Tim seemed to share your frustration, “It’s a shame.”

You scoffed, leaning lazily on the edge of the rooftop as you watch the drones circle the streets below you. “I don’t know what Bruce expects from us. We could be out helping him, but instead he sticks you in lab duty, and me on surveillance duty.” You sat yourself on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling over the side of the building. “I haven’t surveyed anything we haven’t already been seeing. Bombs, drones, more bombs, even more drones. It’s an endless cycle.”

Tim chuckled lowly, as if saying “You’re telling me.” The two of you sat in silence for a long moment before you stood up. “I’m done with this.” You step off the ledge and back to the rooftop. “If there’s an emergency feel free to contact me, but otherwise I’m going to actually try and get some sleep for once.”

Tim hummed, “Wow, sleep? Hardly know her.” He drawled teasingly, knowing neither of you have slept at all for the past day. It’d been a long night. Ever since he showed up, none of you have truly relaxed. “Got more important things to do then survey the city?”

You pursed your lips, “Yeah, sleep.” You fidgeted with your grapnel gun before launching it, “I don’t understand him sometimes. We’re of no use to anyone like this.” The wind whips past your ears as you moved.

He huffed, “Tell Bruce that. He’s insistent that I work on figuring out this cure when we have bigger issues currently out there.”

You frowned, “If you want, when I wake up we can switch shifts?” You offered hesitantly, landing onto the balcony of your apartment. You didn't hear anybody inside, and you took this as your cue to go inside and quickly change out of your suit.

Jason has always worked late nights for as long as you knew him. It was, frankly, a miracle considering you weren’t sure how you’d explain your nightly escapades. It wasn’t a conversation you were ever going to look forward to, so you delayed it for as long as possible.

“I’ll be alright.” Tim sighed, “I’ll probably just nap on the computer or something.”

You sighed, “Tim.”

“Don’t.” He started, dry amusement evident in his tone despite the snappy words. “I will not hear the ‘Sleep is important’ lecture from you when you’re just as bad as I am.”

You chuckled, “Yeah, yeah, touché." You tone became more serious, “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”

He hummed noncommittally, but you know he’s listening. “Of course, have a good night.”

You smiled, “You too.” You took out your comm, putting it in its case before stashing it away with your suit.

Based on Jason’s usual schedule, he’ll be home in a couple hours, which gave you plenty of time to prepare for his arrival.

While you could've just hoped that Jason would never come home early while you were still out, you had decided against that early on. It was too risky, and it was better to just provide and potential explanation why. You had told him that you also worked late nights, and would be out at around the same times he was.

As you go through your post-patrol routine, prepping for bed, you find yourself conflicted. Every night you look at Jason’s side of the bed and wonder if this is the night you tell him. You’ve rehearsed the conversation dozens, if not hundreds of times.

Not once have you taken action to tell him though. A mixture of apprehension and fear of judgment always win, leading to you telling yourself the same lie every night: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”

You never have, and it’s been long enough where you question if you ever will. The longer you wait, the worse it gets, and not just because it’s a big secret. How does it somehow get worse?

You have concluded that Jason does not like Batman. Hell, you would go so far as to say he loathes the vigilante. While you may not always work with Batman, you do it often enough to the point where it's well known that you have some sort of association with him. It was apart of the (many) excuses you used in order to stall your inevitable confession. You needed to get him “open” to the idea of you working with the hero he detests. Every time you “innocently” inquired why he hates the Bat, Jason would get this far off look, his eyes narrowing in what looked like inner turmoil.

You stopped asking after he snapped at you about it.

In his defense, you had asked the question multiple times in the past (all with no success). You figured that if you kept prying at it, he’d eventually relent. However, you had clearly underestimated how personal his hatred was for Batman. He had left angry that night, fists clenched and whitened at his sides as he threw the door open. You had watched him leave regretfully.

It was a bad night.

That was the night that Scarecrow had first leaked his new Fear Gas to the diner. Millions of people fled the city, and you had felt a sense of dread settle into your chest. You knew, at that moment, that it was going to be a long few nights. That initial night was when you had first heard his name: the “Arkham Knight.”

You only recently started operating in Gotham, so you were accustomed to being unfamiliar with some of the household names in this business. Bruce had (very) reluctantly allowed you to operate in Gotham on your own. He let you do your own thing as long as you agreed to keep him in the loop if anything major happened. This whole Scarecrow and Arkham Knight mess fell into that category, and so the two of you came to an agreement to work with one another for the time being. You had hoped that, with how long Bruce has been doing this, he’d recognize the Arkham Knight. It turned out that not a single one of you had previously heard the name, and if Bruce didn’t know it, that didn’t bode well for the rest of you.

It didn’t take long for you to commit his name to memory. Soon it became the one thing that you focused on. Figuring out who he is. You and Alfred worked on it the most, sifting through files upon files of patients at Arkham who may have a vendetta against Batman (no small number), yet none fit the profile.

“You’re still here?”

You— the trained vigilante you are— jumped as Jason walks into your shared bedroom. He looked worn, just like every night he had left previously. However, he looked considerably more unkempt this time, and he had a stiffness about him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I do live here, you know.” You grinned at him as you made your way into your shared bed.

His mouth parted, and then he frowned. “I just… You know with all the shit that’s going on—” he tilted his head lazily to the window, “—I thought you’d leave.”

You chuckled, more out of surprise than amusement, “You thought I’d leave without telling you?”

He offered a strained smile, silently walking to the bathroom.

You blinked, frowning. Jason was never the most talkative person, and you were content to be the one that carried the conversation between the two in the beginning. As time went on, he opened up more, and more. It felt strange to have him be quiet again, and you did not like it one bit.

“Jay?” You called out his name, standing up from the bed. You knocked gently on the open bathroom door and find him looking at his reflection on the mirror. His eyes snap up on the reflective surface, meeting your own. “You know I wouldn’t leave you, right?” Steadily, you walked up behind him, adjusting your position before leaning your head onto his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. You don’t squeeze tightly, giving him the opportunity to push you off if he doesn’t want you touching him. He relaxed faintly under your touch, and you basked in his warmth. He’s always warm when he returns from his nights out.

The two of you were silent for a moment, and you looked down at his hands, rough and scarred. Gently, you caressed the skin, and he shuddered lightly. “I…” His sounded conflicted, and you turned your gaze to face him. He didn't return the look. “I think you should leave.”

You froze, staring unblinkingly at his face. “Leave?” You tested the words in your mouth, they felt unfamiliar. You’re used to never leaving this city, even in times of crisis. Back before you started dating Jason, you had no reason not to stay. You were more useful aiding Gotham. You never had somebody to prioritize over the city, not until Jason. And if this is what Jason wanted, then you’ll figure out a way to apologize to Bruce later. You haven't even told him you have a boyfriend. “If that makes you feel better we can leave.”

Jason slowly maneuvered his way out of your grasp. “No,” he shook his head, brows downturned, “I have to stay.”

Your lips parted in surprise, “Jason,” you began slowly, “it’s not worth your life to stay in this city.”

He didn't react to that comment, “I can’t risk you being here when it all goes to shit.” His voice is stronger, colder, calculating. It’s not a tone you hear from him often. Sure, he’s gets mad or frustrated, but this?

You shook your head, “Batman will figure—”

“—Batman,” the words were spat with such venom that your eyes widened, taken aback, "won’t be able to stop this. This is beyond him.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, “How can you be so sure?”

He turned his gaze to you, his eyes set and narrowed. His next words were low, quiet, not out of uncertainty, but more akin to a promise to himself: “He won’t be walking away unscathed after this.”

You took a deep breath, “That…” you swallow, unsure how to proceed, “sounds like a threat to him.”

His expression was unreadable, “He should take it as one. This isn’t a battle he will win.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off again. “Leaving is your best option. It’s the safest option.” His eyes softened slightly as he raised a hand to your face, brushing your skin.

You grabbed his hand, “Then let’s leave together. I don’t understand why you feel obligated to stay here.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, “No, no. Don’t you get it? I can’t stay. I have…” He looked into your eyes, trying desperately to get you to understand him. It pained him to look at you, knowing he couldn't ever share his reason why he must stay. “…I have unfinished business here.”

You scoff, “Jason, whatever it is can wait. With all that’s going on with Scarecrow and the Arkha—”

“—You can’t be here for it.” He grounded out, “Please,” he tone turned into a imploring whisper. He shifted his grasp from your hands to your entire forearm. Supporting the weight with his own arms, he met your gaze, “I know— I’m aware I’m giving shitty reasoning, but I cannot do what I have to do if I know you’re in the city and could be in danger. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I heard you got caught in some crossfire.”

You shook your head at him, “Jason— I— How can I know you won’t get caught in the crossfire?”

His gaze turned steely, “I won’t.” He must have sensed your uncertainty, “I will— fuck— I can call you every night. I can give you my location. I will personally find you once I’ve done what I need to do. We can go wherever you want after this. Just please,” he gently raised a hand back up to your face, “please get out while you still can.”

You stared into his eyes, his despair nearly appearing manic. You shifted your focus to his hand cradling your chin, then to him. “I don’t want— I can’t abandon you Jay.”

He vehemently shook his head, “And you won’t. I know you aren’t. I’m asking you to. It’s all I’m asking of you, get yourself out of this mess before it gets worse.”

Your heart settled, and you take a deep breath. Slowly, you remove yourself from his hold, crossing your arms. “You’ll call?”

He nodded emphatically, “Every morning, every night— I’ll— hell— I’ll even answer during work.”

You slowly nodded, “If anything happens—” he opened his mouth to cut you off, but you glared at him, “—do not cut me off again." He swallowed before nodding. “If anything happens. I want you to leave the city at that very moment. I don’t care if your ‘business is unfinished.’ I don’t want you here.”

He was silent for a long moment.

“Jason.” You narrowed your eyes at him, “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

Hesitantly, he nodded, “Yeah,” he sounded breathless, “yeah, that’s… fair.”

You sighed, “You better mean that. Otherwise I’ll come back to the city just to drag you out.”

He looked immensely concerned by your words, “…You won’t do that.” At your unwavering expression he coughed lightly, “Please don’t do that.” He amended his statement.

You smiled humorlessly, “Then don’t give me a reason to.” You turned to walk out of the bathroom. Just as you were about to get past the threshold, you placed your hand on the doorframe, turning to face him again.

“Promise me you’ll be careful, Jay.”

His eyes lifted from the ground to meet your own. Still conflicted, but lighter than they were when he entered.

“I promise.” He vowed.

“Wait, you’ve been staying where?”

You lean back in your seat at the Batcomputer, looking at Tim projected on the monitor. “Well, Bruce is out right now. He hasn’t been home for days.” You shrug, “I do not understand what keeps that man going.” You mutter to yourself, shaking your head. “Anyway, I thought I'd just camp in the cave for the next few nights. It’s not like I could actually leave the city.” You sigh, reclining back in the chair.

“Remind me why you even considered doing that? We’re already stretched thin as it is.” Tim frowns.

You look up to Tim, his frown clearly projected on the screen. “Uh…” You cough, “Reasons.”

He walks off screen. “Ah, yes, reasons, very descriptive.” You can hear him rolling his eyes. “You know, it’s really none of my business—”

“—it really isn’t—”

“but it might feel better if you get it off your chest?” Tim returns, offering a small smile. You can vaguely see him working with some blood samples on the left side of the screen.

You twist in your chair, shifting your position to get a better look at him. You lazily rest one leg over the other. “I…” The problem with Tim’s offer is that you do want to talk about it. There’s not many people who could understand your inner conflict, and Tim would be one of the few.

“Don’t feel pressured. It’s just…” he sighs, “Don’t stress yourself too much. That’s Bruce’s job, we don’t need to do it to ourselves too.”

You chuckle, tapping a finger on the armrest of your chair contemplatively. “If… If I tell you—” you scoot closer to the screen, “you gotta swear not to tell Bruce.” You pause for a moment before continuing, “And you can’t look into it.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, but he eventually nods. “If that makes you feel better, then I suppose I can keep a secret.”

You brace yourself, looking around the cave for any third party listeners. Hesitantly, you clear your throat, “I… Hypothetically… have a boyfriend.”

Tim doesn’t outwardly react other than switching his focus from the samples to you. “How hypothetical are we talking?”

“…Not very hypothetical,” you smile sheepishly.

Tim gives you a sympathetic look, and slowly nods. “How long?”

You grimace, “About a year and a half?” You do a so-so motion.

His mouth parts, “Oh,” he blinks, dumbfounded, “so this has been a while.”

“Yeah…” You trail off.

“And Bruce has no idea?”

“No…” You trail off. “Probably not? I think I’ve done a pretty good job hiding it.”

He nods, “Alright, wow. You know the boyfriend thing? Kinda expected that.” He holds his hands up in surrender at your slightly offended look. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just surprised you haven’t… you know.” He vaguely gestures.

You blink slowly, “No, I don’t. Elaborate, Tim, please.”

He purses his lips, “Uh— Actually forget I said anything.” He pretends to busy himself with the samples. “So, uh, boyfriend huh? Got a name?”

“Most people do, yeah.” You nod, grabbing a pen on the desk and loosely spinning it.

His shoulders sag, and he places the blood samples down. “Oh come on, I already said I won’t tell, and I won’t look into it.”

You stare at him for a moment, assessing him for any lying tells. “You will not say a word or look it up.”

He groans, “Yes, otherwise you’ll kill me or something I don’t know. Honestly, you might have to wait to see if we survive these next few nights in order to do that.” He gives you his full attention, blood sample forgotten.

You snort humorlessly, that's a bit too realistic for you right now. “Alright,” you sigh, “his name is Jason.”

Tim blinks at you, and neither of you say anything for a bit. "Hello?” You hesitantly wave at him. Did the connection go out?

He shakes his head, “No— sorry— yeah, I’m here.” He nods carefully.

You raise an eyebrow, “Something… wrong with that?” You never really heard of Tim having something against the name “Jason,” but you’ve heard stranger things.

“No. I just—” he scratches his neck, “I know somebody by that name… Well—” he frowns, looking off into the distance before shaking his head, “technically I never knew him. I just heard nearly everything about him.”

You raise an eyebrow, a silent inquiry.

He looks down at the table in front of him before looking up again. “He was the— uh— previous Robin.”

You tilt your head, furrowing your eyebrows, “I thought that was Dick?”

He nods, “Dick was the first, but he wasn’t my predecessor.” He crosses his arms, leaning onto the table. “You know that one Robin suit in the cave?”

“Oh,” your eyes flickering over to the Robin suit displayed on instinct. “I… never knew.”

Tim shrugs, “He doesn’t talk about it much. I only know so much cause he kept calling me ‘Jason’ in the beginning.” You wince. You couldn’t help but feel sympathy for everybody involved. Losing Robin, losing a kid like that. It must have been hard on anybody. Then to constantly be compared to him.

“I’m sorry, Tim.” You apologize, voice quiet.

He shakes his head, “I never knew him… Not really anyway. It can't mourn him the same way Bruce, Alfred, or even Dick did. It just wasn’t the same.”

You nod, “Yeah.” You mumble, eyeing the costume.

He exhales, grabbing the blood samples, “Didn’t meant to dampen the mood.” He smiles apologetically at you. “The name just reminded me of him, that’s all.” His begins to work offscreen. “He treat you well?”

You nod, “He… He loves me. I know that,” you fidget with your fingers.

Tim leans back into frame, “But..?”

You exhale, feeling exhausted just remembering the argument. “He… He’s being a fucking idiot.”

Tim snorts, “How so?”

“He’s the one who told me to evacuate the city.” You prop an arm up on the desk, “At first I had actually considered the idea— don’t give me that look.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Tim grumbles.

“I wasn’t actually going to vanish, Tim. Why do you think I’m here and not at my apartment with him?” You rub your temples. “I would’ve figured something out. I just— I thought,” you exhale, frustrated that the words aren’t coming out as intended, “I thought that if he cared about me so much, he’d understand that I care about him just as much.”

“Does he not?” Tim asks, frowning as he sets the blood sample to spin in a centrifuge.

“He was insistent that he stay in the city. Said he has ‘unfinished business.’” You do air quotes, “Apparently, that is more important than his safety.”

“Did you ask him what it was?” Tim asks, mirroring your pose, propping his face onto his hand.

You slowly shake your head. “He… I don’t know.” You groan. “He knew it sounded stupid, and he told me that, but he never actually told me what it was.”

“Hm,” Tim hums disapprovingly. “I know you may not want to hear it, but that sounds—“

“—Suspicious as hell.” You nod, “I know, Tim. I’m not stupid.”

He holds his hands up in a surrender, “I’m just saying. ‘Unfinished business’ could be a way of saying he works for Scarecrow or just maybe he works for—”

“—the Arkham Knight.” You both chorus. You mouth parts as you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest.

Tim nods, “Look at us,” he chuckles, “teamwork at its finest. Finishing each other’s sentences.” He gestures between you both.

You don’t share his joy at coming to the same conclusion, “I don’t— Tim, it’s not fair of me to accuse him of something that drastic just because he won’t leave the city.”

Tim leans forward, hands propped up, “I don’t want to bash your boyfriend, but can you truly come up with another reason why he’d want to stay here with everything that’s going on.”

You remained silent.

“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” Tim tries, voice artificially optimistic. At your distressed sound, he panics slightly, “I can’t imagine you’d have subjected yourself with a relationship with an asshole for that long, so I genuinely don’t think he is a bad guy. He’s likely in a similar situation to many other criminals: forced into an awful situation, and forced to make it work.”

“I could help him though!” You groan.

“Have you told him about…” he gestures around loosely, “all of this?”

You purse your lips, shaking your head, “No…” you sigh. “I know it’s hypocritical, but it’s just—” you huff, laying your head into the crooks of your elbow on the desk. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s my issue to solve. I’ll probably tell him after all of this.” Your voice is muffled from speaking into your own arm. “I… I’ll just make sure to keep tabs on him while he’s here.” You sit up straight. “We got bigger issues to solve than my relationship issues.”

Tim removes the blood sample from the centrifuge, “Any updates on who the Arkham Knight could be?”

You shake your head, “Nope,” you pop the ‘p,’ “Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if this guy materialized out of thin air just to mess with us, or Bruce I guess.”

Tim raises his eyebrows, huffing as if considering the probability of that. “I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point.”

You chuckle humorlessly. “I’ve checked everything. Past Arkham patients, inmates at Blackgate, hell— I’ve begun to widen the search outside of Gotham and Blüdhaven. There’s nothing on this guy. He’s a ghost.”

Tim frowns, “You’re telling me somebody capable of leading the militia has just been hiding out in public then?”

You rest your head on your hand, rubbing your temples. The stress of figuring out who the Arkham Knight is has really been getting to you. “Seems like it." You admit. “I think I’ve just accepted that we’re not going to know who this guy is unless he reveals himself to us.”

Tim sighs, “Then let’s hope that it’s sooner rather than later.”

You can hear your heart beating.

It pounds in your ears as you watch the militia henchman walk over the grate your hiding under. The Arkham Knight had been setting up these bases across the city, and Bruce had tasked you with dismantling as many of them as you could.

Easier said than done.

“Have you heard about the calls the Knight has been taking?” One of the henchman asks his friend.

You crawl as close as you can to them in order to hear them better. “The Knight? Hell, I barely see the guy. Only times I’ve seen ‘im are when the Bat is involved.”

The first henchman huffs, “Well,” he looks around, checking to see if anybody is listening, “rumor has it, that he’s spent the past few nights callin’ someone. He doesn’t go out on jobs ‘til after the call.”

You watch as the second guy lowers his gun, “Eh, it’s probably ‘bout a job. You guys are looking into it too much.”

The first guy shakes his head, “Nah, man. We thought that too. Then one of the lieutenants accidentally walked in during one of these calls.” He huffs, “The Knight calmly ended the call, then absolutely lost it.”

“Did the guy knock? Manners are important.” The second guy asks dryly.

“I dunno,” the first guy shrugs, “but apparently what he heard? The Knight was talking to some woman.”

The second guy snickers, “Oooh,” he mockingly coos, “the Knight got a fuckin’ girlfriend? You sure we’re talkin’ about the same guy?”

The first guy huffs, as if offended. “Whatever, man. I’m just tellin’ you what I heard. Now, don’t go blabbing your mouth to everyone alright? Apparently, the Knight threatened the lieutenant, saying he’d kill the guy if he said anything about the call.”

It’s silent for a moment.

“So why the fuck would you tell me? I don’t wanna die!” The second guy whisper-yells.

“I just said don’t blab. If ya don’t blab then you’re fine.” The first guy waves him off.

“Yeah, but what if somebody is listening?” The second guy continues to whisper, eyes flickering around apprehensively.

Yeah, it’d be crazy if somebody was listening.

“It’s just us, buddy. Batman’s busy trying to get Ivy’s aid or some shit. It’s just us tonight.” The first guy pats his friend’s shoulder.

“Don’t he have those sidekicks of his running around?” The second guy gestures loosely.

“Eh, what’re the chances they’ll show up? The Bat is the only one we really need to worry about.” You quietly exit the grate, crouching behind a concrete wall.

“Yeah, I guess,” the second guy responds, unconvinced. You carefully sneak behind the two of them. “I suppose you’re right. What’re are the chances that one of the Bats will decide that we’re worth— OH SHI—”

You slam their heads together before knocking them both unconscious. You wipe imaginary dust off your hand, grabbing the controller from the pockets of the left guy and smashing it beneath your feet. The second you destroy it, the walls around you come down.

You open your comms, raising your wrist as Alfred's projection appears, “Another base dismantled.”

“Copy that, Madame.” Alfred gives a resolute nod.

“Also, I may have gotten more info on the Knight.” You lightly kick the militia goon, checking if he’s fully unconscious.

“Oh?” Alfred prompts.

You can’t help the grin on your face, “Apparently, the Arkham Knight has a girlfriend.”

Alfred is silent for a moment, “A… girlfriend?” He sounds baffled.

“Yeah, so I was listening to these militia guys talk, and apparently he has a girlfriend.” You sit on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down on the tanks patrolling the streets. “So now we’re dealing with a masked rogue working with Scarecrow, that has a grudge against Batman, that has no prior incidents actually recorded at Arkham, AND has a girlfriend.” You huff. “Gotta admit, the guy is one hell of a multitasker.”

“We can attempt to narrow the search, but I regret to inform you that I find it unlikely that any results with turn up with a real answer.” Alfred informs you, frowning.

“Yeah, I know, I’m just… I guess I was surprised. It’s the first piece of information we’ve caught on the Arkham Knight’s personal life.” You sigh, standing up. Alfred hums in acknowledgement. “Anyway, I’ll be heading to another base. I’ll keep you updated, Alfred.” You nod at him.

“Please remember to be careful.” Alfred nods at you in return.

You smile, “When am I not?” At his exasperated sigh, you chuckle. “I won’t get killed, Alfred. You needn’t worry.”

He sighs, “I always do.” The two of you sit in silence before he hangs up.

You slowly lower your wrist, staring over the city. The neon red lights of the drones shine through the alleys below, searching. Searching for Batman in particular, but willing to take any target that dares to venture into their line of sight. Occasionally, you’ll see a criminal duck into an alley, attempting to get out of the militia’s path. For once, you cannot blame them for trying to run.

It’s been one night since you “left” Gotham.

You had called Jason last night, standing on the balcony of Wayne Tower. Staring down at the city as it’s overrun by more militia and rogues than you’ve seen in a while.

“Hey,” You spoke softly into the phone. The rain attempted to drown out the sound of your voice, but Jason could hear it clear as day.

“Hey,” Jason started, “you got out of the city okay?”

You smile sadly, “I texted you the second I got out.” You had texted him six hours after you had reached the Manor. You made sure to scramble your location so that he couldn’t track you to Bruce’s.

“Yeah, I know.” He hummed “I wanted to hear it from you.”

You chuckled, “I’m alright, Jay. How about you?”

He’s silent for a moment, “I’m managing.”

You sighed, leaning against the railing, “Do you think that you’ll finish up soon?” You asked quietly.

He sighed, “No… Not for a couple of days at least.” You heard the creak of a door open in the background. Jason inhales so sharply that it was actually audible. “Hey, sweetheart,” he started slowly, and you can hear the sound of a chair squeak in the background, “somethin’ just came up. I can call you in a minute, you mind if I deal with this real quick?” Well, that wasn’t a very long call.

“It’s okay, Jay. Go and deal with it. We can always call tomorrow. I know you’re busy.” You smiled ruefully.

“Are you sure?” His voice became rougher, and you could tell somebody is in the room with him.

“It’s okay, Jay.” You chuckled, “The quicker you get this done, the quicker we can see each other again, yeah?”

“Yeah,” his words were a whisper meant for you. “Alright, I’ll call you tomorrow." He paused, and his next words were somehow softer than the last. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”

You bite your tongue to keep from grinning into the phone, “I love you more, Jay.”

He chuckles humorlessly, “Doubt it.”

You roll your eyes, “Alright, alright. I’ll let you think that.” You pushed yourself off the railing, walking into Lucius’ office with a nod of acknowledgement for the man. “Good luck with whatever you’re dealing with.”

“He’s gonna need it.” Jason hung up the call, and you put your phone away.

You had called him for a quick check up in the morning, but he seemed even more busy than last night. You didn’t want to bother him too much, and accepted the quick phone call, not questioning any of the oddities that came with it. You were just glad to hear he was okay.

You pull your phone out, opening Jason’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. The rain patters onto the screen, causing the pixels to warp slightly underneath the liquid. You wipe it, gloves smearing the droplets off the screen.

Is it too late to call him? Is he busy again? What if he’s out working? What if he’s working for them?

You shiver from the cold, raising your knees to your chest to conserve warmth. Your about to lower your thumb to press that button, when you hear the militia begin to speak into your comms. Bruce had given you the frequency they were on, and you had been listening to them all night.

“Got her located in sight, Boss.”

You whip around, narrowing your eyes as you notice a helicopter in the distance approach you. What the hell?

Narrowing your eyes, you stand your ground as the helicopter closes in on you. It turns to open the doors that are now facing you. Half a dozen militia henchmen jump out, landing in front of you. You ready yourself for a fight, fists raised, “Oh, now you decide I’m worth the effort?”

“Take her out!” The medic yells from the back, and you maneuver your way around the other members in order to take him out first. Bruce has mentioned once or twice how annoying they could be, and you didn’t want to find out.

Standing up from the now unconscious body, you use your peripherals to catalog the other members of the group. They’ve got training, but they’re not nearly as good as some of the simulations Bruce has made you fight for practice. You focus on one at a time, incapacitating them one-by-one. Attack when you can, but focus on keeping yourself safe first. By the time you finish. You look back up to the helicopter, gesturing your hands out as if asking “Got anymore than that?” Was it smart to taunt the heavily armed military group occupying your city? Probably not, but to be fair...

You didn’t expect the Arkham Knight to jump out of the helicopter next.

You immediately crouch into a fighting position, narrowing your eyes at him. This is the first time you’ve seen the man up close in person and not just from Bruce’s recordings. “You aren’t who I was expecting.” You keep your tone steady, quips dying as you realize the severity of your circumstances

“I could say the same about you.” He strolls casually to the left, and you begin to circle one another. “I knew that the Bat had gotten a new sidekick.” He pauses, lazily pointing his gun at you, as if you aren’t a threat, “I didn’t expect him to get two new sidekicks.”

Now, you haven’t been doing this for as long as Bruce, but you wouldn’t consider yourself “new” to this anymore. Even if you were “new,” the Knight said that there were two new sidekicks. The newest after you is Tim, and he is certainly not new to this.

“New?” You ask cautiously.

The Arkham Knight laughs, the robotic sound sending an uneasy shiver down your spine. “Still can’t figure it out?” He slowly approaches you, and you reach your hand back to your utility belt, ready to attack. “All of these allies and nothing to show for them, huh?” He continues to laugh, and instead of being scared, the sound begins to grate on your nerves.

“Don’t pretend to know anything about us.” You glare at him.

“Oh, I don’t have to pretend. I know how he thinks. I know how he operates. I’ve known longer than you have, and longer than you ever will.” The Knight stops in front of you, the lights on his mask pulse as you stare at it.

“Is that a threat?” Your words are quiet, stiff.

The Knight shrugs, “Take it how you will. I don’t care. Either way, I won’t hesitate to stop you if you attempt to meddle with my operations any more.” He points his gun beneath your chin, and you swallow nervously. The metal doesn't touch you, though. You don’t break eye contact with him.

“Then why hesitate now?” You grit your teeth.

He chuckles quietly, “Don’t mistake this for hesitation.” He presses the barrel of the gun up against your chin, causing you to jerk back instinctively, “This is your warning, your only warning. I don’t care what your partnership with him is like. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stop interfering with my plans.”

“You’re hurting innocent people—”

“Innocent?!” You wince at the sudden change in volume. “You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?” He lightly nudges the gun against your chin, and you avoid looking into the barrel of it. “Do you wanna know somethin’?”

You don’t respond, and you don’t think he’d care what your response is.

“Well, the Bat? The guy you hold in such high regard?” He waves the gun away from you. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you. He doesn’t hold your life in any higher regard than any of those low-lives running amok in the street.”

“You don’t know that.” You push the gun away with your hand, and the Knight lets you.

“I know that better than anybody.” He spits the words out, waving the gun around. “Perhaps you will learn that someday, but really— it's not my problem.” He holsters his gun, turning around as he walks back beneath the helicopter. “This is beyond you. Stay out of this fight. This is your only warning, and you’re very lucky I’m giving it to you.”

You slowly trail behind him, keeping your distance, but curious what more he has to say. “No, no, wait—” six more militia members drop to the Knight’s sides, “—I don’t understand, how do you know—”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” The Knight cuts you off. “Let’s make this our final meeting. If you’re smart, you’ll stop aiding the Bat,” he pauses for a moment, reaching for his grapnel gun, “but something tells me you won’t listen to me.” He launches himself away, back into the helicopter, before you even get a chance to respond.

“Damn it.” You mutter to yourself, looking up at the helicopter hovering above you. The Knight grabs the edge of the door for support, looking down at you. “Do what you can against her.” He commands before walking out of your sight. You glare up at the helicopter as it begins to depart.

A quick jab comes your way, but (luckily) you raised your elbow to block the blow. Wincing, you huff at the goon; you know you’ll be feeling that tomorrow. You parry the goon’s next jab before sweeping him off his feet, and punching him in the jaw. He grunts as you hit him once more, knocking him unconscious. You look back up to the helicopter fleeing the scene as the remaining henchmen surround you.

That wasn’t what you expected.

“Did he give any tells as to who he may be.” Bruce asks over the comms.

“I… No? I don’t think so. He seemed to believe that he knows you better than Tim and I do.” You look over the rooftop you’re standing on, surveying the militia base below. There’s a drone stationed in there, damn. It looks like you’ll have to dismantle that first before taking on the rest of the henchmen.

Bruce says your name, “Think.” He prompts. “Was there anything he said that you think could clue us into who he is?”

Frustrated, you shake your head, “Bruce, I don’t know who this guy is. I’ve looked. I uploaded the footage of our encounter to the Batcomputer. You can view it if you want, but there’s nothing we didn’t already know. He acts like he knows you better than Tim or I do, then goes on about having a grudge against you.”

Bruce grunts, and you sigh. “I’m sorry, I wish I had more to say, but I don’t know who he could be.” You frown, grabbing your disruptor. “I can keep looking—”

“Don’t.” Bruce interrupts you (apparently everybody feels the need to cut you off).

You straighten your posture, “But you said that you wanted me to try and figure out his identity.”

“It’s too risky right now. If that was his only warning, I don’t want you getting hurt on the field.” You can hear Bruce’s cape in the background of the audio.

You furrow your eyebrows, “That’s never stopped you before.”

He remains silent for a moment.

You sigh, “Fine… Fine, I’ll stop looking into his identity.”

“And the bases.” Bruce adds.

You stand up, turning away from the base below you, “What? Are you serious, Bruce? You want to bench me now?” You scoff, “We finally make progress, and you decide that sending me away from this is the best option?”

“You have a target on your back now.” He responds stoically.

“Oh,” you chuckle humorlessly, “so now I’m an obstacle? A person to babysit on field? I’m an adult, Bruce. You don’t need to baby me. I've had a target on my back since my first day out.” You cross your arms as you turn you back to the base below you.

Bruce is silent for moment before he says your name, “Help Tim if you must, but it’s safer for you if you aren’t out here.”

You inhale slowly, attempting to control your breathing. You let out a long exhale, “Fine.” Fuck you too, Bruce.

You stare blankly ahead for a moment before you hear Bruce switch channels. You take the opportunity to turn around, looking down at the base again.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I suppose.” You mumble to yourself, before switching the comm channel. “Hey, Tim?”

“What’s up?” You can hear his voice off in the distance.

“So, Bruce tried benching me,” you trail off, pulling your disruptor back out.

Tim snorts, “Welcome to the club. I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he wants me working on this cure just so I’m not out on the field.”

You huff, “I can’t imagine why he’s so set on working alone, but I’m going to keep trying to dismantle as many bases as I can.”

“Hm,” Tim hums, “well, if you need help—”

“—then I’ll let you know. I just wanted to make sure somebody knows what I’m doing.” You hold down the button on the disruptor, connecting it to the drone.

Tim snorts, “You’re better than Bruce at least.”

You roll your eyes, “I’d hope so.” You click the button to turn it off for thirty seconds. “Anyway, I’m at a base right now, I gotta go, bye!” You quickly hang up, ignoring Tim’s baffled “Huh?”

You take the opportunity to sneak behind the drone before making quick work of it. Obviously, dismantling such a big weapon wouldn’t go unnoticed, so you quickly throw a Batarang at the one gunman in the corner. You roll before grabbing your Batclaw and disarming him.

You narrow your eyes, a smirk forming on your face as you watch one of the goons run toward the crate of guns. Grinning, you decide to taunt the guy, knowing he won’t listen, “Uh, I wouldn’t touch that—”

The second he touches the crate, he gets electrocuted, crumbling to the ground. You wince in sympathy, that’ll leave a mark. You shoot the Batclaw out again before yanking one of the militia members to you; you use the momentum combined with your punch to instantly knock him to the ground.

“Thought we’d only be worrying about the Bat tonight?” One of the guys yells out.

“Well obviously not. Last I checked she wasn’t the Bat!” The other one grabs a club before attempting to hit you with it.

“Can confirm: I am not the Bat.” You block the club, yanking it from his grasp before whacking it back on him. “Kinda more like a subcategory. Bat-adjacent, if you will.”

“So like a sidekick?” Another goon asks.

“Eh, yes but no?” You respond, using the wall to jump off of and knock him out. “Sidekick feels a little demeaning. Like do you want me to call you guys sidekicks to the Arkham Knight?”

One of the other goons slowly lowers his hands, sharing a look with his buddy, “Well, no—”

“So you see my point!” You offer him finger guns, before grabbing his elbow. You twist it to an unnatural angle before snapping it. He cries out in pain, “Sorry, it ain’t personal.” You sheepishly shrug.

“The hell is she doing here? The Knight told us we wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else!” One of the goons cries out.

“He fuckin’ lied that’s what!” You knee him in the face, ouch.

“So like— since you guys are feeling chatty— Have you heard anything about the Knight’s girlfriend?” You pin one guy to the ground, using your weight to keep him stationary.

“How—” He coughs, “How do you know about that?” His voice is raspy. You smile, putting a finger up to your lips.

“Don’t worry about that. I was just curious cause like— no offense to him— but I did not imagine him to be the romantic type.” You wave a hand casually.

“That’s— That’s what I said!” The goon beneath you cries out.

You nod sagely, noticing a guy sneak up behind you. You move out of the way in the nick of time, and he slams his arms down onto his friend’s body— right where you previously were. The grounded goon cries out in pain, and you frown.

“So you guys got any info on that matter?” You grab a Batarang, throwing it at one of the guys attempting to pick up a gun off the ground.

“Like we’d tell you anything!” He yells back, cradling his hand as if you smacked it (the Batarang didn’t even hit him).

“Okay, fair, I can respect the loyalty…” You raise your hands up in mock-surrender. “But like— does he get all gushy when he talks about her?” You snicker to yourself, you can’t imagine the Arkham Knight being a loving boyfriend.

One of the guys snorts, “He like fully changed into another person. Like I heard from outside the door he was like ‘you get out of the city okay?’ or somethin’—”

“Hey, you never told me that!” One of the other goons whips to face his friend, offended.

The first guy shrugs, “You didn’t seem like you cared.”

“Are you kidding me, dude?” He grumbles under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah, so did his girlfriend leave the city?” You pry, putting your hands on your hips. At this point the fight has been long forgotten.

The two remaining goons shrugged, “I dunno? I think so. I left soon after the other guy walked in on his conversation with her.” The second guy winces, raising a fist to his mouth with a hissing sound.

“Yeah, I could hear his yelling down the hall.” The second guy adds on.

You nod solemnly, “Damn, so have any of you guys asked about her since?”

While getting information about the Arkham Knight be difficult, getting information from his girlfriend?

Now that is a much easier mission.

Based on what they’ve told you, the Knight told his girlfriend to evacuate the city. This means that she’s likely a civilian, a lot easier to interrogate than the Knight himself.

“You kiddin’? Last guy who said anything about it was made an example of.” The first guy cries out, shaking his head. The other guy frantically nods his head.

You frown, “Does he make an example of you guys often?”

“Nah, he’s not abusive. Tough and maybe a bit too vengeful, yeah, but the guy has done a good job training us for this.” He shrugs, “Well, other than the guy who said something nasty about his girl.”

You raise an eyebrow, “What’d he say?”

The two guys shrug in unison, and your hold back your chuckle at how innocent they look. “We don’t know. All we know is that the guy hasn’t been seen since.”

You nod slowly, “Huh, alright… Thanks.”

“Yeah— Wait, you think we gave her too much info?” The first guy turns to face his friend. The second guy slowly looks between his friend and you.

“Probably,” his voice sounds, understandably, worried.

“It’s fine. I’m not really happy with Batman right now. Rest assured that that info won’t reach him.” You pull out your detonator.

The two guys exhale, relieved.

You hold the detonator up, “Still gotta knock you both out though,” you offer a pitiful smile, “sorry?”

“What—”

You press the button, and both of them fly a few feet before laying limp on the ground. You frown, checking their heartbeat: unconscious, but alive.

You raise a hand up to your comm, turning it on. “Tim, you will not believe what these guys just told me, oh my goodness.” You hold your wrist up, looking at Tim on the projection as you locate the signal for the controller for the base’s walls.

“Good news I hope? We’re kinda running low on that.” He mumbles the last part to himself. You grab the controller from the goon beneath you.

“Eh, interesting news, that’s for sure.” You crush the signal, watching as the walls around you fold onto itself.

Tim raises an eyebrow, “Alright, I’m listening.”

“You remember how the Knight has a girlfriend? Well, I was just chatting with some of the militia guys, and—”

“The Arkham Knight has a girlfriend?” Tim slams his arms down onto the desk in surprise.

You pause, frowning, “Did… Did I not tell you that?”

“No! I think I’d remember!”

“Huh,” you pause, contemplative. “Oh! Right, I told Alfred first.”

Tim’s mouth drops open, “You told Alfred before me?”

You purse your lips, “Sorry, Tim, kinda forgot. Alfred has been the one helping me identify the guy.”

“No worries, I’m just surprised— we are talking about the Arkham Knight, right? The ‘Look at me while you die, Batman’ guy?”

“Yep,” you release a dry chuckle.

“He has a girlfriend?” Tim asks again.

“Yep,” you grin.

“Who’d date the guy? Wait, do you think he practices his lines for when he attempts to kill Bruce? You think his girlfriend hypes him up?” Tim chuckles at the idea.

You cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, “Tim.” You lightly scold.

“Okay, sorry, but like— he’s gotta bounce the ideas off somebody.” Tim smirks, shrugging. You ponder the question for a moment.

“You think his girlfriend gets tired of it?” You eventually ask, smirking back at him. “Babe, it’s three in the morning, please stop threatening Batman.”

Tim lets out a long exhale that sounds like a wheeze. “He— He wakes her up like: ‘Babe, wake up, I came up with a new Batman threat.’”

The two of you continue to cackle on call, your volume garnering attention from criminals roaming the street. When they go to investigate, they see you, and immediately turn the other direction which only spurs your laughter even more.

“Okay, okay—” you continue to laugh, “seriously though. I was talking to some of his guys about it. Apparently he like likes her.”

“Oh?” Tim coughs, attempting to catch his breath from the laughter.

“Yeah, and I quote from one of the guys: ‘he fully changed into another person.’ Which leads me to think she isn’t involved in his business.” You theorize.

Tim nods along, “You think you can find her?”

You deflate, “Well, uh, no.” His shoulder sag, and you rush to add another comment. “But,” you hold up your index finger in a “Wait” motion. “But, I do know she left the city.”

Tim frowns at you, “I think that’s the opposite of helpful.”

“Yeah, well. It’s something. We know she’s a civilian, and she is currently not in the city.”

Tim chuckles, tired, “Wow, with that much information, we might as well consider it a case closed.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. His goons talk easily. I didn’t even have to threaten them. I’ll just wait til some of them talk about the girlfriend again.” You smile at Tim.

“Well, that sounds enjoyable. I hope you have fun with that.” Tim responds dryly.

“Don’t act like testing blood samples is any more fun.” You deadpan.

“What?” Tim gasps, “What’re you talking about? This is a blast.” He set the blood sample in his hand back into the centrifuge to spin.

“Mhm,” you hum, “yeah that’s what I thought.”

“Don’t you have goons to be eavesdropping on?” Tim’s lip twitches, betraying his smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep you and Alfred updated.” You lower your wrist and dismiss the projection of Tim.

“In that order, or will I be the second to hear about any new info you gathered?” Tim’s voice echoes in your comms.

You chuckle, “Bye-bye, Tim.” You hang up the call, checking the time. It’s nearly four in the morning, and upon seeing the time, you feel the exhaustion deep into your bones. You should call Jason. It’s what you were going to do before the Arkham Knight oh-so kindly interrupted you.

Heyy, sorry, I fell asleep on accident

do you still wanna call or is it too early?

or I guess late

idk depends on perspective

Not even a minute goes by.

Jason: I can call if you’d like

Jason: but if you were asleep, then you should go back to sleep

Jason: we can always call in the morning

Jason: or now

You smile, pursing your lips as you consider your options. On the other hand, you are tired. Calls with Jason can last two minutes (given his mystery job), but also the possibility of spending the next two hours on the phone with your boyfriend is very real.

it’s okay, we can call in the morning

sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep lol

Jason: Don’t worry about it

Jason: I should’ve texted you earlier

Jason: It’s been a long night

Don’t you know it.

I get that, just make sure you rest

Jason: Only if you do

Damn fair enough 💀

Jason: Joking, joking

Jason: Not really

Jason: Seriously get some rest

No need to tell you twice.

Whatever you say 🫡

He pauses for a moment, bubble reappearing and disappearing.

Jason: That felt a bit too easy

Wow okay so you wanna argue about it?? :(

For a beat, there is no bubble or message.

Jason: Good night, I love you

You snort.

That’s what I thought

Good night, I love you too Jay :)

The two of you like each other’s messages, and you put your phone away. Time to trek back to the Manor. You look up to the city above you, Ivy’s plants wrapped around bridges, smoke in the distance puffing up into a smoky gray cloud— probably Firefly’s fault.

Sighing, you grab your grapnel gun and head back to the Manor.

“I know that better than anybody.”

You press the space bar, looping the audio.

“I know that better than anybody.”

Once again.

“I know that better than anybody.”

“Madame, I don’t believe looping your encounter with the Knight will be beneficial for you.” Alfred walks up to the Batcomputer beside you.

“Well, it’s the best we got.” You sigh as Alfred places a mug beside you. You smile at him gratefully. “Thanks.”

He nods, “Forgive me for prying, but I was under the impression that Master Bruce was going to be the only one out in action for the next few days.”

You scoff, “Yeah, well, he is insane if he thinks that tackling on the city with no field back up is smart.”

Alfred hums, “I suppose you make a good point.”

You turn toward Alfred, eyes pleading, “Don’t tell him please. I already told Tim that I’d call him for help if I mess up.”

Alfred remains silent for a moment before slowly nodding, “As long as you aren’t mortally injured, then I suppose I can omit this bit of information from him.”

You smile, exhaling in relief, “Thanks, Alfred.”

He nods, “Thank me by not making me have to resort to that.” He walks off, leaving you alone at the computer once again.

You watch him leave before slowly returning your attention to the screen. You zoom in on the Arkham Knight’s appearance. He looks the same as he has every time Bruce showed his footage of him. Screen-like mask, a military style suit, the “A” in the center of his suit. Upon closer examination, you notice that his suit has similar patterns in some parts that match some of the militia’s, only difference being that his is more vibrantly colored with a red. You hadn’t noticed it when you first met him. All you could focus on was his eyes. Bright and unyielding and betraying no emotion. The only way you were able to discern his thoughts was when he spoke. You click on a different time stamp in the audio.

“Innocent?! You think these people on the streets— these criminals that walk around— are innocent? They’re just as guilty as me, y’know?”

His body language seemed frantic yet controlled. His wide gestures aren’t out of any lapses into mania, but out of anger. You frown as you watch him hold the gun underneath you chin. At the time, you had been focused on not dying. Now, you notice the slightly tremble in his hands. You aren’t so naive to think that it’s out of fear of killing. A man like the Arkham Knight— a man who has taken lives without remorse— wouldn’t feel scared of killing you. You recognize it for what it is: fury.

Whatever his grudge against Batman is. It’s personal. It feels too personal for Batman not to have met the guy at least once.

Stretching, you stand up from your chair before grabbing your utility belt laid out on the desk. Alfred was right. This isn’t helping. If anything, you just feel crazy listening to the same modulated voice lines over and over and over, analyzing fabric just for a hint on who this guy may be.

You might as well go to the city, make use of yourself.

Journeying from the Manor to the main part of the city isn’t an unfamiliar trip. The trip back is automatic, and you barely even process the fact that you’ve made it back onto the main road. The only reason you do is that the drones patrolling the sky nearly blind you with their unforgiving beams of light waiting to claim their next victim.

The night started out slow, at least relative to the other ones.

You didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself— with Bruce not knowing you’re still patrolling— so you focused on the more minor crimes… for the most part. You didn’t actively go looking for any rogues or militia bases to dismantle, but if you stumbled onto them?

You might as well.

Some of them were evidently made with the intention of taking on the Batmobile (something you did not have access to), so you had to settle for taking on the ones without a dozen turrets scanning for a hint of movement. While not ideal, it still left plenty for you to take down.

By the time you had taken down two bases and two watchtowers, you had eased yourself comfortably into the night’s routine. The watchtowers required a bit more stealth than the bases, but if anything, you were grateful for the change in pace. It kept you on your toes.

You heave a sigh, detonating your third security console of the night. Another watchtower gone. You linger for a moment, grateful for the heating your suit provided. With how cold it is, and with the constant on-and-off rain, you imagine you’d get sick very fast without it. Frowning, you look over the unconscious bodies scattered at your feet.

Despite all your work tonight, not a single base has provided useful information. Frustrating? Absolutely. However, you aren’t too surprised. You kneel down to examine the armor the militia is wearing. “Hm,” you hum to yourself. It's the first time you've actually considered analying their attire. It appears to be standard military wear. Perhaps it has extra padding, but you note that it isn’t bulletproof, which is a bit surprising. You narrow your eyes at the scuffed up pieces of armor.

You suppose that makes sense, Bruce doesn’t use guns. It makes no sense to prepare for bullets when your biggest target doesn’t use them. You are about to reach into their pockets when you still.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You pause, but don’t look around. You don’t want to alert anybody that may be watching that you are aware they’re watching. Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to calm down. Biting your tongue, you slowly proceed with your original intention: looking through the militia’s pockets.

Then you see it. The flicker of a red dot flickers onto your arm before trailing up to your head. You heart spikes as you instantly raise an arm up, diving to the side to avoid the bullet. You scramble to push yourself against the now destroyed control console, smoke still piling up from your earlier explosion. You reach for smoke bombs in your utility belt, before quickly realizing your grasping at air. You mutter a soft curse, attempting to look for any other cover in the environment around you.

The control console was placed on the center of a long bridge walkway. The nearest crates for cover are at least thirty feet away. A distance you can’t cover, lest your sniper attempts to shoot you again. You attempt to raise your head over the top of the console, using the smoke to mask yourself. Upon seeing a figure on a rooftop above you, you feel your heart drop.

Of course, it’s the Arkham Knight. Why wouldn’t it be? You had blatantly disregarded every warning he gave you.

You tap your comms, “Tim— Alfred— Somebody— Arkham Knight is attempting to kill me. He’s sniping me just south of Kingston on Miagani.” You flinch as a bullet hits the console. “I could use some backup, as soon as possible!”

You hear Tim curse in the background, “I’m at least five minutes out. Think you can hold him off for that long?”

You attempt to steel yourself, “I’ll try my best. Please hurry.”

“Not so confident are you now?” The Arkham Knight’s voice echoes between the two buildings you’re between.

You scoff, not deigning to respond to his taunt.

“You can’t hide there forever.” He continues, his casual arrogance leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s like he already considers you dead.

“I’m assuming we can’t talk about this?” You yell out, wondering if he’ll even be able to hear you.

“Oh, we’re long past talking.” For a second, the red light of his rifle vanishes. You narrow his eyes, what is he planning?

Then you hear the faint familiar clatter of a grenade. Your eyes widen as you launch yourself out of the blast radius. However, you weren’t able to escape it completely, and it sends you skidding near the ledge of the walkway. Forced out of your cover, your eyes flicker to the Arkham Knight. He is propping the rifle against his shoulder, and he tilts his head at you.

“I gave you a warning.” He slower lowers the rifle, preparing to shoot it. Your muscles tense, and you run towards a shield an unconscious militia member left on the floor, raising it at the last second as the Knight sends a bullet straight into the shield, a resounding “CLANG!” nearly making you flinch.

“I remember!” You sneer, raising your shield up again as he sends another bullet your way. Reaching for your Batclaw, you hide it behind the shield. Keep him talking, not shooting. “In case it wasn’t obvious, your threat—” you emphasize the last word, “wasn’t appreciated.”

He chuckles, the sound distorted and wrong. “A shame.” He shoots your shield again, and the second the bullet impacts the metal, you shoot the Batclaw out, yanking the rifle out of his hands. You both watch as it falls to the ground, about fifty feet in front of you.

The two of you stare at each other for another moment, before you lunge for the rifle. He quickly follows suit, jumping onto the walkway with you. You reach the rifle first, but that doesn’t deter him. He lunges toward you, and you side-step to your left. He pivots, grabbing a gun out of its holster before shooting it mere feet away from you. The bullet hits your shield again, and you take the opportunity to unload the rifle, throwing it off the walkway— hundreds of feet below.

The second you release the rifle, he tackles you. The two of you tumble, and you let out a surprised yelp. You attempt to secure your spot on top of him, but he presses his weight into your elbow, nearly snapping it. You wince, hissing in pain. You use your other hand to attempt to maneuver yourself out from underneath him.

He shifts his position, using his knee to pin your neck to the ground. You attempt to push him off, but he only puts more force into your neck.

“Think of this as sparing you even more pain down the line.” He begins slowly, raising his gun to your sternum. “If it makes you feel better, it’s really not personal. Not with you.” He lazily gestures, gun in hand, and all you can focus on is the barrel boring into your soul. You're unable to move underneath him, and it is then that you realize the true gravity of the situation.

You attempt to kick him off of you, but your efforts are futile. The Arkham Knight barely moves at your attempts of escape. “Sure feels personal.” You grit out, coughing again as he presses more weight into his knee.

He shakes his head slowly, “My issue is with him, and I thought that maybe you were smart enough to take my warnings.” The gun pointing at your head doesn’t waver. “However, you’ve gone and taken down dozens of my men tonight single-handedly.” His voice is low, telling you that he is fuming behind that mask. Good.

“You almost sound impressed.” You chuckle sardonically, and he matches the sound.

“At your audacity, perhaps. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He shakes his head thinking about it.

“Clearly, you thought wrong.” You retort.

He hums, “A mistake I will not make again.” You watch as his hand tightens its grasp on the gun. His index finger, slowly putting more pressure on the trigger. You watch as his finger remains frozen on the trigger, unmoving.

You don’t bother to hide your stilted exhale. For a moment, you’re glad that he can’t see the fear in your eyes as he shoots you, your mask conceals the terror that would no doubt be reflected upon its removal.

You watch as he slowly raises the gun to point at your head, and you shut your eyes. You don't want to look at your demise. You don't want to give him the satisfaction.

You feel the Knight shift slightly, and you take a deep breath— likely your final breath. You don't count the seconds, but you get the distinct feeling he is drawing this out.

At the deafening sound of the gun, the weight is thrown off of you, and your vision spins as you immediately open your eyes in shock.

You're not dead.

Frantically, you look around, searching for who saved you. You attempt to stand up, but quickly stumble over yourself, your shoulder crying out in pain. You resign yourself to the ground and watch as Tim uses his staff to shove the Knight off the walkway. You make eye contact with the Knight once last time, and you’re surprised to see him watching you until the very end.

You inhale sharply, attempting to catch your breath as you slowly crawl over to the edge looking over it to see—

Nothing.

He got away, again. Even the rifle you threw below has vanished.

Still scanning the streets below for the Knight, you don’t realize that Tim snuck up behind you. You jump as he kneels down, gently hoisting you up. It’s only at that moment, when he looks down at you in horror that you realize what the strange sensation in your shoulder was.

The Arkham Knight shot you.

The observation is apparent to anybody with eyes, but all you can do is stare at the growing red stain spreading over your suit— staining the material. The pain feel distant, and you tell yourself you can walk it off. You barely register Tim calling out for help over comms. He presses his hands onto your shoulder, and you feel light-headed. All you want to do is lay down and close your eyes, perhaps it’ll make the dizziness go away.

You aren’t sure how many minutes go by, but next thing you know, you’re wince as Bruce slowly sits you up. You somehow have enough energy to realize that you will be getting chewed out for this later on for disobeying him. Given your current circumstances, you can't truly bring yourself to care. It’s not long before you are being put into the backseat of the Batmobile. Tim is still sitting next to you, and you feel a bit more clear, and only one thought enters your mind:

You want Jason.

You want to see Jason.

You don’t want to be out fighting the Knight. You don't want to think about him

You want to see your boyfriend.

You don’t have any tears to cry, and you look up at Tim as a dry sob escapes your mouth. You’re so tired. You hear him mutter some empty promises. Promising it’ll be okay, and that you’re almost there.

“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I thought that— I just…” You lean your head against the back. “I didn’t know he’d be there tonight.” You slowly open your eyes to look at Bruce. He doesn’t turn to look at you, nor does he meet your gaze in the rear view mirror.

You shift uncomfortably, Tim still putting pressure on your wound. “You shouldn’t have kept going out on patrol without me knowing. Not without backup ready on the field,” he breaks the silence, “but that’s not my priority right now.”

You nod solemnly, part of you wants to argue with him, but you’re in too much pain to fight back on it. Perhaps when you have more energy. “He…” you swallow, “…was going to shoot me in the head.” Your mouth feels dry.

Tim stiffens next to you, and he can’t meet your eyes. “I… I saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”

You shake your head, offering him a pained smile. “You made it. That’s what matters.” He attempts to mirror you smile, but it looks wrong.

You laugh softly, “You know—” you wince as a burning pain pierces your shoulder, sending burning waves of pain up your next, “It wasn’t even worth the bullet. I still don’t have an idea who this guy is.”

Nobody else laughs with you, not that you were expecting them to.

“You will not be investigating the Knight any longer.” Bruce declares.

You huff, feeling your stomach turn, “Mm…” You think you see him narrow his eyes at you in the rear view mirror. The familiar sign of Leslie’s clinic comes into view, and you exhale in relief. Even if every move you make is painful, you feel better knowing that you’re in safe hands.

You will worry about the consequences of this night later.

The fogginess from your eyes slowly dissipates as you blink.

You hear the soft squeaks of the bats above, the electronic hum of the technology in the cave, and yet there’s no sign of anybody in the cave with you. Frowning, you sit up, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through the wound. “Hello?” You call out, and your voice echoes around the empty cave.

Carefully, you maneuver yourself off the bed, making your way over to the Batcomputer. You hold your shoulder as you slowly walk over. Sitting down, you're about to message Tim or Bruce when dread hits you full force.

You got shot, and you haven’t told Jason.

More accurately: You got shot, and you can’t tell Jason.

Eyes falling on your phone, you hesitantly reach for it. You navigate your phone to his contact.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring—

“Was beginning to worry you forgot about me.” Jason’s voice breaks through all the ambience of the cave. Despite the teasing tone, you can hear the relief in it.

You smack your lips, “I could never.” You swallow, feeling emotional just hearing him. “It’s been a rough night.” Your voice is quiet, and you wince at how small you sound. Your goal is to avoid alerting Jason to your injury.

He’s silent for a beat, “Rough, hm?” He hums. “I’m sorry.” He does sound genuinely apologetic.

You stare through the ground with a strained smile; it’s not like he can see. “It’s not your fault.” You settle into the chair at the Batcomputer.

Jason exhales, “I’m sorry nevertheless.” You can almost hear him trying to figure out what words to say, “I’m sorry that we had to do this.” He adds on.

Heaving a sigh, you slowly lean against the back of the seat. You want to say it’s okay, but really it’s anything but. You never wanted to leave the city, and if Jason found out you stayed despite agreeing otherwise?

You fear the look of betrayal more than his ire.

“…How’s your thing going?” Your attempt at changing the topic doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and you hope he won't comment on it.

“Slower than expected,” you hear him set something metallic down. “I… I’m not sure when I’ll be done.”

You hum, nodding slowly. That was the answer you expected, but it wasn’t the answer you wanted. “You’re safe though?”

There’s an unusually long pause. Your shoulders sag at the lack of response, and you bite back the hiss of pain it sends through the bullet wound. The silence speaks more than any words could.

“Yes.” Jason’s voice is unwavering, but you don’t believe him. Your heart aches to not believe him, but you cannot deny the suspicion that arises from hearing how obstinately he refuses to leave the city.

“You’d tell me if something happened, right?” You ask, and you make sure to keep your tone skepticism free.

You hear him inhale, “Of course.” His words are low. The silence that ensues makes you wonder if he is able to differentiate his own truths from lies.

“Alright,” you relent, and you see a notification pop up on the Batcomputer. Tim must have noticed you are awake now. “I have to go, but be safe, okay?”

“I’ll try my best.” His attempt at humor doesn’t land as he likely intended, but you muster up a soft chuckle in spite of it. “I love you.” He continues.

Your smile turns more genuine, “I love you too.” When you look at your screen again, the call has already ended. Setting the phone down, you pull up Tim’s messages on the Batcomputer.

He’s already frowning at the screen the moment you accept the video call. “Hello to you too.” You comment dryly.

“Are you okay? Since when did you get up?” He asks, and you notice he’s back at Panessa Studios. Damn, Bruce is still making him do those blood tests?

You frown, “If you didn’t know when I got up, why did you spam the Batcomputer?”

He waves you off, “I noticed that there was some activity on the network there. I’ve been monitoring it since I left.” Oops.

“Oh,” you nod, “yeah that was me.”

“I sure hope so. I’m not anywhere near the Batcave right now.” Tim crosses his arms, but then his glare softens. “How bad is it?”

You experimentally rotate your shoulder in a circular motion, “Could be worse. Not great, but it’ll have to do. Pain meds are helping.”

Tim sighs, and you hate the wounded look he’s giving you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there faster—”

“Tim, it’s not your fault. I went out there knowing what I could encounter— who I could encounter.” You don’t break eye contact with him. “If you weren’t there, I can only imagine how things could’ve gone.” He winces at your words, and you soften. “I am not upset, Tim. I’m just grateful that you showed up when you could.”

Tim purses his lips into a thin line, and you wish you could reassure him in person. “I… Logically I know that, but—”

Static cuts him off, and both you and Tim turn your attention to the other monitors of your respective computers. “Arkham Knight and militia just south of Bristol! Requesting backup!” The chatter in the background makes it hard to identify what’s going on, but you didn’t need to hear anything else.

Your blood boils hearing his name.

Tim, as if sensing your thoughts, eyes you cautiously. “I can handle it. I’m pretty sure Bruce is handling Two-Face right now.”

You shake your head, attempting to seem casual, “No, no, it’s fine. I got it. You’re busy as it is. I’d feel bad if Bruce was working you to the bone and I made you handle this.”

Tim narrows his eyes at you, “Are you sure? Weren’t you just shot?”

You make a show of rotating your shoulder, ignoring the dull ache that accompanies it. “See? All fine.” You grin at him.

He frowns, “Alright,” he begins reluctantly, “but if anything happens.”

“I will contact you and Bruce, how about that?” You are already moving off camera to go grab your suit. “I’m glad we agree, Tim. Thanks for the back up, bye!” You make a move to hang up before Tim can change his mind. You hold your laugh back as Tim’s astonished expression is the last thing you see before the call ends.

Now, is this a smart move to make? Going after the Arkham Knight fresh off a bullet wound? No. Even you are self aware enough to know that this is an incredibly foolish move, but that doesn’t stop the burning fury and questions you have. Perhaps your curiosity will truly get you killed someday. Putting on your mask, you shut off the Batcomputer.

You can almost hear Bruce’s voice echoing in your head: “This isn’t an investigation, this is an attempt to avenge yourself.” Perhaps the voice has a point because this isn’t just professional interest. It’s personal now. The Knight made it personal. The sound of his name grates against your nerves in a way that leaves you out of breath. With how spread out you all have been, you have no doubt that the Arkham Knight took advantage of that. He probably chose this time to act knowing that you’d all be busy.

He probably didn’t account for you impulsively searching for him, but at this point he should’ve with how many times you’ve met.

Upon arriving at the scene, you frown. It’s practically the same setup as when his men are stationed in those towers, and it feels a bit too predictable. You attempt to look for the Knight, but there’s so many goons that you aren’t sure where to look first. You stay up above them as you continue surveying the ground below, searching for any signs of him.

Instead, you find a shipping container hidden around a corner (courtesy of the goon you followed). Upon reaching it, you narrow your eyes down below. His mask is quite distinct. You imagine that even from a distance, you’d always recognize it.

You use your grapnel gun to get slightly closer, making sure to minimize your movement, lest they hear you.

“—ready for Scarecrow by tonight.” One of the militia henchmen informs the Knight, clipboard in hand.

The Arkham Knight slowly nods, “Excellent. Have the trucks move them.” He gestures off.

The guy looks back between the Knight and the shipment container, “..Are— Is that a good idea? What about the Bat or any of his sidekicks—” You frown, leaning closer to try listen better.

“—The Bat won’t be an issue.” The Arkham Knight sounds really sure of that. “As for his sidekicks?” He slowly turns around before turning his attention up to the ceiling above him. Your heart drops into your stomach. “I would’ve hoped they wouldn’t be foolish to come here alone.” He raises something in his hand, and you realize all too late that it’s a detonator.

You don’t even get a warning before the gargoyle you’re perched on explodes, causing you to fumble as you attempt to save your fall. The Knight doesn’t break eye contact with you, but you’re forced to turn away from him. The first few militia guys who approach you aren’t armed, and you sweep them off their feet, dealing with them as fast as you can.

However, they don’t stop.

It’s only when you realized how outnumbered you are (and outgunned) that you attempt to reach into your belt to reach help. The moment you reach for it, a gunshot ricochets next to you, causing you to flinch.

For a moment everybody is frozen. You aren’t sure who to look at, every direction you turn just shows a sea of the black and red uniforms. Swallowing, you are forced to watch as they part the path for the Arkham Knight. When he reaches you (all too casual for your liking), the henchman behind you strikes the back of your knee, causing you to collapse. You turn around to glare at them, ready to stand up, but they shove the barrel of a rifle onto the back of your head.

Damn. You knew this was stupid going into this, and yet you went through with it anyway. You silently berate yourself before raising your eyes to look up at the Arkham Knight who is now looking down on you. You hate how he looks down on you.

“I did that as a precaution. Can never be too sure with you lot.” He points down to you, circling you slowly, mockingly.

You bite your lip so hard you offhandedly realize that the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth. The synthetic voice sounds like nails on chalkboard, and you find yourself wishing he’d shut up.

“I gotta say, I expected Robin though. I figured you’d be outta commission still.” He stops his pacing, his boots mere feet in front of you.

You sneer, “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, don’t be.” He looks up, nodding to the massive militia squad behind you. You don’t turn your head (the pressure of the rifle’s barrel is starting to feel too real), but you can hear the shuffling footsteps dissipate. By the time they leave, there’s less than five of you in the area. You swallow, meeting the Arkham Knight’s “eyes.”

“I didn’t expect him to be such a coward. Letting his injured friend handle the dirty work out here.” He (not so lightly) shoves your wounded shoulder, and you let out a surprised whimper. The Knight resumes his pacing, and you get slightly dizzy watching him move back and forth.

Scoffing, you attempt to quell the thumping beat in your chest as you steel yourself. “Don’t call him a coward. You don’t even know Robin.” You swallow, attempting to push yourself up off the ground. One of the militia members uses a rifle to pin you back down, and— not wanting to be shot— you reluctantly settle yourself onto the floor.

The Knight pauses his pacing, looking down at you on the ground. He looks at the man with his gun pointing his rifle at your chest, and the man slowly lowers the weapon. The Knight strolls over to you, kneeling down to you, yet not low enough to be eye level. You wonder if he gets some twisted enjoyment looking down on you. You hide your trembling arms away from his view.

“Tim Drake…” He begins slowly, a mere whisper just above your ear.

You blink, “What—”

“He isn’t the first you know. He isn’t even the second.” He props his arms onto his knee, leaning closer to you. Instinctively, you lean away from the man, as if your body has a visceral reaction to his presence. “Do you know who was before him?”

You grit your teeth, “Why the hell should I tell you?” He doesn’t react, and you both are caught in a long staring contest. Neither of you back down, and you hate yourself for being the first one to. “Jason.” You eventually mutter.

Slowly, he nods, “And you are aware of what happened to him?”

You bite your tongue, attempting to look away from his mask. You tilt your head slightly. It could be interpreted as “so-so” but it could’ve just been a flinch. The Knight leans closer, “I need words. Silence doesn't tell me anything but that you lack the knowledge, and I find that hard to believe.”

You exhale, “I don't know everything, but...” You slowly look up to him. “I know that he died.”

The Knight freezes at your statement. His hands clench at his sides, and you half-delusionally wonder if he’s going to try and kill you again.

“Lies.” He spits the words out, and for a moment you are taken aback. “The Dark Knight fed you all lies.”

Your mouth parts, “What is your issue with him?” You scoff, glaring at his mask. “Look— He isn’t perfect, and I’m not always partial to the guy myself, but you’re acting like he’s the devil incarnate.”

A mangled sound comes from the Knight, distorted by his modulator. Frustrated, he stands up, resuming his pacing. He mumbles something to himsef before chuckling sardonically, the sound grating on your nerves, “You’re a fool for returning.” He raises a hand to point to you lazily, “You’re a fool for trusting him. I told you once before that in his eyes, your life is equal to the worth of some criminal roaming the streets.”

He walks back over to you, “Don’t you think if he wanted to be here, he would? He would’ve found you by now?” He throws his hands up casually, “I don’t exactly see him, and if he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike from the shadows?” He leans closer to you, “He’s taking a long time.”

You try not to let his words get to you, “He’s looking for me. He’ll find me.” You glare at the Knight, but even you start to doubt your own words.

The Knight stares at you for a long moment, before he softly continues, “I once thought that too.” His words are low, quiet, only meant for you. The softness in his tone isn’t out of empathy, but out of pity, and it sends an wave of anger up to your throat, waiting to be spoken. The softness isn't mocking, and that irritates you more than any genuine statement the Knight could have half-heartedly mustered up. “Save yourself the trouble, and lose that optimism.”

You grit your teeth, angry tears flooding your eyes, followed by the impulsive decision to headbutt the Knight. It seems you caught him off guard, and he stumbles back slightly. His mask has a large crack in the screen, and you take immense satisfaction watching it glitch. The two militia members behind you kick you back down to the ground. Your jaw and nose echo in a resounding ache as one of them uses the butt of their rifle to hit you.

You can feel the familiar tang of blood fill your mouth, whether it was from the strike or biting your tongue to hard, you aren’t sure. What you immediately notice is that your mask is no longer fitted pristinely to your face. Pieces of it rest on the concrete floor below you, and you scowl at them as if they personally offended you.

You don’t attempt to sneak a glance up to the Arkham Knight, not wanting him to see your face. You don't want to look up while he's still your vicinity. It takes a minute, but once his footsteps become more distant, your eyes flicker up. Head still facing down, you peer through your eyelashes to watch as his figure grows smaller and smaller.

One of the militia soldiers hits you at the back of your neck causing your hood to fall limply off your head. Just great. One of them snickers before attempting to rip the remaining pieces of your mask off your face.

You yelp, attempting to fight him off, but three other soldiers restrict your limbs. Perhaps if you had been in better condition, you could figure out a method of escape, but all you can feel is the utter futility of your situation. Despair rises in your chest. The Knight’s footsteps taunt you as you hear them slowly fade into near silence. “Not so tough without ya mask, ain’t ya?” One of the men snickers, and you’re planted into your spot on the ground, knees digging painfully onto the uneven floor. You continue to scowl, forced to watch these men expose you as he rips your mask off.

They all laugh at your expression, and you can hear them mutter taunts to you. You tune them out, and one of them kicks your back, sending you to the ground, elbows first. The blow aggravates the bullet wound, and you bite back a scream of pain. Hunched over, coughing, you ball up your hands into fists as you look up to the Arkham Knight before he exits the area.

For a moment, the two of you make eye contact, and all you can do is attempt to catch your breath as the men above you continue to taunt you. Their words go unheard by you, but their presence is enough to drive you mad.

The Knight is no longer moving, and— similar to you— is rooted in his spot. You break eye contact with him as the soldier kicks you down again, pinning you with his boot.

“To think I unmasked one of the Bats,” his cocky tone inspires nothing but annoyance in you. You attempt to take a breath, but he presses harder, and your head is pushed right-side down onto the concrete. “I think I’ll be keeping this as a souvenir.” From your peripherals, you can see him pick up your broken mask.

“Oh come on, man! It was a group effort. Split it four ways, we each get a piece—” Something causes him to stop talking. The guy sounds like he begins to choke on air. For a moment, you feel utter relief.

Took Bruce long enough.

Your face is still planted into the ground at an awkward angle, and you use the goon’s distraction to your advantage, grabbing his foot and sweeping him from underneath, causing him to fall next to you. Once floored, you give him a quick strike to the head, making sure he’s knocked out before standing up again. You cough again, rubbing your chest, still feeling the imprint of the soldier’s boot.

“Finally,” you groan, twisting your neck, popping it, “I—” you turn to face Bruce, a small relieved smile on your face.

It falls immediately, for you aren’t met with the familiar silhouette of Batman.

Instead, the Arkham Knight is standing mere feet away from you, a few of his own militia groaning and unconscious on the floor beneath him. He has his guns pointed to the one who pinned you down. You flinch back as the Knight’s gaze meets your own, startled by his appearance. Why did he come back? You thought he left

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, both of you waiting, anticipating.

Slowly, his hand lowers, and your own hand snaps towards your utility belt, Batarang in hand within within milliseconds. At your reaction, he pauses. He is still, too still, and it causes you to panic internally. Whenever you saw him, whether it was in person or on a recording, he was constantly moving. Pacing back and forth, scanning the area, gesturing with his arms. For somebody so enigmatic, his body language was surprisingly expressive.

It makes his current stiffness all the more unnerving.

“You… I…” His voice sounds more subdued than you’ve ever heard, nigh distraught. It’s contrary to everything you’ve encountered with him. The Arkham Knight wasn’t quiet. The Arkham Knight wasn’t soft. Not like this at least. His “soft” words were always quiet taunts, never meant to comfort, only to break. This is the person who shot you with no remorse. This is the person who has pledged himself to kill Batman.

Yet he stands before you, bodies beneath him, speaking in soft tones, soft tones that lack that condescension.

What kind of tactic is this?

“If you have something to say, just spit it out.” You haven't lowered your hand. The Batarang glints dangerously in your dominant hand, perfectly within the Knight’s view.

“You…” he begins again, “You aren’t— When—”

You furrow your eyebrows. Add stuttering to the list of odd phenomena with the Arkham Knight that you aren’t entirely sure how to deal with.

“Oh, I get it.” You sneer at him, “You see my face, and you want to catch me off guard by acting like we’re supposed to be cool—”

“You said you left the city.” He cuts you off, and your momentary anger is replaced by pure unadulterated confusion.

You blink dumbly at him, “What?”

He shakes his head slowly, guns dropping to his side, but you don’t let your guard down. “You—” he shakes his head more aggressively, as if trying to shake a thought away. “You said you left the city.” He repeats, turning up to face you.

You furrow your eyebrows, “When did I ever tell you that?” Your palms feel sweaty in your hands, and you grip the Batarang tighter, worried it’ll slip between your fingers.

“I checked your location— I saw—” he sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself, “It said you were out in Central City.”

Your stomach feels queasy the longer he continues to speak. The unease causing you to shift restlessly on your feet. There was only one person who you gave that location to. A horrifying thought enters your mind, but you refuse to consider it, immediately shutting down the idea. “And… You know this how?” You attempt to sound indifferent, but you can hear the shift in tone of your own voice.

He remains frozen for a moment before he says your name; it’s so quiet you wonder if you even heard it correctly.

Your chest shudders, “You know me.” You don’t want it to be true.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t move to deny your statement— your accusation.

You swallow, “Say something.” You attempt to keep the break out of your voice, and the Batarang in your hand involuntarily lowers.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a step closer to you, and as if setting a switch off, you immediately raise the Batarang again. He freezes mid-step, and when you don’t throw the weapon, he resumes his approach. You keep your eyes trained on his mask, watching as the distance between you both dwindles faster than preferred. By the time he stops, he is mere inches from your face, and the tip of your Batarang is pressed weakly against his chest.

You’re breathing heavily at this point, yet you don’t feel physically exhausted. You force yourself to take a deep breath, but your chest shudders at the action. “Who are you?” Your voice is a low whisper, and your question, a plea for him to deny every thought racing through your mind.

Your hands don’t move as he slowly raises his own, reaching toward your face. Your breathing halts as he pauses before gently running a gloved finger against your jaw. Your eyes flicker over his form— unsure where to look— waiting for the attack. Why are you allowing this? The Knight is messing with you— he’s going to use your distress to his advantage.

Yet you are frozen to your spot, and something tells you that he is too. You are both frozen in front of one another.

His hand brushes down to the tattered shoulder of your suit, grazing lightly over the injury that he caused. Despite attempting to hide your wince, the Arkham Knight seems to sense your pain, and pulls his hand back slightly at your first sign of pain. You can’t look at his mask, but you can feel him staring at you. His gaze is piercing, as if waiting for you to start the conversation.

“No.” You deny, shaking your head as you attempt look down— away from his mask— away from him. “No, you're— you’re not…” you trail off, the words dying on your tongue. You attempt to push him back weakly, but he doesn’t move. “…You’re not Jason.” Your eyes glisten with tears as you look up to stare at his mask.

Hesitantly, as if afraid, the Knight raises his hand up, pressing his fingers just below his ear as the mask releases a hissing sound before it lifts up.

Despite having already reached the dreadful conclusion, you sharply inhale upon seeing Jason beneath the mask you have come to loathe.

You let out a sound that almost sounds like a whimper mixed with a sob. Before, you could at least pretend that the Arkham Knight wasn’t a real person. He was just another foe that had to be defeated. Seeing a person underneath all of that. It changes things.

You try and scour him for hints of your boyfriend, of Jason. Instead, you see the mask resting atop his head. You see the armor covering every inch of his skin. The holsters at his sides. The “A” in the center of his chest.

Looking at Jason now, you can’t see your boyfriend. You see the Arkham Knight.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, as you keep your eyes shut. If you close your eyes long enough you can pretend that he isn’t there.

Then the Knight says your name, and it sounds like Jason. No longer is the distorted voice mocking your every action. Instead, it’s your Jason, calling out for you. Every cell in your body screams to you that the man in front of you is Jason. That he’d never hurt you. Your loving boyfriend adores you more than anybody in the world. He would sooner strike himself down before doing anything to hurt you.

You slowly turn your head to the healing scar at your shoulder. Jason The Arkham Knight follows your gaze to the injury, “I… I never knew that… You know I would never—” he turns his gaze up to you, desperate “you know I would never have done if it I knew. I thought— I never wanted—” he lets out a hurried exhale, saying your name again.

“Please, please look at me.” He begs, raising a hand to your face, but at your glare at him, and he hesitantly lowers it, as if unsure what to do with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” His voice a broken plea for forgiveness. “I’m so, so sorry. I would take it back if I could—”

“You shot me.” You cut him off, voice sounding more stable than you feel. “You were going to shoot me in the head.” You raise a hand to wipe the tears overflowing your eyes.

“No!” He yells out, and you stiffen up. His hurt expression reminds you of Jason so much, that you force yourself to look away again. “No, no. I didn’t want to actually hurt you.”

You narrow your eyes, disbelief evident in your gaze. “You said that I blew my ‘only warning.’” You scoff, but the sounds more pained than mocking, “You placed that gun against my body with your finger on the trigger. You were ready to shoot.”

He scrunches his eyes tight, “I was just trying to scare you— I didn’t actually intend to kill you. I... I didn't even intend to shoot you.” Your eyes slowly lower to his holsters before moving back up to his imploring expression.

“Then why did you shoot me? Why did you go searching for me with a rifle?” Your eyes burn as you point an accusing finger at him.

He looks down, unable to meet your eyes for the first time. “I… My issue was with him. You were dismantling my operations,” he swallows, “I had to send a message to him that I wouldn’t tolerate any interference. I knew he wouldn’t relent.” He shuts his eyes, before opening them, steeling himself for his next words. “However, if I threatened you or Robin?” He sounds pained, “If I showed him that I wasn’t messing around… Then maybe I could finally catch the Bat, catch Bruce. It’s stupid now. I shouldn’t have— I…” He slowly trails off, eyes frantically looking over you.

You stare at him for a moment, and hesitantly he attempts to look up— almost as if waiting for your permission. “You… You know Bruce.” You think out loud, Jason don’t respond. “You’re… You’re that Jason.” The realization dawns on you. You had been so focused on him being your Jason, that you didn't even consider he could be that Jason. He meets your eyes for the first time, slowly nodding.

“I…” It made sense now. Jason’s grudge against Batman, the Knight’s knowledge of how he operates— knowing his weaknesses. Jason didn’t just know Batman. He was Robin. “…never knew.” You clench your fists.

He huffs, and it’s somehow the most “Jason” and the most “Arkham Knight” he has sounded this whole conversation. “Yeah, that… doesn’t surprise me.” His voice trails off, quiet, but with rage bubbling beneath.

Neither of you say anything, and all you do is stare at each other. Slowly you push yourself away from Jason, and he doesn’t move to stop you. He watches as you kneel to grab the pieces of your broken mask. He starts to lower himself as well, intending to help most likely, and you send him a pointed look. He stops, slowly straightening up, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his expression.

Before, you’d have fought tooth and nail just to catch a glimpse of the Arkham Knight, to be able to see his face. You expected fury underneath, a sneering expression built out of personal grudges and vengeance.

Now?

You find yourself wishing he was never unmasked. The despair of seeing Jason’s face is worse than any bullet to the chest could’ve brought you. You grab the last piece of your mask before starting to walk away from Jason.

“You’re leaving?” Jason sounds as if he’s preparing to follow you. His hand twitches as if he wants to reach out to you.

You grit your teeth, “Are you going to stop me?”

He doesn’t immediately respond. At his silence, you turn to face him, the weariness in your gaze evident. He looks as if you struck him, mouth open, and for a moment you wonder if you broke him. You don’t say any of that, simply choosing to raise an eyebrow.

“Of course not.” He responds, his voice nearly inaudible. He isn’t moving, but he is leaning forward, as if he wants to be closer to you, yet he doesn’t reach for you. His hands lay limp at his sides.

You stare at him for a moment before turning away from him again. After a beat of silence, you think that this is the end of the interaction, but then he speaks again. “Is this it?” He breaks the silence, and you freeze.

“What?” You ask, and your voice sounds exhausted. Despite that fatigue, your alarm at hearing his words is evident.

Jason shifts awkwardly on his feet, and it makes him look so small despite him being anything but. “Are you going to leave?” He asks, and it sounds so helpless and utterly pitiful. You hate that you’re the one causing him to use that tone. Desolate and expectant. As if he isn’t surprised you’re leaving.

“I’m… I need to think.” You respond, tilting your head away from him. “My judgment is…” you loosely wave your hand around, “When you’re involved, I can’t—” you struggle to find the words, “I have to get out of here to think.” You land on, swallowing.

He doesn’t react initially, but then he hesitantly starts again. “I meant are you… are we..?” He trails off, swallowing down the words. He inhales, and you see his chest shudder slightly as it rises.

“Jason,” you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from him. The anger floods out of your body, replaced by anguish. “I need to process this.” You hesitantly sneak a glance to him. “I’ll return, but I can’t do this right now.” You purse your lips, shaking your head.

“And how long will that take?” He asks softly, and he looks so pained, so hurt. Part of you wants to reassure him, to go back to him. That was all you wanted for days. “Do you intend to return, or—” he chuckles humorlessly, “or…” he repeats, trailing off, his already soft tone becoming inaudible. The implication is obvious to both of you.

“Jay,” you plead, “don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, please.” You open your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, calming your racing heart. “You know I don’t want this.” You turn to face him before quickly averting your eyes back to the ground.

“Really?” His words sound disbelieving, and you wince at the tone. “If you don’t want this, then don’t go.” He walks up to you, and hesitantly grabs your palm laid at your side. “Just…” you watch as his lip trembles, nearly imperceptible, “Just don’t leave… Don’t leave me, please.”

You finally look up from the ground to him. His plea is desperate and only meant for you. To think that the same man begged you to leave the city is now pleading for you to stay with him. His words are soft, but the weight of them was never valued in their volume. He is breathing heavily, but you doubt it’s from physical exertion. The brawl had ended what must’ve been ages ago. His eyes follow your every moment, as if trying to predict your response based purely on eye contact.

“Jason,” you start and your voice cracks slightly, “It’s not that easy. I’m not— I don’t want to leave you. That's never what I’d want.” You raise a hand to his head, eying him as you carefully grab the mask off the top of his head. He doesn’t stop you. “I just…” You look down at the mask in your hands, the Arkham Knight’s mask. “I wasn’t… It was unexpected.”

He remains silent, and you see his jaw clench. Your shoulders fall slightly as you shift the mask into your offhand. “Give me a day or two… We can meet at the apartment or wherever you decide. I just need a little bit of time.” You thoughtlessly run your fingers over the mask before offering it back to him. “We need time, whether you think so or not.”

Jason looks down at it before looking back up at you. Slowly, he grabs it, “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.” He repeats his words from earlier.

You exhale, slowly blinking, “I know, Jay.”

“No,” he grounds, frustrated, “you don’t sound like you believe it.” He clutches the mask so tightly you see it tremble. “I never intended for you to get shot. That’s not how we planned it.”

“I believe you, Jay.” You offer him a strained smile. You do believe him. It’s hard not to when he’s looking at you as if your opinion is the only one that matters. You believe that he never intended for you to get shot, that he never wanted you to get shot.

That doesn’t change the fact that it happened though, and this revelation will be no small obstacle to overcome. You can’t imagine he doesn’t feel some sort of betrayal at finding out you’ve been working with Bruce for the past few nights, lying to him. You may have been the one to get physically hurt, but you can imagine— in fact, you can see the emotional toll it’s taking, not just on yourself, but on him. No matter how much he may insist you needn’t leave, you doubt that he doesn’t need time to process this too.

“I believe you.” You reassure him.

No matter how much you love him, belief doesn’t change the past.

The next couple days pass by with an aching slowness, tension taut as if waiting for an inevitable snap. You find yourself awaiting for it to crumble down upon you, but Jason adhered to you. He didn’t contact you, and despite telling him to not message you, you felt a pit at the bottom of your stomach every time you checked your phone only to not see his name. It left an uneasy weight on your chest, and you kept telling yourself that you both needed this. Not a break, per se, but at least some time to understand the consequences of both of your actions.

Your train of thought inevitably led to one question: where did this leave you both?

It wasn’t as easy to answer as what you may suppose.

The part of you so blindly in love with Jason says that this changes nothing. Even when Jason was actively the Arkham Knight, he never treated you— the real you— any differently. If you wanted to be blind once again, perhaps you both could pretend.

Of course, that’s naive, and dangerous in more than one way.

There’s no way you’d be able to ignore that facet of him. You doubt he could hardly ignore you going out masquerading into the night either. Best case scenario, you two would ignore each other out on the field. It’s not even a good case, yet it is better than having to fight with Jason. Even if you try to ignore each other, it would be downright impossible given Gotham's current state. Bruce would catch on immediately, and it’d create a whole other slew of problems.

You’d reached your conclusion on the afternoon leading to the second night. You’d pulled out your phone, and texted Jason for the first time since the night of the reveal. He responded within seconds (you were not counting), and the two of you agreed to meet at the apartment tonight.

You’d gone on dates many a time throughout your relationship with Jason. The first few were filled with that fluttering feeling in your chest, the giddiness of thinking you found the one. You had felt nervous, but excited.

Now, you feel that nervousness tenfold, but with zero of the excitement. No matter how well this could go, you can’t help but wonder how different things could be. Why did you have to be helping Bruce? Why did Jason have to be helping Scarecrow? Why did he have to be the Arkham Knight?

They were fruitless questions, more what-if’s to add to the growing list of regrets you have.

You can’t help but feel that both of you would’ve been happier if you weren’t who you are. Would ignorance be better than the guilt you feel churning in your gut? You whisper a lie to Tim, telling him you have business to attend to tonight— unavoidable. He frowns, but doesn’t question it. You wonder how he’d react to finding out that you are the one dating the Arkham Knight.

You try desperately to bridge the connection between the two: Jason and the Arkham Knight. If you think hard enough, and reflect on the footage of your meeting for the millionth time, perhaps you can find some similarities. Idiosyncrasies that you would’ve never connected between the two.

The longer you mulled over that footage the longer you realized that they were never separate. Jason is just as real as the Arkham Knight is. They aren’t mutually exclusive. Jason may have been real in different ways, but both of them are real. Jason shares his feelings with the Knight, and the Knight shares his feelings with Jason. They’re equal, and somehow they aren’t opposite. If anything they feed into each other.

It was yet another thing to add to your list of regrets. You had initially separated the two in your head, Jason and the Arkham Knight. The Arkham Knight could not love you because he is not Jason. Jason could love you because he is not the Arkham Knight. It wasn’t a fair distinction to make because Jason does love you, and you know that. He loves you even when he wears that mask and he loves you without it. Putting on a mask doesn’t change that.

Perhaps your first mistake was assuming that it did.

By the time you get there, he’s already waiting in your shared apartment. You walk to the living room, and despite everything that's happened, you feel glad to see him. It’s the first time you’ve seen each other since the revelation. He looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on the bullet wound he caused. You can’t tell if he’s attempting to be obvious, or if he really can’t tell he is staring. Either way, you adjust your clothes to cover the bandages around it. He turns his attention away from you, back to the coffee table he was staring into.

Neither of you want to be the first one to speak, and it’s painfully apparent. The silence is suffocating, and neither one of you act to allow the room to breathe. Eventually, you suck it up and break it.

“You’re here.” His head snaps up to yours as if he wasn’t expecting your voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon.”

He pauses before answering, “I never left.” His voice is rough, raw, and strained. You can’t tell if it’s from overuse or underuse.

You frown, “You stayed here?” You're slightly taken aback by the revelation. He stayed even when you had left? “Even when planning…” you gesture your hand loosely around you.

He shakes his head, “No… God, no, I didn’t want you involved in that stuff.” He shakes his head profusely.

“Bit too late for that now.” You reply dryly, barely louder than a whisper.

Jason doesn’t respond to that comment, “Why’d you come early if you weren’t expecting me here?” He sits up straighter, turning back to look at you.

You blink at him before slowly shrugging, you begin to pace the room. “I don’t know… I wanted to see if I’d find anything that would’ve clued me in sooner. Closure, I suppose."”

“Closure?” He repeats, sputtering. “That… You’re making it sound final.”

You sigh, “Jason…”

He furrows his brows, “Is Bruce making you do this?” He asks softly, standing up. He sounds like he understands, as if he’s been in your position before. “We can… We can just leave. You don’t have to listen to him.” He walks over to you, grabbing your hands.

You open your mouth to speak, but your mouth runs dry. He takes this as an opportunity to continue. “We can leave Gotham. Forget Bruce. Forget Scarecrow. Forget everything going on here.”

His words are a whisper into your ear, for a moment you don’t register the panic hidden underneath.

The offer is tempting, so tempting. You feel yourself faltering, wondering if this is the right decision to make. Could you ditch everything here? Could you leave Gotham and— realistically— never look back? You’d never be able to look any of your friends in the eye again. How could you look at Tim, Dick, Barbara, or even Bruce knowing that you ditched them out of fear of facing reality?

“Jason,” you begin slowly, “it’s not that easy.” You squeeze his hand.

“It can be. I can get us out of the city within the hour.” His eyes bore into your own. “Just tell me to, please.” He squeezes your hand back. The gesture isn’t comforting, not to you. It’s not a gesture born out of grounding you, but out of fear. Fear that if he let go, you might never return. “Tell me anything, but I—” he exhales, “I can’t do this silence anymore. Just talk to me.”

You open your mouth, the words are on your lips. The desire to stay with Jason is overwhelming. Your lips part, and you let out a shaky exhale.

“Jason, I can’t ask you to do that.” You look down, focusing on your intertwined hands. The scars on his hands make so much sense now, and hesitantly you raise your hand to gently caress them. Jason watches you the whole time, and he looks conflicted by your gesture.

“You can.” He nods obstinately, “Please ask me to do this.”

“Jason, I don’t think—” you force yourself to look to the ground, away from his distraught expression, “—this is a good idea…”

He doesn’t react immediately, yet you know he heard you. He can’t not hear you, your inches apart.

He says your name, “Did Bruce ask you to do this?” He repeats his question from earlier gravely, and you shake your head.

“No, no,” you sneak a glance up to him, “I haven’t even told him.”

“So why?” He sounds wounded with an aspect of bewilderment thrown in. “We don’t have to break up.”

You swallow, shaking your head, fighting the tears. You tried to avoid that phrase: “break up.” Digging your nails into your palm, you sigh, “Jason, this isn’t going to stop anytime soon. We’re on opposite sides of this—”

“And you’re not willing to work past that?” His eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are filled with utter confusion.

“Jason, I don’t think we can.” You mirror his expression. “I mean— Look where it got me.” Your eyes flicker down to your shoulder.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “That’s— That’s not… I would take it back in a heartbeat if I could. You know it was a mistake. I was caught by surprise. I never meant to actually hurt you, even when I didn’t know it was you. I—”

“I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but it’s just proving my point.” You shake your head. “We won’t be on the same side of this battle. It’s dangerous for both of us if we’re out there fighting each other.”

“You wouldn’t have to fight me. I wouldn’t allow them to hurt you.” He grounds out, teeth gritting.

“If they hurt Bruce though? If they hurt Tim? Dick? Barbara?” You shake you head, “Jay, I won’t be able to avoid fighting your forces if any of them are in danger.” You squeeze his hand again. “This—” you gesture between you both, “won’t work for as long as we’re on opposing sides. We’re too close to the situation, too each other. It’s going to get one of us hurt or worse.”

Shakily, you raise a hand up to his cheek, gently avoiding the ‘J’ scar. His pupils are dilated, and you can see your teary reflection in them. You blink away the tears, “Perhaps, perhaps when this all dies down… Maybe we can make it work again, but with the current circumstances…” You turn your gaze to the window, looking down over the city, filled with drones patrolling, buildings aflame, and the familiar echo of not-so-distant gunshots. “Jason, we can’t continue this right now, and I think you know this.” His eyes stay trained on your own as you gently lower your hand from his face.

“I… You’re choosing them and not us?” He doesn’t meet your eyes, and he angles himself so you can’t read him.

“Jason— No— How could— I’m not choosing anybody. I’m…” You swallow, “I’m not going to be going out for patrol until this is over.”

His eyes snap up, “You’re… quitting?”

Dubiously, you nod. “At least until this is over. I can’t— I wouldn’t be able to make a decision out on field if I had to pick a side. I’m a liability.” It’s a lie, and you aren’t sure if he caught it. You know what decision you’d make. You know who’d you choose, and you know you’d only exacerbate the situation if you continued to aid Bruce. “I’m sorry, Jason.” You meet his eyes, the tears are silently falling down your face. You rub them away, attempting to pull away for the last time when he grabs you, luring you in.

You fall against his body, and he tilts your head to face him. Neither of you say anything as he leans down and kisses you. It’s slow, lingering, as if both of you are savoring what very well may be your final moments together. Jason raises his hand to wipe away the remainder of your tears as he deepens the kiss. It’s not sensual, but it contains desire. It’s the desire to stay in each other’s presence for just a little more, drawing out what inevitably must end. It’s the desire to spend just one more minute in each other’s presence. Neither of you pull away, and you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around him, leaning closer to him. You can feel Jason's shoulders relax under your touch.

The moment is drawn out, but that doesn’t make it artificial. If anything, it only makes the reality set in. Neither of you are eager to pull apart, and you offhandedly realize you should’ve. Perhaps it would make this easier.

Despite everything, one thing your heart and mind could agree on was that you still want Jason. No matter how much you’re pushing him away with your current actions, you still want him. Even after learning of who he is, you still want him. You don’t ever think you can stop wanting him.

Perhaps that’s why you don’t pull away, not for a long time.

Inevitably, one of you has to pull away for air, and Jason continues to lean closer to you, as if chasing your lips for just one more kiss. You open your eyes, and he is panting heavily as he shifts his gaze from your lips up to your eyes. Neither of you say anything as you look down to his lips. Both of you craving the other, yet unable to do anything about it. You gnaw the inside of your lip as you pull away. None of you say anything. You stare at each, and his gaze is heavy like a promise. A promise to return to each other one day.

For that moment, he was your Jason again, and you feel content in knowing that one day, he may be yours once more.

Both of your eyes linger on one another as you exit the apartment. You’re unhurried, almost as if you’re attempting to burn this memory into the back of Jason’s mind. He supposes that you do an acceptable job burning it into his memory. The kiss you shared is vividly painted in his brain, and he doesn’t think it’ll be leaving his thoughts anytime soon.

He okay with that.

He watches the door as if hoping that by some miracle you might turn around and take back every decision you made. He doesn’t wait long, but there was the tiniest bit of optimism.

He walks back to your shared bedroom. Opening the closet, he reaches for the duffel bag inside. Upon unzipping it, his mask is atop the pile of his armor. He slowly grabs it, the pulsing light emanating from it illuminates the otherwise dark room.

You had said that maybe in the future it could work again. That being on opposite sides is dangerous, and Jason knows that logically, you’re correct.

He’s never been logical when it came to you.

He looks out the window, seeing the city reflected below. You were right. Both of you are too deep into this situation. He knows you can fight— he’s seen you fight, but knowing that you’d be out there on the field with unaccounted variables, variables he can’t control? With the current state Gotham is in? It’s a wonder how Bruce thought it was acceptable to be going out alone against the wolves of Gotham. It’s one thing for Bruce to endanger his own life, it’s another thing to endanger yours.

The thought sends a shiver through him that Scarecrow never could. To think that he could get his hands on you if Jason wasn’t careful. Jason banishes the idea from his mind, for he’d never allow that to happen. He’s already failed you once, and he will not be repeating that mistake.

Perhaps, one day you will reunite. Perhaps one day, he will be able to hold you in his arms once again, untroubled by the headache of Gotham. Perhaps one day, he won’t have to worry about Bruce, the enemies you've made, or any criminals of Gotham itching to get one over his head and take you.

Today isn’t that day. It won’t be tomorrow either. There’s a possibility it may not come for years.

But Jason is patient. He's been patient.

He will wait.

However, he has the power to expedite your return. He holds the mask up before gently placing it onto the bed as he grabs the rest of his armor, slowly putting it on.

He can get out there right now, and make those years apart turn to months. He can make those months turn to weeks. If he tries hard enough, perhaps he can make those weeks into days. If finishing his business with Scarecrow is what it will take to be able to feel your touch upon his skin once more?

Jason adjusts his holsters before grabbing his guns, sliding them into place. He reaches for the mask, placing the familiar weight onto his head. He presses the button against his neck, and it lowers onto his face. He takes in a deep breath.

He will do what it takes.

: ̗̀➛ A/N: Yes I’m aware I said that I would be posting that one Jason fic ft. Damian idea next. No, I will NOT apologize. I had this idea in mind ever since I finished the games. For those of you who’ve been following my updates. THIS is the fic that I’ve been unsure about. I hope I did AK!Jason justice. I adore him so much. Anyway, I wasn't sure whether to tag this as ooc. The way I see it, Jason may love you, but at the same time he did go and commit all those crimes in the game. He was out for BLOOD in Arkham Knight (at the very least he wanted Bruce specifically dead), and I wanted to make sure that was evident here even if he loves reader. Honestly, I could go into a whole deep dive of why I wrote him the way I did. I have SO many thoughts about him. ANYWAY, this is already long enough as it is, I hope you enjoyed the fic! :D

that was certainly a sound he wasn’t expecting to hear from you - although you haven’t seen each other for the entirety of the day, due to the long work hours, you seemed pretty joyous and cheerful over text. his brows furrowed in slight concern, taking the remaining few steps needed to find himself at the edge of the couch, perfectly in your line of view. 

‘angel, is everything… alright?’ he asked, his voice dripping with worry as he towered above you, still standing up to assess the situation - whether you wanted comfort or space, what the reasoning behind your current state was. you looked up at him, gaze meeting his, and somehow despite crying you still looked like the most beautiful human being he’s ever seen. 

your eyes were glossy and just slightly puffy, faint lines of where tears ran down your cheeks still visible on your skin. your lips were curved downwards in the biggest frown nicholas has ever seen from you - an alarming thought considering that he still wasn’t aware of what brought you to this point.

you took a deep breath in, inhaling the air slowly, as if trying to calm yourself down - and then you dropped the bomb.

‘my favorite character just died.’ you sobbed quietly, reaching for the remote to pause the show. ‘and they killed his dog, too! can you believe it? whoever thought doing that was a good idea for the plot is a moron and i hate them with a burning passion.’

nicholas couldn’t help the smile creeping up onto his lips, the quietest chuckle escaping his mouth. and yet despite it being barely audible, you caught it immediately. what followed was another wave of sobs. 

‘you think i’m stupid for crying over a fictional character.’ 

‘hey, hey, come on. i haven’t said that.’ he argued, hands put up in a defeated motion as he slowly sat down on the other end of the couch, inching closer to you very carefully. ‘you’re putting words in my mouth.’

‘but you laughed.’ you frowned, a sniffle following your words as you turned your head away from him.

‘because you’re adorable.’ he mumbled, body now just centimeters away from yours.

‘flattery will get you nowhere, wang yixiang.’

‘how about cuddles and a sweet treat to go with it?’

nicholas carefully watched how your expression softened, eyes glimmering with a hint of curiosity. you let yourself ponder over his offer for a few seconds - looking deep in thought, a sight which he could only describe as the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. 

‘that depends on what sweet treat you’re talking about.’ you finally answered, and your boyfriend’s smile only widened, almost as if he’d already knew the reaction that would follow when he’d tell you the answer. 

‘strawberry milkshakes.’ 

your head shot up almost immediately, already excited. nicholas couldn’t help but laugh - smile bright and wide, his prediction on what your reaction would be turning out nothing short of the truth. he thanked himself in his head for grabbing a few store bought strawberry milkshakes on his last grocery run - making sure to hide them in the far back of the fridge for special emergencies (by which he meant days when he’d find you in a bad mood). He knew they were your favorite, after all: a detail which had stayed in his mind ever since your first date. 

nicholas knew you very well - sometimes you wondered whether he’d actually known you better than you did yourself. he remembered everything, from your birthday and the moles on your body to the fact that all it took to calm you down was your favorite drink and a promise of cuddles. 

he settled down on the couch, head resting comfortably on the pillows behind him as you nuzzled into him, still in a sitting position. You extended the blanket towards him and he happily took it - covering his frame with the material, the warmth of your body hitting him all of a sudden. his muscles, tensed up from a tiring day at work, seemed to ease up almost immediately, as if merely a single touch from you was enough to bring him and his body peace.

‘let’s watch something else, hm?’ he offered, hand coming up to sneak behind your waist. ‘maybe that cooking show we started last week? i think they posted a new episode yesterday.’

‘the one with really bad cooks?’

nicholas nodded.

‘no dying characters, nothing to cry over. just some atrocious cooks making inedible meals to lift your mood up.’ he elaborated, remote already in hand as he searched up the show. you agreed with a quiet nod - a smile gracing your lips as your head rested atop his shoulder, breathing syncing up with his as his chest rose and fell in unison with yours. 

time seemed to pass differently with nicholas around - what was truly a couple of hours and almost a dozen of the show’s episodes felt more like mere minutes, your mind not occupied on the time and instead focused solely and wholeheartedly on your boyfriend’s presence. 

you managed to change positions in the meantime - with him laying down on his side, arms wrapped around your frame as you nuzzled into him, facing his chest. his touch was careful and gentle, his fingers tracing patterns on the skin of your back and sides. the tv seemed to be only a background noise for you at this point: too sleepy and tired to process whatever was happening on the screen behind you, too comfortable laying in your boyfriend’s embrace to care about anything else. 

nicholas shifted himself just slightly, moving his body further into the couch, then gently pulled you in closer to make sure you won’t be too close to its edge - your torso now pressed against his, no space left between your tangled up bodies. his eyes looked down to meet yours, face leaning in to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips: following it with one to each of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your forehead and then, finally, the top of your head. 

he carefully reached for the remote to turn the tv off. 

‘you must be tired, angel.’ he murmured, voice low and quiet, almost as soothing as the feel of his hands on your body. ‘shouldn’t we head to bed?’

a hum escaped your lips as you opened one of your eyes, nodding in response. nicholas smiled softly.

‘will you continue cuddling me when we’re there?’ you asked, words slightly mumbled. 

‘oh of course.’ he answered, one of his hands moving up to caress the side of your face, taking the few loose strands of hair away from your face in the process. ‘i’ll even carry you there myself, bridal style. you won’t have to lift a finger.’

even in your half asleep state, you still smiled at your boyfriend’s words - moving just slightly towards him, lips meeting his for a quick moment. 

‘i love you.’ you murmured, eyes closed as your hands wrapped loosely around his frame. nicholas pulled you closer, already preparing himself to stand up. 

‘i love you too, angel. let’s get you to sleep.’

perm taglist: @nichozzystuffs @woonhakfeet @ivehan @haorangis @choco-scoups @littlegummystar @mxriitaesz @luvkeiiii @ikigaijo

&team taglist: @starshuas @minhosimthings @makizdoll @ricewithjo

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

୨୧ but nicho is a tough egg to crack. he's not rude or unfriendly by any means, if anything, he's as attentive as he is to any of his other friends. he pays for your drinks when you go out, places the cucumber salad in front of you when you say it's your favorite side dish, stops you from crossing the street with a firm hand to your wrist when you're not paying attention.

୨୧ so he doesn't seem to outright dislike you. but he isn't chatty, doesn't joke around with you. he just seems very resistent to your charm, which you're not used to, and which clearly starts to frustrate you as time passes and things don't really change. you know that you can't be friends with everyone, but this doesn't make sense to you. you're euijoo's friend, nicholas is euijoo's friend. what's so different about you and nicholas that you could be friends with the same person but not with each other?!

୨୧ in truth, euijoo suspects nicholas of playing with you a little. sure, it also took him a while before he could say he and nicho were close, but it wasn't this hard. he asks him once, when it's just the two of them. "is there something wrong with y/n?" nicho looks at him like he's grown a second head. "y/n? no, she's cute. i like her." and doesn't expand no matter how much euijoo tries to get more info lol

୨୧ nicholas really does find you cute. but he also doesn't think someone as bubbly and extraverted as you would like him back, and he doesn't want to let himself bask in your attention in fear of developping too big of a crush on you--so he keeps you at a distance.

୨୧ eventually, it isn't that you give up on trying to get close with him, but you give up on pretending like this one-sided effort isn't affecting you. you roll his eyes when he just shrugs in response to one of your questions. "do i need to be a stand-up comedian to get a laugh out of this guy?" you ask euijoo, pointing with your thumb at nicholas. "thank you, nicholas, that's so enlightening," you say when he gives you a five-word reply.

୨୧ and he actually starts cracking smiles. the first time it happens, you don't know how to react. you're dumbfounded to see him smile because of something you said, a real, actual smile, even if he's clearly trying to bite it back. you're proud of yourself for finally achieving what feels like a life-changing feat. but you're also frustrated that this is what gets him to smile, and not one of your genuine attempts at becoming his friend.

୨୧ so you do what any sane person would do, and amp up the attitude with him, because apparently that's what he likes. now that you think about it, the most amused you've seen him has been when he bickers with euijoo and gets the boy's impressive patience to finally slip. so maybe nicholas is somewhat of a sociopath. now that you have the key to his heart, you're going to get him to like you if it costs you your dignity.

୨୧ "hm, i don't think this is good enough for mr wang," you say when someone brings cheap beer to a hang-out. right after asking him what his plans for the weekend are, you add, "or sorry, is that too personal?" if he asks for a piece of gum or a tissue, you say, "i don't know if we're close enough for me to do that."

୨୧ and it works. he reacts to your attitude like a cat to catnip, and you're finally getting satisfactory reactions from him. at first, he just chuckles or smirks when you talk to him like that, but he quickly starts testing the waters by giving you some sass in return. mirroring your expressions, repeating what you said in an annoying voice. he'll exagerate his cockiness, raising his eyebrows and shrugging at you when he gets a strike at bowling, or gloating when you ask what song is playing and it turns out to be from his playlist.

୨୧ bickering and teasing each other starts to be your main form of communication. euijoo is very conflicted—on one hand, he's glad to see his friends getting along, albeit in their own way, but on the other, he never has a moment of peace when the two of you are in the same room. if relentlessly making fun of each other is what gets you to grow close, he won't complain.

୨୧ and it really does make you grow closer. even when you pretend to be annoyed with him, he can tell you're biting back a smile. and for some reason, he always grins when you scold him or give him one of you disgusted looks, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched as you peer down at him. he's just pouring the sauce over the chicken instead of dipping it yet you're looking at him like he's eating straight dirt. but what he especially loves is when you drop all semblance of an attitude as soon as he teases you a little too much, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, sitting close to you during movie nights, calling you pretty just to see you avoid his gaze and stutter something like "shut up, nicho." when he ruffles your hair and calls you cute under his breath, he gets to have you glare at him across the room for the remainder of the evening. and when he sees you return to your usual bubbly, outgoing self with other people, he isn't even jealous—he knows he gets to see a side of you that you reserve for him only.

୨୧ he confesses his feelings for you out of the blue—well, it's unexpected to you. he'd been thinking for weeks how to do it best, settling on picking you up from class one random tuesday evening. you're suspicious from the start, texting him "what do you want, wang," and "i'd rather stay stuck in the classroom than walk home with you." but of course, you rush out of class, only slowing down when you spot him outside of the building, crossing your arms and putting on this unaffected look as you walk towards him. you practically throw your bag at him, and he catches it with a grin. "you can walk and talk, right?" you ask. you tell yourself your heart is only racing this much because it's the first time he seeks you out like this and it feels weird to be with him without euijoo or any of your other friends.

୨୧ he makes small talk the whole way there, uncharacteristically letting you poke fun at him or try to start a petty argument without reacting at all, only smiling at you like he's endeared by your antics, like he wouldn't have usually jumped at the occasion to tease you back. only once you've reached the front of your apartment building does he tell you why he wanted to see you. after he's done telling you how you feel, you purse your lips to hide your growing smile, muttering something about how he's so annoying before wrapping your arms around his neck. he immediately returns the hug, the smile audible in his voice as he asks whether that means you'll be his girlfriend.

୨୧ you're on a little cloud for a couple of weeks, all sweet and lovey-dovey with each other as you get to know the other on a more personal level, trading life stories and wishes and fears. but soon enough, your previous dynamic starts popping up again here and there. if he doesn't react to something you said right away because he's focused on his phone, you say you can't believe he's being so careless so early into your relationship. and if you don't reply to his text within ten minutes, he'll text something like "alr, hope he makes you happy," or "his dick can't be bigger than mine." when you text him back to say you're busy, he sends the google maps location to a bridge.

୨୧ he's just the most dramatic and sassiest boyfriend ever. if you're being moody with him, he either coos at you, asking what's wrong with his sweet girl until your crack a smile, or he hits you with the same moodiness, saying "maybe i had an awful day too. maybe i had the worst day ever and my girlfriend won't even kiss me because she decided she hates me," rambling until you press your lips to his just to get him to shut up. either way, he always gets what he wants in the end—your attention on him.

୨୧ when you double text him, he replies something like "omg you're so obsessed with me it's embarrassinggggg." he sends screenshots of overpriced shoes and says "can you get these for me? <3" you can't watch a movie without scratching his head or back the entire time—he'll whine and squirm against you if you dare stop for more than ten seconds. he gives you the silent treatment on the way home if you pay more attention to euijoo than to him during a hang-out, pouting and crossing his arms and repeating that nothing's wrong when there clearly is. you don't mean it as a compliment, but he nonetheless agrees proudly when you call him your princess.

୨୧ if you complain of being a victim of the sassy man apocalypse to your friends, he says he had to develop a defense mechanism for you attacks against him (e.g. ignoring him for thirty seconds, not wanting to share your dessert with him after he said he didn't want any then inevitably changed his mind, letting go of his hand to pet a dog and having the gall to call it cute when your cuter boyfriend standing right there).

୨୧ dating sassy nicholas isn't for a weak, but you're a valiant soldier. it isn't like you make his life easy—randomly turning your back to him in bed with a huff (which translates to "why aren't you cuddling me already?!"), telling him if he really loved you, he'd have flowers for you every night (which he does for a week until you run out of vases—it's more of a monthly thing now), sitting next to him at the library and alternating between glaring at him in hopes that it'll get him to finish his work faster (it doesn't, you're too distracting), giving him your best puppy eyes when you pass an ice cream store after dinner at a restaurant he already payed for (he always gives in).

୨୧ you wouldn't have it any other way. it's fun, being the dog to his cat. and it isn't like you don't know when to cut the attitude out. if he's having a bad day, you comfort and take care of him until he feels better. if something is weighing on you, he listens to you for hours, holding your hand and wiping your tears with his thumb. just because you know exactly how to get on the others' nerves doesn't mean you can't have genuine heart-to-hearts.

୨୧ to this day, people who don't know either of you or only one of you are surprised to see you together. he stands back, observing and not talking much, while you're enquiring after someone's parents' health five minutes after meeting them. but when they see you start to bicker and joke around with each other, when they see how nicho grows softer around you or how you speak your mind freely to him, there's no doubt left in their mind that you're perfect for each other.

© nichopatch on Tumblr, 2026. please do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works. support your creators by reblogging and leaving feedback!

after a moment, he takes a slow sip of his coffee and says, without lifting his gaze from his phone,

“…you need somethin’, sweetheart.” more of a statement than a genuine question really. you freeze, acting clueless.

“huh?”

he hums like he absolutely does not believe you, and finally glances up. there it is—that tiny, knowing half-smirk he does when he's entertained. he's sooo smug.

“c’mere,” he says casually, fingers gesturing you to get up like he’s asking you to pass the salt.

your heart jumps a little and you hesitate for half a second; you don’t want to look desperate. that’s when he raises a brow.

“come on.” he chuckles, rushing you out of your overthinking.

you stand and walk over, trying to move at a normal pace and not like you’ve been internally spiraling for the last ten minutes.

the second you’re within reach, his arm reaches out and his index finger hooks gently around your wrist, a small tug until you end up standing between his knees where he’s leaning against the counter. he sets his mug and phone face-down to the side and rests both hands on your hips like this was the obvious solution all along.

“hey,” he says, satisfied.

your shoulders drop instantly.

“hi.” you reply timidly. you didn’t even realize how tense you were until now, and leon notices that too. his thumbs start moving in slow, lazy circles against your hips.

“you were doin’ that thing again,” he adds.

“…what thing.”

“your little stare.”

you look away immediately and leon laughs softly under his breath.

“i wasn’t staring.”

“i'd say you were maybe one blink away from combusting.”

you make a small offended sound, but you don’t move away. if anything, you lean closer, and he lets you. of course he does.

his hands slide from your hips around to your lower back, pulling you in until your chest brushes his. he doesn’t move too fast, just rests his chin lightly on the top of your head. you sink into him, your arms instantly finding their way around his waist.

“there y'go. all y'had to do was ask.” he murmurs.

your face heats. “i can’t just ask for a hug.”

“why not.”

“that’s—” you flounder. “that’s too much.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you properly, a calm but inquisitive expression painting his face, wrinkles forming between his brows.

“too much for who?”

you don’t answer, and he shakes his head slightly, thumb brushing along your waist.

“fine, don't ask.”

you stay silent, growing confused on where he's going with this.

“if you wanna be held,” he says, he leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, “just come here.”

your hands settle on his shirt, gripping it tightly, and his smirk softens into something quieter.

“okay?” he murmurs.

you mumble something unintelligible, but you nod at the same time.

he pulls you fully into him this time, one arm wrapping securely around your back while the other comes up to cradle the back of your head, and while you melt, he stands there like this is the most natural thing in the world. because to him, it is,

after a minute, he tilts his head slightly so his mouth is near your ear.

“and by the way,” he says, tone lazy, almost playful, “i can't read your mind.”

“i know—”

“right.”

his fingers squeeze gently at your waist.

“just say my name. i'd drop everything for you, you know that.”

“but... it's hard.”

“why?”

“i don't know... i don't wanna ask you for too much.”

your problem really is that simple. you love leon's touch, especially when he's gentle (which he always is with you). but for some reason, there's a little voice in your head whenever you feel like you need a hug or a kiss or something, and it tells you that leon would either “be too busy” or “wouldn't want to hug you right now”.

but leon knows you. he knows the look you get. he knows the tiny degrees of change in your posture when you’re craving touch but don’t want to admit it. and he doesn’t think it’s too much.

if anything, he finds it endearing. leon is hungrier touch than you'd assume, but he's more confident about it. more forward. he knows what he wants and how to get it. as a result, you both want the same thing.

“you’re allowed to ask me for anything you want,” he adds casually, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “s'kinda my job.”

you look up at him at that.

“your job?”

“yeah.”

he shrugs faintly.

“if i'm gonna retire, gotta stay useful somehow.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, and he smiles a little wider at that, satisfied with himself. he pulls you even closer, arms tightening just slightly.

pressing another soft kiss to your temple, he murmurs, “and i like when you need me.”

this time there’s no edge, no cockiness, just, like, of course he’s going to hold you. course he’s not going anywhere.

“hey,” he says, voice gravelly.

you leap from the couch, sighing in relief, “leon,”

you cross the room before he can take another step.

“oh honey, what a mess,” you chuckle in a whisper, hands hovering his arms like you’re afraid to break him.

he lets out a slow breath through his nose, breathing out a weak and sarcastic “thanks”, but his thoughts are louder than his voice.

'god, i missed you. i’m so damn tired.'

you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the side of his face. he leans into it without thinking. just a fraction. just enough that you notice.

“what hurts? besides everything,” you murmur.

“i'm fine. i've had it worse,” he says automatically. he always says that. you give him a look.

he huffs, “nothing serious. i promise.” but despite his words, he’s swaying a little, and he smells like smoke and metal and cold. just cold.

“i'll run you a bath,” you say softly. “come on.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

the bathroom is warm, heat curling in steam against the ceiling. you added epsom salts and a little bit of the oil he likes—it smells clean, woodsy, grounding. the kind of scent that makes leon feel safe. he sits on the edge of the tub, already peeling his shirt off while you help him out of the gear strapped onto his legs.

his movements have slowed down, the adrenaline nearly gone his system. it started to dwell the second you touched him. as you help him take his shirt off, his hands find your hips. you see the bruising blooming along his ribs, a shallow cut near his shoulder, scrapes along his arms, and a nasty, drying deep slice on his neck.

you wince, terrified by the sight, but you hide it, keeping your hands gentle. his thoughts, however, are not.

'she shouldn’t have to see this. i should’ve been more careful.'

but when your fingers brush the angry bruise along his side, you don’t flinch. you don’t even look scared. you just look focused.

“you did good,” you tell him quietly, like you can hear the guilt creeping in.

he looks up at you slowly. “you don’t even know what happened.”

“no, but...” you pause, “you came back.”

that shuts him up.

you help him ease into the bath, and the second the hot water reaches his shoulders, he exhales, long and trembling, like he’s been holding in his breath for days.

“feels good?” you tease softly.

“hey,” he mutters, eyes closed. “i'm trying to relax here.”

you kneel beside the tub and start washing the grime from his skin. the water darkens, but leon's heart and mind lighten immensely.

you move deliberately, careful around the cuts. he opens his eyes to watch you for a little. he sees the way your brows pinch when you see a deeper scrape, and guilt runs through his chest.

“i can do the rest myself,” he murmurs, but doesn't move.

“just shut up and let me.” you smile, reaching up and tilting his chin so you can clean the dirt along his jaw. “i want to.”

his body tenses in a way that has nothing to do with bruises.

when you reach for the shaving cream, he raises his brows in amusement. “seriously?”

“you’re scratchy.”

“it's 5 o'clock. at most.”

“right, well, you’re itchy.”

he scoffs, but he lets you.

you work slowly, one careful stroke at a time. you hardly ever do this for him, but he trusts you, keeping very still, eyes on your face instead of where you're putting the blade. when you’re done, you wipe the last of the foam away and smooth your thumb over his jaw.

“there,” you whisper. “much better.”

he catches your wrist gently before you pull away, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

“thank you,” he says simply.

you grin, pushing his hair back and pressing a kiss atop his eyebrow.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

after you dry him off and bandage what needs bandaging, you walk him to the kitchen. (well, you walk to the kitchen and he follows you like a clingy puppy).

he begins to protest weakly. “can i—”

“you can sit,” you interrupt, pointing him into a chair.

he doesn’t bother arguing. by now, he realizes he's not in charge tonight.

he doesn't really mind though. watching you cook is one of his favourite things. the way you move around the kitchen like it’s a choreography only you know. the warmth of the candles you light to hide the smell. the normalcy of it. it feels unreal after where he’s been.

you make him a hearty and filling meal, his favourite, breakfast for dinner. you pile his plate high with pancakes and eggs and sausages, sneaking in a few slices of tomato and cucumber.

he gives you a look.

“what?” you say.

“you feeding a small army?”

“you are a small army.”

that makes him laugh, low and warm. “thank you, honey.”

he eats like he hasn’t in days, because he probably hasn’t. you sit across from him, chin in your hand. every so often your knee “accidentally” brushes his under the table, just to remind him he’s here. he tells you about the mission, about grace, but he purposefully leaves out the scariest details. all the times he nearly didn't make it. he always does that—tries his best not to worry you.

by the end of the conversation, he finished everything.

“feel better?” you ask.

he leans back in his chair, studying you, a small satisfied smile painting his cheeks.

“yeah,” he admits. “i do.”

but it’s not just the food.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

later, in the bedroom, the lights are dimmed low. clean sheets, like you might've been anticipating his return.

leon lies on his stomach, shirtless, head to the side, while you straddle his hips gently—careful of his tender ribs—and start working your hands into his shoulders.

he groans before he can stop himself.

“that bad?” you murmur.

“you have no idea.”

your thumbs press into the tight knots near his spine, and he feels himself unraveling, inch by inch.

'so worth it if this is what i come home to,' he thinks.

but he doesn't just mean massages, he means you. everything you are, everything you do, your love. he feels so spoiled.

“i missed you a lot, leon,” you whisper.

that does something to him. he opens his eyes slightly, staring at the dark wall ahead.

“you too.”

your fingers slow, turning into gentle strokes instead of deep pressure. you trace along his spine, and his eyes grow heavier under your touch.

“so much.” he adds in a murmur, already half-asleep.

you shift beside him, letting him roll carefully onto his side. he pulls you in close, one big arm wrapping around you like it’s instinct. eyes still shut, his face tucks into your hair.

he smells more like himself now. soapy and something uniquely leon.

his breathing evens out within minutes, but just before sleep fully claims him, he mumbles, voice thick and soft and unguarded:

“what would i... do without you...”

you kiss his chest, right over his heart.

“Yeah,” he says, a more genuine smile forming as he watches you. “We met when she came in for orientation last week. She— she’s great.” 

“You think so?” 

Jimmy nods. “I’m surprised you took her on, honestly. She’s a lot nicer than you.” Lois tries to swat his shoulder but he rolls back in his chair with a laugh. “Point proven!” 

“Oh, whatever,” she huffs. She calls your name and your head shoots up, and she gestures for you to come over. You say some kind of apology to Perry, who looks relieved once you walk off. 

“Miss Lane!” you say brightly. “What can I do for you?” 

“I told you to call me Lois,” she says. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “All of you are so nice here. I’m still getting used to it.”

Jimmy frowns. “Were the people at your last job mean?”

“My last internship kind of sucked,” you say. “I mean, I did some great reporting, don’t get me wrong! But everyone there was way more cutthroat than I thought they would be. And,” you tip your head, “I didn’t get paid. So this is already way better.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Lois says. “What was Perry talking to you about?”

“Oh, I was just asking him a lot of questions,” you say with a slight laugh. “This is the biggest paper I’ve ever worked at, so I’m trying to get to know all the editors. My college paper has like… fifteen people total, and it feels like I’m at least half of them some days.”

“What a coincidence,” Lois says, and she pats Jimmy on the shoulder. “My friend Jimmy here was just talking about how he’d love to show you the ropes.” 

“You would?” you ask, your eyes brightening as you break out that perfect smile once again. It’s deadly, he swears—blinding, if nothing else. 

“I would?” he stumbles, and then he blinks. Jimmy’s been wanting to spend time with you since the second you walked through the doors, and Lois is just handing it to him on a silver platter. He can show someone the ropes, can’t he? “I— I would, yeah! Definitely!” 

“Great.” Lois stands up and looks between both of you. “Senator Cia Strong is running for reelection, and she’s having a press conference today in Byrd Park for her stop in Metropolis. I think it would be a good, quick story for you to cover together.” 

“Oh, I heard about that!” you exclaim. “Her opponent’s Bill Macron, and he looks surprisingly strong for a newcomer— do you think she’ll win?” 

Lois smiles. “That’s for the two of you to find out.” 

“When is it?” Jimmy asks. 

She looks down at her watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.” 

“Twenty-sev—?” he blurts out, and he jumps up from his seat. “Lois, that’s a twenty minute subway ride on its own!” 

“You can make it if you hurry,” she says nonchalantly, but he barely hears her as he starts gathering his things at top speed. You’re moving at a similar pace, already booking it back to the intern desk they keep shoved in the corner of the office to get your stuff. 

You make it back ten seconds later—your backpack hangs off one shoulder, your camera is looped around your neck, and you’ve got your press pass and water bottle and jacket and probably five other things in your arms.

“Are you good?” he asks. 

“Yeah!” you nod, “I’ll meet you outside!” And then you’re already jogging out the door. 

Jimmy shoots Lois a dirty look as he grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and starts backpedaling. “You’re the worst!” he calls. 

She smiles. “Have fun!” 

Jimmy runs after you, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with Cat, and Lois walks back over to her desk and sits down. 

“I saw that, Miss Lane,” Clark says. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says airily. 

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“This is work!” she defends. “She’s my intern—I’m helping her get situated.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Jimmy’s been making eyes at her since her first day, would it?” 

Lois shrugs as she opens her inbox. “I told you, I don’t know what you mean.” 

“It’s sweet,” Clark says. “I didn’t think you of all people would be a matchmaker.” 

She frowns and looks over at him. “What does that mean?” 

This time, he shrugs with a wry smile. “I don’t know.” 

Lois scoffs and clicks on an unread press release. She gets two lines in before she deletes it. PR folks love sending her releases for things that, one, aren’t newsworthy, and two, aren’t on her beat. 

“They’re both good kids,” she finally says. “Cub reporters usually stick together anyway. I’m just giving them a headstart on it.” 

“Of course,” Clark nods. “And if sparks happen to fly, you can’t really be blamed, can you?” 

“You’ve got a one track mind,” she remarks, but she can’t fully bite back her smile, especially as she meets his warm eyes. 

The Daily Planet has a way of bringing people together, after all. 

-

You and Jimmy end up barely making it to the subway, the doors closing mere seconds after you get into the car. You collapse onto the bench beside each other, both very much out of breath from your multi-block sprint. 

“Do all of your stories start off like this?” you gasp out. 

“No.” Jimmy shakes his head, but it takes him another few seconds to respond as he tries to catch his breath. He hasn’t had to run that many blocks in… forever, he thinks. “But the reporters here like to go ‘trial by fire’ for their interns. Especially Lois.” 

“I’ve always admired her work,” you say. “Now I think she might be a little crazy.” 

A laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head against the back of the seat. “To make it in this field, you’ve gotta be.” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I’ve gathered that.” 

The two of you sit there for another stop in silence, still gathering your thoughts and breath. Jimmy can’t help but pass a few glances at you, glowing from exertion. You shrug your backpack onto the floor and start organizing everything you grabbed off your desk in your haste.

He’s only been in your presence for a collective five minutes, between your orientation last week and your real first day today, but he doesn’t want to leave it. He feels like a meteor stuck in your orbit, especially when you give him that superstar smile. 

“So,” he starts, now that his heart has finally returned to a normal rate, “how’d you get this gig?” 

“Some networking and a lot of luck,” you admit. “My favorite professor went to college with Mis— with Lois. She told me to apply, so I did, and she put in a good word for me. Two interviews and a few on-the-spot articles later, and voila! I’m here.” 

Jimmy nods. “Nothing wrong with a bit of networking. Kinda feels like it’s the only way to get anything done these days.” 

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. “I swear, half my friends are going on dates, and I’m over here with a contact list full of small-town bureaucrats.” 

He laughs some. He kinda feels bad for wondering if that means you’re single. “If it makes you feel better, you’re probably getting left on read about the same amount.” 

You laugh too, and it makes him smile. Something about you draws him in and he can’t even help it. Could Lois tell, or did she just throw him into this without even knowing? 

Who is he kidding? Lois notices everything. This is probably her version of paying him back for handling her dailies last week so she could chase a Superman scoop. 

(He will never admit it to her, but it does kinda make up for it.)

“How long have you worked at the Daily Planet?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Only about a year and a half,” he says. “I got hired in the mailroom originally, but Perry brought me up to staff after a couple months. I had a ‘Humans of Metropolis’ photoblog that really impressed him.” He laughs. “And the Superman action shots that ended up front page, above the fold."

Your eyes widen. “You’ve met Superman?” 

“Yeah!” Jimmy nods after a moment of hesitation. “Yeah, so many times. We’re basically best buds.” 

“Oh my god.” You grab his arm and lean in and he stares at you with equally-wide eyes. “That— that is so cool! I— I’ve read a bunch of Superman stuff, but I never thought I might get to meet him!” 

He grins. “Reporting in Metropolis isn’t like any other city. I think you’ll realize that pretty quickly.” 

“I can’t imagine getting pictures like that, of a superhero.” You sigh and pick up the camera around your neck.  “I’ve also never been the best photographer. Not very MMJ of me.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he assures. “One nice thing about working at such a big paper is that you usually don’t have to go out as a one man band.” 

“God, yes,” you mumble. “I struggled through all of my media production classes. I’m definitely meant to be behind a laptop, not in front of a camera.” 

“I don’t know,” Jimmy says, tilting his head, “I think you’d make a killing on broadcast.” 

You smile at him, more genuine than anything he’s ever received before, and he feels better just at the sight. It doesn’t make sense. He barely knows you—he can’t be thinking like this. He can’t be this obvious. You don’t make it easy.  

“Thanks,” you say. “But I’m happy where I am.” 

You and Jimmy continue to chat until you get to your stop—mostly idle conversation to pass the time, but he does learn a few things. You’re from a small town in Vermont, your preferred beat is politics, and if you could bring three things to a deserted island you’d bring a notebook, a knife, and your reusable water bottle.  

Oh, yeah—he also learns that he’s a complete goner. Jimmy falls deeper into your orbit during a twenty minute subway ride, pulling out every joke he can think of to try and make you laugh and see that smile again. How is he going to work with you every day and still stay a normal, self-respecting person? 

You’re magnetic. It’s no wonder you’re going into journalism, because he thinks you can get anyone to tell you anything if you just ask nicely and give them that smile. 

It’s certainly worked on him.

But Jimmy doesn’t have to think too much about that right now, because the two of you have another five minute sprint to make it to Byrd Park on time. You show your press passes to get to the front, then you separate as Jimmy finds a spot. 

You take out a pen, notepad, and a mini recorder while Jimmy rushes to fix his white balance. He always forgets to reset it. You give him a smile and a little wave from your front row seat. He smiles back and feels dizzy. 

The press conference goes a lot smoother than the rush over did. The senator delivers pretty much exactly what Jimmy expects—improved education, protected healthcare, lowered crime, the same old. Strong isn’t the worst senator, but Jimmy thinks half the state doesn’t know anything about her policies. She’s average, and most politicians seem to be that or worse these days. 

It’s just like any other press conference—with exceptionally good lighting, Jimmy might add—until the explosions start. 

He barely even registers it. One moment he’s on one knee zooming in for a better view of Strong, the next he’s been thrown against a tree so hard he thinks it breaks in half. He hopes, at least, because otherwise that crack came from his ribs. 

It takes Jimmy a second to come back into himself. He’s protected his camera above all else, wrapped in his jacket and his arms, and he snaps a round of quick photos of all the chaos before he struggles to his feet. 

Everything has devolved into hysteria—screaming and running and batting out flames. Jimmy has to find you. You’re a small town girl and now you’re caught up in a bombing in one of the biggest cities in the world. What a great first day. 

He’s trying to search for you, but it’s hard when half the park is enveloped in smoke and flames and he can’t stop hacking up a lung. How is he meant to find you or get any good pictures in this?

“Help!” 

A voice pierces through the disorder and Jimmy knows it’s you. His heart speeds up and he starts shoving his way through the crowd. He yells out your name and you call his in response—you keep Marco Poloing until Jimmy finds you, and his eyes widen. 

You’re face down in the dirt, your leg pinned down by a fallen tree. You spot Jimmy and yell for him again, and he runs up to you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dropping to his knees beside you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you say, and you grunt as you push at the tree trunk. “I just can’t— get this— off!

“Just stay calm!” Jimmy says. “It— it’s gonna be okay!” 

Jimmy tries to push the tree off you and quickly realizes he is not anywhere near strong enough.

“Does this happen on everyone’s first day?” you ask. 

“Not everyone’s,” he grunts. “But welcome to your crash course on reporting in Metropolis. Metahumans can throw a superpowered wrench in your plans for the day.” 

“How do you know this is a metahuman?” you ask breathlessly. 

Jimmy thinks about the car he no longer has because of some villain of the week that tried to bash Superman over the head with it. If only he had been able to afford the next level up of metahuman insurance. 

“Because it usually is,” he decides on. “You, uh, kinda get used to it.” 

You huff an incredulous laugh. Jimmy attempts to lift it up even an inch, just enough for you to get your leg out, but no dice. He tries one more time—he has to save you, of course, but come on how cool would it be for him to do this in front of you?—and to his shock, the tree lifts up. 

You crawl out from under it and shift to your back, your chest heaving with effort. The crushed remains of your camera are scattered all around you. Your eyes only widen, but you’re not looking at Jimmy. 

“Superman!” you marvel, your voice a mixture of shock and awe. 

He looks over and sees that Superman is, in fact, beside him holding up the tree.

“Are you okay, miss?” he asks as he sets it back down. Jimmy glances down at his hands, a little disappointed. “Your leg isn’t injured?” 

“You’re Superman,” you repeat. Jimmy thinks you’re starstruck. 

“I am,” he smiles. His gaze goes down to the press pass still hanging around your neck, and his eyes light up. “You’re from the Daily Planet?” 

You nod, once, twice, three times. Definitely starstruck. “I’m one of their summer interns.” 

Superman grins. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you, then. Welcome to Metropolis.” He looks over at Jimmy and nods. “Good to see you again, Jimmy.” 

He nods as well. “Yeah, uh— good to see you too, Supes. Thanks for the assist.” 

Superman flies off to help more people before Jimmy manages to say anything else stupid—Supes?—and you look like you’re about to pass out. 

Jimmy says your name as he moves closer to you, his eyes still wide. He puts his hands on your shoulders to bring you back to the real world. “Are you still with me?” 

“We just met Superman!” you exclaim, grinning at Jimmy. It might just be all the smoke he’s inhaled, but he feels a little lightheaded. “My first day on the job and we met Superman—” 

There’s a sudden buzzing in the air, and you pull your phone out of your pocket. “It’s Lois,” you tell him, and then you answer it. “Lois, hey!” 

Jimmy can hear her frantically saying your name even from here. She’s not exactly quiet. You move the phone away from your ear some and he chuckles. “Are you and Jimmy okay? I saw the news— the bombs—” 

“We’re fine!” you assure, and you motion for Jimmy to come over. “Jimmy too, here—”

“Hey, Lois,” he says, loud enough to be heard through the receiver. “We’re good.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have—” 

“Are you kidding?” you interrupt. “This was incredible, Lois! We’ve got a way bigger story to uncover— no one just bombs normal senators. There’s gotta be dirt we can uncover. And— oh my god, we met Superman!” 

“...You did?” she asks, and she sounds less than enthused. 

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Oh my god, it was amazing. He saved my life!” 

“Sounds like him,” she says. 

“This is incredible,” you say. “Jimmy and I are gonna get a bunch of man on the street interviews from people that are here— can you call the Strong campaign PR person and see if you can get a statement?” 

“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital?” Lois asks. “You were just in a bombing, you have no idea who could be behind it—” 

“This is my chance to get my first Metropolis-sized scoop!” you insist. “Would you go to the hospital right now?” 

“...I’ll give them a call,” she says. “The two of you, stay safe. Jimmy has Clark’s number, call him if anything happens!” 

“Make sure you ask about her donors!” you insist.  

You hang up and you look over at Jimmy. Your clothes are singed and covered in tree bark and ashes, and you have a bleeding cut on your forehead, but you look happier than any normal person should be right now. 

“Did you get any pictures of all that?” 

“Uh, not of that,” he says. “I was kind of busy trying to save you.” 

“What about the explosion?” 

He nods and starts clicking through his photos. “I took what I could. I think I might have a concussion?” 

“That one!” you exclaim, and he stops. “That is perfect, Jimmy!” 

He got one right as the explosion went off, with Senator Strong speaking on a backdrop of blinding light. He goes to the next photo and it’s nothing but that light. He goes back to the photo that is definitely a front pager and shakes his head. He can’t believe his lens didn’t crack, but he’s very thankful. 

“Geez,” he mutters. “How lucky am I?” 

“Do you still have your laptop?” 

“As long as it’s not broken in my backpack, yeah.” 

“Change of plans, then. You get those photos uploaded to your drive so we’re ready once we get back to the office.” You take your mini recorder out, somehow not crushed like your camera, and smile. “I’m gonna interview anyone that’s stuck around. We’ll meet up in thirty minutes by the fountain, okay?” 

Jimmy nods. He looks down at your leg and sees that you’ve lost a third of your pant leg—not to mention the swelling and killer bruises starting to form. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” 

“I don’t even feel it,” you assure. “Which means we’ve gotta get this done before my adrenaline fades.” 

“You’re a little crazy,” Jimmy says. “I think you’ll fit in perfectly here.” 

You grin and Jimmy smiles. “Fountain in thirty,” you repeat. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

You laugh, and then you run off to get your interviews. Jimmy watches you for a good, long second before he goes off to find a still-intact park bench. Police officers and EMTs are already starting to show up—he makes a mental note to get a quote from an officer before the two of you leave. 

He might be a little crazy, too. Because Jimmy is pretty sure he would go through a couple more bombings just to spend more time with you. 

-

You and Jimmy stumble through the doors of the Daily Planet. You limped your way back from the subway station, Jimmy is now sure he has a concussion, and you both look like you’ve been through Hell and back together. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been happier. 

“We need to start making phone calls right now,” you say to Jimmy as he speeds to keep up with you. “Like, search through Strong’s donor list and bother every single one of them.” 

“I’m already on it.” Jimmy’s been scrolling through his phone for half your scramble over here, sending texts to sources and answering ones from friends who saw he was at the bombing. “The news editor at the Metropolis Examiner has been looking into her shifty financial history since her first term—she just shared her master doc with me.” 

“Great!” you exclaim. “We can bust this wide open, Jimmy!” 

You pull up a chair at Jimmy’s desk and take your laptop out of your bag. You’re already typing at the speed of light. “I’ll start a write-up on the press conference so we can get it out as soon as possible. Do you edit your photos yourself or does someone else do it?” 

“I do my own,” he says. “No one else understands my vision.” 

“Then start editing your best shots, ones you think will make us a shoe-in for the front page,” you say, and you almost squeal in excitement. “This has got to get us above the fold, right?” 

“I think so,” Jimmy says. “Perry would definitely give it to us if we got an interview with Superman. That’s why Clark is always on the front page.” 

“Well, it sounds like you two really are best friends,” you tease. “You’re on a nickname basis with him?” 

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “It’s no big deal. We’re cool with each other.” 

“Maybe you can get us that interview with him next time,” you say. “Then I’ll really have something to brag about to my roommates.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. 

You grin. “Great. Now, get on those photos.” 

Jimmy nods. Technically, he’s higher up on the totem pole than you, but technically, he doesn’t think he’d get anywhere trying to pull rank when he’s only a step above you. You’re in the zone—he respects it, and he’s a little scared of it. 

“Once you’re done, you can keep looking into the Strong angle,” you say. “We move fast enough, we’ll have two articles to pitch to Perry before lunch!” 

“Yes ma’am,” Jimmy jokes. Lightroom has finally booted up, so he starts to transfer his favorite shots over. He passes a glance over at you while they’re loading. “You move fast, don’t you?” 

You laugh, high on life, journalism, and the adrenaline that comes with surviving a bombing. “Trial by fire, right?” 

“Are you two okay?” a voice asks, and you turn your head to see it’s Clark Kent with slightly wide eyes. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and he places them down in front of you both. “It’s all over every station; you even ended up in some shots.”

“We were on TV?” Jimmy asks. He might be working at one of the most acclaimed newspapers in the world, but it is still so cool to him every time he makes it onto the news for something other than his photos. 

“More than,” you assure. Your fingers are still flying over the keys, and you laugh again. “What a way to get my first byline here!” 

“I’m glad,” Clark says, and he looks at you. “Lois is off chasing that lead you gave her. I think you might be the perfect intern for her.” 

“I’m glad,” you echo. “If this is what the whole summer’s gonna be like, I cannot wait!” 

“Woah, new girl!” Steve is walking past them but he stops and backpedals, eyes wide as he looks you and Jimmy up and down. You do both kind of look like complete messes—him, at least. Somehow, you still look good. “Rough first day?” 

You and Jimmy share glances at each other and you grin. He thinks he might pass out. 

a live model.

as in a human. a human you have to recruit. a human you have to ask.

your stomach drops through the floor. your bank account flashes before your eyes — a barren desert with a tiny tumbleweed rolling by. there’s no way you can afford a real model. not even a cheap one. not even a volunteer who works for scraps.

you’re doomed.

the moment class ends, chae-won links her arm through yours like she’s catching a runaway criminal.

“you’re thinking dramatic thoughts,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “don’t lie. your face does that thing where it collapses.”

“it doesn’t collapse,” you mutter.

“it absolutely collapses,” she insists, steering you toward the studio. “but! i know a solution.”

you give her a flat look. “unless it involves someone magically paying my fees—”

“it involves nicholas.”

you stop dead in the hallway. chae-won turns around slowly, smiling like she just dropped the biggest bomb of the century. “why not ask him?”

you sputter. “chae-won. be serious.”

“i am serious,” she says, delighted. “you need a model. he has… you know.” she makes a vague gesture at her entire body. “body.”

you bury your face in your hands. “i can’t ask nicholas. he’s — he’s nicholas.”

the sports captain. campus darling. towering, annoyingly handsome, universally adored nicholas.

the boy you may or may not have accidentally stared at during freshman orientation. once. (maybe twice.) and then definitely avoided for the rest of your academic career.

“nope,” you say. “not happening. i’ll just — i’ll figure something else out.”

chae-won plants herself in front of you like she’s blocking the path to self-sabotage. “you have a crush on him.”

“i do not.”

she lifts her eyebrows.

“…okay, maybe a little.”

“a little?” she snorts. “you turn into a stunned goldfish whenever he breathes in your general direction.”

you groan. “this is the worst day of my life.”

“correction,” she says brightly. “this is the day you take a risk and maybe get a model and a date.”

you blink at her with a disbelieving scoff. “you think nicholas wang is going to date me?”

“i think,” she says, linking arms with you again, “that you underestimate how adorable you are and overestimate how terrifying he is.” then she adds, quietly, “but also… you need to believe you deserve help sometimes.”

that part hits a little too close, so you pretend not to hear it.

back at the studio, you stare at your sketches, fingers trembling. the ideas are solid — maybe even good. but none of it matters without a model.

and you can’t stop hearing your professor’s voice echo in your head.

a live model.

you look down at your phone. nicholas’s name sits innocently in the student directory.

chae-won watches you from across the table, arms crossed, foot tapping. “do it. text him.”

“i can’t.”

“you can.”

you take a breath. you don’t text him. instead, you close your eyes, press your palms to your warm face, and whisper, “…i’ll ask him. tomorrow.”

chae-won squeals so loudly, half the studio jumps. “yes! character development!”

you groan again — louder this time — because tomorrow suddenly feels like a death sentence.

but somewhere beneath the dread, deep in the quiet part of your chest… a tiny spark flickers. hope. terror. possibility.

and because life has a sense of humor, tomorrow is coming fast.

─────

you try every excuse in the world.

you tell chae-won you’re sick. she hands you a cough drop.

you tell her you’re too busy. she reminds you the deadline is two weeks away.

you tell her you can’t feel your legs. she grabs your wrist and starts pulling you down the hallway.

“come on,” she whines dramatically, heels clicking. “if i let you run away now, i’m failing as a friend and as a woman of romance.”

“this isn’t romance,” you hiss, stumbling after her.

“it could be,” she sings.

eventually, it’s not just her dragging you — two more friends join in. you don’t even remember agreeing to this intervention. one moment you’re in the studio, the next your entire support group has formed a physical and emotional blockade that marches you across campus toward the athletics building.

by the time you reach the double doors, your palms are sweating, your heart is tap-dancing in your throat, and your soul is halfway to the afterlife.

“i can’t do this,” you whisper.

chae-won tightens her grip on your shoulders from behind. “yes, you can. and if you try to run, i will tackle you. emotionally and physically.”

you roll your eyes, but your knees are shaking so hard, you’re grateful for her hand at your back.

the smell hits you first — gym rubber, fresh turf, the faint metallic tang of weights. it’s cool inside, echoey, too quiet. practice must be over.

you peek around the corner of the hallway that leads to the indoor field. and there he is.

nicholas.

alone.

he’s kneeling, stretching his hamstring with one hand braced on the ground. sweat dampens the ends of his hair, sticking to his forehead. his lips are parted slightly as he breathes, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. he looks… soft in a way you’ve never seen before — not the loud, adored captain everyone sees in public. more human. more tired. more real.

your breath catches.

“go,” chae-won whispers, giving you a sharp nudge.

you stumble forward and immediately want to evaporate. nicholas hears the sound of your shoe squeaking and looks up.

his eyes are warm brown, a little curious, a little surprised. he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm but doesn’t stand yet.

“oh,” he says, breath still steadying. “hey.”

you freeze. completely. like a mouse caught in the world’s gentlest spotlight.

“hi,” you squeak. god. horrible.

he stands slowly, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders. the movement is fluid, practiced — athletic. but he softens his posture when he faces you, like he’s trying not to intimidate you.

“what’s up?” he asks, grabbing his water bottle.

your mind goes blank. blank like a wiped hard drive. blank like a fresh page. blank like you’ve never spoken to another human before.

“i — uh — project,” you blurt.

he blinks. “project?”

you nod too many times. perfect. you’re malfunctioning.

“it’s for my fashion design class,” you manage. “my final project. i, um… i need a model. a real one. and i don’t— i can’t— i mean, i was wondering if — if maybe… you might consider… if you’re not too busy or—”

your voice shakes. your fingers shake. your entire body is basically a vibrating phone.

nicholas straightens a little. not taller — just more attentive.

he looks at you. really looks. not like he’s confused or amused, but like he’s trying to understand you. his eyes move from your face to your hands and back again, quietly registering the nerves you’re failing miserably to hide.

then he smiles.

not the big, confident one he gives crowds. a small one. soft. almost shy.

“okay,” he says simply. “i’ll do it.”

you stop breathing.

he takes a sip of water, like he didn’t just shatter your internal universe.

“when do you need me?” he adds.

you blink. twice. you stare at him like you’re trying to decode a foreign language.

“you’ll… do it?” you whisper.

“yeah.” he tilts his head slightly, a strand of damp hair falling over his forehead. “just tell me when to show up.”

you’re convinced you’re hallucinating. maybe you fainted. maybe this is a stress dream. maybe nicholas is actually a figment of mass campus delusion.

“are — are you sure?” you ask.

he gives a tiny laugh under his breath. “if i wasn’t, i wouldn’t have said yes.”

he throws his towel over his shoulder and gestures lightly toward the hallway. “walk with me? it’s freezing in here.”

you nod numbly. you’re pretty sure your feet move, but you feel nothing.

you walk beside him as he chats casually — asking what your project is about, what kind of pieces you’ve been making this semester, even complimenting the tote bag you customized.

you barely keep up.

by the time you reach the entrance, the others are gone — thankfully — and nicholas is pushing the door open for you.

“so,” he says, leaning slightly against the frame, “send me the details later?”

you swallow hard. “yes. i mean — yeah. i will.”

he gives you another one of those small, soft smiles. “looking forward to it.”

and he walks away.

you stand there. frozen. speechless. brain completely empty except for one overwhelming thought. there is no way that just happened.

and yet… it did.

nicholas wang agreed to model for you.

and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, your chest doesn’t feel tight. for the first time, you feel something else quietly bloom inside you. ambition.

─────

you spend the entire morning cleaning the design studio.

it doesn’t need cleaning — at least not to the degree you’re doing it — but anxiety demands ritual, and apparently today’s ritual involves rearranging fabric bolts by color, refolding muslin, and lint-rolling a mannequin.

you smooth your hair. check the time. smooth your hair again. check the time again.

he won’t come, you tell yourself. he’s busy. he’ll forget. he’ll change his mind. you’ll get a text apologizing, saying something came up — 

a knock echoes through the open doorway.

you jump, nearly stabbing yourself with a pin.

nicholas stands there with one hand resting lightly on the door frame, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp like he just showered. he’s wearing a dark sweatshirt and joggers, casual but somehow cinematic.

“hey,” he says, voice soft. “am i early?”

you look at the clock. he’s exactly on time.

“no—! no, you’re perfect—i mean, it’s perfect. the timing. not you. i mean — you are — but — i —”

you want to curl into a ball and roll under the nearest sewing machine.

nicholas bites back a smile, stepping inside. “i gotcha. good timing.”

you nod so hard, your hair moves.

he drops his bag to the side and looks around the studio like he’s entering a different world — curious eyes scanning the racks, the sketches pinned to the walls, the chaos of fabric and thread.

“this is… really cool,” he says, sincere awe in his voice.

that throws you off. most people glance at your workspace and see “mess.” nicholas sees something else.

“thanks,” you murmur, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

you show him the garment — the early draft of the piece he’ll be modeling — and as you speak, you feel yourself shrinking, making yourself small out of habit.

“so, um… this is rough. like, very rough. i’m sorry it’s not — i didn’t have time to — i should’ve finished the collar —”

“hey,” nicholas interrupts gently. “you don’t have to apologize.”

you freeze. he says it casually, but his tone is warm, steady. reassuring in a way you’re not used to.

you swallow. “sorry. i —”

you stop, catching yourself. nicholas’s eyes soften.

he steps closer, but not too close — just enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“can i look?” he asks, nodding toward the garment.

you hand it over with shaking hands. he studies it seriously, not pretending to understand fashion, not faking enthusiasm — actually absorbing the details.

“you made all this?” he asks.

“yeah.”

his brow lifts. “it’s really impressive.”

your brain short-circuits again.

he shrugs a little when he sees your expression, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “i mean it.”

you turn away, pretending to fix a pin cushion just to hide how flustered you are.

as he changes into the piece behind a makeshift curtain, you try to breathe. you try to remember how measuring tape works. you try not to imagine his shoulders or his collarbones or anything at all, actually.

when he steps out wearing your garment — even half-finished — something inside you flips over.

he looks… good. strong lines softened by fabric you draped yourself. effortless. like the design was made for him.

“okay,” he says. “what do you need me to do?”

you move around him, adjusting the seams, pinning loose fabric. every time your fingers brush his arm or shoulder, you feel his breath catch just slightly. not enough to embarrass either of you — just enough to make your heart do dangerous things.

then it happens.

a sudden slam from the hallway — someone dropping a box outside.

nicholas flinches. not big, not dramatic — but noticeable. barely a twitch of his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes. like he’s so used to noise, yet worn thin by it.

you look up. he tries to cover it with a practiced smile.

“you okay?” you ask quietly.

he nods, a little too quick. “just… tired.”

you don’t push — but the way he says it lingers.

you see it now, clearer than before — the exhaustion carved into the corners of his eyes, the tightness in his posture, the heaviness beneath the charming exterior everyone loves so much.

he watches you too — really watches — when you wince after pricking your finger on a pin, when you overthink every movement, when your voice stays small even though you’re in your own workspace.

“does that hurt?” he asks when he notices the tiny bead of blood on your fingertip.

“no, it’s fine,” you whisper, wiping it away.

he frowns, not convinced.

you both return to your tasks in a quiet that feels strangely… comfortable.

every time you adjust a seam, he steadies himself so you don’t have to reach. every time you hesitate, he steps back in sync with your rhythm. every time you start to apologize, he gives a tiny shake of his head, almost imperceptible, a silent you don’t have to.

by the time the fitting ends, something has shifted — small, fragile, impossible to name. nicholas hands the garment back carefully, like it’s something delicate. something valuable.

“thanks,” he says, voice softer now. “for letting me help.”

you blink, surprised. “i should be thanking you.”

he smiles again — that small, real one — and lifts his bag. “same time next week?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

he walks toward the door, then pauses, glancing back at you. “i had a good time.”

you don’t know what to say. you barely remember how breathing works. and yet, somehow, you whisper back, “me too.”

nicholas leaves, and the studio feels different — warmer, fuller, as if something sacred just happened.

a tiny crack. a tiny opening. the beginning of something neither of you can name yet.

─────

you don’t expect him to come back.

even though he said he would. even though he’d smiled like he meant it. even though part of you — small and trembling — wants to believe him.

people don’t usually stay, not when they get a glimpse of how anxious you are, how easily spooked you become, how quickly you fold yourself into the corners of a room.

so all week, you prepare yourself for him not showing up. you rehearse excuses in your head —  it’s fine, I get it, he’s busy, why would someone like him make time for someone like you?

but then the door to the studio creaks open right on time. and there he is. wearing a hoodie, hair slightly messy from the weather outside, holding two drinks — one iced, one hot — like he wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.

his eyes land on you, and his whole face softens.

“hey,” he says. “i, uh… guessed you might like something sweet?”

your heart stops.

he sets the drinks on your workstation, a little shy, like he’s not used to doing small, thoughtful things for people outside his team or friend circle.

you stare at the drinks, at him, back at the drinks.

“i… thank you,” you whisper.

“you don’t have to drink it,” he adds quickly. “i just — you seemed nervous last time, so i thought maybe — never mind.”

he’s rambling. nicholas wang is rambling.

you take the drink before he can overthink it further. “no, i… i really appreciate it.”

his shoulders relax.

the fitting starts the same as last time — him slipping behind the curtain, you pretending to reorganize markers to hide how flustered you are — but the air feels different.

he talks more now. not loudly. not performatively. just… easily.

“practice has been brutal this week,” he says as he steps out in the garment. “coach wants us ready for the championship, but honestly? i think half the team’s already halfway to burnout.”

you adjust the hem lightly, nodding. “you seem tired.”

he chuckles under his breath. “everyone seems to think that lately.”

you glance up. “are they wrong?”

he opens his mouth, then closes it. his expression shifts — defenses pulling tight, then slowly loosening again as he exhales.

“…no,” he admits. “i don’t think they are.”

it’s the first real crack. the first moment where he lets you see behind the bright, perfect captain mask.

he sits on the edge of your worktable as you pin fabric along his sleeve, fingers steadying the cloth.

“i get overwhelmed,” he says quietly. “people think i like attention. the noise. the pressure. all those cameras during games? it’s… it’s a lot.”

you pause, stunned he’s telling you any of this. most people would kill to hear their campus golden boy open up like this. but here he is, offering the truth like it’s something fragile.

you swallow. “you don’t have to pretend with me.”

he looks at you then — really looks — like the thought had never occurred to him before.

“…yeah,” he murmurs. “i’m starting to get that.”

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it’s warm. shared. steady.

as you move around him, measuring and pinning, his eyes follow you — not in a heavy, intense way, but in a gentle, attentive way. like he’s memorizing how you move, how you focus when you’re working.

but he sees your cracks too.

when you flinch at a sudden noise from the hallway. when you automatically shrink your posture after giving a suggestion. when you start to apologize for the third time before catching yourself.

“you do that a lot,” he says softly.

“do what?”

“disappear,” he says, almost whispering. “like you’re scared to take space.”

you freeze. his voice is gentle, not accusing. not judging. just… noticing.

you clear your throat nervously. “i’m not— i just don’t want to be annoying.”

nicholas shakes his head slowly. “you’re not annoying.”

his tone is firm. certain. like he means every word and then some.

“you’re not invisible either,” he adds. and it hits you deeper than you expect.

you focus on the stitches, trying to hide the warm sting in your eyes.

he doesn't push. he simply waits — present, patient — in a way that makes your chest ache. when the fitting ends, nicholas changes and comes back out holding the garment gently in his arms. he sets it on the mannequin, then turns to you with a small, sincere smile.

“i like being here,” he says. “it’s… quiet. in a good way.”

your breath catches. “you don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

“i’m not,” he answers immediately. “i meant it.”

you can tell. you feel it.

he picks up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder.

“next week?” he asks.

“yeah,” you whisper in confirmation.

he steps toward the door, then pauses — hand resting lightly on the frame.

“and…” he hesitates, eyes flicking to yours. “thanks for listening today.”

you nod sincerely. “anytime.”

he gives a faint, relieved smile and slips out. 

the door closes. and for a long moment, you stand alone in the studio, heart fluttering, breath soft, a warmth settling into your chest like someone finally opened a window in a stuffy room.

you didn’t just see his cracks today. he saw yours, too.

and he didn’t look away.

─────

it starts slowly — a few curious looks when nicholas walks into the fashion building again, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from practice.

but then people start talking.

by the end of the week, you can feel the whispers chasing you down the hallway.

“why is he going there so much?”

“is he dating someone from design?”

“her? no way, right?”

you pretend not to hear, but your skin prickles every time. your chest tightens. you duck your head lower and lower, shoulders curling in like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.

nicholas has no idea.

or maybe he does — but he keeps showing up anyway.

he brings iced coffees. a snack the next time. then nothing at all, just himself, laughing softly as he pushes open the studio doors like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and every time he walks in, the whispers get louder.

until you can’t take it.

you start leaving earlier. slipping out back doors. taking different routes across campus. anything to avoid being seen walking with him or even near him.

you think you’re doing a good job.

you’re wrong.

it happens on a thursday — a dull, heavy afternoon where your head feels too full, and your heart feels too small. you’re hurrying down a side hallway when a warm hand catches your sleeve.

you freeze.

nicholas steps into your path, breath soft, eyes steady. not angry. not confused. just… gentle. so gentle it almost hurts.

“hey,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me.”

your throat locks. you look at your shoes. “n-no, i just— i’ve been busy—”

“don’t lie to me,” he says, but there’s no edge to it. only concern. “did someone say something?”

your breath stutters. your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “i… people are talking. a lot. and i don’t want to make trouble for you or — or look stupid or — embarrass you.”

nicholas goes still. then he takes a slow step closer.

“if i didn’t want to be here,” he says quietly, “i wouldn’t be.”

your breath catches.

he tilts his head, trying to meet your eyes as gently as possible. “you’re not chasing me. you’re not embarrassing me. you’re not… anything they’re saying.”

“but the rumors—”

“they don’t matter to me.” his voice drops further, almost a whisper. “you do.”

your chest squeezes so tight it’s almost painful.

he lifts a hand — stops before touching you, waiting for permission — and when you don’t pull away, he brushes his thumb lightly along your sleeve where he caught you earlier.

“don’t let them chase you from me,” he murmurs. “please.”

you inhale shakily. the hallway feels too small, too warm. his closeness feels like a confession he hasn’t fully said yet.

“i wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“i know.” his smile is soft, relieved. “just… don’t disappear on me again.”

and when he lets your sleeve go, your skin feels strangely cold — like you didn’t realize how warm his hand was until it wasn’t there anymore.

─────

the next fitting feels different.

maybe it’s because the whispers got quieter after nicholas started walking beside you again — unbothered, steady, solid in a way you still can’t fathom. maybe it’s because he smiles when he sees you, slow and warm and real.

or maybe it’s because you have changed, just a little.

the studio is quiet, the afternoon light slanting gold across his shoulders as he steps onto the platform. he lifts his arms without being asked, already relaxed in the space that once made him tense.

you try to breathe normally.

you fail.

you’re working on the mock-up jacket today — crisp muslin, pinned at the seams, delicate enough to tear if handled wrong. he holds still, watching you with that focused softness he seems to reserve only for you.

you reach for the collar, and your fingers graze his collarbone. it’s barely a touch — barely anything — but his breath breaks in the middle, a soft inhale he tries to disguise.

you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.

you adjust the seam carefully, eyes fixed on the fabric because looking at him feels too dangerous. too intimate.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. but the air between you tightens, charged with something warm and fragile.

“turn a little,” you murmur.

he does, moving slowly, deliberately. like he’s afraid any sudden motion will startle you.

you step around him, smoothing the fabric down his back. the muscles between his shoulders shift as he exhales — a sound that almost feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding too long.

“you’re good at this,” he says softly.

you swallow. “it’s just a fitting.”

“it’s not,” he replies. “not when it’s you.”

your heart stumbles. you don’t know what to say, so you focus on adjusting the last seam. but the space feels smaller, your pulse loud enough you’re sure he must hear it.

when you circle back in front of him, he’s watching you. not staring. studying. like he’s trying to memorize the way your hands move, the way your hair falls, the way you avoid his gaze like it’s both a shield and a confession.

your fingers brush his wrist, a tiny accidental touch. this time, he doesn’t hide the reaction — a quiet, sharp inhale before he goes still again.

you drop your hand quickly. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he murmurs. and the softness in his voice nearly undoes you.

you step back, needing space you suddenly can’t find, and start scribbling notes in your sketchbook. you can feel him watching you — not intrusive, not heavy, just attentive. present.

you think the moment is over.

it isn’t.

as he steps down from the platform, he says your name. just your name. soft. careful. like he’s holding it gently in his mouth.

you look up instinctively — and the look he gives you is so quietly intense your breath catches.

it’s not a confession. not yet. but it’s something. something warm. something real.

“see you next time,” he murmurs.

when he leaves, the room feels colder.

that night, when you lie in bed, replaying every second, one thing echoes louder than anything else — your name. the way he said it.

the way it felt.

─────

you don’t hear him at first.

you feel him — the slam of the studio door against the wall, the sharp crack of wood hitting plaster, the sudden rush of heat into the quiet room.

you jump, heart jolting.

nicholas stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. his hair is a mess, half stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides.

you’ve never seen him like this. not confident. not composed. not steady. just… unraveling.

he doesn’t look at you. he looks at the floor, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

“nicholas?” you say softly.

he flinches. not from your voice — from everything else.

he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping abruptly like he can’t trust his own legs.

you don’t approach. not yet. you’ve seen animals in pain — the way they lash out when cornered, not out of malice but fear.

instead, you sit on your stool, slowly, gently, letting the silence settle around you both.

he notices.

and for the first time since he burst in, he breathes. not fully and not calmly. but enough.

he sinks down onto the low platform you use for fittings, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. his body is coiled tight, every muscle strained, like he’s holding back something explosive.

you wait.

minutes stretch out, soft and thin.

finally, he speaks — his voice hoarse, scraped raw.

“they just—” he stops, shakes his head. “they don’t listen. they don’t shut up. everyone wants something from me. all the time. and if i’m not perfect, if i’m not holding everything together, then i’m—”

he cuts himself off again.

you still don’t move closer. you just sit there, breathing quietly, letting him find his way through the storm.

a long silence fills the room. then, in a small, breaking voice, “i didn’t know where else to go.”

the words hit you like a physical thing. he lifts his head slightly, eyes red at the corners, breaths uneven.

“this is the only place that feels safe,” he murmurs. “here. with you.”

your own breath shakes. because he’s not looking at the room. he’s looking at you. not like you’re fragile. not like you’re someone he has to protect. but, like you’re the only calm in a world that constantly demands he be unbreakable.

you swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “you can stay here as long as you need.”

his shoulders drop — not fully relaxed, but less painfully tight. relief cracks through his expression, softening the sharp edges. he closes his eyes and just… breathes for a while.

slowly, carefully, like each inhale is stitching him back together.

and you realize something you hadn’t before — while he’s been softening your insecurities, holding space for your quietness, steadying your shaking hands…

you’ve been healing him, too.

healing the boy who never gets to fall apart. who never gets silence. who never gets softness back.

you sit there with him, no words, no pressure — just presence. and for the first time in a long time, nicholas looks like he can finally exhale.

─────

the closeness between you and nicholas lingers long after the fittings end. it settles like a weight in your chest, a warmth you don’t know how to handle. every glance, every small touch, every quiet word echoes louder than it should.

and it shakes you.

you start questioning everything. maybe you’re imagining more than there is. maybe you’re reading into the smallest gestures and inventing meaning where there is none. maybe he’s just being polite.

so you pull away.

you skip a fitting here and there. you take different routes across campus again. you avoid the studio when he’s likely to be there. you become a shadow in your own routine, retreating into safety that now feels strangely lonely.

nicholas doesn’t push.

he doesn’t demand explanations or corner you with questions. he respects the space you suddenly need. but he doesn’t abandon you either.

small gestures start to appear. a sticky note left on your workspace with a simple note.

“hope your day goes well.”

a packet of your favorite snacks, anonymously delivered while you’re distracted in class. and sometimes, quietly, he arrives early — just to sit in the studio, not saying anything, just being there.

it’s subtle. barely noticeable if you’re not paying attention. but you notice.

and slowly, you begin to realize something.

his patience isn’t passive. it’s a hand extended toward you, waiting for you to reach out in your own time. waiting for you to trust that you’re allowed to take up space, that you’re allowed to want his presence, that you’re allowed to feel safe with him.

for the first time in a long while, you feel the possibility of leaning in. not because someone told you to. not because it’s expected. but because he’s letting you choose it. and the choice feels like permission you’ve been craving without knowing it.

─────

the day of your presentation arrives faster than you’re ready for.

the studio is buzzing with energy, models adjusting their outfits, classmates fussing over last-minute details, instructors murmuring critiques to one another. your stomach twists into a tight knot as you glance at your own piece, now complete, now real, now something that has to exist in the world outside your hands.

and then you see him.

nicholas steps onto the runway, and something inside you unclenches just a little. he moves with that same effortless confidence he always carries, but there’s something different — something proud, something steady. he wears your creation like it was made for him. he smiles softly at the audience once, but it’s for you, and the weight of it lands warm in your chest.

you bite your lip, heart hammering, hands gripping your notebook like a lifeline. every step he takes is measured, deliberate, but effortless. you see the way he looks ahead, and the way he carries himself makes your pulse spike in a way you hadn’t expected.

the applause comes, rolling over you in waves, and the world suddenly feels both too loud and impossibly still.

after the show, you’re backstage, trying to calm the storm of nerves that has been building all morning. you’re pacing, tugging at your hair, trying to breathe, when he finds you.

nicholas doesn’t say a word at first. he simply reaches for your hand and guides you out of the crowd, away from the chaos. you follow, heart racing, until you’re in a narrow hallway — quiet, dim, and entirely yours.

he stops and lets go of your hand, but his presence fills the space. his eyes never leave yours, steady and soft and unyielding. for the first time today, the world outside doesn’t exist. there’s no applause, no whispers, no chaos — just the two of you, the aftertaste of adrenaline, and the small, fragile bubble you’ve somehow found in the middle of everything.

you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you know without words that he’s proud. not just of your work. not just of the show. but of you.

and somehow, that makes everything feel… possible.

the hallway feels impossibly small, impossibly still, the chaos of the fashion show fading behind the walls.

nicholas takes a careful step closer, eyes locked on yours, and for the first time, the weight of all the moments between you — the fittings, the quiet gestures, the whispered words — hangs fully in the air.

“you see me,” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering. “not the stupid captain, not the noise — me.”

your chest tightens. you’ve feared this — feared that what you feel isn’t real, that someone like him could never truly choose someone like you. but here he is, saying it. not in jest, not out of politeness, not as a favor. he’s saying it because he means it.

you swallow hard, voice trembling. “i… i’m scared. i don’t… i don’t know if i’m—worthy of—”

he interrupts with a quiet laugh, warm and tender. “i don’t want someone like you,” he says, stepping even closer, so near that you can see the faintest glint in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw. “i want you.”

every word lands like a pulse in your chest. the air between you hums with heat and anticipation.

then he leans in. slowly. carefully. his lips brush yours in a kiss that feels deliberate, like he’s asking permission with every breath, testing the space you’ve both built, making sure it’s safe.

your knees go weak. your hands lift on instinct, resting lightly against his chest. you kiss him back, and in that instant, all the fear, all the doubt, all the quiet yearning that’s been building melts into warmth.

you lean into him fully — finally allowing yourself to accept the comfort, the protection, the tenderness he’s been offering all along.

and for the first time, the world feels impossibly wide and impossibly still, all at once.

because here, in this quiet hallway, in the soft press of his lips against yours, you realize —  you’ve been found. and so has he.

─────

months pass.

you notice the subtle changes in yourself first. the way you move through the studio now — confident, deliberate, unapologetic. fingers that once trembled over pins now handle fabric with quiet authority. your designs are bolder, more daring, full of the little flourishes that used to make you second-guess yourself.

nicholas changes too, in ways small but undeniable. he’s calmer, less brittle around the edges. the weight of expectations doesn’t disappear, but he carries it differently now, grounded in the quiet corners you share. you watch him laugh more freely, pause more often, and notice the little details of the world without rushing past them.

together, you have built something delicate and strong. a world stitched from quiet moments — notes left on worktables, soft smiles across the studio, hands brushing accidentally, slowly, deliberately, until neither of you can imagine letting go.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not loud. it’s ordinary in the most extraordinary way.

your world is yours.

new york city in december feels like it’s pretending to be something else.

the buildings still loom tall and sharp, the streets still hum with taxis and footsteps and music spilling out of storefronts—but everything is softened by the snow. it falls steadily, like it has nowhere else to be, dusting fire escapes and street signs and the shoulders of strangers who don’t even bother to brush it off anymore.

anton loves this.

you can tell by the way he keeps slowing his steps, glancing upward, like he’s afraid he’ll miss something. his hand is warm in yours, fingers long and gentle, his thumb brushing the back of your hand every few seconds like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

“this is my favorite version of the city,” he says quietly.

you look at him instead of the skyline. his cheeks are pink from the cold, curls peeking out from beneath his beanie, eyes bright with that soft, thoughtful excitement he gets when he’s emotional but trying not to be obvious about it.

“yeah?” you ask.

“yeah,” he nods. “it feels like a movie.”

you smile. “you always think everything’s a movie.”

he laughs, low and shy. “only the important things.”

the rink is crowded, music drifting through the air—something old and jazzy that sounds like it belongs in the background of a 90s rom com. the ice gleams under string lights, and couples glide past holding hands, laughing when they stumble, pulling each other closer instead of letting go.

anton tightens his grip on your hand.

“you okay?” he asks.

you raise an eyebrow. “are you?”

he exhales, smiling sheepishly. “i haven’t skated in a while.”

“you’ll be fine,” you tease. “i’ll catch you.”

he looks at you then, really looks, like you’ve just offered him something precious. “promise?”

you nod. “promise.”

on the ice, he stays close—closer than necessary—one hand firmly holding yours, the other hovering at your waist like he’s afraid to cross a line even though you’ve crossed it a hundred times already. his movements are careful, deliberate, like he wants to make sure this moment stays intact.

when he does slip, it’s barely noticeable. he laughs softly, breath fogging in the cold air, and instinctively pulls you closer instead of away.

“see?” you say. “i’ve got you.”

he hums. “i know.”

you skate in slow circles, the city blurring around you, snowflakes clinging to your coat and his scarf. every so often, anton glances down at your joined hands like he can’t believe it’s real.

later, you duck into a small café tucked between two buildings, its windows fogged up from warmth and chatter. the inside smells like coffee and sugar and something baked fresh that morning. a christmas song plays softly overhead—one you recognize instantly.

“it’s from laufey’s christmas album,” anton murmurs with a smile.

you laugh. “of course you know that.”

he shrugs, cheeks pink again. “it’s romantic. one of my favorites.”

you sit across from each other at a tiny table, knees brushing underneath. he wraps his hands around his mug, fingers still cold, and you reach out without thinking, covering them with yours.

his breath catches.

“you’re always cold,” you say gently.

“not right now,” he replies.

the moment stretches, quiet and heavy with feeling. the snow outside keeps falling, cars passing like distant ghosts, and for a second it feels like the city has narrowed down to just this café, this table, the space between you.

after, you wander through shops glowing with warm light—vintage bookstores, little stores selling ornaments and scarves and things you don’t need but want anyway. anton insists on buying you a knit hat you pause in front of for too long.

“anton,” you protest. “i was just looking.”

“i know,” he says, already pulling out his card. “but i like imagining you wearing it.”

your heart flips.

outside again, night settles in fully. the city sparkles—windows lit up, trees wrapped in lights, the street alive with color and sound. snow crunches under your boots as you walk, shoulders brushing, hands intertwined.

anton stops suddenly.

“wait.”

you turn. “what?”

he steps closer, carefully adjusting your scarf, fingers lingering at your collarbone. “you’re… really beautiful,” he says quietly, like he’s confessing something.

you laugh softly. “anton.”

“i mean it,” he insists, eyes earnest. “like—right now. here. this feels unreal.”

you swallow. “it kind of does.”

he leans in then, pressing a slow, careful kiss to your lips. it’s gentle, unhurried, like he’s savoring it. the world keeps moving around you, but neither of you seem to notice.

back at his place, the city noise fades into a distant hum. the windows glow faintly with reflected lights from outside, snow still falling beyond the glass. anton kicks off his shoes and shrugs out of his coat, immediately turning back to you like he doesn’t want to lose momentum.

“come here,” he says softly.

under the covers, everything feels warmer, quieter. you curl into his chest, his arm wrapping around you with a protective ease that makes your chest ache. his breathing slows, syncing with yours, his lips brushing your hair, your forehead, your cheek.

he kisses you like he’s telling a story—slow, lingering, full of feeling. every touch feels intentional, like he’s afraid of rushing.

“i could stay like this forever,” he murmurs.

you smile into his shoulder. “you say that about everything.”

“only the important things,” he repeats.

"texting me good morning when you're away."

jake doesn't hesitate. he doesn't even blink.

"bare minimum."

"texting me good night."

"bare minimum."

"carrying my purse when we go out."

"bare minimum."

"sharing your location with me indefinitely for the rest of your life."

"bare minimum."

"lifting me and carrying me around everywhere when we go out on dates."

"bare minimum. duh."

you narrow your eyes. jake's face doesn't budge. he's still smiling. and you don't know if you want to kiss him or spray him.

"mmhm. okay...let's step it up."

jake rolls his shoulders and pretends to crack his neck like he's gearing up for war. "hit me, babe."

"booking me my nail appointment and paying for it."

jake scoffs, "bare minimum."

you blink. "telling me i'm pretty even when i have pimple patches on and i'm wearing your oversized costco hoodie that has that hole in the right armpit."

jake gives you a deadpan look that says his answer is obvious, "that's when you're at your peak, baby."

you huff shortly. "building me a dresser at 3am but i lost the manual, it's missing three screws, and i'm only supervising from the bed watching our tv show."

jake grins, "bare minimum." then he points at you. "also i did do that."

"this isn't fair," you groan, bringing your arm with the hose down, "you're not even trying at this point."

jake shrugs, a soft smile still tugging at the corner of his lips, "pretty, i don't think you understand what bare minimum means. because the bare minimum is treating you like the princess you are."

you stare.

at his stupidly adorable face. at your stupidly adorable boyfriend. your boyfriend that will always know exactly how to tug at your heart strings.

he stares back, a smug look on his face.

you slowly raise the hose next to you.

jake's eyes widen, raises both his hands immediately, "wait, wait—"

SPLASH.

"THAT'S NOT FAIR—"

"YOU FAILED THE ASSIGNMENT."

"NO I PASSED, THIS IS CHEATIN—"

another splash.

jake's drenched. and you're laughing so hard that you're folded over, arms holding onto your stomach.

suddenly, jake's running towards you, a stupidly wide smile on his face as you squeal, turning to get away, but it's too late—he tackles you gently onto the grass.

you're shrieking and giggling as he wraps himself around you, rolling with you across the grass like two absolute idiots.

his wet hair is all over his eyes, your shirt's now soaked, the camera's still recording, and jake's kissing your face all over.

you're soaked. so is he. but none of it matters. not when the laughter, smiles, and pure happiness coming out of the both of you is so, so genuine.

"princess treatment?" you ask breathlessly, eyes crinkling as you look up at him from his arms.

jake grins.

"bare minimum."

lmao im so freaking single holy—

no doubt m. list ⭑ full m.list

Movement.

Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.

Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.

You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.

For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.

You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.

You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.

And then you hear it.

Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.

The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

Your breath lodges in your throat.

You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.

The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.

You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.

You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.

Then they’re on you.

The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.

You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.

They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.

Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.

Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.

Stalemate.

You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.

Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.

Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.

And then you see them.

Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.

It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.

The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.

Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:

“…Leon?”

For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.

Leon.

It’s him, but not.

Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.

The man in front of you now is nothing like that.

His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.

But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.

They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.

There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.

And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.

For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.

Then it’s gone.

Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.

His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real,  or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.

“...You shouldn’t be here.”

The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.

He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.

“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.

You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.

The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.

His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:

“Tell me. Now.”

But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.

For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”

His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.

“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”

For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.

“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”

The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.

Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.

But his shoulders don’t relax.

They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.

He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.

The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.

Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:

“You don’t belong in this place.”

Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.

“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.

Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.

“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.

You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.

“The castle.”

For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.

“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”

The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.

You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”

Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.

But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.

And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.

The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.

You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.

The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.

Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.

The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.

There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.

You look away, heart hammering.

“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.

You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.

The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.

And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.

The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.

Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.

It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.

The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.

A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.

Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.

“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.

“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.

You trust it.

They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.

Back to back, you spin as one.

He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.

Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.

For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.

But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.

The night quiets.

You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.

Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.

As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.

But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.

And you hate how much you miss it.

Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.

“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.

Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.

“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”

He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.

“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.

The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.

The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.

You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”

Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.

“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”

His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”

You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”

That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.

“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”

“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”

His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.

“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”

You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”

His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”

“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”

The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.

Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.

You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.

“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.

You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.

“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”

Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.

“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”

His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.

But not fast enough.

His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.

“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”

The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.

The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.

Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.

While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.

It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.

When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.

No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.

He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.

The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.

You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:

“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”

The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.

Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.

You don’t answer him. Not with words.

Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.

You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.

“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”

His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.

He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.

When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.

But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.

“Thanks.”

The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.

You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.

Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.

At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.

But it doesn’t last.

A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.

Your eyes snap open.

The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.

And that’s when you see it.

His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.

You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.

His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.

You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.

“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.

“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.

The words light a fire in your chest.

“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.

But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.

Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.

“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.

Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.

The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.

You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”

“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”

“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”

For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.

“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”

You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”

“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”

The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.

You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.

Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.

“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.

When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.

You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”

Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”

You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”

His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.

For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.

And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.

You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.

Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.

He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.

Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:

“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”

Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.

The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.

“No. I don’t.”

You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.

Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.

For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.

Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.

Then nothing.

You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.

You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.

Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.

And maybe that’s worse.

Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.

And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.

You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.

The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.

Leon is already awake. Of course he is.

He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.

You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.

You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.

When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.

“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”

You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.

Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.

For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.

The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.

When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.

“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”

Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”

“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”

“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”

The words sting more than they should. Trust me.

You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.

For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.

Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”

Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:

“Some things never change.”

You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”

Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”

You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”

That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.

“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”

The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”

Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.

“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”

The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.

You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”

His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”

That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.

“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”

Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”

Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.

Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.

The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.

Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.

Silence swallows what’s left.

You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.

The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.

You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.

It feels like a line carved through more than stone.

“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.

Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”

The words cut sharper than any goodbye.

You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.

He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.

The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.

You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.

He swallows them down.

“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.

Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.

“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.

The words hang there, heavy, final.

You nod once. Nothing more.

Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.

Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.

The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.

But he forces them down.

When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.

The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.

And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.