eyes, spitting, “They all think they can be something different. Prey thinking they can hunt the hunter. Hunters thinking they can be loved by that which they hunt. It’s all false.”

He slips his hand from your chin to your neck, keeping a firm hold, though not squeezing, just enough to feel your pulse on his finger.

“You and me, we’re the only ones who see it for what it truly is,” he murmurs. “And why… I’ve decided I’m not gonna fuck you…”

His other paw, which up until this point had been holding the guardrail just shy of yours, now lifts and places itself over your heart, feeling it beat in his palm as he continues, “No, you deserve more respect than that… Which is why… I'm gonna give you the honor of being my first live kill.”

Betraying yourself, your heart does, nearly to his surprise, skip a beat upon him confessing his intention. But of course, despite your seemingly perfect composure, it would be utterly unnatural were it to remain steady.

“I’m gonna give you more carrots than you can eat,” he resumes, now forgoing your ear, nuzzling your cheek instead. “Then, when I've finally fattened you up enough, I'm gonna eat you whole—live and kicking.”

Swallowing thickly, he chuckles under his breath, setting you down on your own two feet again. Leaving your body cold as he begins walking away, with his final sentiments being, “And then we’ll both at last be done with this farce and become what nature intended.”

Weeks pass, and you remain alone on the mezzanine. He doesn't bring the old girls back, nor does he enroll any new girls either. It’s just you and him, in a silence so loud it’s gutting. And still, you’re fed a platter of carrots every day, and you never fail to finish every last one.

He doesn’t touch you again. No, instead, he maintains a distance. You catch his gaze linger though, just like it had since the beginning—on you while you eat, while you mind your business, even while you sleep, you’ll hear the low rumble of his breath, stalking you. It’s as he’d said, like hunter and prey.

Also now, on his throne, watching you where you sit, by the balustrade, looking outward at the burrow. No one wants to be there—not the girls, and not the men who come to see them either—they might think they do, but the truth remains. What they want can’t be found here. 

And yet, you suppose it comes close enough.

“You’ve been fattening me up for a while now…” you announce, cutting the silence. And then you turn your head back, flashing him your signature smile from over your shoulder. “Is this the part where you finally eat me?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stare at you like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.

“Do you want me to run?” you propose then—not sure if you’re trying to make it easier for him or perhaps harder. 

“Do you really think you’ll be able to stand still?” he mutters back. No mockery in his words. No humor in it at all.

You shuffle around to face him better, still smiling even though you know it probably doesn’t look too convincing anymore. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t matter either way. You’d be much quicker. I wouldn’t get far.”

His voice seems tight, suggesting, “I’m sure you could if you tried.”

You sigh then, “We both know that’s a lie.” 

And then you get up, chest getting tougher the tighter your throat snares, making it hard to breathe, and so you take a big one and release it just as sharply, scoffing, “Besides, I don't think my heart would be able to take it. I’d die from the ache before you could make the kill—and I wouldn't want to spoil the fun.” 

You place yourself about halfway toward him, before his throne. Submissiveness being your only weapon, you present yourself just so, linking your hands behind your back. “I think I’ll just stand right here and close my eyes if that’s okay.”

You hear him get up. You’ve always been so good at turning everything off, but right now you’re just not able—feeling the burn of salt swell up beneath your eyelids, pressing for release. You don’t want to let them, but they escape despite that, trickling down your cheeks.

You’re not afraid of dying. You’re not really afraid at all. That’s not it. It’s not fear. It’s something far less reasonable than that. Something audacious that couldn’t care less about the circumstances, even when it makes no sense. No sense at all. 

His finger brushes your cheek, catching the wetness and wiping it away. You don’t open your eyes, but you feel the air from his breathing reach you, getting warmer with his approach, soon on your lips.

“Don’t,” you object before it can happen. “You said so yourself…” Voice a soft croak, sniffling, “It isn’t natural for prey and hunter to mate.”

You hear him swallow thickly, abiding by your words as he mulls them over again the same way the two of you had done now for the last month since your first meeting.

“I know…” he says at last. Voice no louder than just for you to hear, very nearly desperate, “So let’s forget about it. We can pretend, can’t we?”

It’s tempting, but too fickle. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“So, what can I do? Tell me.” His paws brush your arms, carefully, without claws. “What do I have to do to make you mine?”

“Well… that’s a question you have to ask yourself, isn’t it?” Your eyes peel open, meeting his. “It all depends on one thing.”

You appraise each other like that. Him, waiting for your conditions, and you, feeling your heart rift for reasons beyond being prey before a predator, as you state the ultimatum, “Do you want me to be afraid of you? Or do you want me to be in love with you?”

You bite your lip and look down, as though planting your foot. Even though you know what you’re asking is an affront to nature, it remains true nonetheless, “You can’t have both.”

There’s a pause. Your heart beats out of your chest, fearing what to expect—a bite or something entirely different you don’t have the nerve to name.

“You’re right…” he says at last. “Hunters don’t mate with prey.”

The beating in your chest ceases—gets cut loose and drops. You knew it all along and yet that does nothing to ease the desolation it leaves behind. 

A hooked finger slips under your chin, lifting your head.

“It’s a good thing we’re both hunters.”

The bite finally comes then.

Hungry, yet toothless.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji

On the other hand, Simon still hasn’t sent the message.

In fact, he’s staring at your texts right now as he lays back in his bed. It’s almost two am, another barrage of memories had shaken him from any traces of sleep he had attempted to get today, and almost as if instinct, he reached for his closest connection to you. This message seemed impossible to send though. Not because he didn’t want to, but for some reason he was slightly scared. He wanted to do this the right way, make sure this all went smoothly, and you didn't feel pressured in the slightest— hell he’d be caught off guard if he received that text. Though, now something else concerned him even more than that; it could end up ruining everything if he didn’t try to understand and fix the issue straight away.

You were acting weird, in a way that was really different. He didn't feel like he was allowed to interfere, to demand an answer for your shift in behaviour but in a way he owed it to you. If you weren't doing okay, he wanted to know; especially after your fathers words, he had to try to help. For the past two days you were far less chatty than usual, only giving him a few stray answers that don't really represent yourself like your responses usually do. In a way, you reflected the subject back onto him, like you’re afraid of talking about yourself even a smidgen. From excitable first texts, you now only responded to his, rather than bringing up your usual random thoughts. It reminds him of someone being restricted to speak, like they shouldn't speak. He’s all too familiar with that notion: keeping quiet since you know too much, afraid of an interrogation and the enemy destroying everything you didn't know you loved until you’re hanging by nothing but your efforts, watching your vision fade.

He blinks the gruesome image away, pushing himself up to a sitting position as he rubs the deadweight beneath his eyes with the roughness of his palm, groaning. Not everything was as serious as an interrogation and torture; he knew there was no way you could possibly be anxious like that, but still, the thought of you feeling uneasy around him was the worst thing to imagine. It was different, really different, to know someone outside the cruel reality he lived with. You had no idea the extent his enemies would go to, the people they’d exploit just for an ounce of power—how unforgiving the people in this world would be. And so, you were free. There you went, not bothering to think twice when someone had a photo of your face and unbothered when a customer whispers into their phone. Most importantly, you were so incredibly kind to anyone who came in, allowing them a little piece of your heart.

He wasn't jealous, no, Simon knew well the man he’d become when he put on the mask. In a way, he felt like he could talk to you more—you always had so many things to speak about. With the other soldiers here it was the typical topics; missions, intel, nightmares all the time, and whilst he wasn't bored by his comrades, he sure was far more interested in what you had to say. In a way, you were his little slice of life, telling him about the latest movies that came out, some crazy scandal or something as simple as a new crisp flavour you were fond of. When was the last time he cared about a band going on tour? Probably never, but he sure did now, searching for any tickets available for all your favourites. This was more than a breath of fresh air, nor a turn of a leaf—no you had peeked into his dreary life, with your wide grin and excitement, brightening his life enough for his heart to feel aches for different reasons.

His team’s lucky it’s Saturday, else he would’ve cancelled his last evening training to take the drive down to the little Welsh town he now only associated with you. It doesn't take him long to drag himself through his tasks for the day before eventually taking that drive down the winding road to where your bakery is. It’s right on the corner of the little plaza that’s been growing livelier as the cold starts to fade out again.

You’re wiping down the tables, almost closing time since you close early to pack up for Sunday. The bakery isn't open then, used for preparation for the week ahead even though your parents usually handle that. He pushes the door open, the bell jingling above the door as your sweet voice calls out to him as per usual. “Sorry, we’re closed right now—” You begin, before promptly lifting your head, eyes widened in surprise when you realise it’s him standing there and not a customer trying to get a last minute coffee.

”Oh—Simon..?”

Lord, he can't stand the way you visibly stiffen when you see him, trying to push out the thoughts running in his head to interrogate you, unable to grapple with the idea of having information not in his grasp. No, this needs to be taken carefully, but still— are those dark circles beneath your eyes?. So he was right,something is on your mind that needs to be let out.

“You need a break, don’t you?” He walks over to you, gently reaching for your sleeve and giving you plenty of time to back away if you so wish. “C’mon, we haven't talked in a while.” His voice is gruffer than it should be, and he can tell it catches you off guard as well, since you’re more accustomed to his calmer demeanour. It’s not Simon’s fault; he can’t help it when you’re clearly running your mind into the ground thinking too hard. “It’s not.. I—”

You try to argue but follow along without much reluctance, watching as he walks behind the counter to grab your coat, slipping it firmly over your shoulders before buttoning it up. Once he’s sure you’re warm, he leads you out, locks the bakery door with the keys he knows you keep in your left pocket, and continues to squeeze your wrist as he leads you towards a nearby restaurant. Wordlessly he seats you at a secluded table, before moving towards the counter. Your favourite soup is placed before you whilst he holds his usual black coffee, angling his chair towards you as he leans his elbows on the table. Every move of his is calculated, unintentionally too, attempting to make himself look all the more intimidating, so the victim gives in easily. “You’ve been acting strange recently, what’s wrong?” Just from his tone you can clearly tell he’s raising an eyebrow at you and you cannot help but crumble beneath his gaze, hands fidgeting awkwardly on the table as your eyes flicker between the soup and him.

“It’s really stupid… but i.. I had a bad dream.” That makes his curiosity peak, his chair scraping the tiles as he shifts a little bit more.

“A nightmare?” He probes, confused by your words and how it could affect your actions.

“Of a sort..” your fingers continue to intertwine together absentmindedly, nervous and slightly intimidated.

“I dreamt that you.. You got angry and shouted at me—” You begin, and he cuts you off, a pit of guilt sinking deeper into his gut as the words ring through his head.

He was stupid to think for a second that someone as messed up as he was could be anything of use to a sweet girl like you. He’d only ruin your life, make you hurt in ways you shouldn’t because if he was just normal, like everyone else, you wouldn't be terrified of that. “Hey, listen..”

You quickly cut him off, hands frantically waving in the air as you shake your head quickly. “Wait!” He hadn't let you finish your sentence and your squeak made him stop, letting you finish. “I was rude to you, in the dream. I snapped at you, and even when you tried to help I just grew worse.” You let out a long groan, hiding your face in your hands as you sit there and sniffle pitifully.

“You snapped at me? You could scream at me, I wouldn't care.” He says, confused and still convinced you’re afraid of him shouting and even potentially getting physical with you. He knows he doesn't look like a saint, especially since he allowed you small glimpses of his scarred face. Likewise, he just hopes it’d never come to this, for him to continue the cycle the men in his ancestry began.

“That's the problem.. I feel like I’m deceiving you— like I'm being so nice, and you think I'm that perfect person all the time. I can just get so irritable sometimes, and I won't explain why to you, and then I'll hurt you.”

His throat bobs softly as he swallows, starting to see that you have somehow stemmed from a similar branch of his. Although his was rougher, perhaps he was too stupid to think only he could experience guilt like this. A rose could have just as many thorns as a vine, it seems. His gloved hand gently tugs your chair closer to him, thankful for the fact practically no one is near your table. “It isn't fair on you— for me to act like that..” You mumble out, knowing it sounds silly compared to the things he probably deals with on the daily. But in reality, he had perhaps pressured you too much with his own glittery perception of you, unintentionally undermining your struggles.

“It was a dream for a reason, love; it won't come true.” He hums, gently pinching your cheek between his thumb and index, loving the way your lips purse so softly as you look up at him and he drops his hand again.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well..” He starts, taking a sip of his coffee as he slings an arm loosely around the back of your chair and brushing your shoulders in turn. His eyes glancing off into the lights beyond the windows that decorate the trees with tiny sparkles. “You just warned me now, didn't you? So, now I know that you get a bit snappy when you’re overwhelmed and I can accommodate for that. You’re not some villain for that. It’s called communication, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him, probably expecting him to call you crazy for not being able to control yourself all the time like he did, and well everyone in your life.

“So, I can just tell you all my flaws.. And you won't mind? Even though I still get anxious crossing busy roads?” He chuckles at that, rubbing your shoulder with the palm of his hand and nodding, unbelieving that you thought he’d only turn you away.

“Yes, of course you can. I’ll even tell you one of my own. Military life can be a little unpredictable.. y'know? So I’m often shaken awake at two am and I have a feeling I might end up randomly texting you at that time..I don't expect you to wake up and reply, so don't even think about killin’ your sleep for me.” He chuckles as your lips part in surprise; then again, even he didn't expect he’d find solace in his nightmares just from your menial discussions. You’d laugh alongside him when he complained about the crappy rations, or even when he told you about something stupid he was thinking about. He tells you about some good movies he had watched, only because Soap forced him to, and you give him some recommendations of your own; though not before watching his that night, and giving your own opinions. It’d been a while since he’d even opened up with someone, and you made it feel okay.

“If it's on a weekend, I’ll wake up. It won't bother me, promise. If it’s not, I’ll reply first thing in the morning, okay?”

You’ll argue with him, but he still does really believe you’re the perfect person despite some stupid flaws you think you have. But of course, you seem to take them pretty seriously so he’ll do the same. It’s weird how you suddenly make him feel better about his own worries about himself too, the usual ache in his chest dissipating just a smidge. “Well how about you finish that soup before it gets cold, hm? I have a feeling there are a few more things you have on your mind and I think it’s about time someone helps you sort them out.”

—————-

Prev Next

Taglist:

On the other hand, Simon still hasn’t sent the message.

In fact, he’s staring at your texts right now as he lays back in his bed. It’s almost two am, another barrage of memories had shaken him from any traces of sleep he had attempted to get today, and almost as if instinct, he reached for his closest connection to you. This message seemed impossible to send though. Not because he didn’t want to, but for some reason he was slightly scared. He wanted to do this the right way, make sure this all went smoothly, and you didn't feel pressured in the slightest— hell he’d be caught off guard if he received that text. Though, now something else concerned him even more than that; it could end up ruining everything if he didn’t try to understand and fix the issue straight away.

You were acting weird, in a way that was really different. He didn't feel like he was allowed to interfere, to demand an answer for your shift in behaviour but in a way he owed it to you. If you weren't doing okay, he wanted to know; especially after your fathers words, he had to try to help. For the past two days you were far less chatty than usual, only giving him a few stray answers that don't really represent yourself like your responses usually do. In a way, you reflected the subject back onto him, like you’re afraid of talking about yourself even a smidgen. From excitable first texts, you now only responded to his, rather than bringing up your usual random thoughts. It reminds him of someone being restricted to speak, like they shouldn't speak. He’s all too familiar with that notion: keeping quiet since you know too much, afraid of an interrogation and the enemy destroying everything you didn't know you loved until you’re hanging by nothing but your efforts, watching your vision fade.

He blinks the gruesome image away, pushing himself up to a sitting position as he rubs the deadweight beneath his eyes with the roughness of his palm, groaning. Not everything was as serious as an interrogation and torture; he knew there was no way you could possibly be anxious like that, but still, the thought of you feeling uneasy around him was the worst thing to imagine. It was different, really different, to know someone outside the cruel reality he lived with. You had no idea the extent his enemies would go to, the people they’d exploit just for an ounce of power—how unforgiving the people in this world would be. And so, you were free. There you went, not bothering to think twice when someone had a photo of your face and unbothered when a customer whispers into their phone. Most importantly, you were so incredibly kind to anyone who came in, allowing them a little piece of your heart.

He wasn't jealous, no, Simon knew well the man he’d become when he put on the mask. In a way, he felt like he could talk to you more—you always had so many things to speak about. With the other soldiers here it was the typical topics; missions, intel, nightmares all the time, and whilst he wasn't bored by his comrades, he sure was far more interested in what you had to say. In a way, you were his little slice of life, telling him about the latest movies that came out, some crazy scandal or something as simple as a new crisp flavour you were fond of. When was the last time he cared about a band going on tour? Probably never, but he sure did now, searching for any tickets available for all your favourites. This was more than a breath of fresh air, nor a turn of a leaf—no you had peeked into his dreary life, with your wide grin and excitement, brightening his life enough for his heart to feel aches for different reasons.

His team’s lucky it’s Saturday, else he would’ve cancelled his last evening training to take the drive down to the little Welsh town he now only associated with you. It doesn't take him long to drag himself through his tasks for the day before eventually taking that drive down the winding road to where your bakery is. It’s right on the corner of the little plaza that’s been growing livelier as the cold starts to fade out again.

You’re wiping down the tables, almost closing time since you close early to pack up for Sunday. The bakery isn't open then, used for preparation for the week ahead even though your parents usually handle that. He pushes the door open, the bell jingling above the door as your sweet voice calls out to him as per usual. “Sorry, we’re closed right now—” You begin, before promptly lifting your head, eyes widened in surprise when you realise it’s him standing there and not a customer trying to get a last minute coffee.

”Oh—Simon..?”

Lord, he can't stand the way you visibly stiffen when you see him, trying to push out the thoughts running in his head to interrogate you, unable to grapple with the idea of having information not in his grasp. No, this needs to be taken carefully, but still— are those dark circles beneath your eyes?. So he was right,something is on your mind that needs to be let out.

“You need a break, don’t you?” He walks over to you, gently reaching for your sleeve and giving you plenty of time to back away if you so wish. “C’mon, we haven't talked in a while.” His voice is gruffer than it should be, and he can tell it catches you off guard as well, since you’re more accustomed to his calmer demeanour. It’s not Simon’s fault; he can’t help it when you’re clearly running your mind into the ground thinking too hard. “It’s not.. I—”

You try to argue but follow along without much reluctance, watching as he walks behind the counter to grab your coat, slipping it firmly over your shoulders before buttoning it up. Once he’s sure you’re warm, he leads you out, locks the bakery door with the keys he knows you keep in your left pocket, and continues to squeeze your wrist as he leads you towards a nearby restaurant. Wordlessly he seats you at a secluded table, before moving towards the counter. Your favourite soup is placed before you whilst he holds his usual black coffee, angling his chair towards you as he leans his elbows on the table. Every move of his is calculated, unintentionally too, attempting to make himself look all the more intimidating, so the victim gives in easily. “You’ve been acting strange recently, what’s wrong?” Just from his tone you can clearly tell he’s raising an eyebrow at you and you cannot help but crumble beneath his gaze, hands fidgeting awkwardly on the table as your eyes flicker between the soup and him.

“It’s really stupid… but i.. I had a bad dream.” That makes his curiosity peak, his chair scraping the tiles as he shifts a little bit more.

“A nightmare?” He probes, confused by your words and how it could affect your actions.

“Of a sort..” your fingers continue to intertwine together absentmindedly, nervous and slightly intimidated.

“I dreamt that you.. You got angry and shouted at me—” You begin, and he cuts you off, a pit of guilt sinking deeper into his gut as the words ring through his head.

He was stupid to think for a second that someone as messed up as he was could be anything of use to a sweet girl like you. He’d only ruin your life, make you hurt in ways you shouldn’t because if he was just normal, like everyone else, you wouldn't be terrified of that. “Hey, listen..”

You quickly cut him off, hands frantically waving in the air as you shake your head quickly. “Wait!” He hadn't let you finish your sentence and your squeak made him stop, letting you finish. “I was rude to you, in the dream. I snapped at you, and even when you tried to help I just grew worse.” You let out a long groan, hiding your face in your hands as you sit there and sniffle pitifully.

“You snapped at me? You could scream at me, I wouldn't care.” He says, confused and still convinced you’re afraid of him shouting and even potentially getting physical with you. He knows he doesn't look like a saint, especially since he allowed you small glimpses of his scarred face. Likewise, he just hopes it’d never come to this, for him to continue the cycle the men in his ancestry began.

“That's the problem.. I feel like I’m deceiving you— like I'm being so nice, and you think I'm that perfect person all the time. I can just get so irritable sometimes, and I won't explain why to you, and then I'll hurt you.”

His throat bobs softly as he swallows, starting to see that you have somehow stemmed from a similar branch of his. Although his was rougher, perhaps he was too stupid to think only he could experience guilt like this. A rose could have just as many thorns as a vine, it seems. His gloved hand gently tugs your chair closer to him, thankful for the fact practically no one is near your table. “It isn't fair on you— for me to act like that..” You mumble out, knowing it sounds silly compared to the things he probably deals with on the daily. But in reality, he had perhaps pressured you too much with his own glittery perception of you, unintentionally undermining your struggles.

“It was a dream for a reason, love; it won't come true.” He hums, gently pinching your cheek between his thumb and index, loving the way your lips purse so softly as you look up at him and he drops his hand again.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well..” He starts, taking a sip of his coffee as he slings an arm loosely around the back of your chair and brushing your shoulders in turn. His eyes glancing off into the lights beyond the windows that decorate the trees with tiny sparkles. “You just warned me now, didn't you? So, now I know that you get a bit snappy when you’re overwhelmed and I can accommodate for that. You’re not some villain for that. It’s called communication, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him, probably expecting him to call you crazy for not being able to control yourself all the time like he did, and well everyone in your life.

“So, I can just tell you all my flaws.. And you won't mind? Even though I still get anxious crossing busy roads?” He chuckles at that, rubbing your shoulder with the palm of his hand and nodding, unbelieving that you thought he’d only turn you away.

“Yes, of course you can. I’ll even tell you one of my own. Military life can be a little unpredictable.. y'know? So I’m often shaken awake at two am and I have a feeling I might end up randomly texting you at that time..I don't expect you to wake up and reply, so don't even think about killin’ your sleep for me.” He chuckles as your lips part in surprise; then again, even he didn't expect he’d find solace in his nightmares just from your menial discussions. You’d laugh alongside him when he complained about the crappy rations, or even when he told you about something stupid he was thinking about. He tells you about some good movies he had watched, only because Soap forced him to, and you give him some recommendations of your own; though not before watching his that night, and giving your own opinions. It’d been a while since he’d even opened up with someone, and you made it feel okay.

“If it's on a weekend, I’ll wake up. It won't bother me, promise. If it’s not, I’ll reply first thing in the morning, okay?”

You’ll argue with him, but he still does really believe you’re the perfect person despite some stupid flaws you think you have. But of course, you seem to take them pretty seriously so he’ll do the same. It’s weird how you suddenly make him feel better about his own worries about himself too, the usual ache in his chest dissipating just a smidge. “Well how about you finish that soup before it gets cold, hm? I have a feeling there are a few more things you have on your mind and I think it’s about time someone helps you sort them out.”

—————-

Prev Next

Taglist:

”Wait, she’s the one who makes those pastries your unit had? We ‘ave to pay her a visit too. I mean, my mouth watered when i smelt ‘em.” He laughs, remembering the time he had begged Ghost to let him try just a tad of the cookie you had graciously provided him once. He’d take the death glare, especially since after he ate half, he had easily decided it was the best one he’d ever tasted. Besides, he wanted to see what had caught Ghost’s eye to the point he spent more time off base than on. Unfortunately, the masked man had caught onto it quickly, standing with the tray in his hands. “Yeah, you go spillin’ crumbs on yourself in the middle of the briefing we have in ten.” He rolls his eyes, already expecting the alarm in Soap’s eyes as he quickly stands and throws his tray away too—he always had a tendency to rely on Ghost as a personal reminders app.

————

The meeting seemed to last forever, and he had to adjust himself to stand straight every so often just so his mind wouldn’t wander off with the memories of only last week. Though, he couldn’t keep them away for much longer since as soon as he was on the treadmill, everything in his mind was let free. The thing was, even though he hadn't said it directly, Johnny was right—you had caught his eye in a way that he couldn't even figure out himself. From the day he saw you in that shop, dancing along to a song that you embarrassedly shut off as soon as he entered, to the pretty smile you flash every time he enters the shop. In fact, your demeanour seems to light up without you even realising; it’s adorable, really. He notices the pep in your step, the slightly higher pitch in your voice, and even the way you greet the customers with happiness just ‘cause you’re eager to draw your doodle on the side of his coffee cup again. Maybe if he had a little more experience in all of this, he would’ve teased you about it all, or he would even go as far as to admit that you’ve made his heart thump more than any life-threatening situation will. Though, if he told you that then you might just force him to a doctor out of sheer worry.

What if you don’t even see it the same way? What if you’re just being friendly and he’s acting like a creep, reading into all of your actions? He ramps up the speed on the treadmill a little more, his thighs starting to burn the more forceful his strides grow. It’s empty in this room, no sound around save for the heavy thump of his boots bouncing off the walls. He’s heard female soldiers complain before; they huff about how the younger soldiers ogle, and the older lieutenants shamelessly give their remarks. What if he ruins everything and makes you uncomfortable? He’s not even sure he can handle a relationship; he always thought he could never commit to it, nor did he think he could put the constant energy and thoughts into caring so much for somebody. But with you, it just comes so naturally; he barely has to think twice when he converses with you, even less when you chatter to him about something that happened the other day. Relationships always seemed like obligations to him, even if the girl was nice or sweet; something always sucked the life out of him dry until he broke up with them just for their own sake. He didn't want the same to happen to you; no he wouldn't dare hurt you in such a cruel way.

Then what, should he just pull away from you altogether?

That thought alone stills him, the idea of never seeing you again making his body still like a bucket of cold ice dumped over his head. His feet falter as his heart stammers, and his hands can only graze the handles before his knees hit the floor with a painful slam—sliding off the treadmill altogether in a heap of limbs. He looks down in shock, more so down at himself as he sits on the floor in front of the treadmill he had accidentally pushed to the maximum speed. Damnit; he really has fallen for you.

————————-

The little bell rings as he pushes the glass door open; it’s the day before he leaves for deployment, and he was hoping he’d see your grin one last time before he goes. To his dismay, you’re not on shift today, likely doing a grocery run or something similar. Today, your parents are handling the shop, and although you informally introduced him once, he’s almost sure that they don't approve of him. It’s not like they’ve made it obvious; it just seems inevitable due to his chosen attire and his line of work. Naturally, he hadn't expected your father to smile at him widely and know his order before he could say it.

“Flat white or black today? No tea today, unfortunately.”

Simon can only blink in surprise, clearing his throat in hopes he doesn’t sound too hoarse. “Flat white. I’ve got deployment tomorrow, so I'll have to indulge now rather than later.” He doesn't usually add on detail, but he feels like he’s obliged to, just for the sake of seeming a little better towards your parents. Thankfully, there’s not a hint of the disdain he expected on your father’s face; he only laughs, ringing in the order whilst he turns to make the drink for him. “I’d hardly call a flat white an ‘indulgent’, kid.”

Simon barely gets the chance to acknowledge the fact someone just called him ‘kid’ before he’s talking again, and he feels himself stand a little straighter to make sure he doesn't look like some sleazy boy.

“She’s gonna be upset, y’know? Maybe you’ll be better off paying a stunt double to take your place instead of saying you’re on deployment.” The man chuckles again, his face lighting up the same way you do, and you’ve clearly learnt his technique of pouring the steamed milk too.

“I’m sure she’ll forget by the second day; the other customers will have to suffice with all her stories.” Simon brushes off your potential reaction, almost positive that you wouldn't even lose sleep on the matter. Besides, you’re plenty more friendly than he’ll ever be; he’s sure you’ll make quick friends with the other regulars.

“Forget? I won't hear the end of it until you return. I don't know what you did to that girl, but she’s been as bright as the sun since you showed up.” The older man pressed the lid onto the cup, turning around to hand it to Simon. “We’re grateful, y’know? She had a tough time when we first opened; it didn't help that we couldn't afford her further education.”

“I.. didn't know that.” He can't say much else, the words spilling out and surprise evident in his tone.

“We travelled a bit before buying this bakery, so she’s never had many constant friends; it was out of our control.” The man packs up a small bag, placing it on the counter for Ghost to take as well before giving him a grateful smile. “She’d have come around eventually, but the point is, she’s very fond of you. Always makes sure she has your favourite biscuits restocked too.” He chuckles, and Simon stares down at the bag, the faint outline of chocolate bourbons inside. He truly was a lucky man.

———-

Ghost had a hypothesis, and that was that the simplest missions were always the longest. Well, not literally, but they felt as if they dragged on forever. He was positioned up in these mountains to scope the area prior to his team’s entry; however they wouldn't be here for another two hours anyway due to unforeseen circumstances. That meant that for the meantime, he was a sitting duck. It also gave way to the thoughts he hadn’t been able to consider ever since he first processed them, promising himself he’d debate it later after this all blew over.

The thing is, he couldn't fathom the idea of you feeling low or even having a few friends. He considers himself to be on the loner side, considering most people perceived him that way, and he didn't exactly contact anyone outside of the military save from his old boss when he worked as a butcher—he always said happy new year to him. The difference is, he kind of liked it that way, but clearly you haven't been given a choice in that matter. It fills him with an urge, one that’s a little out of place for him yet fits perfectly in his chest. He wants to make sure you’re happy, well, as far as he can do so anyway. And on the off chance you do get upset, he wants to be the one to cheer you up after.

It’s weird to him, having someone that needs him as a presence in their life, someone who’ll miss him when he’s gone. But what’s worse for him, is that he realises now that he misses you every time you’re gone. He thought he had gone crazy the first time Johnny went on deployment without him, and he had to listen to Gaz talk about the latest football game all lunch— not that Johnny usually had anything better to say either. He had only realised he missed him when Soap described the same feeling when Gaz had left for deployment. He figured it comes with working closely with others very often; after all, being forced out of a routine would never feel right. So, he was even more surprised when he had only spent a month and a bit getting to know you, but somehow every moment away just seemed duller.

That night the evac trucks take him home quietly, along with the rest of his team. They’re exhausted, Soap and Gaz more so than himself; they're practically nodding off beside him. Not that he minds being their pillow for the ride, but he does stop to wonder what it’d feel like if your head was the one on his shoulder. He’d probably wrap an arm around you—if you’d allow him, of course—and maybe just sit in silence whilst a movie plays. You’d be happy with someone around, he’d be happy to have a quiet night in, and maybe a quiet sleep again.

That’s the moment he decided what he was going to do and what he’s currently doing right now. It’s two am, and he’s just got back, barely even washed up yet. His phone is in his hands, your little profile picture grinning at him cheekily as he stares at the unsent message.

“Are you free for dinner on Wednesday? My treat, and an apology for leaving you for so long.”

—————————-

Prev Next Masterlist

Sweet as Sugar Masterlist

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Taglist:

A few years back, he moved out of Manchester to stay in Cardiff. It didn't affect him much anyway, considering he was barely at his own apartment throughout the year, but it did make it particularly easier on the odd chance he was kicked out of base— part of the rules for the Christmas holidays. He really had tried to argue with Price, but he wouldn't have it, telling him to ‘just take a damn break’. Soap had even joked a few times about dragging him over to Scotland with him, but Ghost wasn't too sure if he could handle another Mactavish let alone just Soap. Plus, any type of family gathering was really not his thing.

So, after surviving his second restless night, he makes the impulsive decision to drive down to your town at seven am, arriving there in half an hour. The bell jingles, early regulars already filtering in and out the cafe for their coffee before their jobs start. He usually either went now or near closing time, trying his best to avoid the busiest hours— otherwise he’d never get to see you.

“Cardamom tea.” He grunts at you before placing a five pound note on the counter, eyes catching onto the mess behind the counter before he raises a brow at you.

“What the hell happened back there?”

You sigh, glancing back at the wet floor sign and the spices hastily swept underneath the cupboards. “The front sink suddenly burst this morning. I've been using bottled water but it’s starting to become an issue.”

You ring in his order though, turning around to dispense the premade tea, the large airpot keeping it warm. It was way better than any teabag, the fresh spices balancing out in his mouth in a way that makes some part of him melt.

“Have you called a plumber yet?” He watches as you strain the spices out before pouring into a cup for him, placing the lid on and grabbing your pen for your signature doodle. It’s not like he wanted to admit he liked them, but you’ve been getting increasingly creative with the mini-version of him who's been up to all kinds of things.

“Ah.. well, the closer it gets to Christmas the harder it is to find anyone. It’ll have to be fixed in the new year.” You give him a shrug as you hand over the cup, obviously looking a little down about having to deal with a dodgy sink on top of running the shop each day. It’d certainly makes your tea products a struggle to produce and he doesn't even need to ask to see you contemplating shutting it down. “Let me ‘ave a look.” There’s not much he could do to make it worse anyway, so you unlock the small swing gate, letting him walk around the corner. Usually , you would’ve helped him inspect it, but a group of regulars returned for their usual meeting and you knew this would be an order you had to handle now. Though, when you finally complete it, he’s disappeared off again.

“Hi, what can I get for you today?” Just like the first day you met, your music is blaring in the background, considering it’s half an hour till closing and many don't hang around till now. Finally you lift your head, meet with Simon’s familiar black mask and you smile, though slightly tilting your head in confusion.

“Oh— what are you doing back here? Wait- did I forget a plan?”

Your face grows into one of panic and he quickly quells it with a firm shake of his head. A soft thud rings out and you look down to see a toolkit he had just placed on the table, what looks to be plumbing supplies.

“We’ll have that sink workin’ by the end of today.”

He had gotten to work immediately, muttering to himself about how bad the previous owners had been to let it get to this state as he crouched in front of the sink cabinet. “Simon, you really don’t have to—“ He shakes his head,reaching into a carrier bag to pull out a flexi hose and other things you don't recognise. “You got a customer waitin’ for you.” You squeak, having not even realised and quickly apologise before taking the order. In no time, your sink is working again, although Simon did get a little drenched when he tested it and the water pressure was a bit too high. The sight had you in fits of laughter as you quickly searched for a towel. Besides that, you marvelled at how he had restored the sink with a bit of diy, cringing at the dirty state of the old pipes and the like.

“Thank you for everything today. I’m thinking about getting a filter attachment for the water so it’s better quality. You’ll be the first to try the new teas, of course.”

That’s accompanied by your usual emoji, that of which is a little smiley with its tongue sticking out. He has no idea why you’re so enthralled by the mini pictures but he’s made no effort to stop you, just replying back in his own usual tone.

“You’re welcome. Filtered water sounds good, tea will taste better too.”

Okay, so maybe he didnt text as nicely as you and had a bad habit of getting straight to the point— you didn't seem to mind too much though, and it’s better than leaving you on read like he’s heard some men have done. A sigh puffs out his chest as his head hits the pillows, looking at the speckles on his ceiling as he thinks over the day. It felt good to be occupied, and not in the usual ‘planning something that could end up killing people if done wrong’ way. His job helped people of course, damn every mission was always for a better cause but something was different with the way you had lit up, grinning at his handiwork. Families had thanked him before— nervously because of his heavy armour but thanked him nonetheless. Yet still he didn't get that rush, the one that made his teeth grit, eyes avert awkwardly and his fists to clench a little. One that made him a little uncomfortable, though sent him reeling all the same. ‘If i didnt fix it, I'd never get my tea for a long while..’ He concludes that must be why he ran out to the nearest home diy store, and definitely not the frown on your lips. it must be.

Despite that, he was seemingly having an internal battle with himself the longer the days continued with little sleep. He just had no excuses for what he was doing anymore, nothing was making sense. Most of all was when the next day he made his way to your shop again, muttering something about ‘The fridge made a loud noise when i was here. It’s annoying.’ before he was stalking around the counter and pulling it away from the wall. He checks all the vents, and clears the dust buildup from many years of use. You confess your parents planned for a new one but you haven't been able to afford it yet.

“I don't need it.” He shrugs as he hands you the military discount card he keeps spare, supposed to be for family members but now he’s giving it to you. It’s still early when he's done with the fridge, and decides to check out the lights in the main kitchen, where all the bakes are made. He’s been here before, when you needed to clean it at closing time and he stayed late again. One of them needs to be replaced, obviously and so he takes it upon himself to do that. Somehow he finds another problem, fixing the squeakiness of the back door.

This carries on until a third day, he had come by after munching down some dinner, and he somehow migrated his problem fixing to your small apartment upstairs. You didn't mind of course, and he hadn't pushed, in fact he sounded more awkward than you when he spoke up. “If your pipes were this rusty downstairs, I think the ones upstairs can only be worse. You should.. get that checked out.” He mutters, his arms crossed over as he crouches before the kitchen water pipes. You have to stifle a smirk, nodding along with his words instead. Whilst he worked, he’d ask the odd question and you had explained that the previous owners barely used the apartment themselves— explaining his assumption.

“Ah.. I really should get someone to check it out…”

It feels fun to act like this— you almost feel like you’re saying no to a kid about buying a toy. He’s sitting there silently but you know he wants to go up and sort it out for you. The reason? You’re not sure, but you have a few suspicions. “You’re on holiday now, right?” You glance at him as he stands from his crouched position, and he nods. “Are you doing anything for it?”

“No.” He grunts almost a little too quickly, the boredom practically agitating his soul now as he shifts, fidgeting with the tools as he places them back in the boxes. “Oh.. well, would you mind checking my pipes out upstairs then? I mean… as long as you're not too busy. You can just tell me what’s wrong and i’ll hire a plumber later—“

“I’ll fix tha’ by tonight.” So, you close up the shop, since it’s late now already, and walk up the small staircase up to your apartment. It looked far smaller on the outside, but you had planned your space well. There was a kitchenette, looking a lot more modern than the bakery downstairs. Rather than the dark mahogany, it was a lighter brown and off white walls, matching the plush leather couch before your tv. It was clear you had done some work on it yourself, or hired someone at least, to renovate the place. He takes his shoes off by the door and you take his jacket from his hands to rest it on a little hook. It was cute to him, to see how you’ve cosied up this space to be one of your own. The first thing he notices is how warm it is, not a sweaty hot but like sitting infront of a fire on a freezing day. It’s welcoming, the warm light rather than the sterile white he’s accustomed to, as well as the little picture frames among the walls of artwork you’ve grown fond of over the years. He even smiles at your key holder, the way a cat pops out as you place the key down.

He’d describe it as a home, a real one. From the small clutter of dishes that you shyly hurry him past, or the blanket still splayed over the couch from a late night movie— hell even the bin full to the brim. It’s full of life, something his apartment has never known. “Alrigh’ let’s see the damage here.”

“Will you be fine here on your own? I still need to clean up downstairs..”

He nods quickly, even going as far as to shoo you away and you laugh hurrying down again.

You come up at eight, wanting to deliver him a cup of the leftover tea from today whilst you washed out the large airpots you kept them in. “Simon?” You call out, looking around until you see him standing before the sink, finally repaired and looking a little.. dazed. “I’ll be finished in a bit, why dont you take a seat on my couch and watch some tv?”

“I should go home—“

“No! ..I mean, I can't just force you to go now after all your hard work. Stay and drink the tea please?” He cant say no to those eyes and so he grunts, letting you tug him over to the couch and sit him down. Then you hurry over to the cabinet, rummaging out a pack of nachos and some salsa. “Help yourself, okay? I’ll be done soon. Promise.”

Then he’s left alone again, sitting there quietly as he sips on the mug of tea you gave him. It’s in a mug that has prints of skulls all over it, and a ghost on the centre with a little ‘boo!’ next to it. He finds it awfully fitting, a bit curious on when you even bought this and when you planned to show him it. Like he said before, your tea is just perfect. The right mixture of sugar, spice and everything else nice. It breaks down a part of him he hadn't known existed, muscles relaxing into the plushness of the couch. He’s got a large cushion behind his back, something you must love since there’s a few more littering the couch too. The tv is quiet, on one those stupid adult cartoons that he’s never found quite funny but the ambience of this is too cosy to deny, too comforting. Has it really been that long since he’s slept? He hadn't wanted to admit it, but he’d been avoiding sleep recently just to escape those nightmares for a bit. This was comfy though, almost too comfy, but you said you’d be back soon— he’s sure the military trained him to wait that long anyway. So he sits there quietly, waiting.

When you return, you call out again, only to recieve silence in response. Confused, you walk further in, seeing him sitting upright. “Lt! Simon! …Ghost?” Still no reply, that is until you hear quiet breathing, and you step closer to see his head is slumped back a little. Carefully tiptoeing around the couch, his blonde eyelashes are pressed against the black cut outs of his mask, lips gently parted as his chest rises and falls. You can see his chin properly for once, the small curves of his lips and the pin prick of a scar near his neck. That makes you swallow sharply, only images of him being near death coming to your mind. For now, you shake it out and try to figure out what to do with the sleeping hunk of a man on your couch. Of course, you’re far from being annoyed but you’d feel extremely guilty if you didn't at least try to wake him.

What if he feels uncomfortable when he wakes?

“Si..” You whisper, the nickname unintentionally slipping out as you gently rub his shoulder. No response is heard, only a deep breath leaving his chest as he relaxes into your couch. “Si, you fell asleep.” This time, you think he’s woken but he just shifts his body, head leaning back further to press into the back of the couch. You sigh, not sure what else to do than to just leave him here until he wakes. There’s no point attempting more drastic measures, knowing damn well you likely cant even lift his arm just from the sheer muscle on it. “You gonna lie down at least? That’s gonna hurt your neck in the morning.”

It had been a murmur to yourself but he had seemed to have the same idea, head sinking a little more in search for a comfortable place to rest. He grunts in his sleep, mask crinkling near his eyes as they squeeze. You tug his arm gently to lead him, and he subconsciously follows, adjusting himself until his head rests on a cushion you placed on the armrest. His arm lazes over his stomach as he gets comfortable on his side, cheek pressing in to the pillow just slightly. Smiling to yourself, you grab the thick throw blanket from the back of the couch and tuck it around him before reaching out towards his face. Your fingers tangle on the fabric of his mask, his nose twitching until you slowly drag down the bunched fabric to his chin. “Sleep well, Si.” The couch creaks as he sinks in further, the light ahead flickering off with the touch of your fingers.

It’s late in the morning when he grunts, though today it’s not the light from the curtains annoying him, nor does he wake up to silence neither. Infact, a soft hum is heard not too far away and he’s almost positive he’s dreaming now. Quickly perking up at the unfamiliar surroundings, he whips his head around only to see you standing in an apron, teeth biting your lip as you concentrate on scooping an egg perfectly in the plate. You practically beam at your own work, finally looking up to see him stare back at you, throw blanket sliding off his shoulders. “What the–” His voice is cold, instantly reverting to his military instincts before you chuckle, the sound easing something in him. “You fell asleep on my couch, silly. Looked exhausted too– have you been sleeping well recently?” He sits up properly now, glad for the mask to cover his warming face, before walking over to the counter you stand at.

“Not my fault your couch is comfy.” He takes the plate you slide towards him, lifting his mask to his nose as he takes a bite of the sausage.

“You’re avoiding my question, Si.” His eyes flicker up, caught off guard by the nickname but any challenge he wanted to give you for having the audacity quickly dies in his throat. He’s not the man for you, but you’re so damn tempting to him. Never has he hesitated to set a boundary, yet here he is letting you call him Si. “Fine, I havent been sleeping well. Just adjusting, tha’s all.”

You don't believe him, but there’s not much you can do, not when he’s being stubborn as it is right now. Despite that, you still couldn't just let him deal with it on his own either, not after everything he’s been doing for you. So you shuffle through your cupboards, grabbing a packet of Chamomile tea and offering it to him. “Take it. It might not be perfect, but it helped me relax when I had insomnia.” Then you’re grabbing a diffuser too, and a few candles, placing everything into a small carrier bag. “If it doesn't work, then I guess you’ll just have to sleep on my couch forever.” He rolls his eyes at your cheeky words, and grabs your empty plate to stack atop his.

“Alrigh’ fine. But I'll hold you to that promise.”

He might have to start praying they dont work.

—————————————————————-

Prev Next

Sweet as Sugar Masterlist

Taglist:

You’ve long since closed the shop now, but you were preparing some dough as per usual. It was all you ever seemed to do these days, and even if more people were appreciating your bakes, you find yourself desperate for a new invention. Or well, at least somekind of new product in the shop. Somehow, your mind drifts back to your old train of thought that other day, what Simon would eat for lunch. You think he’d like something rich with flavour, considering how dry military food would be, but not spice—it doesn't look like he could handle that much anyway. Savoury seems to be his preference, even if he has tried a few of your sweeter options before. Don’t soldiers need lots of protein and carbs too? At least that’s what everyone says about building muscle, so you mentally jot those points down too. Your stomach rumbles as you see a notification from a cooking channel you follow, instantly clicking on it to see the thumbnail that is the most delicious tacos with their seasoned meat and vegetables. The video even showed pulled chicken tacos, but that’d seemed to be too messy for him to eat on the job— definitely a note for another day.

You hum as you lean against the counter, looking at the bread dough in the bowl before you. Pulled chicken sounded damn good especially for protein, you have bread already, and shredded vegetables would be easy to get…you're going to make the best damn meal he’ll have in his life.

——————————————————————

Sweat trickles down his back and soaks his shirt as he pants quietly, breaths eventually slowing down from his early morning run. The air is crisp, almost biting with how cold it is as December deepens. He doesn't particularly like how much his thoughts have shifted these days, always thinking about his next visit to his bakery rather than the rest of his schedule for the day. Damnit, just the mere sight of a teacup makes him think of your grin when you hand one to him. He’s convinced he’s starting to go insane.

The locker rooms are quiet at this time, and so he pulls off his top in one smooth motion before throwing in his laundry bag that he’ll handle later. His muscles flex as he stretches them a little, fishing out a fresh vest and shirt when his phone buzzes in his duffel bag. That’s unusual, no one really bothered texting him apart from his phone service provider or occasionally an app notification. Even Soap preferred to just hunt down the Lieutenant himself, knowing he barely ever checked his phone. But he does now, because now he’s got someone who has his number, and who actually wants to text him too. Your name and the silly picture you took on his phone flash up, and for once his thumb fumbles when he types his password in.

“Is there any chance i could potentially leave something for you at like.. a military gate.. post.. thing? You forgot something in the shop!”

He raises a brow at the message, knowing damn well he’s never been reckless enough to forget something that would be important as to be delivered to him at this time. If it really was something, surely it could wait until he inevitably saw you next week. At least, that’s what his rationale is telling him. He shouldn't breach work hours and go off and let you into the base, no he should just tell you that it isnt possible and he’ll handle it himself. He’d be damned if he ever let you drive your truck up here, carrying one of his things and delivering it to him personally. What if someone saw you? What if another soldier talked to you and you realised they’re the one you want to stay friends with and not him?”

At that he slams the locker door closed, letting out a deep breath and ignoring the way his face heats. It’s just because of the run, just because of the way his mask clings to his face. It’s really hot in here, yeah that’s it. This -2° air is boiling.

It’s almost lunch time now, and he walks down to the admin area where an intern, who is usually tasked with the mundane tasks like these, tells him there’s a girl waiting for him at the gate. He just gruffly nods, hands stuck in his pockets as he steps out of the building and where you stand on the other side of the barrier, awkwardly waiting with a little paper bag. He’s glad you’re wrapped up, a thick scarf practically engulfing your face and a wooly hat covering the hair he loves the look of. “Miss Lost and Found, is that your name now?” He hums, stepping towards you and you almost jump, not used to the physical skull mask he wears on base and rather the more tame chalk one. But his voice resonates instantly and you grin, tugging down your scarf to your chin. “I may have lied. I came bearing a delivery.”

Well he hadn't expected you to straight up lie to get your way, but he supposes it must be a good cause and so he takes the bag when you offer it to him, though not without taking your wrist too. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up inside.”

You’re not sure if you stick out like a sore thumb because of the thick jacket you wear compared to the camos sported around here, or due to the Lieutenant’s grip around your hand as he tugs you along. It must be a mix of both, assuming from the way the other soldiers look at Ghost and then you before scurrying off quickly. He eventually seats you opposite him in an office, letting you sit on the couch as he settles on the armchair. Though.. this office does not match him in the slightest. “Captain’s office, not mine.”

He hums, digging out the container out of the paperbag with curiosity along with a warm flask. “You didn't..” He grunts, eye flickering down at the food and then up to you, not quite sure just yet if the little lunchbox you brang is something he had somehow left behind in another life or you really had brought him lunch while he was working.

“I did. I wanted to thank you for all your help the other day” You grin, and he pulls off the lid, instantly caught in the delicious smell inside. Two large chicken stuffed buns right beside each other, practically still hot considering you cooked them this morning. Beneath is veggie sticks, ones you’d usually give to little kids, layered over seasoned rice in case he wasn't full on the buns already. And of course, would it really be you if you didn't give him a dessert? Of course, nothing too sweet, in fact you even went out of your way to make another off menu item for him… oops.

“Banana bread? Do you note down everything I say?” He likes the way your smile grows wider when he notices your efforts, taking care to remember that for later too. Though, he really is surprised you were paying that much attention to him. “You know I'm gonna devour this, righ’?”

Though you’re quickly cut off when the door bangs open, a noise common around here but not exactly for you since you unintentionally jump. It doesn't go unnoticed by Simon though, whose hand shoots out to protect before realising you had only jumped at the door and nothing actually serious. His hand says awkwardly hovering before you before he just picks some lint of your shoulder, quickly turning to the door instead. Is he going crazy or what? The cause of the noise was a bulky man who had almost as much muscle as the man in front of you, only shorter than him and the muscle was more evenly distributed.

“Lt, the fuckin’ rookies are at it again! This new batch are always fighting eachother!” He exclaims, walking over to the desk in the office to snatch a cookie out of a jar that easily blends into the rest of the furniture around. You stare at him as he bites into it, the crumbs falling onto his tactical gear before his head lifts to meet Simon’s, only to see you right in front of him. He raises a single brow at you, then chomps on a cookie a little more.

“Oh, is this one of ‘em? Lass doesn't even look terrified, have ye lost yer touch mate?” Ghost grunts as the man jests, and shakes his head before trying to move the lunchbox out of the man’s sight. “She’s not a soldier, Johnny.”

“Not a soldier eh? So.. CIA? One of Laswell’s right?”

“No”

”Medic?”

“No.”

“K9 Trainer?”

“No.”

”Damnit, Lt, yer killing me!”

‘Johnny’ groans as he steps around the desk, before promptly noticing the lunchbox that Ghost had failed to completely hide behind him. Though, that left even more questions unanswered. For starters, when has Ghost ever sat with someone for lunch?

“None of ya business who she is. I’ll deal with the rookies in five, just get ‘em rounded up, Soap.” Then he turns to you, wrapping the scarf that was tossed to the side back around your neck before he pulls you up by your hands. “And you need to get back home.”

“Do I really look like I could be in the CIA?” Soap snaps his gaze to you as your head tilts, in a way that’s far too friendly, towards Ghost though he only rolls his eyes up at you and huffs out a chuckle. “You couldn't even kill a fly.”

“I didn't want fly blood on me!”

You argue and Ghost turns to see the other soldier staring, so he grunts and closes the lid onto the lunchbox. Soap had just been through a series of emotions and confusion was an aspect of all of them. Ghost had just tucked a scarf around your neck, refused to give your identity to him and he was about to walk you back to wherever you came from. For once in his life, he stays silent as his Lieutenant leads you out, a hand on your back to guide you.

——————————————————————

After he walked you back to your car and made sure you knew your way out of the complex, he had spent the next half hour dealing with those damn rookies Soap groaned about. Finally, he was free now, the little blue lunch box in front of him, and lord was he starving. As he promised, he devoured everything you made him, even taking a moment to stop and savour the burst of flavour the shredded chicken had been coated in. It was more than good, it was like the takeout they only got every so often, like the drinks he’d share with his taskforce, or even the sigh that gets let out when everyone comes back unscathed from a mission. It was comforting and warm, a promise of safety and he’d be damned if he never got to try this cooking ever again. So, he savours each bite, every drop of tea in the flask until it’s empty. He’ll scrub the container clean for you, grab you a box of chocolates even if it was meant as a thnak you. And he’d be back in that bakery, as soon as he could.

———————————————————————

Prev Next

Sweet as Sugar Masterlist

Taglist:

His body was a different story, though; you were shivering and he’d still roll his sleeves up, a few tattoos sneaking past his elbow but not quite yet. He confessed he planned to get a whole sleeve, but a mission came up suddenly, and healing tattoos never went well with that. “When’re you heading down anyway?” He says, dabbing at the crumbs on his lips before finally pulling down his mask once more. “Thursday. We’ll have to close the shop on Friday so we can restock.” He nods thoughtfully before eventually standing, and you grab the cup before he can even place it on the counter, heart freezing for a moment when your fingers brush. “I’ll take that. Back to duty?” He nods in return, slipping his leather gloves back on again and picking up his jacket from the chair. “Training, debriefs, the usual.” He leaves a tip at the table, something you’ve insisted he doesn't have to do, but he says it’s for his ‘overtime’ at your cafe. Besides, the last time you ran after him to give him the money back, he had already disappeared down the street, unable to be found again.

It’s Thursday morning, and you’ve dragged yourself out of bed at five am to allow enough time to get ready and start packing your car with crates, making sure you’ve counted it many times for the right amount for all the usual produce. As you told Simon before, you weren't exactly anticipating this ride, but it was what had to be done, even if you’re half awake. Well, at least the roads are empty. Closing the boot door, your hands clasp over your mouth, essentially muffling your own scream when you realise the masked figure that was ominously standing there was actually the Lieutenant himself as he steps into the porch light. “..Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya” His voice is visibly awkward for once, eyes glancing elsewhere, and you laugh nervously, still recovering from a pounding heart. “It’s.. fine. Almost thought I'd get robbed, just um.. say hi next time?” You watch him nod quickly in return, his hands shoving into the pockets of his jeans. Oddly casual.

“So why’re you here anyway?” You question, grabbing a few of the groceries and spices the farmer had asked you to bring down for him. After all, he didn't come down to town very often. “You need a lift to your base or somethin’ ?” That makes him chuckle, a cooler bag of seafood in his arms, farmer’s favourite apparently.

“I came to help you.” That causes your eyes to widen in surprise, watching as he easily places it in the back seat before nicking the keys from your pocket. He leaves you standing in confusion whilst he climbs into the driver's seat,the rickety truck starting up with a heavy growl. “This rusty thing is a Land Rover? Hard to believe tha’ “ He mutters gruffly, ignoring the look of offense on your face as you climb up into the passenger seat. “I can drive you know, if you’re gonna keep complaining!” You exclaim, nose wrinkling up as you turn to frown at him. He stifles a chuckle, eyes rolling beneath the mask as he reaches over your body, clicking your seatbelt in for you.

“Don’t bite my arm off now; I'm going, I'm going.”

The drive goes by smoothly, even with only one of his hands on the steering wheel. Only now have you actually looked over him since he terrified you. He’s got a thick jumper on and a zip up hoodie on top of the jeans you noticed earlier. “Starin’ at my bad fashion sense?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you snicker, relaxing in the seat as you shift your focus more directly over to him. You’re practically curled up on the seat, legs folded on the seat. “No, no, I'm no better either.” He glances over your own worn trousers, covered in straw and muck from your last visit. It was safe to say you both had the right idea, as any nice clothes would’ve likely been ruined by the time you left, if not as soon as you got there. Even so, he can't help but find the sight oddly domestic, a small grin forming beneath the mask at your hair pulled back and the fingerless gloves on your hands. Cute.

It’s ten o’ clock when you arrive due to a large pothole causing you to take another, rockier route. Directing him, he pulls into the small driveway and parks the truck as the farmer exits, a haybale over his shoulder. He looks no older than about fifty three, a wide grin on his face as you step out of the car. “Lass!” He exclaims, the Scottish man patting you so hard on the back you almost cough, and you make a dramatic sigh in return even if you’re unable to hide the grin creeping up.. “Good to see you too, Mr.Wheatley. I’ll put the things in the usual places?” He nods, leaning on a wooden pillar, the paint peeling off already. You head to the backseats, grabbing the crates for him when you suddenly hear a low whistle and what sounds like a large thwack. You turn on your heel, instantly feeling the embarrassment that will soon come as the farmer gives you a smirk, looking between you and Simon, who can only stand there awkwardly as he places down another bag. “Now who is this lad?” He asks, and you carry over the cooler bag, trying to seem unaffected but flushing nonetheless.

Simon can't help but find it adorable how you stand in front of him, almost like trying to shield him from the farmer’s mischief—it’s the same protectiveness you’d expect when someone’s partner is insulted. Except Simon is far larger than you in both height and muscle, and so he doubts anyone would be bold enough to insult him anyway. “He’s a friend of mine who came to help me out.”

”Just a friend?” The farmer raises his brow, tilting his body to peer round you at the masked man still setting up all the things the pair of you brought.

”Take the damn seafood!” You grumble, plopping the heavy cooler bag in his arms as he chuckles, entering the house to leave you alone.

“Mr Wheatley basically runs this farm on his own, ever since his brother passed last year. His wife lives here too, but she doesn't attend to much other than feeding the chickens—she’s actually a writer.” You explain, carrying around one of the crates as you lead Simon to the chicken coop. The air is much fresher here, even if it smells mostly like hay and animal poo, but the point still stands. Ghost nods along to your words, watching as you check the eggs before picking them up before following your same action. “Is that why you collect what you need yourself?” You nod in return, crouching down to pick up a chicken and carefully move it so you could grab another egg.

“That, and for quality checking.” Lifting up the egg to him, you show him the crack running up along the side, about to explain other things you check for when you yelp, falling forward on the dirt and causing the yolk to splash on the icy ground. “Ow!” The culprit stands behind you, clucking as it watches your movements and follows. He has to forcefully stifle his chuckles when you squeal again, desperately shooing the chicken who seems intent on pecking at your butt. “It’s trying to eat me!”

“I don't know; I think he likes you.” You’re met face to face with said chicken when the Lieutenant grabs it, keeping it just a short distance from your face as he teases you. “Simon!” You yelp again, and quickly you scramble back up and out of the chicken coop, the chicken still clucking away in his large hands.

For the next three hours, he follows you around like a lost puppy, which you find rather amusing yourself. He’s never been in a situation this unfamiliar before, and whilst he’d usually take initiative, he’s a bit afraid of accidentally getting you the wrong items. Instead he chose to hold the crates for you, using his strength to support you even when he couldn’t fathom how you milked a cow so easily. “So you have like a 1% chance of killin’ me when I drink yer tea?” He raises an eyebrow as you explain the dangers of unpasteurised milk, knowledge you picked up when you started working more shifts at the bakery. At his question you have to practically stave off the facepalm, shaking your head at his words as you now measure out the amount of milk your bakery will need until the next visit. “We only use fresh milk for our baked goods; this way the oven burns off any excess pathogens.” He probably should’ve guessed that, but it was worth the face you hadn't even known you pulled. “But, if you’re looking for a new way to kill your enemies on the field, I guess unpasteurised milk holds a good chance.”

“I am not throwing milk bombs at anyone.”

That makes you snicker, his grumpy self returning as you poke fun at his job again–only an hour ago you had giggled at the horse poo and asked if that was his duty. Even you know he can't hold it for long, especially when you poke him in the side with that cheeky grin. “I think you’re just scared your cap’ will hire me on the spot.”

You’re walking back to the car, the final crate full and ready to pack when it starts drizzling down, water pattering on the floor around. “Huh.. but I checked the weather forecast this morning..?” Only now had you glanced up at the darkening clouds, a soft frown sporting your face. “You really shouldn't be surprised with British weather.” He says gruffly, placing the final crate into your boot whilst watching the drops fall from the sky onto the concrete below. “Not the worst, but a storm might be brewing up.”

“Get over ‘ere you two, or do ye wanna get soak’d?”

Instinctively, you grab his hand and pull him into the warmth of the farmer’s house. Although the rain is falling so heavily now that it’d be likely impossible to drive home—for the next hour or so at least.

“Sorry..” You sigh, sitting on one side of the table, your hands warmed by the mug of tea you both prepared. He clutched his own, though his gloves protected him from the majority of the cold. Still, you can't help but feel like you inconvenienced him somehow, even if he had insisted on coming himself. “Are you sure this is okay, y'know, for your job?” He just gruffly nods, brown eyes moving to watch how aggressively the water patters against the glass. “I’ll drive us back in the evening. Don't fall asleep on me.” You grin cheekily, crossing your legs as you stand, placing your now empty teacup in the sink. “No promises.”

The banter is cut off when your stomach growls, your hands instinctively clutching it, a sheepish grin forming on your lips. “Didn't eat much for breakfast. Fancy a jacket potato for lunch?” He nods and stands to join you as you reach into the cupboard, pulling out two large potatoes. He takes them from your hands, washing them in the sink whilst you start grating some of the cheese.

“So how’d you know the farmer? I mean, you act close enough to be his niece.” Ghost comments, cutting a cross into the potato, and he can’t help but feel oddly warm at the way you easily fell into a routine.

“When I was about seventeen, I did some work experience here, ‘cause of university applications and stuff. His daughter grew very sick, and with the nearest medical services three hours away, I volunteered to nurse her back to health instead.” His eyes soften as he watches you, the way your eyebrows tug together as you concentrate. “Did you end up going to uni?” You shake your head this time, sliding over the plate of cheese before crouching in front of a cupboard in search of baked beans.

“I knew my parents couldn't afford it, so I didn't bother. The only reason we got the bakery was because the lady who previously owned it had left it in such a pitiful state it was rather cheap.” He pulls. out the steaming potatoes from the microwave, pressing into the potato to open it before fluffing it up with a fork. “Before that it was either working here on the farm or part time at the coffee shop down the road.” He hadn't realised someone as sweet as you could have that hand dealt to them; of course, it could be worse, but still it was different from the stories he usually heard. You grab a knife and spread butter across both of the potatoes, catching him off guard before you load up the baked beans and cheese. “Is that much butter really needed?”

Practically seconds later, he has his mask pulled up to his nose, scarred lips wolfing down the fluffy potato as he grunts. “I could eat this every day, flippin hell.” You laugh, taking a bite out of your own, the warm gooeyness of the cheese and baked beans warming your insides. Probably not the best dish, but definitely not a bad one. Though for him, who's used to eating dehydrated MREs with only the taste of cardboard—it’s practically luxury. “How bad is the military food?” You raise a brow, scooping another spoonful of the beans on his plate when he finishes his share. “Not bad,” The words are muffled by his full mouth, a sharp swallow quickly clearing his throat as he wipes his chin with a napkin. “On base, it’s fine; definitely not a lot of flavour, but it does the job. That’s why your bakery is such a trea’ love. Haven’t had food that tasted that good since Soap hosted a Christmas party.”

“Soap?”

”Member o’ my team.” He nods gruffly, stealing a baked bean off your plate and popping it in his mouth. His arms lean on the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the great muscle practically spilling over.He doesn't usually mention things about his work or his friends, so you decide not to pry for now.

Once you finish your plate, he takes the dishes to the sink and begins to wash them, whilst you grab a fresh towel to start drying them off. You tilt your head as you rub the plates with the towel, your mind wandering elsewhere. He’d been so nice to you recently, and all you’d done is give him a free tea a couple of times; you couldn't help but feel as if you should give him something in return. Couldn't you pack a lunch for him? It’d be in a nice container, a healthy sandwich loaded with meat and salad, a smaller version of his typical sausage roll on the side too. For dessert you could give him a muffin, or a little tart and then you couldn't possibly forget a flask of hot tea too. How would his coworkers react? You can almost imagine their faces when he opens it, randomly appearing with a pretty little box. A hand lands on your head, snapping you out of your stifled snickers, as it protects you from a cupboard opening just above you. “What’re you thinkin’ about now?” His voice is laced with suspicion, watching how you look far too amused despite the lack of jokes he’s made. That can only mean you’re up to something. “Nothin’, just thinking about what you’d like for lunch.” He raises a brow at that, but you quickly grab your keys from the table and pull your boots on. “C’mon, i want to get head back before it gets too cold.”

The ride back is quiet, almost silent if not for the soft hum of the radio. You decided to connect your phone to it, not really wanting club hits playing and rather something slower. It’s not awkward, though; more of a comfortable blanket over the pair of you as he drives through the narrow roads. Determined to talk for a bit, you showed him a few of your favourite songs and then some childhood favourites too. He nodded along, even gave you a few he often heard around. Tiredly, your head starts to droop closer and closer against the window, and you almost jump when Ghost lets his hand rest on your knee. “Sleep if you want. You’ve been up since early.”

“You’re always up early, though—how are you never tired?”

He can only shrug, knowing he probably shouldn’t delve into the aftereffects of his missions, even more so down the PTSD route. “Got used to it, I guess. Don't worry about me, okay?” Thankfully, you’re too sleepy to question down that route, asking him whatever tired question meets your mind until you’re quietly snoozing in the chair. It was probably his fault for cranking up the heating in the first place, making you all cosy like that, enough for you to completely fall asleep. He turns the music a little bit higher and finally relaxes his shoulders. He should really hang around you more; he hasn't felt this good in years.

————————————————————————

Prev Next

A/N: please comment ideas for the name of the penguin plush from ch2, he will make a return!!! I was thinking pingu but i wanna involve u guys too.

Taglist:

Now the sun has risen high, just like the dough for tonight’s stock, the little open sign turned to signal closed whilst you and your parents churn out as many baked goods as possible before it’s time to set up. Slowly, your knuckles knead through the sticky texture, hands speckled white from flour. You had nearly seventy-five different pastries out yesterday, but with the hunger of the soldiers, that was reduced to a measly thirty or so by the time they had left. A sudden ping rings out, cutting through the yeast-powered daze you were in, and the dough is almost flung across the room as you hurriedly pry your fingers out and douse them in water before grasping at the phone across the room. It’s from the lieutenant, as you had hoped, and you hurry your password into your phone before the chat appears.

If you had to decide between the time you idiotically ate lunch right before a plane ride and what you had right now, this would definitely take the tier for the stupidest thing in your life. The text, if not an accusatory message, is simple—so simple that it doesn't even include a single letter.

’?’

Too busy stuck in your daydreams, you had fallen asleep without responding, essentially doing the worst thing you could ever possibly imagine—leaving the man on read. If you had to explain the way your heart had just dropped, it’d be clear from the way your jaw was permanently screwed open until you fixed this mess you accidentally created. Hurriedly, your fingers dance across the keys of your phone, the remnants of the stringy mass making mistypes our best friend until it ends up looking more like a keyboard smash than an apology sentence.

‘You alright there?’

The hair on your head would’ve been clawed out by sheer embarrassment if not for the fact that you feel obliged to at least clarify you did not mean to leave him hanging like a beggar on the street, eventually ending up sending a voice message instead to convey your mortification. “Sorry—I read your text message last night, and I forgot to respond because I was really tired, and I was up all day baking and even now I got up early— I'd love to go around the fair with you but only if you still want to go. I know this is kind of last minute now, and you’re probably super busy—” You squeak out, trying to stop yourself from grovelling even further into the ground before the app does you a favour and cuts the message instead. He sends back a text before you can send a follow-up and you can only imagine he’s probably laughing at you behind the screen; after all, how does someone just forget to reply?

“All that I needed was a simple yes, but I'll take the clarification. So, when will you be done with your parents?”

“We can still go??”

”Yes, now how about six?

”Yes, please!”

You wipe your face with your damp hands, breathing out a lengthy sigh now that you have finally averted the crisis known as your mess of a social life. Unfortunately, in the process of your panic, you had flattened all the dough on the rolling board, some sticking to your elbows now too. This was definitely not good hygiene-wise, and so you let out a long huff, and grab the flour for another batch to be made.

Soft blows of wind pass by you, protected by your woollen scarf that’s wrapped around your neck and your thick coat that is lined with the softest fur. As you help adjust the last of the display for the stall, you notice there was a few more stalls, likely not able to keep up with the demand of running it for two days, and so today they all chose to run theirs. After all your bakes had been sold out yesterday, you may have claimed the same mindset and went overboard on the bakes in hopes people had caught on to the little logo on all the soldier’s cups as they walked around. Somehow hanging out with the lieutenant was at the back of your mind right now; you were more focused on adjusting the bow at the edge of the table, right before making sure there were plenty of tissues available for your parents to grab. Not to mention enough paper bags, plates, checking the card machine actually worked, and the pot of tea was at the right temperature and waiting to be served. You’re just about to add a little more icing sugar onto the fresh croissants when a gruff cough echoes behind you. “Ghost?” You spin around, his callsign falling off your lips easily from how many times you stared at the contact in your phone in the past ten hours.

“Mhm, that's me. Ready to go?” You nod quickly, dusting off any stray sugar specks before walking over to him and waving at your parents. He looks a little different, still clad in his hooded jacket and thick gloves, but far more relaxed than yesterday. Due to the hectic nature of running a stall, you barely got a minute to look around, thus missing the chance to fully enjoy the simple happiness that came with every time it got a bit chilly. Orange leaves had long since decayed, leaving the trees bare and allowing a clear view of small specks of white in the darkened sky, now a navy blue even though it's never really that bright in winter. You’re even a little hesitant with where you step, considering the ground is already starting to grow a little icier. It’s been years, you think, since you’ve felt this giddy around wintertime, with university, jobs, and life pushing out the happy things you desperately tried to cling to. At least you always had the bakery to fall back on, and you hoped Ghost felt the same about your pastries.

“No soldiers today?” You tilt your head up at him, looking around the decorated paths to see if there’s a hint of camo between the sparkling fairy lights and wooden stands that make up this market. “No, they’re too busy packin’ up for the holidays.” He murmurs, his hands shoved into his pockets as his boots crunch against stray twigs from a nearby weaving stand, premade hearths hanging from the canopy. You blink at that, having always forgotten that the military base wasn't too far off this small town. After all, you used to wave at the soldiers eagerly when you were little, a loopy smile forever on your lips when they acknowledged you—kind of like the one you wore yesterday. “Oh? Guess you’ll be gone soon then, I guess. Where are you headed back to?” He just shakes his head this time before he eventually starts to walk towards a chestnut stand, intrigued by the man roasting them. “I’m stayin’ at base. Nowhere for me to go.”

Gruff is the only word you can use to describe his tone, and yet you watch as he pays the man for a portion of the roasted chestnuts. He doesn't hesitate to hand you the cup to hold as you grin at him and cradle the warmth in your hands until it cools to an edible temperature. Though you decide not to pry into his last words, instead choosing to indulge your earlier curiosity in which you were dying for an answer. “So… why did you even want to walk around with me?” In truth, he had not the slightest idea himself; all he knew was that he’d been a lonely bastard for too long, and he was sick of it. There you were with your lips pulled wide into a pretty smile every time he went to your shop, and he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t clench when you realised his own soldiers had sold out your stock. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t meant to help you out; it was only convenient, and his soldiers were hungry. Instead of dwelling on it too long, he just steals a chestnut, slipping it beneath the privacy of his mask as he crunches on the velvety taste. “Figured you’d have an eye for the good stuff. Your tea isn’t something most would find around here.” That makes you nod, remembering the interaction you had with plenty of people.

“Yeah, had a few tell me that it was nothing like the chai tea bags they get in the shops.” His head turns to you, blatant distaste written in his eyes at whoever had the audacity to ask you that question. It’s funny, you think, that someone's eyes can show you that much emotion.

“Are they bloody stupid? Of course it’s not—it’s fresh! That’s like different by a mile!” He practically scoffs out, crossing his arms firmly as he shakes his head disapprovingly, earning him a bunch of giggles from you, who can only raise a brow at him cheekily. “Oh, are you a tea connoisseur now?”

“Oi, that’s Lieutenant to you, rookie.”

That makes you laugh loudly, his mask unable to stop itself from wrinkling at the corners as he gestures to you to follow him towards a stall. “C’mere, I'm gonna get you somethin.” He points up at the plush toys hanging from a stall you had subconsciously been eyeing whilst you walked, seeing as quite a few girls were carrying them tightly in their arms too. There’s a particular one, a penguin with grey fluffy fur and small eyes but a large beak, looking at you so innocently. It’s adorable, and even if you feel a little shy accepting it from him, you’d be damned if you didn't let him at least try. But then again.. it was the largest one,’ and knowing these stalls, it probably was rigged a little to stop people from getting the really large ones.. “If you get me one, I'll show you the best spots around. A fair trade, no?”

“Deal.”

All that the stall owner can do is watch in shock, jaw dropped, as the lieutenant easily picks up the rifle and hits down all six of the cans in seconds, practically speechless. “This one.” Ghost doesn't wait a second for him, pointing up at the large penguin, and your own jaw was agape too now, having expected a small little plush to carry for the journey.

“Whoa! It’s so fluffy, you really didn't have to, but—“ The words practically spill out your mouth, fumbling with your lips as your chest brims with excitement, now hugging it close to your chest. You can definitely tell he’s smirking now, especially as he ruffles the penguin’s fluffy fur with his hand, nodding in agreement. “Soft like you.”

The pair of you traverse around countless stalls, from fresh churros to a spiced burrito to fill your stomachs. Currently you stood in front of a tea store, one that sold a selection of tea bags rather than anything freshly brewed. Seeing as Ghost really did seem to be somewhat of a big tea enjoyer, you made it your mission to get him an assortment. So whilst he was taking a call, you were haggling the steep price down to something a little more affordable. “Don't you think fifty is a bit much?” You raise a brow, your arms crossed over your chest, which contradicts your calmer tone with something more accusing. “I mean, these are all imported anyway, they’re hardly homemade.”

“Well, they’re the finest quality—“

“No, if that were true, they’d be fresh. Come on, they’ve been sitting there since yesterday now—thirty five is much more reasonable for the effort of importing and covering enough for you to make a profit.” The owner can only sigh and roll her eyes fondly, handing you the selection of tea after your little bargaining. “Alright, have at it. Only because I taught you how to haggle a price that well.”

After his phone call was over, you followed through with your promise, leading him towards a small hill a little out of the town bounds. The further you go, the darker the surroundings around you grow but he stays close behind you, watching your feet in the small chance you fall. Eventually you reach the top of the cobbled steps, revealing an old stone plaza. There’s a shack not too far off, orange light streaming out and the sound of hushed cheers as they exchange drinks. What’s more important to him is the view from here, overlooking the entire market below. Everything had seemed too crowded before, with many bustling past to queue up for some hot doughnuts and little kids dragging their parents for a chance at the hook duck game. Here, it was entirely different; the lights reflected the night sky, a sea of stars in the midst of the darkness, and the soft music seemed so much clearer now.

Finally, you both settle on the edge of the stone, your shoes in the grass, and he peels off his own gloves, noticing how your hands were buried into the penguin’s fur for warmth. You take it graciously, slipping it over your iced fingers before rummaging through your own coat pocket. “A present for my lieutenant.”

“Your lieutenant? And I thought spoiling you was my job?“

“Well, call me the colonel since it’s mine now.”

He rolls his eyes up at you, but the affection is still visible, opening the box to look at the variety inside. Each one seemed to originate from a different part of the world, and even though he thought he tried most of the flavours, there was a lot more to learn. He can't help but meet your eager face. “Fine... Thank you. But I'm getting you one last dessert for that.”

Unfortunately, just like how his life had been going so far, everything good must come to an end. His phone startles you as it buzzes loudly, his free hand fishing it out before reading the messages there. His teeth grit in frustration, not wanting to levar you so early. You’re better than that, offering him a small grin in understanding. “Military emergency?” He wants to apologize, promise you that he’ll make it up to you, and give you something even better but he can't bring himself to.

He knows he could never be that soft.

With a gruff nod, he texts back hurriedly and pulls his mask a little higher upon his face. “Yeah..duty calls. Sorry.”You shake your head, waving your hands in front of you to reassure him, even if you were already missing the warmth of his palm in yours. He pushes himself up, and you follow as he nods for you to follow. “I’ll take you back to your parents' stall.” He offers and you nod with a small smile on your lips. That was much better than being left alone while he ran off—he didn’t owe you anything, and yet he still chose to make sure you got back safely.

But before he could take his third step, your eyes are widening, hands grasping his arm and desperately pulling him back. The touch catches him in surprise yet somehow exhilarating all the same, and thus he accidentally lets his guard down just enough for you to actually manage to pull him backwards. “The ice!” You squeak out as his foot slides, making him stumble back into you slightly, your grip now squeezing him. You couldn’t possibly catch a man of his stature, no less a person of a more regular size, and yet you still reached out for him and did your best to stop him. He’d be surprised if he’d even feel anything from falling ass flat on a bit of ice, knowing the extent of his usual injuries. Still, here you were like some guardian angel, doing your best to warn him.

“Thanks..” He mumbles, glancing down at your hands still on him before you hurriedly pull back, a nervous look on your face as you sheepishly grin.

“Sorry.. didn't want you to get hurt..”

“Guess we have to be extra careful, huh? I don't want you falling either.”

His now bare fingers gently nudge against your hand, wordlessly asking to hold it. A sinner would be his title if he said he didn't adore the way your eyes widened in wonder, grasping his own hand a little tighter and nodding, cheeks flushed from him and not the cold that bites your cheeks.

He keeps his grasp on you firm as he leads you down the cobbled stairs and back towards the centre of town, the little queue outside your stall coming into view. Reluctantly you part your hands, stepping back as you glance over at the amount of sales made already, a smile curving your cheeks higher. “I’ll see you again sometime soon… Lieutenant.” You hum, a little disappointed but genuine nonetheless. Today had been entirely perfect for you, like something you’d see in the synopsis of a movie. He nods gruffly again, steps a bit forward, and tucks your scarf a little tighter around your neck. “Simon.” He breathes out, voice a little raspy from how long it’s been since he’s said it from his own tongue.

“Huh?” Your head tilts up, confused.

Giving the large penguin plush a little pat, he steps back. “My real name’s Simon.”

————————————————————————

Prev Next

Taglist:

Today was particularly dreary though; the sun struggled to peek through even with the large gaps between each cloud, only leaving behind a desolate grey on the town. It was your turn to take over the shop for the day, seeing as your parents were out of town on business details. A few named your shop to be ‘the littlest around’, since it wasn't exactly the biggest area nor did many know of it. After all, it had only opened recently after the last owner left their business to rot out. It took practically months to renovate the dusty walls of this shop even more so that your family were on a tight budget. However your parents believed in it and so did you.. or you thought you did anyway. Maybe you had watched too many movies as a kid because this business was definitely not booming, infact you had spent the majority of the past week trying to advertise the best you possibly could.

Either way, it was bound to be quiet today so you decide you may as well use it as a testing day. The menu was finalised already however you were eager about one thing to add, a selection of freshly brewed teas. It wasn't the most viable since it required a lot of customers at the same time in order to taste the actual freshness— otherwise it’d just go cold and icky. Placing the portable burner down— something you picked up since most days used to be spent in a caravan— you place a pot atop and light the flame. You had not travelled very far, but due to your grandparent who was particularly interested in plenty of cultures, you picked up a few handy recipes for delicious teas.

Unfortunately, you didnt have much on you today after using your last stock on the small opening party. So, you’d have to make do with what you had. You hum as you boil the water in the pan, before slowly adding the milk and some spices— cardamon and cinammon to be exact. It’d make a rich flavour which was perfect with the right amount of sugar, and so, you let it brew as you hummed, debating whether you were allowed to play your favourite tunes here or not.

Seeing as no one had showed up in a while, you plug your phone into the speaker system, letting a soft song play throughout the little patisserie as you grin and nod your head along. What you hadnt expected was the bell above the door to jingle, heavy boots dragging against the wooden floor as they grow louder. You snap your head up, looking a little startled before you quickly stand infront of the counter again, putting on your best sheepish smile.

“Welcome! What can i get for you today?”

The strange man wears a balaclava over his face, his eyes showing and a few tufts of blonde peeking out the back as he bends a little to look over all of the pastries available. Eventually he stops, pointing at one the sausage rolls, before his gruff voice finally breaks his silence. “Two o’ these.”

You nod quickly, grabbing a paper bag before carefully placing the two pastries inside and sealing the bag.

“Actually, since it’s a weekday, all the pastries come with a dessert or drink. Is there any one you would like?”

You tilt your head, as you place the bag on the counter, already tapping in the current bill. He pauses and glances over at the sweeter desserts, but even you could tell just from his appearance that he doesnt seem to be too fond of them. Instead, his height allows him to easily peek over the counter and he can instantly smell the pot of rich cardamom tea brewing. “Is that for sale?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you can only tell from how the mask lifts a little. You pause, wondering if you really should be giving them out to customers just yet.

“It’s a taster really.. would you like to try?” He lets out a grunt in agreement and you walk back over, ladeling a creamy cup of the tea for him before stepping over to him once more. He taps his card down for the items he bought, taking the steaming cup in his hand but he doesnt intend to drink it and reveal his face—clear from the way he glances around the shop. “Is it always this quiet or are you about to close?” He raises a brow, wondering if he had just accidentally forced you to stay open longer than you should. Your hands wave in front of you frantically as you shake your head. “No! No— um, it’s been a little hard to promote business recently. We only opened last month..” Today you decide not to mention that last weeks rain had nearly drowned the entire shop floor, instead just giving him another sheepish look. “I’m trying to look for any opportunities we can to show off our bakes. I’ve been looking at fairs recently.” You hum and he nods, before lifting his mask without a second thought and sipping down the hot tea you made him. “You should promote this aswell, i can see this tasting good with a dessert.” He offers his advice and you nod readily, smiling at him since he just indirectly said that the tea was good. “Well, i’ll make sure to have lots more flavours too!

A month later and unsurprisingly your family’s little shop isnt any more popular than the last time you took charge of it. That strange man appeared a few times afterwards but you hadnt seen him, busy with your own part time job to try and bring some extra income in. Today you were finally back though, the peak of winter hitting like a shock but it didnt stop the excitement brimming through the town.

At the start of December each year, the town would host a market in the main plaza, which was particularly big for the town’s size. There was everything from crafts and fresh fruit, flowers and trinkets to the toastiest hot chocolate and clothing. This year you were determined to make your mark, selling sweet pastries and the spiced tea at the same time. He did say it’d draw in at least a bit of attention, right? Well, you sure hoped so because you were using a portion of your personal savings to try again with the tea. You’d never know if you didn't try and, in the worst case scenario, you could give it for free to the other vendors as a sign of good sportsmanship— maybe you could even trade. You grin eagerly as you set up the stand, glass covers above all your decorated pastries, sweet and savoury waiting to be bitten into. Perhaps you went a little overboard with the baking but this was a big event—even neighbouring towns travelled here!

The fair kickstarts around five thirty, the time when most get off work and so many are already flocking to find something for their hungry stomach. You practically bubble with excitement when you get your first three orders, only to turn and see the hot burrito stall’s queue which looks like it’d shadow your stall next. With a small frown, your demeanour drops as the orders only get rarer, a few commenting on not being sure to try something so exotic. About tea. Literal chai. Customer service was not for the weak clearly, since you had to restrain yourself from lunging over the table right then and there, giving the lady a forced smile before she walked off. You let your head rest in your hands, groaning a little too loudly, but it wasnt like anyone was even close enough to your stall to hear anyway. The only thought that consumed you was frustration; you knew damn well that all the bakes here were delicious, that the recipes were to die for and the tea was an absolute soother for any cold or strain. Though, no matter how hard you tried no one seemed to want to hear you out.

“Are you taking a break?”

A voice rings out, gruff, a little muffled and stern but most of all— familiar. Your eyes snap up, meeting the gaze of that stranger from before, well now he looked entirely different. “You… from before.. you’re a soldier?!” You have to forcefully lower your voice before you cause his ears to bleed through his balaclava. He was decked out in full tactical gear, apart from the weapons of course and the helmet held in the crook of his elbow. Though not just him, an entire team of soldiers aswell who surrounded your stall, practically brimming with excitement at the tasty baked goods they’d finally try.

“Finished a day long training in the cold. Thought i’d bring ‘em to your stall for a break. You dont look good yourself though” He bluntly states the last part out, already suspecting that you’d sigh next. “Orders are still slow...” You murmur, and he nods, as if he’d expected that. Before either of you can speak, one of his soldiers perks up, “Miss, how much would it be for two of these pie slices and one of your sausage rolls?”

Your lips part in surprise and you hurry to the till, typing in the amounts before announcing the price to him. The reasonable cost of your goods and the great quality is enough to catch the attention of his teammates, and soon enough you have them lined up waiting to buy their share too.

You cough to get his attention when the queue finally draws to a blank and he slowly approaches as you gesture to the pots of tea steaming beside you. The soldiers had taken the majority of your stock, even asking for refills but one large cup was saved for him. “On the house, for a regular.” You say cheekily and he nods, the sides of his mask creasing up into what you think could possibly be a smile. “So, how did you even convince your boss to let you bring your whole team here anyway? I always thought those ‘sergeant’ people were like.. really strict.” He chuckles at you, deep and gruff and for a second you’re confused, tilting your head at him. “Hey— what’s so funny? I’m being serious!” He finally stops, his eyes crinkled slightly as he looks back at you. “I’m their Lieutenant.” ” He says still with that monotone voice and your jaw practically drops, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you groan loudly. “I’m very sorry..”

Now sitting upon the benches, they chatter amongst themselves whilst others eye the other trinkets available, looking for something for the loved ones back home. The man with the skull mask still stands nearby though watching you fill up a cup full of the tea before handing it to a customer.

“Do you take large orders too?” He finally pipes up, glancing over at you with that filled cup still in his hand. “Well.. we don't have any official set up..” Being his acquaintance was a severe exaggeration, and yet you couldn't stand to disappoint him right now. Especially seeing as much as he’s done so far,perhaps not intentionally, but what intrigues you even more is that his soldiers seemed to be over the moon about your pastries. You hadn't really thought about the fact soldiers are probably dying for the taste of a good home cooked pastry, especially in the winter months, and now it seems like this could really boost your business.

“But..I could just give you my number?” Putting that forward seems a bit odd, but in truth you were being completely innocent about it even if he seems to believe otherwise, smirking beneath the mask before he nods. He takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and hands it over to you before gesturing to you to do the same. When you receive your phone back, you see the new contact, ‘Lieutenant Ghost (sausage roll)’ and snicker a little; you’re pretty sure you can remember him without the assistance but it’s amusing anyway. “I’ll text you later regarding any big orders we want to make.”

He gives you another nod and you quickly agree with his words, grateful for the opportunity he’s provided you with.

“Thanks for bringing all your soldiers here.. i dont think we would’ve garnered this much attention otherwise.” People had already noticed the brand on the soldiers' cups and bags, making their way to the stall and eyeing some of the goods left from their rampage. He only shrugs, ignoring the fact he had any part in this. “By the way..” You hum, glancing at the untouched tea in his hand curiously. “Why haven't you drank any yet— it’ll grow cold soon.” He leans against your table slightly before he just nods firmly again, looking back at the crowds. “Dont like to show my face.” That makes you blink, confused since he had easily shown you in the shop a month ago when he tried it for the first time. “But—“

Before you can answer, his phone buzzes and he glances down before beckoning his group over. “Oi, all of you. We’re leavin’ in ten— do not make us late.” Suddenly you dont feel at all bad for calling him strict earlier, even snickering a little at how stern his voice had suddenly gotten even if he’s usually monotone to you too. The soldiers eyes grow wide and they quickly jump to buy the rest of their things making you snicker.

“Guess that’s the last I'll see of you, ‘Lieutenant’. See you soon.” You grin, waving as he throws the now empty cup in the trash— when did he drink that? He lifts a hand to give a short wave at you too before stepping away to join the rest of his men. “Dont worry, you will.”

That night you’re left dumbfounded as you stare at your phone, the text lighting your eyes up in the darkness of your room. ‘Tomorrow night is the second day of the fair, right?’ The first part reads, and you mentally nod, remembering how your parents said you’d take the first day and they’d handle the second. When you responded with a yes, but also clarifying your stall is also available, he wrote back one more text.

‘Good. I’ll be taking you around with me this time.”

------

NEXT

Sweet as Sugar Masterlist

Damnit.

You immediately lift your head to find Kon beside you again. Not too close this time. Just… hovering nearby in that effortless way he always seems to do, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he peers down at the photos in your hand with obvious satisfaction at how they turned out.

“Today’s the only exception.”

Kon tilts his head slowly. “Are you sureee?” There it is again. That teasing tone. Like he gets a kick from watching you deny things he already knows the answer to. He definitely does.

You deadpan instantly. “Yes.”

Kon only chuckles under his breath, looking entirely unconvinced.

But before either of you can continue, Tim suddenly steps forward and hooks two fingers into the back of Kon’s jacket collar, physically tugging him a step away from you. Not rough, just deliberate. Instinctive, almost. Like he’s trying to give you space to breathe without outright saying it.

Kon looks scandalised immediately. “Wow. Is today ‘manhandling Conner Kent’ day or something?”

Tim ignores him completely.

“She hates taking pictures.” 

What? 

You can’t help turning toward Tim at that. And somehow, those four simple words hit harder than they should. You hate that they do.

Because seriously—since when did Tim know about that too?

Why does he still know these small details about you so easily, like none of the distance between you ever really existed in the first place? Like the fracture between you was just all in your head?

It makes everything else feel worse somehow.

The arguments. The awkwardness. The things left unresolved between the two of you that neither of you seems capable of fixing no matter how badly you both keep circling around them.

And just as quickly as you look at him, you look away again before your eyes can meet for too long.

Kon blinks between the both of you slowly. And from the way his expression shifts, that tiny interaction alone probably told him far more than either of you intended.

“Oh? And why’s that?” You honestly aren’t even sure who he’s directing the question at anymore. But it’s there now. Hanging in the air between all of you.

And you feel it immediately.

Tim’s hesitation. The way his gaze flickers back toward you, uncertain.

It’s becoming a recurring thing lately. Something unfamiliar. Something that never used to exist between you before.

As if he’s trying to figure out whether he still has the right to answer questions about you at all. Whether he has the right to tell Kon about that incident.

The silence stretches between you both. Heavy.

”That’s..”

“It’s a story for another time,” you cut in quickly before Tim can say anything else. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

But it looks like Tim got the hint immediately anyways. You see it in the way his expression stills for half a second, before his gaze drifts away from yours, shoulders subtly tightening as he falls silent without another word.

Thankfully—or unfortunately, depending on perspective—Kon decides the tension has existed for long enough.  “Well,” he says lightly, grin already returning, “maybe you can tell me about it over din—ow!” Kon jerks sideways abruptly.

Damian had somehow materialised out of nowhere again and jabbed him sharply in the ribs hard enough to make an actual Super yelp in pain.

At this point, you were beginning to think Damian’s ability to appear out of thin air whenever Kon got too comfortable around you was some kind of instinctual power.

“I have already contacted Pennyworth,” Damian says coldly, like he hadn’t just assaulted someone in public. “He informed me he’ll arrive shortly.”

Kon recovers almost immediately, rubbing his side dramatically. “Aww,” he says hopefully, “free ride for me too?”

“Who says you are accompanying us?” Damian deadpans so flatly it borders on threatening.

And somehow, for the first time all day, you swear you can physically see the metaphorical sweatdrop appear over Kon’s head.

“Oh, come on,” Kon complains. “I thought we were all bonding near the end there. Cut me some slack, will ya?”

“You can literally fly,” Tim says this time, sounding exhausted already. “Why would you come with us?”

Why are you coming with us then? you almost say out loud to counter Tim. The thought sits right there on the edge of your tongue. But honestly? You’re too tired to start another argument tonight. So you keep your mouth shut.

Kon opens his mouth immediately anyway. “To spend more time with—”

“And,” Tim continues over him before he can finish, “don’t you have to get back to Smallville before your ma and pa report you to Clark for disappearing to Gotham unannounced again?”

Kon shrugs like that’s barely even an issue worth considering.

“Eh. I’ll survive.”

“You say that now..” Stephanie mutters. You almost forgot she was still here, were it not for her speaking up at that moment. Usually, she was… well, almost impossible to ignore. You exhale quietly through your nose before speaking up. “Let me talk to Kon for a second.”

Kon blinks before immediately straightening up. “Oh?” A grin spreads across his face instantly. “Trying to get me alone now?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

You ignore him entirely and start walking a few steps ahead instead, only for Damian to react almost immediately—halting you before you can get very far.

“You are not going anywhere alone with him.”

“Oh my god, Damian. I’m not twelve.”

“That Kryptonian has repeatedly demonstrated that he does not know how to stay out of people’s space.” Damian says flatly.

“And yet somehow, he still has more social awareness than you.”

Stephanie physically coughs to hide her laugh. Damian looks deeply offended. “I am being serious.”

“So am I,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I’m literally just going to talk to him for a bit.”

“Then do it here.” Damian crosses his arms too, still glaring suspiciously at Kon like he’s one bad sentence away from being publicly executed.

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t you think you’ve already spied on me enough today?” you deadpan. “Seriously. Just let me have this one conversation.”

Damian opens his mouth immediately—only for Stephanie to suddenly pop up behind him and clamp a hand firmly over it.

“Yeah, of course!” she says quickly before Damian can protest. “Go ahead. I’ll get these two out of your hair.”

And before either Wayne boy can fully react, Stephanie is already somehow physically dragging Damian backward by the arm while simultaneously shoving Tim along with her.

Tim looks deeply offended to be included despite absolutely trying to subtly linger nearby. Damian, meanwhile, is actively fighting for his life against Stephanie’s grip.

“Brown. Remove your hand immediately—”

“Nope.”

“I will sue you.”

“You’re eleven.”

“I am genetically superior.”

You blink once, watching as Stephanie physically drags both boys farther down the sidewalk. The entire sight is ridiculous enough that it pulls a tired, raspy sigh from you. “Hah…Men.”

“Not all men though.” 

Right. Kon was still here.

Your eyes flick back toward him now. He’s standing there with the shopping bags dangling loosely from one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. There’s something annoyingly relaxed about him—like he hadn’t spent the entire day bulldozing his way through your personal space and somehow rearranging the mood of your entire afternoon by sheer force alone.

And worse—he’s looking at you with that same expression again. That one look he always seems to wear around you now. Like spending time with you is the most natural thing in the world. 

You let out another exasperated sigh, this one quieter. Almost fond despite yourself. “Yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Not all men. But you’re definitely included.”

Kon gasps dramatically, immediately pressing a hand against his chest.

“Wow, (Name). I’m hurt. Truly devastated. How could you say that about me after everything we’ve been through?”

You raise an eyebrow immediately.

“Define everything.”

Kon pretends to think deeply about it. “Well,” he says eventually, counting on his fingers, “I helped you snoop around the orphanage yesterday. And I took you out to have fun today.” He points at you accusingly now. “You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

You hate how smug he sounds about that. More importantly—you hate that he knows you can’t deny it.

Because yes. You did enjoy today.

Somewhere between the photobooth, the stupid outfits, the way Kon kept dragging you into moments before you could think too hard about them—you’d actually enjoyed yourself. And somehow, that realisation feels more dangerous than anything else. Because it’s been a while since things felt this… easy.

And maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Because once you start enjoying someone’s presence this much, eventually comes the terrifying possibility of losing it too.

“And besides,” Kon continues easily, rocking back on his heels, “we still have plenty of time to create more memories to put it under ‘everything.’”

You gesture between the two of you, a soft scoff escaping your lips. “You and me?”

“Yes, you and me.” His grin softens just slightly. “The girl who’s going to uncover whatever secrets that orphanage is hiding—”

“I can’t even say for certain that there is something wrong with that place, Kon.” You interject, almost too firmly.

And that’s the part clawing at you the most. Because what if you’re wrong?

What if all of this suspicion, this awful gut feeling sitting in your chest whenever you’re near Mrs. Cole—and apparently now, Mr. Travers—what if it’s all just paranoia? What if you drag Kon into this and there turns out to be nothing there at all?

No hidden cruelty or corruption. No danger. Just you projecting… ghosts onto ordinary people because you’ve spent too long expecting the worst from Gotham. And somehow, the thought of wasting his time bothers you more than your own.

“But I believe you.”

The words come out so easily from him. No hesitation at all. Just certainty. Like trusting you is the simplest thing in the world.

“That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

You falter slightly at that. “Even if I end up being wrong?”

“You mean even if we end up being wrong.”

That one correction lands heavier than expected. Your gaze drifts back toward him fully now, meeting his eyes beneath the glow of the streetlights as he shrugs one shoulder casually. “Can’t exactly call myself your loyal partner if I ditch you halfway through, can I?”

…Loyal partner, huh?

You huff quietly through your nose, rolling your eyes to hide the way something warm curls annoyingly in your chest at the phrase.

It’s stupid. The title is stupid.

And yet—something about hearing it from him makes the exhaustion weighing on you feel lighter somehow. Familiar, too. Which doesn’t make sense, because this is the first time he’s ever called himself that. Partner? Maybe, but loyal? You almost want to scoff at the thought. Because really—it’s only been two days since you properly got to know Kon for yourself. Two days shouldn’t be enough to trust someone this easily.

And yet somehow, standing here beneath Gotham’s streetlights with him smiling at you like sticking by your side is the most obvious thing in the world, you can’t quite bring yourself to doubt him either.

Because it was nice. To hear someone say we instead of you for once. Like he’s already decided he’s standing beside you in this with no conditions attached.

You look away first before the feeling settles too deeply. “I better not hear you complain about this later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stare at him for a second longer before another sigh escapes you—this one softer around the edges, sounding dangerously close to a laugh.

“…Thank you, Kon.”

The teasing expression on his face eases slightly at that. Not disappearing completely. Just softening.

“For what?”

You glance away briefly, fingers tightening just a little around the photostrips still in your hand.

For distracting you. For believing you despite every reason he probably shouldn’t. For making today feel normal for a little while. For making you forget yourself long enough to laugh without thinking about consequences afterward.

“For today,” you settle on quietly. And for a second, Kon just looks at you. And something in his expression shifts into something almost unreadable. Like he genuinely wasn’t expecting you to actually thank him.

But then, just as quickly, that familiar grin slides back into place again.

“Well,” he says proudly, “you really shouldn’t be surprised you enjoyed the company of the one and only Superboy.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, tilting your head slightly. “You do realise you’re not the only Superboy anymore, right?”

Kon immediately narrows his eyes. “…Are you trying to say that Jon’s company is more pleasant than mine?”

“Well,” you say thoughtfully, pretending to seriously consider it, “he is adorable. And nice.”

“Hello??!?” Kon gestures toward himself in disbelief. “So am I.”

“Nice, maybe,” you say with a shrug. “Adorable? Not as much as him.” A quiet laugh slips out of you afterward before you can stop it.

And Kon actually looks mildly offended for a second. Like genuinely offended. But then something in his expression eases unexpectedly as he watches you laugh, the fight draining from him almost immediately.

“…Argh, fine,” he groans dramatically, waving a hand. “As long as I’m your favourite Super, that’s good enough for me.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, lips twitching slightly. 

“To be decided.”

Kon gasps like you’ve personally betrayed him. Again. Which was not far off.

“You Waynes and your terrifying ability to emotionally devastate people.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, before waving him off. “Well, sucks to be you. Now,” you gesture vaguely behind you toward where Damian and the others are waiting, “you should probably hurry off before Damian actually succeeds in kicking your ass tonight.”

“Excuse you,” Kon scoffs immediately, crossing his arms. “I let him do that on purpose to appease him. Somewhat.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.”

Kon narrows his eyes at you for a second, before inevitably breaking into another grin anyway, earning an immediate eye-roll from you.

“Just make sure you come back tomorrow and apologise to that Bat Burger employee, alright?”

Kon perks up immediately. “At least this time,” he says brightly, “it sounds like I officially have an excuse to show up in Gotham again.”

Somehow, despite how ridiculous today has been—the idea of seeing him again tomorrow doesn’t sound nearly as exhausting as it probably should.

You shake your head exasperatedly instead of acknowledging that thought aloud. Kon only grins wider, clearly taking your lack of denial as enough of an answer. Then, with one final wave, he slowly lifts off the ground. You watch him hover backward a little, still smiling stupidly at you beneath Gotham’s streetlights before finally turning and taking off into the night sky.

You keep watching until he disappears completely from sight. Only then do you finally exhale quietly through your nose, before turning to head back toward Damian, Stephanie, and Tim.

But just as you turned around, you immediately collide straight into someone.

“Oh—shit, my bad. You alright?”

The voice stops you cold.

Your head snaps upward immediately.

Duke?

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Because standing there in front of you is Duke Thomas.

Only—younger. Noticeably younger than the Duke you remember. He just looks like… a normal teenager on Gotham’s streets after dark, blinking at you in confusion because you haven’t answered him yet.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because you hadn’t expected this. Not now.

Not here.

Not him.

And somehow, what unsettles you more is the realisation that he hadn’t crossed your mind at all ever since you woke up back in the past.

Not once.

How?

How did you forget Duke? How did you not think of him even once? How could you forget him when—to his credits—he’d been one of the very few people who made life seem more tolerable back in your first life? Who at least made you feel seen in some way that didn’t feel off?

The thought leaves you feeling vaguely sick.

Maybe it was because your sixteen year old self hadn’t met him yet during this point in time. Maybe your mind had unconsciously separated him from this version of Gotham because, technically, he wasn’t part of your life yet.

Was that really the only possible reason?

“Duke? Honey, come on.”

A woman’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. Your head turns instinctively toward the sound. And—your stomach drops. A man and woman were standing a few feet away, seemingly waiting for him to catch up to them.

Duke’s parents.

They still looked fine. Looked normal. Still untouched by what’s going to happen to them.

The realisation hits you so abruptly that your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You immediately step back from Duke like instinct itself is screaming at you to put distance between you and this moment.

“Ah—yeah,” you hear yourself say quickly. “I’m fine. Sorry for holding you up.”

Duke gives you one last slightly confused look before nodding politely. Then he turns and jogs back toward his parents.

And you—you just stand there. Watching them walk away beneath Gotham’s streetlights. Watching his father sling an arm around his shoulders. Watching his mother say something that makes Duke roll his eyes in embarrassment.

They look so normal. So painfully normal.

And all you can think is—they don’t know.

They don’t know what’s waiting for them. Because this is before it happens. Before Joker kidnaps them. Before his parents inhaled the toxin that ruined their lives. Before Duke has to watch his parents become shells of themselves while still technically alive.

Your throat tightens violently.

So… what now?

The question loops through your head immediately.

What are you supposed to do now? Just… let them walk away? Let history repeat itself right in front of you when you know what’s coming?

But if you interfere…what would happen then?

Your chest tightens harder. The question hits harder than it should, because you already know changing things definitely came with consequences.

Adrien flashes through your mind almost immediately. Him being comatose for a few days, All because one of Riddler’s bombs—one that never exploded in your first life—had gone off this time instead.

Because you changed something. Because you quit being Batgirl.

And somehow it feels like the universe… shifted around that choice like reality itself was trying to… rebalance its scales.

Your stomach twists.

So what happens if you did try to save Duke’s parents? Even though you know that eventually—his mom does het cured—wouldn’t it be better to just… prevent the situation from happening altogether? Or would something worse take its place? Would Gotham just… find another way to hurt people? Could you even stop it in the first place?

Maybe you could.

Maybe all you had to do was stop Joker before he got to them. Protect them before the kidnapping ever happened. You just had to remember when it was. You just had to—

Wait.

Your thoughts abruptly snag against themselves.

When did he kidnap them?

Your heartbeat stumbles hard in your chest

No. No, you knew this. You should know this. Because you’ve read the files—his files. Everyone’s files. Back in your first life, after everything that happened, you’d refused to let yourself remain ignorant ever again. Refused to be the one left in the dark while everyone else carried the truth around you. So you made sure you learned. Made sure you remembered every detail there is.

So why couldn’t you remember now?

Your mind starts scrambles desperately through your memories, trying to force the details back into place. But the harder you try to remember, the more everything slips through your fingers. Like trying to hold water in trembling hands.

Your breathing turns uneven.

Why can’t you remember? You remember the aftermath. You remember Duke. So why can’t you remember the actual event itself?

Your ears start ringing sharply. The sound cuts through your thoughts like static, loud enough that it almost hurts. But you push harder anyway, forcing yourself to think.

Remember. You need to remember.

Remember.

Fragments of memories flash too quickly behind your eyes now—but none of it is the right memory. None of it tells you when. 

Why can’t you remember? Why does it feel like the harder you try to reach for it, the further it slips away from you?

You barely notice yourself taking an unsteady step backward. The ringing grows louder. Somewhere nearby, you hear familiar voices calling out.

Why does Damian sound so far away? Your head suddenly throbs, sharp enough to make your vision flicker.

And then you feel something warm drip past your lip. Your brows furrow faintly. Disoriented, you lift a hand instinctively, fingers brushing beneath your nose before pulling back into view.

Red.

Your vision blurs. For a second, your brain genuinely fails to process what you’re seeing.

Blood? Why are your fingers covered in blood?

“(Name)!”

Tim’s voice cuts through the ringing. Closer this time. When did he get here? 

You barely register the sudden warmth of hands gripping your shoulders—steadying you before you can fall properly. Tim’s hands, you think. 

But even standing right beside you, his voice sounds strangely distant somehow. Muffled beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Everything feels strangely disconnected now. Wrong. Like the world around you has drifted several feet away while you’re still trapped inside your own head.

“Hey—hey..! Look at me.”

Why does his voice still sound so far away despite being right next to you? And—

Why does he sound so desperate?

Your unfocused gaze drifts upward instinctively, trying to find him through the blur swallowing your vision.

You think you’re looking into his eyes. You can’t really tell anymore. But you feel him.

The tight grip of his hands against your shoulders. The way he’s holding onto you too firmly now, like he’s afraid you’ll slip right through his fingers if he loosens his grip even slightly. And despite the cold slowly spreading through the rest of your body—your fingertips numb, your head spinning, your skin suddenly freezing beneath Gotham’s night air—that warmth stays.

His warmth.

It settles around you in sharp contrast to the terrifying emptiness creeping through your limbs. You can barely make out his expression through the haze, but even blurred, you recognise the panic there immediately.

You rarely see Tim panic. Not outwardly. Not like this. Not since his father died. 

Ah. 

As much as you and Tim clash now—as much as the two of you keep orbiting around each other awkwardly, unable to figure out how to exist around the other without it turning complicated—you never wanted to become the reason he remembered that moment again.

The moment that permanently altered the course of his life.

You know what losing someone in front of him did to Tim. You know how deeply that fear carved itself into him afterward. Hidden beneath all that composure and logic he clings to so tightly.

His brows are drawn together so tightly it looked painful. His breathing uneven despite how hard he was trying to steady it.

And his eyes—

God.

Why does he look so.. scared? It wasn’t like you were dying. Even through the haze swallowing your thoughts earlier, you knew this feeling was different. Different from when you actually died. And Tim knew that too. He’s smart enough to tell the difference between panic and death.

So then why had he reacted like that? Was the mere possibility of losing you enough to make him look at you that way?

The thought settles strangely in your chest.

Because it makes you wonder…If the Tim from your first life had been there during your death… would he have looked at you like this too?

Would he have sounded that terrified? Would he have reached for you just as desperately? And somehow, the thought that he might have—that he would have cared enough to panic over losing you too—loosens something deep in your chest you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding onto this entire time.

The thought barely forms before another sharp wave of dizziness crashes through you. Your body feels unbearably heavy now. Your head sags faintly forward before Tim’s grip tightens again instantly, steadying you before you can slump completely.

“Damnit, (Name)—stay with me.” you hear him say, voice lower now. Sharper. Desperate in a way that makes something ache painfully inside your chest. Warped beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Your knees weaken abruptly, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you.

Or maybe you’re the one tilting.

You can’t tell anymore. Your thoughts feel scrambled now, slipping apart faster than you can hold onto them. And before you can properly process what’s happening—your body gives out completely.

The last thing you feel is yourself collapsing into something firm. And somewhere through the haze, just before everything finally fades to black—you feel the vibration of the rapid heartbeat pressed beneath your cheek.

Stephanie practically drags them halfway down the sidewalk before finally letting go of Damian and Tim.

“Seriously,” she mutters, exasperated, “give them, like, five seconds alone before you start growling at Superboy again.”

“I was not growling,” Damian snaps immediately.

“You certainly looked one second away from committing a felony.”

“Tt. That fool deserves it.”

Tim barely hears the rest of it. Their bickering fades into background noise almost instantly as his gaze drifts back toward you instead.

Toward you and Kon. Again.

Earlier today, he’d watched you from across that cafe with Damian and Stephanie while Kon dragged you inside that clothing store. Tim told himself he was only keeping an eye on you because something felt off lately. Because Kon had dragged you all the way here. Because he was worried.

But standing here now, watching you talk to Kon by yourself again, he’s forced to confront something uglier.

You really looked… happier around him. Because somehow, Kon gets reactions out of you so easily.

The small smiles. The eye-rolls. The soft huffs that sound dangerously close to laughter.

And Tim—he can barely hold a conversation with you lately without it turning tense halfway through.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

How did things between you both become this fragile so quickly? Or maybe not quickly. Maybe it had been happening for longer than he realised.

Maybe Tim was just… always going to clash with you eventually.

The thought settles heavily in his chest. Because no matter how hard he tries, every interaction between you both feels like stepping around shattered glass barefoot. One wrong word and everything cuts deeper again.

Meanwhile Kon was just… able to exist around you effortlessly. Tim hates that it bothers him as much as it does.

He watches you laugh quietly at something Kon says, sees the way you shake your head at him again, and suddenly Tim has to look away for half a second just to breathe normally.

It shouldn’t matter. So why does it?

His gaze drifts back anyway. He watches you both finally wave each other off, watches Kon float backward into the air with that stupid grin still plastered across his face before eventually taking off into the Gotham skyline.

“Oh—looks like Alfred’s driving around the corner,” Stephanie says suddenly, and Tim blinks, dragged back to his surroundings. Sure enough, familiar headlights and the sleek black limo turn into the street nearby. Beside him, Damian folds his arms with a deep scowl.

“I am informing Father about this.”

“Absolutely not.” Stephanie immediately interjects. “If you narc on her after today, she’s gonna be upset with you.”

That shuts Damian up immediately. Not completely. But enough. He clicks his tongue irritably instead, muttering under his breath, “Why did she have to befriend him of all people?” He then abruptly points at Tim like this is somehow his fault.

“This is on you, Drake. If you had not been so insistent on befriending that Kryptonian—”

Tim stares at him in disbelief. “You are literally friends with a Kryptonian too.”

“Kent is merely my subordinate.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie snorts, “keep telling yourself that.”

Damian glares at Stephanie instantly for the jab, already opening his mouth with what was definitely going to be an offended retort. Tim rolls his eyes, only half-paying attention now as his gaze flickers back toward you automatically. Expecting you to already be walking back over.

Except—you’re not moving.

Tim’s brows furrowed slightly. 

You’re just standing there. Still. Something about it immediately feels wrong. And then he notices the way your shoulders rise sharply.

Your breathing. It’s too fast. Uneven. Not just uneven—erratic. Like you can’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how hard you’re trying.

And then, he sees it. Blood. A thin stream slipping from beneath your nose.

For a second, his brain genuinely blanks. His body moves before his thoughts can catch up. He’s already running before he even realises he started moving. Somewhere behind him, he hears Damian shout his name in confusion, but Tim ignores it completely.

“(Name)!”

Please answer him.

If you answer him right now, he can still convince himself he’s overreacting.

That this isn’t serious. That you’re okay.

But then he gets closer and sees your expression properly. Your pupils aren’t focusing correctly. Your breathing keeps catching unevenly like your body’s forgotten how to do it naturally. There’s blood staining your lip now. Tim reaches you in seconds, grabbing your shoulders immediately like you’re the only thing keeping him upright now.

His eyes scan your face frantically. The blood. Your unfocused gaze. The way your body sways dangerously where you stand. The terrifying absence of recognition in your expression for half a second too long.

Damnit.

Damnit, damnit, damnit…!

Didn’t you say you were going to make sure he didn’t have to “bother” himself with you anymore? Wasn’t that what you said?

That you’d make sure he wouldn’t have any reason to worry about you or what you did?

Then what is this?

What happened in the few seconds he looked away? And why does it feel like if he lets go of you for even a second, you’re going to slip right through his hands?

If this is your way of getting back at him—of punishing him for all the times he had misunderstood you, for all the moments he had unintentionally pushed you away despite helping you clean up the aftermath of your mistakes and dead ends, for all the times his actions have caused you hurt—then at least don’t do it like this. Not when you look like you could barely hold yourself together.

“Hey—hey…!” His voice comes out sharper than intended as he grips your shoulders tighter instinctively. “Look at me.”

Anything.

Just keep your eyes open.

Your gaze finally shifts toward him weakly, but it does nothing to calm the panic building inside his chest.

Because you were looking at him like you were trying to recognise him through fog. Behind him, he can hear hurried footsteps approaching now—Damian, Stephanie—and Alfred.

But Tim can barely focus on them. Not when all he can think about is the terrifying weight suddenly settling in his chest. Because this—this feels familiar. Too familiar.

Unwanted memories try forcing their way to the surface of his mind again, and Tim immediately shoves them back down before he can spiral with them too.

Not now. He can’t afford that right now.

His fingers tighten further without him meaning to.

“Hey, (Name)—” he says again, and this time his voice cracks slightly. Quieter now. Shakier. “Stay with me.”

God, he hates how terrified he sounds. Hates the way his mind keeps flashing between you and the image of his father over and over again like some sick reflex he can’t shut off no matter how hard he tries.

Snap out of it. This is different. It’s not the same.

It’s not like you were dying. Tim knows better than that. He can still feel your heartbeat beneath his hands where he grips your shoulders.

But your body is getting colder. Or maybe not colder exactly. Just… unnaturally cool against his own warmth, enough to make panic crawl further up his spine anyway.

Just as Damian, Stephanie, and Alfred finally reach the two of you—your body suddenly goes completely slack in his arms.

Tim’s heart drops.

“Tim..!” Stephanie’s voice cuts through sharply as she rushes closer, eyes darting between your unconscious form and the blood still streaked beneath your nose. “What the hell happened? Why is (Name)—”

“I don’t know,” Tim cuts in immediately, the words rougher than intended. “She just—she started hyperventilating and—”

“Stop talking and get her to the car,” Damian snaps. Normally, there’d be irritation in his voice. But this time, Tim hears the worry underneath it plainly.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says steadily despite the tension tightening the air around all of them, “we should get Miss (Name) to the manor immediately.”

Tim swallows hard before nodding once. Then, carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break apart if he holds you wrong—he lifts you fully into his arms and carries you toward the limo, Stephanie and Damian close behind him.

Tim can feel Damian gripping tightly onto the end of your sleeve the entire way there, the younger boy practically pulling him along like he’s trying to hurry all of them forward faster. He doesn’t say anything this time—no sharp remarks or scoffs.

Just silence.

Consciousness returns to you slowly.

First comes the light pressing faintly against your eyelids. Then the dull ache pounding behind your head. Then the uncomfortable heaviness settling deep inside your chest. Your eyes crack open gradually, vision blurry at first as the overhead lights force themselves into focus.

Cold metal. Dim lighting. The distant hum of computers. The Batcave. Of course.

“Ms. (Name), are you feeling alright? You gave us quite a scare earlier.” Your head turns sluggishly toward the voice.

Alfred stands nearby holding a tray with a teapot, cups, and what looks like medicine resting neatly at the side. His expression is composed like always, but there’s a subtle tightness around his eyes that tells you more than his calm tone does.

Right. You passed out. God, that was embarrassing.

“(Name)’s awake??”

Stephanie’s voice cuts through the cave almost immediately. Your gaze drifts past Alfred toward the Batcomputer where both Stephanie and Damian abruptly turn toward you.

Stephanie looks openly relieved, concern written all over her face as she practically rushes over. Damian, meanwhile—looks absolutely furious for some reason.

Which is admittedly a little terrifying coming from an eleven year old trained by the League of Shadows since birth. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass as he stalks over behind Stephanie like he’s personally offended by your collapse earlier.

Somehow, that’s almost touching. Almost.

Your eyes flick briefly past them toward the Batcomputer again, and that’s when you catch Tim glancing at you. Just for a second. A quick, sharp look.

The moment he notices you looking back, he immediately redirects his attention to the screen in front of him like nothing happened.

Well. Fuck him too, then.

“Hey…” Stephanie’s already beside your makeshift bedside now, staring at you like she’s trying to physically assess whether you’re still alive. “Seriously, are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer, only for her expression to suddenly shift into alarm again.

“You’re not like… secretly diagnosed with some terminal illness, right?” she blurts out. “And that’s why you suddenly quit as Batgirl?”

What.

What the actual fuck. 

Your brain genuinely stalls for a second trying to process how she even arrived at that conclusion. Did she think this was some kind of… tragic, melodramatic soap opera? Some horrible fatal secret you’d been hiding from everyone this whole time?

…Then again. Considering you somehow managed to die and wake up in the past, maybe you weren’t exactly in a position to decide what counted as unrealistic anymore.

Before you can even begin to process a response to that, Alfred speaks up for you instead.

“Fortunately, it is nothing of that sort, Miss Stephanie. I believe I would be the first to know if it were.”

Thank god for Alfred.

Stephanie visibly deflates in relief. “Okay, good, because that would’ve been really fucked up if you didn’t tell any one of us.”

Your throat feels painfully dry. 

You shift slightly, about to ask for water when a glass suddenly appears in front of you. You blink, and see Damian standing there, holding it out stiffly. Still glaring. Honestly, he somehow looks even more irritated now that you’re conscious again.

“Drink,” he says flatly. And despite everything, your expression softens almost immediately. Because for Damian, this is his concern.

You carefully take the glass from him, fingers brushing briefly against his, and take a long sip before mumbling a quiet, “…Thanks.”

Damian clicks his tongue instantly and looks away like the gratitude personally inconvenienced him somehow. But he still doesn’t move from beside your bed either.

“We are fortunate Master Tim managed to reach you before you collapsed onto the pavement,” Alfred continues calmly as he begins pouring you a cup of tea. “A head injury on top of everything else would have been most unfortunate.”

Ah. Right. You almost forgot about that part.

The part where Tim had somehow gotten to you almost immediately the second your vision started blurring and your ears began ringing. The part where he’d grabbed onto you before you could hit the ground. The part where he sounded—

No. Nevermind.

Damnit.

Wasn’t this, like… the third time now?

The third time Tim had exceeded your expectations and openly helped you without it turning into an argument? Without him saying something that got under your skin or rubbed painfully against every sore spot between the two of you?

Fine.

You revoke your earlier fuck you.

Your gaze drifts toward him again almost unwillingly. Tim’s still standing by the Batcomputer, shoulders tense beneath the dim cave lighting, eyes fixed firmly on whatever’s displayed across the screen in front of him. Too fixed. Like he’s trying way too hard not to look over here. 

What a fake idgafer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass. Conscience biting at you uncomfortably now. Because despite everything, despite how complicated and messy things between you had become lately—he did help you. Again.

You exhale quietly before forcing the words out through your still-rough throat.

“…Thanks, Tim.”

For a second, you genuinely think he might turn around and look at you properly.

“Yeah.”

Instead, you get that. Just one flat response without even looking away from the screen. Not even a glance toward you.

What the fuck.

You’re revoking your revoke.

The cave grows quieter after that. Honestly, the silence probably would’ve been comfortable if not for the fact that you could physically feel everyone staring at you right now. Damian. Stephanie. Alfred. And as much as you genuinely appreciated the concern, it was also making you feel a little trapped. A little too perceived.

“So then, Miss,” Alfred says carefully as he hands you the tea, “would you mind telling us what exactly caused your earlier… episode?”

Oh. Right.

Here comes the hard part.

Because what exactly were you supposed to say here? What explanation could possibly make them worry less? There really wasn’t an easy way to tell them:

Oh, sorry, I’m actually twenty years old but I died and somehow woke back up in my sixteen year old body. Then I saw someone I know from the future and tried forcing myself to remember the details of the traumatic event that ruins his life to try and prevent it from happening here, only to fail so badly my body short-circuited.

Yeah. No.

That would absolutely create an entirely new set of problems. At best, they’d think you were delirious from stress. At worst? They’d start treating you like you were genuinely unstable.

You let out a soft sigh instead, fingers curling around the warmth of the teacup Alfred handed you. The heat seeps slowly into your palms as you bring it toward your lips, buying yourself a few extra seconds to think. Just deflect. “I’m not sure.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Damian stares at you in disbelief. “Not sure?” he repeats immediately, incredulous. His brows pull together sharply as he steps closer to the bedside. “What kind of answer is that? Clearly something triggered that reaction.”

You avoid looking directly at him, taking a careful sip of tea instead. “I know that,” you mumble quietly against the rim of the cup.

“Then explain it properly.”

Your eye twitches slightly. “I can’t explain something I don’t fully understand myself.” Which was true in a sense. Because even now, you still don’t understand how you managed to wake up in the past after dying. You don’t understand why you were given another chance—or whether this even was one. And if you can’t explain it to yourself, then how are you supposed to explain it to anyone else?

“That,” Damian says flatly, “is an incredibly poor excuse.”

“Damian,” Stephanie cuts in quickly, shooting him a warning look from beside your bed.

“What?” Damian throws his hands up slightly, clearly unconvinced he’s done anything wrong. “She collapsed in the middle of the street.”

“Yes, and interrogating her five seconds after she regained consciousness probably isn’t helping.”

“I am not interrogating her.”

“You literally sound like Bruce right now.”

“Tt.” Damian crosses his arms immediately. “Father would have asked better questions.” Would he though?

Despite yourself, you snort softly into your tea. Damian’s head immediately snaps toward you, looking vaguely offended that you dared laugh at him while half-conscious. Stephanie exhales before looking back toward you again, concern softening her expression slightly. “Okay… then do you at least remember anything from when you passed out?”

Your brows raise faintly at that, and instinctively tried to think back. Your expression tightens slightly. 

Huh.

You slowly lower the cup from your lips as your thoughts scrape blankly against the attempt to remember anything beyond that point. Nothing comes up. It’s just blank. Like someone cut the film reel cleanly in half.

“…No,” you answer honestly this time. The word feels strangely hollow leaving your mouth. You shift slightly afterward, pushing the blanket away from yourself as you move to sit up more properly on the edge of the makeshift bed instead of lying there like some invalid.

“Do not stand up too quickly,” Alfred warns smoothly.

You pause mid-movement before muttering under your breath, “I’m fine, Alfred.”

Stephanie stares at you like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “…You literally collapsed and started bleeding,” 

“And?” you deflect weakly. “It was just a nosebleed.”

“A nosebleed that came out of nowhere, (Name)!” Stephanie shoots back immediately, stepping slightly in front of you like physically blocking your path will somehow stop you from leaving. “You can’t seriously expect us to know what’s going on with you if you don’t tell us anything!”

Ouch. Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. Your gaze drops briefly toward the floor. But in a family full of detectives, you’re really only delaying the inevitable anyway. Eventually, someone’s going to notice something. Connect the dots and ask the right questions. That’s how it always is. That’s how it’ll always be.

You stand up fully despite the slight dizziness still lingering in your head and carefully step around Stephanie. “Well,” you say quietly, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your sleeve, “I appreciate the concern, Stephanie. Really.” Then you force out the next part anyway.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve ever been in a long time.” You immediately know how ridiculous that sounds considering you literally fainted less than an hour ago. Stephanie’s expression reflects exactly that disbelief.

But before she can argue further, you feel a tug on the edge of your sleeve. You blink and glance downward. Damian. Not grabbing your wrist like you half-expected him to. Just holding onto your sleeve instead.

…Huh.

Seems even Damian knows when to be considerate sometimes. His tone, however, remains significantly less considerate.

“Where are you going?” he demands sharply. “You are supposed to be resting.”

“I’d rather rest in my own room, alright?” you sigh, gently nudging his grip away. “I think I’ve had enough interactions for one day.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

Before anyone else can continue prying—or worse, start asking the right questions—you immediately turn and head toward the cave exit. Only to abruptly stop.

A large shadow looms near the entrance.

You look up, only to come face to face with your father. Bruce—who was still in his Batman suit. His cape draped heavily around him.

When did he get back?

You thought he’d still be out patrolling Gotham or dealing with whatever crisis that usually demanded Batman’s attention at this hour.

Instead, he’s here. Looking directly at you. You immediately lower your gaze and move to walk past him without really acknowledging him.

“Are you alright?”

The question stops something inside you cold. More than that—it leaves behind this strange, uncomfortable feeling curling inside your chest.

Because why was he asking that?

Did Alfred really call him back just because you fainted? Was it seriously enough of an emergency for Batman to return immediately?

This feels wrong. Too wrong. Too different from what you’re used to. From him.

“…Yeah.”

That’s all you say. Just one word before continuing past him out of the cave. Never mind the faint sheen of sweat visible along the lower half of his face where the cowl doesn’t cover. Never mind the subtle clench of his fists at your answer. Never mind the way he looks like he still has a thousand things he wants to say—but doesn’t.

You find yourself passing one of the hallway mirrors and slow unconsciously. Your reflection stares back at you, and you frown.

Your reflection looked tired. Worse—your eyes looked red around the edges.

A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER

“Has the Court’s movement near Bristol narrowed yet?”

Bruce’s voice cuts through the cold night air as he stands near the edge of the rooftop, cape shifting restlessly behind him with every gust of wind. Beside him, Cassandra lowers herself from the ledge she’d been perched on, boots landing soundlessly against the concrete. 

“Yes,” she answers after a moment. “But they’ve gotten quieter again.”

Bruce’s expression hardens faintly beneath the cowl. That alone bothered him. The Court of Owls did not retreat unless they were repositioning. His gaze drifts toward Bristol automatically, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The district had always been one of Gotham’s oldest pressure points—wealth layered over rot, history buried beneath architecture meant to intimidate more than inspire.

“The underground routes?” he asks.

“Still active.” Cassandra folds her arms loosely across her chest. “But abandoned on entry.”

Meaning decoys. Bruce exhales quietly through his nose. Of course they were.

For a few moments, silence settles between them again. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind that only exists between people who’ve spent years learning how the other moves without needing words for it.

“…Report to me on her movements.”

Cassandra doesn’t need clarification about who he was talking about. She nods once.

“Same as usual. She frequents the orphanage with her two friends. Damian has started accompanying her.”

Damian. Bruce’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his youngest son.

That alone said enough. Damian did not linger around people unless he genuinely wanted to. And more than that—Damian trusted his instincts almost obsessively. If he kept seeking you out lately, then it meant he’d noticed it too.

The shift.

Bruce’s gaze lowers briefly toward the streets below. He had intended to speak with you eventually. After your friend’s condition improved. After things had… settled down. A conversation. A proper one. But somehow, that conversation never came.

Instead, the distance between you both quietly widened without either of you acknowledging it aloud.

It was obvious in hindsight. The way you deliberately adjusted your schedule to avoid him—eating breakfast later than usual, or dinner much earlier before his usual nightly patrol. The way you, who used to appear at the cave almost instinctively—no matter the hour, had stopped coming entirely. Not once. Not since the day you stood in front of him and told him you were quitting as Batgirl.

Maybe, in your mind, there was no reason to go down there anymore. No suit to maintain or patrols to report on. No purpose left tying you to him in the way Batgirl once had. And Bruce…didn’t push. Maybe that was his mistake.

Maybe he should have stopped you that day instead of simply watching you walk away with that calm expression on your face—the one that unsettled him more the longer he thought about it. Because that wasn’t calmness, was it? 

He remembered it now with uncomfortable clarity. The slight quiver in your lips when you told him you were quitting. The way your fingers kept curling against your palms like you were trying to physically hold yourself together. And your eyes had looked at him like you were waiting for something. Pleading for it, even if you never said it aloud. For him to stop you. To say something that would justify you staying.

Something that sounded less like Batman approving a tactical withdrawal and more like a father asking his daughter not to leave.

But Bruce had ignored it. No—he had seen it and convinced himself not to act on it because your explanation sounded logical enough to excuse his own silence.

You just needed time for yourself, that’s what he told himself. Time had always helped wounds settle eventually. But time also had a way of solidifying things when left untouched long enough. And now Bruce could feel the gap between you both every single time you walked past him without lingering. Every time he caught himself noticing your absence before your presence.

People were not cases. He knew that. God, he knew that.

And you—you were his daughter before you were ever Batgirl. Maybe that was the difference. You had always seen him as your father first before you ever saw him as Batman. You had trusted him simply because he was Bruce. Because he was Dad. You had faith in him as your father long before you ever understood what Batman truly was.

Wasn’t that why you had tried so hard to stay close to him after Dick first left? Even though you hadn’t understood the real reason for the fracture between them back then—all because Bruce had kept that part of his life—that part of himself hidden from you. All because you were the one normal thing in his life. The one thing untouched by Gotham.

Bruce had wanted to protect that. Protect you.

He wanted to shield you from the rot of the city. From the brutality. From becoming someone like him. Maybe, in his own way, he thought if he kept enough of himself hidden from you, then you could still have the childhood he never did.

Maybe he genuinely believed he could separate Bruce Wayne from Batman cleanly enough that you would never have to carry the weight of the latter.

And for a while, he almost succeeded. Even if he hadn’t been so present. Even if he had failed, in more ways than one, to be the father you truly needed. He had almost succeeded in shielding you from the violence Gotham carved into everyone who stayed long enough. 

Until he didn’t.

Until the truth came out. About him. About Dick. About Jason. About his death that Bruce carried around like a second skeleton beneath his skin. And maybe that was when everything truly changed between you both.

Because once the illusion shattered, it shattered completely. You had looked at him differently afterward. Not with fear. Not even with anger, entirely. But with hurt. The kind born from realising the person you trusted most in life had hidden entire pieces of himself from you. And after that, you started inserting yourself into this side of his life too.

Not because Bruce wanted you to. God knew he hadn’t. But because somewhere along the line, you had convinced yourself that if you wanted to stay close to him, then you had to become part of that world too. That you had to earn your place beside him.

Wasn’t that why you refused to leave when things got dangerous? Back when Gotham was declared a No Man’s Land. When he was accused of murder and had started pushing everyone away before they could get too close to the fallout. When the Court of Owls started targeting him and everyone connected to him. Why did you keep inserting yourself into situations that terrified him? Why could you never stand the thought of him carrying everything alone? And maybe the worse question was—why did you still care so deeply for someone like him? Someone who, despite loving you, had never truly known how to be there for you in the way you deserved.

Even as a child, you had hated watching people suffer quietly. Especially him.

Alfred used to say you inherited Bruce’s worst traits. Your stubbornness most of all. And at times, Bruce truly couldn’t deny it.

Stubborn in the sense that you refused to let him isolate himself. Selfless in the sense that you would ignore your own wants if it meant easing someone else’s burden. Even as a child, you had always gravitated towards the people who hurt quietly. Towards lonely people. Towards him. 

Bruce’s brows furrow faintly beneath the cowl.

When had the tides shifted?

When had it become you trying to fulfill what he needed, instead of the other way around? Because somewhere along the line, Bruce had started relying on your understanding far more than he should have.

Your patience. Your willingness to stay. Your ability to sit beside him in silence without really demanding anything from him except honesty—something he often struggled to give. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You did not want Batman. You wanted a father.

Not the resources Bruce Wayne could provide. Not the training. Not the protection. Not the contingency plans or the security or the endless attempts to prepare you for every possible danger Gotham could throw at you.

You wanted him. Something painfully simple. 

But Bruce never truly knew how to give someone that properly. Not in the way you deserved. So he compensated in the only way he knew how.

He made sure you had everything you could possibly need. Education. Protection. Freedom. Training. He was able to give you everything except the one thing that he, for some reason—only realised now that had mattered most to you.

His presence. Outside of being Batman. As your father.

The simple ability to sit beside you—his daughter, and make you feel like you did not need to earn his attention through capability. To be loved without needing to prove your usefulness first.

Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly.

The truth is—he did love you. Fiercely. Terrifyingly. Enough that the thought of losing you sometimes felt like someone driving a blade straight through his ribs. But love had always been easiest for Bruce to express through protection. Protection through preparation. Through control. Through distance.

And somewhere along the way, those things had started becoming indistinguishable from each other.

Maybe that was why your eyes had looked so tired lately whenever you glanced at him. Like you had spent years reaching towards someone who only knew how to reach back by building walls around the people he cared about.

Bruce didn’t know when exactly you stopped trying. Maybe it happened slowly. Or maybe it happened the moment he let Batman answer you instead of your father. Because when you were still Batgirl and he was Batman, things had been simpler, hadn’t they?

Cleaner. More structured. Easier to navigate. Strangely more transparent too, despite the fact that the masks themselves were what stood between you and him. When the masks were involved, Bruce knew the rules. So did you. Batman gave orders. Batgirl followed them.

If you made mistakes in the field that could have gotten someone killed, could have gotten you killed—he corrected you immediately. Sternly. Efficiently. As Batman, because Batman could not afford hesitation where lives were concerned.

That was what he always told you, wasn’t it?

That on the field, he was Batman first. That emotions could not interfere with judgment. That was how he maintained control. How he kept everyone alive. Or at least, how he tried to.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Batman always knew what to do.

Your father didn’t.

“Do you need me to keep watching her?”

Cassandra’s voice cuts cleanly through Bruce’s thoughts, grounding him back onto the rooftop.

Bruce stays quiet for a moment.

“…No.” The word feels heavier than it should. Because you were not Batgirl anymore. And the realisation still sat strangely in his chest every time he thought about it.

You were his daughter. Not a criminal. He shouldn’t be monitoring you like a case file waiting to spiral out of control. Tracking your movements now—after you had already made your decision—would feel less like protection and more like punishment.

And that would not be fair to you.

You had chosen to quit as Batgirl. That was your decision. The one Bruce had always known would eventually come, even if some selfish part of him had quietly hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.

So he had to deal with it. The aftermath too. As Batman. What he hadn’t expected, however, was how quickly the news spread. Apparently, word traveled fast amongst heroes. Fast enough that it had somehow reached Barry Allen’s ears all the way in Central City.

Barry Allen. His friend. The Flash.

Barry, who had arrived in Gotham the day before to discuss the situation involving the Trickster and Riddler, only to abruptly bring it up halfway through their conversation like it had been weighing on him the entire time.

Bruce could still remember the slight hesitation in Barry’s voice. The way he leaned back against the Batcomputer afterward, arms loosely crossed as he studied Bruce carefully.

“So… how’s (Name)?” Straightforward as always.

Bruce’s expression had barely shifted at the time. “What about her.”

Barry frowned faintly at that. Not judgmental. Just… concerned. Then, as though realising how direct the question sounded, Barry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and let out a small laugh. 

“Okay, well—Joan decided to get everyone together for Jay’s birthday,” he explained. “And apparently, a certain grandson of mine mentioned how his friend Tim’s been moping around because his quote-unquote sister stopped talking to him.” Barry lifted his hands briefly in air quotes around “sister”, looking faintly sheepish afterward.

“Something along those lines… don’t take my word for it. Bart’s storytelling gets… dramatic.”

Bruce remembered the pause that followed. Because he hadn’t actually known how to answer that. Tim, moping? Because you weren’t… talking to him? The thought alone had almost earned a quiet huff from him at the time. Maybe even something dangerously close to amusement. It sounded absurd on paper.

But then Bruce thought about the tension between you both. The strange friction that had existed almost from the moment Tim entered your lives. The way conversations between the two of you always seemed to teeter between understanding and conflict without either of you knowing how to properly bridge the gap.

And suddenly, it didn’t sound absurd at all.

Because maybe Batgirl had been the last thing tethering you both together in a way that made sense. A role. A structure. Something familiar enough to navigate around. And now that you had quit… perhaps neither of you knew how to reach the other anymore without the masks in between.

Barry moved away from the Batcomputer then, wandering casually toward the evidence table like he always did whenever he was trying to make a conversation feel less serious than it actually was.

Which usually meant it was about to become more serious.

“You know,” Barry started lightly, picking up one of the loose batarangs sitting near the edge of the table before immediately putting it back down after Bruce sent him a look, “for someone who claims he’s fine all the time, Tim’s actually pretty terrible at hiding when something’s bothering him.”

Bruce folded his arms across his chest. “You got all that from Bart?”

Barry snorted softly. “Please. Bart inherited the Allen inability to mind his own business. Kid practically gave me a full emotional breakdown analysis over dinner.” A pause. “He sounded worried. Is it really that bad between those two?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. Because frankly, he couldn’t answer that. Instead, he simply turned back toward the Batcomputer, fingers resuming their steady movement across the keyboard as he said flatly, “Who knows.”

Barry leaned back against the console with a sigh, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Shouldn’t you?”

Bruce’s gaze lowered slightly at that. Right. He should know. But he didn’t. Not when it came to this.

Barry studied him for another moment before rubbing the back of his neck again, expression softening slightly. “She quit being Batgirl, huh?”

Bruce nodded once, and Barry sighed quietly. “Well… that can’t have been easy for her.”

Bruce’s expression remained neutral. “It was her decision.”

“Sure,” Barry said easily. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for anyone, right?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Barry’s eyes flickered toward him knowingly. “You know,” he said after a beat, “sometimes kids stop asking for things when they think they already know the answer.”

Something uncomfortable settled in Bruce’s chest at that. Because suddenly he could picture every moment lately where you’d looked like you wanted to say something to him—and chose not to instead.

Barry rubbed the back of his neck again before offering a crooked smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere slightly. “Anyway, if it makes you feel better, Bart says Tim’s been miserable enough that it’s apparently affecting his ‘brooding efficiency.’”

Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly.

“…That’s not a real term.”

“It is now.”

A quieter silence settled afterward. Barry glances toward him again. “Sooo…” he dragged out carefully. “Are you going to actually talk to your daughter anytime soon?”

Bruce had looked away then.

Before he could answer, Barry suddenly brightened slightly, snapping his fingers.

“Or..! You could let her stay in Central City for a bit. Change of pace, change of scenery, y’know? Iris and I could show her around. Give her a break from Gotham before she starts picking up your emotionally constipated habits.”

”Absolutely not.” The response came so immediate that even Barry blinked in surprise.

“…Okay, wow. Mr. Protective much?” Barry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I know you care about your kids, Bruce, but how long are you going to keep hiding her away in Gotham like this?”

Bruce’s expression hardened faintly. “Hiding?”

Barry shrugged, leaning his hip lightly against the console. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious how tightly you keep her tied here.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly beneath the cowl. “She’s perfectly fine staying in Gotham.”

“Oh really?” Barry straightens slightly now, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And have you actually asked her that yourself?”

Bruce said nothing. Barry let out a quiet sigh through his nose at the silence before nodding once. “Yeah,” he muttered lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened slightly at that—not quite a glare, but enough to make Barry immediately lift both hands in surrender.

“Hey! I’m just saying,” Barry defended quickly, grin turning sheepish again. “It’s just a suggestion, that’s all!” Then, stepping backward slightly, he pointed toward Bruce once more.

“Anyway, if you get any more leads on Trickster’s location, ping me. I’ll be here in a flash.” Before Bruce could respond, Barry vanished in a streak of lightning and gold.

“…He’s been there for awhile,” Cassandra says simply, as Bruce catches the way her head tilts slightly toward the far edge of the rooftop.

A familiar voice answers from somewhere above them.

“And here I thought I was being quiet.”

Bruce’s gaze lifts. Clark descends from the night sky a second later, cape shifting softly behind him as his boots touch against the rooftop. The city lights paint faint gold across the blue of his suit.

Bruce gives Cassandra one brief glance. She nods once in understanding before stepping backward toward the ledge. Then, without another word, she drops cleanly off the building, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows to give them space.

Bruce turns back toward Clark slowly. “I don’t recall calling you over to Gotham,” he says flatly, crouching near the edge of the rooftop to retrieve one of the small tracking devices embedded along the gargoyle ledge, inspecting it briefly as though Clark’s sudden arrival barely warranted acknowledgement. Clark huffs out a laugh under his breath at the passive aggression woven into every syllable.

“Is that any way to talk to one of your oldest friends?”

Bruce slots the device back into place before straightening slightly. “That depends. Are you here as my friend or as Superman?”

Clark chuckles softly at that, folding his arms across his chest. “Still charming as ever.”

Bruce finally spares him a brief look. “You came here for something, Clark.”

The amusement lingering on Clark’s face shifts slightly then. Not gone entirely, but edged now with something more knowing. “Well,” he starts casually, “you didn’t tell me Conner and (Name) were friends.”

What?

Bruce stills. Only for half a second. But Clark notices. Of course he does.

Bruce’s cape shifts sharply behind him with the wind. “Explain.”

Clark exhales through his nose, faint amusement still lingering there. “Ma mentioned Conner’s been heading to Gotham a lot lately. More than usual.” He shrugs slightly. “At first I figured he was just going to see Tim again.”

Bruce says nothing. Which, for Clark, says enough.

“So I decided to check in on him before he accidentally landed himself on your radar again this month,” Clark continues. “But turns out he’s been spending time with your daughter.”

Bruce’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly beneath the cowl. Before he can respond, Clark points at him preemptively. “And before you tell me to reign Conner in again—”

“I don’t need one of your boys hovering around my children, Clark.”

Clark blinks once, before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. “You let Jon spend time with Damian.”

“That’s different.” Clark raises an eyebrow slowly at the immediate response. Bruce doesn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he adjusts the gauntlet around his wrist with practiced precision before finally saying, “Damian requires socialisation with people his age.”

Clark tilts his head slightly, studying him. “And you’re saying (Name) doesn’t?”

“She already has her own friends.”

Clark stares at him for a second before spreading both hands loosely in disbelief. “Well it doesn’t hurt to expand her social circle now, does it?”

Bruce finally looks at him properly then. The signature Batman stare. Sharp enough to make criminals fold almost immediately. Clark only takes it with a grain of salt, smiling back instead as he rocks lightly on his heels.

“What?” he says innocently, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just advocating healthy teenage friendships here.” Bruce remains entirely unmoved. Which somehow only seems to amuse Clark more.

Clark chuckles softly under his breath before glancing back out toward Gotham’s skyline. “I think (Name)’s a good kid,” he says after a moment, tone lighter now. “And I think it’d do Conner some good too. Hanging around her.”

“I do not.”

Clark’s mouth twitches upward immediately at the blunt response. Of course that was Bruce’s answer. Deciding to push his luck further, Clark folds his arms behind his head casually and leans back slightly.

“Or,” he starts, far too casually for Bruce’s liking, “you could always let her come to Metropolis for awhile.” He grins. “That way I can personally make sure no funny business is going on.”

“No.”

The response comes so quickly Clark almost laughs. “No?” he repeats, eyebrows lifting.

Bruce deadpans beneath the cowl. “No.”

First Barry. Now Clark. Why were two of his closest friends suddenly offering to get you out of Gotham? At this rate, Oliver was probably going to show up next with some absurd invitation to Star City.

Absolutely not. Over Bruce’s dead body.

Clark looks seconds away from laughing again, but Bruce has already turned away from him, crouching briefly near the rooftop ledge to retrieve one of the trackers embedded beneath the stone gargoyle. His fingers move automatically across the device, checking readings out of habit more than focus.

A sharp ping cuts through his comm. Bruce answers immediately.

“Alfred.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Alfred’s calm voice filters through the static.

“Master Bruce, I apologise for interrupting patrol, but Miss (Name) collapsed earlier this evening.”

Bruce freezes. Completely. The tracker in his hand stills mid-adjustment.

“She experienced what appears to have been a severe episode of hyperventilation accompanied by a nosebleed,” Alfred continues carefully. “Master Tim managed to reach her before she lost consciousness. Her vitals are stable now, but she has yet to awaken.”

For one singular moment, Bruce genuinely blanks.

Your condition was stable. Alfred said your condition was stable. So why did his chest suddenly feel unbearably tight? Bruce straightens abruptly.

“What happened?” His voice comes out sharper than intended. Immediate. Controlled only by force.

“We are still uncertain, sir.”

Uncertain. Bruce hated uncertainty. Especially when it involved you.

Beside him, Clark’s brows furrow faintly. Of course he heard the entire conversation. Bruce barely even registers him stepping closer now.

“Bruce,” Clark says carefully, “I can get you back to the manor in seconds—”

But Bruce is already moving. The glider deploys sharply from behind his cape with a metallic snap as he steps toward the edge of the rooftop without hesitation.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice continues through the comm, calmer now, “Miss (Name)’s condition is no longer critical. There is no need for alarm.”

Under normal circumstances, Bruce would listen. Under normal circumstances, he would assess first. Think logically. Move methodically instead of emotionally. Instead, he launches himself cleanly off the rooftop. The wind tears violently against his cape as the glider catches. Something tight and restless coils beneath his ribs anyway.

Because what did Alfred mean you collapsed out of nowhere? You weren’t sick. At least—not physically. Were you?

Clark flies alongside him easily a second later, matching his speed with visible concern now replacing whatever amusement had lingered there earlier.

“Bruce,” he says again, quieter this time, “calm down. I’m sure she’s okay.”

Right. Alfred said you were stable. Consciousness lost, but stable.

Logically, Bruce understood that. But for some reason, none of those explanations loosened the pressure tightening around his ribs. Not when everything around him was reminding him of you. Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He needed to see you himself. That was reasonable.

It had to be.

The manor comes into view only moments later.

Bruce lands hard against the second floor balcony just outside the east hallway, already moving before the glider fully retracts behind him. Clark touches down seconds afterward, cape fluttering lightly as he follows close behind. Bruce strides quickly through the corridor leading toward the Batcave. Then abruptly stops. Clark nearly walks into him.

“Stay here.”

“Bruce—”

“I mean it.”

The tone leaves little room for argument. Clark’s brows furrow slightly, clearly preparing to refute him anyway—only for your voice to suddenly echo faintly from deeper within the cave.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve been in a long time.”

Bruce stills instantly. The words hit harder than they should.

More fine than you’ve been in a long time? Even after fainting? Even after collapsing badly enough that Alfred contacted him directly during patrol? How could this possibly be the best you’d felt in a long time? Unless—

Bruce’s expression darkens almost imperceptibly. Unless whatever you were feeling before had somehow been worse. His thoughts spiral unpleasantly from there.

Had he really pushed you that far? Had becoming Batgirl—working beside him, following him, trying endlessly to reach him—hurt you so much that quitting somehow felt relieving regardless of whatever replaced it? Was distancing yourself from him genuinely easier than staying?

Bruce clenches his fists tightly at his sides before he even realises he’s doing it. Beside him, Clark notices the shift immediately. And, for once, Clark says nothing. He simply steps aside silently, allowing Bruce to stand alone near the cave entrance just as footsteps begin approaching from inside.

Then you appear. Bruce sees you stop the moment you notice him standing there. And immediately—his eyes zero in on your face.

You look exhausted. Not physically exhausted alone. Something deeper. The kind of exhaustion Bruce had spent years learning how to recognise in mirrors.

And then he notices your eyes. Red around the edges. Teary. No—not actively crying anymore. Your tears had long since dried. But the evidence remained there anyway. Something twists sharply in Bruce’s chest.

Because when was the last time he’d seen you cry? You used to hide it too well for that. And instead of saying anything—you try to move past him quietly.

Like avoiding him had already become instinct. Like slipping around him without confrontation was easier now than speaking.

Bruce hates how wrong that feels. How unnatural.

Once upon a time, you would’ve stopped immediately. Talked over him. Argued with him. Demanded answers from him even while upset. Now, you barely even look at him.

“Are you alright?”

The question leaves Bruce before he fully thinks it through. And even as he asks it, he already knows the answer is no. Of course you weren’t alright.

People who were alright did not faint in the middle of Gotham streets without explanation. People who were alright did not look at him like this. You pause slightly beside him.

“…Yeah, peachy.”

Bruce feels his hands tighten into fists almost instantly. Because the sarcasm isn’t what unsettles him. It’s the disconnect. The distance in your voice. Like you’d already decided telling him the truth wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Or worse, maybe that was the truth. Maybe you genuinely believed this counted as fine now. Maybe things had gotten bad enough that collapsing and emotionally shutting down still somehow felt preferable compared to whatever you felt while standing beside him as Batgirl.

The thought lands like a bruise against his ribs. Because that meant you were slowly becoming exactly like him. The very thing Bruce had spent years trying to prevent. 

Learning how to bury pain beneath functionality. Convincing yourself that if you could still move, still speak, still operate—then you were fine. Teaching yourself to endure first and feel later. Or never.

Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He had wanted to protect you from becoming someone shaped by Gotham the same way he was. Someone who mistook isolation for strength. Someone who thought suffering quietly was easier than burdening others with it.

And yet standing here now, watching you walk past him with red-rimmed eyes and a hollow sort of calmness—Bruce can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along the way, you learned it from him anyway. He opens his mouth again, something—anything—already forming at the edge of his throat.

But by then, you’ve already stepped past him completely. Walking out of the cave without another word. And Bruce just stands there watching you leave, the faint redness around your eyes burned permanently into his mind long after you disappear from sight.

“Hellooo? Earth to (Name)?”

The sound of fingers snapping twice in front of your face finally jolts you out of whatever spiral you’d sunk into.

“Cait, I think we lost her.” Adrien leans back slightly afterward, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion.

“Oh—never mind,” Adrien says a second later as your eyes finally refocus on them properly. “We got her back.”

You blink once. Right. School.

The crowded hallway slowly settles back into focus around you—the noise of lockers slamming shut, students laughing too loudly somewhere nearby, footsteps echoing against tiled floors as everyone poured out for dismissal.

How long had you been letting your feet just drag you along the crowd whilst zoning out?

“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, rubbing at your temple lightly.

“Girl, are you okay?” Caitlyn asks immediately, concern evident in her tone. “You’ve been spacing out practically the entire day.

Right. You had.

Honestly, you could barely remember half your lessons. Not when your brain kept replaying yesterday over and over again in humiliating detail. Passing out in public. Tim practically catching you before you hit the pavement. Waking up in the Batcave with everyone staring at you like you were one bad cough away from dying dramatically in front of them. And your father.

God.

You exhale the biggest sigh of your life without meaning to. Both Caitlyn and Adrien pause mid-step at that. The two exchange a quick look before slowly turning back toward you with matching concern.

“…That bad, huh?” Caitlyn says carefully.

You drag a hand down your face tiredly. Yesterday genuinely felt like it lasted an entire lifetime. Meanwhile today had passed unnaturally fast, every lesson blurring together into meaningless noise while your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere no matter how hard you tried to focus.

“Yeah, bro,” Adrien continues, sounding both impressed and offended on behalf of the education system. “Mr. Hargrove looked genuinely upset he didn’t get a reason to single you out.” He gestures dramatically. “How were you mentally absent but still knew the answer to that ridiculous question he asked?”

You only offer a weak, sheepish shrug in response. Honestly, you barely remembered the question itself.

Caitlyn narrows her eyes at you suspiciously before suddenly leaning closer. “Also,” she whispers loudly into your ear despite there being absolutely no reason to whisper, “what the heck happened between you and Chloe?”

You blink at her. “…What?”

“She’s been glaring at you literally all day.”

Your brows lift slightly. “She has?”

Caitlyn throws both hands into the air dramatically. “Uh, yeah?? Oh my gosh. Sweetheart, you really were gone mentally today.”

That…honestly tracked. You hadn’t noticed much of anything outside your own thoughts since this morning.

Adrien suddenly gasps beside the two of you like he’s just uncovered some horrifying conspiracy.

“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at you, “did you secretly insult her outfit or something and now she’s plotting revenge with that terrifying death stare?”

You stare at him flatly. “…Adrien.”

“What? It’s Chloe.”

“…No,” you sigh tiredly. “It’s a long story.” A very long story.

“Oh?” Caitlyn immediately perks up at that, curiosity overtaking concern in record time as she hooks her arm through yours. “Now I’m curious. You better spill later.”

The three of you make your way out of the school compound together, sunlight spilling across the pavement in warm streaks while students flooded past in noisy groups around you.

Caitlyn is still hooked onto your arm, Adrien walking backwards in front of the both of you as he continues some dramatic retelling of whatever happened during PE earlier. Your phone suddenly buzzes against your pocket. The vibration startles you out of your thoughts almost immediately.

You pull it out absentmindedly, only to frown slightly at the unknown number flashing across the screen.

Probably spam.

Without much thought, you let it ring out.

“Who was that?” Caitlyn asks curiously, and you shrug loosely. “Dunno. Probably spam.”

Except your phone buzzes again almost immediately. Same number. Your brows furrow this time. Seriously?

You decline the call preemptively, thumb already moving to shove your phone back into your pocket—only for a message notification to pop up across the screen.

xxxx-xxxx: declining my calls, (Name)?

A second message appears almost immediately after.

xxxx-xxxx: and here i thought you wouldn’t ignore your loyal partner 

Ah. Conner. Your expression deadpans almost instantly. Of course it’s him. And somehow, right as you finish reading the messages, your phone screen shifts back into an incoming call again.

You stare at it for half a second longer before finally sighing and picking up.

“Thought you were ghosting me for a sec there, (Name).”

Static crackles faintly through the speaker alongside distant shouting and what sounds suspiciously like metal crashing through concrete. You blink slowly.

“…I don’t recall giving you my number.”

You hear Kon laugh under his breath. Then a loud bang echoes somewhere on his end, followed by what definitely sounds like someone getting punched through a wall.

“Well,” Kon says casually over the chaos, sounding entirely unbothered, “safe to say even I pick up some stalker-level skills hanging around Rob.”

You immediately unhook your arm gently from Caitlyn’s, shooting her an apologetic look that silently asks for a second as you slow your pace. Caitlyn narrows her eyes suspiciously but lets you drift away slightly. Once you’re far enough, you lower your voice.

“…Are you in the middle of a fight right now?”

Another crashing sound answers you before Kon even does. Somebody yells something incoherent in the background. You close your eyes briefly. 

Right. There was your answer.

“Eh—Cassie’s handling most of it,” Kon says easily. “Trust her to hard-carry, y’know? Also, I can literally feel you rolling your eyes at me through the phone, by the way.”

Caught. You pinch the bridge of your nose tiredly. “So what was so important that you had to call me in the middle of your fight?”

“Well,” Kon starts casually, followed immediately by another loud impact noise, “just letting you know I probably can’t make it to Gotham today.” Your brows lift slightly. 

“Cyborg wants the whole team doing some… tactical coordination thing,” he continues. “Or whatever you call it.”

“Training.” 

“Yeah. That.”

More fighting noises. You swear you hear someone getting launched. “So that means,” Kon continues, completely unfazed, “I can’t go apologise to that employee like you wanted me to today.”

Oh. Your eyes narrow slightly. “…Is this you trying to delay the apology?”

“Oh, come on,” Conner groans dramatically. “What do you take me for?” A pause. “…Actually, don’t answer that.” Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly.

“I would’ve tried sneaking out,” he continues, “but this would be like—the third time this week.” Another crash. “Starfire’s probably gonna blast me into orbit if I skip this one too.”

“…Right.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Well,” you mutter dryly, “maybe I’m not.”

Kon laughs again.

Then abruptly grunts like he just punched someone. More crashing follows immediately afterward. Honestly, at this point you’re mildly concerned he’s fighting while holding the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Also,” he says suddenly, voice turning oddly casual again, “Superman kinda caught me last night.”

You blink. “…What?”

“And he might’ve seen the photos we took.”

Your entire body stills. What.

Kon continues before you can even process that properly. “So it’s probably only a matter of time before your broody batfather tells you to stay away from me or something.” Another pause. “I dunno—woah—!”

A loud crashing noise erupts through the speaker. Someone’s shouting. Something heavy gets thrown. Then Kon’s voice comes back slightly farther from the phone.

“Okay, yeah, I really gotta go now,” he says quickly. “But I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Kon—”

The line cuts abruptly. You stare at your phone screen in complete disbelief. Slowly lowering it away from your ear.

“…What,” you mutter weakly to yourself. Because what the hell was that conversation?? Kon casually calling you mid-superhero fight. Kon somehow getting your number. Kon telling you Superman saw your photos together. And now apparently there was a nonzero chance your father was going to corner you about this later.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

You let out a long sigh before quickly jogging to catch up with Caitlyn and Adrien, who had continued walking ahead without you. The moment you reach them, Adrien immediately gives you a look. Not suspicious exactly. More… smug.

“You’re not being slick, (Name),” he says teasingly.

Your brows raise instinctively. “Huh?”

Caitlyn is sharing the same look as him. “You were talking to that Conner guy, weren’t you??”

You freeze slightly mid-step. Oh god. 

Your silence alone apparently tells them enough. Caitlyn immediately grabs onto your arm again, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Is this the brother’s best friend trope playing out in real life?” she squeals. “Oh my gosh, sign me up immediately.”

You nearly choke. “What—no—”

“This,” Adrien cuts in solemnly, crossing his arms like some ancient scholar delivering prophecy. “will surely be a romantic story like none that has come before.” 

You stare at him flatly. “Don’t quote Cyrene at me now...”

Adrien immediately breaks into laughter while Caitlyn nudges your shoulder. “So when exactly are you going to spill the deets.”

You groan quietly, dragging a hand down your face.

“Later,” you say firmly. “When we get to the orphanage.” Delaying the inevitable was genuinely the only survival tactic you had left right now.

Adrien gasps dramatically beside you. “Keeping us in suspense?” he says, placing a hand over his chest in betrayal. “How could you, (Name)? I thought we were friends.” He even pretends to wipe away tears that very obviously do not exist.

Seriously. How the hell did you end up befriending such dramatic people?

“Also,” Caitlyn suddenly says, crossing her arms as she walks beside you, “which one of your family’s gonna show up this time?”

“…Huh? What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Caitlyn starts counting on her fingers. “First it was your younger brother Damian, ” she says. “Then Tim showed up with his weirdly attractive friends.”

Adrien nods immediately. “Seriously, they looked suspiciously familiar.”

Your eye twitches slightly. Right. Note to self: Never let Adrien meet the them again or he was absolutely going to connect the dots eventually.

Caitlyn grins at you again afterward. “So who’s next?” she asks eagerly. “Please tell me it’s gonna be that ridiculously hot older brother of yours. Richard Grayson?”

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Nope,” you answer immediately. “And I pray he never decides to show up.”

Because the last thing you needed right now was Dick suddenly deciding he wanted to keep you close again. Not when you’d spent years carefully shoving all those complicated feelings somewhere deep enough that you didn’t have to think about them constantly. Not when one more conversation with him would probably crack open emotions you had spent an embarrassingly long time trying to bury.

Yeah. No thanks.

“Woah,” Adrien says slowly, raising both hands in surrender after seeing the look on your face. “That was… intense.”

You only sigh quietly in response. Then pause slightly. Your footsteps slow just a little. “…Wait,” you say carefully. “Can I ask you guys something?”

Caitlyn immediately narrows her eyes. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

You ignore her.

“Do I…” You hesitate briefly before awkwardly gesturing toward yourself. “…come off as intimidating or something?” For some reason, you were immediately reminded of Kon’s words from yesterday.

“Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be.”

Surely that wasn’t true, right?

Both Caitlyn and Adrien suddenly slow down. And immediately exchange a look. A very suspicious look. Caitlyn squints accusingly at Adrien like he’d apparently revealed classified information somewhere behind your back. Adrien looks equally defensive.

You frown slightly. “Guys.”

Caitlyn sighs dramatically.

“Well,” she starts carefully, “no offense, (Name), but you do kinda give off those vibes.”

Your brows lift slightly. “…I do?”

“I mean,” Caitlyn gestures vaguely toward you, “especially to people who don’t really know you.”

Oh. What. You stare at her in mild disbelief while she rushes to continue.

“But obviously we know better,” she says quickly. “Because you’re actually just this sweet, nice girl who just sucks at expressing emotions properly because you’re emotionally constipated and chronically protective of your personal space.”

“…That sounded more insulting than complimentary.”

Adrien chuckles loudly beside her. “Okay but,” he says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “your fan club definitely disagrees—”

“Adrien!” Caitlyn immediately yelps. Adrien slaps a hand over his own mouth too late. You stop walking entirely.

“…My what.”

Adrien is suddenly avoiding eye contact while Caitlyn looks very, very invested in the clouds overhead. Your eyes narrow slowly.

“What,” you repeat carefully, “do you mean by fan club?”

You watch Caitlyn visibly brace herself before sighing dramatically. Then she places both hands on your shoulders with far too much seriousness. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

You immediately frown. “Now I’m even more scared.”

Adrien hides a laugh beneath a cough. Caitlyn shoots him a look before turning back toward you again.

“Okay,” she starts carefully, “so you remember that period a few years ago when your dad got accused of murder and Gotham’s media basically went insane?”

Your stomach twists slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, yes. You did remember. 

The cameras shoved in your face every other morning. The articles. The way reporters acted like you were somehow acceptable collateral damage for headlines. You remembered learning how to lower your head while walking through crowds because eye contact only encouraged more questions. How every action suddenly became something people online dissected.

And it didn’t help that during that period of time—Alfred had been staying with Tim at his boarding school. Because him and your father had some sort of fight that you don’t really remember the details of now.

“…Yeah,” you answer slowly.

Caitlyn winces slightly. “Well… yeah, so basically while people online were slandering you too, a bunch of people you’d helped before started defending you.”

“What?”

Adrien perks up immediately beside you again. “Yeah, it was honestly kinda revolutionary,” he says. “Like—you had random Gotham citizens beefing with tabloids online on your behalf.”

You stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Caitlyn laughs nervously. “Okay, see, this is exactly why we never told you.”

Your brows furrow. “And why exactly not?”

“Because back then you were already like—super uncomfortable with all the attention,” Caitlyn says more gently this time. “Like… really uncomfortable.”

Your expression stills slightly. Right. You had been. You hated that period of time. You hated people looking at you like they already knew things about you. Hated hearing strangers discuss your family like entertainment. Hated the way sympathy and judgment always seemed tangled together whenever people spoke to you afterward.

Most of all, you hated how that period of time reminded of you what happened after Jason’s death as well.

Adrien rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You kinda started avoiding social media entirely after that too,” he points out carefully. “And every time someone brought up articles or online discourse around you, you looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.”

…Okay. That was unfortunately true.

Caitlyn nods quickly. “So we figured telling you ‘hey by the way there’s an entire group of Gotham citizens aggressively defending your honor online’ probably wouldn’t help your anxiety.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging both hands down your face now. Your soul was actively trying to leave your body. Caitlyn, meanwhile, looks way too entertained now that the truth was out.

“To be fair,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “it was actually kinda wholesome.”

“Wholesome?” you repeat weakly.

“Yeah!” Adrien says. “Most of them are people you helped personally. Kids from school. Parents from charity events. People from community centers. There was this one old lady who went viral online because she threatened to sue an entire gossip forum after they called you spoiled and ignorant.”

You stop walking entirely.

“…Who did what now?”

“She was iconic,” Caitlyn says solemnly, with Adrien nodding in agreement.

You genuinely don’t know how to process any of this. Because while you remembered the ugliness from that period vividly—you never really considered there might’ve been people defending you in the background too. People who remembered your kindness more than the headlines. People who cared enough to speak up for you even when you never asked them to.

And somehow…that realisation settles strangely in your chest. Warm. A little painful. Because how you genuinely not know about all this? Even if you had practically avoided social media at the time—even if Adrien and Caitlyn intentionally hid it from you because they knew how badly that whole situation affected you—it was really.. strange. 

Too strange. Surely you should’ve come across it at least once afterward. A post. A mention. Something. Your brows furrow faintly at the thought.

But before you can sink any deeper into it, the three of you finally arrive outside the orphanage. The moment the gates come into view, a few of the younger kids immediately spot you guys and come barreling forward excitedly.

“Big sis Caitlyn!”

“Adrien!!”

Chaos instantly erupts.

Adrien dramatically stumbles backward after one of the kids launched directly into him while Caitlyn immediately crouches down to scoop another into her arms with a laugh. You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your face at the sight. Warmth spreads quietly through your chest as you greet the children properly, offering soft greetings and ruffling hair affectionately as they crowd around you. You wave toward some of the caretakers nearby too, including Miss Jenkins, who smiles warmly the moment she sees you.

“That’s weird.”

Adrien’s voice suddenly cuts through the moment.

You glance toward him. “What’s weird?”

Adrien frowns slightly as he looks around the yard. “I thought Elliot would’ve already crashed into you by now.”

Your expression stills faintly. Oh. Wait. He’s right.

Ever since you started coming regularly to the orphanage, Elliot had always been one of the first kids to run toward you. Usually the first. Half the time the kid practically launched himself at you before you even fully stepped through the gates.

That was just… Elliot.

So the fact that he wasn’t here…

Your chest tightens slightly. No. Surely not. Surely—

“Eli says he doesn’t wanna see you anymore.”

You blink. A little girl—Emma, you recall—points directly at you while saying it with complete sincerity. “He says he’s mad at big sister (Name) because you didn’t come see him yesterday.”

Oh. Oh. You glance toward Miss Jenkins almost helplessly, only for her to offer you an apologetic smile.

“Ah, it’s really nothing serious,” she assures gently. “I’m sure he’ll calm down the moment he sees you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel less guilty. You sigh softly under your breath before nodding. Miss Jenkins gestures for you to follow her. The further you walk toward the back of the orphanage yard, the quieter things become.

Eventually, Miss Jenkins stops near one of the large trees near the fence. You blink once. Then immediately spot a small figure very obviously hiding behind it.

Well. Attempting to hide behind it. You can literally see part of Elliot’s shoe sticking out from behind the trunk. Miss Jenkins coughs lightly into her hand, very clearly trying not to laugh.

“…I’ll leave you two be,” she whispers sympathetically.

And with that, she quietly walks back toward the rest of the children gathered near the yard. You let out a small sigh before slowly making your way toward the tree instead.

“Elliot, hey—”

The moment your voice reaches him, the boy jolts. Then immediately bolts. “Wait—”

Before you can even properly process what’s happening, Elliot dashes past you entirely—straight through the orphanage gates and out onto the sidewalk.

Your eyes widen. “Elliot!” You immediately sprint after him. 

Damnit.

You rush past Adrien and Caitlyn so quickly you barely catch their startled expressions before they’re calling after you worriedly.

For a kid, Elliot ran ridiculously fast. Especially for someone with such tiny legs.

You weave through pedestrians quickly, your gaze darting frantically through the crowd as panic slowly starts tightening in your chest. 

Brown curls. You just needed to spot his brown curls. Your eyes flick rapidly across the busy street, scanning every small figure you pass.

Your pulse starts climbing higher.

“Elliot!” you call again breathlessly, turning another corner. You catch sight of him briefly slipping between people farther ahead. Relief hits you so fast it almost hurts.

“Elliot!”

The boy glances back at the sound of your voice. And immediately runs faster. You almost groan out loud.

Seriously? Of course he runs faster. You watch as he veers sharply into a narrow alleyway, small feet disappearing between the buildings. You follow without hesitation, turning into the alley right after him.

You immediately skid to a stop. Because he’s no longer running. Elliot is on the ground, sitting back on his hands with a small, startled “oof,” eyes wide as he looks up.

And standing in front of him is a group of men. Three of them.

The smell hits you first. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. Something chemical underneath it—sharp and sour enough to make your stomach twist unpleasantly. Your body moves before your thoughts fully catch up.

“Elliot.” Your voice comes out sharper than intended as you hurry forward, shoes scraping harshly against the pavement. You crouch beside him at once, hands instinctively checking him over first before gently helping him back onto his feet.

“You okay?” you ask quickly, brushing dirt from the sleeves of his hoodie without even thinking about it. Elliot nods automatically, but his eyes are wide. Too wide.

And when you straighten slightly, pulling him behind you on instinct, you feel it. The faint trembling in his hand. Something ugly twists low in your chest immediately.

One of the men scoffs loudly. “The hell, kid?” he mutters irritably, smoke curling from the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “You knocked our stuff over.”

Another snorts. “Brat came sprinting in like someone was chasing him.”

Your jaw tightens, as you glance briefly toward the scattered contents near their feet. Small packets. Burn marks. A pipe and a baseball bat. Right. Great.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, already trying to guide Elliot away. “He didn’t mean to interrupt you. We’ll leave.”

Your voice stays calm. You just need to get Elliot out of here. That’s it.

You can feel the boy pressing slightly closer behind you now, almost trying to hide himself against your back. The realisation makes your chest ache unexpectedly. “It’s okay,” you murmur quietly to him, softening your tone immediately.

You start moving again. But before you can get more than a few steps away, the three men shift. Blocking your path.

“Listen here, missy,” one of them drawls, scratching at his jaw. “That little guy ruined our smoke. You think you can just walk away like that?”

“He’s just a kid,” you reply tightly. Your fingers curl slightly around Elliot’s sleeve. “And besides,” your eyes flick briefly over them before you can stop yourself, “you guys look like you could do without those anyway.”

Oh, great job provoking them. Stupid.

One of the men lets out a laugh completely devoid of humor.

“You trynna mouth off, missy?”

They’re crowding closer now. Too close. Your instincts kick in automatically as you pull Elliot fully behind you, backing up until your shoulders nearly brush against the alley wall. Elliot’s grip on your sleeve tightens harder.

One of the men whistles lowly.

“Damn, Rick,” he snickers toward the others, “looks like this princess doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Your pulse spikes immediately when movement catches from deeper inside the alley. Two more figures emerge from the shadows.

Shit. You hadn’t even noticed them before. “What the hell do you want?” you ask sharply, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, nothing much,” one of them grins, yellowed teeth flashing under the flickering alley light. “Little compensation’ll do.”

His eyes drift downward toward Elliot. The boy instinctively presses closer into your side, hiding his face against your hip.

“And this little guy—”

The man reaches out toward him. Your body moves before your thoughts do. You slap his hand away hard.

“Don’t touch him.”

The air changes instantly. The friendliness—if it could even be called that—evaporates immediately. The man’s expression darkens.

“The hell’s your problem?” He grabs for you instead. “You trynna start somethin’?”

“…Wait.” Another voice cuts through the alley.

One of the men further back lowers the crowbar resting against his shoulder slightly as he squints harder at your face. Recognition flashes across his expression. Then he barks out a harsh laugh.

“No shit,” he says. “Ain’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid?”

Your stomach drops. Immediately, you tighten your grip around Elliot’s hand and instinctively shield him further behind you. Wrong. This is going wrong. You need to leave. Now.

A rough hand suddenly clamps around your wrist. Hard. You hiss softly at the pressure, immediately trying to wrench yourself free. “Lemme go,” you snap voice finally cracking with genuine anger.

The man’s grip only tightens.

“What’s the rush, princess?” he sneers, leaning closer. You can smell alcohol on his breath now. “Maybe your daddy can pay us a little for wasting our time, huh?”

“I said let go.” You twist your wrist sharply, but the movement only seems to irritate him further. His expression hardens instantly before he suddenly shoves you backward.

Your shoulders slam painfully against the brick wall behind you. “(Name)!” Elliot’s yelp cuts through the alley the moment he hears your sharp wince.

“Damn,” one of them whistles, looking you up and down openly now. “Wayne’s kid’s prettier up close.”

“You know how much cash we could get outta this?”

“Shit, enough to never work again,” one of them says crudely. “Rich people’ll pay anything to keep their image clean.”

“Nah,” another cuts in with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “Forget the money for a second. You think little miss princess here’s ever even been touched before?”

More laughter. Elliot presses tighter against you immediately. Your stomach churns violently. One of them leans closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin feel dirty.

“Bet daddy Wayne’d lose his damn mind if he saw his precious daughter right now.”

“Could probably get millions outta him easy.”

“Maybe we should keep her around awhile first,” another says with a disgusting smirk. “Teach her some manners.”

Your jaw tightens so hard it almost hurts. Beside you, Elliot’s breathing starts turning shaky. That does it more than the hands on you ever could.

“If you don’t let me go right now,” you warn, voice low and shaking with restrained anger, “I will scream.”

The man holding you against the wall scoffs directly in your face. “Go ahead.”

You inhale sharply, and screamed as loud as you could—only for the man to retaliate instantly. The slap cracks through the alley loud enough to echo off the walls. Your head jerks violently to the side. Your cheek is burning now, stinging. You taste iron almost immediately. Probably a small split somewhere near your lip.

Silence settles over the alley for exactly half a second. Then you slowly look back at the man. And scoff. The sound comes out almost disbelieving.

“…Right,” you mutter quietly, wiping the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand before glancing briefly at the smear of red left there. “I was trying to do this the easy way, but okay.”

The man barely gets a chance to react before you move. You seize his wrist suddenly, twisting it sharply enough for a sickening yelp to rip from his throat as his entire body folds awkwardly with the motion.

Then you drive your foot straight into his face. The crack of impact rings through the alley. He stumbles backward with a choked noise, blood immediately pouring from his nose as he crashes onto the pavement a few feet away from you guys.

The other men instantly freeze. Like none of them had actually expected you to fight back. You step in front of Elliot fully now, shoulders squaring slightly as years of instinct settle seamlessly into place beneath your skin.

“You hit me first,” you say evenly, despite the blood still lingering against your lip. “This is just self-defense.”

And before any of the guys could do anything, you lunge at the second guy nearest to you. Fast enough that he barely has time to widen his eyes.

”You—you bi—“ Before the third guy can finish his sentence—or swing the crowbar he’s raising toward you—you move. You sidestep easily, the metal barely missing your shoulder before your hand snaps out to grab his arm. Then your elbow slams directly into his ribs hard enough to force the breath from his lungs. 

Once. Twice. And before he can recover, you sweep your leg cleanly beneath him. He crashes onto the pavement with a wheeze.

The fourth guy immediately tries taking advantage of your “distraction,” swinging his baseball bat toward you with a curse. But you duck beneath it automatically.

God, this almost feels insulting. Years of fighting assassins, gang members, trained killers—and these idiots thought they could overpower you because they were bigger. 

Your fist connects sharply against his jaw. Then again. And again. Each hit lands cleaner than the last until the man stumbles backward directly into the alley wall with a groan, clutching his face as the bat slips uselessly from his hands. By the time the first man struggles back onto his feet nearby, clutching his twisted wrist, all of them look significantly less confident now.

“You crazy bitch—” one of them spits weakly, saliva mixed with blood hitting the pavement beside him.  “You—you won’t get away with this. I’ll—”

You immediately grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head backward hard enough for a cry of pain to rip from his throat.

“You’ll what? Sue me? Get your revenge?” you ask mockingly.

You lean down slightly toward him, your grip tightening just enough to make him wince harder.

“Go ahead and try.”

Your voice comes out almost frighteningly calm now. “Let’s just hope you can actually afford a lawyer against Wayne Enterprises.”

You hated pulling out that card. But it always worked. And if it got these creeps away from Elliot faster—fine.

The man visibly pales.

Good choice.

You release him abruptly.

He nearly stumbles over himself trying to get away from you, clutching at his scalp with shaking hands. The others don’t hesitate either. All that bravado from earlier evaporates almost instantly as they scramble after him, muttering curses and threats under their breath while retreating out of the alley as fast as their bruised bodies allow.

Cowards.

The second they disappear from view, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins suddenly crashes hard against your ribs. You immediately grab Elliot’s hand again.

“C’mon,” you murmur quickly, your voice softer now. “Let’s get out of here.” Your pulse still hasn’t fully settled. Adrenaline continues buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin as you guide him out of the alleyway as fast as possible, eyes instinctively scanning every corner around you even after the danger’s already gone.

Old habits.

The second you both step back onto the main street, the world feels almost painfully normal again. You guide Elliot toward the quieter side of the sidewalk before finally crouching down in front of him.

“Elliot,” you say immediately, hands gently checking over his arms and shoulders in a near panic now. “Are you alright?”

The boy doesn’t answer. His head stays lowered.

“Elliot?” your voice softens further.

Then suddenly.. he bursts into tears. Not the quiet sniffles. Not the watery eyes. Actual sobs. Small, broken cries that seem ripped straight out of his chest as his tiny hands suddenly clutch tightly at the front of your shirt. And your heart drops so fast it physically hurts.

Oh god. Did he get hurt? Did they hurt him while you were distracted? 

Your breathing catches sharply. Because you were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to keep him safe. And instead he ended up terrified. You’re the reason he’s crying. You let this happen. You made him run off. You let those men corner him. You let them scare him.

The guilt crashes into you so violently it almost feels suffocating. Your throat tightens painfully.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you say quickly, except your own voice sounds shaky now too. Without even thinking about it, you immediately pull him into your arms. One hand cradles the back of his head automatically while the other wraps tightly around his small frame, holding him close against your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself whisper immediately.

Then again. “I’m sorry.”

Again.

“I’m sorry.”

The words just keep leaving you before you can stop them. Over and over. Like apologising enough might somehow undo what just happened. Elliot cries harder into your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the back of your jacket as he hugs you back with surprising strength for someone so small.

“I thought—” he hiccups through tears, voice breaking badly, “I thought they were gonna… hurt you—”

Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels unbearable.

“No,” you say immediately, tightening your arms around him instinctively. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

But your cheek still stings. Your lip still tastes like blood. And somehow, what hurts most isn’t even that. It’s the realisation that Elliot saw it happen. Saw you get shoved around. Saw someone hit you. Saw you bleed. And he was crying—because he saw you get hurt. Not because he got hurt.

You close your eyes briefly.

God.

You hated this. You hated how quickly violence could become normal. How easily your body slipped back into fighting without hesitation. How part of you barely even reacted to being hit anymore because worse had happened before.

But Elliot reacted. Because to him, you weren’t someone trained for this.

You were just… you. 

And somehow, despite everything, despite the tears still shaking his small body—he was more upset about you getting hurt than what almost happened to him.

That realisation alone nearly breaks something inside your chest. So you just hold him tighter. One hand gently smoothing through his curls while you keep whispering quiet apologies into his hair like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, softer this time. “I’m so sorry.”

The two of you sitting on the very same bench where you had first treated the scrape on Elliot’s shin weeks ago. The memory hits you almost immediately the moment you sit down. Now, a crumpled convenience store bag rested beside you, filled with hastily bought popsicles, ice packs, and a small towel the cashier had looked mildly concerned handing over.

Elliot sat beside you quietly, still sniffling every now and then as he sulkily nibbled at the popsicle you bought him. His eyes were puffy from crying so hard earlier, the skin beneath them swollen and pink. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… heavy.

You carefully unwrap one of the ice packs before wrapping the towel around it so it wouldn’t be too cold against his skin. “Here,” you murmur gently, holding it out toward him. “Use this for your eyes. Unless you plan on going back to the orphanage looking like… this.”

Elliot huffs quietly through his nose, clearly still upset, but he takes the ice pack from you anyway. He presses it against his eyes with a dramatic little pout that almost makes you smile.

You glance at him for a moment before asking softly, “Better?”

After a second, he gives a small nod. Silence settles again. Cars pass by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, people laugh faintly as they walk down the street, entirely unaware of how emotionally exhausting the last thirty minutes had been. You exhale quietly before speaking first.

“So…” you start carefully, resting your elbows against your knees slightly, “do you mind telling me why you didn’t want to see me earlier?”

Elliot’s pout deepens instantly. You wait anyway. Patiently. Eventually, he finally mutters, barely above a grumble, “Because… because you broke your promise.”

“Huh?” You point lightly at yourself, genuinely confused, and Elliot immediately nods vigorously.

“You said you’d come by every day…!” he blurts out accusingly. “But you didn’t yesterday and—and—” His voice trails off frustratedly. Your expression softens almost immediately as realisation settles over you.

“Elliot…” you say gently, “I said I would always come back for you.”

“Yeah..!” he shoots back immediately, looking at you like that somehow proved his point entirely. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Honestly… you couldn’t even blame him for thinking that. You sigh quietly through your nose before reaching over to ruffle his curls softly. “Okay,” you concede weakly. “Fine. I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

Elliot immediately huffs and turns his head away from you. “You don’t sound sorry.” That actually earns a small laugh out of you despite everything.

“Well… maybe because I didn’t really break my promise.”

The boy immediately looks back at you, visibly offended and confused at the same time. “What???” 

You can practically see him trying to piece together a rebuttal in real time, brows furrowing so hard it almost makes you laugh again. “Okay, okay,” you say quickly before he can start protesting again. “How about this instead? I might not be able to come by every single day.” You pause briefly before adding more softly, “But I’ll try to, okay?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, Elliot’s expression crumples slightly again. “That’s what everyone says,” he mutters quietly.

Your smile falters slightly. Elliot stares down at the melting popsicle in his hands now, voice growing smaller with every word. “They always say they’ll try… and then eventually they stop coming at all.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I thought…” His lip wobbles slightly as he curls inward a little. “I thought you were gonna be the same.”

Oh.

For a moment, you genuinely don’t know what to say. Because suddenly, so many things about Elliot begin clicking painfully into place all at once. Why he always waited for you near the entrance whenever you visited. Why he got attached so quickly. Why he looked genuinely relieved every single time you showed up again.

It wasn’t clinginess. It was fear. Fear that one day you would stop coming back too. Just like everyone else probably had.

“Who’s… everyone?” you ask gently, your voice softer this time. Careful. Like you were afraid pressing too hard might make him retreat back into himself again.

Elliot sniffles loudly, still clutching the half-melted popsicle in one hand. For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his shoes dangling above the pavement, kicking them weakly against the bench leg.

“The kids that used to live here before,” he mumbles. “Before they got adopted. They always said they’d come back and visit,” Elliot continues, voice wobbling slightly. “They promised. But then…” He swallows hard. “They never do.”

Oh. Of course.

Elliot had spent almost his entire life in that orphanage. Long enough to watch people come and go over and over again. Long enough to learn what it felt like to get attached to someone, only for them to disappear afterward. Long enough that every goodbye probably started sounding permanent no matter what words came after it.

You glance down at him quietly. “And I don’t want that to happen to me,” he blurts out suddenly, the words rushing out of him now like he’d been holding them in for a long time. “Because I like Emma. And Jackson. And Ethan.” His small hands tighten around the popsicle stick. “I like everyone there. I don’t wanna leave the orphanage.”

Your expression softens almost painfully at that. Because you understood. God, you understood far more than he probably realised.

Elliot wasn’t scared of being unloved. He was scared of losing the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in his life.

The orphanage was not just a building to him. It was familiarity. A home, even if many people wouldn’t consider it as such. The people there were proof that even if others left, there would still be someone remaining afterward. And maybe, to Elliot, adoption didn’t look like being chosen.

Maybe it looked like abandonment in reverse. Like being taken away from everyone else instead.

Your throat tightens faintly.

How many times had he watched kids leave while promising they’d come back for him too? How many birthdays had passed afterward without seeing them again? How many times had he convinced himself not to care too much about the next person, only to end up attached anyway? You stare quietly at the little boy beside you, and for a moment, he suddenly feels far older than he should.

Children were never supposed to understand loss this intimately.

“…Elliot,” you say carefully. He refuses to look at you.

“I think…” You pause briefly, trying to find the right words. “I think people probably meant it when they made those promises.”

His brows furrow immediately, like he doesn’t understand why you’d defend them.

“But they still left,” he says stubbornly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “They did.”

The honesty of the answer makes him finally glance at you. You look down at your hands resting in your lap for a moment before continuing.

“But sometimes…” Your voice quiets slightly. “Sometimes people leave because life keeps moving even when they don’t want it to. School. Families. Work. New places. New responsibilities.” You exhale slowly through your nose. “And sometimes people think too much time has passed to come back after they’ve already stayed away for so long.”

You knew that feeling too well. The longer distance existed, the harder it became to cross it again. Because eventually guilt settled in. And guilt had a way of making people hesitate until hesitation turned into silence. The kind that stretched for so long it started feeling impossible to break. And unless both people were brave enough to finally confront that silence—to reach across it despite everything—that distance remained exactly where it was. Uncrossed.

Elliot stares at you quietly now, listening carefully. “But that doesn’t always mean they forgot you,” you say. He looks unconvinced.

“…Then why didn’t they come back?”

And that question hurts far more than it should.

Because for a brief moment, your mind flashes elsewhere entirely. To Bruce. To Dick. To Jason.

To yourself.

To all the spaces between people that slowly widened until nobody knew how to close them anymore. You force yourself back into the moment before Elliot notices your expression shifting.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Elliot lowers his gaze again.

“But I do know,” you continue gently, “that being scared someone will leave doesn’t mean you should stop caring about people while they’re still here. About the people that choose to still be here.”

The boy goes very still beside you. You smile faintly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “And for the record,” you add, “you’re kind of impossible to forget.”

That finally earns the tiniest reaction out of him. A weak sniffly laugh. 

There he is. You feel something in your chest loosen slightly at the sound.

“…Even when I ran away just now?” he asks quietly.

You deadpan immediately. “Especially then. Do you know how fast you are? I almost lost a lung chasing you.”

Elliot giggles properly this time despite himself, quickly trying to hide it behind the popsicle. And somehow, hearing that small laugh after everything that happened in the alley makes your chest ache in a completely different way now.

Relief. Pure relief. Because he was okay. He was still here.

You push yourself up from the bench slowly before holding a hand out toward him. “So,” you say lightly, “should we head back now?” Elliot nods immediately. He hops down from the bench with a small plop before grabbing your hand with his non-sticky one.

“…Sorry for running away from you earlier, (Name),” he mumbles quietly.

Your expression softens almost instantly. “It’s okay,” you tell him as you start walking back toward the orphanage together. “Just don’t do it again, alright?”

He nods vigorously. Then, barely two seconds later, his entire mood brightens again. “But (Name)—you were so cool back there!” he blurts out excitedly. “Like, really cool! You beat those bad guys up like it was nothing! Like this, see!”

He lets go of your hand just to start dramatically reenacting the fight beside you, throwing tiny punches and exaggerated kicks into the air with special sound effects included. You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Oh really?” you tease. “Who exactly are you planning to use those moves on?”

“Uhh…” Elliot pauses mid-punch, seriously considering it before shrugging. “Bad guys! Like the ones from earlier!”

You laugh softly before ruffling his curls. “You’re literally, like, two apples tall. Maybe wait until you’re at least Damian’s height first.”

“That’ll be easy! I’m still growing!” He puffs his chest out proudly. “I can totally catch up to him.”

“Sure you can,” you say dryly, though your smile lingers anyway. The boy grins before grabbing your hand again, happily swinging it between you both as you continue walking toward the orphanage together.

By the time you return, the atmosphere outside has settled back into its usual warmth and chaos. You immediately spot Adrien in the middle of a group of boys, fully letting himself become their personal jungle gym while they climbed all over him as though he were playground equipment. Nearby, Caitlyn sat cross-legged on the steps with three little girls gathered around her while she carefully braided their hair, looking absurdly focused on making each braid symmetrical or something.

The sight alone makes something warm settle quietly in your chest. 

“Oh thank goodness..!” You see Miss Jenkins hurrying over, before stopping short once her eyes land on your split lip.

“(Name)!” Concern flashes across her face instantly. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“(Name) fought off like…five bad guys who tried to hurt me!” Elliot beams proudly, practically vibrating beside you. “She was super cool!”

Miss Jenkins’ eyes widen in horror. “…What??!”

You immediately shake your head. “I’m fine,” you assure quickly. “Really. It looks worse than it is.”

Miss Jenkins gives you a very unconvinced look, gaze lingering on the faint bruising beginning to form near your cheek before she finally sighs.

“Well… if you’re certain.” Then she turns toward Elliot. “Now, Elliot,” she says gently, “Mrs. Cole wants to see you in her office.”

Elliot blinks. “Huh?” He glances between you and Miss Jenkins in confusion. “Why?”

Miss Jenkins smiles softly.

“It looks like someone’s here to adopt you.”

i be plotting guys… fucking 20k word chapter omfg. don’t be mad at me for the cliffhanger… 😅😵‍💫 (i genuinely kept rewriting so many parts bc i wasn’t satisfied with it someone save me pls)

taglist is closed ‼️