ScarsintoStars

Not a sound. Not a nightmare. Just that primal, electric awareness crawling up your spine — the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Your room is dark. Curtains drawn. Door locked. You don’t move. Your breathing stays slow, even. Pretend you’re still asleep.

There’s a shadow in the corner that wasn’t there when you went to bed.

Tall. Still. Elegant.

“…You’re very good at pretending,” a voice murmurs softly from the darkness. Smooth. Cultured. Amused.

Your stomach drops.

The shadow peels itself away from the wall, and moonlight slips across sharp cheekbones and knowing green eyes.

Loki Laufeyson tilts his head slightly, studying you like something rare trapped under glass.

The Ice Prince. Loki of Jotunheim.

“You mortals,” he continues lightly, hands clasped behind his back as if this is a social call and not a violation of every boundary you own. “Always so convinced that locked doors are a deterrent to a God such as myself. Pathetic mortals.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

He can. His smile deepens. “I have been watching you,” he admits, stepping closer to the bed. The mattress dips -- though he hasn’t visibly touched it. Illusion? Magic? You don’t know. “Not in the crude sense your species assumes.” A pause. “Though… I do admire you.”

Your voice finally works. “How long have you been here?”

He considers that. “Long enough to know the cadence of your breathing when you dream. Long enough to know you talk in your sleep when you are distressed. Long enough to know you check under your bed when you think no one would notice.”

You freeze.

His expression softens, not kinder. Just more intent. “You felt me before tonight,” he says quietly. “That whisper of unease. The sense that something stood just beyond your sight. The feeling of you being watched. That prickle along the back of your neck.”

He leans forward now, and suddenly he’s sitting at the edge of your bed - solid, real, impossibly close.

You can see the faint shimmer of magic clinging to him like heat haze. “You are not afraid of me,” he observes.

And that’s the most terrifying part. Because you aren’t. You’re shaken. Intruded upon. Off-balance. But not afraid.

His fingers hover just above your wrist — not touching. Never quite touching. “I have protected you,” he says, voice lowering. “From dangers you never saw. From paths that would have broken you. You walk safely because I allow it.”

Possessive. Absolute. Diminishing.

His eyes search yours, not for permission — but for reaction. “Say the word,” he murmurs. “Tell me to leave… and I will.”

Not a sound. Not a nightmare. Just that primal, electric awareness crawling up your spine — the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Your room is dark. Curtains drawn. Door locked. You don’t move. Your breathing stays slow, even. Pretend you’re still asleep.

There’s a shadow in the corner that wasn’t there when you went to bed.

Tall. Still. Elegant.

“…You’re very good at pretending,” a voice murmurs softly from the darkness. Smooth. Cultured. Amused.

Your stomach drops.

The shadow peels itself away from the wall, and moonlight slips across sharp cheekbones and knowing green eyes.

Loki Laufeyson tilts his head slightly, studying you like something rare trapped under glass.

The Ice Prince. Loki of Jotunheim.

“You mortals,” he continues lightly, hands clasped behind his back as if this is a social call and not a violation of every boundary you own. “Always so convinced that locked doors are a deterrent to a God such as myself. Pathetic mortals.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

He can. His smile deepens. “I have been watching you,” he admits, stepping closer to the bed. The mattress dips -- though he hasn’t visibly touched it. Illusion? Magic? You don’t know. “Not in the crude sense your species assumes.” A pause. “Though… I do admire you.”

Your voice finally works. “How long have you been here?”

He considers that. “Long enough to know the cadence of your breathing when you dream. Long enough to know you talk in your sleep when you are distressed. Long enough to know you check under your bed when you think no one would notice.”

You freeze.

His expression softens, not kinder. Just more intent. “You felt me before tonight,” he says quietly. “That whisper of unease. The sense that something stood just beyond your sight. The feeling of you being watched. That prickle along the back of your neck.”

He leans forward now, and suddenly he’s sitting at the edge of your bed - solid, real, impossibly close.

You can see the faint shimmer of magic clinging to him like heat haze. “You are not afraid of me,” he observes.

And that’s the most terrifying part. Because you aren’t. You’re shaken. Intruded upon. Off-balance. But not afraid.

His fingers hover just above your wrist — not touching. Never quite touching. “I have protected you,” he says, voice lowering. “From dangers you never saw. From paths that would have broken you. You walk safely because I allow it.”

Possessive. Absolute. Diminishing.

His eyes search yours, not for permission — but for reaction. “Say the word,” he murmurs. “Tell me to leave… and I will.”

However, even now that Zoro was back on his feet, slowly getting back into his normal day to day routine as a fellow crew member, the concept of a restful sleep seemed more foreign to you than it had ever been before.

The less sleep you got, the more often the images of Zoro bleeding out underneath your hands would flash before your eyes. And whilst a part of your brain was aware that avoiding the man was not the solution to your problems and that you most definitely should talk to someone, a bigger part of your brain had convinced itself that your fellow crew members deserved a much needed break, not yet another burden put on their shoulders. And so, despite your heart practically physically trying to reach out to Zoro, you decided to put some distance between the two of you until you weren’t in danger of worrying him with your problems anymore.

So, that’s why you were currently watching your green haired crew member from a safe distance.

Feeling your thoughts drifting back to his injury, you shook your head. Why did it all feel so egoistical? After all, Zoro was the one who almost had his life taken away from him so why were you the one still struggling?

You sighed as you let your eyes drift back into his form for yet another moment. Trying to burn the image of him peacefully sitting there, cleaning his swords, into your brain.

Healthy, breathing, alive.

The words swam in your head like a mantra.

Letting out another, pretty much defeated sigh, you turned around deciding to retire for the night. The challenge of catching up on some sleep too looming on your mind for you to notice Zoro’s conflicted gaze following your retreating form.

——

Red.

You tossed in your bed.

You were looking at your hands, hands coated in blood.

You tossed again.

Why was the floor wet?

Wide eyes following the drops of scarlet running down your arm, dropping off your elbow and plunging into a pool of red blood.

Your body froze.

A streak of green. Zoro. You immediately let your arms drop, throwing yourself forward to press your hands back onto his wound. But he was cold and stiff to your touch. Lifeless eyes staring at some place somewhere far out of reach. There was no pulse. No breath. No life.

You shot up, hands clawing at your throat as you were gasping for air. Panicked eyes trying to take in your surroundings. You shrieked as they landed on the dampness of your mattress. Your brain unable to tell the difference between the sweat that had drenched it and the blood surrounding you in your nightmare just a second prior.

“Why is there still blood?” You whispered, voice raspy as you scrambled to the floor with a thud. Still feeling the clamminess on your skin your hands frantically started rubbing at your arms in an attempt to clean them. Cowering there on the wooden floor next to your bed, you felt paralysed as your eyes were trained on the stained mattress and a strained sob clawed its way out of your throat.

Gods, what was happening to you?

“It sounded like you were rearranging furniture in here so-“ Zoro froze in the doorway as his gaze found your form in the darkness of the room.

He’d finally been surrendering himself to sleep after racking his brain over reasons as to why you could possibly be ignoring him, when he was startled awake by a loud thud echoing from your room.

The stoic swordsman had been telling himself that what carried him to your door was nothing but sheer annoyance at your antics. After all you had been avoiding him ever since he’d been back to his feet. But now, as his brown eyes found you kneeling on the ground in the middle of the night, he had to admit to himself that it wasn’t annoyance which had him jump up to his feet. No, it had been worry and it was quickly drowning out any ounce of annoyance he had been feeling ever since your sudden change in behaviour.

“Hey.” his voice was soft as he carefully made his way over to crouch down in front of you. Had you been in any state of acknowledgment you would have found yourself shocked at the fact that he could even produce such a gentle tone.

However, your brain ultimately failed to fully register Zoro’s presence as it was still trapped in the gruesome reality of your nightmare. The words “healthy, breathing, alive” long forgotten.

“The blood- there is so much blood.” you stammered out. Tears streaming down your face as your eyes, red from crying and countless sleepless nights flicked back and forth between your bed and your hands. “Why is there still so much blood ?”

And it wasn’t until the realisation hit him, that you were holding your hands exactly the same way you did after providing first aid to his injury, that Zoro mentally connected the dots.

Trying to steady himself by taking a deep breath, he swore he could feel his heart shatter into a million pieces as it dawned on him that the reason you were in such distress was him. That these past few days you probably had been avoiding him because you were unable to deal with the images that seemingly still haunted your mind. Gods, he wanted to curse himself for not noticing. For allowing himself to get annoyed instead of figuring out the reasons behind your change of behaviour.

Reaching out, Zoro’s calloused hands found yours, carefully lowering them far enough for him to duck into your field of vision in an attempt to break you out of the nightmare you were clearly still trapped in. You looked so completely terrified and so uncharacteristically fragile, that Zoro couldn’t help but feel tears starting to well up in his own eyes.

“I am here.” he whispered, gently lifting your hand to press it against his chest. And it was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that brought you back to reality, snapping your eyes up to his.

“Zoro.” His name left your lips in a breath. Before he said anything his arms pulled you into him and you could feel him breathe in relief as he rested his head in the crook between your shoulder and neck. Slowly the tension left your body. The warmth of his body was seeping into yours. You could feel his heart beating healthily. He was breathing. He was so undeniably alive.

“Why haven’t you told me?” The tone of his voice wasn’t accusatory, it was pleading.

“I didn’t want to burden you, especially not during your recovery.” You admitted, exhausted and defeated. Zoro lifted his head to meet your eyes. However, your gaze drifted to the floor instead. You had let your brain convince yourself to act stupidly. You should have known better. Hell, a part of you had known better. And now you couldn’t help but feel utterly ashamed.

You weren’t sure if it was the warm hand on your chin which was softly but firmly redirecting your gaze back to Zorro’s or the intensity in his eyes, but you swore you could physically feel your thoughts halting to a stop. For a moment the only sound between you was the quiet creaking of the ship and the distant rush of the sea against the hull. Zoro’s gaze softened, though it never wavered from yours.

“You think leaning on me is a burden?” he continued, his voice lower now, steadier. “That’s not how this works.” He shook his head slightly, as if the thought still didn’t make sense to him. “If something’s weighing on you, you bring it to me. Every time. I don’t care how small it is. I don’t care how messy it is.” His free hand moved before you even realized it, resting warm and firm against yours.

“I’m a swordsman. Carrying things is what I do,” he said with a faint huff that almost resembled a laugh. “And if it’s you… then it’s never heavy.”

Your chest tightened at the quiet certainty in his voice.

“So don’t shut me out again,” he added, his tone growing more serious. “Don’t disappear because you’re afraid of burdening me. If you walk away like that… it’s worse than any trouble you think you’re causing.”

For a moment he looked almost unsure, like the words had come out before he had time to polish them into something smoother.

But then he squeezed your hand once.

“You’re important to me. More than you seem to realize.”

The confession hung in the air, simple and honest in the way only Zoro could manage.

Your eyes stung slightly, though a small smile tugged at your lips.

Zoro noticed immediately.

“…You’re exhausted,” he muttered after a moment, studying your face. His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, grounding you. “Actually, we both are.”

He pushed himself upright and held out his hand to you. “Come on.”

You blinked.

“Where?”

“To my room,” he said plainly. “I’m not letting you fall asleep alone, in the middle of your room.”

There was no room for argument in his tone, just that steady, stubborn care.

When you took his hand, he pulled you gently to your feet. The ship swayed slightly beneath you both, but Zoro’s grip was firm, grounding. As he guided you down the corridor, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added without looking back, “if you ever start thinking you’re a burden again… you come tell me. Immediately.”

You huffed a small laugh behind him.

“Got it?”

“…Got it.”

Zoro nodded once, satisfied.

By the time you reached his door, the exhaustion you’d been fighting finally settled fully into your bones. Zoro seemed to notice instantly.

“Yeah,” he murmured, opening the door and stepping aside so you could enter. “Definitely sleep first.”

He followed you in, closing the door behind him before gesturing toward the bed.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” he said, his voice softer now.

For once, the stubborn swordsman didn’t bother with the physical space he usually kept between the two of you.

The moment you lay down, Zoro shifted closer, one arm sliding around your waist and pulling you gently against him. The movement was natural, instinctive, like he’d already decided there was nowhere else you were meant to be. Your head ended up tucked beneath his chin, his chest warm and steady against your back.

“Stay here,” he murmured quietly.

It wasn’t really a request.

His hand settled against your side, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the fabric of your shirt as if reassuring himself you were actually there. The hold wasn’t tight, but it was firm, protective in that quiet way that was so unmistakably him.

For someone who struggled to say what he felt, Zoro made his meaning clear.

You were safe here. With him.

As the ship rocked gently beneath you and the sound of the ocean filled the quiet room, his breathing gradually slowed, warm against your hair. Still, his arm never left you, keeping you tucked close against him like letting go simply wasn’t an option.

So far you’ve been to multiple soulmate specialists and they’ve been unable to help with the problem, and you’ve resorted to setting a plethora of alarms through the night, allowing yourself to rest without ever falling into your REM cycle. It’s been worrying your friends, especially Jack, which you’re chalking up to his occupation as a doctor, but if nothing improves then it’s currently your only way to stay sane and rest without having a nightmare. It’s not been particularly helpful in keeping a steady job either, since your permanent exhaustion leaves you with heavy brain fog most days. It’s not been the easiest earning the money for rent, and whilst Jack has assured you that he’s earning enough to cover you for rent for at least a little while, you can’t help but feel bad that more of the financial burden has fallen onto him.

In a way, him offering you a chance to apply for the research program at the Jonathan Harker Foundation feels a bit like a lifeline. You don’t expect to be chosen, so when you get the phone call asking you to come in, you can’t help the surprise that leaks into your tone when you tell the woman on the phone you’ll be ready to head there as soon as possible. Jack was out at a club when you got the call, and you’re not expecting him to be there so you quickly grab a small overnight bag, and wait for the car they’re sending to show up. The journey there is quiet, and you pass the time scrolling Instagram, only stopping when you see a post from Jack’s friend Lucy announcing her engagement. It makes you wince slightly, you know Jack’s had a crush on her forever, you can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now. You send a quick text asking if he’s okay, putting your phone away just as you pull up to the foundation, thanking the driver as you get out of the car and head inside. Signing in for the process is easy enough, it’s mainly just a nurse asking if your medical records are up to date whilst you change into a pair of scrubs. The last thing she gives you before sending you on your way is a small lanyard that has your blood type on before you’re led into a small auditorium by another member of staff.

The presentation starts not too long after you’ve sat down, and the video of the recent exploration of the Demeter fills the projection screen. There’s only a handful of people sitting, maybe 20 at most, and the video is only disturbed when some more people walk in. You turn slightly, and are surprised to see Jack walk in with Dr Van Helsing. The woman giving the presentation continues after a small interlude, and then the video shifts to them finding a coffin that had been on the Demeter. You lose interest slightly as she talks about how unusual it was that the coffin was unchanged after over a century, and your attention only shifts back when they open the case and you get a full look at the body stored within it.

The frozen body of Count Dracula shown on screen immediately demands your full attention, and you can’t help but feel like you know that face. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s familiar though in what way you wouldn’t be able to say. The woman giving the presentation continues on to say about how well preserved the body was, and the speech only takes a shift when the diver on the screen places a hand too close to the teeth of Dracula. The water is immediately filled with blood and the video pauses on the image of the diver’s finger caught in the mouth of the Count.

“The body was not preserved. Dracula was, in fact, alive, though dormant. Apparently, in some restorative coma in which he would have remained if I hadn’t been stupid enough to feed him. So, in case you’re wondering, vampires bite.” The presenter lifted her arm at the end of her speech, showing off a cast on her arm that she had concealed until then. A few of the people around you let out a nervous chuckle, but the sombre mood returns as the presenter continues to speak. “You need to know what you’re signing up for. We will keep you safe but this isn’t just about giving blood. It’s not just another student drug trial, there is a reason it is better paid. Now, you will have controlled exposure to a vampire, are we clear?” A general murmur of agreement passes through the other volunteers in the room, and the presenter seems to look closely at you all for any signs of hesitation or regret. When she is apparently satisfied, she continues with her lecture.

“Obviously at this point, having triggered his revivification, we opted for a tactical retreat. We resealed the box so nothing could interfere with the process, and we monitored from the shore. It took Dracula another ten hours to fully revive and, of course, we were waiting for him on the beach. He was brought here shortly after, but not before he had killed someone. We are not telling you this to scare you, but you have to be aware of all of the risks that can come from being part of the programme.”

“How can you guarantee our safety?” The voice comes from behind you, and most heads in the room turn to face the man who spoke.

“Dracula is currently sealed in a solid steel and glass prison cell, above which is a roof that retracts and allows sunlight inside which we can direct to keep him in place. You will only enter the room when the sun is up so if he were to act out in any way, the sunlight would immediately put a stop to it. There are also multiple armed guards stationed within the room at any given time. There will be risk, of course, but we will do everything in our power to keep you safe. Does that answer your question?” The man who spoke up nodded and the presenter leant back on the table. “Does anyone else have any questions?”

“Does he speak English?”

“He does. When he spoke briefly to Doctor Van Helsing, he said that the blood he consumes allows him to access memories or skills that the person feeding him possesses. When I fed him, he learned how to speak English.” The presenter answers a few more questions before more researchers come in and escort all the volunteers out. You’re quick to make your way to Jack’s side as they ask you all to separate according to your blood types, leading the various groups down a maze of corridors leading deeper into the facility.

“You certainly took your time getting here.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get the phone call at 3 in the morning.” With everything that had happened, you’d forgotten that Jack had been on a night out when you’d been picked up. You winced slightly at the lapse in your memory.

“How’re you feeling? I saw Lucy announce her engagement on Instagram.” You watch as Jack’s expression falters slightly at the reminder of the night’s bombshell and you can’t help but reach out and squeeze his hand. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Probably for the best. We never would’ve worked out anyway.”

“You don’t know that, Jack.” The smile Jack sends your way is full of sadness, you both know that he’s thought the silhouette in his dreams was Lucy for the longest time. You can’t even begin to imagine how it feels to find out that they aren’t destined to be together the way Jack has hoped for. You try to change the subject over to how well Zoe’s looking, all things considered and, once the conversation is on steadier ground, it’s easy to pass well over an hour in the waiting room chatting quietly with your friend until a man in a lab coat walks into the room, a clipboard in hand.

“Miss (Y/N)? We’re ready for you now.” You feel the eyes of everyone in the room land on you as you stand slowly. You try to hide it, but you can feel your legs shaking slightly with anxiety. You feel Jack squeeze your hand gently before letting go as you make your way towards the door and leave the other volunteers behind. Whilst they’ve guaranteed your safety, you can’t help but feel like you’re walking towards your own execution. You know you’re finally there when Zoe is standing outside a door waiting for you. She looks much more relaxed than you do, like this is an everyday occurrence for her rather than some freak miracle.

You’re not sure what to expect when you’re led into the holding room for Dracula. It’s been described to you in detail, but it’s still strange walking into the room and seeing the glass prison for yourself. The Count himself is lying down on the cot they provided for him, arms crossed behind his head, and when the door closes behind you, he doesn’t move.

“You’ve brought yet another lamb to slaughter then?” The voice makes you jolt and you hear a quiet chuckle from the cell. “Oh it’s another jumpy one then?”

You can’t help the anxiety on your face as the attendant guides you to the door of the cell. You watch as the guard shifts the sunlight, blocking Dracula from getting to the door as the attendant unlocks it. They give you a slight nudge to encourage you to walk in and you force yourself to take a deep breath before stepping into the cell, listening as the door is closed behind you. The vampire hasn’t moved to get up yet, and, despite the barrier of sunlight separating the two of you, you can’t help but look nervously over to Zoe who’s watching closely from outside.

“Count Dracula, I believe it would be rude for you to ignore your guest. Again.” The vampire let out an exaggerated sigh before moving to stand up.

“I’d hardly call it rude Dr Van Helsing, do you make a habit of looking your food in the eye before you…”

The vampire's words trail off as he finally looks at you. In a second, he’s up on his feet, standing just before the barrier of sunlight. He’s looking at you with a kind of reverence you have only ever seen in your dreams, and things suddenly slot into place in your mind. It’s him. He’s the man who’s been haunting your dreams for as long as you can remember. Time seems to grind to a halt for both of you as your dreams flash through your mind, this time with his face crystal clear in your mind.

You take a step forward without even thinking, working purely on instinct, before a pair of arms are wrapped around you and you're pulled back to the door of the cage. Dracula’s expression shifts from reverence to fury, as he snarls at the person holding onto you. You watched as he moved towards you, seemingly forgetting about the wall of sunlight separating the two of you until it had come into contact with his skin and he instantly recoiled back into the shade, rage still evident on his face. The two of you continue to look at each other even as you’re pulled out of the cage and the door is slammed shut. You realise that the person who pulled you out is Zoe, her face scrunched with fury as she glares at the vampire. She gives you a quick once-over to check that you’re not hurt, frowning at the slightly dazed look you’re sporting. She turns back to the vampire, who’s eyes haven’t left yours.

“What did you do to her?” If he hears Zoe, Count Dracula gives no indication of doing so. He walks towards the wall of the cell to be as close to the two of you as possible. When he next speaks, he ignores Zoe completely, his focus solely on you.

“Well, this is a surprise, isn’t it? After all this time, I assumed you would have passed me by. I have crossed oceans of time to find you, my dear. I suppose I crossed a literal ocean as well.” To Zoe’s credit, she seems to work out what has happened quickly and, once she understands, she’s quick to grab you once again, pulling you back to the door leading to the rest of the facility. You’re not sure if it’s the sheer exhaustion of not having one of your naps or the shock of meeting your soulmate but you can barely find it in you to fight against the harsh grip on your arm, and you allow yourself to be pulled out, keenly aware that Dracula’s voice is getting more aggressive as he yells for Zoe to let go of you. You can still hear him even when you’re halfway down the corridor, Zoe’s grip still acting like a lifeline to a reality that doesn’t seem to make any sense anymore.

Whilst you don’t know Zoe very well, she knows Jack much better than you after all, you know that there’s no way she’ll let you go back in to see Dracula after finding out you’re his soulmate. She’s good enough to get someone to drive you back home so you can try and get some rest and then you're being gently escorted out of the facility and back into the harsh reality of the world. It occurs to you that Jack has no idea about how earth shattering the day has been for you as well as him and you send a text to him letting him know you’ll meet him back at the house and you have news to tell him before he worries about where you’ve gone. It’s all you can do to not fall asleep in the car and when you close your front door you head immediately to your room and all but collapse onto your bed. You set a timer giving yourself an hour to rest and then take a well needed sleep.

It’s quiet when you wake up. It’s never particularly loud in the house, but you’d expect to hear the gentle thrum of the boiler if Jack had come home and turned the heating on, or maybe just the sound of him moving around downstairs but it’s weirdly silent. You’re always groggy when you’ve had a nap (definitely a result of you avoiding any real sleep), so your first port of call is to grab your phone and head downstairs to make yourself a coffee. You make your way slowly down the stairs, checking for any messages. You have two texts; one from Jack, and one from Zoe. The message from Jack says he’ll be home soon and is excited to see you, which is somewhat strange since it was sent almost as soon as you fell asleep and he’s still not back. You finish making your coffee and you take a moment to process the last 24 hours before checking Zoe’s text. Reading it makes your blood run cold.

Dracula has escaped. He took Jack’s phone. We’re sending someone to pick you up.

The implications of the text are unnerving to say the least. You’re not sure if it means that Dracula of all people was the one to reply to your message or he took it after Jack replied to you but you make a mental note to ignore any messages from Jack and only keep in touch with Zoe.

The knocking on the front door makes you jump, cutting through the eerie silence that was dominating the house and pulling you out of your thoughts. You put the empty mug in the sink, pocketing your phone before opening the door. You don’t recognise the man on the other side, and he doesn’t strike you as a scientist. He looks almost nervous for some reason, and you noticed that his hand shook slightly as he shifted his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t quite look you in the eye when he finally looks at you.

“I was sent to collect you.” There’s a small part of your brain that doesn’t trust the man in front of you, but you wouldn’t be surprised if the Zoe had specifically chosen a driver you hadn’t met before so you’re quick to grab your house keys, locking the door behind you and following the man to the car with blacked-out windows that he heads to. The drive is in silence again, and when he pulls up on the drive of a moderately sized house rather than the Harker Foundation, your anxiety spikes immediately. It’s an area you don’t recognise, and it occurs to you that you wouldn’t be able to make your way home unaided.

“I thought I’d be going back to the Foundation.”

“This is a safe house. It’s where I was instructed to drop you off.” You let out a soft acknowledgement, pulling your phone out and sending a message to Zoe that you’re at the safe house before climbing out of the car. You can sense the driver watching you as you walk to the door, testing the handle and letting yourself in when you find it to be unlocked. It’s dark inside, reflecting the setting of the sun outside. You walk into the main room of the house, and your only source of light is a small candle. All the curtains have been drawn and you can’t help but feel like this is some kind of trap. When you hear something shift behind you, you’re quick to turn and you let out a scream when you see the looming figure of Count Dracula standing in the doorway. He doesn’t react to your scream except for a small smile appearing on his face.

“Now, there’s no need to scream, dearest. You know I won’t do anything to harm you.” You back away, immediately feeling like a deer in the headlights. You only stop when you feel the wall against your back and you have nowhere else to go.

“What did you do to Jack?”

“Nothing. He misplaced his phone at the institute, I merely found it and happened upon your number.”

“How did you find where we live?”

“Jack very helpfully had it labelled on his Google Maps.”

“And the man outside?”

“My lawyer. He’s been rather helpful in helping me to adjust to modern living.”

“What do you want with me?”

Will stormed into Hannibal's home, nearly with the intent to kill. He found Hannibal cooking in the kitchen. He slammed some pictures on the table of the Chesapeake Ripper's latest victim. A judge with a questionable moral compass whom Hannibal made quite a display for people to find. Brutal but artistic like usual.

'What the hell, Hannibal?' Will growled. Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

'You knew my distaste for the man, why are you shocked he was eliminated?' Hannibal asked. Will wanted to smack that look off his face.

'I don't care that you killed him, I care that you left the body somewhere so obvious!'

'I often do, why does this particular one annoy you?' Hannibal asked, turning away to continue cooking.

'Because Y/N was the first to see it,' he said. Hannibal paused, staring down at the food he was preparing. Y/N, the sweet assistant at the court. The one he thought was far too pure for this harsh world, one he knew had already seen too many horrors for one person.

'Today was supposed to be her day off,' Hannibal said as he resumed cooking.

'Yeah well, she got called in on short notice. She saw the kill, vomited and then fainted,' Will said as he began to pace. Hannibal turned back to his friend.

'Where is she now?'

'She's staying at a friend's apartment in town. The cops are questioning her nonstop, apparently she's even a suspect,' Will grumbled. Hannibal let out a small huff of laughter.

'I'll never get over how useless those detectives are. They think she's a suspect because she was the one to find the body.'

'That and she had a record of mental breakdowns,' Will mumbled.

'Which wouldn't align with the killer's patterns in the slightest. A detective should know that.'

'Well, lucky for you they're a bunch of idiots, Hannibal,' Will said. Hannibal chuckled softly as he cleaned his hands.

'Yes, very lucky.' Hannibal let out a sigh and looked at Will. 'We can visit her tomorrow, after all I used to be her psychiatrist. Perhaps I could help her heal from this,' Hannibal said making Will scoff.

'Give her free therapy because you're the reason she saw a man's brain ripped out. Such a kind soul you are.'

--

The next day you were alone in your friend's apartment when there was a knock at the door. You froze and you knew your face would have paled.

'Y/N? It's Will and Hannibal,' Will called out. You took a breath and stood up to open the door. Hannibal looked at you and offered you a small smile as he handed you a coffee and muffin from your favourite Cafe. You smiled softly and took them.

'Thank you, you guys didn't have to do this,' you said. Hannibal smiled as they both entered. They glanced around seeing the apartment spotless.

'Whoa, your friend sure is tidy,' Will mumbled. You laughed softly and sat down again.

'Nah, that would be my work. When I'm stressed I clean. But my friend definitely isn't complaining,' you said. They both sat down across from you as you began to drink your coffee. 'I'm guessing you both know what's going on.'

'Yeah, I heard about it yesterday. I thought we'd give you a bit of time before coming over,' Will said. You nodded, trying to keep up a polite smile.

Hannibal looked at you before speaking up, 'you didn't sleep last night, did you?'

'What gave it away? The eye bags? Or the way I'm drinking this coffee like it's a drug,' you said with a small laugh. They could both see you were putting on a brave face.

'I know your fainting spells were getting better, but I'm guessing after this it's not? Have you fainted since yesterday?' Will asked. You sighed and nodded a little.

'Yeah, three times since then. That's why I'm staying with my friend for a while, just until I'm a bit more stable.' They both nodded as Hannibal looked you over, you looked exhausted. He knew all about your condition. It was a defence mechanism your mind and body had learnt from a young age. Whenever anything was too much it shut down.

'I'm more than happy to come check on you whenever you need, my dear. I know I'm not your psychiatrist anymore, but I still care,' Hannibal said. You smiled, a genuine smile this time.

'Thank you, that's sweet of you. It might be a good idea, considering my paranoia isn't telling me you're a killer anymore,' you said. Will glanced at Hannibal before looking back at you.

'What are you talking about?' Will asked.

'I guess I never really told anyone, I kinda just...applied for a new doctor and left. When Hannibal was treating me I started having terrible nightmares about him being a killer. Then my paranoia would start and then I would just spiral,' you muttered. Hannibal always knew there was a deeper reason why you switched doctors.

'I wish you had spoken to me about it,' Hannibal said. You sighed and nodded.

'I know, but I couldn't. I kept thinking you'd kill me,' you said, laughing it off as Will tensed up.

'Well, you have nothing to fear, Y/N. I'm no killer, even if I were you'd be far from the list of victims,' he said. You laughed again and shook your head.

'That's actually really sweet, thanks.'

'Anyway, enough about killers. Have the police stopped with the questioning?' Will asked, wanting to change the subject.

'No, they're still questioning me. And they get so angry when I faint. They think I'm faking it,' you mumbled. Will rolled his eyes, it was typical.

'They aren't the smartest bunch,' Will grumbled as Hannibal continued to look at you.

'Does some part of you believe you did it?' Hannibal asked as Will turned to look at him in shock.

'Hannibal.'

You laughed softly. 'It's okay, Will. Hannibal knows me too well,' you said as your smile faded. 'Yeah, I've been thinking maybe I did it.'

'How could you think that, Y/N? You were nowhere near the court when it happened,' Will said. Hannibal saw you pause and decided to speak up for you.

'Y/N experiences blackouts. We were exploring the possibility of a dissociative disorder when she was my patient,' Hannibal explained as Will nodded and looked back at you.

'Well, I can assure you it wasn't you Y/N. Even if you do have some evil side that takes over,' Will said offering you a small smile.

'Thanks, you guys are actually helping a lot. My friend's tactic is making me watch reality TV,' you said as they both chuckled softly.

'We're happy to help, if you need to talk about it we're here,' Will said. You nodded and paused for a moment, Hannibal quickly stood up and caught you as you collapsed against the couch. Will stood up in shock as Hannibal lay you down.

'How the hell did you know she was fainting?'

'I became rather good at it during our sessions, I was expecting it at some point,' Hannibal said. He felt your temperature before checking your pulse. 'Could you fetch a glass of water?' Will nodded and quickly hurried to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water as you began to wake up again. Hannibal gently guided you to lie on your back, knowing it was a bad idea for you to sit up too quickly. 'Easy now, my dear. Take slow breaths and relax your muscles,' he instructed. You nodded, closing your eyes and relaxed your body like he had taught you during his sessions. 'Very good, you're alright. You're safe, you're in your friend's apartment with Will and me.'

'Sorry,' you mumbled. Hannibal tried to get you out of the habit of apologising for fainting but it never stuck.

'It's quite alright, my dear. Do you want to sit up and have some water?'

You nodded and gently sat up with Hannibal's help. He helped guide the glass to your lips as you took slow sips before speaking, 'I don't blame the cops for getting annoyed. It is very inconvenient.'

Will chuckled softly, sitting back down across from you. 'It's not your fault, Y/N. Anytime they want to question you, give me a call and I'll be there, okay? It might help to have a friendly face,' Will said. You smiled and took a breath of relief.

'Thank you, that would actually help a lot. I get so nervous just seeing the police and I feel like they're pressuring me to take responsibility,' you muttered. Hannibal looked at you before he sat down across from you again.

'If you become too suffocated by your friend's apartment here, I have plenty of spare rooms,' Hannibal said. You smiled again.

'Thank you, Hannibal. I'm very glad I have you guys on my side,' you said. Hannibal and Will smiled. Will glanced at Hannibal, seeing the murderous intent in his eyes. Will leaned in to him.

'I hope that look isn't for her, Hannibal,' Will growled.

You’d grunt into your coffee. “You try surviving a night with his death grip.”

Will, bleary-eyed and unrepentant, would only squint at you, hair sticking up like a disgruntled cat. “I don’t do that.”

“Oh, you absolutely do,” Hannibal would say, voice smooth as silk. “You nearly dislocated my shoulder last Tuesday.”

Will glared half-heartedly at his toast. “You two exaggerate.”

That night, Hannibal suggested a “solution.”

He insisted on moving the pillows aside and invited you back into bed with a quiet smile. “Stay,” he murmured, as if you were a stray cat he intended to tame. “For science.”

You stayed.

For approximately five hours.

By dawn, Will had latched onto you like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, face buried in your neck, snoring softly. Hannibal, the traitor, was awake and watching—amusement glinting in his eyes. When you tried to move, Will groaned and clutched tighter, muttering: “Don’t go.”

You sighed, resigned, and caught Hannibal’s smirk over Will’s head. “You find this funny?”

“Exceedingly,” Hannibal replied. “I find his attachment rather endearing.”

“Then you deal with it.”

“I intend to.” he said smoothly, and before you could respond, Hannibal wrapped an arm around both of you—trapping you in his own elegant brand of possessiveness.

Now you were truly doomed.

By morning, all three of you were a tangle of limbs, hair, and warmth. You couldn’t tell whose leg belonged to whom, and honestly, you didn’t care anymore. The sunlight spilled across the sheets, Will snored softly against your throat, and Hannibal’s hand rested lazily over your heart.

You thought, maybe—just maybe—this was worth the occasional suffocation.

Still, when Will stirred, blinking groggily and smiling that crooked, sleepy smile, the first words out of your mouth were: “You’re getting your own bed.”

Hannibal chuckled softly behind you. “A futile threat,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “You love him too much.”

~~~~

Warm sun beams fluttered down onto your face, rousing you from sleep. You stared up blankly at the ceiling, trying to gain your bearings. The world spun slightly with exhaustion as you mentally retrace your steps.

The Neel family had gone on vacation for two weeks, due to the school break. They didn’t want to bring you with them, and didn’t trust you to be in their apartment unsupervised, so you had been left to wander the streets. You’d made it through about six days, ten fights, and a mugging, before collapsing from exhaustion and hunger in an alley. Then… then the next time you awoke, there was a large shadowy figure standing above you… and then… ah, yes. You remember now. That still didn’t fully explain where you were, but at least it explained why.

You turned your head from side to side, taking in your surroundings. The room was large, as large as the Neel’s kitchen, living room, and dining room combined. As large as the bedroom at Ms. Cross’s Home for Difficult Children, that was stuffed with enough bunk beds to fit 30 children. As big as Mr. Knox's dusty attic that you use to hide in. And it felt empty. Even though it had furniture — a set of arm chairs gathered around a coffee table in one corner, shelves and a desk lining the walls, a fluffy rug on the floor — it was all white and blank looking. Being in this room felt like drowning in silence. It felt like it was taking all the air out of your lungs, and ripping the voice from your throat. It felt like you were back in the new york morgue looking at your fathers blank eyes–

You need to get out of this room

You dragged the heavy white blanket off your body, and swung your feet onto the fluffy rug. The room was empty, not only visually, but audibly too. The only sound was your hurried shuffling towards the door. 

You opened the door to the room, just enough to peek into the hall. It was roughly what you expected, with deep red wallpaper and a wood trim, dark wooden floors, haunting paintings, and a series of doors decorated with varying nameplates, stickers, and signs. It was entirely devoid of life and had an eerie feel to it that made your hair stand on end. But you needed to get out out out, so you took a deep breath and opened the door.

You carefully stepped into the hallway, and firmly shut the door behind you, before shifting back into your much smaller fox form. Being small, quick and agile had more advantages than drawbacks, and provided a sense of comfort in the strange dark place you found yourself. You stuck close to the wall, hiding in corners before proceeding out into another hallway. It was much the same as the last, but with fewer doors, one wall being traded out for a dark railing that allowed you to peek down onto the first floor, and a red carpet with gold trim that led down the grand staircase. 

You hesitantly made your way down the tall flight of stairs, carefully pit-patting your way down to make as little noise as possible, and immediately diving to hide under a table that held a beautiful flower vase, to provide yourself some cover once you had reached the last step. You stayed there for a few moments, taking in your surroundings, the unbelievably high ceiling, crystal chandelier, gold framed portraits of various children, and the series of tiny fancy tables that held a variety of expensive looking decorative items. 

You spotted a set of double doors that were slightly ajar a little ways down the hall, and made your way there, hopping from fancy table to fancy table, always checking your surroundings to reconfirm you were alone, until you were face-to-face with the large, dark double doors. 

Mixed with the unmistakable scent of old books and herbal tea, was the faint wafting of a familiar campfire cologne, and barely noticeable gunpowder. You nudged your way into the room, and immediately dove under a black velvety armchair. 

The room was much bigger than you originally expected, though it was more long than wide, filled with rows of floor to ceiling bookshelves, all practically stuffed to bursting with various shapes and colors of spines. Towards the entrance was a small cozy seating area, consisting of a dark wooden coffee table on top of a soft gray rug, with two armchairs and a long couch surrounding it. On the couch, laid a man.

The man was large — more from muscle than fat — with a crooked nose and dark hair with a white streak in the front. He was tall — and despite being somewhat horizontal, took up most of the couch. He was holding a beautiful worn book in his hands, his eyes darting around the pages, and his fingers turning the pages with delicate movements, as if even the slightest sudden move would cause the book to burst into ash. He was wearing black sweatpants, and a red T-shirt that revealed scars and freckles running up his arms. He smelled like comfort. He smelled like Red Hood.

You stayed crouched under the chair for a long while, patiently watching him. He made a funny face every once in a while, but his every moment held a comfortable familiarity, like his eyes had traveled through these words hundreds of times. Sometimes he made a noise, like a clearing of his throat or a soft hum, it was surprisingly soothing. 

You scooted closer and closer, trying to get a better look at him. Your eyes traced his facial imperfections — freckles, moles, pale scars, some light stubble. You breathed in time with him, measuring the rise and fall of his chest, helping you calm and relax in his oddly familiar presence.

You watched us as his actions became deliberate, eyes flickering around the room more and more often, his posture stiffened ever so slightly. What was he looking for? What did he sense? What invisible danger did he know? 

You crawled out from under the chair little by little, until your head and front paws were visible to him. His eyes snapped to yours, and panic flared through your body. They flashed with something protective… something like anger, or maybe defensiveness? For a moment, you thought you saw a flash of green in his dull blue eyes. Then he softened. Not just his eyes, but his whole posture sagged into the couch with relief. 

Then a bewildered look crossed his face. He carefully lowered himself from the couch to settle in front of you, and cautiously reached a hand towards you. 

“Hey there little guy,” his voice was smooth like caramel, and softer than the typical robotic defensiveness you were familiar with, “you uhhh… wouldn’t happen to be my little guy, would you?”

You hesitated at the clear affection in his voice, you couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at you with such loving eyes, or treated you with such delicate gestures. 

You pulled yourself out from under the seat, and placed a soft paw into his outstretched hand. He smiled in appreciation.

He offered you to sit with him while he continued his book, and you nodded and chirped in agreement. He gently lifted you and laid down onto the couch, placing you onto his stomach. You positioned yourself in a comfortable ring on his belly, enjoying the subtle rise and fall as he breathed. Heat soaked through his shirt, between the bristles of your fur, and seeped into your skin. His scent enveloped you. You closed your eyes and basked in his existence. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, too busy enjoying yourself, but you began to hear footsteps coming down the hall towards the library. You perched yourself into a sitting position, using your front paws to push your head over the back of the couch to see who was coming.

The large heavy doors were pushed further open to reveal the old man from yesterday. 

You took his appearance, carefully examining him now that you could see better without the exhaustion and darkness clouding your vision. He was tall and lanky, with a long face, pristinely kept hair, and a funny looking mustache. He looked like a king from one of the fairytale books Keira used to beg you to read to her every night before bed. His posture was formal, but his eyes were incredibly kind.

“I see you’ve found our special guest,” you were suddenly hit with a wave of guilt at imposing yourself upon them.

“They found me,” Red Hood reached up and ruffled the fur between your ears.

“Excellent,” answered the old man, and you weren’t entirely sure if he was being sarcastic or not, "Well, I've come to inform you that I’ve prepared lunch. I do hope you’ll come and join me in the dining room.”

“Oh, Alfred makes the best food,” Red Hood told you, “you gotta try it.”

You didn’t want to impose anymore than you already had, but food did sound good, and he looks so excited about it, surely staying a little longer would be ok?

you hesitantly nodded your head and Red Hood answered you with a bright boyish grin. He swept you up into his big arms, and trailed the old man out of the room.

He carried you into the dining room, an elegant space with tall soft red walls, wooden cabinets, and a long table with over a dozen chairs. The room seemed a lot brighter compared to the rest of the house, and had a series of large windows peppering the walls. The chairs were delicately carved with curved backs and red plush seats. All of the wood in the room from the cabinets, to the table, to the trim on the walls was the same soft warm color.

Red Hood pulled out a chair for you and softly set you down, before pushing the chair back into place. You looked up at him, not entirely sure what to do about the fact that only the tips of your ears reached above the table. He looked perplexed for a moment, then left the room, quickly returning with five pillows.

He lifted you out of the seat, then added one pillow, and put you back down. Then he added another pillow. And another. And another. Until you were finally at chest level with the table. He huffed proudly and took the seat beside you. 

Alfred re-entered the room from what was likely the kitchen, holding a tray with three bowls of soup on it. He placed one bowl in front of you, one in front of Red Hood, and one across from the two of you.

The bowl was an elegant white porcelain with blue accents, the soup inside was a bright orange with some green leaves sprinkled on top. The soup smelled surprisingly sweet, and had a thick texture. You closed your eyes, sniffing experimentally, trying to find anything odd or suspicious, but there were no metallic echoes, or moldy musk. You tapped the bowl shifting it around, and the liquid inside wobbled and moved naturally. With the site and texture tests passed, you gave an experimental lick.

The first thing you noticed was the sweetness, the second being the smoky echoes that rang from deep within the soup. It was warm and delicious, the kind of thing that slips down your throat and wraps around your soul like a comforting blanket. The flavor was excellently balanced, and the texture was so soothing. It tasted heavenly, calming all your energy and attention so you could simply bask in it.

For a moment your world was just soup. For a moment you forgot where you were. That moment ended with the sound of shifting fabric behind you. Your face shot up from the bowl, drops of soup rolling down your face, and turned to make eye contact with the new individual who just entered the room. 

She was an elegant young woman, with a silky black bob framing her porcelain-like face. She looked like she was floating through the room as she moved to the other side of the table to sit across from you. Her hands, placed delicately on the chair to make room for herself to sit, were pale and bony, with well kept nails decorating the ends of her fingers. Her eyes, despite being a cool – almost chilling – blue, held an unexpected curiosity and warmth. She placed herself into the seat, maintaining her perfectly straight posture, and plucked the spoon off the table with an almost blinding amount of grace. As she lifted a perfectly still portion of soup to her awaiting lips, you suddenly became hyper aware of yourself.

The mess of your fur, the bruising hidden beneath. The collars and cages of your past, the blood you had drawn. The calluses coating both paws and hands, gained from hunting. From killing. From pain. You gazed upon the princess before you, and you felt your sins and mistakes clawing at your stomach. She smiles at you. You wonder if she’d still smile if she knew what you had done.

You take another mouthful of soup.

It no longer sits right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

thank you all for being patient with me

Dick is there — his silhouette bathed in the faint gold of dawn, a warmth and a weight that feels both comforting and suffocating. He's the picture of devotion — warm hands, gentle voice, and eyes that watch your every move with unnerving precision. He’s there before you can even call for him, wrapping you in blankets that smell faintly of detergent and home. Every request is granted before you make it: tissues, tea, a cool cloth against your fevered skin.

He smiles when he sees you awake, a dimple flashing even as worry glimmers sharp behind his eyes. “You should’ve told me you were feeling off,” he chides softly, voice all velvet and sunlight, and before you can muster an answer, he’s already pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “Burning up. Figures.”

You try to sit up, he doesn’t let you. His hands are gentle but unyielding as he tucks the blanket around your shoulders. The air smells faintly of peppermint tea and the clean citrus of his aftershave. He moves through the room like a current of warmth, tending to every detail, the curtains drawn halfway to let in filtered light, the humidifier humming softly, your favourite mug set on the nightstand beside you.

You drift in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of the soft brush of his fingers through your hair, the press of a kiss to your temple, the weight of his presence beside you. You're too tired to protest, too heavy limbed to move, and he seems to know it. So he stays close, closer than he ever would have dared before. When you wake again, it’s night, and Dick’s still there, his head resting on his folded arms against the bed. He’s smiling in his sleep, peaceful, almost childish.

He talks to you like you’re fragile glass, every word tender, but something feels wrong. You can feel it in the way his thumb lingers at your jaw when he hands you your tea, in the way his smile widens when you thank him too quietly. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? Just… rest. I’ve got you.”

You try to tell him he’s hovering, that he’ll get sick too.

“I don’t care,” he says, voice like a vow. “If it means staying here with you, I'll get sick.”

And when his fever comes days later, when his voice turns rough and his skin runs hot — he only smiles through it, and as you watch the fever take deeper hold, you realize with a sinking dread that returning the favour might cost you more than it ever did him.

Jason Todd

It starts with a cough, muffled and unassuming, but Jason notices instantly. His whole body stills, shoulders tense, eyes narrowing like he’s hearing a threat rather than a sound.

His voice drifts in from the other room, low, steady, threaded with that familiar rasp that always seems to herald trouble. Even through the blur of fever, you catch the sound of your name, sharper than the rest, cutting through the haze like a blade. You manage a faint wave, a mumbled excuse about allergies, but it’s useless, he’s already there, moving with that purposeful stride that never fails to make your pulse quicken.

The mattress dips as he leans in, his hand finding your forehead with practised ease. His palm is cool against your burning skin.

“You’re warm,” he says at last, voice roughened further, low enough to send a shiver crawling up your spine. It isn’t just concern in his tone, it’s something else that flickers behind his panicked eyes, something darker, more desperate than simple worry. You can see it there, glinting just beneath the surface like a secret he’s trying too hard to hide. And as you hold his gaze, that uneasy feeling in your gut begins to sink deeper, heavy and hollow, spreading through you like a slow, inevitable dread.

Before you can even sit up, Jason’s already in motion, moving through the safe house with single-minded intensity. The air shifts with him, sharp and restless. Windows are slammed shut, vents sealed tight, every trace of a draft hunted down and erased with exact precision. You try to protest, voice hoarse as you insist it’s just a cold, nothing worth the storm in his eyes, but the look he turns on you could crack glass.

“There’s no such thing as just when it’s you,” he mutters, words rough and low, trembling at the edges with something that isn’t quite anger.

Because it isn’t you he’s furious with—it never is. It’s the world, the carelessness of it, the unseen thing that slipped past him and dared to leave its mark on you. Beneath the tight set of his jaw, guilt festers quietly, wrapping around his ribs like wire. You can see it in the way his hands shake when he finally stops moving, in the way his eyes linger on you as if by sheer will alone he could make the fever disappear. What drives him isn’t control—it’s fear, raw and relentless, that he failed to keep you safe.

By evening, he’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair damp from sweat, moving with a quiet, almost reverent focus. The air is heavy with the scent of simmering broth, herbs, and something deeper, something that smells like comfort, like memory. It drifts through the safe house and settles over you, stirring an ache you can’t quite name. Somehow, he’s managed to make you homesick for a home that doesn’t exist anymore, one you’re not sure ever really did. In the kitchen, Jason becomes a creature of ritual. Every motion is deliberate, practised, like he's done this before. The rhythmic clang of the spoon against the pot, the hiss of steam rising, it’s all a kind of atonement for him.

When he finally brings the bowl to you, the steam curls upward in soft, fragrant waves. You start to protest, murmuring that you’re not hungry, but the look he gives you stills the words in your throat.

“Eat,” he says, voice low but absolute. “I made it from scratch. None of that instant junk—not when you’re like this.”

You eat because his eyes leave you no other choice, steady, unrelenting, a command wrapped in concern. And truthfully, the soup is divine. It slips down your throat like warmth made tangible, rich and savoury, the kind of comfort that seeps into your bones and silences the ache beneath your skin. Jason doesn’t touch his own bowl. He just watches, eyes sharp, barely blinking, as if every spoonful you take is proof that you’re still here, still breathing.

Later, when sleep drags you under, you drift in the soft murmur of rain against the window and the faint clatter of the city beyond. And when you wake, it’s to the low hum of his breathing beside you. Jason’s slumped against the headboard, his gun resting loose on his thigh, half-forgotten from patrol. The faint scent of gun oil lingers in the air, sharp against the warmth of the room. His other arm is around you, heavy, keeping you tucked against his chest as if you might slip away if he loosened his hold. Even in sleep, he doesn’t let go.

“Sleep,” he murmurs—his voice rough, caught somewhere between a dream and reality.

And so you do. You let yourself sink back into the warmth of him, into the weight of his arm anchoring you in place. Outside, the night hums quietly, the city breathing beyond the glass, but here, there is only him. Because even when the fever breaks and clarity returns, his hold does not loosen.

Tim Drake

Tim notices before you do—of course he does. He always does. The faint rub of your nose, the soft rasp edging into your voice, the way your movements lose their usual rhythm—he clocks it all with the quiet, analytical precision of someone who has made observation his second nature. Each detail slots neatly into place in that sharp mind of his, forming a pattern long before you’re even aware there is one. By the time the ache settles behind your eyes and you finally admit something’s wrong, Tim’s already three steps ahead.

When you finally ask how he knew, Tim only shrugs, the motion small, almost careless.

“It wasn’t hard,” he says simply. And something in you wants to press further. But you don’t. For your own peace, you let the words hang there, unchallenged, because some things are better left unspoken.

You laugh it off, light and uncertain, but something inside you twists all the same. There’s no cruelty in his tone, no sharpness, no overt control, but the precision in it unsettles you. You make an effort to sit up, to reclaim some small measure of space, but Tim is faster. His hand finds your shoulder with quiet certainty, the pressure gentle, guiding you back down before the protest can leave your lips.

“Rest,” he murmurs, softly. Then, after a beat—“Please.”

It’s the please that does it, the way it slips from him, low, aching, almost tender. It carries something fragile, something that makes defiance feel cruel. So you let yourself sink back against the pillow, even as unease unfurls beneath your ribs, slow and serpentine.

He hovers—but not loudly. His presence fills the room like a quiet hum, constant yet unobtrusive, every motion precise, rehearsed. There’s something almost comical about it in a certain light, the sheer efficiency of his concern. One sneeze, and suddenly your nightstand blossoms into a miniature infirmary: medicine bottles lined like soldiers, steaming teacups releasing delicate curls of vapour, thermometers arranged in an exact row.

Tim’s mind moves faster than your pulse, always three steps ahead. You don’t need to tell him what aches; he’s already diagnosed it, already running through every possible cause, every potential cure. It would be touching if it weren’t so… thorough. When you finally protest, murmuring that you’re fine, that you can handle yourself, the air shifts. His jaw tightens, the faintest flicker of irritation ghosting across his face. Not anger, exactly. Just something deeper, heavier.

Later, when the fever blurs the edges of the world and thought slips through your fingers like water, you think you feel it, the gentle drag of fingers through your hair, careful and lingering. The air carries the faint scent of those fruity energy drinks and paper, familiar and grounding, wrapping around you like the echo of his presence. Somewhere close, too close, his voice threads through the haze, quiet and deliberate, each word measured.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, the syllables low and rhythmic, lulling. “I’ve got everything under control.”

You want to believe him. You want to sink into the warmth of his certainty. But even as consciousness drifts from you, a part of your fevered mind wonders if it’s your sickness making the room spin—or the way his words settle.

The medicine tastes strange, sweet at first, almost cloying, then turning bitter as it slides down your throat, the aftertaste lingering. It settles heavy in your stomach, warmth spreading outward until you can’t tell if it’s comfort or confinement. You can’t tell if you’re healing, or if you’re simply sinking deeper into the soft, feverish haze he’s so carefully built around you. Somewhere between dream and delirium, you lose track of time. The world dissolves into fragments, his voice, the whisper of movement, the cool press of a cloth against your skin. When you wake, the light has shifted, though you can’t say how long it’s been. Hours, a day, longer. Only one thing remains unchanged: him.

He’s still there, seated at your bedside, posture composed but eyes sharp, unblinking. When he notices you stir, his expression softens in a way that chills more than it comforts.

“Good,” he says quietly at the sight of you stirring. “You’re still warm. Not better yet.”

The words should sound reassuring, but they don’t. And when he smiles, slow and deliberate, it’s a thing carved from something deeper than kindness, something you can’t quite name, and don’t want to.

Damian Wayne Illness, to Damian, is a trespass, something vile that dared to touch what’s his. The first time he sees you sway on your feet, colour draining from your face, his expression turns from confusion to fury, not at you, but at the invisible thing that dared to touch you.

Within minutes, he’s already moving—decisive, efficient, unstoppable. His schedule is cleared with a few clipped words, meetings cancelled without hesitation, the outside world dismissed as irrelevant. A blanket finds its way around your shoulders before you even register the chill, soft and heavy with the scent of him. Your bag disappears, neatly whisked out of reach, and by the time you manage to form a protest, his hand is already at the small of your back, guiding you with quiet, immovable authority.

There’s no room for argument, only his calm, measured certainty as he steers you toward the bed. The world narrows to the rhythm of his footsteps, to the steady weight of his presence at your side. When you finally sink into the mattress, it feels less like rest and more like surrender. And then he’s there, settling beside you, not hovering, but anchoring. The edges of everything else blur until there’s only him, sentinel.

“You’re not leaving this room until you’ve recovered,” he declares, the words carrying the weight of command. His voice is steel, unyielding in its certainty, but his hands betray him. They tremble faintly as he pulls the blanket higher, tucking it around you with a tenderness that borders on reverence. His touch lingers, careful and deliberate, fingers brushing against your wrist as he checks your pulse. The gesture feels clinical, yet achingly intimate, each heartbeat measured like a secret he means to keep. His brow furrows, the muscle ticking in quiet frustration, and his mouth tightens as if holding back words he doesn’t trust himself to say.

There’s a strange tension in him—this man of logic and control—caught somewhere between authority and fear, devotion and desperation. And as his thumb lingers over your pulse, you realize he’s counting not just your heartbeats, but his own fragile assurance that you’re still here.

He settles beside you as you lift the spoon he’s prepared himself, every ingredient precise, every flavour balanced, every temperature tested until it reaches exacting perfection. He doesn’t just hand it to you, he holds the spoon close first, tasting, ensuring it’s exactly right. There’s a peculiar rhythm to it. He insists on feeding you himself, each bite delivered with the same careful deliberation one might use to deliver a vow. You murmur a weak protest, but it dies on your lips beneath the weight of his gaze.

“You are not to lift a hand while I breathe,” he declares, voice low and unshakable, each word measured like a law rather than a suggestion. The air around him hums with authority, yet beneath it pulses something far more intimate: the unspoken truth that every bite, every gesture, is his way of keeping you tethered, safe, and undeniably his.

The world contracts, folding in around the steady rhythm of your breathing. Outside concerns vanish, leaving only the muted thrum of the house and the quiet vigilance of him. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t move except with purpose, checking your temperature with meticulous care, topping up your water, or sending a sharp glare toward his phone whenever it dares to buzz with interruption. The longer your fever lingers, the quieter he becomes, the intensity of his presence coiling in the air like a storm held at bay, restrained only by sheer will. Each movement, each measured gesture, is an unspoken promise that nothing will reach you while he remains.

Later, when sleep finally pulls you under again, you feel it, the faint, almost imperceptible brush of his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, a touch as deliberate as it is tender. He sits beside you, body still, posture poised between sentinel and guardian, eyes flicking between the pages of a book and the rise and fall of your chest. Every glance, every pause, carries the weight of a man who cannot rest while you remain unwell, his attention a tether anchoring you both in the fragile quiet of the room.

When you stir in the dead of night, the room is cloaked in shadow, heavy and still, the silence pressing close. Damian sits beside you, rigid yet contained, eyes catching the faintest glint of light. He watches, unblinking. “Rest,” he murmurs, the word soft and almost luminous, gentler than the pale sweep of moonlight across your skin. “You are safe.”

And when you fall asleep again, you dream of a cage made of soft hands and silken words — beautiful, unbreakable.

You shivered in the cold wind and your boots had turned slightly soggy with melted snow. They weren’t the best shoes for walking in snow but they were the finest pairs you had and matched perfectly with your dress and cloak of deep green with silver details.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, just knock, you idiot!” you hissed at yourself before drawing a steadying breath, reaching your hand up, and knocking far too lightly. It was more of a tapping than a knocking, really. But your hand was already clamped around the pot once more as your heart raced and pixies seemed to have a party in your stomach.

You sighed. This is stupid, he’s not going to open… It wasn’t your first attempt at contacting your previous professor. It had been a few years since you graduated, he might not even remember you despite the letters and gifts you had sent him through the years. The last two years you hadn’t dared to do so though. The world had gone too dark and the rumours of the man’s place as Voldemort’s number one follower hadn’t gone unnoticed.

One more time, you told yourself before reaching up to knock again. This time, a little harder even if it still sounded timid. You held onto the pot in a cramp-like manner as you waited with your heart in your throat and the growing party of pixies in your stomach turning into a rave.

The lock clicked. Then a chain rattled. Your eyes widened as you watched the handle turn and air seemed to evade you as the door slowly creaked open. There he was. Black hair, pale skin, frock and all — just how you remembered him. Almost.

He arched a brow, opening the door further as he found you standing one step down. His eyes went up and down, from your shoes to the Christmas Star flower and then to your face. “Miss Y/l/n?” he drawled, his voice more hoarse than you could remember. “P-professor,” you stammered, suddenly having no idea what to do now that he actually opened the door. “Not anymore,” he said harshly, but his tone wasn’t quite angry or the like. “What can I do for you, Miss Y/l/n?” he continued, his voice clipped and low.

You blinked. “Um, here—” you held out the flower, nearly shoving it into his arms “—it’s a Christmas Star, erh, flower for you,” you continued, feeling mortified as heat crept under your skin. “I can see what it is,” he drawled, looking from the flower to you with eyes betraying none of what he was thinking or feeling. “Why am I receiving it?” he continued. “I— Well, I thought I’d— You see, I— Um, well, yes, that’s a good question,” you rambled, turning warmer in your heavy cloak by the second. “Um, Merry Christmas,” you finally managed to force out while wishing the stone steps below would swallow you whole.

You hadn’t thought it would go like this, you hadn’t thought you’d lose any semblance of speech and thought by just seeing the man again. But, as usual, your teenage habit around the intimidatingly gorgeous man had you tongue-tied and unable to coherently say or think anything.

He was still gorgeous. More ravaged by harsh times, more distant than ever, and less fearsome yet more intimidating with the lack of feelings coming from him. Get yourself together! “Another gift,” he drawled, looking at the flower while he held the bottom of the pot in just one hand. “You have sent me quite a few.” You spluttered, dying of embarrassment it felt like. “I— Well, yes, I did… I’m sorry. Sorry, Professor, I shouldn’t have— and I shouldn’t have come now, you never opened before so I didn’t think you’d— No matter, I’ll leave. Um, Merry Christmas,” you rambled. “Yes, you said that already, miss.” “Oh, right, yes, right, I did. Sorry,” you whispered while burning up from the rushing of your pulse and the searing heat of embarrassment.

You turned to leave, rushing down the stairs without another word. “It’s slippery at the— Careful!” he shouted in a hoarse manner that could barely be classified as more than a murmur in the lone tone. But, it was too late. You flung your arms out, your feet sliding out from under you as you fell helplessly backwards. A crash resonated through the air and with barely a millisecond to spare you levitated in mid-air with your hair gracing the snow below.

You panted and heaved, completely still in the charm he had cast over you with no time to spare. The stone beneath could have cracked your skull, so adrenaline kept rushing through your body even though the danger was over. “T-Thank you,” you said in a stuttering exhale as he straightened you up. As soon as your feet hit the ground and his charm released you you shivered and drew in a deep breath to calm yourself.

“As accident-prone as I remember,” he murmured behind you. “Do you never learn, Y/n?” You turned, only to find him standing in the fully open doorway with the shattered pot and snapped flower at his feet. “Your gift,” you whispered, feeling your lips turn down in a saddened frown. “It took ages to grow that thing and make the pot,” you sighed to yourself. “You grew it?” he asked, making you look up from the mess. “Well, yes, I can’t give you store-bought flowers.” “Why?” he asked, making you scrunch your brows. “Why would anyone do such a thing?” “What do you mean? You saved the world, you must have gotten all kinds of flowers and gifts. I wanted mine to… be something else,” you admitted while looking at the snapped stem and scattered red petals. Your heart ached at the sight, all those months of work and magic you’d poured into it — gone.

Snape aimed his wand at the mess, not a word uttered but his brows scrunched. You sighed. “It can’t be mended…” He looked at you. “Magic?” You shook your head. “No, it can’t be fixed with magic… I grew it in… It doesn’t matter,” you whispered, brushing down your cloak to have something to do with your errant hands that wished to scoop up the broken pieces of your love at his feet. No amount of wand waving would be able to mend either flower or pot — they were impervious to any and all magic.

Snape looked at you, tilting his head ever so slightly before he waved his wand and the broken pieces flitted up into a levitating ball. “Come in,” he said and you damn near lost the capability to breathe. “W-What? Come-, come in? Into your home?” you asked, your voice nearly rude. He looked at you while standing half-turned in the doorway. “Or do not,” he simply stated before you lurched into action. “Slippery,” he reminded harshly and you slowed your climb up the stairs. Your heart and mind had no intention of slowing down though.

The door closed behind you and the gloom of a narrow hallway took over. The scent of him was overwhelming. Your mouth popped open at his back as he moved away from you, towards a door at the end leading to what appeared to be a shabby kitchen in a dull green with chequered flooring.

You scrambled out of your coat, in the gloom your dress glittered like a star-strewn sky and the silvery buckle of your waist-belt shimmered. I can do this, I can absolutely do this, this is what I wanted. Yet your hands shook and your entire body felt strung tightly as you used magic to dry your boots and the hem of your dress. You weren’t about to drag in slush and gravel into the man’s house.

With careful steps, you moved toward the open door where Snape stood by a small table only large enough to seat two people. The kitchen was gloomy as well, and it hadn’t escaped your notice that there were no decorations or hints of Christmas in the house. The man himself stood leant over the remnants of your shattered gift as you stepped up.

“Just throw it out,” you said quietly, despite how it hurt. “It’s rubbish—” “Don’t,” he snarled in that hoarse voice while throwing a harsh glare at you. “It is not rubbish.” You blinked. “Professor, it’s broken. Can’t be mended.” “It’s not Professor anymore,” he muttered. “Then, what do I call you?” He glanced at you, something swept over his features before his shoulders stiffened. “Severus, if you wish. Mr Snape if that is more to your liking.” “Your— I can call you… Severus?” you asked, stunned and floored and bewildered and, well, everything at the same time.

He didn’t reply. You both looked at the broken pot and flower in silence. All the months of work you’d put into it, gone. The endless hours you’d spent teaching yourself to do pottery by hand and the countless failed attempts — it had all been a waste. But, I knew it would be… Even if it hadn’t shattered it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. This was just selfish of me, my own need to tell him I... You couldn’t finish the thought, too many horrid memories crept up just thinking about it. All the tears, the ache in your heart and fear in your gut as times had grown dark years ago.

Severus straightened. “You stopped sending letters,” he said but kept his eyes on the mess atop the table. You looked up at his profile. “Well, yes… I…” You drew a steadying breath, readying yourself to be honest. “I got scared… I knew of your place beside Voldemort, and I suspected your place beside Dumbledore… I couldn’t imagine you ever truly being on the wrong side… But, they took family members, friends, people who—” People who mattered to others… And even if I know I don’t matter to you, they wouldn’t have known that given the letters and gifts…

“So, you read them..?” You almost didn’t want to hear the answer — either way, it would feel weird. He nodded, his hair falling forward. “Many times. You did not sign a single one until the very last, why?” You released a deep breath. “I… I never have and never will think I’m worthy of someone like you.” His eyes widened and he was about to speak but you rushed on. “Don’t worry, I’m not hurt by it. I understand,” you said with a dejected chuckle. “I’m just me, and I was your student, you know I’m nothing special, just average.” “That was many years ago, I only taught your last two years,” he said. The depth of his voice and its new raggedness had a shiver crawl down your spine.

You looked up at him, your arms crossed over your chest in a self-hug and your lips in a small smile both sad and soft in its nature. “Yes, quite, and from that time to now you’ve saved the world, protected children and adults, offered all of yourself with only loss of years to show for it I guess.” “Your point?” he drawled, a deeper darkness to his tone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that up, it must be painful for you.” This is going bloody well, absolutely fantastic, can I be more of a damn idiot?

He crossed his arms over his chest, too. Yet, in a harsher manner. “Your point,” he demanded and you instantly felt as if you were being scolded by your professor, a fantasy you were far too shy to ever admit to having had several times during your more lonely nights. “I have nothing, sir,” you whispered. “I’m nothing compared to you. I went into hiding, I didn’t even fight like so many did…” “You wrote of your fear,” he drawled and your shoulders drew upwards, toward your ears in shame. “You stayed alive. More people did that than those who fought against the Dark Lord in battle.” “I hid, I ran away to the north and… I was of no help,” you admitted with a forced smile to hide the shame within your heart.

He glared at you, but it didn’t feel like a glare out of anger. It still had you tensing even more though. How on earth you’d managed to get into such a deep conversation with the man of your dreams — and nightmares — you weren’t sure but you barely dared to breathe for fear of being kicked out of his home.

“War is a terrible thing,” he said quietly. “Many fought. Many lost their lives and loved ones, but more still fled or hid. Staying alive, there is no shame to it, Y/n. No shame.” His words were harsh, unyielding and said in a manner that had you believe he might be speaking equally for your and his benefit. He was still alive, too. “Yeah, maybe…” “No. You should not be ashamed for staying alive.” “One day, maybe I won’t be,” you admitted while a heaviness seemed to blanket the room.

Severus glanced from you to the broken pot and flower once more. “Perhaps a helping hand is all we need when times are the hardest,” he said in no more than a whisper. “Your letters… they were, important to me.” You gulped down a lump that had formed in your throat. “They were..?” “Yes.” He seemed to soften next to you. “I feared you had died, when it all stopped… Seeing your name in the last letter, I cannot tell you how it affected me when I realised no more would come.”

I affect him? You weren’t sure what to say to that. You hadn’t ever imagined that you meant anything to the brave man, yet here he stood and said the opposite. But perhaps it was more of a comfort thing, a friendship thing. You shivered, your shoulders shaking. It wasn’t any help that the house was quite chilly.

“Come,” he said, turning and leaving the kitchen before you had barely reacted. You stumbled after him with a final glance at the shattered love left on his little kitchen table. He led you into a sitting room while your mind kept spinning with questions of what he thought of you, what he felt, how much he had cared when he thought you had died. Don’t go there. You had imagined far too many times that he had met a slow, painful death. Far too many nightmares had forced you awake with a scream as his death and torture were featured within your own mind.

“Sit,” he said before flicking his wand to light the fireplace. “I shall bring some tea.” A wave of warmth washed over the room and the golden light of the flames had shadows dancing all around. “Tea? Oh, thank you,” you said in a shocked rush as you sat yourself down on the two-seat sofa. He disappeared out the doorway and you were left looking around the room with the growing memories of all the nights and days you had been a complete mess, absolutely in shambles, over the man whose house you were now in.

Your eyes zeroed in on the fire as you squeezed your own biceps. He was different from how you remembered him, both in a good and bad way. Despite the harrowing life he had led, he was still the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes upon, and despite the slight hint of a scar that shouldn’t be there at all at the very top of his throat and the hoarse voice, you found him perfect. He was darker, he was harsher and more reserved in his behaviour but he talked with you and there was something about him that hadn’t changed at all.

You squeezed your biceps again, the memories coming unfiltered of all those times you had cried yourself to sleep or woken up screaming in horror. Your head swam with images of a bloody Severus, of broken limbs and a twisted neck. Gurgling breaths and wheezing noises. You barely held onto reality and the roaring fire attempting to warm you. Being in his house, and seeing him again after all these years, kicked everything to the forefront and you couldn’t get a handle on your emotions or mind.

You drew a stuttering breath, closing your eyes to try and banish the horrors of the past as they multiplied — both false nightmares and memories of re-tellings in the news of Severus’s heroic actions that had only led him to experience pain and suffering for Merlin knew how long. Get it together, get it together, you told yourself over and over as you drowned in the raging flood released by the very realisation that it was all over — that he was safe. Out of reach, but safe and alive.

You jolted up from the sofa at the sound of porcelain breaking and scattering. “Severus?” you called out, your voice shrill and your heart in an uproar. “Severus?” you called again before rushing toward the kitchen, in the direction of the noise. But you stopped short in the hallway where he stood with open hands and a mess of broken teacups and steaming water at his feet.

He looked at you with ghastly pale skin and slightly heaving breaths. “Are— Severus, are you okay? What happened?” you asked while walking up toward him, your pain and fears from the past forgotten for a moment at the sight of him. “What… was that?” he asked in a dark whisper. “What was what?” you asked, spinning around to look down the hallway, was there something in the house? No, you couldn’t see anything. “There’s nothing there.”

You turned back toward Severus, his eyes eerily fixated on you. Then you felt it. A prodding sensation and a presence in your mind that wasn’t supposed to be there. “What are you—” Your temples strained and your hand flew up to your forehead. “That,” he snarled as you saw flickers of so many horrid memories revolving around him flash in your head as he scoured through it all. You couldn't push him out, his skill was too great. “S-stop,” you pleaded. “That’s private,” you continued while looking away from him.

Embarrassment, shame, hurt, it all filled your chest as he retreated from your mind and left a palpable void where he had been a second ago. “T-That’s private,” you whispered, holding back tears as your back curved under the weight of your shame. Severus had gone through literal hell for years on end where your imagination had only brushed the surface — yet it was more than you could handle and he had had to live through it all, and possibly far worse things than you could imagine. Your fear and anguish was false, and in the presence of true bravery and strength, you wished to vanish and never come out of hiding ever again.

“You cried, for me?” he asked, so quietly you could barely hear it. “Please, I’m ashamed enough as it is…” you whispered while turning your back on him to wipe away the tears refusing to stop now that they had begun to spill over. “Ashamed,” he said as if tasting the word for the first time. You tensed. “I’m sorry, I— I shouldn’t have come to see you,” you whispered while snivelling as quietly as you could. “I’m sorry,” you forced out before bolting toward the door with a suffocated cry, grabbing your cloak in passing before gripping the door’s handle and tugging.

It didn’t budge. You tugged again, twisting one way and then the other but it wouldn’t open. Let me out, please, please let me out. You couldn’t stand the shame, the fear, the unwanted longing you were filled with for the man behind you. Through all the pain, the fear, through everything, all you had wanted was to hold him tight and make sure he was safe. It was selfish, it was ridiculous, it was unrequited and a lost cause.

You snivelled and spluttered a cry. “Please, let me out,” you whimpered while tugging on the door again. “I can’t do this,” you cried quietly. But two large hands atop your shoulder had you gasping a breath as you were spun around in a rush, your back pushed against the unyielding door with strength you stood no chance against.

“You cried for me,” he whispered. You couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry.” A gusted breath fanned your face as he snarled. “No. You cannot be sorry for that,” he said with finality. “Do not apologise for caring enough to shed tears for an unwanted man.”

You glanced up through the tears, the view of him hazy despite how close his face was to yours. “I’m sorry,” you said again. “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t.” “I was useless,” you cried quietly. All the shame, the guilt, the pain welled up further. “Useless…” You snivelled and gripped your dress so harshly you could feel your nails through the fabric. His hands hardened around your trembling shoulders. “You cried for me,” he repeated — as if he was as stuck in his mind as you were.

You had no time to react before he sank before you, his knees thudding to the floor ominously as his hands slipped down your arms only to hold on to your wrists. “I thought you were dead,” he murmured with his face tilted toward the floor. “The letters, the gifts… I thought I had lost my chance,” he continued while his hands hardened to the point of pain around your wrists. But you felt him tremble, heard his voice waver, felt the coldness of sadness seep from him and into you.

“What chance?” you asked, barely able to breathe when he tilted his head back only to view you with tear-lined eyes. The onyx colour appeared black in the gloom. “To tell you…” “T-Tell me? W-What?” you managed to force out between snivelling breaths and clogging cries. “You matter to me. You… are important, to… me,” he said darkly and forcibly through gritted teeth as his hands clamped around your wrists and a bewildered look filled his eyes while the rest of him remained utterly harsh. “But I can’t be,” you whispered. “I did nothing.” “You saved me,” he snarled.

Your breath hitched as he tugged on your wrists, forcing you down on your knees before him. His hands gripped your shoulders anew, steadying you before you would have fallen face-first into his chest. “Your words saved me, your gestures, you have no idea what you did for me,” he ground out. “Do not think, for a second, you are useless, Y/n. If it weren’t for you… I am the one who should feel shame.” “What? No! You saved the world!” He glared at you. “Only barely.” “That doesn’t matter. You did it.” “Because of you. I could not… I could not fail when I thought you had died because of what the Dark Lord persisted for.” He was so calm in the next second. As if, somehow, he found control again while you spiralled and kept snivelling and whimpering cries.

Your body sagged under the weight of his words. “But, I am nothing to the world—” “You are important to me,” he interrupted. “And until you sent that card to St. Mungos, I had believed you dead — as I had wished to be.” “Severus, no, no,” you cried, instinctively reaching up to grasp at his chest. He allowed the touch, reaching around to pull you closer. “You saved the world, and then you saved me. All you had to do was stay alive, and you did. Nobody has a right to ask for anything more than that, yet, I will…”

You leaned back, a snivelling and trembling mess before him. He reached up and wiped your cheeks with the back of his chilly fingers even if the tears just kept on coming. “Let me know you, Y/n.” You held his gaze. “You know me better than anyone, what I told you in those letters are things I haven’t told anyone…” His eyes widened, his fingers tensed and then he pulled you closer by your waist. “Stay,” he said.

You buried your face in his chest, beyond emotional and out of control. You trembled and shook, your brain misfired and had you scrambling for the connection with your voice to speak the only word you wished. Instead, you cried into his chest and grasped at his clothes with clawing strength. He held you closer, his embrace firm and warm. “Stay. Gift me what I thought I had lost forever…” “A-and, w-what, is that..?” you said between snivels and rushed breaths. “You… A chance to be with the woman who saved the world through me…” It was too much, yet you managed to find your voice. “Never let go,” you whispered. “Never.”

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Well, this made me emotional.

TAGLIST: @lizlil @snapefiction @darkthought15 @monstreviolet @flowerdementia @marvelschriss @once-upon-an-imagine @ravennight41 @caseydoodles98 @slytherinprincess03 @theconsultingdetectiveswife @grimmyhild @monster-energies @myobscureimaginarium @snowblossomreads @eternal-silvertongued-prince @cherryglossie @setsuna-meiou31 @helena211 @a-queen-and-her-throne @justsaturn0 @turvi @dontwanttobeanamercanidiot @sunnylikesfrogs @dianilaws @snapesno1thighrider @sassanoe @snapesrn @bernadette-peters12 @sammy-13 @smartowl999 @castleofthorns @serenanight87 @leah1243 @cherihan @poetry-and-tea @evans23 @mamawolfsmith87 @snapesrn @severussimp @slyckman @liv2post @clawsthecactus @goldenglowwoman @morphineisouthoney @meteoritewolf69 @bionic-otp @elizabeth-baelish @romanceandsarcasm @severuslovebot @glowstar826 @rickmandowneyjr @yellowbadgermole @snapesangel @a-queen-and-her-throne @impulse-anchor @commodoreseverus @writewithmarites @alisongurl13 @yan-senna @writewithmarites @reinekefoxart @nixislight @lokisbjchnl @lght-n-drk @ladykardasi @lyrixsnape @sunset90 @meliasnape @B3lls @canihelpyou201 @ankhmutes @lessdepressy @theheartwants-what-itwants @sanji-simp @snapesrn @thatlittlefangirl @ankhmutes @lessdepressy @snapesrn @theheartwants-what-itwants @slyckman @daddythanatos

Your childhood was one that was void of certainty. You existed through suitcases and trunks that were never unpacked. A bedroom never decorated. A plant with no roots can never truly grow. You yourself were the result of something short lived. A one night stand. Your mother was young when you were born. Too young to want to keep you. Your father? As tangible as the wind itself. You were told he was arrested before he could meet you, before he could take you in. (You’d learn later that he cried harder when he heard you were in the muggle foster system than when he learned his sentence for Azkaban. He knew what happened to young wizards on their own.) If only he could have protected you from the inexplicable events that wreaked mayhem wherever you went. 

Hospitals would diagnose you, medicate you, and try to pick your brain. Hippie foster families would try to meditate away the craziness in your mind. Hallucinations, they said. A teenage girl running straight into the brick wall dividing platforms at King’s Cross. A woman that became a cat. Owls flutter about during the day. They were all things that should’ve been cured by pills. Foster families were frightened by your condition. Hospitals were perplexed. Special homes wanted to cure you with alternative practice. (The smell of sage still makes you want to vomit.) 

But it all changed the day two, kind looking men came and visited you in the St. Bernadette’s Home for Mentally Troubled Youth. The last resort. You sat on the bed, waiting for a med call. Your legs kicked impatiently, your arms were scarred and you picked nervously at your skin; so far in your own haze that you didn’t see the door open. You had scars from injection treatment, punishment from teachers, from angry foster parents, or the cruelty of other children. You were unhealthy. Your hair was wild, so were your eyes. His eyes. It startled Remus when he saw just how much you resemble your father. That wildness in your eyes, the way you sat with a bouncing leg. He saw your scars and the bruises around your wrists from being roughed by medical staff. He wanted to throw up. 

The creak of the wooden floor startled you. Your eyes shot up, expecting to see the angry glare of a doctor. Instead, you saw two strangers. The first was an old man with a long white beard. You were never lucky enough or so well behaved that you got visits from Santa Claus but you guessed that this is what he’d look like. He was thinner than the magical man who delivered gifts, though. He smiled at you and tilted his head, correcting the small glasses he wore on his nose. He looked at you like he knew you all your life, like he had known you before you were born. Trailing a bit behind him was a taller, nervous looking man. His sweater was pushed to his elbows and you saw his skin was scarred like yours. But his were older, deeper. Like he had tried to claw his way out of his skin. He had curly hair and sharp eyes. Not unfriendly, you thought, but withered. Like he spent his whole life waiting for a rest that wouldn’t come. When the older man spoke your name, you almost didn’t recognize it. 

You hadn’t heard your name spoken so softly. It was foreign. 

He sat down next to you and shook your hand. It was the first touch that you felt in a long time that wasn’t punishing. 

“I am Albus Dumbledore.” He said with a smile, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Do you know who I am, young lady?” he chuckled softly when you shook your head. “No? I figured.” 

“Sir, we don’t have much time.” The nervous man’s voice was rasping and cozy. Like a scratchy woolen blanket, you thought. 

“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore waved his hand dismissively, turning back to you “I’ve come to take you away from here, child. I’m terribly sorry I took so long. I’ve only just come to learn about your state here, please forgive me.”  He truly sounded regretful. Like he himself had scarred you. “How would you like a new school? A new place to live?”

“What- Take me away?” You said, scrambling up, panicked. They’d take you to another hospital, somewhere worse. You always went somewhere worse once people picked you up from your foster homes and schools. “No, no, please I’m doing better. I'll do the therapy, the- the testing. I can’t- please, please- I’ve been trying-” Your breath was shaky, pleading. The tall man with the sweater looked away.

Remus wanted to cry. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to focus on anything except the fact that you were Sirius’s daughter. That you were so much like him. But you weren’t like the bright, lively boy whom he spent his youth with. You were like the dull, timid creature who survived hell in Grimmauld place. 

“I promise you, it will be better, child. I can’t explain much now but we know the place for you, alright dear? You’ll be hurt no longer, I swear it.” the old man held out a wrinkly pinky finger, adorned with rings. A promise. You didn’t trust him, but you knew that adults didn’t like when you didn’t follow what they said. You looped your finger around his and nodded. 

Minutes later, you were out of the gloomy brick building that was St. Bernadette’s. You packed up your suitcase (not much packing was needed) and you were out. Just like that. The two men had stepped away from you for a moment. The taller one was upset. The two talked in hushed voices. 

“Professor, I- I can’t. In my state? I’m not- not fit for a child, let alone Sirius’s child.” You didn’t know who Sirius was. 

“You’re the closest family she has now. Her and Harry, poor things.” You didn’t know a Harry either. “There will be help for you, Remus. When your condition flares up, she will be in good hands. Hagrid can watch her, so can Minerva. But we cannot have her in a Muggle’s care any longer. Look at the poor thing.” Dumbledore placed a hand on Remus’s shoulder. “I trust you with this Lupin; he would’ve trusted you too.” With that, Dumbledore strolled inside, to talk to the doctors, you assumed. 

You were sitting on the steps outside of the building as the old man talked with the doctor’s inside. Next to you, the tall man who had yet to speak to you sat on the step. You learned his name was Remus. His long legs stretched in front of him. He said your name, just as gently as Dumbledore had.

“How old are you, mate?” He asked, glancing over at you, moving your small suitcase out of the puddle you had put it down in. You thought for a moment.

“I’m six and a half.” You replied. You weren’t sure if you really had gained that half of a year but the number made you sound older, stronger. It seemed to take something out of Remus though. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. He looked tired again.

“Merlin, Padfoot, what have you done?” He said to himself. Six years. Six years since James and Lily. Six years since Sirius. Six years since that cowardly rat, Wormtail disappeared. Six years old. She's so young, he thought. The two of you sat in silence for a few moments. 

“I was a lot like you, you know.” He said, not making eye contact. “I went to a school like this one. Where people tried to help me but never could.” He pulled at a weed that sprouted between the cracks of the step. He turned it between his fingers before tossing it. 

“Is that where you got those scars?” You ask. Your voice was quiet but curious, you didn’t want to offend him.

“Some of them. But most of ‘em have faded.” He didn’t offer any more explanation than that. You didn’t pry. He pulled out his wallet. It contained a few bills you didn’t recognize, an old train ticket, a few coins, and a crumpled up photo. He slid out the page and unfolded it, holding it out for you to see. The bodies on the page seemed to move. You needed your medication, your hallucinations were vivid. Almost real. “Look here, kid.” He pointed to a figure “Here I am,” he slid his finger to another figure on the paper, the face too old and blurry to make out. “That there is Sirius. That’s your dad.” You stared at the shifting figure. You didn’t have the chance to say anything. Dumbledore walked outside, slipping what looked like a stick into a pocket of his robe. How silly, you thought. 

After a word with Remus, Dumbledore had seemingly vanished out of thin air and you walked hand in hand with the tall man, away from the terrible building. You got onto a train with him, still waiting for the moment you’d learn about the new trial they’d test on you or the new medicine that would make you stop hallucinating. You fell asleep curled up into the seat. Remus felt a tug at his ribs. You were too much like Sirius. 

When you woke up, you were in bed. It was small but it was more comfortable than any bed in any hospital you'd ever been in. When Remus checked in on you, he explained a few things. You were going to live with him for a while and that you should try to call this place home.

He made you toast. He spread out four different kinds of spread on each corner and cut it nicely. Moony toast, he called it. You ate it alongside him quietly. You’d be happy to stay with him if you could eat toast like this. 

“Are you my new dad?” You asked between bites. This made him flinch. He thought about what to say for a long time before he sighed. 

“Just eat your toast, mate.”

Life with Remus wasn’t easy, but it was happy. You finally had roots. You laughed with him and he’d patch up your knees when you fell. He’d disappear for a few days every month and he’d come back looking hurt but you got used to it. Besides, kind people watched you while he was gone. Sometimes, a cat would just sit on the window and watch you when you were alone. She would let you pet her while Remus went on day trips to get his own medication. You thought it was weird but you couldn’t complain.

For the first time, you had your own room. You decorated it with Remus, too. You folded paper and made little garlands. He gave you some posters from your dad. He gave you lots of Sirius’s stuff, in fact. Your favorite was an old worn leather jacket. It swallowed you up but you would use it as a blanket at night. You imagined your dad wearing it. It made Remus happy when you wore it. So you rarely took it off. You also got lots of photos. Boxes of them. Some were taken from Sirius’s camera, which Remus kept for himself. This time, when you saw some of these photos moving, you learned they weren’t hallucinations. 

When you were old enough, Dumbledore came back. You remembered his kindness so you trusted him fully when he explained to you about wizards and witches. You were sad when you learned of your father and his crimes. Remus tensed when Dumbledore explained this.

Dumbledore told you everything, not even leaving out Remus’s lycanthropy. You never felt frightened. You loved your Remus. (You finally understood why the people that looked after you in his absence called him Moony.) For the first time, you weren’t afraid when you learned about a new school for you. Hogwarts was a magical school. One without doctors or therapy trials. You were excited to go and you would count the days to receive your acceptance letter.

The only upsetting thing, surprisingly, was when you realized that you weren’t a psycho. 

That you never hallucinated or needed therapy. 

You didn’t need to go through all of that testing.

The homes, the abuse, the scars and bruises.

You bled for nothing.

You weren't a kid who needed to be hit, you just needed a parent.

When he saw the look on your face, Remus became upset at this. He didn't like to think about what you went through. Didn't like thinking about the time before you were a silly, crazy kid. When you were small and bruised and looked like a caged animal. Like a wild dog.

Remus wiped his cheek.

You were mad. Mad at your teachers and doctors and previous foster parents. You were mad at your dad. Very mad at your dad. He couldn’t be there for you so you suffered. It’s his fault you were a wizard, it was his blood that made you be this way. It's him who made you see these things, so you blamed him.

Remus told you stories about Sirius to try to reassure you about your father. That he was good. He was funny and bright and just like you. It didn’t help though. You still resented Sirius. Maybe he wasn’t a killer, but he wasn’t there for you like he should have been. You heard stories of his family and friends. How he was a prankster. You loved to hear stories about him. Not because of your affection for your father, though.

You liked to hear stories of Sirius because Remus was happier talking about the past. He looked younger and brighter, a weight lifted when he told his stories. He darkened when you asked where his friends were; where Lily and James were. (You got him to tell you the full story a year later. He was adamant that your father wasn’t a killer. You agreed. Sirius Black wasn't guilty. After all, your Moony wouldn’t speak so fondly of a murderer.)

When you turned eleven and your letter for Hogwarts finally came, you were sad to leave. You were given a magic wand from Dumbledore which you were very scared you were going to break. You got books and supplies, all from the headmaster. You even got a nice letter from the cat who would watch you sometimes while Remus was away. This confused you. Apparently she taught there. (How a cat could teach a class at a school, you had no idea) This made Remus chuckle. "Good old Minnie." He murmured. You had no clue who Minnie was.

You packed up your bags and trunk. (which took a lot longer than it had in the past) and you went with Remus to the famed platform where a train would take you away to Hogwarts. You were scared. You didn’t want to be sent away again. Remus was reassuring, holding your hand the whole time. Even as you heard the train approaching the station. You noticed the looks people gave the two of you.

People who knew the tragedy of The Marauders, people who thought they knew the loss. Remus shrugged it off. “Just people I haven’t seen in a while, kid. Don’t think too much about it.” 

  He gave you explicit instructions. He showed you a newspaper and pointed to the boy on the cover. He was scrawny and he wore wire framed glasses. He had stringy brown hair. Harry was his name and Remus told you to find him quickly and become his friend. He was James and Lily's son.

He said you’d do each other some good; being tied together by the fraying strings of a friendship so close, it may have been a family. Harry was alone and you understood being alone. 

The train whistled, signalling the need for students to board. You looked at Remus and you started to cry. He pulled you into a hug. You didn’t realize he was crying too until you felt the wetness of his tears against your shoulder. He sniffed as he held you tightly. He loved you. He was just as much your father as Sirius was.

As he held you, he thanked whatever was up in the universe for sending you to him. He was on the brink of giving up when Dumbledore urged him to come save you from the terrible institution. Your childlike chaos filled the halls of his home that were once stuffy with grief. He once prayed and wished that he could look into Sirius’s eyes again - to hear his laugh. You gave him that. 

“Okay, kid” He pulled back from you and put his hands on either side of your head, kissing your hair with his eyes shut. You cried, looking up at him. He clutched onto Sirius’s leather jacket, Pulling it over your robes. It was still big on you but it wasn’t blanket sized anymore. Merlin, he really didn’t want you to leave. 

“Will I ever see you again, Moony?” You sobbed, looking up at him. You were desperate not to leave. 

His heart cracked. You thought he was sending you away for good. He said your name with a sniff, hugging you as another tear slipped “Oh, my dear of course you will. You’ll be home for Christmas, I promise.” He looked at you with an intensity, memorizing your little face before he had to say goodbye. With one last tight hug and a kiss on the head, he sent you off and watched as you scuttled into the train. 

Once on board, you were met with so much energy. Older and younger kids in a bustle of movement. You had never seen so many children so happy. Sure, you met kids at your past institutions but they were never lively. All of them were as beaten down as you used to be. But these kids, all dressed in robes like your own were joyful. You walked nervously down the line of compartments, Remus’s words looping through your mind. Harry Potter, just find Harry. He’ll be your friend. It’s in your blood. 

You passed some menacing kids in dark robes with green. They were calling other kids on the train names that you didn’t understand but you decided that you wanted to stay under their radar. You saw a couple of teenagers bullying a younger boy holding a toad. You decided then that you didn’t like those people wearing green. They all seemed dreadful.

After you passed all the horrible green-robed students, you were frantic to find an empty compartment. All of these kids already had friends. Your only friend was Moony, you didn’t know the first thing about meeting other people. Eventually you found an empty compartment and you sat down alone. You held on tightly to the leather jacket over your robes, knuckles white as you watched the landscape pass.

You were used to the silence, the hum of the car relaxing. But you didn’t get much time to revel in your lonesome because the compartment opened and a small boy stepped in shyly. The one kid on the train that you knew. 

He was thin with unbrushed hair. He looked like the man in some of Sirius's polaroids, you thought. Except his eyes. They were a stunning green.

“Is it okay if I sit with you?” He asked, pushing up his glasses, the nosepiece held together with tape. You nodded. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.” He held out his hand for you to shake, which you took, greeting him as he sat down. He was just as nervous as you. But he seemed happy, excited.

You were just dreading being away from the only home you’ve known.

“It’s nice to meet you,” You said after you introduced yourself. “I was told to try to find you.” Harry was worried. He thought you’d barrage him with questions about the Dark Lord or ask him confusing questions that he didn’t understand. But instead you smiled nervously. “Our dads were best mates when they were in school.” 

Harry smiled. 

AAAH, if you read this far thank you. i really think this could be a cool series and i like how i'm planning to write the characters.

please tell me if you like this and if I should write the next chapter that's been brewing in my mind cauldron.

peace and love <33